When Will Jesus Bring the Pork Chops? (27 page)

HANK: Well, I’m sure he didn’t know, but I’m going to go out on a limb here and say that he’s real sorry to hear about that, and I’m willing to bet anything he offers his condolences. And, most likely, he’ll also say that if there’s anything he can doanything please don’t hesitate to ask.

FRANK: Excuse me, Hank. I’d love to keep talking, but I have to go buy underwear.

HANK: Oh. Well, Pierre says there’s a sale at The Gap. FRANK: Get fucked, Hank.

GUYS WILL BE GUYS

I don’t know why people got all excited about that guy Jeffrey Dahmer. Because he broke a few laws? So what? There’s nothing wrong with killing twelve people, having sex with their corpses, masturbating on them, eating their flesh and then saving the heads in the refrigerator. What’s wrong with that? Nothing. So far, nobody has been able to explain to me what it was Jeffrey Dahmer did that was so wrong.

First of all, lets remember, wrong is a relative term. Who’s to say what’s wrong? Who are we to judge? Put yourself in the other mans shoes. Who among you, under certain circumstances, might not kill twelve people, have sex with their corpses, masturbate on them, eat their flesh and then save the heads in the refrigerator? Not one of you, I suspect. So cut the guy a little slack. Always remember, there, but for the grace of God . . .

YOU’RE NOT FUNNY

Here are some things you should not say if you encounter a comedian. First: If you’re with another person at the time, don’t say to your friend, “You better watch out, he’ll put you in one of his skits.” We don’t like that. It’s not funny. And, by the way, we don’t do skits. Second: If you meet him while you’re at your job, do not say, “You oughtta work here, you’d get a lot of material.” It’s not true. Just because you work with a bunch of simpletons, doesn’t mean it translates into comedy. Third: If you work at a store and we re shopping there, and some small mix-up occurs that needs to be sorted out, don’t say to a co-worker, “He’s gonna put this in one of his routines.” He his not. One more thing we don’t like: When you tell us something that

you think is funny and then you say, “You can use that if you want.” We don’t want to use it. Believe me.

POW! SMACK! BAM!

True: I stopped behind a small, beat-up camper at a red light, and noticed three bumper stickers: DARE TO RESIST DRUGS AND VIOLENCE, THERE’S NO EXCUSE FOR DOMESTIC ABUSE, and STOP SENIOR ABUSE. And I thought, I’m really glad I don’t live with those folks. I’d bet anything they were on their way to the hospital emergency room or perhaps intensive psychiatric counseling. If I’d caught up and looked inside the vehicle, I’m sure it would have resembled a Johnson & Johnson showroom.

COUNT TO A BILLION

ANNOUNCER: And now, ladies and gentlemen, direct from Dover, Delaware, Big Earl Stemplemeyer’s Television Network presents Count to a Billion.

(Applause, lively organ music)

Yes, it’s Count to a Billion, the show where ordinary people of limited intelligence can win big money by simply counting to a billion. As we like to say, “If you can count at all, and have a reasonable amount of time on your hands, chances are you can count to a

billion.” So now, here’s your host, a man you can count on, that burly guy who’s one in a billion, Basil Dan-derfleck.

(Applause, lively organ music)

BASIL: Thank you, Wynonie Flench. And now, folks, let’s meet our two players, Tillie Lipfinder and Zippy Brillnipper, alias Skeezix Pendleton.

(Applause, lively organ music)

(Applause, lively organ music)

BASIL: All right, let’s get started. As you know, we have only one rule: No skipping any numbers. Ready, set, go!

(Loud bell, lively organ music, applause, yelps, cheers)

TILLIE: (Incredibly rapid pace) 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, 33 …

ZIPPY: (Extremelyslowly) 1…2 …3. ..4…

BASIL: Tillie appears to have jumped off to an early lead, but as we know, slow and steady wins the race, so don’t count Zippy out yet. By the way, tonight’s winner will receive two free meals at Shorty and Bud’s Restaurant for the Unclean, featuring their world-famous Chicken in a Shoe. As Shorty and Bud say, “Wouldn’t You Like to Eat a Nice Hot Meal Out of Someone Else’s Used Footwear?” Well, let’s check back in with our two contestants.

