Attack Of The Kirstie Alley

“Is she real, Mama?”

Timmy was looking up at her, his eyes wide and watering. The boy wasn’t deaf… he had heard the stories, he had heard the sirens. He wasn’t blind… he had seen the worried faces of the neighborhood men as they gathered in the cul-de-sac beneath the slow summer twilight, sitting on the hoods of their cars and making plans… drawing strategies.  And the boy wasn’t dumb… but at nine he was still young enough to be fooled. And that’s why Mama pulled him close and kissed his forehead and lied to his face.

“No, baby, she isn’t real.”

Neither of them spoke as she held her son close to her chest. Anna, the baby, gurgled and cooed in her high chair, and outside the wind chimes jangled in the still wind.

The soothing sound was drowned out by the violent screech of a cat. It came from the backyard, an inhuman howl that sent shivers up Timmy’s spine. “Pepper!”

The tortured squealing continued, streaming in the kitchen through the screen door, Mama wincing at the sound. And then, suddenly, there was silence.

“Papa!” He stuck his head in the door before Mama had finished calling his name. He was wearing his camouflage hat and carrying his shotgun. His well-groomed mustache was twitching on his upper lip.

“I heard it.”

He grabbed five pounds of hamburger meat from the fridge and opened the back door, listening.

There was no sound.

Papa waved Mama away, and she lifted Anna, leading Timmy into the den.

Papa stepped out onto the backyard, and there beside the kiddie’s pool was Pepper’s skin and bones. She’d been eaten alive, and there was no meat left to speak of. “Poor bitch,” said Papa, shaking his head.

He leaned his gun against his shoulder and popped the plastic wrap bubble 'round the hamburger. He took a hunk of chuck and formed it into a grapefruit-size ball, holding it out as he stepped toward the bushes.

“Here, Kirstie, Kirstie…” He knew she could smell it, knew she was crouched behind the shrubs, and he held the-

Kirstie Alley pounced from beneath the porch, going for the meat, gulping it down in one massive bite of her jaws that took Papa’s right hand along with it.

She was chewing, her highlighted hair filthy and matted, wearing only a massive housecoat and nothing underneath. Her stout legs were hairy and her feet encrusted in brown dirt. Her nostrils were flared and her enormous frame shook as she lapped up the chop meat.

Papa looked down at the bloody stump at the end of his arm and snapped. He started running in place, his knees reaching high, and as he fumbled for his gun he fired accidentally into the air. Kirstie didn’t like this.

She ran at Papa with all her might, knocking him to the ground and cracking his spine against the cement-grounded tether pole. This had a two-prong effect on Papa: it paralyzed him from the waist down and killed him instantly.

Mama held Anna and Timmy close behind the sofa, afraid to take a breath or make a sound. They knew Papa was gone but now they had to save themselves. That was when they heard Kirstie in the kitchen.

She had made her way into the house and gained access to the refrigerator. She stood with the door open, her head inside and devouring every item she could get in her mouth: moldy pizza, jars of pickle juice, an entire carton of expired sour cream. She gobbled pasta salad and deviled eggs, heads of cabbage and mystery beef. The beast let out with a bellow that shook the house to its very foundation.

Kirstie kept eating. It seemed like fifteen minutes had passed and the sounds of her gnawing and swallowing hadn’t stopped: The girl gobbled good.

Mama couldn’t wait any longer- she decided to make her move. She jumped up from behind the couch and grabbed the spray bottle of bleach, running into the kitchen, hoping to surprise the creature. Kirstie slammed the refrigerator door shut, a stick of butter in her mouth, and turned to face Mama just as Mama sprayed. She spritzed seven straight blasts of bleach into Kirstie’s eyes, which went red and teared up.

