Keep your shirt on / Bacon wrap

"Jamie Simpkins is here. Holy Shit!" thought the fat kid as he unlatched the gate and walked into the pool area.

It was Billy Tilson's birthday party. The fat kid and Billy used to be best friends but they didn't hang out as much anymore. Billy had a killer jump shot, cool clothes, a cool haircut, and a pool. None of which Billy had a couple years ago and all of which the fat kid pathetically lacked. The only reason he had come to the party is because he was hoping Billy and him would get to hang out like they used to - maybe order some pizza and make some prank phone calls. A quick scan around the pool revealed he was sorely mistaken. Half the school was here, including the very love his life.

He would not have come if he knew Jamie Simpkins was going to be here. Yet there she was, relaxing on a floaty in the pool in her bathing suit. Oh my god she was in her bathing suit.

The whole "T-shirt issue" now took on a much greater importance. Much to his dread all the other boys had bare chests. If he followed suit he'd expose his paunchy gut, his flabby pecs - a site sure to nauseate Jamie Simpkins. If, however, he kept the T-shirt on, classmates would be sure to ask why. He quickly complied a list of possible justifications:

- I'm protecting a sun burn.
- I just had heart and lung surgery and the doctor says I need to keep it on.
- Oh. I guess I am. Didn't even notice. Did you hear that Trevor got a motorcycle?
- My dead grandma gave me this shirt and I promised her I'd never take it off.

That's the one. Dead Grandma. Perfect. He decided to keep the T-shirt on. He got into the pool.

Things were going fine until root beer floats were served. The fat kid climbed out of the pool to get in line when he heard the inevitable question.
"Why are you wearing a T-shirt?"
The fat kid turned around to deliver the 'grandma' excuse when he saw himself face-to-face with Jamie Simpkins.
He froze.
His mind went blank.
He stammered as he clumsily attempted to peel the dripping T-shirt from his undulating body. It got stuck around his head and he panicked before giving the soaked garment a violent pull. It sprang free of his neck suddenly and the momentum caused the wet T-shirt to slap Jamie Simpkins in the face. She cried out before she stumbled backwards, fell into the pool, and drowned.

The Simpkins family pressed charges. There was a trial. The fat kid was forced to take of his shirt in the courtroom during a reenactment of the alleged crime. The jury laughed. They found him guilty. They also found declared him insane for some reason. He did time. It was ugly.

The fat kid never took off his T-shirt again. To this day he sticks with the 'dead grandma' excuse.

zeroth life lesson: just because life's dealt you a bum hand doesn't mean you can flip it in your favor with an single act against your better judgment. hide your faults with all your might.

My name is an oxymoron / Handkerchief

Rich: abounding in desirable elements or qualities.

Zeroth: being numbered zero in a series.

Cheap Flamethrowers / Sidewinder

Robbing banks. That’s a popular crime. Everybody’s thought about robbing a bank. Robbing a bank the craziest and sanest idea all wrapped into one.
Joking around with friends about robbing a bank is never a good idea because there’s always the one guy that starts taking it seriously.

“Ha Ha – know what would be great?"
"What’s that? "
"Robbing a bank!"
"Shyaaa!"
"Hey, maybe we should rob a bank?"
"Ha Ha."
"Yeah, that would solve all out troubles, right?"
"Tell me about it brother."
"Yeah, a good old fashioned “Stick ‘em up!”
"Ha Ha."
“Reach for the Sky! Right?"
“Check it out. This guy I know is a teller, and they’re trained to just hand over the money at the mere mention of a hold up.”
“Ha Ha yeah. Imagine that.”
“Yeah and get this. My cousin installs security cameras all over the city. He’s doing the Chase on 19th street next week. He could totally disarm it for us. He’s a good guy.”
“He he. . . . yeah?”
“Sure, think about it. You got one guy on the teller. One guy on lookout. Christ, John’s got a kick-ass getaway car and he’s up for anything.”
“I could fake a seizure!”

Before you know it’s six beers later and someone’s got out the pencil and paper, mapping out escape routes.
You think it’s still a joke so you chime in and offer a completely outrageous suggestion – just to see if they buy into it.

“Yeah, and if that doesn’t work we could always use a flamethrower.”

And your friends look at you with a straight face, “That’s not a bad idea.”

It’s not until then you realize what you’ve gotten yourself into. You can’t rob a bank. You can’t even get out of jury duty. But you can’t back out of it now cuz you’re no pussy.

Next day at work you're googling “cheap flamethrowers”.

Chapter 6: Bonding with your P.S.P. / Peninsula

The following is an excerpt from J.P. Pekensmythe's award winning and life changing book, "Sucessality is within your grasp!!!: The Seven Levels to R.P.S."

