December 2002

Tuesday, December 31, 2002

Hungover today

Cracked glasses and stained trousers

I am a bad temp

posted by Andres at 11:03 AM

Monday, December 30, 2002

FILM REVIEW

Martin Scorsese Presents Daniel Day-Lewis In: The Daniel Day-Lewis Acting Showcase!

Starring: Daniel Day-Lewis & others

Directed by: Martin Scorsese

Written by: Negligible

The opening moments of this film do a perfect job of letting the audience know what they’re in for. Against a cloth backdrop depicting a map of New York City circa the mid 1800s, a nude Daniel Day-Lewis begins donning what can only be described as a ridiculous carnival outfit. As he dresses, he speaks directly into the camera:

“Hello. I’m Daniel Day-Lewis. With the help of Marty Scorsese, I’ve put together this three hour showcase to prove once and for all that I am the best actor. Period. So make sure you’ve covered the floor with pillows, because I’m going to knock you on your ass with my acting. In fact, I’m so confident of my acting skills that I’m going to wear this ridiculous outfit and this immense, cartoonish mustache. Also, as a further handicap, I have arranged it so that in most of my scenes, I am acting opposite unsightly slabs of raw meat. And in some cases, Leo Dicaprio. Now, WHERE ARE MY KNIVES?!?”

With that, the cloth backdrop falls, and we are thrust into the world of “Bill The Butcher”, Day-Lewis’ latest fully-fleshed out cinematic character creation. For three hours, Bill swaggers about the streets of Civil-War era New York City, and holds our attention even while other actors do their best to disengage us from the proceedings. According to a recent interview in Premiere magazine, both Dicaprio and Cameron Diaz found it an interesting challenge when they were directed by Scorsese to “actively attempt to perform in such a manner as to make the audience feel apathetic and confused about what they were watching.” But both of them prove MORE than up to this odd task. There are several moments in the film where I found myself picking my nose and humming the theme from Battlestar Galactica, or beginning to unzip my pants – but as soon as Day-Lewis reappeared on the screen, I was once again rapt.

Now that this incredible showcase has finally been released, I am eagerly anticipating the next actual film that Day-Lewis chooses to make!

Next time, I shall review Spike Jonze Presents Nicholas Cage and Nicholas Cage In: Charlie Kaufman’s Unapologetically Self-Indulgent Parade Of Ultimately Unsatisfying Cleverness!

By the way, LOTR: TTT totally rocks.

posted by Andres at 12:25 PM

Sunday, December 29, 2002

NEW WORKOUT REGIMEN!

In an effort to curtail spending in 2003, I have cancelled my gym membership. However, staying in shape is still one of my top 38 priorities. Therefore, I have designed a rigorous new “workout” regimen in order to ensure that my lack of gym access does not cause (further) atrophy, weight-gain and stoopage to my already zaftig form. And I use the word “zaftig” with full knowledge of its manboob implications.

I have attempted to craft this regimen around the concept of found fitness opportunities. We generally don’t recognize these opportunities as we go about our everyday lives, but they are there, just waiting to be seized. Through the use of objects, people and situations that I come into contact with during my normal daily routine, I will mold myself into a physical specimen worthy of ogling.

Thusly:

SUNDAYS

Morning – Sneak up behind my apartment building superintendent’s untethered Doberman. Poke its anus with my novelty ‘Marvin The Martian’ motorized lollipop holder (activated) while yelling “woof!”. Elude.

Evening – 50 push-ups and 50 sit-ups!

MONDAYS

Morning – Walk to work. Kick everything along the way.

Evening – Dash into ultra-exclusive Reebok Sports Club without presenting I.D., hop onto the nearest exercise machine and do as many reps as possible before being forcibly removed from the premises. For an extra-tough workout, resist being forcibly removed. For an expert-level workout, say lots of crazy racist stuff while resisting.

TUESDAYS

Morning – First thing in the morning, stand in center of apartment with right eye closed. Box my left eye’s floaters for 30 minutes. Get dressed. Chase floaters to work.

Evening – 50 push-ups and 50 sit-ups!

WEDNESDAYS

Morning – Make a businessman cry.

Evening – Watch the The West Wing. Every time one of the characters says something just a little too pithy, lift my dresser. Don’t put it down until President Bartlett says something omniscient, or until I see Toby’s beard. Bonus – whenever Mary Louise Parker appears on the screen, pleasure self to the point of exhaustion. For an expert-level workout, pleasure self whenever Lily Tomlin appears.

THURSDAYS

Morning – Place coffee table on curb. Watch from window. When someone tries to take it, run outside and tackle them. Once the table is safely back in my apartment, walk to work kicking everything.

Evening – 50 push-ups, 50 sit-ups & karaoke!

FRIDAYS

Morning – Chase floaters to work.

Evening – Drink until violent. Wrestle nearest barstool. Drink until weeping. Undress. While nude & weeping, lift nearest cigarette machine or jukebox. Resist being forcibly removed. Stumble home kicking everything.

SATURDAYS

Off!

Granted, some of these found fitness opportunities are not so much found as created.

Oh, and speaking of exercise, don’t forget I’m running a marathon! Training is going well. By the time April 27th comes around, I should be in good enough condition to force my body to journey the 26.2 miles in under a calendar year. See the blog entry from December 9th for details. It’s a worthy cause, and any amount helps.

posted by Andres at 12:34 PM

Thursday, December 26, 2002

The party is in full swing. A grey-haired, bearded gentleman wearing a flannel shirt and corduroy blazer taps his champagne glass with a dessert fork as he stands up.

Can I please have your attention? Everybody settle down for a sec. Thank you. Miriam, put Ramone down! If he gets hurt who the heck am I going to call for help with my laptop? (laughter of recognition from the crowd) Laptops, computers, servers! Gee wiz, I remember when we started this company, we got by with a typewriter and a mechanical owl! No wait, that was Clash of the Titans. (much less laughter) Heh. Alright, I should cut to the chase. First of all, I just want to thank each and every one of you for another year of hard work, and congratulate everyone on what has been our most profitable year to date. By far! So here’s to us!

Rousing cheer.

People are eating more fudge, and purchasing more fudge-related products than ever. In 2002, Farber’s Fudgeworks saw an unprecedented rise in sales, due to a bold new approach to developing and marketing new products, and also, due to the anxiety in America’s social climate. With a renewed sense of impending catastrophe that this country hasn’t experienced since the height of the Cold War, Americans are engaging in more impulsive, anxiety-related consumption of sweets and junk food than ever before, and Farber’s has been there to comfort them, and to reap the benefits of their apocalyptic mindset!

Applause.

With each new report of “terrorist chatter”, Joanne Q. Fudgeater shoves her chubby little paw into a fresh box of Farber’s Fudgeroos!

Applause.

With each new volley of threatening language between the U.S. and North Korea, Roy G. Fudgelover flings a fresh Farber’s Fudgerang and catches it in his bloated, chocolate-smeared mouth!

Applause.

Every time CNN.com takes a few extra seconds to load, Fatty Fudgerton nervously nibbles another leg off of his Farber’s Fudgerpillar!

Applause.

Bottom line, fear sells fudge!

Big cheer.

And Farber’s has capitalized on this new found fear with clever marketing tactics, such as leaving unmarked satchels full of fudge in the middle of airport terminals, or writing threatening letters to congressmen smeared with just a bit of our fudge. The profits we have been making from additional sales far outweigh the losses we have incurred from lawsuits and fines.

Smattering of applause.

But more importantly, this has been a year of innovation at Farber’s. You all remember at last year’s holiday party, I vowed that Farber’s would not only embrace 2002, but that it would really “get it on” with 2002 in a sloppy, sweaty clench in a bathroom stall, hiking up 2002′s skirt, wheeling it around, shoving it against the wall and whispering calm yet menacing assurances in its ear as this company unzipped its trousers and bestowed upon 2002 the thick, searing pleasure that only a visionary confectioner with clear fiscal goals could deliver!

Some muted chuckles and uncomfortable coughs.

Well I am as drunk now as I was then, but Farber’s has indeed followed through on that unfortunately phrased metaphorical promise! In 2002, I gave free reign to the gang in R&D to do anything and everything with fudge, and boy what a bonzanza!

The Happy Accident Pill! Not only has this improbable, cringe-inducing idea caught on, but the popularity of fraternity & sorority “mud wrestling” parties at college campuses across the nation is still growing! And E’s latest “Wild On Fudge” special has really given the pill’s sales a huge boost! But I tell ya, the popularity of the Happy Accident pill is no happy accident, but more like the result of happy careful marketing, my friends, and for that we have Len Burgess to thank. Thank you Len!

Woo Len!

Len’s idea to market the pill to truckers, hikers and other restroom-averse individuals really paid off. And the free samples in Martha Stewart Living really helped. Again, profits have greatly outweighed losses from lawsuits.

Smattering.

The Fudge Doppleganger! Another great idea! This holiday season, thousands of people spared themselves the agonizing experience of attending holiday gatherings, and sent a Fudge Doppleganger in their stead! I think I see a few here tonight!

Tammy Peterson from accounting’s head splits in half and falls to the floor as her date tries to kiss her cheek. He looks aghast for a moment, and then shakes his head smiling as he breaks off a chunk of her ear and nibbles it.

Let’s not forget about the Farber’s Fudge-a-pult, Farber’s Fudge Pomade, Farber’s Fudge-bots, Farber’s Fudge-Alert Home Security Systems, plus the Fudgerang and Fudgerpillar I mentioned up top. According to the latest Q-sell advertising recognition report, the name “Farber’s Fudgeworks” is now as recognizable to the average American as “Sea Monkeys”, “Charleston Chew” or “Oui Magazine”. Clearly, we have a ways to go before we reach the echelon of Hostess or Lil’ Debbies, but Farber’s is well on its way. So, here’s to Farber’s!

posted by Andres at 9:10 AM

Thursday, December 19, 2002

Be patient. At some point I’m going to write something really funny.

posted by Andres at 12:18 PM

Monday, December 16, 2002

A plug!

Muchovision and The Boliviguay Board of Tourism proudly present:

GIANT TUESDAY NIGHT OF AMAZING INVENTIONS AND ALSO THERE IS A GAME!!!

Tuesday, January 14th @ 7pm

Carolines

1626 Broadway between 49th & 50th

reservations 212-757-4100

$12 + 2 drinks

Featuring Andres du Bouchet as your host, Francisco Guglioni!

With stand up comedy from Sean Conroy, Becky Donahue, and Eugene Mirman!

Plus, the invention-related high jinks of Chris Deluca, Jonny Fido and Michael Reisman,

the amazing vocal talents of Marcel Downer, and music from the Spicy Meat Brothers (Mike Birch, Eric Chercover and Randy Soare)!

Brought to you by the hit motion picture Bananimal!

posted by Andres at 3:45 PM

Monday, December 09, 2002

I am going to run a marathon for charity! Of course you have questions:

FAQ – (pass this on to anyone else you think might be interested in making a tax-deductible contribution to a great cause!)

Q: You, Andres du Bouchet, are not seriously going to run a marathon, are you?

A: Yes I am. On April 27th, 2003 in Sandy Hook, New Jersey.

Q: Okay. Why?

A: To raise money for the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society. And to whip myself into shape while focusing on something worthwhile.

Q: So how much do you need to raise, and how can I help?

A: I need to raise a total of $1900 to be allowed to participate in the marathon. You can help by writing a check (fully tax-deductible!) payable to The Leukemia & Lymphoma Society, and mailing it to me: Andres du Bouchet, 308 East 78th St. #5, NYC 10021. I will submit all of the checks I collect to the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society. Any amount helps.

Q: How can we trust that you’ll give the money to them?

A: You’re making the checks OUT to them in the first place, right? Also, I’m not an asshole. Wait, let me rephrase that: I’m not a liar.

Q: Why can’t I just mail my contribution straight to them?

A: Then I wouldn’t get credit for raising the money. I need to fill out paperwork for each contribution I collect and then send it to them.

Q: Okay, fair enough. So, you’re going to run a marathon. But you are so overweight and clumsy!

A: That wasn’t really a question.

Q: Oh yeah. Well, you see my point though, right?

A: Yes, yes I do. I fully acknowledge that I am a flat-footed, knock-kneed, wide-hipped, clumsy, doughy, out-of-breath, out-of-shape man who is approximately 40 pounds overweight, and whose closest friends frequently mock him for his lack of agility.

Q: So there’s no way in Hell you’ll be able to finish a marathon, right?

A: Wrong. First of all, a marathon is not about agility, it’s about endurance. In April of 2001 I completed a 10 mile race without ever slowing down to a walking pace at all. If I bust my ass and train like crazy for the next five months, I’m betting I can do the same for 26.2 miles. I’ve already started training with other volunteers from the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society’s Team In Training Program, who will guide me through a workout regimen in the months leading up to the race. It may not be pretty, but I will finish the marathon. Whether it be by jogging, gallumphing, lurching, careening, stumbling, walking or crawling, I will finish it. This I swear!

Q: Yeah, whatever. My tax-deductible contribution still goes straight to the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society no matter how embarrassingly this turns out for you, right?

A: Yes. Even if I take three steps, collapse clutching my ankle, and sit there weeping as all of the other runners use my back for a springboard, your tax-deductible contribution still gets put to good use. The Leukemia & Lymphoma Society is committed to finding cures for leukemia, lymphoma, Hodgkin’s disease and myeloma, and improving the quality of life of patients and their families. The Society invests $20 million annually in support of more than 280 researchers; provides financial assistance to patients; sponsors scientific conferences around the country; produces educational materials and videos; and runs more than 50 Family Support Groups nationwide. Because they receive no federal funding, they depend on donations for continued support of these needed programs. The support that you provide to the Society is invested wisely. And I’m telling you, I’m going to finish the marathon, and in a better time than you would guess.

Q: Hey, if you want to torture and embarrass yourself for the sake of a charity, that’s cool with me. Let me get my checkbook.

A: Again, that wasn’t a question, but thanks!

Q: Oh yeah, what if I want to learn more about this program and the charity it’s supporting?

A: Then check out this link:

http://www.teamintraining.org/hm_tnt

I think the level of commitment and passion these people have for their cause is amazing. I’m excited to be a part of it for the next five months, and I hope you can throw a few bucks my way to help me reach my contribution goal of $1900. Remember, it’s 100% tax-deductible, and it all goes to them. I’m just the one collecting it. Every little bit helps. Thanks for reading, and if you have any questions at all, feel free to e-mail me at either gianttuesday@aol.com or amdubouchet@yahoo.com, with “marathon” as the subject so I know to answer it quickly. Thanks!

Sincerely,

Andres du Bouchet

posted by Andres at 12:54 PM

Saturday, December 07, 2002

Here’s an oldy but a goody.

FINGERMAN

by Reisman & du Bouchet

An office. FINGERMAN behind a desk. DAN enters.

DAN

Hello Mr. Fingerman.

FINGERMAN

Ah, Dan, good to see you. Please have a seat.

DAN sits and hands a resume to FINGERMAN

DAN

Here’s a copy of my resume.

FINGERMAN

You know who you look like? Clark Kent. Anybody ever tell you that, you look like Clark Kent?

DAN

Actually, yes, I get that fairly often whenever I wear these glasses.

FINGERMAN

(trying to get a reaction)

Clark Kent.

(beat)

Dan, I like to think of this company as a family. And if you were to join the Fingerman Family, you wouldn’t be so much an employee as you would be my son. Well, more like a nephew. Actually, I’ve only got one sister, and she’s a lesbian. So let’s say she and one of her friends, you know what I’m talking about, got together with a man that they know, perhaps the neighborhood pharmacist, or the Western Union man. And they took him to the clinic, and they gave him a jar, and some magazines—-

(contemplates)

Dan, what was it like to be raised by two women?

DAN

Actually, I was raised by a man and a woman, my parents are still togeth–

FINGERMAN

As for me, I can’t have kids. How can I put this euphemistically? My doctor says my “pistol” doesn’t have a high enough…

DAN

“Caliber”?

FINGERMAN

No, sperm count.

(pause)

So, did you like it when I said that?

DAN

When you said sperm count?

FINGERMAN

No, before, when I told you that you look like Clark Kent, did you like it when I said that? Were you happy that I said that to you?

DAN

Uh, sure…it was very flattering.

FINGERMAN

I really enjoyed telling you that you looked like Clark Kent.

Loooooong pause.

DAN

Um. I was wondering if we could actually talk about the position of regional sales manager. As you can see from my resume, I have extensive experience in—

FINGERMAN

Take off your glasses for a second, take them off.

He does.

FINGERMAN

Superman! Okay, you can put them back on.

He does.

FINGERMAN

Clark, you just missed Superman! He was just here a second ago, but you missed him. (A “Did you like that?” face)

DAN

..and I really think that my qualifications would make me an excellent fit…

FINGERMAN

Mmm Hmm.. (looking at resume). Let me take a look at this.

FINGERMAN begins trumpeting the “Superman” movie theme with his voice. He stops before the last three notes.

FINGERMAN

(disappointed)

Dan, in the Fingerman Family…

DAN trumpets the rest.

FINGERMAN

No, you’re too late. Dan, in the Fingerman Family, we pride ourselves on being very good at non-verbal communication. And this is how I’m feeling now.

He writes the word “SUPERMAN” on a piece of paper.

DAN

Superman?

FINGERMAN

No, sad, I’m feeling sad.

DAN

But you just wrote “Superman”.

FINGERMAN

Clark, I really don’t think you’re Superman material.

DAN

(upset)

What? Look, I don’t understand what’s going on here, we haven’t talked about my qualifications at all! You’ve just been playing these weird games, drawing pictures, making weird trumpet noises, and there’s no way you wrote that with that pen…

FINGERMAN

Dan, you’re right. I’m sorry. After the way I’ve been behaving, you might think that I’m a little bit (makes CRAZY NOISE)

DAN

Yes, frankly, I do.

FINGERMAN

Okay, so let’s talk about what you did here at this place called “Wall Street”, what did you do there?

DAN

You have heard of Wall Street, right?

FINGERMAN

I want to hear you talk about it.

DAN

Well, I was senior researcher for South American commodities…

FINGERMAN

(interrupting)

Boring.

DAN, frustrated, takes off his glasses.

FINGERMAN

Superman!

DAN

(sighs)

Look, you want me to say I’m Superman— Okay, fine, I am Superman.

Pause.

FINGERMAN

Could you say it like you mean it?

DAN

Will it help me get the job?

FINGERMAN

Couldn’t hurt.

DAN

(deep voice)

Yes it is I, Superman!

FINGERMAN

And…?

DAN

And you’re not going to get away with this. Brainiac?

FINGERMAN

Ooo! Yes! I like where this is going. Yes, Superman, while we were sitting here, my evil robots were rampaging across downtown Metropolis –

Enter STAN. He looks like DAN, which is to say, he also looks like Clark Kent.

STAN

Here are the numbers you wanted, Mr. Fingerman.

FINGERMAN

Oh, Dan Fleming, I’d like you to meet Stan Lemming, he’s our Market Strategist.

An eerie pause where STAN AND DAN look at each other, mirroring each others’ movements with their glasses. SUPERMAN THEME begins.

FINGERMAN

I think we’re all going to get along very well here.

SUPERMAN THEME IN STRONG, and they all “fly” away.

posted by Andres at 10:53 PM

Friday, December 06, 2002

Hey, if anyone from The Onion ever reads this, feel free to use this headline:

Al Qaeda announces partnership with AIDS, tornados.

Hey if anyone from Everybody Loves Raymond ever reads this, feel free to use this piece of dialogue:

“Raymond, I would appreciate it if you would show my novelty hat the respect it has become accustomed to.”

Hey if anyone from Saturday Night Live ever reads this, feel free to create a character around this catchphrase:

“Boom! No more babies!”

Hey if anyone from Scientific American ever reads this, feel free to write an article about:

Boron.

Hey if anyone from The apartment directly above my girlfriend’s apartment ever reads this, feel free to:

Take your fucking clompity-clomp shoes off or put in wall-to-wall carpeting.

Hey if anyone here at my current temp assignment happens to see me typing this non-work related nonsense:

feel free to passive aggressively allow your banker’s phone lines to ring off the hook so that I have to answer them.