Mama grabbed the phone to call 911, but that’s when Kirstie dislocated her own jaw and bit off Mama’s head in a single, noisy chomp. The cordless fell to the floor but Mama’s headless torso didn’t go down right away… she danced like a lunatic, spinning around the kitchen with her arms flailing… she picked up a rag and wiped the crumbs off the counter. Kirstie watched her, popping open a jug of extra-virgin olive oil.

“Cheers,” she said, raising the bottle to her lips and chugging. Headless Mama- through humiliating herself- finally collapsed to the linoleum in a heap.

When Kirstie had relieved her thirst she squeezed through the door frame and made her way into the den, where Anna sat on the sofa, smiling sweetly and sucking her fist, completely unaware of the bloodbath before her. Kirstie spotted the pudgy infant and licked her lips. Dessert…

She advanced on the oblivious newborn, lifting her up and smiling. “There is nothing like the smell of fresh-baked ba-”

“Leave her alone, you bitch.” Timmy stood in the doorway behind her, his late Father’s shotgun trained on the obese behemoth. Kirstie laughed, all five of her chins jiggling in rhythm to the menacing cackle. She squinted at the boy, her lips snarled.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

Timmy fired, putting two bullets into her immense backside and nearly sending himself to the ground from the force of the blast. Kirstie dropped Anna to the sofa and roared in agony, running off through the front door and across the driveway, back into the wild and toward Los Angeles. She left a pile of droppings behind her as she went, and the entire neighborhood could hear her wounded, guttural moan.

Timmy raced to check on Anna, but the baby was unharmed. He picked up the phone and dialed 911, reloading Papa’s shotgun just in case the mammoth returned.

“I’d like to report a Kirstie Alley attack.”


Is there nothing more romantic than pulverizing a vulva?

Children are not dogs, and yet they seem to enjoy eating from bowls on the floor...

Some days I use the toaster just to spite my microwave

I hang out at the IHOP, but only to be seen

Has science figured out yet what Louie Armstrong was leaking?

The moon landing is the biggest scam since the invention of the Continental Breakfast

The best way to start the day is with a cup of coffee and a phone call from James Earl Jones

Your magic show was fantastic, but I'm gonna need my spleen back


I’ve been six times ‘round the galaxy but I’ve never seen an ugly woman on a sailboat

Marriage is just slavery without the suntan

The world is your oyster, so shut up and start shucking!


Old Man Live Alone

Old Man Live Alone was sitting on the toilet, belching, his beard stubble itching his chin, his belt buckle scraping against the tile on the floor, which was yellow from age and bad aim. He was experiencing stomach cramps, and he wondered if he had any Pepto Bismol in the medicine cabinet, or should he just jam a steak knife into his throat.

Old Man Live Alone was an old man, who lived alone, but ironically enough that was not how he got his name. Just trust me on this one… that’s not how it happened. How he got his name, my friend, is a story for another day.

An hour later the plunger- filthy and humiliated- was returned to his home on the pantry floor beside the vacuum and the broom without bristles. The plunger was still dripping with foul, but Old Man closed the door, plunging the poor bastard into darkness.

Old Man Live Alone- wearing a promotional Marlboro polo from 1987- flopped down in his recliner and switched on the television. He liked to look at television, really look at it. His daughter had made him a cable channel guide on an index card so he’d stop calling her at 5 AM and asking, “Where’s TBS?”

She scotch-taped the guide to his end-table, where he kept his pill bottles and glasses case and then she told him how much she despised him, sharing her personal goal of never seeing him again for the rest of her life.

Old Man found the Weather Channel channel and punched it into the remote. He was halfway through the flash flood alert for the Pacific Northwest when his doorbell rang.

“Who is it there?” he called aloud.

The bell rang again.

Old Man got up and crossed the living room floor, stepping on a shard of glass and driving it into the soft flesh of his bare foot. He was too old to curse, but the tears were still happening. He made a mental note to hang himself that afternoon before opening the front door.

A young boy, about eleven years and seven months old, stood on Old Man’s faded welcome mat, a pillowcase in his hands.