Step #1: Find someone who’s the opposite of you. If you’re five foot six find someone whose six foot five. If you fancy pancakes with syrup find someone who prefers waffles with motor oil. If you’re a parrot find yourself a terradactyl. We’ll call this person your Polar Sanity Partner.

Step #2: Find a location away from the shim and sham of it all that is easily accessible to both you and your P.S.P. A city park, a nearby cornfield, or a large conference room all do the trick. We'll call this place your Predesignated Mind Mesh Region.

Step #3: Meet at your P.M.M.R. every evening just before midnight. Stand about thirty feet apart facing each other. At the count of three start walking towards each other, clapping your hands and stating your name with each step. Once you reach each other touch wristwatches and begin to circle one another while gnashing your teeth.

Step #4: Remove your belts, sit on the ground back-to-back, take out your work ID or business card, place it in the palm of your hand, and high five your P.S.P. so that the IDs and/or business cards "become one". Keep your hands in this position high above your heads as you touch foreheads with your P.S.P. and begin confessing your biggest fears. A typical exchange may entail:

You: "I fear someone is following me waiting to pull the chair away each time I sit."
P.S.P.: "I fear poison door knobs."
You: "I fear the relationship between my right and left foot will grow so strained that one day soon they will attack each other."
P.S.P.: "I fear Mark Sanderson."
You: "I fear a famous director will make an unflattering movie based on my life."
P.S.P.: "I fear cyborgs."

Step #5: On the count of 3 sprint away from each other in opposite directions and hide behind the nearest rock or tree or chair (if you are in a conference room). From your hiding spot begin taking turns lobbing tennis balls at each other while addressing each other with monosyllabic words/names in the following fashion:

You: "I call you Gar - You call me Krin!"
P.S.P.: "I call you Krin - You call me Waughf!"
You: "I call you Waughf - You call me Det!"
P.S.P.: "I call you Det - You call me Yat!"
You: "I call you Yat - You call me Miv!"
P.S.P.: "I call you Miv - You call me Quoob!"

Continue this type of exchange until both of you are out of tennis balls.

Step #6: Emerge from your hiding places, approach each other and stand back-to-back, interlock your arms and begin to twirl.

Step #7: Continue to twirl until the mind mesh begins and the line between your darkest secret and your P.S.P.'s favorite cereal begins to blur. Once you become mutually aware of each other's need for a bowel movement the evening's mental osmosis is complete and you may cease the twirling and head home.

If you follow this simple 7 step procedure for 6 - 8 weeks you will notice the landscape of your P.M.M.R. begin to change. The ground will begin to swell and crack. A month more of diligent adherence to the regiment and two individual concrete structures will begin to rise. After one year of strict observance your P.M.M.R. will be transformed into two gorgeous concrete 30 foot high statues of you and your P.S.P. triumphantly riding horses and carrying various weapons, trumpets, and flags.
Your concrete statues will eventually turn to granite, then to marble, then to gold, then morph into one statue, then transform into actual memories implanted in every child at conception.

Congratulations! You and your P.S.P. have achieved level D status and are well on your way to becoming a Reciprocal Prosper System.

No comment / Bone spur

'Drunkard' is not a term I like to throw around loosely. In fact, my good, good friend - I was thinking the next time that term was thrown around I might catch it once and for all, hide it under my pillow, wait 3 to 6 days until it solidifies, then dip it in pure gold and/or bronze and hang it on the mantel right next to my Christmas stocking filled with almond m&ms, new socks, and a mechanical pencil .. making sure it got the respect it deserved. Then you and I could both toast it over some roasted chestnuts as the 'Christmas Story' was playing on TBS. Only then will the term ..drunkard.. get the respect it deserves. Agreed?

Marking the occasion / PJ

Piper Jane Zeroth
Born on 4/23/08 @ 9:34 pm

TV Reflections / Fly swatter

Her grandchildren ignored her when they came to visit. They took up all the room on the sole couch in front of the television, leaving her to sit in the chair right beside it with no clear view of whatever was on. They stared at the glowing box, mindlessly flipping through the channels, waiting for dinner, waiting for the weekend to end. She could tell they were bored but didn't mind. Their very presence was reward enough.

She was so alone. Her only companion was that television. She'd sit in front of it day and night, often unaware of the very show she was watching. The volume and moving pictures provided an illusion of activity that rounded the sharp edges of her loneliness.

From her seat on the chair she could see a reflection of the television screen in the glass panels of the china hutch. The reflected images were transposed but she could still make out the picture.

She quietly watched a show about animals while she watched her grandchildren.