Fuckity fuck.

posted by Andres at 10:22 AM

Thursday, December 05, 2002

OF METEORS AND WHIRLPOOLS: a poem of sorts

by Pegbeard McGinty, Tiny Toilet Pirate

‘Tis Wednesday.

4 meteor showers, but only 3 whirlpools.

The sea is dark and there is much flotsam and jetsam.

Har! I scratched my beard and got a splinter! Me beard’s a peg! A splintery wooden peg! Har!

Why do I keep writing “Har?”

Har.

posted by Andres at 2:21 PM

Wednesday, December 04, 2002

Hey there folks. Okey-doke listen up. Tonight’s game against the Milton Township Fourleafs is big. We’ve already had to forfeit all of our day games, which means we can’t afford to lose any more, period. Plus, you all know how much I hate these guys. If we lose, well those little gold-hiding bastards are never going to let us hear the end of it, are they? Looky here. Shamrock Shenanigan has been riding me hard all week on account of his tire realignment center out-grossing mine this quarter, and the way I figure it there’s no better way to smack that little yippy skippy smile off his face than to BEAT THOSE LEPRECHAUNS TONIGHT! Okay?! Here’s what we need to focus on: patience. They’re starting Lucky O’ Jiggers tonight and you know that when he’s on the mound he tries to make you eat the junk, go fishin’, dangle the lumber, you know, swing at bad pitches. Not tonight. Tonight we don’t bite. That’s our motto. Tonight we do not bite. Just get up there nice and relaxed and think to yourselves, “okey-doke, I’m full, I filled up on squirrels or maybe I drained an itinerant or two in a back alley, I don’t need to bite unless it’s a nice, ripe, alabaster-skinned, raven-haired virgin with pure type Oh-yeah blood runnin’ through her veins.” Get it? Hey stop snickering, Hank. So my metaphors aren’t the greatest. I’m trying here! What I’m saying is wait for your pitch. If we’re going to beat those goofy-hat wearing clover-hoppers we’ve gotta be patient. Those happy little trickster fucks have been acting all superior to us ever since they realized how much easier it was for them to integrate into human society. Oh sure, they’re just short Irish folk wearing funny hats who just happen to be around rainbows all the time. You’d think people would catch on. “Oh gee, my neighbor, Mr. Shellalagh St. Patrick always seems to have a giant freakin’ rainbow just sprouting out of his chimney. Not weird at all. And he’s always paying for everything with gold pieces. And he never. Ever. Ever stops dancing!” But noooo, they get to incorporate themselves into the general populace while we’ve gotta take pains not to get hunted down by stake-happy Buffy wannabes. FUCK! Do ya hear what I’m saying? Let’s go out there tonight and sink our teeth into those bastards! Metaphorically. And if we lose, let’s do it literally. Probably taste like one of those green McDonald’s shakes. Okay, on the count of three. One. Two. Three. “WE SUCK!”

NOTE: Vampires and Leprechauns have been natural enemies for as long as either race can remember, and both groups take great pride in the fact that they are among the few creatures of human myth that actually exist.* Vampires account for approximately 2% of the general population (much higher in some areas – Minnesota has a 13% vampire population), and leprechauns less than .5%. However, leprechauns generally have an easier time incorporating themselves into human society, largely because of their ability to move about during daytime hours. This is a point of major resentment among the vampires, as is the leprechaun’s seemingly limitless access to gold coins. However, leprechauns have long envied vampires for their sex-appeal and bowling skills.

*Vampires, Leprechauns, Mermaids, Centaurs, Microdonkeybots, Tiny Toilet Pirates, Scorpion Boy

posted by Andres at 10:36 AM

Tuesday, December 03, 2002

At the office where I am currently working, there is a man named Sandy Colon. Etc.

posted by Andres at 2:09 PM

Ensign! Yeah. Um. First of all, thanks a lot for all your help around here. You’ve been…I mean, you ARE a great part of the Pegasus team. Yeah. Okay, anyway I was wondering if you could do us a favor. Uh, there’s something in airlock #21. It’s making an awful ruccus, and it really seems to be scratching up the containment shell something fierce. Engineering says the only way to flush it into space is to go in there and manually release the airlock. So. I mean, you aren’t on shift right now, so we were thinking you could um. You know. Take care of that or something. Whaddya say? Pal. Here’s a stun pistol. Thanks champ!

posted by Andres at 2:01 PM

(seriously) My father has lost the ability to control the volume of his voice. Every single thing he says comes out at the same booming volume, with the same sense of urgency. For example:

HE’S GOT THE LAUNCH CODES, STOP HIM! SHOOT HIM IF YOU MUST!

Would be said in the same exact manner as

WHAT’S FOR DESSERT? CHECK THE CUPBOARD FOR THE COOKIES GRANDMA MADE!

or

DO YOU WANT TO COME SHOPPING WITH ME FOR STEAK SAUCE? ANY STEAK SAUCE YOU WANT!

(fictional) My father has also lost any ability to censor himself. For instance, we went out to a nice seafood restaurant this past weekend, and when the waiter asked for his order, he said

DO YOU REALIZE THAT IN SOME SOCIETIES IT WOULD BE PERFECTLY ACCEPTABLE FOR ME TO CHEAT ON MY WIFE OPENLY, THEN BLAME HER FOR IT AND HAVE HER STONED IN PUBLIC? BUT NOOOOOO, I’VE GOT TO BE ALL SECRETIVE ABOUT MY EJACULATORY INDISCRETIONS! I WILL HAVE THE CLAMS!

Just throwing some stuff up out of my turkey-daze notes.

posted by Andres at 1:46 PM

I just bought some over-the-counter tryptophan. Actually, it’s called TRYPTOPHAN-D. Taking one pill every 4-6 hours will make you feel:

Drowsy

Full

Like strangling your parents

It really is like Thanksgiving in a pill. Oh, and it will also clear your sinuses. That’s where the “D” comes in.

Where The “D” Comes In is a children’s book that I do NOT recommend. Good Lord no. Published by NAMBLA. Bad news. Blechhh.

posted by Andres at 1:35 PM

So who’s familiar with the TURDUCKEN? Apparently it’s all the rage nowadays. It’s a turkey stuffed with a duck that’s been stuffed with a chicken. Not to be confused with a TURDUMPKIN. Which is a pumpkin that’s been stuffed with turd. I guess that’s more of a Halloween prank item than it is a holiday meal main course. Hoo!

November 2002

Tuesday, November 26, 2002

Here’s a bit from last Christmas. I think I’ll drag it out a couple of times this X-mas as well, and maybe try to convert it into a Frankie No Pants monologue at some point. A poem? This is just me thinkin’ here.

Hide the Virgins! Hide the Virgins, everyone! Happy Economic Stimulus Day! Happy Economic Stimulus Day! Hide the Virgins!

Good evening. I’m Andrés du Bouchet. Thank you.

Many of you only know me as Andrés du Bouchet the brilliant comic slash actor that frequently graces the stage of this and other sporadically attended low-profile semi-professional comedy venues. But a few of you do know me as Andrés du Bouchet the incredibly wealthy businessman and wheeler and dealer, owner of such things as most of the artwork on permanent display in the Guggenheim, the New York Islanders hockey franchise, a sizeable chunk of the real estate in Tribeca, several patents for various aquarium filter pumps, and of course, the entire Duane Reade chain of pharmacies.

Tonight I stand before you in that second capacity. As Andrés du Bouchet the incredibly wealthy and charismatic businessman. Thank you.

First off, I’d like to thank Mike and Bricken for allowing me to take a few minutes of your time in this manner in exchange for my agreeing to appear in their little monkey sketch. Mike and Bricken, thank you, you won’t regret it, because I am here to make a very special announcement that is going to affect all of our lives.

As of 3pm yesterday, I officially bought out Santa’s majority share of Claus Industries. This includes all of the facilities, equipment, employees both regular-sized and wee-sized, patents, trademarks, rights, etc., and effectively puts me in charge of Christmas.

I know this is not coming at a very convenient time, but fear not, my transition team is at the North Pole right now working overtime to ensure that this holiday season goes off without a hitch, and let me tell you, we’ve got some very exciting changes in the works that I really think are going to jingle your bells. Ha ha.

First off, the biggest change is obviously that the holiday is no longer going to be called Christmas. Frankly, I’ve never liked the name. Too religious – the word Christ is right there staring you in the face, which really just makes you feel guilty and awkward since the holiday has evolved to the point where it has nothing to do with Christ or Christianity at all. So, the new name for December 25th is Economic Stimulus Day, and following logically, this changes the name of the 24th from Christmas Eve to Last Chance to Buy Stuff Before Economic Stimulus Day Day.

Secondly, there is no more Santa Claus. When I bought him out, I gave him a handsome severance package and wished him luck. If you are interested in keeping in touch with him, I can’t give you his home address, but I can tell you that he is the new manager of the Blimpie’s on 78th and Lex right here in town. Try the Kringel Club.

Who’s going to make the toys? Well, I’ve fired all the elves and replaced them with Malaysian children. What are the elves going to do for work? Some have found jobs as Jockeys. Some have gone to work for the Cirque du Soleil. But most of them were sent to a glue factory.

Who’s going to deliver presents? I am. Why me? Frankly, I’m a bit of a voyeur, and the thought of being inside everyone’s houses while they’re asleep really turns me on.

What name am I going to use? Andrés du Bouchet. Let’s face it. My name kicks ass. There’s no point in me calling myself Andres Claus or Santa Bouchet or Andres Santa du Claus Bouchet, when my name kicks so much fucking ass all by itself.

What am I going to wear? Some variation on what you see here. A nice pair of khakis. A sweater, a blazer. But I will keep the Santa hat. It makes me feel sexy.

Instead of Ho Ho Ho, my catchphrase will be Hide the Virgins! I want to perpetuate the image that I’m a rogue, a womanizer, not just a ladies man but a sexy, menacing scoundrel with a dark edge. He’ll bring you presents, but he also just might get lost in your house and find his way into your teenage daughters bedroom and give her some pre-prom night training! Hence:

Happy Economic Stimulus Day, here comes Andres du Bouchet, so Hide the Virgins!

Instead of eight reindeer, I’ll be using 400 chipmunks. Chipmunks have the explosive jittery energy needed to keep my sled going at the near light speeds required, and as they flame out I can replace them with chipmunks I pick up along the way. Which reminds me, I hope you all like venison jerky, because you’re all getting some in your stockings this year. As a special promotion, if you find the glowing venison jerky, you win a Microsoft X-Box game console. So keep your eyes open for that glowing jerky. That is the first time any human has ever uttered that sentence.

I won’t be landing on your roof. I use the driveway. If your driveway is full, I’ll land anyway, and you can clean the chipmunk poop off the top of your cars the next day. Not my problem.

No more chimneys. I pay too much for my clothes to get soot all over them. I’m walking in the front door. If it’s locked, I’m smashing in a window with your own patio furniture. Or, if you don’t have patio furniture, I’ll just use as many chipmunks as it takes to break a window.

Don’t leave me milk and cookies. I want scotch and pornography. More specifically, single malt scotch and Asian pornography.

Also, you might not all get what you want. I don’t keep lists. I don’t check them twice. I work from the gut. If I’m in your living room and it doesn’t feel like a Scrabble Deluxe type living room, I might give you something else, like a Salad Shooter or a DVD of the entire first season of a popular Japanese game show. It’s up to me. So be naughty, be nice, I don’t care. I work from the gut.

Now then, any successful holiday has marketing icons, and Economic Stimulus Day will be no exception. Gone are the traditional icons such as Santa, Rudolph and Frosty. I’d like to introduce the new symbols of the holidays – Piranha & Barfbag. You’re going to be seeing a lot of these two rascals over the next few days, and their debut will be in an animated special tonight on Fox. Piranha is a grumpy little fellow who just wants to kill and eat. Barfbag is his goofy sidekick that teaches him that the true meaning of Economic Stimulus Day is not to kill and eat, but to buy pre-killed stuff in a store and eat that. Piranha’s voice will be supplied by Steve Buscemi, and Barfbag’s by James Earl Jones.

Also, gone are the traditional catalog of holiday songs. Instead, we will be using classic 80s hair metal. No more jingle bells – instead, Pour Some Sugar On Me from Def Leppard. No more Deck the Halls, instead, C’mon Feel The Noise from Quiet Riot. And instead of the Twelve Days of Christmas, it’s I Wanna Rock from Twisted Sister.

Thank you for your time. Happy Economic Stimulus Day! Hide the Virgins!

On Squeaky, on Bucktooth, on Bushy, on Stripey, on Nutball, on Roadkill, on Fluffy, on Whiskers, on Flapjack, on Pippin, on Rabid Tony, on Regis, on Muffin, on Amber, on Shelby, on Jittery, on Twitchy, on Spiceboy, on Dipshit, on Frodo, on Halftail, on Threepaws, on One-eye, on Wingding, on Crapper, on Zippy, on Twinkee, on Spanky, on Patches, on Humper, on Scratchy, on Dizzy, on Hakim, on Buttlick, on Chewy, on Squaretoes, on Brownie, on Watkins, on Roadkill Two, on Clooney, on Softy, on Unibrow, on Poopy, on Crotchslapper, on Henry, on Fancy, on Dreyfus, on Squirt, on Pinky, on Hedwig, on Cupcake, on Red, on Aquaman, on Booby, on Munchkin, on Buster, on Larry, on Hermione, on Squiggy, on Van Helsing, on Turbo, on Fonzie, on Gaptooth, on Heimdall, on Fashionplate, on Fenris, on Sagan, on Rocco, on Dolphinsafe, on Shasta, on Chippy Chipperson, on Gringo, on Chapstick, on Troutface, on Beatlebum, on Joey, on Hyper Stan, on Furry, on Sweet Pea, on Hairy Hank, on Mullet, on Mario, on Kubrick, on Hootch, on Starskey, on Lemonfresh, on Peepee, on Tuccus, on Crispyfeet, on Cranky, on Noodles, on Arnie, on Quackpants, on Fuckface, on Incontinent Hal, on Douchebag, on Steve, on Count Chipula, on Clambake, on Fluffy Two, on Rabid Vinnie, on…

posted by Andres at 1:15 AM

Monday, November 18, 2002

This is a bit from a promo e-mail for one of my shows that I sent out earlier this year…

It is March 11th, 2002.

There is an astronaut application on my desk.

I received it in the mail after filling out a simple form on NASA’s website.

Six months ago today, my choice to be a comedian suddenly seemed trivial, so I began researching alternative careers that might make me more useful to society. Astronaut seemed the most logical choice.

At nine pages long, it is surprisingly concise, and consists mostly of ordinary questions that you would find on any job application. The only page that really stands out is the one labeled “Summary of Aeronautical Experience”, in which the applicant is required to provide a detailed record of the number of hours they have spent piloting and/or co-piloting various types of civilian and military aircraft. The application makes it clear that special consideration is given to those who have experience as test pilots.

I had to leave that page blank.

After reading further, I realized that my college degree was also unacceptable. NASA requires that you have at least a B.A. in a field related to engineering, biological or physical sciences. My degree is in English. At least that’s what my diploma says. Please never ask me any actual questions about literature – my automatic response will probably be some flustered tirade about the wasted years of my life (1985-1997), followed by the sentence “Oh yeah, definitely Vonnegut, without a doubt.” I will then eat.

After thoroughly reading the entire application, I realized that the only minimum requirement I did meet was that of height. In order to be an astronaut, you have to be between 58.5 and 76 inches tall. I’m approximately 72.5 inches tall. 73 if I’ve just finished using the lat pulldown machine at the gym. I found it surprising that you could be so short and still be an astronaut, but what I found even more surprising is that one of the genetic attributes that allows so many great NBA players to soar high above the rim, will forever prevent them from soaring high above the Earth. In a spaceship. If NASA ever establishes an elite team of basketball-playing astronauts (astrobasketnauts), it will have to be the smaller guards that lead the way. Mr. Iverson, set us down on that asteroid! Now bury the tre! BOOYAH!

But I digress.

I felt like I had hit a brick wall. I was having severe doubts about being a comedian, yet I was completely unfit to be an astronaut. I had run out of options. I fell into a deep depression, and abandoned my good friends Mr. Beer and Mr. Ice Cream for my arch-enemies Mr. Too Much Beer, Mr. Way Too Much Ice Cream, and Mr. What The Hell Are You Doing With That Suede Pillowcase Aw Man I Don’t Need To See That For Crying Out Loud Andres No.

That was until yesterday, when I picked up the most recent issue of “Vicarious Astronaut Bi-Monthly”, and came across an article by Buzz Aldrin entitled: “United We Laugh: Why Comedians Are This Country’s Most Precious Non-Fuel or Military Related Resource”. In compelling and sometimes even tender language, Buzz recounts how his career as an astronaut would not have been possible without some of the earlier Marx Brothers films. It’s a very interesting article with some fascinating, serpentine leaps of logic, but in the end Buzz makes it crystal clear that the future of our space program is entirely dependent on the comedians of this great country. And on advances in Plasma and/or Fusion research.

Immediately, I felt better. Validated. More committed to making people laugh than ever before. Except for maybe when I was eleven years old, and just would not shut the fuck up until people either laughed or hit me.

I suggest all you comics out there pick up the article and read it yourselves. Though I doubt you will ever, ever find it.

Even so, the knowledge that there is a man named Buzz, and that he has set foot on the moon, is reason enough to go on. Right?

posted by Andres at 1:24 AM

If the last two posts look familiar, it’s because I copied and pasted them from the old gianttuesday blog. Yup, I’m on one of my “posting old stuff” kicks again! Here’s more from the files…

(here’s an old Canned Family sketch I wrote – for a while I was the voice of Neil, but Jonny Fido eventually took over the part with his strange pseudo-Christopher Walken impression. Dan & Tina were usually Michael Reisman and Jen Sprague)

1-900-CALL-NEIL

Enter Dan. Dan excitedly picks up the phone and dials an eleven-digit number with deliberation and mounting enthusiasm. He puts the phone to his ear and looks very anticipatory.

NEIL VO

Oh, hello. This is Neil. One…two…three…four…five…

Dan looks more and more excited with each number.

Enter Tina.

Dan hangs up.

TINA

Hey Dan, what are you doing using my phone again?

DAN

I’m calling Neil.

TINA

Who?

DAN

Neil! (turns to audience) Everyone’s calling Neil! Just dial 1-900-CALL-NEIL, and listen to Neil count. Whatever number he reaches before you hang up is the dollar amount you pay for the call!

TINA

That’s it? (pause) You mean there’s no catch?!

Tina sits and begins to dial.

DAN

That’s right! It’s as easy as throwing your money out the window!

TINA

That’s pretty easy!

NEIL VO

Oh, hello, this is Neil. One…two…three…four…

Tina is listening with mounting excitement, she can barely contain herself. She slams the phone down and raises her hands in victory.

TINA

Four dollars! Wow! Calling Neil is fun!

Tina immediately begins to redial.

DAN

It’s more fun than doing nothing, that’s for sure! And calling Neil is different every time! Sometimes he counts slowly –

NEIL VO

(very slowly) Oh, hello, this is Neil. One…two…three…

DAN

Sometimes he counts fast…

NEIL VO

(quickly) fourfivesixseveneight

DAN

And sometimes he’ll even be a little tricky!

NEIL VO

…19, 20…22…26…38, 45, 72 –

Tina slams down the phone.

TINA

(incredulous) Seventy-two dollars. That Neil is wily!

Dan starts to dial again.

DAN

He sure is! And he’s smart too!

NEIL VO

Oh, hello, this is Neil. 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34, 55, 89, 144, 233, 377, 610, 987, 1597, 2584, 4181, 6765, 10946, 17711, 28657, 46368…

TINA

(she says this around 13, then Neil’s voice drops into background as Dan talks, and comes back into foreground at some HUGE #)

He’s doing a Fibonacci Series!!

DAN

He sure is! Call Neil! Just listen to him count, and whatever number he reaches before you hang up is the dollar amount you pay for the call! Just dial 1-900-CALL-NEIL, and remember to leave off the last L…because it simply isn’t necessary.

Tina slams down phone.

TINA

Call now! (realizing) Oh my God the phone bill!

Tina walks off stage mumbling vitriol.

Dan looks around and picks the phone back up. He dials.