TILLIE: (Incredibly rapid pace) 10,366,793, 10,366,794, 10,366.795, 10,366,796 . ..

ZIPPY: (Extremely slowly) 25,853,264 … 25,853,265 … 25,853,266 … 25,853,267 … 25,853,268 … 25,853,269 …

BASIL: Wow! Amazing! In no time at all, Zippy has caught up and pulled ahead. But he’d better not get overconfident, he still has 974 million to go.

We’ll check back in a moment, but first, a reminder that tonight’s runner-up will receive a handsome set of matching luggage from Americas luggage leader, Packwell and Goforth, now featuring the newest innovation in luggage . . . portable suitcases! That’s right, folks, these novel suitcases have actual handles built right into them, so now you can take your luggage with you anywhere you go. Take it on a plane, take it on a boat, you can even put it in your car. No more leaving your bags at home because they’re

“hard to carry.” Take them with you and travel in style! Packwell and Goforth: ahead of their time since 1357. Let’s check in again with Zippy and Tillie.

TILLIE: 536,895,241, 536,895,242, 536,895,243, 536,895,244… ZIPPY: 67,667,776 … 67,667,777 … 67,667,778 … 67,667,779 …

Well, Tillie has come back and taken a big lead, because, unfortunately, Zippy’s severe lisp has slowed him down considerably here in this section which includes tho many thicktheth and theventh. I’m sorry … so many sixes and sevens. This does not look good for Zippy. But we’re about out of time for now . . .

(Groans, hisses, boos, lively organ music)

. . . but join us again next week, as we watch the conclusion of this thrilling match on tape and meet two new contestants, as once again we play America’s favorite counting game . . . Count to a Billion!

(Cheers, boos, applause, hisses, shouts, threats, curses, audience advancing menacingly toward stage, lively organ music)

ANNOUNCER: (over music and crowd noise)

Tonight’s guests will stay at the fabulous Fireproof Motel, located between Long John Silver’s and the Rub

It and Yank It massage parlor, just outside Dover, Delaware. Dover: “The City That Just Missed the Mark.’ Don’t forget, the Fireproof Motel features superb drinks and finger food in the intimate cocktail lounge, Rita’s Box. Drop in and ask Rita for some finger food.

Stay tuned now for a full-length movie on America his favorite new date show, Dinner, Movie and a Hump. Tonight, your hosts, Dagwood Parkhaven and Candace Nooch, cook up a delicious whale chowder and breast of hyena on a bed of diced badger as they present an award-winning film about an amnesia victim. Who the Fuck Am I?, starring Esther Sylvester, Kermit McDermott, Chi Chi Ameche and Skeeter Van Meter. And introducing Keith Bunghole as the queer.

After the movie and the food, Dagwood and Candace will tear off a lengthy piece of ass on the kitchen table, taking turns being on top, and demonstrating several interesting, new sexual positions, including the Baghdad Twirl and the Bosnian Dick-knot.

Good night everyone, and God bless America!

(Lively organ music, lustful throaty moans and maniacal screaming)

Some of our best work with euphemisms involves the subject that makes us the most uncomfortable: death.

Our most common euphemism for death is to say the person passed away. Or passed on. If you believe in an afterlife, you may prefer crossed over, or crossed over to the other side. Whenever I hear that someone has crossed over to the other side, I always picture Fifth Avenue.

Then there’s the official term for dying, the doctor term. In this case the person simply expires. Like a magazine subscription. One month he just doesn’t show up. Unfortunately, he can’t renew. Or so they say. Better check with the Hindus on that.

Now, continuing. In this current age of specializationand increasing detachment if the person in question dies in a hospital, it’s called a terminal episode. Although the insurance company sees it as negative patient-care outcome. That one’s actually kinda nice, isn’t it? And if the negative patient-care outcome was caused by medical malpractice, then it’s referred to it as a therapeutic misadventure. Colorful term. No wonder so many doctors are leaving their practices; it’s hard to get therapeutic-misadventure insurance.

But by far the most creative terms we’ve come up with to comfort ourselves about death are the ones that describe the rituals survivors put themselves through. We owe a lot of this softened language to the funeral business. Or, as they prefer to be known, the death-care industry. They have completely transformed the language used to describe what happens following a death.

