Interview with a Skeleton

Chris-iconI’m sitting in a barely lit basement, the air musty with dried beer stains, mold, sex, cocaine, and a lifetime’s worth of living the dream. He wears the same busted old jeans he sported on the cover of Rolling Stone 40 years ago. I wonder if half the smell of the basement isn’t coming from his pants. He sits calmly, resolute as I shuffle through my notes like a buffoon. What can I ask that hasn’t been asked a million times over. His publicist reminds me that Johnny’s Skeleton only has fifteen minutes before he has to bounce. I don’t think he’s had a show in years, but I’m sure that somewhere, in some other dimly lit basement, there is a sexy, scantily clad woman just waiting to…grind against that pelvis, to feel his bones through the denim. I clear my throat as I finally muster the courage to look at his face, the pale bleached tone of his skull, the empty hollowness he conveys as I stare him eye-to-eye socket.

ME: Hey, Johnny. Thanks for making the time. I know you’re a very busy man and all, but this, well, this is a dream come true for me.


ME: A lot of people say that you were mailing it in on your last album, but I don’t see it that way. Some of the guitar licks and vocal melodies are some of the most intricate we’ve ever seen from you. I wondered if you could talk a bit about where that material came from. Was there anything in particular from your life that helped to emotionally inform such tonal perfection?


ME: I understand. It must be very difficult to discuss matters so close to your heart. If I had to choose only one song from your catalog to listen to for the rest of my life, it would have to be ‘Live from My Funeral’. The way you keep singing even after one of the pall bearers drops his end of your casket, so honest and true. I think it had something to do with you singing ‘I won’t stop watching you.’ I think it made him nervous somehow. But another deeply personal song would have to be ‘How I Died Riding Harleys.’ Which do you think cuts further to your core? Which was harder to write?


ME: Take your time. I know it would take me forever to answer a question like that! It’s like, ‘which baby do you like more?’ Impossible!


ME: We’ll come back to that one. You keep thinking about it. Just stop me when you have an answer. People have asked before about some of your steamy affairs. But now that you’re looking back on a long career, full of stories, trials and love, are there any ladies, or hell, fellas, that stand out to you as being the ones that were really memorable? Any moments that made you think, now these are breasts that I’ve been building toward, this the ass. Anything like that?


ME: Sorry. That question did get a bit weird at the end there, huh? I guess I just mean, were there any real connections? Were there any moments where you truly felt alive, or times you think back to and wish you could live in that time forever?

JOHNNY’S PUBLICIST: Hey, asshole. That guy is dead.

ME: Yeah, I know. I know.



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Sustainable Masturbation

Chris-iconWe live in green times. Everybody is recycling, going to the local farmer’s market, and supporting local businesses. This has gotten a lot of us forward thinkers involved in the big picture. How do we make the world better all the time? How can we we bring sustainability to the facets of our lives that we often overlook?

That got me thinking about masturbation and the ways most men go about their business and all the waste that lies within.

1) Masturbating on the toilet or in the shower.

Okay. If you are in the restroom and thinking that it’s “go time,” chances are you’re about to waste. Think about it. What are the odds that you aren’t going to flush the toilet if you started out doing something less erogenous? I’m sorry, but the smells of pee or poop are not quite the sexy aromas you want climbing your nostrils as you’re about to get frisky. And the shower? Well, you’re about to be in there a minute or two more than you would have been. Don’t bother. I know you aren’t shampooing your hair at the same time. Whether on the can or in the shower, you’re wasting water.

2) Using tissues, napkins, or paper towels.

This is paper waste friends! Look, you know that one napkin or tissue isn’t doing it. Maaaybe one paper towel, but still. You are now putting into the trashcan what you can no longer recycle. Now a landfill somewhere in the United States will be blessed with your seed until it disintegrates atop a mountain of aluminum foil and old televisions. Doesn’t it all seem sooo unnecessary?

3) Using towels or other clothing materials.

I see the logic here. Do a load of laundry and wash out…all the loads. Here’s the problem: do you wash that towel with everything else? If so…gross. If not, I thought so and we’re not saving anything. More water!

4) Collecting for mass disposal.

I realize before I even say this, that this will not be a very likely method of disposal. But let me furnish the following caveat before I incriminate myself: I grew up in a household that froze food trash until curbside day to keep the animals out of our bins/garage. So…you can also collect your business in say…an old jar or yogurt container until it’s full. In this case, you are doing better than the “three tissue bandit.” But still, at best you are contributing to landfill waste and turning an otherwise recyclable container into a hot (or cold) mess.

I know what you’re thinking: you can’t win! And it seems that way, until you realize:

Masturbating outside is the only true sustainable option. It goes back to the earth without any need for paper waste or excess water consumption! Your energy exists in the pure nature of other, unadulterated energies. It’s almost beautiful.

This is exactly what I told the judge, and I still have to serve 1,000 hours of community service.


