29 Apr
From the e-mails of Max Werther, 28, a per diem proctologist of Wilmington, NC, to his wife, Lynn:
From: Max
To: Lynn@honey.com
Subject: Idea
Date: November 10th
Dear Lynn,
How’s work? Busy here. Idea for mutual Christmas gift! Jeannie called an hour ago to say that her cat (a Persian, I believe) has given birth. Now I know you don’t like cats, honey, but if they are Persians, they are going to be very cute. In fact, Persians are the most popular domestic cats out there. They’re very warm and lovable and they don’t smell as bad as dogs. Let’s go out there tonight and take a look. What do you think?
Love,
Me
From: Max
To: Lynn@honey.com
Subject: So???
Date: November 11th
Dear Lynn,
How’s work? My boss is getting on my nerves again. I gave him an expense report (took one of our consultants out to lunch last week) and he wants me to pay half. I stood firm. “Why should I have to pay half?” I cried. He said it wasn’t company policy to take consultants to the racetrack and expense my losses, but I was so sure Vat O’ Glue would at least place!
So…any other thoughts on the kittens? I’ve never seen you so crazy about animals before. I can’t believe there were only two in the litter. Which one do you want? The boy or the girl?
Love,
Me
From: Max
To: Lynn@honey.com
Subject: No!!!
Date: November 11th
Dear Lynn,
No! We are not getting both kittens! Are you insane?! I refuse to give in to you. We will never get both kittens!
Love,
Me
From: Max
To: Lynn@honey.com
Subject: I’m Whipped
Date: November 12th
Dear Lynn,
Everyone here says I’m whipped for agreeing to get both cats. You know you’re going to suffer with your allergies. Why do we have to get both cats? And I don’t buy your silly argument that the “two will miss each other”. They’re cats! Within two minutes after their separation they won’t even remember the other one! I think I’d rather have one big smelly dog.
Love,
Me
From: Max
To: Lynn@honey.com
Subject: Names
Date: November 17th
Dear Lynn,
I don’t like Tony and Tina. Burns and Allen, Fred and Ginger, Fred and Wilma, Nancy and Sluggo…I don’t like any of them. Since we both love the stage, I’m thinking of something theatrical. Something Shakespearean. Consider Romeo and Juliet, Hamlet and Ophelia.
Love,
Me
From: Max
To: Lynn@honey.com
Subject: Ham & Ophie
Date: November 17th
Dear Lynn,
So you like Hamlet and Ophelia, huh? So do I. Ham and Ophie it is. They look like a Ham and Ophie. Ham has the eyes of a director and Ophie has the personality of a melodramatic, self-centered actress. There’s something about Ophie that worries me, Lynn. I think we have our hands full with her.
Love,
Me
From: Max
To: Lynn@honey.com
Subject: Ham & Ophie
Date: November 20th
Dear Lynn,
Ham called. Ophie got her head stuck in the toilet. Put her on the phone, I said. “Can’t,” said Ham, “her head’s stuck in the toilet.” Suddenly, I heard this tremendous tear, as if God himself was in the apartment letting it rip. Then, now don’t get upset, I heard what sounded like Ol’ Faithful herself; a geyser erupting in our bathroom. There were some curses, and the phone dropped. Someone picked it up. “Christ!” I heard. It was Ophie! Ophie, I said, what’s going on over there? Is your head out of the toilet? “No, Goddammit! It’s still on my f*&#ing head!!!” Then how in God’s name are you talking to me? “F$%* you!” she cried and slammed the phone down.
I just got a call from the Wilmington Department. Apparently, now don’t get upset, Ophie ripped the entire toilet off its base and is now walking, in a daze, on Wooster Street with a toilet seat cover on her noggin’, chanting like a Muslim. The entire first floor is flooded and Ham is in a state of shock. Those kids! (*Chuckle!*) What are we going to do with them? (*Chortle!*)
Love,
Me
22 Apr
From the diary of Anne Klumpkin, 37, housewife and mother of three, of Minneapolis, MN:
Life baffles me. I am completely baffled by life. Sometimes I wonder to myself, is this it? Is this all there is to life? If so, I want a refund. I want my money back, dammit, because I could be having a better time with the money I spent for a good life than with the life I’m leading with no money.
15 Apr
June 17th, 1,423 B.C.
What a day! Been roaming around the desert now for 33 years and STILL not one man wants to stop and ask for directions! Stubborn group, these Israelites!
I keep turning my staff into a snake and they think it’s black magic. Yeah, I said, let’s see David Copperfield turn the Nile into a river of blood or part the Red Sea or have flames shoot out from falling hail in Egypt. Some kid requested that I have flames shoot out my ass. I asked him, “If I do that, will you believe that it is God’s will to have flames shoot out of my ass and not mine?”
