“I love, love, love Swedish Fish. I don’t like coffee or mushrooms. I once broke my collarbone in a Jeep that rolled. I might try a cigarette if I knew how to smoke. My mom is brilliant and can so out-cook your mom. I have never met my father, but I did see a photograph of his twin brother. I iron at least 5 days a week. I’m serious about it, too – distilled water only and heavy on the starch. I miss Eddie. I’ve an affection for hats and jammies. Scarves are real nice. I’m a private person. And am quite shy… until I warm up to you naturally over time or drink enough. I’ll have what’s recommended. I hate scary movies, but love to watch them. I buy myself fresh flowers. I went to the theater alone once and I’d do it again. Poetry and abstract art mostly frustrates me. I like to draw drawings.”

SUBTEXT:

I love, love, love Swedish Fish.

I love alliterating the same word.

I don’t like coffee or mushrooms.
I don’t like adult food.

I once broke my collarbone in a Jeep that rolled.
Never get in a vehicle that has taken ecstasy.

I might try a cigarette if I knew how to smoke.
I’m easily manipulated.

My mom is brilliant and can so out-cook your mom. I have never met my father, but I did see a photograph of his twin brother.
My Dad found someone who could outcook my Mom.

I iron at least 5 days a week. I’m serious about it, too – distilled water only and heavy on the starch.
I live in the year 1872.

I miss Eddie.
Eddie knew how to fucking iron.

I’ve an affection for hats and jammies. Scarves are real nice.
I have a bad habit of proclaiming my love for inanimate items.

I’m a private person. And am quite shy… until I warm up to you naturally over time or drink enough.
Don’t think about getting to “first base” if I’m sober, but if you get me wasted I’ll blow you in the “locker room”.

I’ll have what’s recommended.
Most guys recommend roofies.

I hate scary movies, but love to watch them.
I don’t like abusive guys, unless they tell me that they love me.

I buy myself fresh flowers. I went to the theater alone once and I’d do it again.
(See the “scary movie” comments)

Poetry and abstract art mostly frustrates me. I like to draw drawings.
I love to art art and write writings.

Old steel mills in Pittsburgh are being fired up to melt beams from Oklahoma City’s Federal Building, wings from Pearl Harbor and salvaged pieces of the Lusitania.

The government is still trying to incorporate fragment’s of the Alamo, panel’s from Space Shuttle Columbia and wood from Custer’s Last Stand.

The Smithsonian donated the only surviving material from the Hindenburg to be woven into the original Iwo Jima flag which will be raised when it fires its cannons on “terror”.

Think I’m lying click here.

WOUNDED SOLDIER #1:
MEDIC!!

MEDIC:
What??

WOUNDED SOLDIER #2:
MEEEEDIC!!

MEDIC:
What the fuck do you want from me?

WOUNDED SOLDIER #1:
MEEEDIC!! Help me!

MEDIC:
I’m trying to shoot people over here for God’s sake. Leave me alone.

*Karaoke is not art.

PETA’s president, Ingrid Newkirk once stated, “When it comes to feelings such as pain, fear, hunger, and thirst, a rat is a pig is a dog is a boy.”

In her eyes, we are all the same.

Yet, their name is PETA which stands for:
People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals.

Why do they differentiate between people and animal?

Aren’t animals and people equal?

You don’t hear civil right groups stating Whites for the Ethical Treatment of Coloreds and Miscellaneous People.

It should be Animals for the Ethical Treatment of Animals.

I understand why they don’t want to change their name because they would have to pronounce it Aye-EE-ta.

This could easily be confused with the Broadway musical Aida.

If they were smart, they would pair up with Disney and produce their own musical about a cow who falls in love with her owner.

Set in the outskirts of Chicago, Aeta is the exciting and passionate tale of a Moobian princess who falls in love with her owner, Farmer John. Aeta becomes the personal pet of Polly, the daughter of a meat packing mogul, who also is enamored by Farmer John. Aeta tells the tale of a story of love, devotion and betrayal spanning lifetimes.