NEIL VO

Oh hello, this is Neil. One. Hundred. Mill—

Dan slams the phone down. Blackout.

posted by Andres at 1:07 AM

It seems like every banker I’ve ever worked for is very fond of disparaging the skills of other banker’s assistants:

“Andres, listen, you’re really going to have to keep after Joanna for that document, she’s not exactly the sharpest tool in the shed. Thanks pal.”

“Hey buddy how was your weekend? Uh huh. Listen, I’d really appreciate it if you called Flaherty’s office again about this Corptech meeting. I know his assistant said she’d call you back, but just between you and me, she tends to let things fall through the cracks alot. Thanks pal.”

“Andres, can you please call Erika and just make sure that these are the right dates? I hate to bad mouth her, but she’s pretty dim. Thanks buddy.”

“Hey Dr. Dre! Ha. How was your show last night? Good crowd? Yeah I don’t know how you do it man. Wow. Listen, I need a huge favor from you. Can you please call Peggy and just make sure she knows how dumb she is? She’s pretty fucking stupid so you’ll have to remind her a few times. Just be persistent. Thanks, Dre!”

posted by Andres at 12:34 AM

Hello. Allow me to introduce myself.

I am the ugliest pony. I can see by the expression on your face that you agree. Don’t worry, my feelings aren’t hurt. I’m used to it.

Let’s move on.

Your disgust by my appearance is matched only by your amazement at my eloquence. This does not surprise me. A talking pony is, to say the least, highly unusual.

Plus, I am so very ugly.

So.

We seem to have reached a bit of an uncomfortable moment. Let us continue this discussion later.

posted by Andres at 12:33 AM

Thursday, November 14, 2002

The air is thick with the smothering smell of fiscal matter!

Hey folks, I’m here in the men’s room on the trading floor of a large investment bank, and boy, let me tell you -

THE BANKERS BE SHITTIN’!

Ooh yeah. I’m talking about a dozen stalls, all occupied at once. Suit pants around 12 sets of ankles, the rustling of 12 newspapers, the periodic grunting of 12 investment professionals.

Random PLOPS of various pitches!

Stall #4 – He’s got a one o’clock with Bayerisch Vandersbank regarding a hundred million dollar placement. But right now, he’s a dangler wrangler! One false move and there could be an unwieldy amount of residue. Nothing adds awkward tension to an important meeting like the subtle, lingering scent of a mis-wipe. “Hang” in there, champ!

Stall #11 – How ironic! You’re an ass to your secretary, and now you’re a secretary to your ass! It looks like you’re transcribing message after message onto those little slips of one-ply. Gee, they sure are hard to read. Oh yeah, that’s because it was just a metaphor! You’ve got the runs!

Stall #7 – Hi, I’m Carl H. Hoynes III, from Structured Finance. I pushed hard to finish the O’Reardon contract before deadline. I pushed hard to get my son into Princeton. And I’m pushing hard now.

posted by Andres at 1:59 PM

Wednesday, November 13, 2002

At the Morgan Stanley cafeteria, for only $3, you can get an egg salad sandwich with a side of chips and a pickle. Oh God my stomach hurts.

Egg Salad : Sandwich Filling

White Dwarf : Star

WHO’S WITH ME!?

As soon as it becomes financially feasible, I’m going to buy a penthouse apartment and a high-powered telescope. I know what you’re thinking. But I’m also going to use the telescope for astronomical purposes. I’ve always been intrigued by (booming voice) OUTER SPACE, and whenever I read an astronomy-related article in The New York Times science section, or Discover, or Omni (remember Omni? Sexy sci-fi!), I just get filled with awe and wonder and giddy antici

(any Rocky Horror fans in the house?)

pation. Especially when the article has anything to do with the search for extraterrestrial life. Because the greatest, most momentous scientific discoveries throughout human history will all be dwarfed by the discovery of extraterrestrial life. And I’m not even talking about little green men emerging from their gleaming saucer on the White House lawn and demanding an audience with Liberace (they will be highly misinformed aliens). I’m talking about something as simple as a speck of microscopic organic matter, or even a fossilized bit of organic matter. Basically, if it’s organic and it’s not from Earth, it’s historically huge news. It might seem like a far-fetched notion straight out of a science fiction novel, but the fact is that as we learn more and more about life on Earth, the existence of life elsewhere in the universe seems more plausible. Why? Because here on Earth, we continue to find life in the unlikeliest places, thriving under the most seemingly hostile natural conditions.

Miles below the ocean’s surface, in utter darkness, perched along thermal vents that belch poisonous chemicals into the water, scientists have discovered (this was years ago) what look like giant, living tubes of lipstick. They are tubeworms. Anchored to the ocean bottom at one end, and feeding on tiny bits of microscopic life with its tulip-shaped head at the other, the tubeworm is a creature that we wouldn’t have thought possible under our old assumptions about the pre-existing conditions necessary for supporting life. Permanently steeped in a hot, roiling, poisonous broth, far from any sunlight, denied oxygen and trapped beneath the enormous, crushing pressure of miles of ocean, the tubeworm thrives in an environment that would mean certain death for practically every other living thing on this planet.

I would like to formally nominate the tubeworm as posterworm for our search for extraterrestrial life. Its very existence vastly broadens the list of places where we can hope to find life. No longer is some Earth-sized planet with an oxygen-rich atmosphere orbiting a Sun-like star within a very narrow range of acceptable distances necessarily required. Now, there are even celestial bodies within our very own solar system where the presence of life is conceivable. Like Europa. One of Jupiter’s many moons, Europa has long been known to be very volcanically active, and much more recently, is known for having a several-mile thick crust of ice on its surface. I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking “Wow, Andres stopped trying to be even remotely amusing several paragraphs ago!” But you’re also thinking, “WOW! If Europa is a volcanically active body with an ice crust, then isn’t it possible, just POSSIBLE, that beneath those many miles of ice, closer to the heat-generating volcanic interior of the moon, there could be, maybe, JUST MAYBE…an ocean of liquid water? With thermal vents?

Meet the tubeworms’ alien cousin. You never know.

posted by Andres at 1:27 PM

Tuesday, November 12, 2002

GO

GO

GO

PLEASE SWIPE AGAIN

$6.00 LEFT

GO

INSUFFICIENT FARE

GO

GO

$15.00 LEFT

$10.50 LEFT

GO

INSUFFICIENT FARE

$4.50 LEFT

GO

GO

$9.00 LEFT

GO

GO

GO

$1.50 LEFT

GO

SWIPE CARD AGAIN AT THIS TURNSTILE

PLEASE SWIPE AGAIN

PLEASE SWIPE AGAIN

SWIPE CARD AGAIN AT THIS TURNSTILE

PLEASE SWIPE AGAIN

SWIPE CARD AGAIN AT THIS TURNSTILE

SWIPE CARD AGAIN AT THIS TURNSTILE

SWIPE CARD AGAIN AT THIS TURNSTILE

PLEASE SWIPE AGAIN

PLEASE SWIPE AGAIN

PLEASE SWIPE AGAIN

PLEASE SWIPE AGAIN

OKAY YOU’RE EITHER A TOURIST, REALLY OLD, OR JUST PLAIN STUSWIPE CARD AGAIN AT THIS TURNSTILE

HEY STOP FOR A SECPLEASE SWIPE AGAIN

MAKE SURE THE PLEASE SWIPE AGAIN

GODDAMMITSTOP AND LET MESWIPE CARD AGAIN AT THIS TURNSTILE

MAKESURETHESTRIPEISDOWNANDTOTHELEFTYOUFUCPLEASE SWIPE AGAIN

PLEASE SWIPE AGAIN

YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDISWIPE CARD AGAIN AT THIS TURNSTILE

I BET YOU’RE NOT EVEN USING A METROCPLEASE SWIPE AGAIN

IT’S A CREDIT CARD OR A SWIPE CARD AGAIN AT THIS TURNSTILE

DUANE READE CLUB CARD OR SOME SHIPLEASE SWIPE AGAIN

MORON PLEASE SWIPE AGAIN

MORONMORONMORONSWIPE CARD AGAIN AT THIS TURNSTILE

YOU’RE A “METRO-TARD” IS WHAT YOU ARPLEASE SWIPE AGAIN

PLEASE SWIPE AGAIN

HEYBUDDYYOURKINKOSCOPYCARDWON’TGETYOUONTHESUBWSWIPE CARD AGAIN AT THIS TURNSTILE

YOU’RE AN ASSWIPE CARD AGAIN AT THIS TURNSTILE

SEE WHAT I DID THERE PLEASE SWIPE AGAIN

I CALLED YOU AN ASSWIPE SWIPE CARD AGAIN AT THIS TURNSTILE

BY CLEVERLY INCORPORAPLEASE SWIPE AGAIN

SIGH PLEASE SWIPE AGAIN

AREYOUEVENFUCKINGPAYINGATTENGO

IT’S ABOUT FU$7.50 LEFT

WHEW INSUFFICIENT FARE

GO

GO

GO

posted by Andres at 10:38 AM

My roommate often mentions how sexy she finds both firemen and UPS men. That got me thinking.

Why not combine the two professions?

It might go something.

Like this.

But I doubt it.

WOMAN

HELP! My baby’s in there!

UPFDS MAN

Don’t worry, Ma’am, we’ll get your baby. But first, sign right here.

WOMAN

What’s this? J. Crew! This must be from my sister, she told me she was going to send me something for my upcoming ski trip. I hope it’s a rollneck.

UPFDS MAN

Now to save that baby of yours!

NEIGHBOR

Wait. Anything for 2H?

UPFDS MAN

Hmm. Let me check the truck. Be right back.

UPFDS man leaves.

NEIGHBOR

Sorry about that.

WOMAN

That’s okay. (wagging finger disapprovingly) But if anything happens to my baby…

NEIGHBOR

(shrugs bashfully)

UPFDS Man returns with another package.

UPFDS MAN

Would you look at that! Here ya go. Sign right here please.

NEIGHBOR

It’s about time! I’ve been waiting for this package for months! What was the hold up?

UPFDS MAN

Well, you haven’t had a fire until now, have you?

NEIGHBOR

Good point.

UPFDS MAN

(winking) Now then, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got an even more important package to pick up!

He barrels up the stairs into the heart of the blaze.

WOMAN

He means my baby!

NEIGHBOR

Those guys are so sexy. I’d let him “save” my “baby” from my “burning building” anyday! (making O with his left thumb and index finger and penetrating it repeatedly with his right index finger)

WOMAN

Oh, you silly homo!

NEIGHBOR

(he glares at her, his feelings obviously hurt – we have witnessed the end of a friendship)

UPFDS Man emerges from the smoke-filled stairwell carrying a small bundle wrapped in a blanket. He looks distraught.

UPFDS MAN

I’m so sorry. So sorry.

He unwraps bundle to reveal a charred, misshapen lump.

WOMAN

Oh no! My baby! My baby! Oh no my baby my baby (she begins to weep uncontrollably – she grabs the lump and cradles it, collapsing to the ground weeping.)

UPFDS MAN

I’m so sorry.

WOMAN

Mybabymybabymybabymy – wait a second. This is my iMac.

UPFDS MAN

Gotcha!

WOMAN

So my baby’s okay?

UPFDS MAN

I really have no idea. (turns away from woman and approaches camera, which tracks him out of the building and out onto the street) Hi. When UPS and the Fire Dept. were forcibly merged by the ‘New York State Chamber Of It Might Go Something Like This’, many of us were thrown into situations that we were woefully unprepared for. I worked for UPS for 12 years before the merger, specializing in package tracking in rural areas.* Frankly, I’m terrified of fire, and utterly disoriented by even a minimal amount of smoke. In fact, if you were to check my cute brown shorts right now, you’d find that I’ve just delivered a “very special package” of my own, due to my intense terror and confusion. Hey, it even matches my shorts. But seriously. Merging UPS and the Fire Dept. was an awful, awful idea. Yes, we are the sexiest single workforce in history, but problems such as this PDBS** are extremely common. Just the other day a former fireman axed down a door just to deliver a Crate & Barrel cheese and country sausage variety box. Accidentally killing a baby in the process. Please write your local Congresspimp (a much more natural merger) and urge them to separate UPS and the Fire Dept. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a calendar to shoot.

Building collapses in the background.

THE END

*The phrase “in a rural area” used with permission from Eddie Pepitone. Not really.

**Probably Dead Baby Situation

posted by Andres at 9:44 AM

Monday, November 11, 2002

NO IDEAS TODAY. Move along please.

posted by Andres at 2:56 PM

Friday, November 08, 2002

Let’s get something straight.

I know how fucking cool my name is. Quick recap!

Andres Mario du Bouchet

BOOM. ‘Nuff said. Cool spankin’ shityeah name.

However, it’s a name that is not without baggage. For instance, one might think that I have some connection to one of the three countries represented in my name. France. Spain. Italy. True, you would find French, Spanish and Italian people in my lineage if you investigated my family tree, but out on my little leaf, you’d just find this All-American knucklehead from New Jersey. Well, born in Brooklyn and raised in Jersey. And now living in Manhattan. There is a level of cultural sophistication implied by my name that my actual personality is very, very ill-equipped to support.

I don’t speak French. I failed it in college, along with several other classes.

I know only minimal Spanish: Hay muchas cosas interesantes en una paella!

My knowledge of Italian is limited to a small number of espresso-related terms, and to the few brief, misogynistic snippets of dialog I’ve culled from watching too many movies starring Rocco Siffredi, which alludes to a rather frowned-upon preoccupation of mine.

It is a more nuanced hobby than you’d think.

I am woefully unversed (inversed? nonversed?) in the literatures and histories of my European ancestral homes. I’m pretty sure that at some point those countries were very important in the grand scheme of things, though now they are basically vacation spots and sources of culinary inspiration. I have been to Italy and Spain, but not to France.

Italy is shaped like a boot!

At times I feel burdened by my name, and I always find myself cringing when someone quizzes me about my background. For not only do I not identify with any of the cultures my name reflects, I am also ignorant of my own family history. My parents were both born in Brooklyn. My grandparents? Already, my knowledge is hazy. Or maybe just lazy. I’m pretty sure I’ve been told this information several times, but it never seems to sink in. Everything I know about my great-grandparents and beyond can be summed-up with this one line that I used to use to (try to) impress women during shouted bar conversations:

“MY GREAT GRANDMOTHER WAS AN OPERA SINGER!”

I also like to say “My grandfather was a New York City police captain.” Those are the two facts I cling to when I discuss my family history, because a) they are interesting, b) I am almost positive they are both true, and c) I can’t freakin’ remember anything else. Ask me to provide more in-depth information, however, and I flounder almost instantly. It is a rather hollow sensation to know so little about one’s own family history, and it is extremely frustrating to know that had I paid more attention to things I’m positive my relatives have already told me, I wouldn’t be so ignorant about my roots.

Spain has lots of olive trees!

Basically, it’s my own fault. I was a space cadet as a child, an ADHD narcissist nutball as a young man, and now I’m a busy, self-absorbed comedian in NYC. Maybe the window of opportunity to attain enlightenment has passed. It seems that whenever I prompt my Aunt or Grandmother or Parents for family information as part of some crusade for knowledge that I’ve initiated for the umpteenth time, I forget what they tell me almost as soon as I hear it. Odd. Maybe I’m just being half-hearted and insincere about my so-called desire to know more about my family? Maybe I like the notion that I have such a provocative name but such a simple, American, middle class background. Brooklyn. Jersey. NYC. A good friend of mine teases me that Andres du Bouchet is just a stage name, and that my real name is Andy Dabutcher. I was born with a name that a much more sophisticated, suave, worldly and wealthy man than I deserves.Somewhere in the Mediterranean Sea there is a man drinking champagne and eating caviar in the casino located on his yacht, a beautiful woman on each arm. He turns to the nearest waiter and says “More of everything for everyone!”

Coupled with a crisp salute, the reply swiftly comes – “Right away, Mr. Spurtbag!”

He should have my name. I should be Mr. Spurtbag.

But you know what? I love my name. As unsuccessful and unmannered as I am, the name almost forces me to carry myself with just a tad more dignity than I otherwise would. It encourages me to be a bit more well-spoken. A smidgen more dapper. The name itself is something to live up to, in a way. Without it, I could very well be the comic book guy on the Simpsons by now. So I guess it’s a double-edged sword.

In France they eat snails!

Let’s not even get into my Mom’s side of the family.

Polish and Yugoslavian.

I am a mutt.

posted by Andres at 2:47 PM

Thursday, November 07, 2002

The following is a rough draft for a submission to Jest’s December issue. Remember the disclaimer at the end of the most recent warrior piece? Ditto here.

DECK THE HALL OF ARCTIC LIFE

By Gerald The Former Walrus

I miss my family. ‘Tis the season, after all. Every year during the holidays, that old pang of grief comes back, and the fiberglass-stuffed cavity where my heart used to be aches just as it did on that surreal day nearly a century ago, when I first found myself inside this plexiglass diorama. Deceased but aware. Odd. With time I have become accustomed to this state, and sometimes I even forget how unusual my circumstances are, but the holidays never fail to remind me. My real family, my biological family, my wife, my pups. They are dust. Adrift on the winds of sadness.

Gotcha! Sorry about that, folks. My pal, Louis Who Used To Be A Narwhal, dared me to start this piece out on a real downer note. Anyway, Happy Holidays, and greetings from the Hall of Arctic Life in New York City’s very own Museum of Natural History! Louis and I are conducting a little clandestine mission here – we’ve hacked into the computer in the Penguin Multimedia Kiosk, and as I painstakingly tap this out letter-by-letter with my tusks, Louis is keeping watch for any security personnel that might come around. If we think we’re about to be spotted, our plan is to begin wrestling and then freeze in place. Louis has mounted a small plaque on the wall right above us to aid in the deception, which reads:

ARCTIC ALTERCATION! HERE WE SEE A TYPICAL ENCOUNTER BETWEEN A WALRUS AND A NARWHAL, AS THEY VIE FOR SUPREMACY OF THE FRIGID ARCTIC WATERS THAT THEY BOTH PROWL! HERE THEY DO BATTLE AS THEY WOULD IN THE WILD, ARMED WITH NOTHING BUT THEIR TEETH, TUSKS, AND NOVELTY PLASTIC PIRATE SWORDS. IN THIS ENCOUNTER, THE TWO SEA MAMMAL COMBATANTS ARE TRYING TO KNOCK 10-GALLON COWBOY HATS OFF OF EACH OTHER’S HEADS!

I know, I know. It’s quite a caper! Okay, so maybe the left over Halloween accessories are a bit much. Still, I doubt the security guards would even notice that we’re not in our dioramas, much less wearing cowboy hats. They’d probably just assume it was part of the Museum’s approach to sprucing up our Hall this Holiday season. After all, they’ve already decorated the malfunctioning water fountain as a Sperm Whale in a Santa hat. What do I mean by “malfunctioning?” Well, if you press very hard on the lever, you will get a dribble of water. However, if you press very, very hard, you will get a violent nose flushing. There is no middle ground. It’s truly hilarious to watch, especially when it happens to a tourist. They’re skittish enough about visiting big, bad NYC, but when a seemingly normal water fountain blasts them in the face, I honestly think that for a panicky split-second they suspect terrorism. Speaking of which, yesterday some kid’s backpack got the royal treatment. I watched the whole thing unfold. He put it down next to the Arctic Fox display to get out a little plastic bag of trail-mix. Then, he became distracted by the diagram painted on the floor (“Hi! I’m a Pika, better known as an Arctic Mountain Hamster! Follow my tiny footprints as I search for moss and lichen buried beneath the snow!”) and followed it down the corridor towards the Kid’s Fun Shop (those crafty Museum bastards!). Anyhow, no more than two minutes passed before his unattended backpack was surrounded by security guards. As one guard carefully inched towards the pack with a long pair of what I guess you would call “prodding tongs”, the other guards screamed into their walkie-talkies and cell phones:

“We need a level two detonation bag!”

“We’re going to set up a foam perimeter!”

“The backpack has not made any demands!”

“There’s some strange writing on the backpack! Po-ke-mon! Check it against our database!”

“I’m not sure if I hear ticking or not, we’re all yelling!”