“What do you want? Me to do?”

The little boy blinked twice and went into his pitch. “Would you like to buy some candy to send my class on a field trip to Washington, DC?”

“Where is it?” Old Man asked. “The candy?”

The young boy took a deep breath. “Do you have a moment to hear about the adventures of Jesus Christ and The Implausible Paradise?”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“Pennies for Unicef!”

“Listen to me, you little son of a b-”

“Would you play ball with me? And become my de facto grandfather until my real one passes away?”

Old Man grabbed his bottle of Hornet-B-Gone and sprayed the little boy in his eyes. The youngster reeled back, howling in Portugese, and tripped over the porch step, falling neck-first onto an rusty nail that was still Number One on Old Man’s To-Do List. Old Man Live Alone closed the door before the bleeding began, optimistically reasoning that the boy would most likely grow out of the situation.

Old Man felt a sharp pain in his groin. This was the warning of an imminent piddle or the birth of another fatal kidney stone. He decided he would drink that bottle of bleach above the washer/dryer, but before he got a chance he noticed the phone was ringing.

He searched for his cell phone for a good three minutes before he remembered he had lost it six months earlier. That’s when he answered his home phone by picking it up, bringing it to his ear and saying, “Hello?”

Sometimes the classics still work.

“This is Lorena from MalComm Cable… I’d like to ask you a few question about your service experience.”

“I love you,” replied Old Man.

“Excuse me, sir?” countered Lorena in her polite Latin accent, “but I just have some questions for you about your cable experience.”

“Do you? Love me too?”

“How would you rate the quality of the picture on your cable box- Excellent, Very Excellent, Magnificence In G Major, or Dazzle Fantastic?”

“’Dazzle Fantastic?’”

“Thank you, sir, just nineteen more questions for you.”

“You see, Lorena, I’m having a party on Friday night-”

“No, sir, you’re not.”

“How did you know that? And can you be here by six?”

“Sir, I can tell my supervisor that you were unable to complete the survey because you don’t speak English. Would you like me to tell him that, sir?”

“Yes, dammit,” said Old Man Live Alone, genuinely steamed, “speak English!”

Lorena did a dead-on impression of a dial tone, but Old Man hung on the line for a few minutes, just in case she decided to call back.

That was when the smoke alarm started. Old Man noticed the smoke, and remembered the Everything Bagel he had jammed into his filthy toaster oven. Was that this morning or last night?

He ran for the fire extiguisher, remembered he didn’t own one, and ran back toward the blazing appliance, stepping on a thumb tack, which pushed the shard of glass deeper into the pink meat of his footbeef.

“Raspberries,” declared Old Man Live Alone, and he vowed to overdose on sleeping pills the moment he put out the fire.

Old Man Live Alone had long since mastered the oven mitt, but he was so flustered he reached bare-handed into the toaster to retrieve both halves of his flaming bagel. They say fingers don’t burn, but Old Man would beg to differ. He dropped the hot Everything and raised his blazing digits to the heavens, his mouth spouting inspired babble, consonant-free, octaves beyond the human range.

Old Man could only think of one way to put out his barbecued sausages… he ran into the bathroom and dunked his flaming figgies into the cool porcelain waters of his toilet bowl. Like you didn’t see that coming.

It was especially unfortunate that his last bathroom visit had been so furious… the bowl was still filled with lingering marine life, defiant oysters that even the sewer had to refuse. Old Man Live Alone was elbow deep in his own liquid shame. He pulled his hands out slowly, his scorched paws black and ashed, his smoldering palms unrelentingly pungent. Old Man wondered if the Everything Bagel could be salvaged, or maybe just jump in front of a subway car.

The doorbell rang, again, and Old Man washed his hands before he answered. It was the little boy from earlier, duct tape wrapped around his punctured gullet, only this time he was pointing a Slovak semi-automatic pistol directly at Old Man.