I feel doctors should rename CFS

chronic fatigue syndrome

n. (Abbr. CFS)

A syndrome characterized by debilitating fatigue and a combination of flulike symptoms such as sore throat, swollen lymph glands, low-grade fever, headaches, and muscle pain or weakness. Also called chronic fatigue immune dysfunction syndrome.

They should call it CCFS or Convenient Chronic Fatigue Syndrome because they only get tired when its convenient for them…like a job. Or perhaps they should just call it LAZY which doesn’t stand for any thing they’re just lazy.

I’m so glad it’s hot again. Not because I especially like sweating, I like when it gets warmer because people who claim to be “suffering” from SAD aren’t whining as much.

seasonal affective disorder
n. (Abbr. SAD)
A form of depression occurring at certain seasons of the year, especially when the individual has less exposure to sunlight.

“It’s sooo cold and I’m sooo sad…blah, blah, blah (boo hoo)”

If they’re so sad because they need sunshine, why don’t they move down south or buy a fucking heat lamp. Of course they’re sad, their doctor tells them, “You have SAD.” They tell all their friends, “I have SAD.” They’re going to be fucking sad. The logical solution to the problem is to rename the “disorder” HAPPY which would be the acronym for Hypochondriacs are Perpetually Pathetic, Yes?

I am a nerd.

I have contacted the U.S. Census and Department of Forestry and have calculated the number of Christmas trees slain since 1830 here in the United States.

After hours of geekish research, I have estimated 2.4 billion Christmas trees have been wiped out.

With the average tree density of a normal forest, that equates to 75,000 square miles (roughly the size of the entire state of South Dakota).

If you assume the mean height is 6 ft. and were to stack the trees end to end, they would go around the Earth 118 times or create 15 columns extending to the Moon
(approximately 186, 000 miles away).

I then asked myself, “Who lives in the forest?”
I know that Winnie the Pooh lives in “The Hundred Acres Wood”. So feasibly, one could deduce that every hundred acres produces one Pooh bear. Since seventy-five thousand square miles have been destroyed, the blood of a half a million Pooh bears rest on the shoulders of the paganistic ritual of Christians.

A Poohicide.

Jesus was a Jew, but he also was an anti-Poohite.

Merry Christmas!

We are the only animals on the planet that celebrate it. It’s just an arbitrary point in space that we’ve invented. All we do is get drunk every time we go around the Sun.
Weeee! (one year lapses)
Yaaaay!! (365.25 days later)
Happy New Year!!!

We are eternally trapped in this boring cycle. Fuck that. I know that not everyone hates New Year’s like I do, and I can only encourage them to do one thing: Leave Earth and move to Mercury because they have a New Year’s party every 88 days.

Ain’t no party like a Mercury party because a Mercury party don’t stop.

A lot of sex happens on Mercury. They should rename the planet Herpes, the Greek god of STDs.

The only planet that should be able to celebrate New Year’s is Pluto (especially now that its been downgraded to an ice chunk. How humiliating?). The reason I say the citizens of Pluto deserve a party is because they have a New Year’s every 250 years. When it does happen they don’t even know what to do. They have to read it in their Plutonian bibles.

Ezhekial 3:17

And the Lord mixed margaritas.

Imagine the mayhem that would ensue as the ball dropped. Plutonians would come out of their houses and stick syringes of heroin in their eyes and have sex with parakeets screaming, “Happy New Year!” Now thats a DVD I would buy. It would make the backstage of Motely Crew concert look like the Lilith Fair.

Out of 32,300 web pages, Googleâ„¢ ranks my site #1 for the key words,
“Zimmerman Telegraph.”

Check it out here

I was impressed with my awesome web presence, but was saddened when I realized it’s spelled, “Zimmermann.”

On the other hand, Googleâ„¢ can only find 13,500 pages with the correct spelling.

I may have mispelled his name, but I’m still popular with mildly retarded fans of WWI who can’t spell either.