“We’re going to douse it with water from the Sperm Whale Santa! What? It’s a water fountain. Yes. Well, it’s broken so it can shoot really far. Oh yeah baby, you KNOW I”ve got the same problem. Ah yeah. Tonight? Yeah sure, why not. 8pm. Okay, I’ll bring some wine. Are you kidding me? The satin one, definitely. You know what, I should probably go. Okay sexy. No, you are. No, you are! Alright. You first. Oh, okay, we’ll hang up at the same time. Ready? Onetwothreenow. You’re still there, aren’t you? HA! No, you first!”

By the time it was all over, the backpack had been soaked with water, doused in foam, and torn apart. Par for the course these days. Everyone is so tense. I suppose it’s somewhat justified, but the sparsely visited, dark and dusty Arctic Life wing of the Museum of Natural History seems an unlikely target. “First we shall strike their economic and military centers! Then, we shall deprive them of their finest taxidermy!” Not likely.

So, the holidays are indeed here, and with the increase in visitors, the decorations, the overall good will in the air, I start to genuinely miss my family. Don’t get me wrong. My fellow denizens here in the Museum are practically family. After all, we’ve been together for decades. Myself, Louis Who Used To Be A Narwhal, Gladys The Ex-Blue Whale, Henry Who Was Until Recently An Arctic Fox, Pauly Who Is Still An Actual Cockroach (our link to the outside world!), and Toby Who Thinks He Is Batman (the once-a-month janitor from the “You Can Do It Foundation”) are closer to me than my real family ever was. But all of us miss our biological families.With the exception of Pauly, who along with his entire brood, lives inside Henry’s hollowed-out abdominal cavity. And Toby, who thinks his mop is Alfred. The last time most of us saw our real famiilies was right before we were each shot and bagged for the purposes of display. This was long before the days of naturalists tranquilizing their subjects with a dart, weighing and tagging them, and then releasing them back into the wild. Nope. At the turn of the century, the prefered method of studying wildlife was to shoot it, stuff it, and stick it behind glass. From that point, the scientists could observe our behavior at their leisure: “The walrus has remained perfectly still now for several days. I believe we need to rethink our methodology. Also, I’m not so sure that plumber is installing the water fountain correctly.”

I’ve heard that humans by and large spend the holidays with their families, but don’t necessarily look forward to or enjoy the experience. It doesn’t surprise me. A walrus family gathering would consist of nothing more than grunting, nuzzling, and eating. From what I gather, a human family gathering would include all three of those elements PLUS a wide range of psychological warfare elements. Guilt. Resentment. Passive aggressiveness. And so forth. I guess when you’re a higher order of intelligence, you end up devoting a good part of your brain to figuring out why you are the way you are, how you got that way, and how best to exact your revenge on those you blame for making you that way. Make sense? One time I witnessed an exchange between a mother and her child as they stared at me. It provided a telling glimpse into the ways that people mold each other’s personaliities:

CHILD – Mommy, what’s that?

MOM – I think it’s a seal.

CHILD – What does it eat?

MOM – It eats little boys who ask too many questions.

CHILD – Waaaah!

MOM – Shut it!

CHILD – I shall now grow up to mistreat women.

Incidentally, all the mother had to do was read my informative, wall-mounted plaque. A seal? Please. That’s like mistaking Rosanne Barr for Yeardley Smith. Or mistaking Yeardley Smith for a tiny, ugly, annoying thing that produces a horrific, high pitched, squeaking noise. Am I right or am I right? The point is, any family gathering has got to feel like you’re in some sense meeting your makers. During a time of year when you’re supposed to be wallowing in good cheer, looking back on the past year and looking forward to the next, you humans are glaring at each other across the dining room table wondering why your relatives blah blah blah blah blah ugh. I am tired of this thing. I can barely see what I’m writing. The computer screen is about fifteen fucking feet away from the keyboard, and the chair I’m sitting in is an utter ergonomic catastrophe. Plus, every keystroke is interrupted by a phonecall from some noodlehead who urgently needs to speak to some jerkoff about some stupid crappy crap. This article is an aimless load of monkey manure, and temping can put on a French Maid outfit and suck my

Okay. I think it’s time for a little breaky-wakey. I’m going to post this unfinished mess and move on for now.

posted by Andres at 12:37 AM

Wednesday, November 06, 2002

This thing is becoming more and more like a workbook for me. Don’t you feel lucky to be seeing material in its primordial state? BEFORE IT’S ANY GOOD?!?!?!

Don’t sweat it, I will still post items of a more polished nature now and then.

Hey, I went over all of this already.

Okay, here’s a contest. Please come up with a definition for THIS brand-new emoticon:

:::_><%#—7

For example, one potential guess might be:

“Half A Carton Of Eggs On One Stilt Preparing To Leap From One Rooftop To Another Rooftop On Which Is Standing A Cross-Eyed, Devil-Tailed Anus Monster.”

I’m not sure what “emotion” that’s supposed to convey, exactly. Maybe “I’m feeling fragile, but still willing to take some major risks!”

Okay, next up is the long-delayed walrus piece…

posted by Andres at 3:45 PM

Tuesday, November 05, 2002

ROUGH ROUGH (rough!) DRAFT – some new stuff for General Ragnarok to say!

[Oh yeah, I should also mention that the last child-killing piece and the piece with the vampire meeting minutes were both pieces for Murray Peterson which I performed in a sort-of mutated combined form on 10/31 and 11/1 at the Gershwin. They went okay - the typical audience reaction of many blank stares with a handful of people really digging it. Anyhow, here's some new potential stuff for the General, which I will try in some form or another this Saturday at The Boudoir Bar - any good stuff in here?]

General Ragnarok raises his finger to his mouth. The revelry in his camp comes to a sudden hault.

Shhhh. Listen. (taking in the surroundings, a bit wild-eyed with enthusiasm)

The night is not so still as we would think. This land prospers. There. The plaintive call of a wolf for his mistress. Her eager response. Tonight they rendezvous! The hoot of an owl, gliding overhead. A cricket is playing its God-given fiddle. A badger is excavating a new burrow. You can practically hear him humming a tune as he scrapes the dirt away. A multitude of moths flutter and make a soft sound like a breath. They flit and dodge the feisty brown bat. A falcon. Up there, high in that elm. A falcon is snoring. Some frogs! Yes, I do believe some frogs are holding a belly flop contest in the pond by our encampment! The night is alive and well, my friends. We are in good company here in this valley. Far from battle. Far from the black fields where so many of our brave brothers now lie. War has not yet cast its shadow over this land.

And for that we should be proud. For centuries, many a brave warrior has fought in these legions. Fought to keep the hand of War from gripping these lands. Evil has had its way with The World, but not here. Not in this valley, and not anywhere else in our fine Kingdom. And we have done our part! Have we not?! I said HAVE WE NOT DONE OUR PART?!

(he listens to something in the distance)

Do you hear that? The wolf says “yes you have.”

When the Evil Warlord of the Blasted Lands tried to invade, did we not march to meet his vast army and turn it back?

When the snarling Tiger Men swarmed down from the Plateau of Horvath, did we not carpet our floors with their hides?

When the Moosemen of the North Woods asked for our assistance in defending their homes from the Moosemen of the South Woods, and vice versa, did we not bring both tribes of Moosemen together in a series of calm, deliberate negotiations that resulted in one, unfiied tribe of Moosemen?

And when the unified tribe of Moosemen attacked our kingdom, did we not make coatracks from their antlers?

YES WE DID! We have served this kingdom well. This peaceful valley where we camp tonight is proof.

Yes, war has not yet found its way to this valley.

But soon…soon it very well may.

My fearless warriors. The Dark Wizard has returned. I know this comes as a major shock to all of you. None of you are more perturbed than I, believe me. I personally cast him into the Pit Of No Return at the conclusion of our great battle with his minions many seasons ago.The fact that he has returned from the Pit Of No Return has really forced me to reexamine my faith in “labels”. My wife always told me I took things at face value too much, I never heeded her warnings. I mean, an ill-advised purchase for the home is one thing – I’ll never live down the Stain Bane brand carpet I bought – “It magically repels all stains!” Yeah, right.400 gold pieces wasted. Anyway, I’m straying off topic here. The point is, our scouts have reported that he has returned to his Fortress of Desolation on the slopes of Bleak Mountain. And he appears to be using his sorcery to breed strange and terrifying creatures to serve him.

Already, we are hearing of…encounters. In some of the fringe farming communities. Encounters with creatures the likes of which these lands have not seen since an Age too ancient to remember. They are the monsters of our children’s nightmares . Beasts of myth. Things that we have seen only as illustrations in books. Not in the flesh. What kinds of creatures? Imagine a horse. What? Well you’ve got to let me finish! Of course a horse isn’t scary! Now, imagine this horse has the hide of a lizard, and a long mouth filled with razor sharp teeth! And instead of long, graceful legs, this horse has short, stubby legs that splay outward in a sideways manner. And its tail is also thick, long, and whips from side to side as it scuttles along! A terrible desecration! A monster! What? Hmmm. Now that you mention, it does sound like an alligator. Alright, that’s the last time we trust a report from Sir Skittish of the Swamplands. He tends to overreact to stuff. But STILL, other reports have come in. Dogs with two heads! Massive club-wielding trolls made from pure granite! Fire-breathing half-porcupine half-eagle monstrosities! A one-eyed midget with what one of the scouts described as…let me consult my scroll here…”fecal telepathy.” Hmm. Not sure what that means. I wonder if…nah. I mean, that would be unsettling and messy, but scary? Hmm. I’ve lost my train of thought again. Ah yes. EVIL HAS RETURNED!

We must march to Bleak Mountain and storm the Dark Wizard’s Fortress of Desolation, and rid the World of him once and for all!

(Some in the kingdom argue against this. They claim that the Dark Wizard has done nothing to deserve our wrath, other than dabble in sorcery in order to produce the occasional monster or demon that then wanders the farm country committing a murder here or there. They say we have no proof that he has evil designs on our kingdom, that he intends to unleash something far more powerful upon us as soon as he is ready. Well, the King does not wish to wait for proof. He has ordered me to strike first.- a little too awkward of an attempt to parallel today’s headlines maybe?)

What will we encounter when we approach Bleak Mountain and begin our assault?

Maybe nothing. Maybe just the rag-tag remains of the army we obliterated the last time we fought him, along with the odd abomination or two. Maybe we will win in a rout!

Or.

Maybe we will come face to face with some unspeakable horror. A fifty-foot tall demon of pure obsidian, with the strength of a mountain, its very skin a mirror of our darkest fears and a portal into Hell itself! To stare at it is to lose your soul moments before his giant fist pulverizes your body, leaving nothing but a smudge on the landscape as a tortured scream echoes on the wind. For example. I’m speculating.

Or.

Maybe the Wizard is nothing but a shadow of his former self! A weak old man. His journey back from the Pit Of No Return has sapped him of his strength, and now he can barely defend himself! We shall easily dismantle his workshops of black magic and cast him once more into a more effective Pit – perhaps we can try that Pit Of Maximum No Return I’ve heard so much about!

Or.

Perhaps he has conjured some new weapon of ultimate power?

A sceptre that, when pointed at the General of an army, instantly turns all of his soldiers into newts, even while the General himself experiences a sensation twice as pleasurable as any orgasm and is teleported to safety far away? Just kidding! More likely -

A wand that shoots massive spheres of flame that incinerate all in their path!

OR

A Gauntlet of Hurricane Power, which allows him to control the forces of nature itself, sweeping us up in an unstoppable wind and depositing us beyond the edges of the known World, perhaps in some strange land where men of our kind are used by Giants as bait on the end of long, scythe-like fishing hooks! And they’re extremely talented at skewering us onto the hooks while making sure we stay alive. And the fish of this land enjoy nibbling, but not taking big bites! And the water is breathable! And these Giant fishermen are extremely patient! HOW AWFUL!

OR

A catapult that can fling enormous, stinky melons!

(pause)

OF DOOM!

I know they sound really silly. But The Enormous Stinky Melons Of Doom are a fabled weapon. Perhaps The Dark Wizard has found them, and has now acquired flinging technology. In the form of a catapult. Alright, I’ve really lost steam here. The point is, my brave warriors, who knows what we shall encounter tomorrow?

And we must be brave in the face of these new adversaries. Spawned though they are by an evil force powerful beyond our understanding, we must march forth and fight this possibly weak but quite possibly unstoppable enemy!

Rest up, for tomorrow we ride!

Did I mention this was a rough draft? More of a first stab at a rough draft. Let’s call it an “Incomplete Rough Draft Of Notes For A Pre-Rough First Rough Stab At A Rough Outline Draft.” (whimsical emoticon here)

posted by Andres at 11:26 AM

Monday, November 04, 2002

Periodically I just like to point out that this Blog is not intended as a showcase for polished, finished material per se (though some of the pieces I post on here are pretty much transcripts of what I consider to be polished bits that I’ve already performed on stage), but rather as a workshoppy environment where I can um…workshop things through writing them down. My motto for this blog is “less polished than what you’d see me do on stage, but more coherent than the white noise in my brain!” Also, it affords me the opportunity to write things that would never be performed on stage. Like this post. I mean, COULD YOU IMAGINE?!?! How hilarious would it be if THIS was an entire bit, word for word, that I chose to do on stage? Man. I bet I wouldn’t get a single laugh. That’s how hilarious it would be.

posted by Andres at 10:57 AM

WHAT THE?!?! Oh my, you people scared the crap out of me! A surprise party! This was all you, wasn’t it Patty? Oh hell, I love you, sweetie. Gosh. That would explain the…can I tell you folks what just happened? This crazy broad. Okay, Patty and I were walking down Main Street, looking for a light dinner because we were just going to spend my birthday together at home, all cozy and quiet. Right! Anyway, we’re walking by this McDonald’s, and we see this little five year old boy frolicking about in the FunZone, or whatever you call that little room with all the little plastic balls. You know, it’s a room full of balls that the kids can play in. Anyway, he looks pretty tasty, and his parents are nowhere to be seen, so I go in there and I say “hey kid.” He looks up at me and says “who are you?” Now I’m a quick thinker, and I take into account where I am, so I say “I’m Mayor McCheese.” The kid stares at me for a second and then says “You’re not Mayor Mc-”

And that’s when I grabbed him.

I stuck him under my arm and I started running! Patty right along side of me, we’re running down the street, and the kid is screaming his head offf: “You’re not Mayor McCheese, Mommy, Daddy, help!” His folks finally noticed and started chasing after us, but you know no human can catch us in a foot race.

So we get back to the crypt, and Patty’s all “Wait right here honey, I want to go inside and wrap your gift before you come in.” I’m thinking alright, sure, but this little kid is screaming his head off, causing quite a ruccus, and I don’t want the cops to hear us or his parents to stumble on this cemetary. The last thing we need is to have to “turn” a whole mess of people. Anyway, I hear police sirens in the distance and I pound on the door and yell “Patty, you gotta let me in now!” And she’s like “Just one more second, honey!” I can’t believe it! She hears the kid screaming, she knows we can’t risk getting caught! BUT SHE MAKES ME WAIT! By Satan’s Cock, I was in a mood. So I’m standing out there, feeling all weird because this kid won’t stop screaming, the cops are closing in, my wife won’t let me in my own vault, so I had no choice, right?

I bury my teeth into the kid’s neck and I start sucking!

And the kid’s screaming and I’m sucking, and the kid’s kicking and I’m sucking, and I’m sucking and sucking and sucking…and the kid won’t shut up! I’m thinking, where the heck is this kid getting all this extra “spunk”, right? What, does he have two hearts or something, how come he hasn’t fainted yet? Plus, I don’t know about you, but my allergies have been acting up lately due to the changing seasons, and my head has been all stuffy. I can’t breathe through my nose at all, I gotta breathe through my mouth. But my mouth is buried in this kid’s neck! Gosh. Plus, I was getting one of those milkshake-type headaches.

So, long story short I snapped the kid’s neck and threw him in the bushes. THEN, wouldn’t ya know it, Patty opens the door and says “okay, honey, your present’s ready!” And I’m like “It’s about time little mis slowpoke! By the way, I ate our dinner all by myself, so it’s squirrels and possums for you tonight!” And I come in here, ready to read her the riot act, and boom. You people. A surprise party. Wow, I am touched. This is the most wonderful surprise. I love you, Patty. To think, just 3 years ago this wonderful woman ripped open my throat in the parking lot of a 7-Eleven and I haven’t seen the light of day since. Who would have thought that I’d go from being the owner and operator of a successful chain of tire realignment centers among the living to being the owner and operator of a successful chain of tire realignment centers among the undead? I”m just glad that vampires need cars. If all that stuff about being able to turn into mist and bats and stuff were true, I’d have to deal with a major career change at 35! Not to mention the whole vampire thing. Okay folks, dawn is in 8 hours, so let’s party!

Mmm. Good cake. ARGH! Hey, who put garlic in this? Yeah., good one, you bozos, okay,put a stake in it already. Give me something to wash this down with! Thanks.

AAAUUUGGH! HOLY WATER?!?! You guys!

(freeze on everyone laughing)

posted by Andres at 10:19 AM

Sunday, November 03, 2002

So, for an upcoming bit I’m doing with another performer, I’ve had to come up with some woman-bashing jokes. I’ve tried to make them pretty weird, but they are very harsh. And weird. Here are a few of the potential candidates:

(I should mention that these are for Francisco to say, after he discloses his messy history of mutliple divorces)

Q: Why do women bleed from their vaginas once a month?

A: Because they are full of razor-sharp lies!

Knock knock.

Who’s there?

With.

With who?

None of your business, you gossip-mongering whore!

Q: Why is a steak better than a woman?

A: Because a steak doesn’t violently tap you on the head shouting directions while you are eating it!*

Knock knock.

Who’s there?

Money-grubbing.

Money-grubbing who?

Money-grubbing whooores! (with a drawn out oo sound)

A woman is like a chocolate sampler.

You wish the box had a map!*

Knock knock.

Who’s there?

Boo.

Boo who?

Oh great! What did I say to “upset you” this time, you manipulative, emotionally blackmailing whore!?

*Is it clear enough that these two jokes are about cunnilingus? Not sure if I spelled that right.

posted by Andres at 3:29 AM

Friday, November 01, 2002

Hi. Herb Farber here again, from the world famous Farber’s Fudgeworks in Herdleberg, New Hampshire. Rather than take this time to address the already very well-publicized spate of civil suits concerning our last product, “The Happy Accident Pill”*, I thought I’d look ahead to brighter days and give you a “taste” of what’s to come from Farber’s down the road. Our R&D department has been hard at work during the last year, and I can honestly say that you will be treated to a bevy of delicious, non-lawsuit inducing products during the upcoming 2003 fudge season. But first, we’ve got something brand new for November/December 2002.

Do you love The Holidays?

Is your enjoyment of this wondrous time of year severely hampered by a complete inability to tolerate your family? Based on long-standing, deep-seated, unresolvable mutual resentment and yes, even hatred?

And does your family love rich, delicious, premium quality fudge?

Well, then, we have got the perfect holiday gift for them! We call it The Fudge Doppleganger!

What is The Fudge Doppleganger? Simple. It’s a piece of fudge that looks exactly like you!

It’s got your eyes! Your hair! Your nose! Your lips! And walnuts!

Simply submit a recent, clear photo along with your measurements and credit card information, and the family member or unwanted friend of your choice will receive a lifesized fudge replica of YOU, in lieu of your actual attendance to their family gathering or Holiday party!

They will be angry at first. But wait until they taste that delicious, premium quality fudge!

UNCLE GARY – So, what have you been up to lately, champ? I hear the comedy thing isn’t going too well?

“YOU” – (utter silence!)

AUNT DELORES – Have you thought about Law School?

“YOU” – (ohmygoodness absolutely nothing!(it’s not even you!!))

YOUR MOM – Honey? Uncle Gary and Aunt Delores are just -

Half your head cracks off and lands on the floor, where Yoda, your Aunt’s pomeranian/poodle mix, starts to gnaw at it.

COUSIN TRACY (7 years old) – Aigh! Aigh!

UNCLE GARY – Good Lord!

YOUR DAD – Yoda sure likes you! Wait a second. Aigh!

AUNT DELORES – Aigh! Now hold on just a minute! It’s fudge!

YOUR MOM – I can’t believe it. That ungrateful boy (or girl) sent a life-sized fudge replica of themselves in lieu (relative will probably not actually use the phrase “in lieu”) of actually attending this family event! This is a disgrace. He/she is not going to hear the end of this from me, I can tell you that right now!