“Okay,” Old Man surrendered, “I’ll be your Grandfath-”

The boy fired twice, putting four bullets into Old Man’s belly. Old Man fell to the ground on his welcome mat, clutching his stomach, promising himself he would slit his wrists if he survived this.

“Say hello to Jesus for me,” said the boy, giving the finger to the grote writhing in the doorway.

“Only if you’ll do something for me,” said Old Man Live Alone, dying.

“Tell Lorena I love her.”

We Wrote Our Own Vows


“My dearest Amanda… the way you look at me lets me know you’re about to start talking. When you walk…you walk. And when you talk…you don’t stop. I’ve been looking forward to writing our own vows since the day we got engaged. Why? Because I knew that, for once, you would take a break from said talking and it would be my chance to talk.

Some nights, when I want to make love to you, but can’t, because you’re busy talking, I look into your eyes, and I wish that I could stop you from talking long enough to tell you that I love you and your constant talking. For the record, my middle name is Zemick. I’ve just never had a chance to tell you before today. On account of all the talking.

It was your talking that first attracted me to you… your primal fear of silence has filled my ears with the music of your words, and your words have filled my eyes with salty tears of appreciation. Your talking is the first sound I hear when I wake up in the morning and the last noise I hear as I fall into a coma-like sleep every evening.

“When I answer my phone I want to hear your talking, and when I open the door I want you to be there talking to me as well. If there were some way to broadcast you over television I would want to have you talking to me there also. Ditto on my portable devices. My darling, I haven’t won an argument with you yet, and with any luck… I’ll never win one for the rest of my life.

“You’ve been talking to me for the past five years, and during that time I’ve become accustomed to your talking, and even listened to parts of it, and I want you to know that on this, our wedding day, I hope you never stop talking at me. I hope for years to come you will talk to me through childbirth, and Christmases, and anniversaries, and during Jerry Lewis Telethons, and the eventual auditing of our joint tax returns. Just keep talking and I will make all the magic happen.”


"One day God made a puppy, and opened a window, and a bird came down from heaven, and melted the puppy with Cupid’s burning arrow, because I forgot to say earlier that the puppy was frozen in a block of ice, but that was okay because a dove flew over the puppy in the garden where a single red rose was growing, and a little girl picked that rose, and a rainbow appeared. Did I mention that little girl was also an angel? She was.

Two weeks later I met my beloved Remy in the spatula section of Bed, Bath & Beyond. He was buying a spatula. That was the day the stream began to flow, the warm stream of our love, and it mixed with the river of Jesus in the ocean of America, and so now all our waters is mingled, and we are ankle-deep in liquid love.

Remy, you are my moon, my sun, my Jupiter and my Alderaan. You are the gravity that keeps me from floating senselessly into the atmosphere, high on fizzy-lifting drinks, clutching at street signs and telephone poles so that I do not leave Earth’s orbit and burn to a crisp in the deadly radiation of the Van Allen belt. You are my rocket ship of goodness, and when we find ourselves under fire from attacking alien cruisers we get into the escape pod together and press the button… the button that makes it go whooooosh!!!

The love you give goes flowing out of me and back into you, passing through our friends and family members, surging through our acquaintances and co-workers. The love in my heart swells to twice the size of my devotion every time you re-dedicate yourself to share in the thunderstorm of my eternity. Now I’m feeling partly cloudy with a 30% chance of showers and I require immediate medical attention.

"I now pronounce you man & love-puppet..."



...and that's how I became President of Mexico

Somedays I slap my kid just for the crack of it 

A voting booth is like a slot machine with no chance of winning

I heard through the grapevine that you're getting married... to a raging alcoholic

 It’s a wonderful pre-afterlife...

