(Hello) I located they are giving out grant hard cash in Connecticut to support country.
I once bought a two year supply of egg yolks. Guess what, I still have omelettes every morning. Served on a golden platter.
- Wrong number: "It's bullshit Leah. I'll kill u."
- Me: "Who is this?"
- Wrong number: "Wrong number. Sorry."
- Me: "I'd advise not killing Leah, dingus."
- Wrong number: "Lmao. Its just a joke. But thanks for advice :)"
- Me: "Have a good night, friend-o!"
- (After a missed phone call from the wrong number...)
- Me: "Oh hi, wrong number. Did you just wrong dial me?"
- Wrong number: "Ya I'm so sorry. It was a technical issue of this phone. Apologies."
- Me: "Maybe it was ordained by God that you and I become best friends?"
- Wrong number: "Is your name Jeremy?"
- Me: "Yes. Who are you?"
- Wrong numer: "Lol. I got linked to your Facebook through my phone."
- Me: "Oh, the age of information. Now you could find my house and slit my throat if you were so inclined."
- Wrong number: "Wow. Creepy."
- Me: "Please don't, though..."
I was sent a letter by a former co-worker urging me to return to a bar to make amends after accidentally leaving too small of a tip. Meanwhile, I got lunch in a middle school cafeteria, where I ate toilet paper and had my tortellini stolen by some fat 12 year old douche.
The Real Kick? About a thousand grams of sugar that’ll jolt through your system like a Clydesdale.
Ruffles Molten Hot Wings is America: Having your cake, eating it, and then shooting off an AK-47 from the back of your Ford.
You’ve got Misfits playing on your ghetto blaster and thoughts of running for mayor cross your mind. You wonder who to ask about putting your name on the ballot, and how easy it will be to keep the promise of ‘bring your illegal bird into work’ day. You want to be a lax political figure, but the idea of strict facial hair limitations creeps into your brain—plus you hate kids. You slam another Ruffles Molten Hot Wings chip in your dome and it all becomes clear.
No new taxes, no old taxes…what are taxes?
Ruffles Molten Hot Wings: What are taxes?
ALL CATS GO TO HELL!
- West: "You haven't been the same since Nam!"
- Al: "Nam Jones was a fine man, but too heart attack-y for his own good. He wasn't Barracuda material!"
- West: "And this guy is?"
- Al: "He's got it. Very few people have it. I thought I lost it a long time ago. But you know what? I had it the entire time."
“You ever been to the Sahara club off Broadway?”
“Oh, sure…sure. All throughout the fifties…all through out. And then a bunch in the eighties, when it tried to come back.”
“Such a depressing time, the eighties. People trying to recapture that glory.”
“I remember this one time in ‘83, which is surprising, since no one ever remembers what it was like to be inside the Sahara. Anyway, I was blowing lines of snow cut with Tylenol PM and orphan tears when a pterodactyl comes in and orders a drink.”
“Dead serious, Hank.”
“He hops on over to the bar and turns to me. Just looks at me in the eyes.”
“Let me guess, he asks the bartender where the bathroom is on account of his silent P. I think my nephew told me that when he was six.”
“Wrong! I wake up in freighter ship, 60 miles off the coast of South Africa. I had OD’s, put in a coffin, and sailed away.”
“That’s nothing. I ever tell you the time I went to the Sahara and saw Spiro Agnew?”
“No shit, the dead vice-president?”
“This was before he had any sort of political affiliation and was just some shmuck in a dumb fuckin’ hat. Anyway, I was getting my creep on which this tight little blond and he moves all up in my space and asks her there! Right in front of me like I’m fuckin’ invisible.”
“Hell, Charlie, what’d you do?”
“Took them both outside and gave them a piece of my mind!”
“Aw come on, you never hit a woman.”
“Who the fuck said anything about hitting? I banged them both. The blond and Agnew. Just to show them I could.”
The two men take long puffs of their shoddily rolled cigarettes. The years have been anything but kind to them, their faces hanging like crumpled newspaper. They get the drinks they’ve been waiting for and take long appreciative sips.
Have you heard about the underground sex rings at hotels? It’s a big thing that female concierges do. I had a friend, coming into Houston on a business trip, who stayed at a fancy big-name place in town.
He presented his credit card, which a young woman ran through, and received a room key and a menu for the restaurant in the lobby. He was in the elevator when he noticed a note on the back of the menu. Blowjob. $40. Plain as day, dark as night. Now my buddy, who was seeing some girl at the time, called the concierge out on it. He ran back downstairs and shoved the note in her face.
