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Thursday, Nov. 22, 2007

A Grim Pill`s Regress

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And it’s also a yearly tradition of mine to provide to those of you’s who read this page before trotting off to your Thanksgiving obligation, a little something you can take along and share at your gathering, so you don’t just show up empty-handed as the free-loading fockstick your relatives, friends and acquaintances have come to expect, if not dread. So if you’re too damn lazy or depressed to bring a dish to pass, a humorous story would be a nice alternative, ain’a?

So this guy’s sitting at the bar, head hung low, down in the dumps. Bartender asks, “Hey buddy, what gives?” Guy says, “My wife was practically ready to kill me this morning. I was out all night drinking with the fellas and heaved all over my shirt. She says if I do that one more time and she has to wash the barf out it, she’s going to divorce me.”

Bartender says, “Listen, if that happens again do what I do. Put a $20 bill in your shirt pocket and tell her it was some other guy who threw up on you and he felt so bad about it, he gave you a twenty to go have the shirt cleaned. She can’t nail you for that now, can she?”

So naturally, the guy stays out again all that night and once again blows chow all over his shirt. His wife greets him at the door and says, “That’s the last straw, mister. I’m getting a divorce.” And the guy says, “I know, I know. I’m sorry I was out late again. But listen honey, I did not puke on my shirt, honest. A guy sitting next to me at the bar did it, and he was so sorry about it that he gave me $20 bucks to have it cleaned. Here it is, in my shirt pocket. Look.” The wife takes the money and says, “All right, I believe you. Hey wait a second. There’s forty dollars here.”

The guy says, “Oh yeah, I forgot. He shit in my pants, too.” Ba-ding!

OK, there’s one you can share right after Uncle Knobwad says grace. And here’s one you can pass as you twiddle your thumbs a’waiting the focking pumpkin pie:

So this middle-aged guy and his wife are run off the road about three miles shy of the junction of Highway 52 and Peckerwood Road one afternoon by some stupid drunk-ass farmer in an old pickup truck who had swerved into their lane for no apparent reason. The guy’s killed instantly but the wife survives.

So he gets up to the Pearly Gates where stands St. Peter barring the door. St. Peter says to the guy, “My son, you may pass through these gates into Heaven if you are able to spell one simple word for me, and that word is ‘love’.”

?The middle-aged guy thinks this must be some kind of trick ’cause it really couldn’t be this easy to get into Heaven, could it? But the guy plays along and says, “ ‘Love.’ L-O-VE. ‘Love’.” And St. Peter says, “Yes. That is correct. You are free to pass through the gates.” Bam! The gates open and the guy’s home free.

But St. Peter has a request to make. “My son, I beseech thee to cover for me here at the gate for a moment. I’ve been here since early morning and am in dire need to tap thy kidney for a monster leak. All you need to do should anyone approach is to ask them to spell one simple word, and that word is ‘love’.”

The guy consents and wouldn’t you know, the first person to approach is his wife. The guy says, “What the fock are you doing up here? I thought you survived the accident.” And she says, “Oy, I did, but what with the hemorrhaging, I was dead in a few minutes. So, is St. Peter around?”

And the guy says, “He’ll be back soon, but I can let you into Heaven where we can spend all eternity together provided you can spell one simple word, and that word is ... ‘Deoxyribonucleic’.”

Oh yeah, and if your inviters hold you in such esteem that you find yourself seated at the plastic card-table in the kitchen, here’s a story you can share with the youngsters, black sheep and slackers that they’re sure to enjoy: So this kid walks into his new classroom, and the teacher says, “Hello, young man. And what is your name?” And the kid says, “Jerry Lockout.” The teacher tells him that she doesn’t allow that kind of language in her classroom. Jerry tells her that his last name is really “Lockout” and that she can go ask his little brother in kindergarten if she doesn’t believe him.

So the teacher tells her class to read Chapter 4 while she goes to find Jerry’s little brother. She walks into the kindergarten class and asks, “Excuse me, is there a Lockout in here?” And one of the kids says, “Heck no. There’s not even a cookie break.” Ba-ding!

So wherever you find yourself this Thanksgiving holiday, god speed and remember to fight the good fight ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.