UNCLE GARY – Mmm. It’s delicious, premium quality fudge! Farber’s, by my guesstimation!

YOUR DAD – Well, he/she may be a disgrace, but they’ve got good taste in fudge!

YOUR MOM – Mmmm, you’re right. You could say his/her “taste” is as good as he/she tastes!

AUNT DELORES – Oh my!

Everyone laughs. The dog finishes eating the half of your head that fell on the floor and then vomits it onto the carpet and then eats it again.

Aside from the rich, fudgy scent wafting off of it, and that fact that it can’t move or speak and will probably start to melt if not stored in a dry, cool, place and will also probably have some nicks and dents and maybe even broken limbs due to transport/delivery -related jostling, it’s virtually indistinguishable from you! Almost!

The Fudge Doppleganger is available in a virtually infiinite range of sizes and shapes! Not to exceed seven feet tall.

If you fail to submit a clear photo and/or a completed and accurate measurement form, your The Fudge Doppleganger will probably end up looking like an Asian David Duchovny.

Please specify walnuts or double walnuts.

*The Happy Accident Pill is discussed in an earlier posting on this blog. Long story short, according to Mr. Farber, saturation of the resulting organic material intended for consumption was only 93%. Yes, there were traces. Pockets, to be more precise. Blechhh.

posted by Andres at 12:43 PM

Give in to our demands or we will harm these hostages!

PFFFT. What hostages?

Hey no fair.

posted by Andres at 12:29 PM

I wouldn’t mind the little God-related affirmations posted all over this secretary’s desk if just one extra phrase was inserted into each of them:

AN ANGRY

So, instead of, “Each Day is a GIft from God”, the tiny little heart-shaped frame on her desk would contain the phrase

EACH DAY IS A GIFT FROM AN ANGRY GOD!

Specifically Crom, the God of Steel and Battle. The implication being that we should cherish each day that we are allowed to continue existing, for at any moment Crom may fix his baleful eye on us according to his cold, capricious whimsy.

And blast us into oblivion as he laughs from his eternal mountaintop.

So yes, be thankful for each day. But do not pray to Crom. He does not listen.

So, how about those Anaheim Angels!

posted by Andres at 12:09 PM

I often wonder why my right armpit sweats so much more than my left one. I mean, ALOT MORE. Often during times of complete inactivity. I can just sit still, not exerting myself in any way whatsoever. In a nice, temperature-controlled room. Wearing loose-fitting, breathable, comfortable clothing. Thinking cool thoughts. And SPLOOP. I’ll feel this drip of sweat trickle down my right side.

I have an incontinent armpit.

posted by Andres at 11:11 AM

So tonight I said something pretty cool.

I said ,”Hey, you invented the one-strap backpack!”

And I was right.

It turns out I went to college with the guy. And he did indeed invent the one-strap backpack. I only knew him briefly, as we were in one acting class together and then never saw each other again. But he told me about his one-strap backpacks, and how they were on sale in the campus store. So I bought one. It looked really cool. The strap came across the front of my body like a bandolier. I liked the look, it was very Chewbacca. Especially when I wore my Chewbacca suit!

But seriously.

It aggravated an existing imbalance in my freakishly lopsided skeleton and gave me a tremendous amount of neck and shoulder pain. So I went back to a traditional two-strap model. An L.L. Bean, most likely. Hey, I may be lopsided, but I’m also rugged. Still, the “normal” backpacks we’ve all come to know and love (She Loved A Backpack, tonight on WE: Women’s Entertainment) also give me trouble. I’m constantly adjusting the straps. I need a backpack that just hovers in mid-air behind me and follows me everywhere I go. The No-Strap Backpack. Heck, you could have all sorts of No-Strap Backpacks. Well, since the back really isn’t involved anymore we’ll just call them Hoverpacks. You could have hoverpacks that are designed to appeal to all different groups of people:

Star Wars fans could get the Interrogation Droid model: “just flick the syringe and the hatch pops open! Ta-da! There’s my bag lunch! And my collection of personalized Star Wars figurines! Look closely at Obi-Wan. That’s my face! I used dental tools! To carve the plastic! Nyah ha ha!”

Wiccans could get the model that resembles a crow. There’s nothing worth adding to that last sentence.

Sports fans could get the one that looks like a miniature Ray Lewis: “Look! You are so small and slow! You can’t catch up with me and your feet don’t even touch the ground! And you’re stuffed full of my dirty gym clothes! Ray Lewis. Famous linebacker from the Baltimore Ravens!”

Bologna Sandwich fans could get the one that looks like a bologna sandwich: “Man, I’m hungry. Cool! A hovering bologna sandwich, following me at shoulder level! Yum, I will bite it…OW, MY MOUTH! That wasn’t a bologna sandwich at all. Oh, that’s right! It’s my hoverpack. Hmm…I wonder what’s inside. Cool! A bologna sandwich! I will bite it. OW! My damn temperature-sensitive teeth. Hot, I’m fine. Cold, I’m fine. It’s these damn room temperature foods!”

Investment Bankers could get the Hoverpack that resembles my foot in a muddy hiking boot. It would hover at ass level. And periodically swing away from them in a high arc and then come ramming into their ass. Hard. Over and over until they cried and agreed to get a fucking soul.

(pause while I make copies for my boss okay I’m back)

Bunny fans could get the one that’s shaped like a bunny.

But that’s all besides the point.

What I like about the fact that I said “Hey, you invented the one-strap backpack!” is that a handful of people witnessed it. And it made me feel cool. Cool and specific. I didn’t introduce myself to the guy and ask if he went to my school and proceed from there. Nope, I just came out with that amazing backpack line. BOOM. Instant cool. Someone else came over and said to him “YOU invented the one-strap backpack? I like those!”

Then another person looked over with a look that seemed to say “oh?” Followed by a third. And then the backpack inventor guy, he lights up, amazed, and admitted with wonder and admiration that YES, YES, he did indeed invent that item! And then he looked into my eyes, and realized we had shared that acting class over a decade ago. He must have been so impressed with my ability to be so specific and socially daring. Because I wasn’t absolutely certain about who he was. I was taking a chance. And guess what.

I WAS COOL!

Now then, I need to adjust this week’s Fantasy Football lineup on my Fantasy Football league’s Fantasy Football website. My team is called The Balrog.

Gandalf – “This foe is beyond any of you! RUN!”

Coolness gone.

Nigel & Cocoa

NIGEL & COCOA

(this version from the show I did at Surf Reality Feb 7-9, 2002)

Jungle/adventure music fades out as the lights fade up.

Nigel emerges from behind the curtain, wearing goggles and leading an invisible creature. He has an Australian accent. Gee, I’ll bet no one else has ever done a parody of an Australian wildlife dude…

NIGEL

C’mon girl, c’mon Cocoa! Yeah, that’s a good girl. Good girl! That’s right, c’mon out and say hi to the nice people. Yeah. Good girl. Hup, up on the stool, Cocoa! Up! Good girl. Good girl.

Nigel leads Cocoa up onto a stool and gives her a treat – he gets nipped on the hand. He pulls his goggles up onto his forehead and addresses the audience.

NEIL (CONT’D)

Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I’m wildlife expert Nigel Whitewater. Some of you may have seen one of my many Discovery Channel specials, such as “When Animals Attack Me”, “Get This Alligator Off My Ass”, “Waiter, There’s A Catfish In My Penis”, and “Backyard Safari Part Three: The Whimsical World of Chipmunks…When They Attack.”

Tonight, I’m here with my good friend Cocoa, the invisible, performing baboon. Let’s give her a big hand. Thank you. As you know, invisible baboons are a rare and endangered species, and there are only a few left in the wild. I rescued Cocoa from an invisible Circus three years ago. Since then, we have traveled together promoting invisible baboon conservation, and during that time, countless audiences the world over have taken me at my word that she has performed brilliantly for them! Tonight, it’s your turn! Thank you.

Before we begin, there are just a few basic groundrules to cover:

Firstly, no flash photography. The flashes disorient both myself and Cocoa, and besides, what’s the point anyway?

Secondly, no sudden movements. Cocoa is a trained performer, but she is also a wild animal. Any sudden movements could result in her fleeing, or much, much worse.

Thirdly and most importantly, do not make eye contact with Cocoa. Now, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking “but I can’t see Cocoa’s eyes.” Well, that’s irrelevant, because she can see yours. If you make eye contact with Cocoa, even for a second, she will interpret it as a challenge to territorial combat, and she will attack swiftly and viciously.

Okay, enough of these very, very important rules. Cocoa will now astound you with some amazing tricks! You have my word on it!

With my infrared goggles on, I can see and direct Cocoa’s every move.

Nigel puts the goggles back on.

We are going to begin with a very basic trick, the cartwheel. We are all familiar with the cartwheel, except for those of us who were too portly to attempt it as a child, myself included.

And, follow the treat! C’mon! C’mon! And, back again! Good! Cocoa!

This is illustrated with arm movements. Nigel takes Cocoa in a circle and back to the stool, making swirling motions with his arms. He feeds her a treat. Gets nipped.

Beautiful! Thank you! Trust me, ladies and gentlemen, that was a sight to behold!

Nigel grabs a Frisbee.

Now, I will throw this Frisbee to Cocoa, and she will catch it in her mouth and then release it with such agility and speed so as to not change it’s trajectory whatsoever!

He moves to one end of the room, and throws the frisbee. When it goes over the stool, he directs Cocoa.

Catch, release! Yes! So nimble, no change in the trajectory of the Frisbee whatsoever! Cocoa!

He goes over to stool, gives her a treat, gets nipped worse.

For our next trick, I have devised something a little more complicated. Up in the rafters at the back of the auditorium, I have placed a small metal canister containing a single serving of zebra meat. The container is sealed right now, but when I give the command to my American wife Kiki, she will open the canister, and then go conveniently unmentioned for the rest of this bit. When the canister opens, the scent of zebra flesh will waft down to Cocoa’s nostrils, and she will leap up into the rafters to consume the meat. Once she is there, we are going to coax her to jump down, directly onto this stool! You won’t believe my eyes!

Calling to the back of the room.

Okay Kiki, open the cannister! Any second now, Cocoa will smell the zebra meat. As we are waiting for the scent of zebra meat to waft down to Cocoa’s nostrils, I’d just like to say what a pleasure it is to be living here in New York City. New York is like a giant Thomas’ English Muffin, so full of nooks and crannies. And we, the people of New York, are like hot butter, melting and dripping down into all the nooks and crannies, and then cooling, and becoming trapped there. Barely able to pay the rent on our nook or cranny, but too scared to – ah! Cocoa has smelled the zebra meat! Cocoa is flaring her nostrils. “What’s that I smell?” she’s thinking. “Oh I know what it is, it’s a dead zebra!” And she leaps! And she is up in the rafters! A beautiful sight! Truly a marvel to behold. Now, she is eating the meat, and we can all breath a bit easier. For now. Now, we are going to get Cocoa to leap down from the rafters onto this stool, onto which I shall now place an invisible whoopee cushion.

Nigel places the imaginary whoopee cushion on the stool.

There. The whoopee cushion is in place. Now, Cocoa is trained to respond to one specific vocal command, which we are all going to say together. It goes like this. In the voice of a PBS nature documentary, we are all going to say “In times of drought, only the strongest baboons may use the watering hole”. Just like that. Okay, she’s done eating. Now, on the count of three, we’re going to say, “in times of drought, only the strongest baboons may use the watering hole.” One, two, three – “in times of drought, only the strongest baboons may use the watering hole.” She’s jumping! Here she comes!

Nigel follows her jump with his gaze. When he stares at the stool, a loud FART is heard.

Wow! Beautiful! If any of you have ever thought about purchasing a pair of infrared goggles, it’s sights like this that make it really worth the expense! A big hand for Cocoa. Now, for our next trick…

There is an ominous pause as Nigel stands stone still, staring at Cocoa.

Aw, crikey. Ladies and blokes, do not be alarmed. I seem to have made eye-contact with Cocoa. Don’t worry, I have safely dealt with this situation several of the many times it has occurred. Right now I cannot make any sudden movements, and I certainly cannot break eye contact with Cocoa. If I break eye contact, she will take it as a clear sign that I wish to engage in territorial combat, and she will attack suddenly and viciously. My best chance in this situation is to simply reach for my tazer…ladies and gentlemen, it seems that I have neglected to bring my tazer with me. This poses a problem, for I see that Cocoa is tensing her haunches and preparing to pounce. There is another way. If we can distract her, and make her break eye contact first, I may have a chance. If you would be so kind as to make the following noise, which is the sound of a dying water buffalo calf. “Bleargh!” Got it? Ready, one, two three…”blearh!” I appreciate your efforts, but that was not really close at all. Like this “bleargh”. Ready, one, two, three – “BLEARGH!” Still miles away from the sound I need you to make. One more try, like this – “bleargh” from the abdomen. Ready, one two three “BLEARGH!” That’s not the FUCKING SOUND. I don’t want to die, I don’t want to – right. Let’s try it one more time. One last try! One, two, three…”bleargh!” Yes, that’s it! It seems to be working! Keep doing it! Keep doing! STOP! She is no longer staring at me! Oh, crikey. She is now staring at YOU, sir. Don’t make any sound or movements, or she will think you are inviting her to engage in territorial combat! There is one way you can avoid being attacked. Cocoa has been known to calm down considerably at the sight of someone handing me their wallet. Slowly, hand me your wallet, sir. Slowly. Brilliant, you’re moving so slowly as to be barely perceptible to the human eye. No? There is another way. Cocoa has been known to calm down considerably when she is showered with the bras and panties of appreciative female audience members. I am noticing a distinct lack of bras and panties landing on the stage, which means that either none of you are throwing your bras and panties, or you are throwing them, and they are merely being intercepted by some sort of incredibly stealthy species of bird or bat. That likes to eat bras. And panties. Right, I can only think of one more thing we can do. How about we all breath a sigh of relief, because Cocoa and I were only acting! Right!?! Ladies and gentlemen, that was just a vignette we do to illustrate the majesty and power of the invisible baboon. Thank you! Now, while I make some minor costume changes, Cocoa will entertain you by repeatedly jumping up and down on the invisible whoopee cushion. Enjoy. Take it away, Cocoa!

Nigel watches Cocoa jump up and down a few times, each time his gaze comes down to the stool, we hear a FART. The paces starts slow and then gets much faster. Then, after three or four, Nigel walks offstage and the FARTing continues. Even after the lights dim, the farting still continues.

NOTE – the whole catfish/penis joke is a reference to the helium bit I posted way earlier in this blog, and it was also a line from the puppetshow “Piranha & Barfbag” which has yet to play outside of that one run of shows at Surf.

October 2002

Wednesday, October 30, 2002

Okey dokey everybody. Settle in there. Howdy do folks, good evening! Stan, get that possum out of your mouth, it’s not polite. Can somebody please shut the door? Alright. We’ve got quite a bit to cover here folks, tomorrow’s the big night, the ‘Big H’! Okay, alright, okay, put a stake in it already, calm down. I know we’re all very excited. This is my favorite time of year too. Now then, we’ve got a full schedule tonight, due to the brevity of last week’s meeting. Let me just recap from those minutes here:

9:00pm – milling about, pleasantries

9:20pm – roll call

9:30pm – reading of previous week’s minutes, discussion

10:00pm – bake sale discussion

10:06pm – bake sale discussion interrupted by The Slayer

10:06pm – Ernie slayed by stake to the chest

10:06pm – Stan slayed by stake to the chest

10:06pm – George slayed by stake to the chest

10:06pm – Phil slayed by stake to the chest

10:06pm – Sylvia & Maurice slayed by same stake through both their chests, shish-kebab style

Dang she is fast. Okay, reading on…

10:06pm – Carl slayed by stake to the chest

10:06pm – Bernice slayed by a garlic-marinated crucifix sharpened to a point and plunged into her chest

10:07pm – Leonard traps The Slayer in The Mirror of Damnation

Incidentally, Cheryl put the mirror in the dressing room of “Voluptuous Plus” in Fernvale. Good one, Cheryl! The Slayer can watch fatties change dresses while she plots her escape. You know what, it’s “slain”, isn’t it? And the whole time I was saying slayed. By Satan’s Cock that’s funny. Ah well. Maybe I woulda learned my grammar better if I hadn’t eviscerated Mrs. Munroe in the third grade. Okay…

10:08pm – Mirror of Damnation sealed with The Curse of Ghaal

10:11pm – meeting adjourned, unwind at Appleby’s

The curse of ghaal is just a three minute curse? Someone verify that for me. Really? That’s a quick curse. Finally, a curse that’s quicker than mine! “The Curse Of the Prematurely Limp Noodle.” Nice. Oh yeah, I said it. “Noodle,” folks! Anyway, as you can see there was a lot we never got to discuss last week, so let’s get started. The big item on the agenda is of course The Big H! Yeah, Halloween is tomorrow night, and as we do every year, we’ve got to plan carefully so that we can all enjoy ourselves responsibly…

I said RESPONSIBLY, Pete. You too Betty. Okay, okay, keep it down folks.

Like I said, we can enjoy ourselves responsibly and without any danger of being recognized as actual vampires.Yup, that’s always the kicker. This is the one night of the year when droves of unsuspecting human children show up on OUR doorsteps. It can be quite a test of willpower. Remember three years ago in Pine Valley, when Lee Pinkowitz got carried away and ate the first six trick-or-treaters that showed up at his door? Luckily for us, the seventh trick-or-treater was Count Varnado. He put Mr. Pinkowitz in his place, there. Yeah. It must have been quite a scare for him to open that door expecting another treat, but instead facing the most fearsome Vampire in the land. Dressed as Liberace. Anyway, it was still a big mess.

Willpower, folks. I find it helps to fill up on squirrels, or if you want to splurge, go to your local after hours butcher and pick yourself up some drippings. But let’s not eat the kids. There’s really no upside to the situation. First of all, the kids goes missing, the whole town goes up in arms, and starts searching every nook and cranny of the county. And let’s face it, there are definitely some nooks and crannies we’d rather keep hidden. No, Berny, not that! Jeez, pull your pants up.

Alright, so then you’re thinking, what if i just turn the kid? You know, into one of us? Well then there yeah, you’ve got a vampire kid living with humans, great, that won’t arise suspicions at all! Boom, first school day comes along, the kid refuses to get out from under the covers, the Mom gets mad, rips the covers off the bed, exposing him to sunlight, the kid bursts into unholy flames and then you’ve got a dead kid, a confused and terrified family and thousands of dollars of fire damage! Multiply that by however many kids we turn and you’ve got a home owners’ insurance crisis. Or have we forgotten which industry many of us are in? So, keep those canines out of the little necks this Halloween, okey do?

TO BE CONTINUED…?

posted by Andres at 11:27 AM

Day two. The natives still regard me with apprehension and even a small measure of suspicion. They have obviously noticed my presence, but have made a point to keep their distance. Good. If I can maintain this degree of virtual anonymity for the next two days, I will have made absolutely no impact on this village during my stay. I take pride in my ability to remain a non-participant during these temporary assignments. I think it is very important, no matter what my agency says, to not interfere with the natural flow of things within an existing cubicle-cluster.

And so forth.

If this were The Onion* or other somesuch publication, you would now be forced to plod on through an entire multi-paragraph article that thoroughly explores the “Temp Assignment as Anthropology Study” metaphor. Not here. I fully trust you, my savvy reader, to extrapolate all of the hilarity on your own by simply reading the sloppy introductory paragraph. Of course, you will use your brilliant imaginations to cover all of the obvious comedy points:

1. The difficulty of procuring water from the “Communal Water Source” without being noticed by the “Chieftain”, whose dwelling lies directly between my “hutch” and the “spring”. If the Chieftain notices me, he might make me do a “mail merge.”

2. Observing “The Great Hunt” for “The Lost Document.”

3. The dangerous moment when the “Tribe Shaman” caught me “Speaking for 45 minutes to my friend in Los Angeles about Fantasy Football.”

4. The “Pop-up Porn Window That Refused To Close,” and the “Untimely Boner” that threatened to get me “Slapped With A Sexual Harrassment Lawsuit” by “Gladys Moskowitz.”