I realized that I’ve actually never engaged in the actual pursuit of a woman. My last girlfriend was pre-arranged. My best friend was dating her best friend. They eliminated all the normal guesswork that is usually involved with the initial “let’s get to know each other before we have sex” ritual. We were briefed with the same information about each other: recently single, intelligent, funny, disease and drug free, and looking to break our six-month bout of celibacy. Essentially, we were handed to each other on platters. There was no “hunt”. My friends knew what our particular tastes were and took the liberty to order the food and deliver it to our door. Take-outs are convenient, but there is something to be said about catching and preparing your own food.

Before her, I was pressed to go on a blind date by a stranger who had seen me perform and thought her roommate would be perfect for me. She described her as tall, beautiful, artistic, and athletic. Fortunately, she was very attractive and we seemed compatible on certain levels but that was purely coincidental. It felt analogous to a random person coming up to you and assessing your epicurean needs by their intuition alone. How would you feel if someone was talking to you and felt they had enough information about you to invite you to dinner but neglected to tell you what was going to be served. They only described it as delicious. Which is fine, but certain things have to be taken into consideration. Prior to dinner, you should know about food allergies, vegetarianism, lactose intolerance, kosher… etc. All this could have been discovered in the normal “hunting” process. In a blind date, the food is served in a sealed platter like a secret prize on Let’s Make a Deal from Monty Hall. You don’t know what you are going to eat until you uncover the lid.

I’m afraid if I keep getting use to people bringing food to me, I won’t know how to catch my own food. I’ll keep getting older and my taste will diminish. Now I will only eat carefully prepared meal, soon it will be meals-ready-to-eat, then canned foods, and when I reach forty I’ll settle for beef jerky.

The “hunt” is important. I just have to decide want I want to “hunt”. Some people like to go deep-sea fishing. Others enjoy big game. Personally, I like unicorns. They’re not easy to catch but if you do the pay-off is delightful. You haven’t lived until you have eaten unicorn tenderloin. Bon Apetit!

Falluja (or الفلوجة) is the Arabic word describing what happens when a man has an ejaculation.

INSURGENT® is a cleaning product designed specifically to eliminate falluja-related stains.

Used in a sentence:

I asked my buddy to borrow his laptop. At first, he was somewhat hesitant to lend it to me. I was slightly offended, then I realized he hadn’t cleared his “history trail” and was afraid that I was going to judge him. What kind of friend did he think that I was? I would never judge him. Then I started to look at all the sites he visited, and I started to judge him. Yikes!

I was deeply and morally appalled at the filth. Five hours later (after downloading RealPlayer, Flash, Quicktime, and Windows Media Player), I found myself watching a girl having sex with six other guys. I don’t know why this turns me on, but in some sick, perverted way it does.

I have to ask myself, “Am I a closeted misogynist?”

Personally, I’d never want to be in that situation because I wouldn’t know what position I would take. I’m too passive-aggressive.

“Okay…you got top…alright…bottom goes to Joe…great…Gary has the left hand…good choice…”

I’d end up being the guy kissing her, who always looks so sad and pathetic.

Then some guy would muscle in to get blown.

“Oh…you want her to do that…okay…I guess I’ll massage her feet. Oh…you want to have sex with her feet…by all means, please go ahead…I’m going to step out for a bit. It’s her Mom’s birthday and I want to buy her a card. If you guys want, I can come back and we can all sign it. That would be swell!”

A few things I’ve absorbed from MySpace:

The number of “Friends” in a MySpace profile is a direct correlation to the number of hours logged on to the internet and inversely related to that person’s actual social skill.

The beacon enlightens me how unproductive we humans have become.

When my beacon is on, I feel like Frodo Baggins when he slips on his ring and he becomes visible to the Nazgûl , Wraiths of the Shadow World.

MySpace creator Tom must get laid every day.

The saddest MySpace moment is having an actual physical friend not accept you as a MySpace friend and you receive the message, “You already have a pending friend request for this person.”

To add insult to injury, you see that the motherfucker is and logs in and out everyday.

Friendster is the equivalent of a pager.