In years past it went like this: “The old man died, so the undertaker picked up the body, brought it to the funeral home and put it in a casket. People sent flowers and held a wake. After the funeral, they put the coffin in a hearse and drove it to the cemetery, where the dead man was buried in a grave.”

But in these days of heightened sensitivity, the same series of events produces what sounds like a completely different experience: “The senior citizen passed away, so the funeral director claimed the remains of the decedent, took them to the memorial chapel and placed them in a burial container. Grieving survivors sent floral tributes to be displayed in the slumber room, where the grief coordinator conducted the viewing. Following the memorial service, the funeral coach transported the departed to the garden of remembrance where his human remains were interred in their final resting place. “

Huh? What’s that? Did someone die or something?

I’VE GOT A TRAIN TO CATCH

This item demonstrates how stupid the average American is. Every ninety minutes someone in this country is hit by a train. A train, okay? Trains are on tracks; they can’t come and get you. They can’t surprise you when you step off a curb. You have to go to them. Got that?

There are five thousand highway/rail-crossing accidents annually. To counter this problem, the Department of Transportation issued the following rules for people to follow at railroad crossings:

Don’t drive around lowered gates. “Okay, got it.”

Don’t cross in front of a train. “Never thought of that.”

Don’t walk on the tracks. “Check.”

Be aware that trains can’t stop quickly. “Good to know.”

Always expect a train. “This one would probably be tied in to the fact that these are railroad tracks, is that right? Correct me if I’m wrong on this.”

Look for more than one train. “Frankly, this is one I never thought of. Maybe if I remember the others, this one will take care of itself.”

GET DOWN!

Here’s something to think about: In the course of history’s wars, many battles took place in the woods and the countryside. So, sometimes I picture a soldier waking up on a spring morning, wildflowers growing around his tent, birds singing in the trees, perhaps the comforting sound of a brook trickling by in the near distance. And then a ten-pound cannonbail hits him in the face. It’s an interesting thought, don’t you think?

ON MY HONOR

I wanted to be a Boy Scout, but I had all the wrong traits. Apparently, they were looking for kids who were trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful, thrifty, brave, clean and reverent. Unfortunately, at that time, I was devious, fickle, obstructive, hostile, rude, mean, defiant, glum, extravagant, cowardly, dirty and sacrilegious. So I waited a few years and joined the army.

PASS THE MUSTARD

In New York State, the law says that the ingredients of hot dogs can legally include a certain amount or percentage of insect parts and rat droppings. It’s per

missible by law. So, in New York, when you eat a hot dog, you more or less have to hope that the hot dog you’re eating contains only the most nutritious parts of the insects (not just legs and antennae) and that the rats whose feces you’re eating were on good, heart-healthy diets.

YOU’VE GOT A NICE VOICE, DO YOU HAVE INSURANCE?

I’ve been enjoying a new band from England called So Long, Mate! It’s a five-man heavy-metal band, and the reason it’s called So Long, Mate! is because at the end of each performance the other four members of the band kill the lead singer. As a result, the music has a certain urgency to it. Also, it keeps the tours nice and short; it’s basically one night, and then back they go to L.A. to hold auditions. The band plans to have an album ready in the year 2037.

DANNY NEEDS A TORSO

“Hello, this is David Nipplegripper, another insufferable Hollywood movie star who wants you to help some cause or charity merely because I say so. Today, I want to tell you about little Danny Pendejo. Danny needs your help; he was born with no torso. His legs are fine, his arms are fine, and his head is okay except for one really big, caved-in part on top. But he has no torso. Won’t you help by being a torso donor? Even a torso that’s too big will be better than no torso at all. Thank you. This is David Nipplegripper, reminding you to see my new movie, Breasts on the Moon”

NUTS!

Another sign of America’s decline: Because a few people are “sensitive to peanuts” and have “allergies” that might “kill them,” America’s commercial airlines had to stop serving those little bags of peanuts. It wasn’t sufficient that the affected people could simply refuse the peanuts when they were offered; the argument was made that the people who did eat the peanuts were putting “peanut dust” in the air, creating a health hazard for the “victims.” What a load of shit. If someone is in danger of dying from inhaling peanut dust, why aren’t they dead already? Why didn’t they die at a baseball game or at the circus? America has gone soft.