We will be collecting school supplies at a FREE COMEDY SHOW for the 6 year old boy who was severely bullied and beaten at Patterson Elementary. He was just accepted into a charter school, so he doesn’t have to return to the school where he was bullied. Bring whatever you can that this kid could use in school. We offered to set up a donation and the Dad declined. He said they just have to get his son some new supplies for school. So come out tonight, have a great time, and let’s do some good together.
The show is at 45 s. 3rd street 2nd floor (Near 3rd & Chestnut in Philly) from 9pm to 11pm.
Ever look at the names of the lists people have you on for twitter? I never did until today, and I gotta say … I’m a bit uhhh … well, you decide.
Shit-List: My favorite skid-marks
(level five clinger)
(it was just an experimental phase back in college)
(just … wow!)
(I stay in the city)
(you cut me deep)
(That’s not an antenna)
(You better buy me dinner first, sailor!)
(no, really, call me)
(I totally do)
(for the love of Christ, CALL ME!!!)
(Do I come off as twittercidal?)
(fun fact: he unfollowed me, but still has me listed)
(I should point out that this is the same person who put me on the “main” list)
(I ususally go for the ones with daddy issues)
(I may have just cum in my pants)
(I got a restraining order)
privileged-establishment: Picturesque, cultured, liberal, at times even astounding, exquisite amount of encomium and cynicism
Also, one woman has me on eight different lists. She’s obviously obsessed. I don’t understand why she never stays for tea & buttsecks when she sneaks in to steal my hair clippings at night. Seriously, I’m a lonely man. Wake me up. I’m game.
Do you know what I’m sick of?
I’m sick of facebook and the constant reminder of how many soulless fucking zombies there are, taking up space on my planet, living empty, meaningless fucking lives.
Seriously, scan your news feed.
It’s a bunch of brainless twits going on and on about nothing because their lives are shit.
The only thing even remotely interesting about any of it is pondering whether they know their life sucks and are just making everyone else suffer with them, or if they honestly have no clue that a fistful of sleeping pills form the same Walgreen’s where they “JUST PICKED UP THE PHOTOS OF THE KIDS FROM VACATION!! ” would bring about a warm, gentle end to their awful mundane existence.
Everybody I ever went to high school with has found me on facebook, and in all honesty, it kinda makes me wish I went to fucking columbine high school.
It’s an endless stream of “Baby spinach, feta cheese, dried cranberries and vinaigrette for dinner. Nom, nom, nom.” or “I woke up to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night, and my son left the toilet seat up. Kids. LOL ”
You’d think at some point they’d go back, read some of the shit they wrote and think, “Wow … my life really sucks shit.” and have the decency to eat the fucking barrel of a gun.
Your life is shit! How do you not see that? Why do you bother to go on? You do nothing! Michael J. Fox’s left hand accomplishes more in a day, involuntarily.
Think of a joke that couldn’t possibly offend anyone.
OK, now do you notice how incredibly not funny it is?
Now get the fuck over yourself and look up the meaning of the word “joke”
I recently bought a loaf of bread, and when I got home I realized it was all squished and misshapen. As a result, I was physically & emotionally unable to enjoy any of the sandwiches I made with said loaf.
This is how I know that I’m insane & that I need to take my life.
Customer: How long has this place been here?
Me: About 50 years.
Customer: Hmm … I ain’t never jerked off up in here before. *walks back to the booths*
Whenever I hear one of Jim Croce’s lovely heartfelt songs, I’m reminded of his death.
Jim Croce died in a small commercial plane crash on September 20, 1973, shortly before his ABC single, “I Got A Name”, was to be released. Upon takeoff from Natchitoches Regional Airport, despite excellent visibility, the Beechcraft E18 plane did not gain enough altitude to clear a pecan tree at the end of the runway, which investigators said was the only tree for hundreds of yards.
1.) Why the fuck was there a pecan tree at the end of a runway?
2.) What could a nice fella like Jim have done to piss off God THAT much?
3.) How many of you are too young to even know who Jim Croce was? (no need to answer this one, just go fuck yourself)
My favorite living writer is a man named Jim Patrick that I was fortunate enough to meet while living in New Orleans. As you may or may not know, my birthday was Saturday. Today, Jim sent me this little deranged bit of rambling.
Sorry for the belated birthday sentiments my friend. But I’m reminded that, sometimes, the BEST things in life arrive late.
Nabbing Bin Laden
The Red Sox winning the World series
Blowing my man-seed all over a young woman who attends Xavier University
The Phillies winning the World Series
Now that I think about it, I suppose that not everything good in life comes late, especially if you ask my friend Cynthia.
Cynthia found herself in a troublesome situation when the date for her menstrual cycle had passed without event. She became especially terrified after two full weeks had passed!!
So, she decided to visit the Wal Mart to purchase a generic pregnancy test, along with a Yoo-Hoo and a bag of extra Krispy Cajun pork rinds. The savings NEVER end at the Wal Mart!
As suspected, the pork rinds gave Cynthia the shits. Oh, and the results from her pregnancy test were positive.
