Not A Good Way To End The Year

Fiction

The cigarette hung from his fingers of bone inches over the glass table top.  The smoke wisped into where ever smoke wisps too, just kind of up and gone. The hooded figure attached to the cigarette was slumped over slightly. His attire consisted of nothing but a single robe which hung slackly over his skeletal frame. The robe was old and a colorless gray. A heavy sigh was heard from inside the deep black hole where a rosy face should have been.

“Ok,” said a voice out of the left most darken corner in the room. “Let’s start from the beginning.”

The hooded figure sighed again, “How many times are we going to go over this?”

“As many times as it takes for me to get a story I believe.”

The  hand holding the cigarette raised from the table and disappeared into the nothingness of the face hole. Smoke billowed out, looking like some starless part of the galaxy that was on fire.

The voice from the corner spoke again, “Start from the beginning.”

“Of course,” said the robe with a smile. You couldn’t see his smile, but you sure could hear the smile. It was a blood curdling smile. A smile that many, many, people saw as the last thing they ever saw. A smile that stopped the blood flowing in ones veins. “I was making my rounds…”

“On what date was this?”

“It was on December 12th, 12:38 am  to be precise. I was assigned a Mr. Robert Hupert as my next collection. Mr. Hupert lived in the suburbs in a single story house. Nice lawn, well taken care of…I remember that. Anyway, easy stuff. I entered through the south wall and landed in the kitchen. It was a small kitchen. I was surprised as to how small it was…I don’t know why…you know, just compared to what the outside of the house looked like. Anyway, I was thirsty so I helped myself to a glass of water from the built in water dispenser in the door of the refrigerator. As with just about everyone’s refrigerator  in the world, pictures of what I assumed where the Grand-kids hung with those cheap fruit shaped magnets. A little boy was featured in one photograph, and a little girl in the other. The rest of the photos had them both in it, playing, laughing, hugging…it could have been any house in the world really…”

The Robbed Hood paused.

“Go on,” prodded the corner.

“Right. So I had a job to do and about seven others on my list for that evening. I admit I was in a hurry, but I’m pretty good at what I do. I have been doing it forever…literally forever. ”

Hood sneezed and a spider shot out from the black hole of his face, hit the table on it’s side. It recovered awkwardly and quickly, and then scampered away.

“Sorry,” he said and wiped his hole with the back of his cigarette holding sleeve. “So I head into Hupert’s bedroom where I expect him to be sleeping with  one of those CPAP machines attached to his face. I see a lot of CPAP machines anymore.”

“We don’t need to know that stuff, just stick to the relevant facts.”

“Hupert wasn’t asleep. He was awake.”

“So?”

“He could see me,” said Hood. “He was looking right at me. I knew he could see me. His face was flush of color and he was shaking. He also pointed at me. His mouth was open and moving, but no sound was coming out. This is a look I’m only used to seeing when the collected are in their last seconds of life. I like to look into their eyes as the last bit of their soul leaves their bodies. The eyes lose their shine slowly, like a fading star until…pop…nothing. The eyes, after  they lose their soul mind you, remind me of rocks you find in a river bed; dull, lifeless, flatten, hard…but regardless…Hupert could definitely see me.

‘What do you want?’ Hupert asked me.

‘I’m here to collect you,’ I responded. ‘How can you see me?’

‘What do you mean?’ Hupert asked.

‘How can you see me?’ I asked again. ‘Normally you can’t see me until you are toting that fine line between this life and the next.’

‘I don’t understand what you just said, but why are you dressed like the Grim Reaper?’

‘Because,’ I said matter-of-factly, which is how I always talk. ‘I am the Grim Reaper.’

Hupert started to whimper, then he started to cry.

‘Why? Why me?’ he said.

It’s what they all say. If I had a nickel for every time I heard that question…

(I don’t know what I would do with it. I have no need for money. It would just be a big pile of nickels, I guess.)

‘Because, you have been ordered to be collected. I am never told why. I just collect.’

‘No, I’m way too young! I’m only 47! There has to be a mistake!’

If I had a quarter for every time I heard that this has to be a mistake…

(Again…just a big pile of wasted quarters.)