Congratulations, and welcome to a new way of living. Hold your hands out …look at them…soon you will control their true ability…these flesh covered extensions of your soul are your answer to the universe. Once you have mastered this technique, you will be able to walk out and command any field on a blistery March day. Children will revere you, women will adore you, and men will fear you. You are the best of the best, I have personally hand picked you out of hundreds of applicants. Well perhaps not hundreds, but a number greater than the number of individuals who are present right now. Each one you have a story of — why you are here. Seekers of Wisdom. Hot shot fliers, who think they have a chance at The Big Game. All big fish from small ponds. You will look back at this very point in time and laugh at the shell of a person you are now. I applaud you. You will forever be in my debt. When people read your resume…and see that you trained with Kent Powers, you WILL be respected. In the next nine months, you will LIVE, EAT, and DREAM about kites!!! This will be your new religion, and I am your SAVIOUR. I will say this once, you will address me as Kent Powers. There are NO shortcuts or abbreviations in The Art of Kite Flying. The decision you have made will alter your reality. One word can define what we do, “Control!” Cerf-volant! Drachen! Aquiline! Cometa! Vlieger! Every language has a word to describe it. Kite! An invention developed 5000 years ago in Ancient China. This workshop will transcend mathematics, history, geography, physics, and psychology. I don’t like to drop names, but perhaps you know a few of my students: Steve Coates, flies with Skynasaur Kites their first “professional kite flyer”. In fact I just had lunch with Gary Gabriel, the vice president, last week. He professed to me that he wished all the new pilots would take my seminar. You are going to see that this career not only takes skill, but a tremendous amount of networking. Hey, if you got an eccentric, billionaire uncle ready to drop tens of thousands of dollars on you…more power to you. But if you are like the rest of us, corporate sponsorship is the key to success. Sure you could stay Regional, and grab a few cash prizes. Peanuts! Chump change! Trophies feed your ego, but companies fill your bellies with filet mignons.
You will learn how to axel, fade, 540s…the amount of tricks will be limited by your creativity. Perhaps someday you will be able to patent your own trick someday. In order to do this, you have to give up everything…carnal pleasures, luxuries, vices…and trust my every word. Gentleman, let’s fly.

I couldn’t sleep last night because of the pain, and was elated to finally fall into slumber at the crack of dawn. Only to be awoken by annoying song birds, a woodpecker drilling another useless hole, a squirrel trying scrape his way through my thru-the-wall air conditioning unit, and little fucking boy hitting a concrete wall with a sledge hammer.

Please free me from my prison.

Mah nishtanah ha-lahylah ha-zeh mi-kol ha-layloht, mi-kol ha-layloht?

1.)
She-b’khol ha-layloht anu okhlin chameytz u-matzah, chameytz u-matzah. Ha-lahylah ha-zeh, ha-lahylah ha-zeh, kooloh matzah?

2.)
She-b’khol ha-layloht anu okhlin sh’ar y’rakot, sh’ar y’rakot. Ha-lahylah ha-zeh, ha-lahylah ha-zeh, maror?

3.)
She-b’khol ha-layloht ayn anu mat’bilin afilu pa’am echat, afilu pa’am echat. Ha-lahylah ha-zeh, ha-lahylah ha-zeh, sh’tay p’amim?

4.)
She-b’khol ha-layloht anu okhlin bayn yosh’bin u’vayn m’soobin, bayn yosh’bin u’vayn m’soobin. Ha-lahylah ha-zeh, ha-lahylah ha-zeh, koolanu m’soobin?

Why is this night different from all other nights?

1.)
Why is it that on all other nights during the year we eat either bread or matzoh, but on this night we eat only matzoh?

2.)
Why is it that on all other nights we eat all kinds of herbs, but on this night we eat only bitter herbs?

3.)
Why is it that on all other nights we do not dip our herbs even once, but on this night we dip them twice?

4.)
Why is it that on all other nights we eat either sitting or reclining, but on this night we eat in a reclining position?

Why do we do this?

1.)
What time is dinner?

2.)
What are we having for dinner?

3.)
What are we having for dessert?

4.)
Who’s cleaning up?

What would Jesus do at a Seder?

1.)
Are Elijah and Miriam Easter bunnies?

2.)
Why do I get laughed at when I tell people what I believe in?