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Taking Suggestions for The Devil’s Tax Return


Hey there, Pouch Pals. The IRS just bestowed upon me my 2012 tax return. Guess how much? $666. $666!

What a nefarious sum of money! With this money I could do any number of things…

-Start a cult.

-Snipe some Southwest Air tickets to hell (just to check it out).

-Donate money to the local Girl Scout Troupe.

-Fund a low-budget porno.

-Fund a high-budget home video (personal porno).

-Gamble. Gamble. Gamble.

-Skywrite awful things about three peoples’ mothers.

-Produce a mastered recording of a tourism song, directing people to scenic, totally
safe, Chernobyl.

And maybe I’ve been hanging out with Brandon for too long, but none of this seems adequate. I feel like there is something better, something obvious that I’m missing.

Come on, Pouch Pals. What do I do with The Devil’s Tax Return?


(Do I use it to pay rent next month, and instead of going to work I stay home and finish the screenplay: The Devil’s Tax Return?)


Gas Station Fail!

Hidden far north on the touristy roads of vacationland, a petrol station clamors for your business. And these days, you have to take that sweet cheddar where you can get it. Let’s face it, route 1 gets pretty sleepy this time of year, and if you can sell someone a liter of cola or chicken salad from three days ago, you have to try.

This one gas station though…they don’t get it.

They concoct a new item to steal your test buds away from your mouth. And their first attempt at roadside signage to wet your appetite:

Are you maudlin? Try a lobster roll!

What!? First of all, as always, you must know your audience. I know the types of people that buy food at gas stations. I’ve done it on occasion! A hamburger in the shape of a hotdog!? Churning slowly in a sweaty rotisserie of delight? Sure. A half of a “Massachusetts” style Italian sub? Why not? We know what the stuff is, horrible microwave mutant-food that will taste like salt and have you pooping in no time. And some can’t turn it down.

Those people. Those people who love gas station “food,” they do not use the word maudlin. They do not know what it means. They say things like “NASCAR!” or “One more roll of duct tape ought to hold the rearview.” 

Furthermore, even if we know what they mean, do we really KNOW what they mean?

Am I in the midst of a tearful fit that only low-grade lobster meat can cure? Am I pining for those long-lost summer months to such a great extent that I need even the shittiest lobster roll to remind me of those precious sunny days. Am I drunk/hungover and am suddenly reminded that lobster rolls are the greatest thing invented in the history of ever, well, behind maybe prank calls and that wet noise I can make with my belly button?

Now I’m confused. They make an expensive New England snack for their gas station, and market it to sophisticates. But alas, it’s new. And we must recognize that most station attendants are not viral marketing experts! So, surely after suffering two weeks of angered British gentlemen, rapping on the glass with their thin canes, and peering in hotly through fine-framed spectacles…

“Now see here! I am not Maudlin. Nor would I fathom, even momentarily sampling the rancid waterbugs of your puerile delicatessen!”

Maybe after all the proper shouting subsides. Or even with the first yokel that walkes though and says,

“Awwww you boys is just a getting all faaaaancy.”

Then, maybe then they would know that something was amiss. They would recognize some better way to sell lobster rolls.

And eventually, the sign did change!

Are you loutish? Try a lobster roll!



Everybody at the Party

Somehow, I knew all of you needed an excuse to dance for a minute and a half.




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The Killingest Fight-Person

Which Hero? What Hero? Whose Hero? Our Hero.Now, being as Christ! and I are from the future and whatnot (continuity!), we don’t really have a sense of what’s “topical,” “current,” or “relevant.”

That being said, I’ve been watching a lot of that fucking awful TV Show “Deadliest Warrior” lately.

This show seems to be designed to spit directly in the face of the scientific method. Repeatedly. Intentionally. With great gusto.

After arbitrarily choosing two “warriors,” the show arbitrarily assigns them “traditional” weapons “closely associated” with those “warriors.” Then it groups those weapons in arbitrary pairings and tests them against each other…by giving each weapon completely different “tests.” About half these tests involve pig carcasses full of fake blood.

Well, you know what? If this show is going to boldly step forward and say “fuck accuracy, fuck accountability, and, most of all, FUCK SCIENCE!”, then I’m going to take this concept all the way to the bank.

Deadliest Warrior gave us Italian Mafia vs. Yakuza? Knight vs. Pirate? Ninja vs. Spartan? Sun Tzu vs. FUCKING Dracula?

Eat shit, Deadliest Warrior.

Killingest Fight-Person is giving you the match up of the century:

Johnny Appleseed vs. A cup of coffee

Using methods exactly as scientifically accurate as the competition, Killingest Fight-Person has sorted out the battle between these two fearsome warriors.

First up: Johnny Appleseed!

A vicious American do-it-yourself-er, Johnny Appleseed followed a nomadic lifestyle that left him lean and hard!

Short range weapon: appleseeds

Mid range weapon: more appleseeds, but thrown harder

Long range weapon: whole apples, thrown pretty hard

Special weapon: the Golden Apples of Aphrodite

Armor: pot on top of head

And his opponent: a cup of coffee!