Be nice, because you never know where your next blowjob is coming from

I take my time with the menu, because life is short and I’m an illiterate

I’d love to come to your party but my coven meets that night

Balconies are a great place to parade your Haitian mistress

I won’t be truly happy until all my schoolteachers are reunited in Hell

You can’t cry over spilled milk... but you can slap the hell out of the cow

The Truth About St. Patrick's Day

 Anybody can pop a can of Schlitz and get blackout drunk on St. Patrick’s Day. But did you know the historical significance of the ‘Irish Holiday?’

A long, long, long time ago- let’s say 1962- Ireland was a gorgeous pastoral paradise, a land where drunkards and their captive wives could roam the countryside freely, growing chubby on potatoes that were plentiful and guzzling gallons of ale that flowed as freely as urine after a prostate exam.

“Aye, ‘tis a good land this Ireland,” one such ruddy lump was most likely overheard to exclaim, tipsy on potato beer, “’Tis a good time to procreate and fill the land with little Iricks.”

Iricks was the prehistoric term for Irish people, which was later changed to ‘Hawaiian’ and then, after much confusion, changed back to ‘Irish people.’ And the little Iricks did appear… little boy Iricks toddling the fields, little girl Iricks mooning the clergy… There were scores of young Iricks frolicking in the fields… look it was just a lot of Iricks, okay? Being born with a blood-alcohol level of 6 is no easy way to come into the world, but what truly made life difficult for the young Iricks is that their doughy flesh and lack of parental supervision made them extremely susceptible to the attacks of wandering snakes.

“Aye, these Irick babies is delicious,” slithered one snake, if snakes were able to talk when they slithered. But of course they cannot, so we as a group must assume. “’Tis time for the lot of us to gobble these babies whole, like the proverbial Egg McMuffin, which at this time has yet to be invented.”

Pending trademarks aside, the snakes did attack, swarming over the hills and through the valleys, across the dells and around the lowlands, and into the rudimentary sewer systems. They sprang from under pillows and shot out of toilet bowls… they crept into nurseries and playpens and devoured the tiny Iricks in a single swallow. It wasn’t long before the Irick parents began to notice something was wrong.

“Me baby is missing,” spoke one red-headed mother on the condition of anonymity, “and this time I don’t think me husband sold him for whiskey.” In an ironic twist, he had. But the rest of the parents had legitimate concerns.

“If the snakes eat our babies who will carry on our legacy of stumbling over cobblestones and piddling our britches?” Such questions led to the first ever Irish town-hall meeting, at which shrimp was served with that delicious cocktail sauce. The townspeople spoke as they de-veined.

“The bad news is that all our children are missing,” spoke the village Mayor with a toothpick in his mouth, “but the good news is that none of us are paying for babysitters this evening.”

Savings aside, the Iricks knew something had to be done. They built makeshift contraptions to suspend their children above the ground by hanging them in a harness from a tree branch, but this only served to invite attacks from lazy bears and ambitious eagles.

Another town hall meeting was held.
“All in favor of passing a law to shoot Leprechauns on site?” asked the Mayor.

“Aye,” said the villagers in unison.

“Next order of business,” said the Mayor, genuinely offended that no one had brought any shrimp to today’s meeting, “the little matter of the baby-gobbling snakes.”

“There is no solution!” a woman cried out from the crowd.

“I surrender!” spoke another Irishman.

“All hail the snakes and their glorious domination over our dominion!” someone shouted.

“Repeal the Leprechaun law!” spoke a short gentleman in a green suit.

“SILENCE!” came a thundering cry from the back of the room - and there stood a man twice the size of any man half his size. His eyes were burning, similar to the way fire burns but with significantly less smoke. He removed his tam as the villagers watched him, hushed.

“My name is Patrick,” he spoke, twirling his mustache and stepping to the front of the room. “Patrick Weinberg. I can rid ye of the snakes and your babies will be safe again. But in exchange I want your souls for all eternity.”

The shortsighted villagers- desperate for a solution- quickly agreed, and so the very next day Patrick set to work.

