Put Five On Red

My grandma was a German-Russian sumo wrestler. Rare species. Had a short career, measuring 4'8". Lots of hair on her five tits. Tended to be scary.

I have five fingers on each hand but no arms. I need arms. (No suckers please.) Will write about you in my will.

It's hard trying to write about fives, if you never learned to count. Well, I myself did learn to count, but not past two. When I turned two I had to go work in the mines. Been at it ever since and still have some of my teeth.

If I've told you once, I've told you at least five times, and I still can't remember what it was. Maybe more beer will help.

Q: What's between four and six? A: My afternoon nap.

As for my grandfather, he was a turnip farmer, mostly. Walked with a slight limp due to the turnip he always carried in his hip pocket. Wore five pairs of glasses "All the better to see you with, Young 'un." Couldn't even find his way home by feel when he wore them. Grandma used to beat him with a flyswatter. It was her trump card, and he didn't know the difference anyway. Thought it was like the Ace of Bugs or something. Never made it big in the turnip business either.

 

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Me? Decided to buy a hamster. This whole leasing thing is only a racket.

Rabyt

Bunny Hump, both a sport and a landmark.

Uncle Benny is now recruiting for a 30-bugle band of tootling-marchers. Must be able to tootle while upright and look good in a bunny suit, or be able to fake it. So far, only one bunny showed up, so we've got an extra outfit, but if you're the only additional volunteer, you'll need to resemble 29 bunny-suited stomping marchers playing 29 other bugles and making them honk in time to the beat. (One free lunch provided to qualified applicant.)

Captain Anonymous is also recruiting, for replacement members of his decades-old Gran Zipping Orchestra. (Bring your own zipper, tuned to Z-sharp. Also, if you're a drinker, bring your own coffee — we provide the cups. Official bunny suit mandatory, plus license to wear it.)

Ever drive past Bunny Hump, Nevada? Many things are actually legal in that state.

There is no 1789 law about chocolate bunnies and espionage. The law dates from 1788 ½ and covers only chocolate-covered bunny suits and the people who might be in them, but only if they're up to something fishy.

She had a nun in the oven, and it made for a tense supper, though the fried chocolate bunny heads were scrumptious.

 

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Me? Went fishing for fishy things, and got flushed. Too much sun at once, too big a drain hole.

Thursdays

After four days last week I ran out of paint, so Thursday, Friday, and Saturday just had to go commando.

Fridays were always difficult for me, so I eliminated them from my calendar. One effect is that I get old a lot faster. My year doesn't have all those useless days on it, and it's a bunch of fun to show up for appointments on odd days. "The 25th? No, that's a Tuesday, at least according to my calendar, and I have to nap then. What's yours say? Thursday or something?"

I don't know about you but I'm damn tired of being abducted by aliens — ruins my sleep something fierce, though the anal probing can be fun from time to time if not taken to excess (keeps me regular too). But hey, every single Thursday night?

If it weren't for Thursdays I don't know where I'd put all my anxieties.

It was as enlightening as a week of Thursday evenings spent home alone in the dark.

Well, actually, the first time I saw you, I did in fact assume that you were a wastebasket, so I guess I should apologize for those used coffee grounds and all, so how about if we try it next Thursday following my afternoon nap?

 

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Me? Someone deflated me while I was sleeping. Woke up all flat and wrinkly. No one noticed.

So, Girls

Dad said he wanted to run his first marathon. But we convinced him that because he's dead they wouldn't even let him register. Plus — the smell. So now he's hanging out by the grade school. Likes to leer at the 8-year-olds. Girls, mostly. No matter how often we bury him he won't quit.

European Stenography Girl. Not the same as European Photography Girl. Both are mostly OK, though one has a serious rubber band fetish. She's quite the snappy one, she.

I've forever wanted to meet a girl like you except for the hairy legs, beard, deep voice, biceps, and those other things. (Life can be so complex.)

Janson Clamps, the girls' gym teacher who once had a crush on me (specifically my head) way back when. Those were the (bandaged) days. I wonder if she still likes to pound rivets on her days off.

Mom confessed that she always wished I was a girl. Maybe that's why she named me Zoltan. Maybe not. So yeah, I did wonder why people snickered when they met me. But the dresses were ever so tasteful, so it must have been something else.

Grill fries girl. Girl fries grill. Fries grill girl. One of these cannot be right, just cannot.

 

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Me? Still waiting for permission.

Dootles

So two guys walk into a bar and they both get bloody noses. Two days later they decide to walk into a brick wall in case the first time was a fluke. Mom says I need a new hobby. And bandages.

There's a sale on Freds over by Fred Meyer. Buy one, get a free cookie. Probably better than the TooferOne wall deal down by Walmart, or the discount shears at Sears, the Three-for-A-Penny promotion at J.C.P., the Double-Or-Nothing Woolly-Mammoth-Excavate-It-Yourself at F.W. Woolworth or the Slightly-Used Cancer Ward Special at Montgomery Ward. Possibly.

I am the Lonesome Cowboy, tapping away along alley walls past midnight, a slight but fading taste of beer still on my lips, hoping to find a last final star yet in the sky to whisper to, briefly, before I yield to sleep.

Captain Obvious has been building a wall around his property. He has 14 square inches of turf he calls his own over by the storm sewer drain, next to the discarded fruit peels. Since he is slow to over-commit, the wall is built of sugar cubes, a prototype of sweetness.

Of what use would a wall comprised solely of used overcoats be, assuming that each was thoroughly dry-cleaned?

Never had much use for walls, except for that once, during the staring-contest mania days. My angle? Paint a couple of eyes on your wall, challenge the first dooter you see, then go home for a nap.

 

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Me? Passed the tuber this morning.

Day Broke Me Too

Scudge and Futt, my onliest last two friends. Been there since childhood. Selling their garbage business to go into heavy equipment pastry.

Monkeys have been seen running things lately, and people are beginning to notice. And more monkeys too.

Many shoes found under the bed, all left-handed, whispering to each other as they were served tea.

Snails have been proven effective as college professors, though there's still that slime issue that won't go away. But we're used to it.

Monetary incentives do not apply to monetary ranges because they don't care, and can't spell.

Day broke. Again. Good thing the broom is in good working order. But there is that strange smell around the edges. Someone please investigate.

 

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Me? Anything new out there? (As if.)

Show Off

My job as a wood dresser consisted mainly of putting paper stockings on table legs. I was fired for my incessant farts of delight. Plus frequent masturbation sessions.

Sidekickers are like pot stickers but made of vulcanized rubber and other petroleum products, and may include gravel, dead bugs, unwashed laundry, linen handkerchiefs, dandruff, slag, artificial coloring, and mud. For best results, never inflate yourself above 2psi.

The sun came up today and then went back down. It heard that you were nearby. So, dark all day. Nothing but a vague sizzling sound from out east somewhere. Good day for napping. Feel free to leave soon.

Only turtles know the loneliness of being turtle, though they still make good soup. No idea how they remember the recipe. Maybe it's tattooed on their nodules, out of sight somewhere, and whispers quietly to them in the dark.

Am laying in a supply of air against rumors of a coming shortage. Not cheap, but where you going to get any when the factory shuts down? Also horse hair, for similar reasons.

I knew a guy once. His name was Don. He became a professional Lutheran and I don't know him any more. Kind of how it goes around here.

Glad to say that my crotch still works. Not everyone can. I show it off at every opportunity.

 

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Me? Getting a kick out of this, usually from people I don't want to know.