25 Random Things About Me That Will Secure My Spot in Hell

Therapist Bob was not convinced that I had kicked my addiction to virtual chain-letters that he forwarded me the following e-mail message to test my resistance:

Subject: FW: Bedfellows in Hell

Message: Face it, sooner or later we are all going to hell, so we may as well accept what we cannot change and revere our impending descent. But before all of us can get chummy down below while roasting marshmallows for Satan’s S’mores, we should break the ice by sharing 25 random things about ourselves that helped secure our place in Satan’s belly. With that in mind, comb through your tainted past and write out your own list and forward it with this message to 25 fellow heathens. Failure to do so will break the chain, thus guaranteeing you table-turns at the front of the burn-in-hell line.

Your BFF,
Satan

Lucifer (aka The Devil, Satan, Dick Cheney) strikes Thinker pose as he ponders his 25 Random Things list

Damn you, Therapist Bob! You know me too well.

Unable to resist, I started transcribing all the files on my mental rolodex labeled under “See You in Hell,” “The Art of Blasphemy,” Partially Nude Photos — New Kids on the Block,” “Crossroads,” “You and Me and the Devil Make Three,” and “Crime Scene Tapes.” Once this monumental data purging was completed, I had the computer select 25 Random Things About Me That Will Secure My Spot in Hell.

(Note: since the following list is completely random, they are in no particular order, nor is the backward countdown intended to be symbolic of my descent into hell.)

25. Petitioned to have the Seven Deadly Sins framed and mounted next to the Ten Commandments when I was in Junior High.

24. I made a Faustian pact at the Crossroads bartering my soul for a career in comedy writing, and all I got out of the deal was this goddamn blog.

23. During my brief sojourn in church as a child, I managed to steal another kid’s Bible, because I had left mine at home and didn’t want to get into trouble.

22. The Rolling Stones’ “Sympathy for the Devil” is my default ringtone.

21. In a satirical column, I accused God of being a Deadbeat Dad for immaculate conceiving His son Jesus, pretty much abandoning him at birth, and despite his Almighty powers, stood by and watched his very own creations crucify his son.

20. Bookmarked Dante’s “Inferno” on MapQuest.

19. Believe the Christian Right is oxymoronic and look forward to the day of reckoning when it cancels itself out.

18. Even though I don’t have a religious bone in my body, I plan on giving up Responsibility for Lent this year.

17. First cassette tapes I ever bought were The Bee Gee’s “Tragedy” & AC/DC’s “Highway to Hell.” Although vastly different in style and delivery, their underlying messages foreshadowed the beginning of the end for me.

16. Using the Lord’s name in vain (see No. 24).

15. Vowed I would never go to heaven after hearing “In heaven there is no beer” song at UI Hawkeye football game.

14. I have yet to cast the first stone…

13. Mark Twain’s “Letters from the Earth” — a book told through Satan’s point of view and observations about man — convinced me that Heaven is the last place I would want to spend my twilight years. Satan’s right, who would want to spend eternity living in abstinence and strumming a harp all day long as a means of relieving pent up sexual tension. No thanks, I prefer a feisty fiddle in hell any day of the week – including Sundays.

12. Started new category (see list on right) completely devoted to Blasphemous Satire.

11. Impersonated a Mormon for five hours during Army Basic Training, so I wouldn’t get yelled at by the Drill Sergeants for getting on the wrong bus. Spent all morning faking Mormonism in small classrooms at a civilian church off post, until they herded us into the church and had an hour-long community confessional. People took the microphone and spilled their guts for recent sins.

10. The only reasons I went to church service in Basic Training in the first place wwere to get out of bathroom cleaning duty, find a secluded place to sleep without getting caught, and the opportunity to ogle civilian women.

9. During Mormon open confessional, I had several impure thoughts about group of high school girls who confessed to drinking alcohol at a recent football game. (I was thoroughly disappointed when their confessions ended with that.)