He said, “If you can turn your ass into a blowtorch, I’ll believe anything you want.”
So I’m rolling a blunt, staring at the desert, wondering if this is how Peter O’Toole felt, when my brother Aaron comes up to me. “The Jews have created a pagan God,” he tells me. “They melted all of their gold and formed it into a big do-hickey of some kind and now they’re going to worship it.”
“You have got to be f&*#ing kidding me, my brother?” I responded. I was having a bad day. 3rd degree burns on my hand from that friggin’ bush.
“I am not f&*#ing kidding with you, brother,” Aaron said.
“Why would they create a pagan God?” I asked. “Are my people despondent? Do they not remember how I led them out of Egypt?”
“Yeah,” said Aaron, “but that was 33 years ago. Back then you told us it would take us a month, maybe two, to get to Israel. Three decades can certainly lead to despondency.”
“I knew we should have taken a left at Albuquerque,” I said.
Why did I leave Egypt? I was next in line to the throne! I had a piece of ass of a princess waiting for me in the wings and I even looked like Charlton Heston when he could pass for good looking! No one took my brother Yul Brynner seriously. A ponytail on the side of his head. He was never the trendsetter, I gotta tell ya.
Now look at me! I’m dragging thousands of people through the sand, not even sure of where the hell we’re going. I don’t even like sand. I was always more of a mountains guy than the shore anyway. I’m even married to Yvonne DeCarlo. Granted, she looks better than her Munsters days…
And those Commandments! Thank God there are only ten of them! Any more and I’d be living with my chiropractor, lugging those #&*!@*! tablets around! Sheesh!
God had no problem getting us out of Pharaoh’s land…now He seems to have forgotten us when we need Him most. Where are you, m’Lord???
Note to self: remember to cancel Bingo Night if the Israelites are going to worship their pagan God instead of the real God for cryin’ out loud. That’ll show ‘em!
June 17th, 1,423 B.C.
Woke up. Ate a balanced breakfast. It is the most important meal of the day, you know. I’m thinking of creating another world on some other planet. Humans on Earth are beginning to bore the hell outta me. They’re not very funny. No sense of comic timing. They’re too serious for me.
Oversaw 24,765 new souls into Heaven…1,643 souls are making their way into Satan’s fun factory. I am troubled this day. For roughly 33 years I’ve had this nagging feeling that I’m forgetting something. Not sure what it is. It’ll come to me.
8 Apr
The shortest distance between two points is a straight line (except in Tulsa, Oklahoma, between 7 and 9 a.m., Monday through Saturday.)
The Boxer Rebellion was actually on September 6, 1981 when Larry Holmes, Muhammad Ali, Sugar Ray Leonard and Thomas Hearns entered a laundromat and beat up four old ladies. “We felt it was an ample time to rebel,” Sugar Ray admitted to reporters afterwards.
On November 17, 1972, town officials in Upduck, Iowa, informed half the town’s population that a red light now meant “go” and a green light meant “stop.” A record 648 car accidents occurred that day, and the mayor of Upduck appeared on the cover of Time as the “Funniest Man of the Year.”
Adolf Hitler didn’t use utensils when he ate, historians say. “He was such a slob,” wrote Hildegard von Kemp, a member of Hitler’s house staff, in her recently discovered memoirs. “But sometimes we couldn’t help but laugh when der Fuhrer would eat sauerkraut or mashed potatoes. The potatoes would clog his nostrils, and when he looked up, the entire staff would roar with laughter.”
The Gettysburg Address is 1217 Avondale Street. Don’t bother calling, though. The line is disconnected.
Little Miss Moffet actually sat on a beanbag eating a stack of pancakes with sausage on the side. “Curds and whey make me puke,” admits Ms. Moffet, now 67 and living with her husband and three bulldogs in Tacoma, Washington. “I could never stomach the slop.” Moffet also admits that a spider never sat down beside her, and she hopes that whoever started those rumors about her would kindly stop spreading them.
1 Apr
From the unpublished autobiography of Flex Malarky, 34, of West Chester, PA:
I have always been told that I was blessed with a good memory. I don’t remember who told me that, but it’s true. I remember almost everything about my childhood. In fact, I remember the day I was born. It’s a day I’d like to forget if you’d like to know the truth. I spent the first night of my life in jail. And I had to share a cell with a mass murderer. The guy had killed an entire congregation in a local church.
