Archive for Humor

Time to get a Dog

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on February 28, 2013 by JC

The building I’m in looks just like the city outside. It’s a library but it’s full of people, stone, glass, and metal, and the shelves are heighted and arranged just like the structures off the street.

This is my sandbox. I’m trying out a new self, and I want to keep the experiment contained, focused for now.

There is an architect named Rich Shepherd my age who looks just like me in the same city. I’ve always had a visual way of interacting and an appreciation for space. Good find.

“Hello, Maggie,” I said to the  the curly-haired, ginger, early-forties librarian behind the counter.

“Sih-r,” she broke during that single syllable like: sih-she took off her glasses and dipped her chin while keeping eye contact-r. Her shoulders jerked up and down a bit, along with her hips. This one’s sensitive, potentially attracted, and/or neurologically defective. Any case, she’s a find!

“First, I like your scarf—it looks breathable. Second, I’m an architect and I can’t help but be inspired by this place as such—or you.” I smile.

She dries up instantly—it’s obvious.

“Just saying.” I walk on to fiction.

There, I see a girl. I say she’s a girl because she looks about twenty. I’m twenty-seven at the time.

She’s reading Cat’s Cradle, which I don’t like at all—too “why did he write this,” for me. But I understand the need to taste overrated stink in order to recognize it, and that’s where she is at. She’s cracking up laughing.

“I’m reading The Da Vinci Code. So exhilarating.” I wasn’t, and it sucked; I just took a cynical, sixty-forty chance.

“Fuck off, bitch.” She says, never taking her eyes off the page.

“I’m an architect, you know…”

She’s not listening.

On to self-help; desperation can’t hurt.

There she is—reading Dr. Phil, around forty-six years old, no ring on her finger, once attractive but rendered underwhelming by excessive empathy. I’m gittin’ laid tonight!

“I love him. I love the suspense element of his show: ‘what you nied to do is…more Dr. Phil after words from our sponsors…Welch’s grape juice is now fortified with chia seed <lip smack>…what’s right for you!’  that bitterness of minor abandonment warms my heart and sweetens the inevitable sweetness every time.”

“You’re a sardonic dickhead. Dr. Phil is a genius. Why are your pants stuffed? Why are you wearing sunglasses? Why are you wearing a fake torso that makes you look forty pounds heavier than you are? Seriously, who does all that at the same time?”

Time to get a dog.

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The Dirtiest Insult

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on February 15, 2013 by JC

No doubt the dirtiest personal slam ever wrought by this here pen:

Your cocktail of passive-aggressive jealousy and unaddressed insecurities has been sitting a while now. Reminds me of the rancid clam of an old whore who’s been assfucked so many times she can’t stand up without dropping a steaming river of brown stink.

Feel free to use it if the moment strikes but be sure to give proper citation: JAC, aka Dishonest Abe, 2013!

Cornflower Labyrinth

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , on February 15, 2013 by JC

Please read this aloud in whatever accent you deem appropriate.

Soh I was ouht with some friends, see, and they tried to get me to drink some putrid shite wine titled “Ohhhhhld Faht.” And naturally I said “sorry, fohlks, but I’m partial to Cohrnflower Labyrinth wine. Don’t you just love the name? Problem with Ohhhhhld Faht is that it simultaneously reminds me of The Great Gohhhhhtsby, you know, Old Spohhhhhrt, and that well-wrought stohhhhry about the jizzy fahhhhht Ricky took in his unwashed mouth.”

My friends, and I had been trying for this sooohhhh long, finally offered dick-in-dick, all of them. I don’t know if it was the Cohhhhhhnflower Labyrinth or the Old Spohhhht reference or the Ricky’s Dead, Time for a Shop reference but either way he-yes I thought I was on my way to that pantwrenching prohspect of dick-in-dick yes.

So then I said “yehhhhs, I’ll go off and pry myself ready for you bucks with my mini jaws of life. Be back in a flash!”

Got back to the table, stretched just right, and they were gone, sadly, must have had other engagements. I still have yet to collect on those offers. I call all the time about it, leave messages, all that yes and still I’m waiting and still I’m sipping my Cohhhhhhrnflower Labyrinth, drunk on it and visions of platonic dick-in-dick yes. I’ll let you all know!

Tooooooootaloooooooooooooooooooo!

In Love on a Boat

Posted in literature, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on February 14, 2013 by JC

I

It’s fun, being in love and on a boat. I was, a long time ago. That was when I knew a woman who was happy to be in love and on a boat. Now I do not, and I do not know where I will find another, but I know where it is most likely to happen.

By the sea there is a boat on which I have been and seen women in love with men. I cannot be sure that the women on the boat who do not appear to be in love or who are in love but unhappy would be happy if on a boat and in love, and so I will horn a man or I will steal his woman without horning him on this boat if she looks happy and in love and I would like to be with her.

II

I am on the boat and we are in the water. I am approaching a man and a woman who appear to be in love with each other and happy. I would like to be with this woman but she is currently with this man and so I will separate them or wreck their home.

“Quite a view, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is,” says the woman I would like to be with.

“Yes, it is. Rick Shaw.”

“Rick Shaw? But we’re already on a boat!”

She laughs and I can see that Rick Shaw feels threatened but does not want to project that emotion. We shake hands and the woman looks at me with attraction.

III

It is now dinner time and I have been with Mr. Shaw and the woman for several hours. The woman continues to ask me questions as Mr. Shaw continues to buy me drinks.

“So you said you are from the port city?”