5. The herding of the goats.

Again, I don’t even have the energy to finish this list of half-hearted sarcastic whimsy. This posting pretty much sucks. I’m going to cut my losses and start a new one.

*Actually, The Onion would probably do something like “Area Man Thinks He Is First To Ponder ‘Temp Assignment as Anthropology Study’ Metaphor.”

posted by Andres at 8:59 AM

Tuesday, October 29, 2002

Today I make my triumphant return to the world of temping! For some reason I find it much easier to make regular posts when I am trapped in a cubicle. I guess there are just fewer distractions here. No bed. No personal e-mail (yup, those clever banking bastards block it), no tiny, floral-detailed ceramic jar of almond-scented buttercream and its accompanying rack of freshly-laundered moleskin applicator gloves. No latest issue of Unrepentant Lecher Digest. No television. No refrigator in which there is beer. And so forth. Nope, pretty much the only thing I can do here is fret over the latest awful news on CNN.com, pore over sports statistics on ESPN.com, and post stuff to my blog. Oh I SUPPOSE I could do the actual work that has been assigned to me, but I’m sure that (lengthy pause during which there is much shuffling of papers)…um…ah, here it is…Nadine will be able to catch up upon her return from Secretary Respite Island. Or her Mom’s house in Delaware, or wherever she is. Some woman with a very, slow, casual, apathetic style of speech has called for Nadine twice, and each time we’ve had this exchange:

WOMAN – Is Nadine there?

ME – No, she’s out of the office until Friday. This is Andres, can I help you?

WOMAN – I need to speak to Nadine in person.

ME – Well, she won’t be back until – (dial tone)

Yeah, those types of conversations are always fun. At least I haven’t had any encounters with Mr. Important Businessman yet. So far, I’ve met Mr. Young Heypalcanyoudomeahugefavor a few times, as well as Ms. Noinflectioninhervoicewhogetslotsofcallsfromotherwomenwithnoinflectionintheirvoices.

I can (and will) complain about temping all I want, but no matter how terrible things get at a temp job, I can say with almost total certainty that I will never go on a killing spree. The same can not be said about the occupation of Fucked-Up Gulf War Veteran. You’d think by now that someone would look into this. Gulf War Veterans are the killiest veterans around. When’s the last time three people were shot dead by a Grenada Scuffle Veteran, or a Sarajevo Fisticuffs Veteran? The D.C. sniper turned out to be a Gulf vet. So was the nursing student in Arizona who just murdered three of his nursing school professors. Look, nurses and murder DO go together on Cinemax, but in real life? Please. Wasn’t Timothy McVeigh a Gulf vet as well? Even though I’m just a google-search away from finding out the answer to that question, I’ll skip that crucial step and just assume he is. I think by now, Gulf War Syndrome or other physical afflictions aside, we can safely say that Desert Storm wasn’t the healthiest mental experience for the men and women of our armed forces. Do we need any more evidence than the fact that one of them was studying to become a male nurse? Case closed. I demand an expose. With a little accent over the last e. I want 60 minutes to find out why our soldiers from 1991 are becoming our nutballs of 2002. It seems we should be taking better care of the people who risked their lives for this country. True, the tiny sampling of aberrant individuals who have perpetrated these various atrocities is most definitely not indicative of the majority of military personnel, but even just a few indicents like this should be enough to raise eyebrows. What snapped inside these vets and why? Were they forced to work in a post office while in Iraq? Did part of their training consist of painstakingly trying to organize vintage bottlecaps in a dark room while a goat peed on them? Work with me here folks, I’m just throwing out ideas.Getting peed on by a goat in a dark room while attempting to put a vintage bottlecap collection in some semblance of an order would be very, very frustrating, and quite possibly permanently damaging to your psyche. Especially if the goat was peeing more vintage bottlecaps. Hey, you never know. Goats eat anything. And there could be one goat out there with a mutant digestive system that sends metal through the urinary rather than digestive tract. HEY, I’M JUST BRAINSTORMING HERE, GET OFF MY BACK! Jeez.

Anyway, as you can see I am not at all well-versed in this topic, nor eloquent enough to convey my ideas, theories and concerns properly. The point is, we need a military, but I believe it should be just as high of a priority to take care of these folk after their service as it is to mold them into good soldiers to begin with. Being in combat requires (or so I would imagine – I’m a soft, doughy, farty comedian with no agility, so what the hell do I know) an incredibly intense degree of mental discipline to go along with the physical and technical skills. Once you’ve instilled this mindset, this zeal, once you’ve for want of a better word programmed these people to fight and die for their country, it would seem a wise thing to make sure there is some support system in place for them when they return to civilian life. I can’t imagine it would be an easy transition.

In conclusion, I hate temping.

This article has not been proofread or spellchecked or especially well thought-out.

U.S.A.!

posted by Andres at 10:20 AM

Saturday, October 12, 2002

So I had an epiphany yesterday, which was to write more material for my existing characters, rather than continuously bang my head against a wall trying to come up with brand new characters/premises, etc. Here is the roster of alter egos I’ve developed for the stage so far. Prepare to see a lot more of them, especially the top five:

NAME: Francisco Guglioni

OCCUPATION: Host of “Giant (whatever night the show happens to be on) Night Of Amazing Inventions And Also There Is A Game”

ACCENT: Spanish

FUN FACTS: His home country of Boliviguay is an Extravaganzocracy – a country run entirely via extravaganzas. The national language of Boliviguay is English…but with a Spanish accent.

QUOTE: “True story.”

NAME: Frankie No-Pants

OCCUPATION: Ex-con, legit businessman, occasional guest host of “…And Also There Is A Game.”

ACCENT: NY/NJ

FUN FACTS: He guest hosts Francisco’s show as part of his participation in the Rikers Island Rehabilitainment Program. He found his backing band, “The Chairmen Of The Board”, in the trunk of a stolen car. He never asked them how they got in the trunk, and they never asked him how he got the car.

QUOTE: “You wanna know why the fuck they call me Frankie No-Pants? Go ask Tommy Has-My-Pants.”

NAME: Murray Peterson

OCCUPATION: Lord of the Vampires, Mid-Central Minnesota Chapter. Owner and operator of a successful chain of tire realignment centers (for the undead).

ACCENT: Midwestern

FUN FACTS: Harbors a secret desire to be a Broadway singer.

QUOTE: “When I was nine years old my father took me to see Annie. It was the scariest thing I’d ever seen in my life! ‘The sun’ll come out, tomorrow…’.”

NAME: General Ragnarok

OCCUPATION: Commander of the Fourth Army of the Western Lands. Bearer of the Standard of King Veritas the Third. Keeper of the Sacred Scroll of Herculomnicus the Timely. Protector of all that lies between the Ice Mountains and the Dale of Iotopia, excluding several hard-to-reach swampy areas.

ACCENT: British. (basically the same voice as the Naked Trampoline Hamlet guy)

FUN FACTS: Has a crush on Maxine, a dancer at Lucky Cheng’s.

QUOTE: “I am so proud of my soldiers on this day of victory. Were you to slice me open with your sword right now, you would be splattered not by entrails, but by pride. And entrails.”

NAME: Clark Frogley

OCCUPATION: District Attorney, State of Mississippi.

ACCENT: Southern.

FUN FACTS: Made headlines as chief prosecutor in “The Great Penguin Caper” and “The Case Of The Constantly Randomly Teleporting Toilet.”

QUOTE: “I’m a simple man.”

NAME: Nigel Whitewater

OCCUPATION: Wildlife expert.

ACCENT: Australian. Now THERE’S an original character! An Australian wildlife guy! The writing must be odd/unique enough to justify doing anything new with him, otherwise he?s nothing more than a Steve Irwin parody.

FUN FACTS: TV specials include When Animals Attack?Me and Somebody Get This Alligator Off Of My Ass. Tours the world with ?Cocoa The Invisible Performing Baboon?.

QUOTE: “Don’t worry, I have safely dealt with this situation several of the many times it has occurred.”

NAME: Herb Farber

OCCUPATION: Founder and President of ‘Farber’s Fudgeworks’, located in Herdleburg, New Hampshire.

ACCENT: Sometimes I try a New England accent, sometimes just an overly calm, strangely sleepy/nice voice.

FUN FACTS: Enjoys kayaking!

QUOTE: “Does new ‘Happy Accident’ novelty fudge accurately simulate the appearance, texture, and consistency of real human feces? You bet it does!”

NAME: Rod Pornocopter

OCCUPATION: (Un)Motivational speaker.

ACCENT: None. Well, I guess it’s all relative, but I’d say he has no accent.

FUN FACTS: Knows exactly how long a sock should be microwaved before being used for self-pleasuring purposes (20 seconds).

QUOTE: “Everyone except for me is a stupid asshole.”

posted by Andres at 2:50 AM

Another comedian was telling me that my material would be vulnerable to plagiarism if I just slapped it up onto this blog without copyrighting it somehow. Boom! Check out the new title. Problem solved.

posted by Andres at 2:31 AM

Thursday, October 03, 2002

Okay, that’s enough digging around for now. The next post will be 100% brand new comedy gold, guaranteed. Of course, I can’t give you any sort of a timetable. YOU CAN’T RUSH GENIUS! And also, you can’t rush me.

posted by Andres at 11:28 PM

As I methodically go through my computer files and post various pieces that I feel are at least marginally entertaining, I’ve come to realize that I have a filthy mind.

posted by Andres at 11:21 PM

Hell, I’m having too much fun just cleaning house. Here’s a piece that was originally published on girlcomic.net back in January, 2002. WARNING! A fair number of you will be offended:

(oh yeah, I read this edit aloud at the girlcomic.net reading on March 13th, 2002)

I am addicted to pornography.

I don’t know why that it is. Well, I have a pretty good idea. But the male pre-disposition to being severely interested in sex doesn’t quite seem to fully explain my daily routine of popping a triple-X video or DVD into its appropriate multimedia orifice and whacking away on the ol’ personal piñata. By which I mean penis.

Now, I don’t pretend to know the ins-and-outs, pun most definitely intended, of the psychological effect that pornography has on the male mind. All I know is that there is something about seeing a giant dick inserted into a petite woman that just gets me going, you know, really makes me feel like attacking that “to-do” list on my desk. Some people are addicted to coffee. Me, I am also addicted to coffee. Oh yeah, and pornography.

I guess it’s the suspension of disbelief that in the world of pornography, which I like to refer to as Sexopolis, women really do see the insertion of a monumental phallus into themselves as the solution to whatever problem is plaguing them. In Sexopolis, fucking is not just reserved for love or for pleasure, it is simply the inevitable resolution of any and every social interaction:

Are you mad at your husband? Better fuck him just so he knows how mad you are.

Did Tony the mailroom guy forget to send out that important package? I’ll bet if you fuck him hard, he’ll never forget again.

Did your boyfriend just fuck your best friend? If he thinks he can get away with that without fucking you in a public restroom, he’s dead wrong.

How dare that burglar try to break into your home and steal your diamonds! The best way to prevent him from escaping before the police arrive is to FUCK HIS BRAINS OUT.

Are you and your girlfriends tired of hitting each other with pillows and eating smores? Time to break out the dildo, anal beads and turkey baster.

Was your chicken Caesar salad disappointing? If you lick the chef’s nuts while he jerks off, and the two busboys take turns pounding you doggy-style, future chicken Caesar salads will certainly be properly prepared. As a side note, I’d just like to say that I really enjoy a well-prepared chicken Caesar salad. In my opinion, the key is not overdoing the dressing.

And so forth. I’d include more examples but my huge erection is threatening to burst through my pants! I wish.

Ah, Sexopolis is such a wonderful place! Reassuring half-naked men on their couches everywhere that they are powerful. And that’s basically what it all comes down to, I guess. Power. The further we hurtle down this road of equality, the more meaningless our little cyclopean dictators become, so we turn to pornography for reassurance that above all else, our stiff erections make us powerful, useful, and wanted. Or something. I dunno. Whatever the reasons are, I love porn. Nay, as I said up front, I am addicted to it. So, here’s what I like and what I don’t like about it:

I like it when the women in the porno genuinely seem to be enjoying themselves. Whether this is legitimate joy or just expert camouflage on their parts, and I’m assuming it is mostly the latter, the illusion of their pleasure significantly adds to my own pleasure. Especially if they make that guttural, growling noise. Oh man.

I don’t like it when the women seem uncomfortable, or in pain. One time I was watching a porno in which Italian über-stud Rocco Siffredi was ramming his Inter-Continental Ballistic Cock into the anus of a very beautiful, very tiny woman, whose head he was holding submerged in a toilet. He was also constantly flushing the toilet as he anally assaulted her. Needless to say, she did not seem to be enjoying it, and neither did I. I threw out the tape and cleaned my bathroom. Twice. Then I baked some cookies. As the cookies baked, I fished the tape back out of the trash and finished watching it. Then I called my girlfriend and told her how much I loved her, and that she shouldn’t take any more crap from Marc at the office, who isn’t half the graphic designer that she is. Then I threw the tape out again. After watching it one last time.

Real sound is key. The actual sound of people fucking is superior to bad dubbing. It’s very disconcerting when the nut-slapping sounds don’t coincide with the nut-slapping visuals. And I know it’s a cliché to make fun of porno music, but PLEASE, porno music composers everywhere, I don’t need the music I’m listening to while I jerk-off to remind me of playing Tommy Lasorda Baseball on the now defunct Sega Genesis game console. In which, incidentally, it was possible to bunt for a double. The game had uneven processing speeds I guess, so that the speed of the baserunner was illogically much faster than the speed of the baseball. After you bunted the ball, by the time the third baseman fielded it you were already rounding first, but he would throw it to first anyway, and as the big long throw arced over to first base, you were sliding into second. A bunt double.

I don’t like orgy scenes. Too much clutter. Whose vagina is that? Wait, if he’s standing there, then who’s penis is that? Who does that third leg belong to? Why is she suddenly wearing a fez? C’mon people, let’s everyone just pick one task and stick to it! Cameraman, pan back for the love of God! I’m getting dizzy!

No lingering close-ups of penetration. You might as well show me footage of a car engine’s piston. It’s meaningless. Okay, I admit it. I once got hard watching a Pennzoil commercial.

Please, no plots. I know, this is another cliché, but the knowledge that she’s fucking him just so he’ll tell her the combination to the safe in the Senator’s mansion is really not making me any more excited than the simple thrusting and the poking with the moaning and whatnot.

So how serious would I say my addiction to pornography is? Less serious than my addiction to caffeine, but more serious than my addiction to baseball statistics. All in all, something I could probably live without. Something I wish I did live without. I have a wonderful, loving relationship with a great woman, but perhaps if I didn’t watch so much porn, I would treat her with just a little more affection? A little more respect? A little less deep, digital roughhousing? It’s hard to say. That’s the problem with addictions. It’s just really, really hard. So fucking rock hard.

I am not proud. But I am very relaxed. Thank you.

posted by Andres at 11:05 PM

What the heck, here’s yet ANOTHER piece from the archives. The version below is also from the Feb 7-9 show, plus a BONUS TRACK at the end! Yee!

I will write something new soon, I promise.

WARLORD

P&B theme song changes into medieval fanfare. Lights up. Warlord comes striding out. Cape/breastplate/mug.

WARLORD

Your general is here! It is time to celebrate our victory!

Raise your tankards of mead and rejoice!

Let us celebrate today’s glorious battle! On the count of three, I want you to shout “TO VICTORY!” One, two, three…TO VICTORY! That was nothing. One more time. One two three…

Cue To Victory sound cue.

TO VICTORY! Much better.

Your general is very proud of you today! I am filled with pride. Nay, bursting with pride. Were you to slice me open with your sword right now, you would be splattered not by entrails, but by pride. And entrails. And why am I proud? Because today, my warriors, you fought like wolves! You fought like bears! You fought like bears with a wolf strapped to each paw! Well, if you think about it, such a creature really couldn’t move properly, could it? And the wolves would probably end up getting into a fight and eating the bear. But those full-of-bear wolves would then fight on even braver than before! And that’s what you fought like today! Like some wolves that had just finished eating a bear which they had been strapped to the paws of. Until recently.

Enough of the self-congratulatory blather. As we do after every battle, it is now time to go over the things that we did well today, and the things that we did not do so well. Oh I know what you’re thinking – “But General, we won the battle, can’t we just get stinking drunk and go enjoy the company of the dancing women of Lucky Cheng’s?” Men, curb your appetites! I know the dancing women of Lucky Cheng’s are of a wild, untamed breed, and their unnaturally strong physiques make them incredibly desirable as mates, yet it seems that no matter how many times we ravage them, they fail to produce any offspring! Well…let’s keep trying. After all, they really, really, really seem to enjoy our company. But I digress! Now is the time to break down today’s battle, not daydream about their sweet and incredibly strong embrace!

What did we do well today? Well, I can think of two things right off the top of my head! First off, we kept on killing. I know it sounds trite, but how many times have we gotten off to an early lead in a battle, only to forget the one thing that got us there in the first place: the killing! This time, when we struck an enemy to the ground, we didn’t stand over them, gloating, only to be stabbed in the groin. We didn’t lean in really close to see if he was still breathing, only to be stabbed in the groin. We didn’t thrust our groins at them in a taunting manner, saying “stab my groin if you can” only to be stabbed in the groin! No, today when we struck a man to the ground, we stabbed him in the groin. Repeatedly. So good work on the groin stabbing and groin stabbing avoidance.

What else did we do well today? We kept our cool! Not once, and this used to be a big problem of ours, not once did any of us drop our weapons, throw our arms up into the air and begin walking in tiny mincing steps in a circle, like this, crying, in a high-pitched stereotypical Mexican accent – “I no wanna fight. No fight. No wanna fight. Please no fight.” I was very pleased to see that none of you did that. It used to be that we couldn’t get more than five minutes into a battle before dozens of you were doing that very thing! It’s amazing to think that we won any battles at all. Ever.

Alright, sadly the list of things we need to improve upon is a bit longer! Let’s start with the lancers. Lancers, where are you? Let me see a show of hands. Okay, listen up. When we go into battle, I need you to be in the front row. When you start out in the back row, by the time you reach the enemy, you’re like a giant goodguy shishkebab.

Archers, don’t be so quick to laugh! Where are you, archers! A show of hands! Come now, don’t be shy! Archers…please aim higher. This will allow the arrows to arc over our heads, and into the ranks of the enemy. It’s simple trigonometry, people!

Horses! A show of hooves, please! I’m kidding. I’m not addressing the horses, I’m about to make a comment pertaining to the horses. I’ve been thinking a lot about our use of horses lately, and I’ve come up with a novel idea. Perhaps we should start riding them. When we release them onto the battlefield, sure they’re fun to watch for a few minutes, but I find that they can be both distracting and hazardous. If we ride the horses, then perhaps we can use them to our advantage, directing them where we want them to go. Perhaps we could reach our destinations at speeds even greater than we can reach on foot! I’m still thinking about that one.

Oh, I know what you’re all thinking. The general has been partaking of the mead in great quantities tonight. I hope he doesn’t launch into one of his infamous stories, like the one we’ve all heard a million times about how he defeated Lord Foulmouth in hand-to-hand combat during the Battle of the Foggy Valley. Well, rest assured, if that’s your concern, I have one thing to say to you…

The valley was very foggy that day. I had made a grievous error by leading my troops into the valley single file and backwards, and now we were paying the price for my foolhardiness. We had been ambushed, and we were being decimated. With all of the fog, I could barely see my hands in front of my face, but all around me I could hear the agonized screams of my men as they were being killed.

“Eaygh. Oh God ack!”

“Schweek!”

“I don’t wanna fight, no fight – eeeurk!”

“Marco. Polo. Remember, it was very foggy. Marco. Polurk!”

Soon, I was the only one standing. The enemy warriors were closing in on all sides, I was hacking and slashing with wild abandon, my blood stained hair obscuring my vision, my muscles exploding in white hot pain as I kept fighting. My brain was telling me to kill, kill, kill, bake, no kill! I was going to die, I was sure! Then, I realized that they had stopped attacking me. The enemy warriors had fallen back into a circle around me, so that I was now standing in a small clearing in their midst. Then, I saw someone approaching through their ranks. The warriors parted and HE stepped into the circle, a giant man in gleaming black armor, wielding a massive two-handed broadsword. He must have been seven feet tall, or at least five ten. He turned to his men.

