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,

Resting on My Laurels

I don't know what that expression means, but I'm doing it. Re-read the Karl Malone thing, if you want.

(I would have had a poppy new love song for you, but I'm having a hard time coming up with an appropriate bass part. Also, I am a really bad singer. Ah, what the hell? Here. Enjoy it. It's probably as finished as it's ever gonna be. If you like it, there's plenty more in the pipeline, none of them quite as disco-y as this one. If you don't like it, I hope Santa fills your stocking with cancer.)

Hmm. I feel an obligation to say something funny here... Oh well.

A Very Special Christmas-Time Story

It's late, and I'd better go to bed if I want to get anything done tomorrow (you know how it is), but first I wanted to tell you a hilarious story about something that happened to me today.

I was about to take Judy and the kids to the mall to do some Christmas shopping, but I couldn't find my keys! I looked all over the house for them, back and forth, up and down, for nearly an hour. And you know what? They were in my rectum all along! Boy, did we laugh!

Merry Christmas, one and all (especially you, General Pinochet)!

A Real CNN Poll

Oddly enough, the web server for which I pay $9.95/year seems to be fucked up. In any case, it wasn't working right last night, when I tried to post this hilarious piece of found material:

There you go. So much easier than writing. Thank you.

Complaints, Complaints!

Hi! Enjoy the whimsical title? I sure do! Whatever. Anyways, I'm only here because I know how much you like it when I complain, and hoo boy, do I have a load to get off my mind! The following are some things that really get under my skin these days:

• All those people who write books about hockey.
• Celebrities who speak up in defense of grave robbers.
• Grave robbers.
• The sky-rocketing cost of dog insurance.
• The leukemia craze.
• The corruption that's ingrained in our government because of the greed-feuled machnations of the President Willie Tyler and Vice President Lester regime.
• The way my kids won't shut up about that new spirit level they want for Christmas.
• That thing the teenagers do when they want to humiliate you in front of the cleaning lady. You know the thing...
• Ben & Jerry's "Jefferson Egg Farts" hard boiled egg ice cream.
• People who murder children.
• The TV show Scrubs.
• Ringworm.
  

A Special Delivery from the Mailman

If you're like me and just can't get enough hoops scoops, then you know by now that Karl "Mr. McFeely" Malone is sad because Kobe "Mr. McRapey" Bryant went on some AM radio sports talk show and said that Mr. Malone's indecisiveness regarding his potential return to the Lakers was distacting what Kobe Bean humbly referred to as "my team." Well, it turns out there's some juicy subtext behnd that non-story: according to the LA Times,

On Nov. 23, the night the Lakers played the Bucks at Staples Center, Vanessa [Bryant's wife] was talking on the phone to Malone's wife, Kaye. Kaye gave Vanessa her husband's cellphone number, and Vanessa called Malone, who was sitting at courtside, and invited Malone's child to join her. Malone, wearing cowboy boots and a hat, eventually took the child to Vanessa. Malone hugged Vanessa, and then Vanessa asked — as [Malone's agent, Dwight Manley) recounts this part of the story — "Hey, cowboy, what are you hunting?" "She said it twice," Manley said, "and Karl answered the second time, 'I'm hunting for little Mexican girls.' "

The Little Mexican Girl in question

Things seem to have escalated from there, after Vanessa Bryant called Kaye Malone and told Kaye to keep Malone away from her. Later, Kobe made an angry phone call to Malone. The next day, Kobe reportedly made another, angrier call. Then came the talkshow incident. Karl Malone's denying everything, of course, but anyone who knows anything about what goes on in the steamy private lives of NBA ballers knows that the Mailman has a history of this. For instance:

Karl Malone, pictured here with an old woman and a plate full of collard greens

• Once told Utah teammate Greg Ostertag's wife that he was "on a pussy hunt," and that he was pretty sure he "saw one crawl up her skirt."
• Once asked Jazz sharpshooter Jeff Hornacek's wife if she'd "ever had a black man inside her mouth."
• Regularly referred to Mrs. John Stockton as, "that little white girl I want to fuck so bad."
• Told legendary Coach Jerry Sloan's wife that she looked like "the kind of woman who appreciates the taste of black asshole."
• Once said to the diminutive wife of teammate Blue Edwards, "I hope that tiny little body of your's has got room enough for my thingy. Otherwise, I'm just gonna have to injure you in your insides."
• Asked Mrs. Thurl Bailey,"You ever eat at Carl's Jr? 'cause tonight you're gonna have Karl, Jr. in that nasty mouth of yours."
• Told Mark Eaton's fiancee that he wanted to "fuck her real hard in the pussy and then fatten her up with [his] seed, and then fuck the baby when that comes out."

Anyway, all I'm saying is that we shouldn't be surprised..

Mark Eaton