Something About You Girl That Makes Me

Because I am full of sore muscles, arthritic joints and smartness, I drive myself over to the massage therapist’s office once a week and turn myself in. I explain what parts of my glorious person are laughing at me and not with me, then do half an hour of stand up comedy lying down, because if I stopped telling jokes, I might go a little screamy. Therapeutic massage, as practiced by Merciless Mark, can be very painful, but it forces me to come up with new material on an urgent basis.

Tata: This spot here feels wider after the surgery.
MM: Any chance the surgeon gave you a new body part? I hear that happens.
Tata: Why didn’t I ask him, “Hey Doc, can you make that narrower? I wouldn’t mind narrower hips.”
MM: Shake his hand and slip him a little something?
Tata: “My friend Mr. Lincoln would like you to take off – say – two inches?”
MM: “And his friend Mr. Washington would like to thank you.”
Tata: “What if Mr. Hamilton joined this party?” Sixteen bucks! I guess you could make up money.
MM: “Mr. Taft would like you to make the scar reeeeeally small.”
Tata: He’s on the one million dollar, right? No, the $250 bill!
MM: What’s Kennedy on?
Tata: The fifty cent piece. You flip that to your orthopedic surgeon and say, “Here, kid. Don’t spend it all in one place.”
MM: “Susan B. Anthony nominates you for Surgeon of the Year.”

Dang. He’ll be here all week.

From the West Down To the East

This is a new low:

“If it was your son, in fact, screaming as you testified, that would suggest that it was Mr. Zimmerman’s fault that led to his death,” [Murderous moron George Zimmerman’s attorney Mark] O’Mara observed. “And if it was not your son screaming, if it was, in fact, George Zimmerman then you would have to accept the probability that it was Trayvon Martin that caused his own death, correct?”

“I don’t understand your question,” [Trayvon Martin’s mother Sabrina] Fulton said. “I heard my son screaming.”

“You certainly had to hope that was your son screaming even before you heard it, correct?” O’Mara continued.

“I didn’t hope for anything,” Fulton insisted. “I just simply listened to the tape.”

“I don’t meant to put you through this any more than necessary, but you certainly would hope your son, Trayvon Martin, did nothing that could have led to his own death, correct?” O’Mara tried again.

“What I hope for is that this wouldn’t have ever happened and he would still be here,” Fulton shot back. “That’s my hope.”

“That’s a real dick move, Mr. O’Mara,” said all dick moves ever.

Pete and I took our little grandchildren, my daughter Miss Sasha, my mother and stepdad to the American Museum of Natural History today. This is my grandson Panky.

What? There are more dinosaurs? Lemme at 'em!

What? There are more dinosaurs? Lemme at ’em!

If some pathetic douchebag harmed my grandson and the pathetic douchebag’s attorney asked me if the blame rested anywhere but on the pathetic douchebag, I’m 101% sure I’d look that attorney square in the eye and tell him – or her – what sort of monstrous pigfucker he – or she – was. Sabrina Fulton deserves a medal of some kind, but at least the conviction of her son’s murderer.

Say the Next Big Thing Is Here

When I got home from work, Panky was rolling across the couch with his shoes on, Buckwheat demanded I unwrap her toothbrush, the kitten was huddled in the kitchen, the other cats shivered in the attic and Miss Sasha was holding the dog. I don't have a dog. The TV was on. South Indian food was spread out across the table. So I unwrapped the toothbrush and told the kitten I was doubling her allowance.

When I got home from work, Panky was rolling across the couch with his shoes on, Buckwheat demanded I unwrap her toothbrush, the kitten was huddled in the kitchen, the other cats shivered in the attic and Miss Sasha was holding the dog. I don’t have a dog. The TV was on. South Indian food was spread out across the table. So I unwrapped the toothbrush and told the kitten I was doubling her allowance.