He walked to the center of the village, where a crowd had gathered to watch.  Patrick pulled out his flute and began to play a melody so lovely that the townspeople could scarcely believe their ears. Patrick did a jaunty dance to the shanty as the music flowed through the air.

At once the snakes began to appear. They slithered out of taverns and nurseries, overcome with the power of Patrick’s righteous fife. They slank out of homes and crawled out of basements, squilting from behind bushes and scrooping from beneath stones. No snake could resist the funky Celtic rhythms…

When the snakes were all gathered Patrick began to march…and the mesmerized snakes followed him as if they had no will of their own. Patrick marched over the hills and through the valleys, across the dells and around the lowlands, and through the parking lot of the Home Depot. He marched the snakes to the coast, and continued to play as he stepped into the ocean, the snakes following blindly.

One by one the snakes entered the water, drowning almost instantly. Patrick did not stop playing his tune until every last snake was gone from the land. He turned to face the villagers.

“The snakes are all gone, and your children once again safe.”

The villagers cheered, shouting their appreciation, and Patrick bowed before them.

“And now,” he said, “I want your souls for all eternity.”

The villagers realized that they must keep their end of the bargain, and they lowered their heads in shame, awaiting damnation.

“Aww hell,” said Patrick, “I never wanted your souls… let’s go get shit-faced!”

A great roar went up from the Iricks and they bought Patrick shots until he achieved Sainthood. More babies were manufactured and today the Iricks survive as hobbit-like creatures – but hobbit-like creatures with children safe from hungry snakes. Today we celebrate St. Patrick’s day to give thanks that we are not Iricks and do not have to deal with bizarre problems such as snakes, leprechauns, and, of course, the accent.

Happy St. Patrick’s Day!


I'm not afraid of puppets anymore, and if my wife tells you any differently then that bitch is just a filthy liar

Childhood was a breeze, what with Papa’s weakness for Mexican snatch

Avoid Everything Bagels, because they really do lead to the harder stuff

Excuse me, but are you the woman they call the Human Dumpster?

I have climbed the mountain, and the view from the top is just as pathetic as I thought it would be

My son Lousy has low self-esteem for some reason

The best thing about blacking out is

I have no problem with gays in the military but I agree they should be banned from deep-space exploration

Everything you do is zen- except that

Guilty, Your Honor, but it’s a great story…

Nana’s medication’ is not a food group

Somedays I feel like the last dyslexic in Alphabet City

A Note Found On The Fridge...

Hey Steve,

How was your day? Good, I hope. I’m recording the Mets game so don’t tell me the score… I should be home around . Oh, by the way- did you drink my Dr. Pepper? It’s not a big deal if you did. I put a 16 oz. bottle in the fridge last night and now it’s gone. I could care less if you drank it… I just want to know because I got that bottle on sale and the sale ended Saturday. Plus Val is coming over tomorrow and she loves Dr. Pepper- even more than I do. Which is a whole lot. Not a big deal…

I know you would tell me if you drank it- and I would be so surprised if you drank it, because you told me that you didn’t like Dr. Pepper. Remember that time we were at Frank’s birthday party and everyone was drinking Coke and I was drinking a Dr. Pepper and you called me a zero and poured Coke over my head? I do. You said it was because I was drinking Dr. Pepper and you didn’t like Dr. Pepper. That’s why it would be so funny if you drank my Dr. Pepper from the fridge. Anyway…

It’s not really the money I care about… it was only $1.89. The only thing is Dr. Pepper was my Grandfather’s favorite drink before he passed away. One of my happiest childhood memories was visiting my grandfather on Saturdays. We would drink Dr. Pepper for hours and hours, and talk about Dr. Pepper while we were drinking it, and I know if he was alive today he would want me to find out what happened to the bottle of Dr. Pepper that I left in the fridge. If he were here he would probably ask you, “Did you drink it?” LOL… he was always funny that way…

So, did you drink it? Again, not a big deal… I just wonder, you know? I’m sure the Dr. Pepper was in the fridge last night- it was back behind the OJ- and now it’s gone. Again, it’s totally cool if you did drink the Dr. Pepper- what’s mine is yours, all the way… but I just need to know for sure or else I will call the super and maybe the police and report a break-in, because somebody definitely took the bottle from the fridge. So cool, just let me know if you swiped the Pepper. (When I say “swiped,” I don’t mean it in the accusatory sense, I mean it just as a wondering from a curious-friend… no sweat!)

