Art Joke
In honor of a trip to the museum today, the following is the greatest joke I’ve ever written. Maybe I should give it a bigger build-up, so as to make this post seem as important as it really is. But, I’m just gonna let it stand on its own as definitively the greatest joke I have ever written and maybe one of the greatest jokes ever written by anyone.
Are you ready? Here it goes:
(Read aloud.)
Q: Why did Peggy Guggenheim pick up her mobile phone?
A: Because, Alexander Calder.
Everywhere Person
Hi there. Sorry to bother you. We’ve never met, but I wanted to point out that you’re my Everywhere Person. Do you know what that is? It means that I bump into you everywhere. Not only in our neighborhood, but sometimes near my work or at concerts or restaurants.
Have you noticed it too? I guess about a month ago, we were in line at IKEA at the same time. Before that, you were in the audience at a stand-up show I did. We seem to travel in the same social circles but don’t know each other yet. You were at my friend Claire’s book reading, so you must know Claire.
Maybe we should go ahead and skip all the mutual acquaintances and formal introductions and go straight to being friends. I mean, we both like Wilco. I saw you in the beer line at their Coney Island concert. And, we both support local bookstores, since I’ve bumped into you twice at the one on 81st. Also, we both use the same shampoo. I noticed you buying it last week at Walgreens. It’s pretty good shampoo, right?
We both enjoy midcentury graphic design. I spotted you carrying a huge Campari poster up your front stairs last week. Also, we both like Trader Joe’s frozen rice. There was an empty box of it in your trash. And, guess what? We both have wives named Colleen. Again, I know from looking through your trash. Your cable bill is getting pretty steep, huh?
What do you say we grab lunch sometime? We can go to the Thai place you seem to like on Broadway. You must, since you eat there every Tuesday around noon. It’d be a good chance for me to return that comb I took from your bedroom.
We both snore, by the way. Funny coincidence.
Science!
Scientists say the universe is expanding. But, they also said I couldn’t fit 34 full-size marshmallows in my mouth, so that shows how much they know.
I once heard a scientist say he liked the movie Boondock Saints. These are the people we’re entrusting with our precious science? Boondock Saints? Unless you wear a trench coat to shop class, there is no reason to think that is a good movie. What else do you believe—evolution? Grow up, scientists.
Somebody should be checking the credentials of these so-called “scientists.” Sure, they might have gotten doctorate degrees from prestigious institutions, but have they ever taken Dead Man’s Curve on their Razor scooter? Until you have done that, you have no idea how the universe works. Believe me.
And, these scientist guys are always the same people debunking all the best conspiracy theories. A bunch of wet blankets if you ask me. Maybe if scientists spent less time cooped up in a lab, they’d be more open to a bigger world filled with new ideas about the mind-controlling properties of fluoride.
You know who’s interesting? People who take science and add their own spin to it. Like Scientologists or Christian Scientists. Because, at least they're having a little fun with it. That’s why I’m starting my own scientific body, and any scientific facts we don’t like we’ll just change to suit our worldview. We’re calling ourselves the Texas School Board.
[Author's note: Boom! Look who got political at the end there! Yeah, I said it. What? You got a problem with me getting political? Well, get used to it, because this guy is take-no-prisoners. I am a satirist. You know what that means? That means I take no prisoners. I am like a surgeon with a scalpel. I, uh … I say … things people are too afraid to hear. I am the nation’s conscience. Look out, people who disagree with me, because I will take you down with some scathing passive-aggression. I don’t give a fuck.]
Silver Fox Club
I’m starting a Silver Fox Club. With the exception of me, all members need to be male, 50 or older, and have a full head of wavy, silver hair. Like the kind of hair from a Ralph Lauren ad. You know the sort of hair I'm talking about? Good sailboat hair.
Mostly, it’ll be a social club. We’ll drive around in the older members’ convertibles, shop for French cuff shirts, and scoff at Just For Men commercials. Oh, and we’ll wear loafers without socks.
The Silver Foxes will give me stock tips and advice on where to get black market Cialis. In turn, I’ll make cool mix tapes for them to pass off to their 20-something girlfriends. Remember the movie Hardbodies from the 80’s? It’ll be exactly like that, except without the dramatic tension.