Hupert suddenly jumped out the window and ran down the street. I was stunned. That has never happened to me before. I didn’t know what to do. I just stood there for a moment. Then I headed back into the kitchen, got a beer and a slice of turkey from the fridge, and left.”

“You just left?” asked the corner in shock.

“Yeah,” replied the Reaper. “I just left.”

Some papers rustled from the darken unseen corner. “Do you know in the billion years we have been doing this, we have never had someone scheduled for collection just run away?! Not one! We have always collected! Our record, until now, has been 100% collected! What the hell where you thinking?!”

The Reaper sighed.

“I wasn’t,” he replied. “I was still in shock… he could see me.”

“Some special people can see you, like Mediums, Clairvoyants, Bakers, Priests…”

“Bakers?”

“I don’t know why, but yes, bakers,” boomed the corner as more papers were shuffled. “You’re fired.”

The Grim Reaper didn’t say anything. He had never been fired before, but of course this had been his one and only job ever.

“What about the quota?” asked the Grim Reaper.

The man from the darken corner stepped out of the shadows. He was wearing a white robe and had a long beard. In one hand he held a stack of official looking papers, in the other he stroked his beard. “We will just have to have a run on of ‘natural disasters’, the Midwest is due for a tornado, Japan needs another tsunami soon anyway. We will figure it out until we hire a suitable replacement. Not your concern.”

“Just don’t get Eligos. I hate that guy.”

“Not your concern.”

The Grim Reaper got up and grabbed his sickle…

“Leave the sickle,” said the Other.

The Grim Reaper got up, leaving his sickle, and walked out the door. Maybe he would go visit the tropics for awhile, have a vacation before deciding what to do with the rest of his eternity…maybe he would check out that restaurant on the fourth level of Hell that’s been getting all the rave reviews…

Maybe he would just seek out Hupert and kill him.

Do the job right.

Get his position back.

Maybe he would buy a puppy instead.

So many possibilities…

The Grim Reaper sighed to himself.

To be continued?

Questions For Guadeloupe

I work with this lovely young woman named Guadeloupe. Whenever I run into her, I like to ask her a random questions. When I do this, she always stops, looks at me funny, and says,

“You ask the weirdest questions!”

Then she thinks a moment, and answers my question!

It’s hilarious.

(Sometimes the questions spark debate amoungst other coworkers. That’s even more hilarious!)

Here are some of the questions I have asked of her:

If you were reincarnated, would you rather come back as a bowl or a plate?

Would you like to star in your own novel about horses?

Which is larger…sliced bread or toast? Remember this could be a trick question!

Do you think candlelight is more romantic at 8 o’clock or 8:15?

If you were stuck watching one TV show for the rest of your life, you would rather watch a show about camels or dwarfs? You must pick one. And why?

Which spice would be the toughest in a fight, cayenne or curry?

If it’s true that the Freaks come out at night, what do you think they do in the day? Besides sleep?

Do you think that Hakuna Matata did indeed become a passing craze?

Would you bail the Easter Bunny out of a jail if he asked you too? How about his cousin?

Which finger would be cooler to have a cell phone implanted into too…the pointer or the pinkie?

If you were stuck in the middle of the ocean, with no food or water, on a raft made of Cheez-it crackers, would you be tempted to eat it?

If you lived in an animated world,  would  you feel handicapped by the fact you now have only four fingers instead of five? What if you had yellow skin?

If ponies ruled the world, do think oats and barley would be as popular as Italian food?

If penguins and ostriches went to High School together, do you think they would make fun of each other?

Thank you, Guadeloupe for always being a good sport.

Yay! Sports!

I’m not a sports guy.

I think I finally want to be, it seems fun.

I like the fact that you get to use the terms “we”, “our”, and “us” when referring to “your” team without actually being a paid member of the team.

That’s really cool.

“How did your team do this weekend?”

“We did great. You know we are really looking  good this year. Our running/kicking/goalie/batter leads the league in runs/kicks/bleeding so far!”

“I know! We really wish we had him on our team!”

You don’t do that with anything else on the planet.

“Our Coke-a-Cola tastes so good! How’s your brand?”

“We are also refreshing! Go Pepsi!”

I want to be part of the comradery that happens every Sunday in American homes. I want to wear someone else’s name on my back with some random number underneath of it. Except I would probably pick the worst member of the team just to be difficult.