8. I prefer listening to my Led Zeppelin reel-to-reel tapes backwards.

7. My eighth-grade English told me so, and if anyone has a direct pipeline to hell, it’s her.

6. I’m still convinced that Eve was framed in the Garden of Eden scene by a second serpent who ate the forbidden fruit on the grassy knoll, upon realizing that he and Eve were not sexually compatible and never would be.

5. My favorite movie feel-good movie is “The Omen.”

4. Pulled prank in high school involving the abduction of Baby Jesus from neighbor’s nativity scene and left traditional ransom note (letters from newspaper cut and pasted the old-fashioned way) that read: “REPENT ALL SINS IMMEDIATELY — IF YOU EVER WANT TO SEE JESUS AGAIN!”

3. Recently accepted the Flying Spaghetti Monster as my personal Savior.

2. I keep my Bible, the one I didn’t steal, on the Historical Fiction shelf of my personal library — sandwiched between Homer’s “The Odyssey” and George Orwell’s “1984.”

1. Going public with this list of blasphemies – assuming of course that I don’t convert to Catholicism anytime soon — which would make this list my inaugural confession, thus absolving me.

Remember to copy and paste this list in an e-mail message, write your own, and forward it to 25 fellow heathens.

Thanks and see you in hell.

Top Ten Things Overheard at the Academy Awards

Okay, so David Letterman’s little Online Top Ten Contest duped me into watching the 81st Academy Awards Ceremony in its entirety, so I could comb through over three hours of material for this week’s category (see title). Granted I could think of worse research assignments — say sifting through the thousands of entries submitted every week to the Top Ten Online Contest. Somebody has to do the dirty work nobody else wants to do, eh?

Besides, that’s why God created interns in the first place. Just ask His fleet of interns scattered across the globe, who serve the Boss Man their entire lives, hoping one day they’ll get promoted and moved to an upstairs’ office — preferably the one with the leather chair and giant picture-window overlooking the entire kingdom.

Speaking of higher callings, my quest, or obsession in Therapist Bob’s eyes, to obtain the Holy “Late Show Online” t-shirt fell short yet again last week. Undaunted, however, I am starting to see some patterns emerge among past winners. For example, Bernie Madoff and Paul Blart: Mall Cop have reared their heads on multiple occasions, so I plan on casting them in cameo roles in my list this week.

The Oscar ceremony, for the most part, was a real yawner and felt like a latter-day Robert Altman film – a three-hour film chalked full of stars but never really goes anywhere (e.g. “Ready to Wear”). The definitive moment of the evening was when Sean Penn pulled the mild upset by beating out Mickey Rourke for Best Actor and used his speech to declare war on California’s homophobes. It was at that moment that I knew what I wanted for my next birthday: Sean Penn’s Balls. Not that I would ever use them per se, I just want to know that I had them in case an emergency calling for monster balls should ever arise.

WANTED: Sean Penn's other ball for birthday present.

But I digress, dear Reader. Here’s my top-ten list of possible entries to the Top Ten contest, but I cannot win this alone— so I’m soliciting your help. I’ve written ten possible entries for this week’s list, and it’s up to you to help me select the CHOSEN ONE from the list (for I can only submit one) that you think has the best chance of winning.

Just think, with your help, all of this could be mine

This week’s list: Top Ten Things Overheard at the Academy Awards

10. What happened to the free hors d’oeuvres this year?

9. Remind me, what has Hugh Jackman been in?

8. Are we going to just sit by and watch the Brits and Aussie’s steal the show and all the awards?

7. Did you get a Bernie Madoff voodoo doll in your complimentary gift bag?

6. Excuse me Mr. Rourke, but the chandelier lights are reflecting off your silver tooth and blinding the orchestra pit crew.

5. Given the current exchange-rate for gold, the Oscars may actually be worth something this year.

4. Where’s Heath?

3. If I’d known Paul Blart would be running security, I would have left my Boda bag in the limo.

2. Would somebody please pass Sean Penn another tissue?

1. Who let the Slumdogs out? Woof! Woof!

Don’t forget to indicate (in the Comments) which ONE of these I should submit to the Top Ten Contest.

English Conspire with Exiled Aussies to Steal 81st Academy Awards

The envelope please: And the winner of this year’s Oscar for “Best Abduction of the Academy Awards Unbeknownst to Hollywood” goes to…Australia.