Of course she put on a whole show, pretending to be flabbergasted, making fictional calls to “management” all the while saying how much of a disgrace it is when people treat their bodies like objects.
My friend went back up to his room with a complimentary gift basket: chips, aged cheddar cheese, hard salami, pretzels, etc. As he was munching on a salami, he began to realize how much sense it made. The cliental at a hotel is what it is. Married men away on business, single men exploring the city, dumb teenagers on prom night. It’s a blowjob parade, a blowjob emporium, a blowjob Taj Mahal. He felt bad for turning the poor lobby girl down, but was thrilled at the taste of lean mean in his mouth — free lean meat, none the less.
This wasn’t the only instance of hidden sex transactions. I was once approached by a depraved kitchen worker in the back of a 24 hour Chinese restaurant. He made lude gestures to be in between pumping rangoons full of crab. But that was in the late 90’s when I was still in my full body cast.
- One: Clobberin' Time
- Two: Colin McFaggot
- Three: Buffalo Wild Wings <3
- Four: Big Head Duffy
- Five: Stupid Cunt Face
- Six: Crazy Eyes Statuport
- Seven: I Like Dick
- Eight: Ian McDouche
- Nine: K-Turn
- Ten: Taco Bell
“My phone is weird with text messages.” What is that? You send an arbitrary “Wanna hang out?” and get met with the prior line, days later in person. How is your phone weird with messages?
Texting has been around since 1992. More than 700 billions texts per year. Where is this message purgatory that all your sort-of-good-friends and ex-girlfriends promised? A land filled with
“Who are you with?”
“When are you coming home?”
A desert of lonely messages wandering around for eternity. They ask each other who they are the supposed recipients of. Shrugs all around. Maybe the texts are murdered en route between phones. Little assassins with little tiny word guns mow down your texts as they’re flying across the Atlantic, or down the street.
They strike silently, aiming at throat. Instant death. That’s how your phone could be “bad with getting texts.” It’s weak and allows these murderers to get to your messages—and if they escape the hands of death, they’re doomed to the drawl, beige text purgatory. I’m going with carrier pigeons from now on. Who would ever suspect a pigeon? They even look dumb.
“The food factor should always be massive: four Bloody Marys, two grapefruits, a pot of coffee, Rangoon crepes, a half-pound of either sausage, bacon, or corned beef hash with diced chiles, a Spanish omelette or eggs Benedict, a quart of milk, a chopped lemon for random seasoning, and something like a slice of Key lime pie, two margaritas, and six lines of the best cocaine for dessert…. Right, and there should also be two or three newspapers, all mail and messages, a telephone, a notebook for planning the next twenty-four hours and at least one source of good music…. All of which should be dealt with outside, in the warmth of a hot sun, and preferably stone naked.”
Jeremy looks lovingly at the on-line porn photos of Katie Holmes and sings softly a 1960’s Beatles song — ‘I Want to Hold Your Hand.’” —James Macak, Emerson College
I have an idea for a new TV show. A discussion of all pre-1940 films by two 90 year old film executives, Sal Weinstein and Harvey Dynovsky.
Back track twenty years. It’s 1991 and you’ve landed that dream job as a junior copywriter at the third largest advertising firm in the midwest. You make more money than anyone at your high school, and you drive a red car.
Your prime corner office is wedged between two other corner offices; you enjoy it, but say nothing, fearing the consequences of physics. You’re typing up an expense report from your business trip to Dover when you get hit by a distinct wave of arousal. Knowing this will only delay the delivery of your report, you make the adult decision to purge all sexual frustration in the bathroom.
You close your computing machine, put your beeper on silent, zip up your backpack and take the elevator to the corner bathroom. Locked in the stall, you un-clasp your business pants and hold your eager genitals in your palm. Furiously pulverizing, relief is on the cusp of the horizon.
You stop. Something is wrong. You re-clasp your slacks and walk out of the stall. The back of your neck chilly and tingly, just like the second time you watched Romancing The Stone. Everything seems off. You look around. The wallpaper is floral, beige armchairs line the sink, there’s a tampon dispenser on the wall.
You’re in the corner women’s bathroom. Panic creeps up your body, vertigo bringing it up the rear. The whole room spins and pulses. This isn’t even the right floor. You took the elevator down instead of up. You were too busy thinking about tonight’s mediocre beef flavored dinner. Idiot! You take a few deep breaths and calmly walk out. Relief is still a far away idea.
Everything seems weird and foreign, like the time you meandered into Chinese Town. It’s time to investigate.
—TO BE CONTINUED—