Monday, September 18, 2017

Military Diet

My doctor put me on this diet three days a week. He wants me to lose 16 pounds. This is the diet they use on The Biggest Loser.
It would be a lot easier if I had someone to talk to at night when I do most of my snacking.I don't know how soldiers on this diet have the energy to attack any country. Maybe Ethiopia.
Hot dogs without buns. Meat the size of a deck of cards. One slice of bread. Half a banana. Three scoops of ice cream. Half a can of tuna. I can see myself chewing on my own arm.
I will go for my next visit and explain my issue. It will be humiliating. Failure will dominate my voice and posture.
However, getting completely naked and standing on my scale makes my day.

At the Podium

Fellow citizens, this country is now $20 trillion in debt. We must think outside the box.
Sell Alaska. Sell Guam. Sell the air space over Gov. Christie. Sell Puert Rico and the Virgin Islands. Hell, sell Long Island. We already have New Jersey.
Do we really need five Great Lakes. Sell them to Canada. Sell some of our poets to Third World countries. Sell a few of our celebrities. Larry King, Ray Romano, Cloris Leachman, Ryan Seacrest, Michael Strahan.
There must be some rivers we can spare. All those gazebos covered with bird crap--gone.
How will our kids deal with this debt? They may just start selling senior citizens.

New Challenges

Buffalo Bill was bored. Shooting buffaloes was too easy. He tried macrame, but was all thumbs. Hair styling didn't fulfill his needs. Neither did physical therapy.
Meanwhile, the buffalo population increased. People begged him to return to his former occupation. He was entranced by ballroom dancing.
One day a herd of buffaloes attacked a book festival, trampling authors. Only Mark twain survived. Bill was accused of abrogating his responsibility. Finally he agreed, but only if he was allowed to design his own outfits. And so it came to pass that his quest for new challenges was short circuited.
But he wore boots to die for.

Saturday, September 9, 2017

Mass Exodus

I was born to dance. I love Union Square Park. Put those two together and you have a performance for the ages. I was graceful and elegant even as a child upchucking. My destiny was chosen for me.
One day I changed into my spandex body suit at the Barnes & Noble across from the park. I marched right to the open space, drawing attention from the protesters, chess players, busking musicians, commuters and those holding Free Hugs signs.
I threw my whole being into the movement. Arms flailing, leaping, crouching, whirling, splitting, heaving my lithe body from one improvised move to another. I heard scream of excitement from the crowd.
Actually, later on in the back seat of a police car, I realized they were screams of horror. How could they turn on me? No matter. Genius will not be denied.
My next target is Washington Square Park. By the water fountain, where liberals congregate.
There will be no mass exodus. Only applause.

In the Monkey House

What do you want to do today?
Why don't we toss feces at humans?
We did that yesterday.
Let's make high pitched squeals that mean nothing.
Yeah  and grab our privates.
Instead of leaping around,
why not do a freeze frame
I can't go ten seconds without scratching myself
Can I groom you?
I don't need it.
Yes, you do. I see lint.
We're naked.
I know what I see.
What about a line dance or making a pyramid?
There's only two of us.
You are one serious buzz kill.
What's that you're doing?
Picking my nose.
Where did you learn that?

Drives Me Crazy

Drivers who don't signal
Smoke alarms go off while cooking
Butt crack itch
My safari hat sliding down
Tiny barking dogs
Someone sitting next to me
Public speakers who cannot form a sentence
Inability to match clothes
Running out of clothespins and intelligent conversation
Parents who complain about being parents

Sunday, August 27, 2017

Jammed Printer

After Ben filled out an online survey for CVS, he was entitled to a $10 coupon. He clicked on the link and waited for the printout in the next room. A gargling, whining sound came from his printer. The paper was jammed. The coupon was stuck. He tried yanking it out, but only tore it worse.
Needing help, he went across the hall and knocked on muscular Hank's door. Hank opened it wearing a blue caftan and ballet slippers. Music from The Nutcracker played in the back round. He readily agreed to help his friend. Ben asked no questions.
The paper seemed to sneer at them. Just try getting me out, you wonkers/ Hank took his index finger and thumb and pulled. Suddenly the printer engaged, spewing out the sheet, causing Hank to fall backward and hit his head on the floor. He was knocked unconscious. Ben immediately feared being sued. Quickly, he formed a plan. He would dsrag Hank back to his apartment and hope he woke up not remembering anything.
Halfway there, Mrs. Welch opened her door and emerged with her Yorkie. She took one look, shook her head and whispered, I am not judgmental, but you two have to be more discreet.
Ben reprinted the coupon and used the $10 to buy two packs of dental floss. In case he ran short.