3.)
Why are a growing number of indecisive Jews for Jesus becoming transvestites?

4.)
Who are we kidding?

Why do Jews act crazy this time of year?

1.)
Why the hell are they afraid of bread?

2.)
Why do they get so many days off?

3.)
Why aren’t there laws to arrest them for using Christian blood in their satanic rituals?

4.)
Why are there so many Jews?

Watch 1,500 inmates from a prison in the Philippines perform Thriller:

I read this at WYSIWYG TALENT SHOW

Bowery Poetry Club

308 Bowery
WED | Nov 16th | 8:00PM

Five years ago, my ex-girlfriend’s father generously gave us a seven day ski vacation at the Snowshoe Resort in West Virginia for Christmas. He paid for the hotel, lift tickets, and the snowboard rental. All we had to pay for was transportation and food. This was fantastic; unfortunately I grew up in Texas and didn’t have any ski gear. So I went down to Sports Authority to see what I could buy with my limited funds. Since it was a December 26th, I had spent most of my money on presents. I only had about a hundred fifty bucks to spend. Hat—$15, gloves—$30, goggles—$30, thermals—$20, ski pants—$50…fuck! That only left five dollars for a winter coat. I was born in Daytona Beach and raised in San Antonio and had zero body fat. They could have used my legs as doubles in the movie Warm Springs about FDR’s battle with polio. My chances for survival looked bleak. I needed a coat. Fortunately, the sales clerk was a guy named Ron, a snowboarder/surfer burn-out who hated his job. He suggested that I pick any jacket out and just return it for a refund when I get back. I told him that I would feel weird abusing their return policy and would hate for anyone to question my integrity.

Ron said, “Fuck them, they only pay me six dollars an hour. Do it for me.”

He said it with such eloquence and conviction that it was difficult to say, “No.”

Since the ski season had already begun, the selection was sparse. Especially, since I needed a Size XL-T, the O negative in the winter coat world.

We finally found a bright, canary yellow Columbia® jacket. The sales tag priced it at three hundred dollars or two hundred ninety-five dollars over my budget.

Ron smiled and said, “It looks a little faggy, but it’ll keep you warm.”

“Thanks, you sure it won’t be a problem”

“No, man. People do it all the time. Shit, one dude brought back socks.”

“Okay, I’ll see you in a week.”

Since I never snowboarded before, it was extremely difficult to keep the jacket off the ground. I would have to estimate that in the first 48 hours, I was on the on my back for 93% of the time. Not to mention, my biological cooling system responds to cardiovascular activities by activating by sweat glands. Over a course of five days, my taxi yellow coat absorbed the equivalent of a forty ounce bottle of Old English 800®.

To make matters worse, I felt like I had joined a gang. Not like The Outlaws, the Bloods, or the Crips. Nor like Danny Zuco’s The Thunderbirds or The Sharks from West Side Story. My yellow Columbia® jacket “gang” consisted of used car salesmen, well-funded NASCAR fans, and un-hip middle-aged men called The Douchebags.

My cousin Todd called me and asked me to cut my vacation short because our family pawn shop was being swamped with post-Christmas customers. Including me, we only had four people running the store, so I agreed to drive back to Virginia Beach. He was worried because of an incoming blizzard the next day that would prolong my return.

My girlfriend and her family tried to dissuade me from leaving in the middle of the night.
I didn’t want to get snowed in the next morning, so I loaded up my girlfriend’s 1990 Jeep Cherokee and began my treacherous descent down the winding mountain road. When I was a quarter of the way down, I started to see small flurries. In a matter of minutes, I was blinded by a cyclone of ice.

I gripped the steering wheel with my left hand and down shifted to second gear with my right. In tense situations, I had a bad habit of licking my lips to soothe my nerves. When I was a kid my nickname was “Hot Lips” because my adolescent anxieties chapped my lips. This moment redefined the word, tense. My brain responded by sliding my tongue from the 9 o’clock position with the intention of sliding to the 3 o’clock position in one fluid motion. However, when my tongue reached high noon, directly underneath my nose, it slithered back inside my mouth without warning because of an unexpected salty flavor. It tasted brackish and metallic. I looked into the mirror and was frightened by my gruesome reflection.