A piping hot cup of pathetically-weak blonde roast from a local fast food chain, capable of giving you a lingering bitter aftertaste and the coffee shits!

Short range weapon: scalding hot coffee

Mid range weapon: burnt coffee smell

Long range weapon: not applicable

Special weapon: coffee shits

Armor: styrofoam

Well, we ran this battle through our complex combat simulator ten SEPTILLION times.

And the winner of the battle is…

…a cup of coffee!

Now, Johnny Appleseed definitely had the advantage at long and mid range, especially since a cup of coffee can’t move or anything. But once Johnny got within close range, the scorching coffee consistently scalded his tongue, cooked his hand, spilled boiling hot liquid onto his groin while he drove, and gave him vicious, vicious coffee shits.

And in the end, the coffee shits were what truly locked it up for the cup of coffee.

Tune in next time, when we find out who is…the Killingest Fight-Person!

-Our Hero

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Abandoned Pornography Poem




Angels fall from heaven,

the beating of their wings is not

unlike the ruffled pages of the Victoria’s

Secret catalog.

Torn and folded,

tucked between inkjet printings

of Lara Croft–

her towel just about to slip.


My friend had a thing for

Gillian Anderson.

So she was there too.

Carpet.            Drapes.

Not looking for a distant glow

but for some thing unknown

to spindly prepubescent arms.


She wanted what they all wanted,

face time,

and a place to call their home.

I loved the dirt behind the baseball diamond,

where the dugout hung

just above the river.


Turns out,

sandwich baggies

are not waterproof.


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Mr. United Nations sings: Maneater

Nobody knows his real name…or where he came from. All we know is that one day he was found beneath the floor of the United Nations. He was cold…and crying. The police were called. They looked mean, scary mean. They said “we’re taking you away boy!” But Boutros Boutros Ghali said, “No! We will raise him as our own. So they did. His accent is strange, but he learned to speak English from worldwide delegates. Oh, they also bought him a karaoke machine. Enjoy his smooth stylings.

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Dirty Doug’s Dog Shit Parfait

Hey everybody!

Do you need a refreshing treat that’s good for the body AND the soul?

Then you need Dirty Doug’s Dog Shit Parfait!

I make my sumptuous parfait by blending fresh fruit, rich and creamy yogurt, and wholesome granola…oh yeah! And DOG SHIT!

The great thing about dog shit is, since it’s natural, it’s automatically good for you!

Another thing a lot of people don’t know is that dog shit is pretty much free! Unless you need a lot of dog shit very quickly, in which case it costs about as much as a box of Fiber One.

In order to make my Dog Shit Parfait just perfect, I sun dry all my dog shit right here on the roof of Dirty Doug’s! Or, sometimes, I sun dry it on my car!

And remember, folks, Dirty Doug’s strives to be the most customer-interactive dog-shit-based natural products store in the world, so don’t forget to come on down for Milkin’ Mondays! On Milkin’ Mondays, you can watch me, Dirty Doug, milk out the dog shit and talk about my special techniques!

And then you can help Dirty Doug milk the rats! (Rats are, of course, just tiny dogs.)

Come on down and enjoy my Dog Shit Parfait!

Coming soon from Dirty Doug’s: Dirty Doug’s Dog Shit Duck Sauce (a natural alternative to those MSG-laden duck sauces!)

Dirty Doug’s Dog Shit Toothpaste (remember, dog shit is natural!)

Dirty Doug’s Dog Shit Tampons (Dirty Doug’ll help put them in, free of charge!)

Dirty Doug’s Dog Shit Dryer Sheets (carry the natural bliss of Dirty Doug in the very molecules of your clothes!)

-Dirty Doug

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Grandpa Sumner

So, one time, a few years back, I was visiting my grandfather with my sister. I was about ten years old. My sister had recently been married, so her new husband was with us too. We were sitting in his living room swapping stories when my grandfather noticed an ace bandage on my sister’s wrist. “What’s that?” he asked.

My sister starts to explain how her husband and his brother were wrestling outside and she jumped in the middle and then her arm was hurt. My grandfather gets red in the face and starts getting all upset. “That’s how it starts, Carolyn! The girl always says it was her fault! What did he do to you!?” And my sisters starts to explain over and over how it went. The two boys were rolling in the grass and without so much as a peep she jumped in the middle and before they could even see that she was in the fray, her arm got twisted the wrong way. It was all okay, barely a sprain.

But my grandfather isn’t having it. He keeps harping about domestic abuse and that it’s never the woman’s fault. My sister pleads, her husband keeps quiet, I wait nervously on the floor. Finally, my sister explains that she knows what my grandfather is talking about, but for realz, this isn’t that!

My grandfather considers this for a moment and says:

“Well, I guess accidents do happen…there was that time I hit your grandmother in the head with that golf club….”


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