“Hey, De Voss…who’s that on your back? Sticklockski? Number 109? Whaaaaaaat?”

“Really?! You have never heard of Sticklockski? C’mon! Sticklockski! 420 career bench warms! 16 stubbed toes in a single season? And you call yourself a sports fan!”

I think really, really, really fat guys in NFL jerseys are hilarious:

Are you ready for some football?! Or chicken wings?!

I think women in NFL jerseys are hilarious too:

Ha ha ha…so….funny…Man, is it suddenly warm in here?

I’m just glad dressing like your favorite sumo wrestler isn’t big here:

FYI: He has a Big Mac tramp stamp over his ass.

Starting a new trend

Those Insensitive Children’s Games We Played

Play time is different for kid’s nowadays. Gone are the times when your parents would kick you out of the house armed with only a ball and your bike, and you wouldn’t see each other until dinner.

Friday was meatloaf night, I was always late on Friday night.

Imagination and pick-up games ruled the neighborhood. Everyone would meet at the “spot.” And the “spot” was different per social class child gang.  Our “spot” was a cleared out field that was going to be developed into houses as soon as the plots of land were bought. In the background stood the forest which was only  a few hundred feet of uncleared woods, but at 10 years old, perfect for building a tree fort or going hiking without any fear of getting lost forever like Hansel and Gretel…the Brothers Grimm version, not the weird movie remake.

Two other important differences from the way children play today.

One:

There was a clear cut winner, whether it was an individual or team sport. Not everyone had an equal chance of winning. It did depend on your skill. If you swung and missed the ball three times with your bat, you sat down, you were out. You didn’t keep swinging until you eventually hit the ball. Often if you were the kid that sucked at baseball, you were the kid that was King of dangerous homemade bike ramp jumping.

Two:

For better or for worse the names of the games were not always politically correct. No one seemed to notice or care. Two prime examples from my childhood was: Smear the Queer and Black Man’s Tag.

If you are unfamiliar with the game Smear The Queer, the rules are simple. Throw the ball in the air and whoever catches has to run without being tackled. This could be played with any number of kids from 2 to 200. There is no designated place to run to, you just keep going until A) you’re tired or B) you’re tackled. If you get tackled then you throw the ball in the air and it starts all over again.

The great thing about this game: no thinking required. A helmet should have been required, it wasn’t, but definitely thinking went out the door. Your caveman instinct of survival kicked in and you just ran and ran until your friends piled on top of you like fat kids on the last Klondike bar.

For most, the offensive word in this game is Queer.  But I think the scarier word is actually; Smear. Think about how you would Smear something. Now think about violently Smearing something…or someone. Queer could be derogatory or empowering depending on how you say it. (Think Queer Eye For The Straight Guy) However, Smearing is Smearing, and there is no coming back from a proper Smearing whether your finger painting or recreating a Slasher movie.

In Black Man’s Tag the basic concept was that one person was “It”, and would tag the other players who were running back and forth between two safe zones. If you got tagged, you would join the “It” person and help them tag people until their was only one left, which was usually my friend Gilbert. He was damn fast. He was German. I don’t know if that is what made him so fast, but I think Germans played around with genetic enhancing during Word War II.

He may have been a by product of that.

We played this in the school’s parking lot with each end of it being the safe zones. You could not be tagged in the safe zone. If only big cities worked this way too.

A Simple graph for visualization.

I don’t know why it was called Black Man’s tag. Never really thought about the name until I became an adult. I had Black friends who played it. They never said anything about the name either.

“Hey, why does it have to be Black Man’s tag, why can’t it be Island Pacificer Tag? Or Spanish-American-Croatian Tag? Huh? Racist!”

The names of both of these games could admittedly have been chosen better. Maybe Black Man’s Tag could have been renamed Zombie Tag and Smear The Queer could have been renamed Rugby.

But as a kid it didn’t matter what the name of the game was, we just wanted to play.

Good job Gilbert, you genetically enhanced bastard. Good job.