Oh by the way, just to level the playing field, I want to let you know that I ate that piece of buffalo chicken that you brought back from the restaurant that night. It had been sitting in the fridge for a week, and it was starting to turn moldy, so I heated it for breakfast on Friday. Just in case you were wondering what happened to it… I wanted to come clean so you could feel free to let me know if you stole my Dr. Pepper. If you drank the whole thing I would expect to find the empty bottle in the garbage.

The thing is when I went through the garbage the empty bottle wasn’t there. Just to be sure I went down to the dumpster behind our building and searched through all four bins. There was an empty Dr. Pepper can in Mrs. Ferrullo’s trash, but no bottle. Maybe you took it to be recycled? It’s cool if you did- keep the nickel- but I just want to know. (Hope you enjoyed it if you did drink it…. Just kidding, lol…)

But wouldn’t it be funny if you did drink the Dr. Pepper? Especially because you said you didn’t like it? It doesn't make any sense!!! We could have a real laugh over that, I bet, if you do confess. (I don’t mean “confess” in a guilt or innocence way, I just mean it as a concerned citizen in the center of a fascinating mystery.)

Well, I better get going, Steve… I’m three hours late for work. Everything’s cool about the Dr. Pepper, don’t even worry about it… just let me know what happened. I would hate to involve the authorities if it wasn’t necessary. So just tell me! Okay, I’ll see you tonight. (Hopefully you’ll have a great story and a brand new bottle of Dr. Pepper… just kidding, lol… but think about it)

Talk to you soon… your roommate,

PS - I really really wanted that Dr. Pepper! It's all good...

Mr. Wizard's World

Scientist Warren Kruger shares his knowledge with kids…

What is a light year?
365 days with fewer calories. Next…

Why doesn’t alcohol freeze?
Spite. Alcohol is a stubborn liquid, known in the scientific community as water’s angry cousin. When exposed to cold temperatures alcohol holds its breath and refuses to participate with the other liquids. Booze remains fluid while the other liquids petrify in cowardice. German beer is the most obnoxious… this is why you can never ice a Heineken.

Why is the sky blue?
Are you trying to prove me moronic? You have failed.

What makes hair grow?
For every good idea and intelligent sentence that comes out of your mouth you create almost twenty bad ideas and misguided notions. These sit in your skull until your brain literally forces them out through the follicles in your head, and this waste material known as hair is styled and flaunted. Obviously, bald people are geniuses.

What is Project Microwave?
I have never participated in any kind of mass-radiation experiment. This project is still classified as far as I am aware! Name your source or exit the classroom!

When will we have robots in our homes, doing our chores for us?
Artificial intelligence is not designed to serve you or clean your home to compensate for your laziness. Androids are designed to serve humanity by increasing processing speed and determining precise laser targets for military strikes… and I will personally see to it that no robot is ever able to dance.

Where does the sun go at night?
The sun and moon are locked in eternal struggle, a game of hide and seek so delicate and precise that the slightest variance will collapse the tides and bring categorical destruction to the home we call Planet Earth. Many feel that the Sun and the Moon are actually the same planet, and that dusk and dawn are merely excuses for him to changes clothes and continue the charade. I have several phone calls in about this…

Where do bees go in the winter?
To their vacation home, which is located in the greater Tampa area.

Is time-travel possible?
I am from the future, in which you have already asked that ridiculous question and in which I have already exposed you as ignorant in front of your classmates. It is too late to take it back… your tears will begin in less than thirty seconds.