Mr. Beautiful / Cat nip

Clyde Clover appreciated the site of a beautiful woman. He often saw them on the bus, at 7-11, the grocery store, the mall, airport, Arby's, laundromat, etc. They were everywhere. He'd acknowledge them with a subtle shake of his head - maybe an inaudible sigh, a raised eyebrow, or a bite of his lower lip. Nothing overt or otherwise noticeable - after all, beautiful women knew they were beautiful, they sure didn't need to hear Clyde's confirmation.

Yet deep down he longed to let them know. He kept his appreciation to himself for their sake as each time he held his tongue his heart came a little closer to exploding. He felt very alone.

Then one day when taking out the trash a breathtaking woman walked by. Before his mind had time to decide between a head shake or a sigh his mouth had already taken charge.
"I think you are beautiful," he said.
The woman stopped dead in her tracks, gave him a confused look, and said "Thank you" before walking away.

Clyde felt incredible. He went back into his apartment and started shadow boxing for no reason in particular.

The next day on his way to work he told three women on the bus they were beautiful. All three of them were thrilled but the other seven women on the bus were a little peeved. While ordering lunch he told a cashier she was beautiful. She blushed but the woman standing behind him couldn't help but feel a little slighted. He enjoyed telling women they were beautiful so much he almost told his mail lady that she was beautiful before he realized she was quite ugly.

Over the next few weeks Clyde gained quite the reputation. If Clyde thought you were beautiful he'd let you know it. On the other hand it you weren't his cup of tea his silence could be deafening. Women started picking up on his tastes. Clyde liked his women tan with pony tails and green shirts. Women modified their looks accordingly regardless of their boyfriends' or husbands' protests. "You never call me beautiful anyway," was their retort.

Soon enough every woman wore a pony tail. Green shirts were sold out across the city. Tanning beds appointments were booked six weeks in advance, At first Clyde was on cloud nine and reacted accordingly. There were days when he got on the bus and he could answer all the women's hopeful glances with a blanket, "You are all beautiful women!" All the women would cheer in reply.

But then things started to get more complicated. The original tan pony-tailed women with green shirts felt resentment towards the "posers" who had recently started trying to look like them. Scuffles would break out between between "pures" and "posers" when they jostled for position as Clyde came walking down the street. The other men in town got jealous of Clyde and would often curse his name, deflate his bike tires, or try to trip him.

Clyde changed as well. The "pures" who he originally saw as beautiful soon grew tanner, wore thier pony tails higher and dyed their shirts greener until they no longer were beautiful. Frankly they looked ridiculous. The "posers" followed suit thinking they needed to look like the "pures". When Clyde quit calling them beautiful the the whole town went berserk.
"But we did it for you Clyde!" they screamed, "You think we like wearing a pony tails on our foreheads?"
"Look what you did to our women!" screamed the men "they all have skin like a professor's weathered briefcase."
Clyde screamed too. Then he moved to a different town.

There Clyde married a pale girl with curly hair and a blue shirt. She was the most beautiful woman he's ever seen. He's never told her though.

zeroth life lesson: beauty's at its brightest when left unacknowledged.

Fleischman's indestructible watering can / Bunt cake

Ladies and gentlemen my name is Paul Fleischman and I'm here today to tell you about an amazing little product called the Fleischman's Indestructible Watering Can. This watering can simply cannot be destroyed.
Fleischman's Watering Cans are made from a revolutionary space-age polymore invented by NSAASA, the National Super Advanced Aeronautics and Space Administration , the covert competition of NASA responsible for fending off alien attacks and blowing up several earth threatening asteroids every year.

We took the top ten selling watering cans in the market today and put them to the legendary Fleischman's endurance test.

First thing we do is fill the watering can to the brim with boiling water, then we let the watering can sit in direct sunlight on a 100 degree day for 4 straight hours, next we empty the can and refill it with ice cold water, then we let the can sit outside in subzero conditions for 6 straight hours, and finally we smash the watering can into a million pieces using a ball peen hammer. All the top watering cans succumbed except for the Fleischman's. Then for good measure we took the bits and pieces of the destroyed competition, loaded them into a shotgun, and fired the shrapnel at the Fleischman's Indestructible Watering Can. Our watering can didn't flinch.

You can throw them, stomp on them, chew on them, scream at them, drop them off buildings, drown them, ignore them for extended periods of time, you can fill them with hot tar, fill them with acid, fill them with blood, you can shoot at them guns, arrows, harpoons, and several kinds of missiles.

Bring us your watering can and we will bash it against a Fleischman's Indestructible Watering Can. We guarantee your watering can will smash into a billion tiny bits. At that point you can buy a Fleischman's. If your watering can is not completely pulverized I will personally treat you and the members of your immediate family to an all you can eat prime rib dinner.