The Action Hero Lists

Action Heroes Favorite Weapons…

1) Guns

2) Knives

3) Humor

4) Dynamite/bombs

5) Box Office Receipts 

 

Why Action Heroes Would Not Make Good Car Wash Attendants… 

1) They tend to crash cars

2) They tend to blow up buildings

3) They tend to not hold jobs long

4) They tend to blow up cars too

5) They tend to hate their boss

 

Top 5 Animals Action Heroes Hate…

1) Snakes

2) Sharks

3) John Malkovich

4) Walruses 

5) Dogs

 

Things Action Heroes Like To Jump…

1) Cars

2) Bodies of Water

3) Canyons

4) The Leading Lady

5) Buildings

 

Songs Action Hero Like To Listen To…

1) Jump – Van Halen

2) Grenade – Bruno Mars

3) Cuts Like A Knife – Bryan Adams

4) Anything by Guns And Roses

5) We Don’t Need Another Hero – Tina Turner

 

Best Action Hero Choices…

1) Bruce Willis

2) Arnold Schwarzenegger

3) Harrison Ford

4) Steven McQueen

5) The Rock

 

Worst Action Hero Choices…

1) W.C. Fields

2) Bill Gates

3) The Drummer From Def Leppard

4) Grumpy Cat (from the internet)

5) Pee Wee Herman

 

A Sampling* Of The Best Action Movies…

1) Die Hard

2) Speed

3) Enter The Dragon

4) The Matrix

5) Terminator 2

 

Games Action Heroes Like To Play…

1) Risk

2) Solitaire

3) Hide And Go Seek

4) Beer Pong

5) London Bridges

 

A Sampling Of The Worst Action Movies (but you’ll watch them anyway)…

1) Point Break

2) Face/Off

3) Spider-man 3

4) Howard the Duck

5) Sharknado

 

Best Action Hero One Liners….

1) Yippie Ki Yay Mother Fucker! – Die Hard

2) Say Hello to my little friend!  – Scarface

3) I’ve come here to chew bubble gum and kick ass…and I’m all out of bubble gum! – They Live

4) Hasta-la-vista baby! – The Terminator

5) Always bet on black! – Passenger 57

 

Worst Alarm Clock Sounds For An Action Hero…

1) Bombs

2) Fresh Prince Of Bel Air Theme Song

3) Bad Guy Explaining His Plans

4) 60 Minutes TV Show Clock Ticking

5) Samuel L. Jackson Reading Dr. Suess’ Hop On Pop

 

Why I Would Not Make A Good Action Hero….

1) I don’t look good in a wife beater

2) I can’t decide on a cool looking logo

3) I’m lazy

4) My catch phrase is, “I don’t know, what do you want to do?”

5) I need to eat. You never see action heroes eat.

 

*I said sampling, I did not mean these were the only ones!

 

 

 

 

Long Awkward Pause – A New Adventure In Blogging

In lieu of reblog Thursday, I have some exciting news.

I’m announcing the birth of a new, exciting, epic, original, ingenious, bold, spicy, operatic, collaborative masterpiece:

Long Awkward Pause!

What is Long Awkward Pause you may ask…and even if you didn’t ask, you may ask after you recover from your excitement over this announcement.

(I will wait until you pick yourself up off the floor, dust your pants off, and compose yourself thus-ly.)

Long Awkward Pause is a humor magazine collaboration between myself, Blurt, B.L.O.G., Monk Monkey, and Ramblings Of An Apathetic Adult Baby. We will take reader submitted topics  and write about them either once or twice a month depending on schedule, earth rotation, Chick-fil-a openings, births, deaths, oil changes, and other such hazards of the blog world.

I’m really excited to work with these guys, and I hope you’ll be just as excited to read our stuff. And if your not excited, at least tell your friends how not excited you are about this site, and how they should check it out for themselves.

You can view  the site, here. Don’t forget to follow, pretty please. Currently the site is just featuring reblogs of us, the actual first post will be on or around Aug. 2nd. It’s a topic submitted by Jo Ellen of Two On A Rant and it’s a tasty one. Feel free to fill out the form on the about page and suggest your own musings.

For everyone who follows, you will receive one free email notification!

The Robots And The Writer

The Robots just suddenly arrived.

They landed on Earth in droves, tall…about 8 or 9 feet in height, dirty metallic bodies, 3 wheeled tank like contraptions on their legs for movement, 3 tentacle-like arms with 6 tentacle-like appendages and on each one, claw like hands and fingers.

