Tuesday, October 02, 2007

Woke up laughing…

It’s possibly the second best way to wake up. (I don’t know why I’m being so coy as to the best way, considering what a great deal of this email is about.) I woke up laughing so hard this morning, I actually snorted!

I had some strange dreams. I’ll tell you the last one first but the reason I was laughing really had nothing to do with it. The snort came as a result of remembering that the pickle jar was completely empty!

The last dream I had took place in a small town with winding streets. I think it was Whistler, Canada, which is laid out much like the streets of a theme park. I went there many years ago with someone else, which is how I know it. This time, I was alone. I was looking in the shop windows, very depressed. Finally, I walked into an art shop and, amidst all the paintings and brushes, I leaned into one wall with one leg splayed out, both arms pressed against the wall, and my face planted firmly against it, as if I were some kind of modern exhibit.

I stayed like that for several minutes.

Finally, with the eyes of the young shopkeeper on me, I stepped back, looked at her, and said, “Sorry, I was just trying something.”

“Sure,” she replied. Then, she asked, “Life as art?”

I was walking to the exit. “Excuse me?” I asked.

“Life as art. You make yourself the display. I’ve seen it before. In Prague. But they were much better.”

“Okay,” I replied, stepping out.

“Not that you weren’t good,” she called out. “They were just more practiced.”

I turned a corner and saw her through a window.

She yelled, “I’m sure you could be very good as well, in time.”

So, if the whole writing thing doesn’t work out and I decide never to go back to acting… I’m just saying…

But the one before that really had me chuckling. The humor revolved around a certain bodily fluid, so I’ll thank you to stop reading now if you are easily offended by the flagrant waste of reproductive juices. Now, I could just call it sperm or I could try to be cute and use any of the euphemisms that fly about – man milk, baby gravy, what have you – but let’s just keep it simple and call it jizz…

The dream didn’t start here but I can remember it from the point where a gorilla was masturbating furiously with the ashes of the recently dead. I remember thinking, as a voiceover, “Gorillas obvious don’t know what to do with someone’s ashes.”


I just figured you’d know it would be weird.

Next thing I knew, the gorilla – who was now almost human, say… Jim Belushi – was running through the streets of a large city, carrying a pickle jar as if it was holding something very important. He ran right up to a pay phone where TV’s David Cross was talking on the phone.

“Listen,” Jim tells him. “I need a favor.”

“Sure,” David says. “Give me a minute.” He’s trying to finish his phone call.

Jim is holding, nay clutching, the pickle jar. “I need you to take care of this for me. Could you?”

“Sure,” David tells him.

Now, the camera goes back to Jim, and you can’t help noticed gobs of jizz running down the sides of the jar. His hands are coated in the stuff. “Could you put it in the fridge? Somewhere it won’t go bad.”

“Sure,” David says. Then, to the phone, he says, “Yes, Grandma. Yes, I know. I’ll get that. Yes.” He turns back to Jim and says, “Gram Gram wants some icing for her cinnamon rolls. Do you know where I can get some?”

By now, jizz is dripping onto Jim’s shoes. “No. No, I don’t.”

Jim puts down the pickle jar for David and runs away.

Soon, Henrietta Hippo approaches. (That’s right, bitchez. New Zoo Revue!) She is crying.

“What is it, Henrietta?” David asks her.

“It’s my husband,” Henrietta says. “I don’t think he loves me any more.”

“How can you say that?” David asks.

A close up of Henrietta shows jizz running down her face. “I think he just wants me for the sex.”

“That’s crazy,” David assures her.

But her face is smeared with jizz, obscene amounts, her hair is plastered down like some Japanese fetish video. “Are you sure?” she asks.

“Yes, Gram Gram,” David says in the phone. He turns to Henrietta. “Do you have anything to write with?”

“Of course,” she tells him. Checking her pockets, jizz runs out of all of them. She opens her coin purse, which she removes from her jizz-drenched coat, and pours out a quart of the stuff. “I was sure I had something,” she says. Then, she opens her bag, which is filled with papers and magazines… and jizz. The papers are swimming in jizz. They slosh around like noodles in soup. Then, she reaches into a side pocket and pulls out a drenched post-it pad. This is followed by a pen. The ink is white.

I love jokes that don’t know when to stop. Mind you, I will NEVER try to analyze that but, believe me, it had me laughing for most of the morning.

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