The Fleischman's Indestructible Watering Can. Consider the whole watering can issue over.

Proximity to Tom / Buzzard

People always come up to me on the street and say, "If you could ask God one question, what would it be?" And I’m always tempted to respond with a classic like, ‘What is the meaning of life?’ or ‘Will mankind ever be able to travel through time?’ but I always can't help but think that if I had the opportunity, I’d ask God a completely random and original question that no one else would know the answer to. Like something along the lines of - "What was the exact moment of my life that I was closest to Tom Hanks - proximity wise?" I don't know why but I just think it would be interesting to see just how close I’ve come to meeting him. 

And it would probably throw God off a little. He’d be like, “Who? . . . Tom Hanks? . . . That's your question? . . Why would you want to? . . Just a minute. . . . OK here it is. April 23rd, 1989. You were in a St. Louis gas station trying on sunglasses, and Tom Hanks was at the Dairy Queen ordering a fudge dipped cone." 

And I’d say, “Well, was the gas station very close to the Dairy Queen?” and God would reply, “Heh. It was one of those gas stations that had a Dairy Queen inside!” And I’d be like, “Wow! That’s pretty close to Tom Hanks - proximity wise. And I never knew! Fuck I totally blew it. He was right there! Thanks God.”


“No problem.”

Walk with a limp / Ascot

Don't pay me no mind when I'm strolling down the strip.
I do it all the time and I walk with a limp.

I walk with a limp. . . . Hip! Hip!
I walk with a limp. . . . Hip! Hip!

It's all calculated, see, way to show my true grit.
Suckas know to make way when they see me walk with a limp.

I walk with a limp. . . . Flip! Flip!
I walk with a limp. . . . Flip! Flip!

I do the shit on purpose son - it's my way to represent.
Cuz it looks proper like when walk with a limp.

I walk with a limp. . . . Krimp! Krimp!
I walk with a limp. . . . Krimp! Krimp!

Folks think I'm in pain - that don't give a shit.
They're only half right cuz I always walk with a limp.

I walk with a limp. . . . Blimp! Blimp!
I walk with a limp. . . . Blimp! Blimp!

Each day every hour y'all let 'em know I'm a pimp.
Since the day of my first step I knew to walk with a limp.

I walk with a limp. . . . Rimp! Rimp!
I walk with a limp. . . . Rimp! Rimp!

I walk with a limp. . . . Hip! Hip!
I walk with a limp. . . . Krimp! Krimp!
I walk with a limp. . . . Blimp! Blimp!
I walk with a limp. . . . Flip! Flip!

Final jog with Hanes tagless M / Broth

OK here we go.
Nice day outside for a run.
Feeling good.
New shoes fit nicely.
This shirt feels a little short.
Definitely too small.
Fuckin shorts keep sliding down.
Is my ass hanging out?
Gotta reach back and make sure this t-shirt is covering my ass crack.
Should be OK.
Alright carry on.
So far so good.
I should jog more often.
Feeling good.
I should run a marathon.
That would be cool.
I've gotta look that up when I get home - how to sign for the the new york city mara-
Why'd I wear this fuckin shirt?
It's waay too small.
Stupid shorts won't stay up.
My ass crack is definitely exposed.
I can feel the breeze.
Need to reach back again and tug down the back of the shirt.
That should do it.
OK let's focus.
Keeping a good pace.
Look at me! Passing people left and right!
Look at this poor sap. Why even bother?
See ya loser.
I should jog more often.
I'm going to get in really good shape.
3 miles every day after work before dinner.
Shouldn't be too hard.
3 miles a day 5 days a week is like-
Stupid goddamned t-shirt.
It's barely down to my waistline.
Guaranteed each person I pass has a lovely view of my ass crack.
Need to reach back again and tug it down again.
There. That's better.
Sure beats the treadmill.
Feels good to get some fresh air.
Exercise clears the mind. I feel smarter.
Sharper.
I should look into investing more in divers-
I've had with this stupid shirt!
I look like a fool.
Fuck this - I'm walking.

Revolution in Men's Big & Tall / Thermos

Pssst.
Hey you.
Down here.
Shhhhh. What do you think you're doing? You trying to get yourself killed? Shhhh! Keep your voice down.
What's your name?
Well I tell you what Shaun if you want to live to see tomorrow I'd get down and take cover.
That's better.
I don't know what direction you're coming from but we've been seeing heavy resistance up ahead - very dangerous terrain. Judging by your civilian clothes and confused demeanor I'm going to go out on a limb and assume you have no idea what you've walked into the middle of.
Shhhh. Shut the fuck up. You'll compromise our position goddammit. Listen, we have reason to believe there's a sniper about 300 yards ahead. He's already taken out Janske, McBriar, and Skinny Karl. If I were you I'd change into some standard issue, grab yourself a rifle, and get some shut eye while you can. I'm on watch until 0400 at which time we advance on Sporting Goods.
What's that? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
What do you mean Sears? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
I see. And you suggest I simply remove myself from the protection provided by this circular garment rack and expose myself to enemy fire? Ha! Does it look like a have a death wish? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Fine. Suit yourself. But don't expect me to answer the calls for a medic when you take fire from Lawn & Garden.
Semper Fi.