“Leave this cocksucking motherfucking asshole to me,” he said.

“Lord Foulmouth,” I replied, “your mouth is every bit as foul as your name would seem to indicate.”

He took a step forward and raised his sword. I took a step backward and re-sheathed mine. Then, rethinking, I drew it again.

“Shit ass.” He said.

“Shit ass?” I queried. “What exactly is that supposed to—“

Too late! He was upon me! His sword came crashing down upon mine, and I was thrown back. I parried and attempted to slash at his torso, but my sword simply glanced off his gleaming black armor.

“Pussy,” he said as we resumed circling, doing the dance of battle. Imagine the scenery swirling cinematically behind me.

“Ah yes, well pussy I understand. It’s an insult, but can we go back to shit ass for a second? It doesn’t make any –“

Again, he attacked! His sword came at me in a sweeping arc, and slammed against my shoulder! My arm went numb, and my sword flew from my hand. I dropped to the ground like a sack of freshly killed squirrels.

As I lay there on my back, Lord Foulmouth stood over me, poised to deliver the killing blow.

“Now you shall die, you crapass titshitting dildowhacking piece of…”

He went on and on like that. A constant stream of profanity the likes of which I’d never heard before. As he stood over me cursing and cursing and cursing, I frantically searched my pockets for anything at all that I could use, anything!

“Burplicking fartblasting…”

A piece of lint. No good.

“Turdspitting boobybiting…”

A ticket for the Producers. There was no way I was going to let him have that. I ate it.

“Fucky shitty damn damn crap” he was running out of curses. I had to hurry!

A metrocard. A chapstick. More lint. Maxine’s phone number. She is the most fetching of the Lucky Cheng’s dancers. I ate that too.

“Pee pee poo poo kaka…” He was almost done!

A nickel. A guitar pick. A knife. Zagat’s 2001 pocket guidebook to battlefields. More lint, a…wait a second. I had a knife!

Without hesitation, I stabbed Lord Foulmouth in the groin! The only thing messier than his crotch were the regurgitated Producer’s tickets that Maxine and I used the next evening!

Right, then. On with the victory celebration! To victory!!!

BONUS TRACK – here’s an alternate chunk regarding the whole pride topic that I have used as part of this Warlord bit from time to time:

Well, enough of my prattling. We won the battle, and that’s what matters, right? RIGHT?! Right. But before we carry on with the celebration, let me just remind you how proud I am of you today. I am filled with pride. My scalp is itchy with pride. If I were to lean over you right now and scratch my head, you would be sprinkled not by dandruff, but by pride. And dandruff. And entrails. After all, I was just in battle today – it seems that someone’s entrails are always in my hair. You know what, I feel a bit congested right now. Could it be? Yes! I think that my nose is stuffy with pride as well! And I feel a bit phlegmy with pride too. (cough) You know, I think I’m coughing up bits of pride! And I feel achy. I’ve got PRIDE FEVER!!! That’s right, I’m burning up with pride! Ooh. Perhaps I am just drunk with pride. Ahem…

And why am I so proud? Because today you fought like dragons! You fought like killer whales! You fought like a dragon with a killer whale strapped to each claw! Well…if you think about it, the killer whales really couldn’t DO anything strapped to the dragon’s claws. They don’t have arms or legs…and it really wouldn’t be in the dragon’s best interest to fly close enough to the enemy for the killer whales to use their teeth. I mean, the dragons would probably want to rely on their fire breath to roast the enemy from a safe distance. The killer whales would pretty much be big…pontoons, in case the dragons needed to make a water landing. And speaking of the dragons’ fire breath, the killer whales would probably just catch fire by accident at some point…so why don’t we just make the killer whales fireproof. And just to give them something to do, how about we give them the ability to shoot piranhas out of their blowholes. Flying piranhas. Flying piranhas that don’t need to breathe…even better…flying robot piranhas…programmed to chew through the enemy’s skull, directly to his brain! YES! That’s what you fought like today! Like some brain-eating, flying robot piranhas that had been shot from the blowholes of fireproof killer whales in the claws of dragons!

Right, then. On with the victory celebration! To victory!!!

posted by Andres at 10:55 PM

Here’s another piece from the archives while I try to climb out of this creative funk:

NIGEL & COCOA

(this version from the show I did at Surf Reality Feb 7-9, 2002)

Jungle/adventure music fades out as the lights fade up.

Nigel emerges from behind the curtain, wearing goggles and leading an invisible creature. He has an Australian accent. Gee, I’ll bet no one else has ever done a parody of an Australian wildlife dude…

NIGEL

C’mon girl, c’mon Cocoa! Yeah, that’s a good girl. Good girl! That’s right, c’mon out and say hi to the nice people. Yeah. Good girl. Hup, up on the stool, Cocoa! Up! Good girl. Good girl.

Nigel leads Cocoa up onto a stool and gives her a treat – he gets nipped on the hand. He pulls his goggles up onto his forehead and addresses the audience.

NEIL (CONT’D)

Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I’m wildlife expert Nigel Whitewater. Some of you may have seen one of my many Discovery Channel specials, such as “When Animals Attack Me”, “Get This Alligator Off My Ass”, “Waiter, There’s A Catfish In My Penis”, and “Backyard Safari Part Three: The Whimsical World of Chipmunks…When They Attack.”

Tonight, I’m here with my good friend Cocoa, the invisible, performing baboon. Let’s give her a big hand. Thank you. As you know, invisible baboons are a rare and endangered species, and there are only a few left in the wild. I rescued Cocoa from an invisible Circus three years ago. Since then, we have traveled together promoting invisible baboon conservation, and during that time, countless audiences the world over have taken me at my word that she has performed brilliantly for them! Tonight, it’s your turn! Thank you.

Before we begin, there are just a few basic groundrules to cover:

Firstly, no flash photography. The flashes disorient both myself and Cocoa, and besides, what’s the point anyway?

Secondly, no sudden movements. Cocoa is a trained performer, but she is also a wild animal. Any sudden movements could result in her fleeing, or much, much worse.

Thirdly and most importantly, do not make eye contact with Cocoa. Now, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking “but I can’t see Cocoa’s eyes.” Well, that’s irrelevant, because she can see yours. If you make eye contact with Cocoa, even for a second, she will interpret it as a challenge to territorial combat, and she will attack swiftly and viciously.

Okay, enough of these very, very important rules. Cocoa will now astound you with some amazing tricks! You have my word on it!

With my infrared goggles on, I can see and direct Cocoa’s every move.

Nigel puts the goggles back on.

We are going to begin with a very basic trick, the cartwheel. We are all familiar with the cartwheel, except for those of us who were too portly to attempt it as a child, myself included.

And, follow the treat! C’mon! C’mon! And, back again! Good! Cocoa!

This is illustrated with arm movements. Nigel takes Cocoa in a circle and back to the stool, making swirling motions with his arms. He feeds her a treat. Gets nipped.

Beautiful! Thank you! Trust me, ladies and gentlemen, that was a sight to behold!

Nigel grabs a Frisbee.

Now, I will throw this Frisbee to Cocoa, and she will catch it in her mouth and then release it with such agility and speed so as to not change it’s trajectory whatsoever!

He moves to one end of the room, and throws the frisbee. When it goes over the stool, he directs Cocoa.

Catch, release! Yes! So nimble, no change in the trajectory of the Frisbee whatsoever! Cocoa!

He goes over to stool, gives her a treat, gets nipped worse.

For our next trick, I have devised something a little more complicated. Up in the rafters at the back of the auditorium, I have placed a small metal canister containing a single serving of zebra meat. The container is sealed right now, but when I give the command to my American wife Kiki, she will open the canister, and then go conveniently unmentioned for the rest of this bit. When the canister opens, the scent of zebra flesh will waft down to Cocoa’s nostrils, and she will leap up into the rafters to consume the meat. Once she is there, we are going to coax her to jump down, directly onto this stool! You won’t believe my eyes!

Calling to the back of the room.

Okay Kiki, open the cannister! Any second now, Cocoa will smell the zebra meat. As we are waiting for the scent of zebra meat to waft down to Cocoa’s nostrils, I’d just like to say what a pleasure it is to be living here in New York City. New York is like a giant Thomas’ English Muffin, so full of nooks and crannies. And we, the people of New York, are like hot butter, melting and dripping down into all the nooks and crannies, and then cooling, and becoming trapped there. Barely able to pay the rent on our nook or cranny, but too scared to – ah! Cocoa has smelled the zebra meat! Cocoa is flaring her nostrils. “What’s that I smell?” she’s thinking. “Oh I know what it is, it’s a dead zebra!” And she leaps! And she is up in the rafters! A beautiful sight! Truly a marvel to behold. Now, she is eating the meat, and we can all breath a bit easier. For now. Now, we are going to get Cocoa to leap down from the rafters onto this stool, onto which I shall now place an invisible whoopee cushion.

Nigel places the imaginary whoopee cushion on the stool.

There. The whoopee cushion is in place. Now, Cocoa is trained to respond to one specific vocal command, which we are all going to say together. It goes like this. In the voice of a PBS nature documentary, we are all going to say “In times of drought, only the strongest baboons may use the watering hole”. Just like that. Okay, she’s done eating. Now, on the count of three, we’re going to say, “in times of drought, only the strongest baboons may use the watering hole.” One, two, three – “in times of drought, only the strongest baboons may use the watering hole.” She’s jumping! Here she comes!

Nigel follows her jump with his gaze. When he stares at the stool, a loud FART is heard.

Wow! Beautiful! If any of you have ever thought about purchasing a pair of infrared goggles, it’s sights like this that make it really worth the expense! A big hand for Cocoa. Now, for our next trick…

There is an ominous pause as Nigel stands stone still, staring at Cocoa.

Aw, crikey. Ladies and blokes, do not be alarmed. I seem to have made eye-contact with Cocoa. Don’t worry, I have safely dealt with this situation several of the many times it has occurred. Right now I cannot make any sudden movements, and I certainly cannot break eye contact with Cocoa. If I break eye contact, she will take it as a clear sign that I wish to engage in territorial combat, and she will attack suddenly and viciously. My best chance in this situation is to simply reach for my tazer…ladies and gentlemen, it seems that I have neglected to bring my tazer with me. This poses a problem, for I see that Cocoa is tensing her haunches and preparing to pounce. There is another way. If we can distract her, and make her break eye contact first, I may have a chance. If you would be so kind as to make the following noise, which is the sound of a dying water buffalo calf. “Bleargh!” Got it? Ready, one, two three…”blearh!” I appreciate your efforts, but that was not really close at all. Like this “bleargh”. Ready, one, two, three – “BLEARGH!” Still miles away from the sound I need you to make. One more try, like this – “bleargh” from the abdomen. Ready, one two three “BLEARGH!” That’s not the FUCKING SOUND. I don’t want to die, I don’t want to – right. Let’s try it one more time. One last try! One, two, three…”bleargh!” Yes, that’s it! It seems to be working! Keep doing it! Keep doing! STOP! She is no longer staring at me! Oh, crikey. She is now staring at YOU, sir. Don’t make any sound or movements, or she will think you are inviting her to engage in territorial combat! There is one way you can avoid being attacked. Cocoa has been known to calm down considerably at the sight of someone handing me their wallet. Slowly, hand me your wallet, sir. Slowly. Brilliant, you’re moving so slowly as to be barely perceptible to the human eye. No? There is another way. Cocoa has been known to calm down considerably when she is showered with the bras and panties of appreciative female audience members. I am noticing a distinct lack of bras and panties landing on the stage, which means that either none of you are throwing your bras and panties, or you are throwing them, and they are merely being intercepted by some sort of incredibly stealthy species of bird or bat. That likes to eat bras. And panties. Right, I can only think of one more thing we can do. How about we all breath a sigh of relief, because Cocoa and I were only acting! Right!?! Ladies and gentlemen, that was just a vignette we do to illustrate the majesty and power of the invisible baboon. Thank you! Now, while I make some minor costume changes, Cocoa will entertain you by repeatedly jumping up and down on the invisible whoopee cushion. Enjoy. Take it away, Cocoa!

Nigel watches Cocoa jump up and down a few times, each time his gaze comes down to the stool, we hear a FART. The paces starts slow and then gets much faster. Then, after three or four, Nigel walks offstage and the FARTing continues. Even after the lights dim, the farting still continues.

NOTE – the whole catfish/penis joke is a reference to the helium bit I posted way earlier in this blog, and it was also a line from the puppetshow “Piranha & Barfbag” which has yet to play outside of that one run of shows at Surf. Maybe I should bring those guys back. Hmm…

posted by Andres at 10:46 PM

I’m sitting here reading my last two posts, and I’ve gotta say — I have absolutely no interest in finishing the whole “invading Iraq by myself” thing. So it stands as an unfinished piece, a rather random, scattershot, silly stab at topicality. But basically it’s an excuse for more dipshit “smart” scatalogical humor. Sigh. So very tired.

September 2002 – got lazy transposing posts

Friday, September 27, 2002

(see the last post for how this one-sided conversation with The President of The United States started)

(also, please forgive me for how weird this gets)

Now then, what are my goals? Nothing short of total disarmament and regime change. When I am through, if I have accomplished what I set out to do, Iraq will be a secular, democratic society with Western values, a thriving free-trade economy and no weapons whatsoever. Saddam? He’ll be in a cell, wearing a bonnet, sucking his thumb and trying to fend off the imaginary little American flags flitting to and fro around his bruised and battered face.

Why are these my goals? Hell if I know. You’re the prez. U.S.A., dude! U.S.A!

How do I intend to acheive these goals? My strategy can best be summed up with three words:

PREPARATION.

INFILTRATION.

EXECUTION.

DILDOWHACKER.

Let’s start with preparation. I have already mentioned to you the impressive garments I am wearing, crafted from the most space-age of materials by my personal techno-wizard Halifax! Really? You can tell from the way I say his name that it would have to be italicized with an exclamation point in print? You are savvy, sir. I mean Mr. President. At any rate, Halifax! has custom-built an outlandishly devious array of super-lethal weaponry to my personal specifications. And it’s all indistinguishable from normal civilian attire. For example, my UNITARD OF IMPERVIOUSNESS is virtually impossible to tell apart from a standard Aquaman Halloween costume. I also mentioned my BELT OF MANY USES, which is practically identical to a low-slung, diamond-studded, mirror-buckled Argento & Salvatori belt, complete with cocaine holster! But on my belt, the cocaine holster is actually just a holster for my gun. Which is camouflaged to look like a bag of cocaine. Halifax! calls it the BAG-O’-COCAINE GUN. It shoots cocaine-laced bullets, just for that extra fabulous touch. You know what the most common last words are of a person who’s just been shot by the BAG-O’-COCAINE GUN?

“Holy fuck, I LOVE your new film!”

It’s true. It doesn’t even matter if there’s no one from the film industry standing around. No sir, I don’t have any bullets on me. Anyway, those first two garments are nothing compared to the GLOVES OF HARM. With a simple gesture from a distance of up to 50 feet, I can implode a man’s kidneys, crush a man’s pancreas, or even just lightly jostle his nuts if I so wish. The best part is, the GLOVES OF HARM look exactly like a pair of foam “We’re #1″ hands, like you’d see at a sporting event. And for some reason they smell like moose poop.

Yes Mr. President, I agree. Moose poop is the King Of Poops. Heck, a moose’s digestive system is so sterile and efficient, that when it’s all said and done, the resulting fecal matter is practically a breakfast cereal! Heck, I wouldn’t be surprised if a few eons from now, the Moose evolves to a point where its shit has a frosted side. Let’s move on.

And marshmallow clovers! Oops, I said I was going to move on, so I shall.

And toffee-nut clusters! Damn. Sorry Mr. President. Here we go…

What was I talking about? Oh yes. Preparation. I am prepared.

Infiltration is my next point. Just stick me in a fedex package and ship me to Baghdad! Simple enough. I can slow down my metabolism to that of a skink.

Execution. How am I going to follow through on my ambitious plan to topple Saddam’s regime?

TO BE CONTINUED

posted by Andres at 10:59 AM

Thursday, September 26, 2002

Hey Mr. Prez. Chill.

Yours truly is here to save the day. I’ve been doing a lot of listening to both you and Congress lately, and consequently, I’ve been thinking up a storm. And it’s no coincidence that I just used the word “storm”, either. Why? Because I’ve made up my mind.

I’m going to invade Iraq. Alone.

Think about it. What is the most attractive alternative to risking the heavy casualties and unfathomable expenses of a large-scale overseas military operation, especially when world opinion is against us, and even our own populace and government are fiercely split on the issue? Seriously, think about it, G.W.B. You need an option that achieves your goals of altering the political and economic landscape of the Middle East, without risking American lives, American money, and most of all, your own political career. How can you do this? Think.

Bingo.

Send in the comic.

“Call off” any military plans. “Comply” with The United Nations. “Agree” with the multitude of international voices that have been arguing vehemently against an invasion of Iraq. And then smile the smile of one who has a delicious yet terrible secret and press that button.

The one just under your desk, Mr. President.

The one labeled Superdoodylickers.

When you press that button, the little red light on my night table will start to blink, and I will leap into action. Not that I really need you to press that button. I’ve practically got one foot out the door. I am already wearing my UNITARD OF IMPERVIOUSNESS, not to mention my BELT OF MANY USES.

My GLOVES OF HARM are on as well. I just killed a roach by simply giving it the finger. These gloves work, Mr. President.

I am ready.

Now, before you wisely choose the course of action that I am recommending, you’ll probably want a detailed outline of my plan of attack, or at least a vague summary filled with exciting adjectives. I can certainly provide you with the latter.

But first, you have a question. Why is the button under your desk labeled “superdoodylickers”?

Don’t ask me. It’s been labeled that way since the Kennedy administration. The NSA simply redirected the wiring to my apartment. It used to be connected to a little red light in a bathhouse in Saratoga Springs.

What kind of a bathhouse?

Don’t play naive with me, Mr. President. There’s only one kind of bathhouse.

Still not clear? Let me put it this way. You can’t spell bathhouse without “ho”.

Nothing? Um. How about this. Hey, you can’t spell bathhouse without “ho” and “use”, am I right? As in a place where you go to USE HOS?!? EH??!

Hos. As in “pimps and hos.” Hookers, Mr. President. What? Women who sell…forget it, it’s not important. What is important is that that strangely labeled button puts you a finger poke away from solving your whole Iraqi dillema. Huh? Well, you would use your finger to poke, or rather push, the button. The button we’ve been talking about. I agree, Katie Holmes is indeed cute as a button. What? Heh. Yes sir, I’d sign a resolution to invade her as well. Can we get back to the whole wacky premise of me invading Iraq by myself? Thanks. Now then…

TO BE CONTINUED

posted by Andres at 10:18 AM

Thursday, September 19, 2002

Here is a conversation I just had with the nice fellow behind the deli counter at my office cafeteria. Please imagine him very hastily slapping this sandwich together during our exchange, as there is a huge lunch hour crush of customers:

DELI DUDE – Next.

ME – Yes, can I please have whole wheat bread with roast beef, cheddar, onion, tomato and mustard?

DELI DUDE – Roastbeef?

ME – Yes please.

DELI DUDE – Lettucetomatomayo?

ME – Uh. No. Cheddar, mustard, onion, tomato.

DELI DUDE – Mustard?

ME – Yes.

DELI DUDE – Lettucetomato?

ME – Uh, no. Just tomato. And onion.

DELI DUDE – Onion?

ME – Yes.

DELI DUDE – Lettucetomato?

ME – Nah just the tomato.

DELI DUDE – Chipspickle?

ME – Sure.

DELI DUDE – Next.

That’s right. The cheddar never made it onto the sandwich. I hope this has given you some insight into why I sometimes seem like I’m surly, or brooding, or troubled. The simple fact is, my life is much harder than yours.

posted by Andres at 12:59 PM

Wednesday, September 18, 2002

The site doesn’t seem to be working right now. Stay calm. It’s probably only

GREMLINS!!!

Gremlins I tell you.

No more beers in the fridge? Gremlins.

Your underwear riding up? Most definitely gremlins.

Does ice cream hurt your teeth? Gremlins!