Three of Hugh Jackman's henchmen disguised as Oscars helped rig the balloting backstage (Note: photo nabbed from Oscar's offiicial web site and I'll be damned if they think I'm giving it back.)

That’s right folks, the fix is in, but the filmmakers down-under could not have pulled off the largest gold heist in Hollywood alone.

The envelope please: And the winner of this year’s Oscar for “Best Support Abduction of the Academy Awards Unbeknownst to Hollywood” goes to…England.

While Academy members sat around stroking their Hollywood-sized, sequined egos, Australian front-man Hugh Jackman orchestrated the abduction, distracting them with cheeky song and dance numbers while his Aussie posse cleaned house.

“Look everyone, nothing up my sleeves…”

Jackman, when not subliminally pitching his un-nominated self-titled Australian propaganda film “Australia,” seduced television viewers with his Australian accent, which he borrowed indefinately from his English predecessors — who reluctantly surrendered the King’s English to America, so we could butcher it accordingly.

Meanwhile, the “Slumdog Millionaire” clan led the Oscar abduction charge, nabbing eight of the gold Oscar statues, which at the time of this post had already been melted down into Australian and British currency and prepped for final shipping.

“Slumdog Millionaire” serves as the perfect allegory for this Oscarnapping, which, if discovered, is destined to launch a thousand sailboats from the United States nautical team. Here we have a story about fate, destiny, and the power of hope captured on screen by descendents of exiled penal colonists from England, who go to one of England’s former colonies to exploit the formerly colonized citizens for mega-profits in America and boomeranged back to Australia. What more could you ask for, other than a living wage for the film’s extras.

But the Slumdog Millionaire Aussie posse could not have pulled this off without help from down-under and up above, by which I mean fellow Aussie Heath Ledger who won an Oscar posthumously for Best Supporting Abductor – a fitting award for The Joker.

Moreover, the Aussie’s picked up an assist from descendents of their former wardens from afar, the bloody Englanders, who picked up three tasty gold nuggets with Kate Winslet. ames Marsh, and Danny Boyle’s Oscar chicanery.

Follow the gold and you’ll find that the yellow brick road not only leads out of Hollywood, but America as well. It’s only a matter of time before Hollywood will be completely outsourced to Australia, so you mates be sure to stay tuned for the 82nd Academy awards broadcast out of Sydney.

"Thanks for all the gold, Hollywood. We'll be back."

Stay Tuned: Congress Delays Pulling Plug on Bunny Ears

Bunny Ears (top) poses with high school sweatheart, Magnavox (bottom)

SSF News – On Monday, Congress granted the beloved Bunny Ears (or “Rabbit Ears” in more subversive burrows) a stay of execution, postponing the inevitable until June 12 — when Bunny Ears is scheduled to be unplugged and taken off life-support.

The decision to take Bunny Ears off support has stirred an emotional debate at the national level, one side arguing Bunny Ears is still a living, viable member of our technological community — while others argue that Bunny Ears, since the satellite takeover of television airwaves, has lost the will to live and keeping Bunny Ears alive is not only cruel but inhumane. Caught up in the tsunami of emotions, Congress leapt into the moral fray and chose sides along partisan lines, stoking the fires with superfluous bags of empty rhetoric.

Meanwhile Bunny Ears, who has been bed-ridden in a Florida hospital for the past seven years, heard news of the delayed execution from the digital TV propped up in the corner of the room. Surrounded by family and friends, some holding onto Bunny Ear’s ears for better reception, Bunny Ears released the following statement upon hearing the news:

Bunny Ear’s Statement: Although I’m flattered some members of Congress and their constituents who have come to depend on my existence still need me – albeit only a few more months – I’ve already prepared myself for the chosen day. And an extension of my inevitable slide into extinction merely robs me of what dignity I still have preserved between my extended ears.

Psychologically and emotionally, I cannot prolong my fate another day, and I hope Congress can find a place in their hearts, the same place I filled with fond memories of “I Love Lucy” and “Happy Days,” and have the decency to pull my plug. All I can ask is that, at the very least, you will be receptive of my wishes.

