POYKPAC’s Ryan Hunter directed this to promote our new book — K is for Knifeball: An Alphabet of Terrible Advice, which I wrote with Avery Monsen.
Salty Shrimp Character
Ol’ Dirty Sock
Prison Warden Jones
A hologram of Ronald Reagan
A parrot who can only say “Fuck you”
The Limping Goose
A spider that emerges from your box of Corn Flakes and bites your face
Morbidly Obese Walrus
Gringo the Dingo
John Oates of Hall & Oates
Cardy Boardy Boxy
Talking Purple Bruise
The Diabetic Penguin
Tagg, Crackle and Pop
Great Aunt Ruth
The Brutal Dictator of Marshmallows
Quickly Aging Rabbit
Emo the Complainer
Olly the Oily Seagull
- "I have an irresistible offer for the current president. If Barack Obama lets me listen to his personal voicemails, I will overnight 600 copies of my book Trump: The Art of the Deal to the struggling, inner-city school library or rundown hospital of Obama’s choice. We have serious concerns about your personal voicemails, Mr. President. Let me send my bestseller to the school or hospital that needs it.”
- "If Barack Obama releases any first-draft term-papers or poetry he’s written, I will house 2,000 unemployed people for three days and nights at the Trump Taj Mahal Casino in Atlantic City. The unemployed will be treated to a full roster of entertainment — including Curb Your Enthusiasm comedian Jeff Garlin and songstress Olivia Newton-John — and will bask in the earth-toned luxury suites that only the Trump Taj Mahal can offer. Some rooms even have panoramic views. How can you refuse this deal, Mr. President? On behalf of the unemployed wanting to stay in hotel rooms, I don’t believe you can.”
- "If Barack Obama gives me his 1988 application for AAA auto-insurance, I will send my daughter Ivanka on a one-year goodwill road-trip tour across America. Obama is the least transparent driver in our nation’s history. We know very little about our president’s driving record. Did he ever roll through a stop sign or forget to signal while changing lanes? We don’t know."
- "If Barack Obama makes his private White House diaries public, I will hand every person in New York City a voucher for a sirloin steak at the Trump World Tower. Obama will be doing a great service to steak-lovers. A lot of steak-lovers will be thrilled to see this happen. The steaks will be released within 20 minutes of the diaries going public. These are steaks that I really want to distribute."
- "If Barack Obama gives me his e-mail password, I will allow him to compete on the next blockbuster installment of NBC’s The Celebrity Apprentice, alongside Omarosa and Bret Michaels. And we’ll finally know what our president says in his e-mails. And we’ll finally know what people say to him. Let us read your e-mails, Mr. President. Let us read your e-mails and decide for ourselves.”
- "If Barack Obama releases his even longer-form birth certificate — the real one, and not whatever that was that he previously offered up — I promise not to publicly threaten, harass, or blackmail another sitting president for at least four years. All he has to do, to avoid my future threats, is to satisfy my demands to my complete satisfaction.”
- "If Barack Obama drops out of the race, I will give registered voters, specifically those born in America, a 49-percent stake in Trump Entertainment Resorts Holdings. One caveat: Obama must drop out of the race by November 5 at midnight. Mr. President: America deserves a 49-percent stake in Trump Entertainment Resorts Holdings. Make your country happy again.”
A tribute to my mom, Deborah John, on her birthday, which is today!
Back story: I just went through old e-mails from her to write this.
Her response: “I say all that? Wow.”
He walks! He talks!
1. A slicer
2. A dicer
3. A chopper
4. A mincer
5. A broiler
So, I’m here in Santa Cruz and my apartment is bordering all kinds of wilderness and, every night around 1:30 a.m., three raccoons show up right outside my window.
Here’s the thing about my location at that moment: my bed is on a raised platform and it’s built into the window. You see? So, I sleep two inches from the glass. OK? And three inches from twelve raccoon talons. (Three raccoons multiplied by four paws = twelve talons. Simple math. They have talons, yes? Or … what am I thinking of?)
Ultimately, what this means is that every night, three raccoons show up right outside my FACE. Sometimes, oftentimes, they’ll stand up on their hind legs, with their vicious paws pressed against the glass, just … looking at me. And sometimes they’ll split up so that there’s at least one outside my front door and another one or two outside my window … blocking all chance of escape. Call me paranoid, but it seems like they’re plotting something.
And I have a cat: Ferris Mewler. At this point, he’ll wake up, too, and his tail will proceed to expand and he’ll sit on my side of the glass, doing his best to look tough and stare these raccoons down. These guys aren’t afraid of my cat, though. Are you kidding me? They look like they’re walking around, DIGESTING a cat. And they’re not scared of me, either. Early on, I tried to startle them, but they saw right through me. That first night they were here, in fact, I made a bunch of sudden movements in their direction — involving both lurching arms and a broom and maybe even a kick or two — but that didn’t do too much, other than make them curious. Maybe now they’re actually coming back, hoping to see more lurching. That wouldn’t surprise me.