Thinkvoice vs. Cutsmeoff / Pumpernickel

Saul Thinkvoice walks into the elevator. “Walking into elevator”, he declares. A minute later he’s walking down the hallway to his office. “Gonna turn on my computer and check my email in a minute or so”, he states to no one in particular. Sitting at his desk Saul yells, “turning on computer!”

Meanwhile April Hambersheen is attempting small talk with Charles Cutsmeoff in the break room.

“So last night I was- ”
“At a demolition derby?”
“No. Watching television Have you ever seen-”
“A hummingbird eat a pork chop?”
“No. The show, ‘Wife Swap’. The one family dedicated their whole life to-”
“Stacking empty milk cartons.”
“No. Being Magicians. Their oldest-“
“Tennis Ball?”

April storms out break room, forgetting to add Splenda to her coffee.

Saul Thinkvoice is Charles Cutsmeoff’s boss. Saul has a big presentation today and needs Charles’ help pulling some information together.

“I’m going to need that interrupting bastard’s help today if I’m ever going to pull this off”, says Saul.

Charles overhears his boss’s thoughts (as he often does) and takes it as a signal that he’s needed in Saul’s office.

Saul sees Charles approaching and says, “There, I see him walking over here right now so I’ll take this opportunity to ask him if he wouldn’t mind heading to the 17th floor to retrieve the Pekensmythe file. Charles my good man, would you do me a favor and make a run to the 17th floor to retrieve the-“
“Tennis ball?”
“No. The-“
“Finger Puppets!”
“Dear Lord I don’t understand why this buffoon won’t allow me to finish a simple-“
“Cheeseburger?”
“PEKENSMYTHE FILE!! I need you to go to 17 and get the Pekensmythe file. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Now I’m wondering why he’s still standing there staring at me instead of trotting off to achieve the modest task that was just assigned. Furthermore I wish I had the capacity to refrain from speaking my thoughts as it's only a matter of time before this interjecting-"
"Dope Fiend!"
"Son-of-a-"
"Circus Clown?"
"Motherf-"
"Frankenberry cereal. A delicious part of a well balanced breakfast."
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
"La la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la" repeats Saul as he casually gets up from his chair, walks past Charles, and heads for the 17th floor himself.

Wise guy / Burro

The wisest man my eyes have gathered;
Rarely spoke and never blathered.
Questions of Who? or What? fancied him none.
These he dismissed with the click of his tongue.
Ask him Where? or When? and you’d fare the same.
For these inquiries he regarded as lame.
It was questions of Why? where he'd excel.
So many would gather to where he'd dwell.
He’d spend his days sipping his flask;
Repeating the same four words to all who’d ask.
Why’d you dye your hair white and paint your teeth black?
“Because you never know” was his snappy comeback.
Why not put down that gun? At least give it a try?
“Because you never know” was his modest reply.
Why’d you use those pillows to make that fort?
“Because you never know” was his brief retort.
Isn’t one turkey baster enough? Why own two?
“Because you never know” was his slanted view.
Why’d you stab that sexy salsa dancer?
“Because you never know” was his thoughtful answer.
Why do you regard Peggy with such nonchalance?
“Because you never know” was his clever response.
Why chain yourself to a bicycle rack?
“Because you never know” was his expert feedback.
Why waste your time building a time wasting device?
“Because you never know” was his only advice.
Why save all your urine in antique urns?
“Because you never know” was his chosen return.
He’s still spitting pearls of wisdom to this very day.
Ask him ‘Why?’ and you know what he’ll say.

Lucky man / Melon rind

What a pain in the ass. I didn’t ask for this shit. Where am I supposed to stand? Half court? Jesus Christ. I doubt I can even throw it that far. I haven’t touched a basketball in 35 years. Nothing like looking like a dip shit in front of 20,000 people. If Rhonda somehow arranged this she’s going to get an earful when we get home, believe you me. Fucking television camera in my face. Beautiful. My fat ass on TV making a fool of myself. I don’t know what everyone’s clapping for. OK let’s get this over with. Is there some sort of cue or something or do I just chuck the fucking ball? Whenever I’m ready they say. Wonderful. Should I underhand it or just one arm toss the bastard? I’ll be damned if Larry and Gino see me on the tube shooting a basketball bitch style. Let’s get this over with. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Well I’ll be damned. $10,000! Not exactly chump change. After taxes it should be just enough to pay for the wife’s stomach stapling.