Cynthia’s worst fears had finally been realized, as reality set in that she couldn’t afford to raise a child at this particular point in life since she’d been laid off at the pencil factory in a small Tennessee town.
To pile additional difficulty onto an already stressful situation, Cynthia worried that the child might be that of her Uncle…that’s a looong, crazy story.
Since being laid off, Cynthia had taken odd jobs here and there to earn money in order to afford the basic necessities in life:
Attending cage match fighting on Saturday evenings
As these things go, Cynthia sold herself for money. Not in THAT way…get your head out of the gutter!! She taught herself how to juggle and do little magic tricks at parties. By parties, I mean gang bangs.
Cynthia occasionally had sex for money with 4 or 10 people at a time. Now THAT‘S a juggling act!
Our nation’s healthcare system being what it is, coupled with the rabid “Right To Life” influence in United States healthcare policy, Cynthia decided not to anger Sarah Palin.
She did what any rational person in her situation would do and drank a fifth of Irish Whiskey before asking that Steve perform an abortion.
Steve is a retired physician. By retired, I mean that he lost his medical license due to several professional complaints being lodged against him with the AMA for inappropriate behavior with young female patients while they were under anesthesia.
As a side note, as a teenager, if I’d had access to anesthesia I am fairly certain that I would be in jail to this day.
After fondling her breasts for a short time, Steve began the medical procedure.
I can still remember sending Cynthia the following belated sentiment on a postcard a few days after her ordeal had ended. It read:
In your time of quiet reflection during these difficult days, please take a moment to view this loss as a positive.
You’ve saved the United States taxpayers approximately $57,000 dollars in Social Security and welfare funding for a child which you could not afford. This makes Sarah Palin happy.
Thanks to you, a man who pisses and shits himself at age 90, while blaming himself for his son being gay, can continue to eat and enjoy safe and comfortable shelter at a state funded nursing facility, where he is severely beaten regularly by an apathetic, sadistic, sexual deviant nurses assistant.
Anyway, on this, your belated birthday, I’m happy to report that things are going grandly for Cynthia. She thoughtfully keeps her aborted fetus in a jar on the mantle piece and takes comfort in knowing that she did her part in saving taxpayer dollars and, possibly, assisted in winning the war against terror.
She often smiles as she gazes at that jar, which is placed under the oil painting of Jesus, right next to a Chia Pet which is fashioned after Odie, that wacky dog from the wildly popular and hilarious comic strip, Garfield.
I wish you a happy belated birthday wish and sincerely hope that you know that good things do, indeed, come to those who wait.
Unless you ask my friend, Sanje.**
**Note: She is of Indian decent…as in the Indians who possess nuclear weapons and hate Pakistan…not the drunken casino owners
I’ll share that story privately, as I feel that it’s an inappropriate story to share publicly
For more of Mr. Patrick’s work, check out http://pontchartrainpress.blogspot.com/
After 11 years of working at a porn shop, it takes quite a bit to shock me, but every now and then these lunatics find a way.
Saturday night, at around 11pm, a delivery guy walks in my shop, sets a pizza down on my counter, and tells me how much I owe him. For a minute I’m confused. I tell him I didn’t order food, and he suggests that maybe one of my other co-workers ordered. This is highly unlikely since I am the only person working. He checks to make sure he has the correct address, and in fact, he does.
Suddenly, from the back of the other side of the store, I hear the door of one of the porn booths open, and a guy yells, “Yo! Back here, man.”
This guy went in that booth at about 5:30pm. Now, five and half hours later, he pops out to claim his dinner. Apparently he used his cell phone to call and order a pizza, and have it delivered to the PORNO BOOTH HE WAS IN!!!
Who does that, and more important, why on Earth would you want to eat in there? I refuse to even walk in them, there’s no way in Hell I’m going to have a picnic in there. Fuuuuuck that!
I suppose I should have just kicked him out at that point, but I couldn’t. This was too funny. I had to see how it played out.
He walks back into his booth, pizza in hand, and then I hear a bottle getting popped. Not twisted off, mind you. This guy brought a bottle opener, and popped the top as if he were serving drinks in a busy Bourbon street bar.
Granted, him drinking alcohol back there is a definite no-no, but honestly, it was way too funny for me to throw him out. I was almost expecting to see his buddies show up with a keg, a grill and some strippers. Alas, that didn’t happen.
Finally, around midnight, the guy comes out of the booth. With him he has the leftovers from his dinner, a six pack of empty Sierra Nevada Pale Ale bottles, and he makes his way over to me at the counter. He starts talking about nothing in particular as if we are old buddies catching up. At this point, the joke was over, and he had to go. I told him, “Look man, I’m here to collect money, not for pillow talk. If you are looking for somebody to snuggle with after your happy ending, you got the wrong guy.”
He politely apologizes, says goodnight, and attempts to shake my hand. “Sorry, bro. The only way I’m going to touch your hand after you were in that booth is if you take the letter “F” out of the word way?” He looked puzzled, so I explained, “There’s no effin’ way.” Then it occurred to him that he just spent the night in a wack-off booth, laughed and said, “Oh yeah, good point. Sorry. Have a good night.” And then he left.
What did YOU do this weekend?