Receptively Yours,
Bunny Ears

Due to digital interference, a spokesman for Bunny Ears could not be reached by SSF News for further comment.

Obituary: Bunny Ears; 1886 – 2009 (pending)

The Second Helping of Cheesus H. Christ

Most active practitioners of Christianity, meaning those who attend church more than twice a year and have read the Cliffs’ Notes of the Bible at the very least, are convinced their Savior is coming back to earth to fulfilling a plethora of prophecies, resurrect the dead and go on “Oprah” to set the record straight.

These true believers also agree that their Messiah will come in disguise, but what they cannot agree upon is what Jesus will be wearing to the mortal masquerade. While most fall into the fish camp, others argue He will come disguised as an old beggar, an intellectually-challenged child or an Elvis impersonator.

In the meantime, these folks dedicate their lives to simply waiting and pass the time searching for signs foreshadowing His arrival — whether its Jesus revealing himself in a cornfield in Iowa, a sun-spotted image of the Virgin Mary sprayed across a building in Clearwater, Florida, or through a Cheeto created in his likeness and discovered in Houston — just in the nick of time.

A couple of years ago, while snacking on a bag of Cheetos, a youth director in Houston discovered the Jesus-like Cheeto and dubbed him “Cheesus.”

For the love of Cheesus, the Second Helping has arrived:

For me, this video is proof enough that the Second Coming has arrived; consequently I must pause and pen a love sonnet in praise of the Almighty Cheesus, thus sparing any cheese-flavored fire and brimstone from falling down and consuming my sorry sinister ass.

Praise Cheesus: Or Forgive Me Cheesus, For I Have Sinned

Dare I consume the Cheeto Messiah?
Who art more cheesy for sheesy than need be
Smellin’ of bliss and canned Swiss Vel-veetah?
Your funk oozes its orange liquid cheese-E.
Cheeto-Puff Daddy breathes life into you,
Resurrecting the cheddar of your soul;
Which breeds angelic wings fluttering to
My cheese-ball toil buried in a bowl.
You are my cheese-master funk puppeteer
Pulling the string cheeses hooked in my heart –
Carved in thirty pieces, betrayal near,
So watch yo’ back before it’s pulled apart.
Oh sweet Cheesus H. Christ Superstar!
Our love crucified and served in a jar.

Whew! That should buy me some time to develop and implement a redemption plan, which begins with purchasing a W.W.C.D? (What Would Cheesus Do?) bracelet. This should help me through uncertain times when my judgment is clouded with artificial preservatives and Chester Cheetah is tempting me to the Orange Side of the Force.

Thank Cheesus that minister had enough sense not to eat Cheesus and preserve Him. I wonder what I would have done, had I been in the same situation.

Better yet, “What Would Cheesus Do?” if he found his own likeness in a Cheeto?

I suspect he would do as I would have done: Eat it without a second thought.

Before you get all judgmental on me, I implore you to digest the following words: “Let he who is without sin, eat the first Cheeto.”

So tell me, are your hands clean?

No need to respond, your orange-stained fingers speak volumes.

Top Ten Joaquin Phoenix Excuses for His Behavior

Once again my quest to win David Letterman’s Online Top Ten Contest came up short last week. In the meantime my obsession to win the Holy “Late show Online” t-shirt has begun to wane, so I’ve decided to up the ante by forming an exploratory committee into whether I should officially launch a grassroots’ campaign to land a freelance job writing for Letterman.

Temporary default slogan: “Will Write for Letterman”

Sure I will keep indulging my weekly exercise in futility by cranking out a Top Ten List, but only as a means of laying the ground work for my possible campaign.

Speaking of which, this week’s Top Ten Contest topic stems from a recent guest appearance by Joaquin Phoenix, or at least somebody alleging to be Joaquin Phoenix. To get some of the back story, check out the following clip:

Joaquin Phoenix on David Letterman (Feb. 11, 2009)

Despite a record-low voter turnout for last week’s attempt, I will continue my quest to win the Holy Late Show Online t-shirt. But again, I cannot do this alone— so I’m soliciting your help, dear Reader. I’ve written ten possible entries for this week’s list, and it’s up to you to help me select the CHOSEN ONE from the list (for I can only submit one) that you think has the best chance of winning.