Coverage of the controversial contents of the fabled Pekensmythe briefcase: Part II / Tugboat

[Turning on television]
This is Ryan Seacrest and welcome to Tricksville. Unless you’ve been living under a rock the past 3 weeks you know what we’re here to do. At midnight tonight, in just a few minutes, the briefcase of J.B. Pekensmythe will be opened for the world -

[Flipping to channel 7]
for the world to see.
The little town of Tricksville has become the center of national attention as interest surrounding J.B. Pekensmythe’s briefcase has caught fire. Not since the little baby who fell into the well in Texas or the water skiing squirrel from Tuscan has local story -

[Flipping to channel 12]
has a local story united the country with such fascination.
But before the main event we have plenty of other entertainment in store with limited commercial interruption thanks to our sponsor Chevrolet. Chevrolet – 'Our Country, Our Truck' which is proud to present the Chevy Silverado now with the OnStar turn-by-turn navigation system. Let’s head down to Maya Angelou as she straddles the briefcase and reads-

[Flipping to channel 9]
and reads her new poem titled, “Briefcase of Hope, Briefcase of Briefcase”.
'Modest briefcase wonder of my secrets enshroud.
I'm not leather or engraved to make a rich man proud.
But when you contemplate my contents,
The world absolute is wowed.
I say fear not meek soul
It's merely a clasp away
A flick of the wrist,
A creak of a hinge,
You get the jist.
I'm a briefcase
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal briefcase,
That's me.'
{crowd erupts in applause}

[Flipping to channel 10]
{over the deafening crowd noise}
It’s almost go-time so let’s go to George Clooney live via satellite who’s with famed physicist Steven Hawking ready to perform the final countdown by alternately naming digits in reverse order.

Clooney: 10
Hawking: 9
Clooney: 8
Hawking: 7
Clooney: 6

[Flipping to channel 10]
Clooney: 6
Hawking & Clooney: 5
Clooney: Whoops
Hawking: 3
Clooney: 2
Hawking: 1

{J.B. PEKENSMYTHE'S BREEFCASE IS OPENED}

Ryan Seacrest: I see. . . I see. . . a mule with the head of Casey Kasem.
Local firefighter: It's an undiscovered ocean!
Mayor Gasbag: I see a tiny spaceship!
Local preacher: Nothing but candy wrappers.
Maya Angelou: {speechless}!?!?
Local dogcatcher: Catnip!
Steven Hawking: It’s what I figured.
Local bartender: I see a keg of O’Doul’s.
George Clooney: True Love!
Me: It appears to be an angel dipped in peanut butter and rolled in coarsely chopped aspirations.
You: It’s an invitation to a party with free booze, unpleasant people, amazing food, and a shitty band.

[Turning off television]
After setting down the remote, J.B. Pekensmythe sighs. He removes his top hat and dabs his forehead with a handkerchief made of fine imported silk. He finishes his snifter of aged brandy and rises from his 85 hundred dollar sofa to head up the extravagant spiraling staircase that leads to his sleeping quarters. Tomorrow is a big day. He needs to buy another breefcase.

zeroth life lesson: curiosity left unchecked eventually leads to uncharacterizable hysteria and possible bad television programming.

Mistaken identity of biblical proportions / Kielbasa

January 27, 1996.
Two good friends on the classic road trip.
Off in the distance one sees a billboard. On it is a man with a beard. It's too far to make out who exactly it is but it appears to be Al Borland of 'Home Improvement' fame. As they get closer he notices writing along side of Al Borland but can't quite make it out. Seconds later the words come into view. It says, "I am the Way, the Truth, and the Life. John 14:6" He laughs aloud to himself for nearly mistaking Jesus Christ for Al Borland.
"What's so funny?" says the other.
"Did you see that billboard we just passed?"
"Yeah. The way, truth, life one?"
"Right. For a minute there I thought it was a picture of Al Borland."
"Ha. . . . . . . It was Paul Bunyan, right?"