The day I was born was a cloudy, breezy day, with a sixty- percent chance of showers, highs in the mid-sixties. Dad had taken Mom to the hospital early in the morning, and by noon I was on my way out of the womb. I’m not too sure of the time, actually. My watch had gotten caught on the ribcage.
“Push, Mrs. Malarky,” I heard the doc say. I could see him crouched in front of me. He looked like a robber wearing a mask and holding salad tongs. I informed the man that I didn’t want to come out until I could speak to my lawyer. He said since I wasn’t born yet I couldn’t exercise my rights as an American citizen. I asked if he went to law school. He said he passed by it once, but only briefly. I took out a cigarette and asked if he had a light. He said 100 watt. I told him to kiss my sorry little ass. He stuck the salad fork at me and nailed me square in the tush. I grabbed hold of my mother’s ribs and swore that if I was coming out, they’d be coming with me.
“The kid’s got your ribcage hostage,” the doctor informed my mother.
Mom was busy doing a crossword puzzle. Dad was sitting beside her, lighting an unfiltered Camel that was dangling in my mother’s mouth. “You talking to me, doc?” Mom asked.
“Yes, I’m talking to you,” replied the doctor. “It seems as if your baby is stuck.”
“So what do you want from me?” Mom asked. “I’m doing a crossword puzzle here.”
I then took the heart and lungs as hostages, too. The doctor called the press and in an hour, the three local TV stations arrived with cameras and reporters. A cameraman crouched between my mothers’ legs and set up a camera and light. Some reporter knelt and held up a microphone. “We are here, live, at the Chester County Hospital delivery room where a Mrs. Agatha Malarky is having her heart, lungs and ribcage held hostage by her unborn infant. Mrs. Malarky, how do you feel?”
Mom looked into the camera and asked, “What’s a three letter word for `run’?”
“Run,” answered my dad.
“Ah.” Mom penciled it in. “There! I won!”
The reporter peered inside and asked, “Little Malarky infant! What exactly are you trying to accomplish with this pointless undertaking?”
He banged me in the head with the microphone. “I ain’t comin’ out ’til I get to talk to my lawyer, ya chump!” I yelled.
Just then my lawyer, a Mr. Franklin W. Petterstout, Attorney-at-Law, entered. He was a fat, able man who knew how to put away a good case of Twinkies. “No one will speak to my client until I do!” he cried. He bumped the reporter out of the way and knelt. He looked at my dad and asked, “What’s the kid’s name?”
“Not sure,” replied my dad. “What is it? Boy or girl?”
Petterstout looked at me. “Girl,” he said.
“Hey!” I yelled. I flipped him my manhood and drew cheers from the press.
“Without question a girl,” said Petterstout.
Just then my mom began to push. “Lemme in there!” the doctor cried. “Whoa, Mrs. Malarky, you’re pushing too hard!”
“What?” Mom cried.
“I said you’re pushing too hard!”
“What?” Mom cried. “I can’t hear ya! My Walkman’s on too loud!”
Well, Mom pushed me too hard and I was ejected from the launching pad. The doctor’s reflexes were too slow, and I slipped through his tongs. Unfortunately, the window was open, and I held my nose as I somersaulted in the air and landed on top of a Volkswagen Beetle.
“Head’s up!” the doctor cried from the window.
Minutes later, a police officer walked by and arrested me for indecent exposure. Dad and the doctor came down and explained to the noble cop that I should only be issued a warning, being born only a few minutes and all.
“Alright,” he said with hesitation, “but just this once. If I catch him out here again without a diaper, I’ll haul his smooth ass in.”
I was taken upstairs to the delivery room where we found my mother filing her nails and cracking her chewing gum. “What is it?” she yelled. “Boy or girl?”
“Boy!” my father cried happily.
“Oh well,” Mom groaned. She began to work on a jigsaw puzzle.
The doctor held me up by my legs and said, “And now, the first breath of life, my friend!”
The man simply slapped me too hard. He knocked me clear across the room and out the window, which unfortunately was still open. I did a rotating summersault (difficulty 2.3) and landed in the same officer who hauled me in for indecent exposure and aggravated assault.
Dad bailed me out the next morning, and I was taken back to the hospital to undergo psychological treatment. Mom lectured me for an hour on proper behavior in this world of ours, and Dad grounded me for a week without the use of my rattle.
25 Mar
From the journal of Bill Carr, 30, flower shop owner, of Wilmington, DE:
When I die, I want people to remember me as a nice guy who said hello to strangers. No matter where I am or what kind of mood I’m in, you can always find me saying hello to a perfect stranger because hey…they might be having a worse day than me.