Just think, with your help, all of this could be mine

This week’s list: Top Ten Joaquin Phoenix Excuses for His Behavior

10.  Still thinks he’s Johnny Cash

9.  Real Joaquin Phoenix abducted by Tom Cruise and Scientologist minions

8.  P.E.T.A. made him do it

7.  Thought he was auditioning for “Witness” sequel extra

6.  Hoping to inspire a Top Ten List

5.  Experimenting with new hip-hop persona, Bearded Ice

4.  Attempting to channel spirit of Andy Kaufman

3.  Who needs excuses when you’re generating more press

2.  Trying to conceal secret crush on Letterman

1.  Recently entered Hollywood’s witness relocation program

Don’t forget to indicate (in the Comments) which ONE of these I should submit to the Top Ten Contest.

Thank Darwin for Prednisone

“So I have this rash…” has been a great icebreaker for the past few weeks when talking to friends, colleagues, and strangers at the bus stop. I’ve grown tired of talking and hearing about the weather, especially when the subject is broached while outside:

Stranger: It sure is cold out here. (hands tucked up in arm pits, shivers while waiting for me to agree with statement of obvious).

Me: (wearing puffy snow suit, scarf, and ear muffs) Really, I hadn’t notice.

Stranger: It’s supposed to get even colder the next few days.

Me: So I have this rash…

Stranger: (suddenly uncomfortable and at a loss of words, relieved by emergence of bus) Well here’s our chariot.

Me: Do you mind if we sit together? I would love to tell you all about my rash…

Despite the past couple thousand years of evolving, assuming you buy into Darwin’s theory, our species has yet to find a solution to deal with uncomfortable encounters with strangers in small, compact spaces. We tried silence, but that merely created a new problem that needed to be dealt with: repressed tension.

To deal with this, some sadistic bastard created Muzak – faux music which strips the soul out of its original recording to keep compliant with current copyright laws. As is the case with most innocuous inventions and discoveries (e.g. splitting of atom), Muzak was used for evil purposes. Muzak, for example, when not used to extract vital information from detainees at Guantanamo Bay, is pumped into elevators to sedate unsuspecting guinea pigs as a means of keeping us from turning on each other in a raging fit of uncomfortable silence.

For the most part it worked. How often do you see random acts of Elevator Rage splashed across newspaper headlines?

“Breaking: 13 Killed in Elevator Rage Incident, While Going Up”

Site of deadly episode of Elevator Rage allegedly spawned by Muzak version of “Rage Against the Machine” song

But I digress, dear Reader.

So I have this rash…and what better way to celebrate a full-body rash and the 200th birthday of Charles Darwin than a trip to the dermatologist, eh?

That’s where I was headed when I met up with the reluctant Stranger at the bus stop. My conversation-starter didn’t quite seduce the gentleman at the bus stop, who upon boarding, bolted to the only open seat in the back of the bus. I sat up front, feeling what the lepers must have felt when the Christians relegated them to the lazar section of the bus — named after Lazarus, patron saint of lepers and public transportation.

“Viva la Lazarus!”

Now, I’m willing to bet a pound of dead skin that nobody starts off in the medical profession by openly admitting: “I’ve always dreamt that of one day I will become a dermatologist.”

I’m guessing that dermatology is one of those fallback occupations in the medical field – should you not make the final cut for one of your top choices – brain or plastic surgeon (depending on what you’re more attracted to).

When I was plugging away on my undergraduate degree in Open Major at the University of Iowa, the fall back major was Communication Studies. Nobody started off on this track, but after partying leap-frogged academics on the priority list, this is where a lot of people were derailed, including my roommate, who later dropped out altogether. He was quick to rationalize his fall from academic grace, citing Tom Brokaw as his poster-boy for success:

“Brokaw flunked out of Communications at Iowa, and look at him now.”