Coverage of the controversial contents of the fabled Pekensmythe briefcase: Part I / Whittler

[Turning on television]
- it’s contents remain a mystery. No one's ever got near J.B. Pekensmythe’s briefcase. It was common knowledge that if you saw ole’ J.B. shuffling down the street's of Tricksville and you got too close to his briefcase you were likely to get a verbal drubbing the likes–

[Flipping to channel 7]

-Channel 7 has obtained exclusive footage of Mr. Pekensmythe taken from local security cameras where he felt his briefcase was being targeted. Be forewarned that the clip you’re about to see contains language graphic in nature.
-“Good morning to you Mr. Pekensmythe. Treat of a day isn’t it?”
- “GET AWAY FROM ME YOU LOUSY PIECE OF SHIT! YOU THINK YOU’RE GOING TO STEAL MY BREEFCASE? GUESS AGAIN ASSHAT! NOT IN THIS LIFETIME DICKFACE! IN YOU'RE DREAMS COCKWAD! NOT ON MY WATCH FUC-

[Flipping to channel 9]

-Did you ever get a look into the briefcase?
-Lord no. I don't think anyone ever did.
-Any speculation as to what’s inside?
-Hell if I know. I remember when we were kids we used to think he kept eyeballs in his carryall.
-You mean briefcase.
-Right. Anyways if he ever got you he’d take your eyeballs and keep them in there until your birthday when he’d show up at your house, take them out, and eat them like grapes.
-Griping. Back to you Nancy.

[Flipping to channel 12]

-Here I am with Mrs. Loretta Boyd. Mrs. Boyd is it true that you knew J.B. Pekensmythe?
-I suppose I knew him as much as anybody in Tricksville did. A vile and crotchety old man who wandered the town’s streets all day with no apparent purpose or destination, always clutching that damned satchel.
-You mean briefcase.
-Right. And my what a mean old bastard he was. I remember just a few weeks ago we happened to cross each other in the street. I was minding my own business when -

[Flipping to channel 7]

"I SAW THAT YOU MISERABLE CUNT! YOU WERE TRYING TO SWIPE MY BREEFCASE! YOU MAY THINK YOU'RE PRETTY SMART ASSWIPE BUT YOU'RE GOING TO HAVE TO TRY HARDER THAN THAT"
Rude? Indubitably
Paranoid? Unequivocally
Insane? –

[Flipping to channel 16]

-One word? How about 'Misunderstood'. I happen to know that J.B. didn't exactly grow up with a room full of toys, a pet dog, and a loving mother and father. He was the bastard son of a bastard son who started working at the Sharp Metal Mill at the age of four just so they could afford a table on the floor - forget about putting food on the table. I’m not saying he’s the nicest guy in Tricksville but you get to talking to folks in this town and you swear the devil himself was roaming the streets. All I’m saying is there’s a history behind that man that made him the way he is.
-He actually did have a pet dog growing up though didn't he?
-Oh right. . . I guess he did. Forgot about Patches. I think you're missing the point though. What I'm saying is -

[Flipping to channel 5]

-For those of you who may have just joined us we're just getting word now that local nutjob J.B. Pekensmythe's briefcase has been found on the corner of Union and Main, just outside Clem's Corner Deli. We're going live now to Chuck Bernaduck in Tricksville who's at the scene.
-Thanks Claudia. As a crowd starts to gather here outside Clem's, folks are not only wondering if we're about to find out what's inside old man Pekensmythe's briefcase but also what happened to the decrepit codger himself. It's been well documented that Pekensmythe never parted with his briefcase, verbally assaulting anyone who dared come-

[Flipping to channel 7]

“YOU SNEAKY BASTARD! I SEE YOU EYING MY BREEFCASE. YOU EVER HEAR OF A LITTLE SOMETHING CALLED PERSONAL PROPERTY YOU SON OF A BITCH? I’VE GOT A RIGHT MIND TO CALL THE SHERIFF ON YOUR ASS! NOW PISS OFF!!”

[Flipping to channel 16]

-It just doesn't make any sense. As loathsome as that man was he sure loved that attache.
-You mean briefcase.
-Right. Believe you me J.B. Pekensmythe is either dead or somewhere dying. There's no way he left it there intentionally. Unless it's a trick of some sort.

[Flipping to channel 10]

Top ten guess at what's in J.B. Pekensmythe's briefcase.
{drumrolllllllllllllllllllll}
#10. Apple cores, banana peels, melon rinds
#9. Centipedes. Thousands of them.
#8. Deflated inflatable novelty penis
#7. Gym clothes
#6. Live bald eagle
#5. Several pornographic magazines
#4. Dead bald eagle
#3. Papers. Just papers. You know, my papers. Business papers.
#2. Blueprints for flying ninja robot
#1. A slightly smaller briefcase
Ladies and Gentlemen we’ll be right back. Debra Winger will be joining us. Stick around.
{audience applause}

[Flipping to channel 13]

-I'm here in Tricksville where as we speak the town hall meeting is taking place where there's been fierce debate over what to do with the infamous briefcase of J.B. Pekensmythe. Many say open it. Others say destroy it. Crazy Mayor Gasbag has been quoted as saying he wants to shoot it into space. We've heard reports that the Mayor has left the meeting in disgust but not before removing his astronaut belt and whipping the table several times as a protest of some sort. We'll continue to report any late breaking information as it unfolds but as for now, the saga continues, the briefcase remains closed and J.B. Pekensmythe is nowhere to be found. Back to you Tanya.
[Turning off Television]

zeroth life lesson: don't dismiss the eccentric man who has something to hide. find it instead.