Our society has become so hardened by violence in the news, violence on TV, violence in our schools, our homes, our public free libraries…that, that…I forgot what point I was trying to make. Oh yeah, people have become so hardened that they look at their fellow citizens differently now. That man walking beside you could be a potential rapist. That woman in the checkout counter in front of you might be keeping her children chained to a wall in her basement. That old woman with the osteoporosis just didn’t consume enough calcium in her younger years.
Neighborhoods aren’t as friendly anymore. When I was a kid, my parents would talk to all the neighbors. Summer nights were spent sitting on the front porch and yelling across the street to the Walters who were sitting on their front step. Nowadays, everyone uses a phone or e-mail. Nowadays, more and more people keep to themselves. My mother would rather drive to the nearest grocery store that was five miles away, than go next door and ask to borrow two eggs. Of course, the last time she asked her next door neighbors if she could borrow two eggs, they replied, “For how long?”
None of this has discouraged me, however. I continue to say hello to strangers as I walk down the street. Most people look miserable or are in a hurry as they scurry to their cars, to the oncoming bus, to wherever. I like to say hi because I figure my cheery face and friendly smile could just be what the doctor ordered for these people. As they walk with their heads down as they pass me by, my “Hello!” makes them stop, turn around, and say, “Say! That charming young man has simply made my day with a delightful beckoning. I bid you good day as well, fine gentleman!”
I remember the first time I decided I would enliven the insipid masses with my cheerful regards. It was a blustery autumn day in Wilmington, and I was walking down Martin Luther King Blvd. toward Orange Street. I was late for a job interview, but I found the time to make a difference in a stranger’s life. A neighborly gentleman dressed in a frayed wool sweater, leather pants, and worn Army boots approached me.
“Hello,” I said as I walked past him.
“Huh?” He turned around.
“Hello,” I said as I faced him. “And have a nice day.”
He seemed to be overwhelmed by my benevolence. “You talkin’ t’me, muddafucka?”
“Why, yes,” I replied. “I just wanted to say hello.”
“You gotta fuckin’ problem?” I could see I was reaching him.
“You appeared as if you were having a bad day,” I said. “That’s okay. I’m having a bad day as well. I thought I could make your day better by saying hello to you. Hello.”
He rubbed his chin and crossed his muscular arms as he spit on the ground before me. “Fuck you,” he said.
“That language is not necessary,” I said. “I just wanted to reach out to you.”
The gentleman returned the favor by reaching out to me and picking my wallet out of my back pocket.
The next day, I was walking along the colorful hills of the Brandywine, a delightful country near the Pennsylvania border. I had just walked over a hill and was coming to a trail which led to the Brandywine River when I spotted a young woman walking towards me. She was about a hundred feet away and I noticed that she was eyeing me up and down. She was a redhead, with soft, wavy curls that seemed to flow endlessly down her back. It was a cool day and she was properly dressed in a sweatshirt, jacket, and jeans.
As she drew closer, I attempted eye contact, but she looked away. As we nearly brushed against one another, I said, “Hello.”
She turned to me, gritted her teeth, and cried, “Who are you?! Why did you say hello to me?! I don’t know you, you bastard!”
“I—”
“How dare you speak to me! Even look at me! Leave me alone! Oh, God! I hate you!”
With that, she turned around and ran. She ran about fifty yards then collapsed to the ground on her back, kicked out her legs, and remained motionless. I shrugged and left.
To this day, I still attempt to be nice to strangers. So far I’ve managed to get one hello in response…from an old woman that I think is still crank calling me to this day. I don’t see anything wrong with saying hello to strangers, because if that stranger could then become an acquaintance, there’s a good chance the acquaintance could turn into a friend.
And who ever have enough of them?
18 Mar
From the diary of Attila the Hun:
Dear Diary,
I hope that someday I will be remembered as the epitome of cruelty and rapacity. Slaughtered 3,876 innocent women and children today. On the way home to Mongolia, I stopped to pick a dozen roses for Priscilla. She loves them so. Plan on slaughtering another 4,000 tomorrow.
11 Mar
[[[ The journals of Adam and Eve, the first man and woman to divorce, were found in what is now southwest Iraq.[[[
Adam
July 7th, 657,125 B.C.
Woke up. Picked some berries. Named the lion ‘lion’ and the giraffe ‘giraffe’. Did lunch with Eve. We ate the berries I picked all morning. Chopped some wood. Think I broke my hands. Maybe I’ll invent the ax. Pretty much bored and depressed. God keeps telling me to cheer up or else he’s going to create the first mother-in-law. I asked if he could create Paxil instead. I’m thinking of putting on an addition to our cave. The contractor God had created to put on his addition isn’t available for at least six weeks. Eve keeps pushing an apple in my face. I’m tempted to eat it, but apples give me the runs. Wish I had Pepto-Bismol when that happens. But then it wouldn’t do me any good. I don’t have a spoon.