True, Brokaw did drop out of UI, where he says he majored in “beer and co-eds,” but I was quick to remind my roommate that he also finished his degree at the University of South Dakota, not to mention his nabbed 17 honorary degrees without having dropped a single dime for tuition.

Instead of minoring in Beer & Co-eds, maybe I should have double-majored, so I would have had something to fall back on in case my Open Major didn’t pan out.

So you’re probably wondering what all this has to do with my rash, huh?

Which leads to why I found myself sitting in the dermatologist’s office with a rash that had consumed most of my body, thinking about Darwin and evolution theory. The walls in the waiting room and the examination rooms were covered with photographs of underwater sea creatures. I tried to figure out a possible motif linking these creatures to dermatology when it dawned on me that they breathe through their skin. Skin is their essence.

Sure looks fishy to me

I suspected my rash was an allergic reaction to laundry detergent. Thanks to the recent downturn in the economy, I’ve had to alter my normal shopping habits. Normally, when the economy is on the upswing and I’m poor but not dirt poor, I tend to buy the second-to-cheapest product on the brand chain. Not only does this help feed the illusion that I’m not a bottom feeder, but I found the thought of playing Consumer Russian Roulette exhilarating as well.

That said, I purchased the cheapest laundry detergent on the shelf.

Bang! I lost.

My dermatologist, who I suspected dreamt of a life in plastic surgery before his Darwinian fall from grace, confirmed my suspicions. His diagnosis: an allergic reaction to cheap shit.

The cure: a steady dosage of Prednisone and a 12-step program to break my addiction to cheap shit.
Speaking of Darwin, I realize there are still skeptics out there who don’t buy into his theories on evolution, but clearly none of these naysayers saw how my rash evolved on my body. It started off as a small colony on my forearms before spawning sub-colonies that spread up my arms that eventually descended down to my ankles, where they set up temporary shop.

Sure, the Creationists will argue that my spreading rash is all part of the Creator’s master plan to keep me from buying cheap crap, but I turned to a more reputable source for guidance: The Flying Spaghetti Monster of the Church of FSM.

Join The Church of FSM: the new Creationism of Choice

For whatever reason, I find the Almighty FSM’s beliefs easier to swallow.

Thank Darwin for that.

(Update: T.M. Lindsey is currently rash-free and would like to thank the Flying Spaghetti Monster’s creations for creating non-generic Prednisone. Let it be noted that T.M. is also enjoying the uptick side-effects of Prednisone and has gone five days without purchasing cheap, toxin-filled products; although thanks to the former he has yet to enjoy taking the latter.)

My Funny Prophetable Valentine Haikus

Growing up, I always dreamt of becoming a prophet, until I realized there is not much profit in propheteering — unless of course you’re exploiting dead prophets for profit: e.g. Mel Gibson’s “The Passion of Christ.” Speaking of which, most reputable (at least posthumously) prophets are shunned by society and succumb to untimely deaths (e.g. Keith Ledger). Apparently most people are allergic to the truth and avoid it at all possible costs, fearing they will break out in hives if exposed to the naked truth.

Last night, while celebrating the birthdays of Abraham Lincoln, Charles Darwin and Aresenio Hall from the stadium seats of my Aresnio Shrine and makeshift Dog Pound (Woof! Woof! Woof!), I started thinking about some of the most influential prophets in my life. Consequently, these prophets made cameo appearances (no charge) in my dreams and recited, in honor of Valentine’s Day, love-inspired Haikus from atop a mountain of garbage in the local land fill (formerly the local dump).

Fortunately the distinct smell from the land fill jarred me out of my R.E.M. mode, thus enabling me to recall the Haikus verbatim. That said, here’s a transcription of their 17 syllable sermons from the heap:

Crucifixion II: A Cautionary Haiku for You, by Jesus

Hallmarkian lust;
Enjoy sins ‘fore Dad gets home –
I’m already dead.

Light Saber Envy, by Yoda

Size matters not, hmmm…
You, let libido flow through:
May force be in you.

Alone: Wait, Fast, Think, Then Regret, by Buddha
Underneath Bodhi tree,
Transcended Valentine’s Day.
Damn Nirvana sucks.