They came and they conquered. They conquered in a mere 72 hours.

The entire world in only 72 hours.

After they conquered and killed all the leaders of the world, they kind of left everyone else alone.

Sort of.

The robots made everyone stay inside their dwellings whether it be a fancy million dollar home, an apartment complex, or  a hobo’s cardboard box. It had been about two weeks of the house arrest.

Twice  food rations were left on the doorstep. Apparently the Robots thought our diet consisted of nothing but Spaghetti-o’s. TV was cut down to one channel that just played the same five movies over and over; A Christmas Story, Groundhog Day, Porky’s 3, Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure, and Casino. No one could make heads or tails of the selections or whether their was a theme or message to them. Some thought it might be a some secret symbol of the robots intent. Radio was down to one frequency, 104.1 FM. This station only played Frank Sinatra, but luckily it was his whole catalog and not just five select songs like the TV.

The internet, shut down.

After pretty much everyone in the world could quote Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure from start to finish, an announcement came over the TV and Radio:

“Greetings, people of Planet 279. You will be hearing this broadcast in your native language since you choose to complicate your race with such nonsense as separate languages. Tomorrow will begin your sorting. I will assume, you 279ings do not know what a sorting is, so I will explain. Each one of you will be individually interviewed on your worth to this planet and to us, your new masters. If your skills are deemed worthy, you will live to serve us. If your skills are deemed inadequate, you will be killed on the spot. We have already eradicated Rappers, Weather Men, Fruit Snack Packers, Walmart Customer Service Employees, Mark Zuckerburg, and Network TV Executives.   One of our kind will be knocking on your door sometime between 8 am and 5 pm to begin your evaluation. That reminds me, we need to add all cable installers to the inadequate list. Do not try to run. Do not try to resist. Do not try to fight. Do try to cooperate. Do try to answer the questions truthfully. And if you are deemed unworthy, do try to die quickly and without crying. That is all.”

And then Casino started playing on the TV again.

I was a novelist. I don’t know what Robots would want a novelist for…especially based on their taste of movies, but I couldn’t give up hope. There had to be a place for someone with my skill set for them. I didn’t have to write novels, I could write about anything…be a reporter, keep records, or something. My youngest daughter, who was 6, pulled on my pants.

“Daddy, I’m scared!” she said with big teary eyes.

“Oh,” I said as I brushed her long blonde bangs out of her eyes and kissed her on the forehead. “Don’t be. Daddy will be okay.”

“But Daddy,” she responded, tears running down her cheeks. “Who will pack the Fruit Snacks now?”

I gave her a hug and said, “I don’t know, honey. I don’t know.”

—–

Eight AM came quickly the next day, and you could see the robots lining up along the suburban street. The had enough robots for one to stand outside each and every door, and at precisely 8, a unison single knock hit the aluminum doors, followed by a metallic warning;

“You have 30 seconds to answer your doors. 30, 29, 28, 27, 26….”

I opened the door. The faceless machine looked at me, and it pushed me aside as it bent it’s large frame down to fit through the opening. Once inside it said,

“Are you Planet 279 inhabitant also known as Frank Baum?”

“I am, and it’s called Earth, not Planet 279,” I responded weakly.

“What you know of as ‘Earth’ is no more. You are now an inhabitant of Planet 279. If you are deemed worthy of service you will be given a new name. Your new name will be 279.0943783749894590834590349.”

“Wow, I don’t know if I could remember all of that,” I said a little worried.

The robot responded, “It will be branded to your forehead. No worries.”

“Oh, great.”

The robot pulled out a clipboard. “Please answer these questions, briefly and completely or you will be eradicated. Please answer the questions truthfully or you will be eradicated. I will be monitoring your heart rate and your brain wave patterns. You will be recorded. Let us begin. For the official record, what is your Planet 279 name?”

“My Earth name or the bar code you just gave me?” I asked.

“You have not earned your worthiness, therefor you currently do not have your official citizenship of our planet. Your ‘Earth’ name please.”

“My name is Frank Baum.”

The Robot checked something off on it’s clipboard. “This is just for show by the way, it seems to make you Planet 279-ers feel more at ease. What is your current occupation?”

“I’m a novelist. I write books.”