When you lean in oh so close to whisper sweet nothings in her ear, do you suddenly belch a belch so vile that neither of you can believe it came from THAT end of your body? GREMLINS.

Can’t get it up? Yup. Gremlins.

Can’t get it down? Gremlins with a Twilight-Zoney sense of irony.

Don’t get my Twilight Zone reference? Your brain is plagued by Gremlins, my friend.

The existence of the movie “Gremlins?”

GREMLINS!

The existence of the movie “The Phantom Menace?” One turkey-necked retard.

Any Yankees loss? Gremlins.

Any Jets win? Gremlins.

Where’d the third Olsen triplet go? Gremlins! (I SWEAR, check your notes – there USED to be three of them. Why don’t we remember? GREMLINS!)

The name of a folktale-themed bowling alley?!??! “Grimms Lanes.”

Who’s responsible for that terrible pun?!!? GREM…

LINS!

No fax paper? Gremlins.

Light bulb out? Gremlins.

Slight pee tingle? Gremlins.

Intense pee tingle? Still gremlins. Just craftier.

Why is my blog not accessible right now? Well, probably a server problem.

CAUSED BY GREMLINS!

You get the point. This could have been much longer and funnier. If it weren’t for those damn…you know. The “G” word. Shh.

posted by Andres at 4:50 PM

As new rounds of weapons inspections are set to begin, Iraqi officials are expressing some concern over the United States’ most recent appointment to the U.N. weapons inspections team: Massive Many-Footed Tony Patriotissimo.

“His head seems to be nothing more than a giant mylar balloon with a crudely drawn face on it,” commented one Iraqi official, “and from beneath his vast trenchcoat protrude several hundred thousand feet. All wearing military boots. I am skeptical. Still, this is the first Italian-American I have met. I cannot jump to conclusions.” The Iraqi official then gave a thumbs up and said “Aye!” in his best Fonzi voice.

posted by Andres at 2:55 PM

Today’s CNN.com “Quickvote” poll asks:

Did the U.S. intelligence community do enough to prevent the 9/11 attacks?

So far, NO is winning, but only 76% to 24%! What the fuck? It seems to me that by the sheer fact that the terrorists carried out their scheme exactly as they had planned it, killing nearly 3,000 innocents in the process, the U.S. intelligence community could have done a wee bit more. What is the reasoning for the people who voted YES?

Hmm looky here a quiz. Well. The Friendly’s across the street is still open, and little Destinee Starr made straight C’s on her ‘port card. I’ll put a YES. Hee.The little box went away when I clicked at it.

– Verne Clamberg, STUPIDFUCKINGVILLE U.S.A.

Might as well ask a cat if the smudge on the wall did enough to prevent the removal of his testicles:

(note – this cat sounds like Eddie Pepitone)

“I kept sending the smudge on the wall report after report of suspicious activity! I kept starin’ at the smudge on the wall, THINKIN’ at it, tellin’ it – HEY! MY OWNERS ARE ACTIN’ ALL WEIRD! I THINK THEY’RE PLANNING TO HAVE ME FIXED! HEY! YOU GOTTA DO SOMETHING! But the smudge just sat there, and before I knew it, WHAM! NO FUCKIN’ BALLS. I’m a big handsome Tabby cat who gets his share of feline fun – I WILL NOT MAKE A PUSSY JOKE THAT’S TOO EASY – but when it comes time to close the deal – CLICK. THE GUN IS EMPTY! NO BULLETS IN THE CHAMBER! NO TADPOLES IN THE POND! NO MILK IN THE um…balls. I got no more balls. Oooh.”

posted by Andres at 1:42 PM

Monday, September 16, 2002

As you may have noticed, I’ve decided to use my blog not only to post new stuff, but as a depository for all of my old scripts, bits, etc. I dunno. It just comforts me to know I can have this little online library. If you’re a new visitor and you enjoy the goofy stuff I write, by all means delve into the archives here, there’s tons of stuff from the past five years. Here’s a little something from 1997 that has only seen stagetime three or four times, and has only gone really well…once? Yeah, I think just once:

There is a new Broadway Show called MY PENIS, and it’s been getting rave reviews. Here they are:

Hooray for MY PENIS!

You’ve got to see MY PENIS!

MY PENIS is a masterwork.

I thoroughly enjoyed MY PENIS!

MY PENIS is a must see!

Three cheers for MY PENIS!

MY PENIS stands tall…above this season’s Broadway shows.

You’ll gasp when you see MY PENIS!

Discover MY PENIS.

Treat your whole family to MY PENIS.

My kids enjoyed MY PENIS even more than I did!

With minimal tinkering, MY PENIS could be bigger than Chicago!

MY PENIS will leave you speechless!

You’ll eat up MY PENIS!

I just can’t shake MY PENIS.

Here’s a tip…see MY PENIS.

You can put money on MY PENIS.

Get MY PENIS under your belt.

MY PENIS really rises to the occasion.

MY PENIS touches you again and again.

MY PENIS doesn’t miss a beat.

You’ll love MY PENIS, warts and all!

MY PENIS deserves a big hand!

When you experience MY PENIS, you’ll wonder why you never came before.

MY PENIS is going to leave its mark…on Broadway.

Kevin Spacey breathes life into MY PENIS.

MY PENIS positively drips with good cheer.

See MY PENIS before the original cast is gone.

MY PENIS has some rough spots, but it really comes through on the whole. (CUMS through on the HOLE?!?!?! I AM A GENIUS!)

I haven’t seen anything quite so polished as MY PENIS.

Reba McIntyre brings her considerable talents to MY PENIS.

MY PENIS is long, but thoroughly satisfying.

MY PENIS is a lot to swallow.

MY PENIS really gives you something to chew on.

You’ll want to savor MY PENIS.

When MY PENIS reaches its climax, you’ll be blown away!

MY PENIS starts out strong, sags in the middle, but ends with a real bang!

When Tony comes around, you can bet MY PENIS will be there!

MY PENIS is a towering achievement.

MY PENIS is a stroke of genius.

MY PENIS will make a big impression on you.

MY PENIS has legs. It can look forward to a long run on Broadway!

Wild horses won’t be able to drag you away from MY PENIS.

MY PENIS will bring a lump to your throat.

MY PENIS will bring you to your feet.

MY PENIS will put a smile on your face.

MY PENIS will have you on the floor!

MY PENIS will leave you begging for more!

MY PENIS will keep you humming!

MY PENIS smells…like a surefire hit!

MY PENIS is in-your-face.

MY PENIS will have you wiping your eyes!

MY PENIS will fill you…with song!

MY PENIS is a real weiner! (WINNER? WEINER? Ah yeah. IS THAT LORNE MICHAELS ON THE PHONE?!?!? Woo!)

MY PENIS is side-splitting.

MY PENIS is hair-raising!

MY PENIS is eye-popping!

Oh my. Oh MY PENIS!

The Delacorte theatre will be home to MY PENIS for years to come!

I give MY PENIS two thumbs up.

MY PENIS pulsates with the rhythm of Savion Glover’s masterfully tapping feet.

MY PENIS is hard to pin down. Is it a comedy? A musical? Whatever it is, I want to see MY PENIS again!

MY PENIS delivers great big dollops of fun.

MY PENIS starts saccharine sweet, but its ending may leave some with a bad taste in their mouth.

You’ll want to bring an umbrella when you see MY PENIS.

MY PENIS will take you in and out of some dark, scary places.

MY PENIS grows in size and scope, and then suddenly shrinks again.

Annie Get Your Gun, because here comes MY PENIS.

Move over Lion King, MY PENIS is the new king of Broadway.

The Producers can’t hold a candle to MY PENIS. That would burn! But in a good way.

Look out Broadway, MY PENIS is coming. Oh my god, it’s coming so fucking hard!

Lick the balls. Good, now work the shaft. Work it, work it. Yeah!

The people in MY PENIS are very talented!

The people in MY PENIS are suffocating, because there is not enough oxygen in my urethra to sustain the respiratory systems of so many hardworking performers!

MY PENIS is in there somewhere. Keep wriggling! You’ll feel it.

MY PENIS is stuck inside this metrocard reader.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat. MY PENIS!

MY PENIS has taken Broadway by storm. A penis storm!

When I first saw MY PENIS, I was overjoyed. Is this really MY PENIS? I’ve got to start masturbating right away!

If you penis one penis this penis penis, it’s got to be MY PENIS.

I penis, you penis, we all penis for MY PENIS.

Please put MY PENIS in your vagina! Please? No, seriously, please?

Hey don’t suck on MY PENIS so hard, I might cry out in pain, thus alerting your father to my presence. He frightens me. After all, he does collect guns!

MY PENIS once connected Russia with Alaska! That’s how people got here. And caribou!

MY PENIS dances to and fro hypnotically, waiting until the last second to snare the helpless tree frog, sinking its venomous fangs deep into the frail skull of the amphibian!

In times of famine, the elder tribesmen would call upon MY PENIS to bless them with rain and forgetful squirrels. Because the forgetful squirrels would leave the nuts where they were buried. MY PENIS would then make the nuts grow into large trees that were called “penis-rubbing trees”, because they looked like palm trees!

Alderan is a peaceful planet, please spare it from the awesome, destructive power of MY PENIS.

Knock knock. Who’s there? MY PENIS. MY PENIS who? MY-PENIS-WHO is one of the spicier entrees at my favorite Thai restaurant!

Knock knock. Who’s there? MY PENIS. MY PENIS who? Knock knock. Who’s there? MY PENIS. MY PENIS who? Knock knock. Who’s there? MY PENIS. MY PENIS who? Knock knock. Who’s there? Orange. Orange who? Orange you glad I didn’t fuck you in the ear with MY PENIS?

Knock knock. Who’s there? MY PENIS. MY PENIS who? MY PENIS PENIS PENIS PENIS PENIS!

My bologna has a first name, it’s P-E-N-I-S. My bologna has a second name it’s P-L-E-A-S-E-S-U-C-K-M-Y-P-E-N-I-S. Whoah, wait a second kid. You’re bologna is named Penis Please Suck My Penis? Awesome, that’s gotta be good bologna!

When I saw that a show had come out called MY PENIS, I was skeptical. But then I saw MY PENIS, and I really liked MY PENIS. MY PENIS was very, very good. I enjoyed MY PENIS. I think the next time I see MY PENIS, I’ll bring my grandmother along. She’s never seen MY PENIS, though she claims to have seen it when I was a baby. MY PENIS is a very, very good show. MY PENIS.

posted by Andres at 6:40 PM

HAPPY ACCIDENT

(beautiful, peaceful music plays in the background)

Hi. I’m Herb Farber, from the world famous Farber Fudgeworks in Herdleberg, New Hampshire. You know, since 1898, the name Farber has been synonymous with delicious, premium quality novelty fudge. And that’s not about to change as we advance into the 21st century.

Tonight I’m here to introduce our newest type of novelty fudge: The Happy Accident.

Is new Happy Accident novelty fudge reasonably priced? Sure it is.

Is it delicious? If you’re familiar with our line of premium novelty fudge products, that’s not even a question.

Does New Happy Accident novelty fudge accurately simulate the appearance, consistency, and texture of real human feces? You bet it does.

But that’s not where the novelty ends. Because Happy Accident novelty fudge doesn’t come in a tin, or a box, or a jar, or a container of any kind.

It comes in convenient pill form.

What’s in the pill? Good question. Three patented ingredients:

One – a revolutionary biochemical agent that literally transforms the molecular properties of the feces in your colon into rich, delicious, premium quality fudge. There’s the Happy.

Two – a volcanically powerful laxative. There’s the accident.

Three – a prescription strength antidepressant, to help you cope emotionally with the fact that, no matter how delicious it is, you are indeed eating your own shit.

So, the next time you’ve got a hankering for a snack, just pop a Happy Accident pill, and turn yourself into a fudge factory! That’s what I did!

(reaches into pants and produces fudge – eats it)

Mmm. (pause) You know something? I don’t think I actually ever took the pill. Oh God. Oh God no.

(runs off)

posted by Andres at 1:32 AM

Thursday, September 12, 2002

Three ruminations on the three men who comprised Forbidden Chocolate Explosion, the little-known but highly influential jazz trio of the late Sixties:

He played piano like no one else before or since. That is to say, he played it as a percussion instrument.

– Jazz historian Larry Flemister on Wallace “Hammer Hands” Harwell.

They say he had two good notes in him each day: the two notes he played before he wet himself. It took eight years to record his only solo EP. The end product was unreleasable, but the rights were snapped up by Disney. If you listen carefully, you can hear it playing on a loop in the background in the ‘Astrolator’ at the ‘Journey To 1990!’ Pavilion at Epcot.

– Jazzo-O-Phile Chief Editor Baron Riceburrough on saxophonist P.P. Jenkins.

He called it a six-string bass, but even a novice could see that it was a regular guitar. He had a rare hearing problem which caused him to hear things several octaves lower than they actually were. At birthday parties, he never did find the whole “helium voice” thing very funny. Still, this strange sensory defect helped him create some of the most innovative guitar sounds of his era. The era of April 12th through the 18th, 1967. The sound a regular bass makes? It terrified him.

– Pauley Bronson, close friend to Picky McGinnis.

posted by Andres at 11:23 AM

Wednesday, September 11, 2002

NYC rules.

posted by Andres at 10:35 AM

Thursday, September 05, 2002

Firstly, I must apologize for my lapse in “comedic scaling” in the last post. A tiny dog belonging to someone tiny enough to fit inside a lightbulb would be DWARFED by a gerbil! So how about he’s trying to hump a ladybug? Okay, thanks.

So I’m off to THE MOUNTAINS for a few days, and I will not be reachable by phone or e-mail. If you desperately need to get in touch with me, please follow these easy steps:

1. Write your message on an 8.5 x 11 piece of plain white paper. A piece of printer paper perhaps? Awesome.

2. Roll the paper up into a nice, tight tube, as tight as you can make it. Then, affix a tiny tab of scotch tape to the tube, to make sure it doesn’t unravel. Invisible gift-wrapping tape? Totally.

3. Put the tube of paper to your mouth and make a “toot-toot-toot” type of noise. It’s a noise that always used to freak out my dog Patches when I was a kid. I’m not sure why this step is necessary.

4. CRAM it. Just fucking cram it and wait for me to get back in town, you impatient fuckwad.

5. After pausing uncertainly as you try to figure out how and where to “cram it”, place the tube of paper onto a plate and sprinkle it with birdseed. Place the plate outdoors.

6. Wait for a bird to eat the seed. Dash outdoors, tackle said bird without hurting it, and affix the tube of paper to one of its feet with some string.

7. Release the bird whilst shouting “to Andres, my avian comrade, to Andres!”

8. Run over to where the bird has crashed, untie the paper, and replace with a smaller, lighter piece of paper. Nurse bird back to health if necessary.

9. See step #7.

10. See step #8, or proceed to step #11.

11. Wait patiently. In due time, the bird will find me, I will read the note, and I will get back to you as soon as I get back into town. Which brings us back to step #4.

I’m goin’ to da Moun tayuns! WOO heeyah!

posted by Andres at 4:17 PM

Q: How many bankers does it take to screw in a lightbulb?

A: Gee, just two I guess, but they’d have to be awfully small bankers! I mean, to fit inside a lightbulb? Really! And how the heck are they gonna get in there anyway? And what about the intense HEAT??!?! Just imagine being a tiny banker fucking another tiny banker inside a lightbulb, and trying to muster the concentration to maintain an erection despite the blazingly intense light and heat! And what about that tiny presentation you’ve got to finish back at the tiny office later (a little later)? And what about that tiny raise you’re hoping for! So you can buy that tiny house for your tiny wife and your even tinier kids?!?! HAVE YOU SEEN THE DOG, HONEY?!?! HE’S SO GOD DAMNED TINY!!! Oh there he is. Trying to hump that regular-sized gerbil.

posted by Andres at 3:46 PM

It’s very hard to think of something to write that doesn’t somehow relate to the fact that I hate temping and I hate the types of people I encounter through temping and I would rather not temp and I’m a temp. Sigh. There, I did it again.

posted by Andres at 3:44 PM

Hey just pretend I’m married for this joke:

So last night my wife and I finally saw Signs at the local megaplex. She said she hadn’t experienced that much exciting buildup with no climax whatsoever since our wedding night.

When we watched Unbreakable on pay-per-view.

OH! Who’s with me?!?!?! YEAH!

posted by Andres at 1:19 PM

A French researcher has found a skeleton of a Neanderthal baby that was first discovered in 1914 near Le Moustier, in southwestern France, but was lost in a museum for more than 80 years.

Upon further study, scientists determined it was just Danny Devito.

“Docking in space is difficult, not just the actual docking, but the safety aspects,” said Max Meerman, an engineer with Surrey Satellites in Great Britain.

“You should try docking in Rhea Perlman!” said Danny Devito.

But as sophomore discs go, ”A Rush of Blood” is strikingly wonderful, if not immediately striking.

When Danny Devito experiences “a rush of blood”, he looks like a jack. You know, from the game of jacks.

Ohio State University, for instance, is introducing “Politics and Culture in Central Asia.”

Fresno State University is introducing a rather awkwardly-titled class called “Blame The Little Gargoyle Man: Why Militant Islam Hates Us (Here’s A Hint: ‘Fuck You, Danny Devito!’)”

A streak filled with dramatic finishes grew even longer thanks to Hatteberg’s one-out theatrics in front of 55,528 fans who fully expected something every bit as incredible as the finish to another exhausting win.

The last time that many people got to witness such a lengthy streak was when a drunk, nude and soiled Danny Devito “scooted” around on his living room carpet in front of a disgusted crowd of party guests for a terrifying 15 minutes. The resulting streak stretched all the way from the coffee table to the marble statue of Napoleon.

posted by Andres at 10:07 AM

Wednesday, September 04, 2002

Hey – big news. I’ll be sending out a few e-mails later this month, but you lucky readers get the scoop here first:

Monday, September 23rd @ 7:30pm (I think that’s the right time) – “Giant Monday Night Of Amazing Inventions And Also There Is A Game!!!” at PSNBC.

Saturday, September 28th @ 10:00pm – “Giant Saturday Night Of Amazing Inventions And Also There Is A Game!!!” at The Gershwin Hotel.

The search for a new weekly home is ongoing, but these two extravaganzariffic specials should satisfy NYC’s thirst for wacky hilarity in the meantime.

That’s what I’m all about. Taking the demented white noise in my brain, sifting through it, re-packaging it into a somewhat understandable format, and presenting it to you good people on a semi-regular basis for the purposes of making you laugh. Which, in turn, makes me glad to be alive. Somebody please pass me a tissue. No, an unused tissue, asshole!

posted by Andres at 2:30 PM

Q: What did the euphemistic leper lawyer say to the prostitute?

A: “Keep the tip…of my little lawyer.”

posted by Andres at 2:20 PM

Q: What do you call 500 lawyers at the bottom of the ocean?

A: Superlawyer Aquaconference!

posted by Andres at 2:20 PM

Thank you! Thank you! Wow, are you folks enjoying the talent show? GOOD! What a great end to a wonderful summer here at Camp Daisy For The Monu-mentally Challenged. It’s great to see all the parents of our special kids out in the audience tonight. Hey, I see where they get it from! Ho! Just kidding. Remember, it’s not your fault. You’re good people. Hey, let’s have another big hand for The Happy Campers Band! Weren’t they great? A 23 minute version of “Old McDonald Had A.” Hey, the last word is “Farm”, kids, you almost had it! Whoah, our kids may be mentally challenged, but they’re not chutzpah challenged! Before we continue on with the show, I’d like to thank the arts & crafts department for building that incredible C3PO helmet, which fits so nicely over little Tommy’s existing protective helmet. Also, our heartfelt thanks go out to the Make A Wish Except For The Wish To Get Better Foundation for their generous funding! Now, here’s the Safety Boys gymnspastics team, with their attempt at beating Camp Daisy’s 13 year-old record for Dry Tumbling! Can they go more than 92 seconds without any incidental wetness? Let’s find out! And…scene. Thank you, thank you. I call that little ramble, “Slow Camp Talent Show Emcee.” I guess I’ve just reserved my spot in Hell, eh? Sigh. Retards.

posted by Andres at 1:18 PM

Sunday, September 01, 2002

Scientists have finally identified the ONE gene that separates man from the apes:

Gene Wilder.