"I bet that guy that we’re trying to bite will be hopping around tonight," they’ll say to each other. "Wouldn’t it be great if we could give him some of our rabies?"
Yep. That’s what they say. And sometimes, if I feel like they’re about to jump through the window, I get out of bed and go and stand in the doorway and wait for them to finish their sniffing. I feel OK telling you this. If everything that can possibly happen HAS happened (and it has, hasn’t it?), I figure that, at one time or another, a raccoon has absolutely jumped through a pane of glass and onto a sleeping human and taken a bite out of his face and used one of his talons to reach into that same human’s chest cavity and pull out his still-beating heart. I’m doing what I can to avoid that fate.
Last night, after they’d woken me up, they climbed up the sloped roof, which is their usual move. I assumed they were gone and tried to get back to sleep. Five minutes later, I opened my eyes and there was one almost directly above my face, looking down through my window, his eyes glinting in moonlight,
reaching for my heart. He was just sitting there. Staring. With all the time in the world. The raccoon-world, which is infringing upon my human-world.
I got out of bed and stood in the doorway.
SO ANYWAY. I’ll keep you updated. They should be here in an hour or so.
(P.S. A deer ran down my driveway the other night, straight for me … swerving at the last minute, galloping into my garden. This is the life, huh? I gotta get out of here.)
BY AVERY MONSEN & JORY JOHN
ME: Hey guys, I don’t feel so hot. I think I came up from the ocean floor too fast.
TYLER: I don’t know, man. You look alright. Maybe a little pale. Hey, has anybody seen my sandwich?
ANNE: Was it turkey? Because Norman was just finishing a sandwich that looked like turkey.
NORMAN: What is this, pick-on-Norman day?
ME: Guys, I don’t want to freak anybody out, but I’ve got a pretty excruciating pain going on in my shoulders, wrists and ankles. This feels like textbook decompression sickness.
NORMAN: You guys have been rude to me all day. Especially you, Thomas.
ME: Did I or did I not tell you about my blinding joint pain? It’s seriously hard for me to know either way, as I’m currently in the throes of memory loss and goddamn vertigo, both classic symptoms of the bends.
TYLER: I’m going to get some vertigo pretty soon if I don’t get my sandwich.
NORMAN: Stop looking at me like that. I didn’t eat your effing sandwich.
ANNE: Okay, nobody knows who ate Tyler’s sandwich. All we know for sure is that Norman was the first one out of the water by about 10 minutes and now we’re short one sandwich.
NORMAN: You guys wouldn’t even be thinking this if it weren’t for my weight.
THOMAS: Whoa, whoa. Slow down. We’re friends, Norman. We don’t even see your weight, anymore. You’re just Norm to us.
ME: Listen to me, you sons of bitches … you … you terrible sons of bitches. The skin on my abdomen is swelling like a goddamn balloon. Like a goddamn itchy-ass balloon COVERED IN THE ANGRIEST INVISIBLE ANTS IN SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA.
NORMAN: You just don’t know what it’s like, Thomas. You want to know why I didn’t rent my wetsuit with the rest of you at the dive shop? Because I called ahead last month to see if they even made a suit in my size. I had to special order it from some place in Michigan.
ANNE: Is that true? Jeez, Norm. I’m sorry for giving you a hard time.
THOMAS: Yeah, man. I think the key to these sorts of things is just being really honest with your feelings. Because we’re never trying to hurt you. Personally — because I can only really speak for myself — I think I goof on you because I look up to you, in a lot of ways. It seems like you really have your life on track right now and I’m just bouncing form short term job to short term job, never really getting any closer to my goals.
ME: IF I AM NOT PLACED IN A HYPERBARIC OXYGEN CHAMBER, YOU WILL HAVE A MOTHERFUCKING CORPSE ON YOUR HANDS, YOU MONSTERS. YOU BEASTS. THERE WILL BE ONE LESS LIFE ON THIS EARTH, AND, IF THERE IS ANY JUSTICE, THAT WILL WEIGH ON YOUR CONSCIENCES FOR ALL OF ETERNITY. I WILL BE NO MORE, DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME? YOU MAY ONE DAY THINK TO INVITE ME TO A KICKBALL GAME OR A BLOCK PARTY OR A BRIS, BUT I WILL BE UNABLE TO ATTEND, AS I WILL BE SLOWLY RETURNING TO DUST, YOU MOTHERFUCKERS. I HOPE YOU’RE HAPPY. I HOPE YOU ENJOY HAVING TO TELL MY POOR MOTHER THAT I DIED AN ENTIRELY PREVENTABLE DEATH. SHE’S HAD A ROUGH YEAR ALREADY, YOU CRETINS, SO SHE’S CERTAINLY NOT GOING TO TAKE THIS WELL. ARE YOU LISTENING NOW? ARE YOU WATCHING? IS ANYBODY LOOKING? WATCH ME FADE. WATCH ME AS I’M FADING. I DIE. I REST. SERIOUSLY. I’M DEAD.
NORMAN: Dibs on his sandwich?
(Everyone laughs hard as blood pours out of my ears and nose.)