Big Brother is Laughing, by George Orwell

Ministry of Love
Promotes proles to begat more proles.
Big Brother laughs last.

Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster, by FSM (Our Creator)

Pastafarians
Spread gospel of FSM;
Love is in the air.

Six Feet Under (Broadway): ‘Marriage Under Attack (This is Not a Dramatization!)’

Narrator:  Jim and Carol, an average American couple residing in a suburb near you, have proudly bred two children, a son who is 17 and an 11 year-old daughter and have been happily married for 20 years. Sure they’ve had their fair share of marital difficulties, which they’ve managed to work out vicariously through Dr. Phil’s audio books-on-tape, a steady stream of healthy dialogue, and an occasional whiskey binge. If anything, their marital commitment to one another has strengthened through these trials.

But when you peel back the fake stucco veneer and artificial façade, you will begin to see that their marriage is not the perfect marriage their family and friends have romanticized. Like Superman’s Kryptonite, their life time commitment is vulnerable to a single, yet disastrous factor beyond their control, should it rear its unfathomable head. And that is just what it did on what seemed like a ordinary day Six Feet Under (Broadway):

Jim:  (dressed in gray flannel suit and wielding a leather brief case, enters through the front door) Honey, I’m home!

Carol:  (sitting at kitchen table, with small stack of papers sitting in front of her) Honey, we need to talk.

Jim:  (enters kitchen and sits across from wife at table) About what?

Carol:  It’s about our marriage, Jim.

Jim:  Our marriage?

Carol:  I don’t know how to put this delicately, but it’s over. We need to dissolve it immediately.

Jim:  Dissolve? What the hell do you mean by dissolve?

Carol:  Dammit, Jim. That’s just modern lawyer jargon for divorce. Nobody get’s divorced anymore; their marriage, like a sanitary napkin in a toilet boil, simply dissolves.

Jim:  Is sanitary napkin women’s jargon for tampon?

Carol:  For God’s sake, Jim. This is no time for your potty humor. This is serious. Our marriage is over and we have the kids to think about.

Jim:  But why? Why the haste? Are you still upset about my affair with my secretary?

Carol:  Don’t flatter yourself. I was over that a long time ago.

Jim:  Are you still upset that I gave you an STD last year from that prostitute, who by the way swore she was clean?

Carol:  No, it’s not that either. I’ve gotten used to the occasional discomfort and burning pain while I pee.

Jim:  Carol, sweetie. You’re not still jealous about last week’s swinger party are you? Like I told you before, I paid just as much attention to you as all the other guests there.

Carol:  I know, and I told you I’m sorry I got jealous, but that’s not it either.

Jim:  Then what the hell is it?

Carol:  It’s our neighbors, Jim.

Jim:  Our neighbors? Let me guess, the ex-Marine next door who vowed to kill the both of us if he couldn’t have you?

Carol:  No, not Kevin. He only says those things when he forgets to take his medicine. Besides, I find it kind of flattering.

Jim:  Is it the Evangelical couple down the street who said we’re going to hell, because we don’t go to church and voted democratic in the last election?

Carol:  I only wish it were that simple.

Jim:  So it’s not the sociopath next door, and it’s not the religious zealots down the street. Hmmmm…then it has to be the convicted sex offender on the corner who has the giant, court-ordered neon sign in his yard that flashes “High Risk to Re-Offend” 24 hours a day.

Carol:  Don’t be ridiculous, Jim. Mr. Thornberry is completely harmless and poses no threat to our marriage. Not to mention, he’s our son’s Eagle Scout Master.

Jim (right) and Mr. Thornberry (left) admire Mr. Thornberry's new court-ordered sign

Jim: Then who could it be?

Carol:  It’s the guys who live across the street from Mr. Thornberry.

Jim:  You mean the two brothers who helped us move in, snow blow our front walk every time it snows, and let us borrow their car for six months, no questions asked, after you totaled our SUV?

Carol:  Yes, Jim. But they’re not brothers.

