Armand walked shirtless on the beach in the gale-force winds, which pulled his hair out of their individual holes and blew his nipples to inversion.
Barry was tired and sick of having hard stools, so after using a stool softener he found in the back of his dying mother’s linen closet when he visited her for probably the last time, he was finally able to take a relaxing sit and heave a sigh of exquisite relief as he propped his feet upon his newly softened stool, covered completely in a leopard-print plush woven with delicacy and precision by the fine, careful hands of the highest class of Chinese child laborers.
Corey Feldman, erstwhile hip, teenage actor, presently hip restaurauteur for television commercials, rose like a phoenix from the ashes of obscurity with but a simple name change. “Hey,” he now says, “I’m Guy Fieri. Eat my Chip ‘n’ Dip Trio.”
I first discovered my collapsible chest cavity in my younger days training at a Cirque du Soleil vocational school in Reno.
I was eating peacefully by myself in the cafeteria when in walked Tiny, a lummox whose main claim to fame was his brutish strength (he was able to bend metal bars between his eyelids).
Something about the way I was eating my tapioca pudding angered him—for lummoxes are quick to anger, as you know—and he proceeded to give my body a good talking to with his fists.
As it turned out, much to my surprise and Tiny’s dissatisfaction, my bones were collapsible and they immediately upon impact would reform as if tight springs ran the core of them rather than marrow, much like some miracle product one might find being solicited on a late-night infomercial by a sketchy man with spiked, frosted hair, and ostensibly zooming on cocaine.
“The Robins In Your Backyard” is the endearing children’s tale about Robin Williams, Robin Thicke, and Robin the superhero (sidekick, really) roaming around a little boy’s backyard after a night of heavy drinking. Excerpt:
“When the Robins arrive, they are tired and hungry. Scratch, poke, plunge! Robin Williams gulps a hatching insect. Before long Robin Thicke claims a territory. ‘Cheerily, this yard is mine,’ he sings. His song attracts several females, but only one will choose him as her music-video partner.”
At this point in the story the Robins build their own nests. A squirrel gets too close to the nest of Robin, Batman’s sidekick:
” ‘Tuk, tuk, tuk, teeeek’! cries Robin. The neighboring Robins—Mr. Williams and Mr. Thicke—snap their mouths and dive-bomb the intruder.”
Haha, oh, those Robins are a feisty bunch!
Get this book for your children. They’ll love it.
It had been asked of Barry many times just what was the matter with him. Answering simply that his therapist wore Crocs was usually enough to satisfy their curiosity.
The vagrant lay unconscious in an alley with the other swept-aside garbage, verge of death, unseen by passersby. Poor guy.
Mr. Johnson’s granddaughter Suzie reached over from the passenger seat and turned on the radio. Jusin Bieber’s vocals pubertied out of the speakers; Suzie shrieked.
“You kids these days,” said Mr. Johnson. Though he privately knew all too well the electric heat that courses through the veins when one becomes overtaken with Beiber Fever.
Once upon a time, on a dark and stormy night, they lived happily ever after, when all of a sudden, the end.
Where were you while my dog
after so much agony
Rick Moranis settled his toddler, who was growing at an alarming rate after Rick Moranis’s molecular particle expander machine went on the fritz and aimed itself at the poor boy, into into his highchair. Rick Moranis spread peanut butter on a slice of bread with the energy and fierceness of a cokehead.
Everybody always forgets about one of the original members of The Village People, The Accountant. His professional business attire, complete with briefcase and portable adding machine, was incongruous with the band’s musical stylings, however, and he was shortly replaced by the police officer, who looked more like a stripper cop than an actual enforcer of the law, if you ask me.
There’s this customer who comes into the bookstore about every Sunday between noon and one. She’s one of these people who looks like she’s actually younger than she looks. Which is an odd quality, when you think about it: you look old, but you look as if you only look old. She’s probably only 30, but she looks to be around 38. Her hair’s a matted brown-gray, short and curly, like if an aging hobbit became a lesbian.
She always comes in with an empty or soon-to-be empty cup of coffee, usually ending up asking me to throw it away for her.
She also never fails to take a dump in our employees-only bathroom. When she asks me to throw away her coffee cup, it’s usually followed by her grimacing in discomfort and asking, “And can I use your bathroom?” So you know she’s going back there to have coffee craps.
She never buys anything either. She’s been coming here for at least the year and a half that I’ve worked here, and she’s made purchases on maybe two occasions. Last weekend she even came to the counter with a $4 book and wanted to pay with a credit card. We have a $10 minimum for card payments. How does she not know that, being a regular customer? I’ll tell how: she does know it. She just didn’t want to appear as if she were coming into the store solely to poop, so she grabbed something that she didn’t want, knowing she would have to leave it at the counter for not having cash, but also knowing she’d at least get credit for attempting to buy something.
But I’m onto her. I’m onto her scheme. Sometimes I tell her the toilet is out of order, just to irritate her bowels and send her scuttling, clenching her butt, next door to Subway.
The stewardess brings Jerry a little packet of peanuts. “Here are your peanuts, Mr. Seinfeld.”
Jerry, 90, embittered, crusty, grabs the packet from her hands and gives her a “Mraggh.” He mumbles a curse word at her under his breath as she floats away down the aisle.
Jerry knows the dexterity of his fingers is not what it used to be, so he bites at the peanut packaging to open it, leaving behind watery spittle on the cellophane.
He pours a few peanuts into his wrinkled, pink palm and pops them into his mouth.
He bites down.
Crack go his dentures.
Jerry “mragghs” loudly for all to hear and cries out, “What’s the deal with these fuckin’ airline peanuts?!”