The Robot put down the clipboard and raised what looked like a big scary laser gun.

“What is that for?!” I screamed.

“Eradication,” the robot replied.

“Why?! For being a novelist?! What the hell? Do you Robots not read? Or think that the people who will survive this won’t want to read?”

“You will be eradicated because all of the books have all ready been written,” the robot replied coldly.

“What?!” I laughed. “How can that be?!”

“Our writers have written all the books there ever will be, every subject has been written about. There is not a story that hasn’t been written that we already don’t have a book for.” The Robot raised it’s gun to my head.

“Wait!” I yelled. “How can you be so sure? What if I come up with a story that hasn’t been written yet. Then you have to keep me to write it for you.”

The Robot said and did nothing for a moment. “I will download all the books into my database. If you think you can come up with a story that I don’t have a book for, then you may live.”

The Robot raised one of it’s arms and shook for 30 seconds and then said, “Ready.”

“Ok,” I thought a moment. I had to come up with something incredibly wild and out there. “Do you have a book about an octopus with 6 dog’s heads that falls in love with a squirrel after terrorizing the citizens of Alabama?”

The Robot holds up a Kindle and says, ‘Yes.” On the Kindle is story entitled, ‘Bang The Squirrel Slowly.’

“I’ll be damned!” I said as the Robot raised his gun again. “Wait! Do you have a story about an octopus with 7 dog’s heads that falls in love with a squirrel after terrorizing the citizens of Japan?”

The Robot once again holds up the Kindle and displays: ‘Bang The Squirrel Slowly II: A 7 dog headed octopus falls for the orginal squirrels Japanese half sister.’

The robot raises it’s gun again. “It is futile. All books have been written except for 5. You will be eradicated.”

“Wait? What?” I stammer. “All but five? Originally you said all books have been written. Now your saying five haven’t. What five?”

The Robot lowers it’s gun. “The sacred five. They have been turned into movies. We show only the scared five on television.”

A dumb look has to cross my face. “Are you saying Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure is one of the sacred five?”

“Yes.”

“And there is no novel form of the movie?”

“Yes, only a screenplay. ”

I scratched my head, “Well then I’m your man to do that!”

The Robot raises his gun and fires. The laser hits me square in the chest knocking me back. I fall as I feel the burning of my heart and lungs inside my chest. I see the Robot standing over me. It bends over to my face. I can barely see it’s head as my eyes darken with death. I hear the robot say,

“We have already spared Steven King for that.”

~Fin~

—–

Editor’s Note:

I awoke from a horrible dream drenched in sweat and drool the other night. Of the dream I don’t remember, I only remember the echoing of these words as I arose from REM state, “We have already spared Steven King for that.”

Thus was the inspiration for that stupid story.

🙂

Numb

Goooood morning Kissimmee, Florida…and by everyone I mean me! I’m your DJ with the most, Donnie D. The one, the only…and I’m not lying when I say this because the rest of you are dead.

Gone, bye bye, adios, Sayonara…see ya!

I’m broadcasting on 10,000 watts of pure boredom and waste of time from beautiful, historic, downtown Kissimmee’s Z100 rock station. I’m sure you, dear listener don’t give a rat’s ass….because everyone in the sound of my voice is dead. Yes, I know…I have mentioned this little fact before, but hey….what do I care?

You’re all dead!

If any of you, by some weird chance are not dead, you are probably dying and not listening to me ramble on about nothing anyway. But in the off chance you are not dead or dying, you can find me right on Main street…just look for the building with the big call letters on it: Z100.

Z100 is Kissimmee’s Rock and Roll headquarters! And I am Kissimmee’s new rock god!

Folks in just a few short minutes I will be playing Pink Floyd’s Comfortably Numb, a favorite and by the way,  how I start every radio broadcast…hell it’s how I start every morning since the big tragedy. I was never much of a pot head before all this, but let me tell ya…being all alone sucks! A little wake and bake helps ease that transition from wandering through nightmare infested dreams to wandering through the streets of Kissimmee for the billionth time…all by myself. And since my bud John is no longer around, I don’t think he will mind if I take his stash of sweet, sweet, Calgon take me away, marijuana.

Hey, remember folks, it’s just  little ol’ me here.