Here’s what the minutes from one of our future meetings might look like:
· Meeting called to order at 4:30 p.m. by Chair, Tad Ross. (I’m going to tell them to call me Tad.)
· Last month's meeting minutes amended and approved.
· Henry orders a second ice tea and winks at the waitress. He calls her “blue eyes” and she giggles. How slick is that?
· Chief Executive's Report:
- Recommends that we find a new meeting place with bustier bartenders and closer bathrooms. After brief discussion, Board agrees.
- Club member, Walter, gives a brief extemporaneous presentation on a great little jazz club where he used to take his secretary. Apparently, he once met Dave Brubeck there. After brief discussion, Board congratulates Walter on a terrific load of bullshit.
· The food arrives, and the waitress slips Henry her phone number. See what I mean? That guy is a tail magnet.
... and so on.
It’s going to be awesome. Honestly, I can’t wait to be a part of it, even though I’m not a Silver Fox, yet. I’ll probably wear a t-shirt with a silver fox on it so people know I’m a part of the club. Have I said how excited I am for this to happen?
Just a bunch of dudes hanging out, eating lunch salads to keep fit for our respective Tiffanys or Ambers. Quietly recommending good urologists. Slowly figuring out how to use our iPhones. Staying cool and silver foxy.
That is, until those Red Hat hags come nagging us for their alimony. Why do the Red Hat Ladies have to ruin everything? Damn you, Red Hat Ladies!
Damn you.
Our Favorite Names
Names thought up by my wife and myself while waiting at restaurants:
1) Dunkin Knuckles
2) Gertie Nerdlicker
3) Rufus Poopshoot
4) Florence Perdé
5) Amanda Bumpers
6) Vicki Clutterbuck
7) Arnold Shunt
8) Phyllis Whistler
9) Moisés Tullett
10) Burns Magruder
11) Becky Knickerbocker-Fox
12) Norman Kunk Jr.
13) Leslie Slipply
14) Thora Foie Gras
15) Janice Bartlesinkramfenheimer
16) Diedrich van Hoof
17) Penny Applepants
18) Rodney Thumb
19) Bertram Pipp
20) Dashiell Fung
P.S. Two of these names are real people. Can you guess which two?
Answer in the comments section.
The Greatest Slow Jam
.
[Text of the above video, which was animated using the website xtranormal.]
After years of research, our scientists have developed the greatest slow jam of all time. This slow jam is the slow jam to beat all slow jams. It has more oh babies, gettings close, and feeling its than any that has come before.
However, we cannot release this slow jam. Testing suggested that this slow jam may be too powerful, too slowly jammed. Early listeners in the lab immediately began making love to each other’s faces. One participant, upon hearing the jam, ground her hips straight through her dancing partner.
Fearing this slow jam may be too dangerous, we will be removing two suggestive verses discussing how it has been “so hard” for “so long” without you. We believe this should solve the reflexive humping problems.
At least, we hope it will.
An Inspirational Story
Once upon a time, there was an old man who was walking very slowly and old man-like. He saw a young man running towards him very fast, the way young men do.
The old man called out, “Young man, where are you going in such a rush?” The young man did not stop. He did not slow down. He simply yelled out, “Can’t stop. Free hot dogs.”
The old man smiled to himself and remembered when he had been young and foolish enough to run full speed for free hot dogs. That was the day he threw up on President Truman.
Moral: Same one as “The Tortoise and the Hair” except with puke.
I Am Not “Brassy”
Please stop referring to me as “brassy.” Yes, I admit that I have an outgoing personality, and yeah, I can be a bit loud. But, the word “brassy” is for ladies. Specifically older ladies in wrap sweaters and chunky jewelry. I am not that.
I am a young man, dammit! I demand proper adjectives. Ballsy, boorish, loudmouthed—all perfectly fine. But brassy? What, just because a dude can belt out a showstopper, suddenly he’s “brassy?” So I remind people of a young Bette Midler, so what?
I’m expressive. If that makes me brassy, then I guess I am brassy. Shoot, no wait! Forget what I just said. I am not, I repeat, I am not brassy.
Also, I don’t like everyone referring to me as a “fella.” That one’s more acceptable, but it’s still somehow unmanly. Especially when used in the phrase, “My, aren’t you a brassy little fella!” Everyone, please stop saying that all the time.
Don’t make me become a diva about this.