You can fool some of the people all of the time but oral sex is still surprisingly expensive

Pine-Sol is ideal for sprucing up a crime scene

I misspoke earlier: Mom didn't explode... she was vaporized

John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt? That son of a bitch stole my Mazda

I stand for the National Anthem, but I always lean to one side

That's odd... fangs don't usually develop until the onset of menopause

Stuck in the house with you on this rainy day makes me want to review our marriage contract with a fine-tooth comb

If grease is the word what am I gonna do with all this Vaseline?

Will eat for food

If Mary Poppins was my nanny I would bang her till the magic comes out

Don't listen to the salesmen: poo is no substitute for plop

Somewhere, over the rainbow, a Mexican fellow is stealing his first motorcycle

Superman Vs. The New York Yankees

He dug in to the batter’s box, raising the bat high above his shoulder, his cape fluttering in the strong Bronx breeze. CC Sabathia squinted, checking Posada's sign behind the plate. He was calling for the fastball.

Sabathia, on the mound, froze for a moment before going into his windup. Jeter, playing off the bag, moved toward second on the delivery. Sabathia fired, and the fastball exploded out of his fingers and shot to the plate like a bolt of lightning.

Superman swung, missing the ball by almost three feet. The gust of wind from his swing roared up the third base line, nearly knocking A-Rod off his feet.


This was Superman, super furious, his jaw clenched in frustration. He shot the ump a dirty look, and the ump responded by spitting half a gallon of tobacco into the dirt. Posada threw the ball back to Sabathia, who was wiping the sweat off his brow.

Superman took a deep breath and stepped out of the batter’s box. He was deep in thought, his head at an angle. He walked around the ump, and crossed to the left side of the plate- a switch-hitter! Superman took a practice swing as a lefty, and his stroke was so impressive the outfielders stepped back to the warning track. Superman stepped back into the box.

Sabathia delivered and Superman swung, underneath the pitch. He fouled it straight back, and Posada didn’t even bother to give chase as it landed with a “Clink!” on the cage.


Nick Swisher bit his lip to keep from laughing aloud, and Superman launched his bat 450-plus feet into Monument Park, where it shattered into a thousand pieces against the Steinbrenner memorial. The batboy rushed out of the dugout with new lumber in hand. Superman grabbed it from him, sneering at the kid as he hustled back to the bench.

The Man of Steel looked serious. He crossed back to the right side of the plate and dug in deep, kicking up a storm of dust that had the umpire hacking. Suddenly he stepped out, and a sly grin came over his face. He raised his bat, smiling, and pointed to dead centerfield. He was calling his shot!

Brett Gardner and Swisher shifted towards Granderson in center, triple coverage for what was coming… although it still might not be enough. Superman got back in the box and reared back, ready for the pitch.

Sabathia took a deep breath, visibly tense, and checked the signs. He shook off Posada once… twice… three times. He finally nodded, showing no signs of confidence. Sabathia went into his windup… Teixeira wiggled his bottom in anticipation… Jeter bit his nail and went into a crouch… every player on the field was locked in concentration… and breathless with suspense…

The pitch!

Superman squared to bunt, and tapped the ball foul, four feet down the first base line. No one moved as it rolled lazily up the basepath, inches from the line. It came to a gentle stop in the grass, out of play. Bunting foul on the third strike… Superman was out! He stood frozen, his mouth open, his body still locked in its awkward pose… The moment seemed to last an hour... none of the Yankees could make eye contact.

Joe Girardi emerged from the dugout, walking towards the plate. “Hey,” he started, lowering his head to take off his cap, “how about we give you a do-over?”

But it was too late. Superman was gone. He was already two hundred feet above the stadium and flying away faster than a jet airplane. The Yankees watched him get smaller in the sky, his cape billowing out behind him. They knew where he was going: back to Tampa to return to Spring Training. Superman would be back, and next time, he might not be such an easy out.