The change in elevation had turned my nose into a faucet of blood. I tried to look around for a napkin or towel. I had to improvise with a Wendy’s® bag and a grocery receipt. They both proved to be non-absorbent and rendered them useless. I was concentrating so hard on stopping the salty, crimson cascade that I forgot I was still driving in a blizzard. I suddenly noticed a Suburban 4×4 up ahead spinning out of control, engulfed by an invisible tornado. It finally swirled to stop on the side of the road. Fortunately, no one got hurt—shaken not slain.

I would have stopped but it would have been more dangerous to slam on the brakes, so I had to selfishly pass them by. Sorry. Darwin’s Theory is that stronger species descend by modification. Future Man is being modified by apathy, emasculation, and self-interest. Anthropologist in the year 3030 A.D. will discover that I was the link between Homo Sapien and Homo Cowardus.

My salvation came when a general store appeared in the distance. I pulled into a parking space, jumped out of my car, took off my stained jacket, laid it on the hood, and went to the entrance. To my misfortune, the door was locked and had a hand-scrawled sign on the door that stated, “I’ll Be Back Tomorrow”. I found a bottle of water in the Jeep and began pouring it on the jacket and started to scrub it with my hat. I felt like Lady MacBeth, frantically trying to remove the dreaded spots.

My coat started to illuminate as if a ray of holy light was cast down by the heavens above. Being agnostic, I was taken aback by this and didn’t know how to interpret this “miracle”. Then entire Jeep lit up, my shadow grew larger on the hood, I turned around to be blinded by retina-roasting halogen lights from the Suburban 4×4 that I had left stranded. Once they parked, I rushed over to their tinted passenger side window. Someone had triggered the automatic window lever and it slowly slid down to reveal a family of four from Pennsylvania.

As I was about to ask for a towel or more water, the window went up twice as fast as had came down. The driver rammed the gear selector in reverse, slammed his foot on the accelerator, and the ass-end of the Suburban exploded way from the parking lot. They had successfully managed a 180° turn. Now perpendicular to the road, the driver cranked the wheel to the right and sped down the hill like he possessed by a suicide bomber with his eyes glazed over with visions of forty virgins and the embrace of Allah.

I didn’t understand what happened. Yes, I can understand there animosity for me for not helping them in their time of need, but that was an extremely bizarre response to witness.
What had I done to invoke such a shocking reaction? Confused, I went back to my pain-staking, hand-numbing task of cleaning my three hundred dollar “leased” jacket. Somehow I managed to get the blood out. After that episode, the rest of the descent down the mountain seemed like whimsical stroll on the beach.

Once back in Virginia Beach, I had the jacket professionally dry cleaned and went to the customer service counter of Sports Authority. I sheepishly told the clerk that I didn’t like the jacket and wanted a refund. She seemed unconvinced and stared at me with a sneered look of skepticism like I had just told her I was Elvis. I bit my lip, casually looked away, did a little drum tap on the counter, looked at my watch, looked at their clock on the wall, clicked my tongue on the top of my mouth, nodded my head, looked at the ceiling…and she still just stood there staring at my waiting for me to break.

Fuck that, I hated that jacket. It was tense for a few minutes, but the line started to grow, so she succumbed and began the refund process.

Then Ron walked by and said, “Hey, dude! Glad you made it back! Heard there’s been some crazy serial killer cutting people up and tying them to ski lifts.”

“What are you talking about?”, I asked.

“You know, like Jeffrey Dahmer and shit…he’s been doing for a month now. I didn’t want to scare you before you went up.”

“Thanks.”

“Oh yeah, good thing you returned that jacket…the news is saying that the police are looking for a guy in a yellow jacket.”

It all made sense. Each event in the space-time continuum is multi-faceted. It glistens differently depending on which angle you view it. The family of four from Pennsylvania freaked the fuck out, because a serial killer with a yellow jacket, blood soaked goatee was about to kill them.

Life is all about perspective.