Cheap Laughs

Here is an idea I just had: instead of merely coming out and saying that I have nothing funny to say those rare days when my brain is not working, I should dip randomly into the archives and reproduce a gem from the past. I realize that I am working on the assumption that some of you have not read and re-read every word I've written over the last 2 and a half years thousands of times, but it's a chance I'm willing to take.

Let's see what I come up with... Ah, here's one

October 17

I went to the club today and played the best 18 holes of my life. I started out slow on the on the first few, but I warmed up, then heated up, birdying 6 and 7, then an EAGLE(!) on 8, then birdies on the rest of them except for a bogey on 11 (and I blame that one on the caddy), and another goddamn eagle on 17—a par 4, mind you! Yep, not a bad day of golf at all.

At work I had to file a one-eleven J-J again after my supervisor, Mr. Heeny, found out I fucked up the Velvelson account. What’s more, Louise’s goddamn mother is coming to stay with us until her ankle gets better. It was bad enough trying to get this fucking G-21 written up with the goddamn kids screaming around my feet all night and day, but now, with that old battleaxe around... Sheesh, it gives me the shivers just thinking about it.

In other news, the extra-marital affair is going swimmingly. Louise doesn’t suspect a thing, though we had a close call the other day when I came home with a pair of Shirley’s panties stuck in my beard. Thank the big man upstairs for ether and chloroform, that’s all I gotta say. Anyway, Shirley and I are going at it like teenage rabbits, and as long as she stays barren, I don’t see us slowing down. Though I gotta admit, it did kind of cause me to take another look at things when she asked me to help bump off her old man, but I gotta say that when I said no she took it as no, and apart from a bunch of times over the next couple of weeks and once or twice since, she never asked about it again. And, in her defense, she’s quit bugging me about leaving Louise. I tell her, “I’ll leave the kids, but I ain’t leaving Louise. That woman’s stuck with me through a lot of tough times, and I ain’t leavin’ her for some fat, one-armed slag.” That’s what I tell her.

What else? We had to go over to Billy’s farm on Sunday to help him cremate all the goats. Seems the county’s got it in its head again that diseased goats may be the reason all the babies keep dying of goat pox, though I still suspect al-Qa’ida. That all-terrain two-person hovercraft I ordered from Hammacher Schlemmer should get here by the end of the week, and I’m eager to do some investigating out in the river. I don’t mean to boast, but I expect the United States intelligence services are gonna be awfully glad to have me on the team.

Well, I guess that’s it for now, except to say that Dr. Lundgren told me the reason I’ve been having so much trouble keeping my food down lately is that I caught the SIDS, which he promises me is not nearly as bad in adults.

A’ight. Peace in the triple-oh-trey. We out.

Your nigga,