by JRM

October 31, 2006

I’ve come to several startling realizations of late. The most important of these is the fact that I really don’t like doing what I do for a living. If you care, I’ve been absent for the last several months because my daily schedule is time consuming and also causes me to curl up in a ball and wail like a bitch – neither one of these activities is conducive to writing comedy. Rather than let me go the way of the Castleberry, Jeff has kept my link up and checked on me periodically – for this I am eternally grateful.

To the second most important of my recent startling realizations – I have deleted several submissions over the past few months because they weren’t, you know, uh, funny. No more – I pledge to you, faithful reader, that no matter how corny, trite, self absorbed, bloggish, gay, homophobic, heterophobic, boring, insulting, foul-smelling, long, short, plagiarized (okay, maybe not plagiarized), liberally-borrowed-from-some-standup-I’ve-never-heard-of, profane, pornographic or just plain hackneyed it may be, I’m going to send in something every week until Jeff fires me. If you want to read what I’m actually capable of (and then shake your head in disappointment), just head on over to the archives. From now on, please enjoy what will now be known as “my very best weekly effort.” Enjoy.

Moshi moshi,

metten

You know what’s hilarious? When you’re spending some time with your family after a nutritious, home cooked meal and you look over at your daughter and realize just what a woman she is becoming. You then stare into the texture of the ceiling and wonder to yourself if you’ve given her all the tools she needs to succeed in this world. Sure, she’s safe within the warm confines of the house that you’ve worked your entire life to afford now, but in no time at all, she’ll be out there alone.

You worry a bit, but you look around at all you’ve accomplished and all that you have and you crack a small smile that says, “Everything will be okay.”

You cross your legs and open the book that your wife had placed on the coffee table next to you. Just before you engage the world contained within its pages, you take a moment to reflect on your marriage – your high school sweetheart who has effectively made all of your hopes and dreams come true. How could you possibly be so fortunate?

Now comes the hilarious part…a couple of guys violently kick in your front door, the first guy takes the book out of your hand and breaks your jaw with its hard cover. The second guy introduces your skull to the butt of a large caliber handgun. When you finally regain consciousness, you find that the men have tied you to the chair, and then proceeded to steal your shit while you watch helplessly. God only knows what’s happened to your wife and daughter… Just then, your savior presents himself in the form of the neighborhood patrolman.

Though none of the survivor’s lives will ever be the same, at least the ordeal is over. Things take a turn for the worst when you realize that the patrolman is too preoccupied with an overly-salted meatish product to save you and your family. Your savior turns his back to you and strolls away with haste. He must, of course, get to the nearest independently-owned roast beef fast food chain as soon as possible. Home invasion! Now that’s fucking comedy!! What a wonderful scenario from which to sell mass-produced beeflike products.

Seriously, every time I hear a foot slamming against my door, I think to myself, “Oh man, hilarity is about to ensue!! I hope they tie me to the chair again! That was hilarious…and it made me soooo hungry. Mmmmnnnn….home invasion.”

Honestly, talk about classical conditioning…every time I even think about a crowbar smashing through a bay window I immediately get hungry for bulk meat packed in a gelatinous broth. I can’t wait until they make the obvious jump to the gang-rape spicy tuna sandwich. What the hell is this world coming to?


I was sitting at my desk at work with my head in my hands, trying to pinpoint the moment of my youth where it all went wrong. At that moment, when I was at my lowest, I remembered something. You know those commercials, “Stop. Drop. And Roll, Dick Roll?” Yeah. That’s what I remembered. Not necessarily the ticket to lift a guy out of despondency, but it did get me thinking.

Hey people who were adults when this ad campaign came out – What the hell is up with that? Was there some sort of people-setting-themselves-on-fire-epidemic? Were there so few societal ills at the time that we resorted to worrying about the people who set themselves on fire? I mean, as a parent, I understand that this is information that should be passed down to younger generations – but do we really need a theme song and a fictitious guy-who’s-always-on-fire named Dick to convince our children to choose falling to the ground when they’re on fire rather than take the “flaming dash across the trailer park” option?

Don’t get me wrong, it’s good advice and all – but wasn’t there any money left over for the “Don’t Light Your Farts on Fire Because the Fire Might Burn its Way Up Your Tailpipe and Blow Your Dumb Ass Up” campaign? Don’t tell me that one’s not worthy of the AFPA’s money…

Okay, that’s all I’ve got. Don’t say you weren’t warned. See you next week.

Love,

JRM

comments to metten0@gmail.com

      
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