Wednesday, November 16, 2011


I woke up this morning to find Kim Kardashian in bed beside me. It was inevitable. Hey, let's face it, the ugliest guy in the world I'm not. And she's been stalking me for months, the restraining order, notwithstanding. Nevertheless, I was crushed when her recent marriage to Freddy Krueger didn't pass the test of time. She worked hard to make it work. She cooked--oh how she cooked for him. She was a very religious cook. Everything she made was a sacrifice--her burnt offering. She was the only woman in the world who could burn a stove. She didn't make pot roast, she made roast pot. Only she could screw-up cornflakes. And, you had to admit that he was nuts over her. Sadly, they were married by candlelight but it only lasted a wick.

It wasn't that I chose to look down at her, I had to. You see, I used to be a vaudeville contortionist. In order to make myself more limber, I had my backbone removed. I had the space for my missing backbone filled with mercury. At room temperature I stood about 5'11''. On hot days, I'd shoot up to about 6'4''. One winter day, I shriveled to 3'' and was almost dragged away by the cat. Even when she wore stiletto shoes, she just about reached my poopick.

My favorite episode of her reality show was "The Kardashian Family Defecation." What togetherness.  They moved as one. And, believe it or not, when she was courting me, her mother didn't approve of my street roots and, one day, told me she thought I was crude. I shot back,"What is this crude shit?" That night, when I drove her home, I spoke with great tenderness.
"You're the first girl I've ever kissed," I said, as I shifted gears with my knees. It all ended the night she laughed when I sat down to play. I had no idea the bathroom door was open.


The first time I met Herman Cain, I wanted to buy his head for my rock garden. I had heard that when he was born, the doctor didn't know which end to slap. He told me about his memory problem.
"I've completely lost it. I remember nothing. I can be talking about something, and as soon as I'm finished, I don't remember what I was talking about."
I asked, "How long have you been suffering from this?"
He replied, "How long have I been suffering from what?"
I gave him some mental exercises to perform and wished him luck. Three months later, I saw him trying to sell pizza to Vito Corleone. When he saw me, he hugged me and began whispering in my ear for the longest time. "Be cool. To me, you're a horse." He went on in this manner, as if my ear was his sanctuary. I neighed for a carrot.
"I shall always be grateful to you, dear ear. You have cured me. My memory has returned. I remember everything. As a matter of fact, there are only three things in the whole world that I can't remember. I can't remember names. I can't remember faces. And I can't remember the third thing."
I told him to put his hands in his pockets and get a hold of himself. He had just returned from Germany where he had tried, in vain, to meet, hire and promote  a woman. He kept muttering,"Nein on the Rhine. Nein on the Rhine." I tried to cheer him up. "Expose your accusers." It didn't work. He just shook his head sadly. "I'd rather expose myself."
I got my camera at the ready. I would possess the world's first shot of a pepperoni putz.

What great movies these vignettes could be. I would, of course, secure the exclusive contractual rights to play (with) myself.

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