“Yes. I used to be a fisherman but now I am retired.”

“You look fit. I would not have guessed you were old enough to be retired.”

“Margaret!”

“That’s still my name. So, Mr. Coyle, are you married?”

I imagine Mr. Shaw did not feel good by this point.

“No. I have several children but I have never been married.”

“We do not have any children because Richard is sterile and I do not enjoy having intercourse with him and I do not want to marry him. I am glad you are here.”

THE END

Natural Mess (companion to Only What’s Real)

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on February 12, 2013 by JC

Dishwasher-bound glasses crashed chinkily. It wasn’t a wine bar—it was a coffee shop, The Drippery. I was sitting alone by the half-octagonal window outside which the city awaited me, or would have awaited me if I were that type of guy or it that type of city. The city was doing, that city of people and their projects. About seven cyclists rode by self-righteously in competitive gear, stopping traffic, prompting HOONs, BEEPS and, of course, as this is The City and its people are so important, bird flippage and a dissonant chorus of fuck-yous interspersed with at least one “this isn’t fuckin’ Westchester!” The hot-dog man brazenly pitched his stand at 9 AM and hid his lower face behind a newspaper as he scouted for incredibly eager business. Business men, like my father, talked their way to work cellularly or otherwise.

Inside the dark-wood-paneled-and-floored, red-brick-faced affair, typists typed—soul-patched guy, eyes crimped behind heavy frames; hemp-hatted, moon-faced co-ed girl versus a daunting cup of plain oatmeal, the latter was clearly winning; guy who resembled the lecturer who made me fall in love with philosophy, the cupid of discourse I might say if I were desperate enough to quip. There was a sexy, exotic-looking mocha-skinned lady behind the counter that day. I’d never seen her. I took a shot.

How to go about this, I wondered? Was it different? No—that’s racist. Just be natural. Just go. Just do. Just man up.

So I went up to the counter and ordered another coffee.

“Hey, I’ll take my regular.” I thought that was funny.

“This is my first day. What are you having?” She said, deadpan.

Ouch! Strike one, or was she playing? I called ball one—I pitched too high (low?) and she didn’t swing.

“I’ll have a medium Costa Rican and a formal introduction, pretty lady.” Nailed it!

“Okay, one Costa Rican coming up and then you should leave.”

I’m not a ten. All things considered I’m probably an eight-and-a-half. They say a confident male seven can bag an unconfident female ten. What does that say about a confident male eight-and-a-half and a confident female nine-and-a-half? Any case, I was undeterred and, frankly, falling in love with every further bit of data I gathered about this precious beauty—every bit of evidence suggesting towering self-respect and –esteem; restraint and skepticism in matters of love; oh-so-endearing and oh-so-deadpan coyness; and, of course, the sight of her made me gaga.

“You’re right—I have to go to work. But I’ll be gentlemanly calling again tomorrow and the next day and the day after that and so on. You’re a gem, lady, and now that I’ve discovered you I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to coax you out of your native mine. Have yourself a good first day.”

She overfilled my coffee cup. Nailed it!

Donovan’s Cents

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on February 12, 2013 by JC

I’m an old, rickety man, and that means I know more than you do.

Don’t mistake: I’m not just old. I used to be a banker, and I used to be sinewy and tall and make everyone either desirous or jealous.

Now, why does that qualify me to tell you all what’s what?

My younger self–an exceptional combination of earning potential, earning actuality, and manliness–had a window into everyone: their reflexive vulnerability. Yes they shook. Yes they stared. Yes they stuttered. And yes, I managed them all, managed their fears, managed their stuttered, tentative compliments with “Oh, I’m not that great,” or “Oh, everyone has the same potential,” or “Oh, stop,” or “Oh, your forehead-to-lower-face ratio is looking good today.”

Problem now: I set out to teach you how to manage your insecurities, but now I realize I’ve never had any of my own and I’ve always played on others’ fears of social slippage when talking them out of their pathetic states.

I sincerely wish you a good night.

Ladies and gentlemen, Miss Bott gets an F

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , on February 12, 2013 by JC

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,

Miss Bott is probably the worst teacher in the history of teachers. I know that’s ostensibly an incredibly bold statement, but walk with me for a moment.

Exhibit A: she relates ev-ery fuh-cking book she assigns to her divorce. I’m convinced she chooses books based on how easily she can project onto it her experience:  cuckolding her husband, blaming his cool exterior or their divergent interests for it, and thereby—in her mind—justifying it conclusively. She may have chosen The Scarlet Letter under the belief that she was somehow kindred with Hester. I’m inclined to believe that was her belief based on her ardent counterfactual defense of the defamed protagonist—i.e. “she wasn’t an adulterer, but even if she were, I’m sure she’d have had her reasons, and the punishment here, as in the case of every misunderstood lover I know, does not fit the action alleged.” That may be, Miss Bott, but any public humiliation you’ve faced in connection to your “alleged action” has been the doing of your insistence on telling everyone. So, when it comes to The Scarlet Letter, Miss Bott, I cannot grant any gravity or depth to your sense that Nathaniel Hawthorne strummed your pain with his fingers, so to speak.

Exhibit B: I showed her the preceding paragraph and she sucked my dick for it. Yep, cleaned my corn and didn’t even floss.

Last point proving Miss Bott is a contender for worst teacher in the history of teachers: she’s ineffective by all metrics.  Honors level in the suburbs, 470 average SAT Verbal scores, and please do convict because I, present genius, scored a 660 and wrote the saddest blowie in school out of this self-victimizing sack of shit.