Junk Drawer / Wing nut

Looking in the junk drawer and what do I see?
Four dead batteries and a random key.
Sifting through the junk drawer in need of a stamp.
I come across the pull cord for a piece of shit lamp.
Open up the junk drawer and what do I spy?
Uncle Frank's reading glasses and Grandpa’s glass eye.
Poking through the junk drawer and what do you know;
There's an out-of-date menu from Hung King Lo.
Snooping through the junk drawer I what do I find?
Spare parts for a futon that used to be mine.
Pulling out the junk drawer jonesing for matches;
but I make due with a cuff link that always detaches.
I’m sifting through the junk drawer on the look out for string.
See a bag of old cabbage seeds I shoulda planted last spring.
I'm fed up with this junk drawer - what a pain in the ass.
I rip it out it's wall hole and dump it in the trash.

Caroline's panties, Belafonte's honor / Scrunchie

He’d never even mustered the nerve to talk to her and now here he was face-to-face with her underwear.
If it wasn’t for the UPS guy he wouldn’t even know her name. Caroline Belafonte of Apt. 4B. The beautiful Caroline Belafonte with the subtle freckles and the long rusty hair and the emerald green eyes. The Caroline Belafonte who got allot of packages from Anthropology.
For two years she had lived right across the hall and now she was gone. She had moved and he’d likely never see her again.
He stood outside the building among the remains of her apartment that didn’t make the trip; a floor lamp, an air conditioner, various dishes, a pair of boots, and a trash bag of clothes whose contents had been dumped onto the sidewalk and examined and picked through by numerous passerbys.
There at his feet was a pile of Caroline’s bras and panties.
He felt sorry for her - that in a way she was in the process of being violated by the entire neighborhood and she didn’t even know it. He wanted to gather up her unmentionables and take them back inside but feared an awkward encounter with one of the other tenants if they were to see him with an armful of used women’s underpants.
More than anything he felt shafted. Two years worth of fantasies were now on public display for the random couple walking their dog to stop and snicker at, for the horny teenage boy to ogle over. In as much as Caroline Belafonte had first dibs on her bras and panties he had second. His infatuation had earned him that much hadn't it?
He walked away.
He then decided that if the panties were still there when he got back from work he'd keep them - out of respect for Caroline of course.

Hershel brings a keg, saves the day / Tire chains

Phyllis collects single mittens. She started about seven years ago when she came across a wool mitten lying on the sidewalk that had a ketchup stain in the shape of a smiley face. She took it home and sewed two buttons on it meant to be eyes. She’s now constantly on the look out for discarded or dropped mittens that she can decorate. She won’t shut the fuck up about it. She has 37 (24 left and 13 right). Phyllis works with Neil.

Neil collects joker cards. He’s done so since high school. He mostly steals them, sometimes from friends’ parties where card games are being played, sometimes whole decks from gas stations or convenience stores. Neil is friends with Marsha.

Marsha collects sticks, twigs, and small branches. She's clinically insane. Marsha lives next door to Lenny.

Lenny collects stories about food poisoning. He keeps them in the corner of his head for now but one day he plans to write a book. He has the habit of gathering such stories by initiating conversations with the words, “I’ve felt like shit all day today. I think it was something I ate last night.” As a result friends, family, coworkers, and casual acquaintances all find Lenny to be quite obnoxious.

Last Friday it just so happened that Phyllis, Neil, Marsha, and Lenny all found themselves at the same party.
Phyllis wore her two favorite mittens (both left-handed) as a conversation starter.
Neil kept asking if anyone wanted to play pinochle.
Marsha spent an exorbitant amount of time pacing around in the back yard looking for sticks.
Lenny kept up with his whole food poisoning story thing.

The night was well on its way to being one of the lamest, most mind numbing and pointless get-togethers in the history of the universe. Phyllis, Neil, Marsha, and Lenny all knew it but didn't have the capacity turn the tide. Then Hershel showed up with a keg of beer. Everyone cheered. Hershel collects human spines. He slaughtered everyone in what police later described as a sensational act of riveting blood lust, providing what everyone could agree was an exhilarating change of pace.

zeroth life lesson: sometimes God just likes to have a little fun. consider yourself lucky if you see it regardless of the irony or carnage.