Eve
August 2nd, 657,122 B.C.
Woke up. Fed the kids. What am I going to do with Cain? He’s so bad. Gathered some berries. I’d like to make a Jell-O mold for dessert with fresh blueberries. Spanked Abel for calling me “the first sinner” and “the downfall of mankind.” Did lunch with Adam. We ate the berries I picked all morning. Held a garage sale yesterday but no one showed up. Depressed that no one showed up for my first Mom’s Club meeting as well. Adam and the boys are never in the mood for a “make-over.” Thinking of suggesting to Adam that we do the “naughty” again tonight. If I don’t begat a girl, the entire human race is pretty much screwed.
November 17th, 654,117 B.C.
Woke up. Chopped some wood. Not sure why I waste so much time doing this…I haven’t discovered fire yet. Gave Cain 5 timeouts today! I continually try to teach Abel to stand up for himself. Both kids like to tease Eve and myself for not having “belly buttons.” Eve is concerned that the kids have not had their shots yet. I suggested to her we do the “naughty” again so she can begat a doctor. She said that wouldn’t do us any good since we don’t have any insurance.
July 16th, 654,098 B.C.
Woke up. Asked Adam again to please consider forgiving Cain for murdering Abel in cold blood. Adam won’t hear of it. I told Adam we need to forgive him or else we’re not looking at much of a family get-together for the holidays this year. Adam then raised a good point. “In Cain’s last letter, he wrote that he has a wife. Unless he’s into bestiality and we have orangutans as in-laws…who the hell is his wife? Is there another God down the street starting up another race?”
September 10th, 654,096 B.C.
Eve still thinks I’m cheating on her. With who? I cried. The llama? Sometimes I wonder why the Lord made her the first woman.
4 Mar
God’s personal journal was discovered on August 6, 2002, by two little girls while strolling through Launfal Park in Fruitdish, Tennessee. Local religious leaders believe the Almighty must have dropped it. “We believe God must have dropped it or something,” said Reverend Herman Barnes of St. Mary’s Baptist Church. How did the journal remain intact after the fall? “The journal has very strong binding,” Reverend Barnes stated.
July 8th, 5,687,422 B.C.
Woke up. Made the coffee too weak. Created light (which has made it easier to see what the hell I’m writing.) Had fun creating the world in only six days. It’s amazing what you can do when you don’t have to wait for a building permit. I’m resting today. Thinking about creating Man. Either that or putting on an addition. I mean, I’ve got nothing else to do with my time. Not sure if I want it enclosed. Thinking of creating a contractor to give me a free estimate and would be available to do the job within six weeks.
October 12th, 5,687,420 B.C.
Satan is still bugging the hell outta me. He’s very sarcastic. His left eye is weird, too. Like, I’ll be talking to him and his right eye is looking right at me, but his left eye is looking at my ass or something. Ate dinner alone. How many times can I burn pork chops? I need a maid, too. Heaven is such a mess, I swear to myself.
March 3rd, 657,131 B.C.
Well, I did it. I created Man. I’ve decided to name him Adam. He’s a pretty funny guy. The other day, we’re walking in this Garden of Eden I created for him, and he says to me, “God, I need to ask a favor.” I said, “What is it, my son?” He said, “I need you to create something for me.” I smirked. “Are you lonely, Adam?” I asked. “Do you want me to create a Woman for you?” “Huh?” replied Adam. “What is a Woman?” He grabbed his jewels with his left hand and said, “I want you to create a bigger thing-a-ma-jigger for me. The monkeys are saying I must be Irish or something.”
I did not do as Adam asked, but instead rendered him unconscious with a snap of my fingers. I then took a rib out of his body, and with one breath I formed the first Woman around Adam’s rib. When Adam awoke, he saw this Woman and proclaimed, “Hallelujah! Someone to cook and clean!” He suddenly developed a beer gut, his hairline receded three inches, he planted his bulging ass in a leather couch, grabbed a remote control and aimed it at a tree.
“What the hell is that?” asked the Woman.
“Man,” I replied. “His name is Adam.”
“Make me a sandwich while yer up, honey,” said Adam as he stared at the tree.
The Woman looked at me desperately. “I’d rather be a rib than drag his ass all over creation.”
I laughed. These two were quite the couple. Adam named her Eve which was short for “Everything Out Of Your Mouth Is a Bitch and Moan.”
Eve nicknamed Adam “Irish.” The monkeys liked that one.