I’m begging anyone…if you can hear me….for the love of God…find me. Listen it’s a well known fact…according to every disaster movie ever made, you always start of with just that one guy…which currently is me…did I mention that? Anyway you just focus on him for like the first 20/30 minutes of the film…then eventually he hooks up with a group of rag-tag survivors consisting of a hot chick, an old dude, a black guy with a pregnant wife…and a stray dog.

So where is my hot chick? Where is my stray dog?

It’s been longer than 20/30 minutes!

I promise I’m not just going to cry for 3 hours like I did yesterday. That was riveting radio I’m sure…

Shut up…

Don’t judge!

Well, you can’t judge. You’re dead.

Let’s take a quick look at the traffic shall we…let’s see…the streets are crowded with the cars you died in…very inconsiderate…you can hardly get a scooter through that mess. Plus it’s all  creepy and scary looking, like out of a B rated horror film, with all your dead arms hanging out the windows, and your dead faces just staring at the sun.

In the weather, it’s going to be hot. It is Florida after all. And this brings a major problem, because all you inconsiderate bastards that died are now stinking up the place. Maybe I should do something about burying you all, or burning you all…but I don’t have the motivation. My arm over my nose will have to do for now.

Well, enough about that…let’s go to the phones. Any requests? And remember I refuse to play R.E.M’s It’s the end of the world, and I feel fine…it’s too easy.

What?

No phone calls?

The phone lines are dead…just like you….

Tee Hee.

Well I was going to play Comfortably Numb anyway, I almost forgot…but before I do that, I would like to tell a Knock, Knock joke.

Ready?

Knock, Knock…who’s there? No one. You’re all dead.

Ha!

You know what? I’m tired, I think you can hear it in the sound of my voice…so today I think I will put Pink Floyd’s wonderful masterpiece, Comfortably Numb on an endless loop while I’ll take a nap.

Just a quick, little known fact about the band Pink Floyd first…they are all dead.

This is Donnie D. your DJ with the most saying…help me, find me….anyone?

Please…

Preteen Vs. Call of Duty

Preteen playing Call of Duty and talking smack to his buddies:

• Dang it! Dang! Dang!
• Oh, I hit the python! (I don’t know what that means. I think he meant pylon, but even then, it doesn’t make much sense.)
• Oh, and a shot gun takes him out. That’s going to hurt in the morning.
• That must suck for that guy that tried to kill me.
• Hey, you took out your best player, me!

Yes, grown ups. He is that squeaky voiced tween that is kicking your butt and causing you to throw your controller across the room.

Me: Why do you sit so close to the TV, Preteen?
Preteen: It’s better to see.
Me: You’re going to hurt your eyes.
Preteen: I shall be fine.
Me: Back up a little bit.
Preteen: If I do I’ll die!
Me: It will be Ok, unlike real war, you’ll come back to life.

Preteen moves chair and dies.

(Editor’s note: In the game.)

(Editor’s other note: Dad secretly snickers.)

Preteen: Thanks, Dad!
Me: The Call of Duty Vision Insurance Plan sucks. I can’t afford the glasses.
Preteen: Huh?
Me: Don’t worry about it.

Life before Playstation.

Cup Of Worms

Wouldn’t it be weird if the people who made Cup Of Noodles also made Cup Of Worms?

And what would happen if both products were sitting side by side on the grocery shelf and you were in a hurry and grabbed Cup Of Worms when you meant to grab Cup Of Noodles?

And what would happen if you put the Cup Of Worms in the microwave thinking you were going to eat some soup, but now you had a Cup Of Microwaved Worms?

And wouldn’t you be mad as you looked into your cup and all there was was hot, crunchy, microwaved worms and you really wanted some soft, tasty noodles in chicken broth.

Wouldn’t it be even weirder if the people who made Cup Of Noodles and Cup Of Worms also made Cup Of Fingers?

Wouldn’t you wonder why anyone would need a product called Cup Of Fingers?

Would you open it?

Wouldn’t you be mad if you went to the grocery store and you were in a hurry, and instead of grabbing Cup Of Worms, you accidently grabbed Cup Of Fingers?

Who would you point the finger at?

Sorry for that last question, it was a really bad joke.

Aren’t you now glad that the Cup Of Noodles people only make Cup Of Noodles?

I am.