Jim:  Good God no, you don’t mean…

Carol:  Yes, Jim. They are gay.

Jim:  For Christ’s sake, they seem so normal. But this alone isn’t reason enough to end our marriage, honey. We can sell the house and move away. Problem solved, right?

Carol:  I’m afraid it’s bigger than that, Jim.

Jim:  How could it be bigger?

Carol:  They’re legally married.

Jim:  For the love of Christ, why is God punishing us? Why is He hell-bent on destroying the very institution he helped create?

Carol:  I don’t know Jim; the good Lord does work in mysterious ways.

Jim:  Okay, we clearly have no other choice. Where do I sign?

Carol:  (pushes the dissolution papers across table) Sign the bottom line. Hurry, before it’s too late… (loud sound of thunderbolt reverberates, blackout)

THE END

(This sketch was originally performed as part of Six Feet Under (Broadway’s) “Short Attention Span Theatre” (SAST). Six Feet Under (Broadway) maintains the original copyright. Any reproductions of any part of this comedy sketch must receive expressed permission from the author. For permission and/or to purchase performance rights (at a nominal fee of course) to this sketch, please contact T.M. Lindsey at saysomethingfunny@yahoo.com)

Top Ten Signs Christian Bale Is Your Valentine

Often times a parody is lost in translation if you don’t know the source of what is being parodied.

Such was the case when I was watching “The Colbert Report” and Steven Colbert went ballistic on Steve Martin, dropping f-bombs on the seasoned comedian for walking across the set.

Stephen Colbert Goes Christian Bale on Steve Martin (click here to see video)

What I didn’t know is that this was a parody of a recent on-the-set tirade by the Dark Knight Christian Bale, who unleashed his sexually-repressed Bruce Wayne alter-ego on an unsuspecting photographer who broke his Zen-like acting concentration.

Christian Bale Explodes on Set (audio version)

The sign of a good parody is when it can stand alone and is funny without depending on the original source for comedic effect. The Colbert bit was funny, but after I did my homework, the bit was even more funny. Clearly it’s time to schedule another dentist appointment, so I can get caught up on the last six months of “People Magazine” gossip.

In the meantime, Bale’s tantrum has gone virtual, landing on David Letterman’s Online Top Ten Contest this week. Had I known my obsession with trying to win the holy “Late Show Online” t-shirt would involve Christian Bale, I would have chosen another obsession — say chasing parked dreams.

For those of you who are counting (thanks mom and Irene), here’s the latest tally for my quest against the Artificial-Intelligence computerized intern over at CBS:

H.A.L 9000: 4 T.M. Lindsey 6800: Zero

Last week’s failed bid for the topic, “Top Ten Signs You Won’t Be Winning a Grammy Award,” was “Grammy Foundation discovered you owe $127 in back taxes.” Speaking of the Grammys, I watched them up until my ears began bleeding, literally, during the Jonas Brothers and Stevie Wonder hook up. Shame on you Grammys; you should know better than taking advantage of a blind man.

Just think, with your help, all of this could be mine

At the threat of sounding like a broken record (or cliché for that matter), I will continue my quest to win the Holy Late Show Online t-shirt, but again, I cannot do this alone— so I’m soliciting your help, dear reader. I’ve written ten possible entries for this week’s list, and it’s up to you to help me choose the ONE from the list (for I can only submit one) that you think has the best chance of winning this week’s contest.

This week’s list:  Top Ten Signs Christian Bale Is Your Valentine

10. Two of you met at anger management retreat in Gotham

9. His term of endearment for you is Poopsie Woopsie F*ckface

8. The Joker forbade your love

7. Recently hired as Bale’s star-crossed cameraman

6. He asked you out on blind date to “My Bloody Valentine”

5. Your love for Bale parodied on “The Colbert Report”

4. He sent you box of heart-shaped “Be My Verbal Whipping Bi-atch” candies

3. Co-starring with Bale in Albee adaptation: “Who’s Afraid of Christian Bale?”

2. Showed affections for you by tearing down streetlights in front of your house

1. D: It is written

Don’t forget to let me know (in the Comments) which ONE of these I should submit.