Happy Halloween

Get out there kiddies, tonight’s the only night you can get away with dressing up like the grim reaper and wreaking havoc in a retirement home.

If you have a heart, feelings, ears, or anything similar, I urgently recommend John Adam’s On Transmigration of Souls. If classical music isn’t your thing, one listen of this will most likely add it to your thingdom.

One Night in Rwanda

As you may have heard, Paris Hilton recently announced that she will be traveling to Rwanda in order to promote good causes. Here is a conversation with her publicist that I was able to obtain.

 

Publicist: Paris, I need you to understand that Rwanda and Beverly Hills are very, very different.

 
Paris: I want to see a monkey!

 
Publicist: Alright, I believe we can make that happen. But you must realize that the country is still pulling out of really hard times and-

 
Paris: I believe that if I go I can make their lives better. I want all the little boys and girls to touch my hair, so that they know what it’s like to be me.

 
Publicist: Paris, the purpose of your trip shouldn’t be to make them jealous. These people are still feeling the aftershock of genocide, and I’m sure that you’re hair is the last thing on their minds.

 
Paris: I just feel they identify with me though, because I was in prison and they are sort of in prison, because islands are surrounded by water. The water is like bars.

 
Publicist: Rwanda isn’t an island, Paris.

 
Paris: But Africa is, and Rwanda is in Africa!

 
Publicist: Paris, do you actually know what Africa is? 

 
Paris: Monkeys…

 
Publicist: OK, Paris, if you do in fact go to Rwanda, you have to let me do ALL of your talking. You won’t accomplish anything by letting the children touch your hair. You actually have to use your celebrity to raise awareness.

 
Paris: Deal, I won’t talk one bit. Can I dance?

 
Publicist: If you’re clothed, yes.

 
Paris: Can I sing?

 
Publicist: No.

 
Paris: One last question, what’s the weather like?

 
Publicist: When you’re there, it’ll probably be in the nineties and humid.

 
Paris: That’s hot.

Why Dudes Should Be Banned From the Delivery Room

Doctor: Alright, just keep pushing, you’re doing fine. This will all be done before you know it.

Karen: I HATE YOU I HATE YOU GARRRRFFFFF OOOOOOOO I HAAATTEEE YOUUU!!!!!

Jeff: Ok, like this is my fault. You’re responsible for at least fifty percent of this.

Doctor: With all due respect sir, your wife is in a lot of pain right now.

Jeff: (Biting a burrito) Oh right. Sweetie, if pain was measured like earthquakes, where would you be sitting on the Richter scale right now?

Karen: ARE YOU KIDDING ME JEFF? MY CERVIX IS STRETCHING LIKE A LIVESTRONG BRACELET!

Jeff: Don’t bring my Lance into this! Maybe I should just call off this whole birth. Would you like that? Doc, my wife has a bad attitude, unplug everything. You’re free to go home to your neglected family.

Karen: Fine Jeff, fine. You want to know where I am on the Richter scale? I’m at an eight. AN EIGHT JEFF! My Ladypart is the San Andreas fault, and I’m about to bestow eighteen years of misery upon you and, geographically speaking, everyone from Palm Springs to Tijuana. HOW’S THAT FOR AN ANSWER?

Jeff: Ample. Doc, shoot up my girl here with the finest drugs you have to offer. I want that baby to leave the womb with the munchies.

Doctor: Considering where we are in the birth process I don’t think it would be wise to-

Jeff: I’m not paying you for your discretion! I’m paying you to dig that epidural so deep in my girl’s spine that she spits out opioids every time she cracks her back! Woo!

Doctor: Too late, the baby is coming.

Jeff: Oh wow Karen, you and our baby have the same smile!

Doctor: Actually, this child is in the breech position, that’s actually his butt. But no worries, he should come out fine.

Karen: I HATE YOU I HATE YOU I HATE YOU!!!!

Jeff: Back to square one…

Doctor: Congratulations Karen, you’ve given birth to a beautiful baby boy…

Jeff: Name it Jeff or I’m shoving it right back in.

MORE!!!!

So the number one song in the country right now is Britney Spears’ “Gimme More.” I still think we’re being too subtle, America. We won’t truly be ourselves until “Let’s Eat Ourselves Into a Coma While Rolling Naked On a Bed of Money” goes to the top of the charts.

Who makes sense? I know I doesn’t.

I’m still trying to figure out how to make this site work. In the meantime, here is my favorite Denis Johnson poem:

Heat

Here in the electric dusk your naked lover

tips the glass high and the ice cubes fall against her teeth.

It’s beautiful Susan, her hair sticky with gin,

Our Lady of Wet Glass-Rings on the Album Cover,

streaming with hatred in the heat

as the record falls and the snake-band chords begin

to break like terrible news from the Rolling Stones,

and such a last light- full of spheres and zones.

August,

you’re just and erotic hallucination,

just so much feverishly produced kazoo music,

are you serious?- this large oven impersonating night,

this exhaustion mutilated to resemble passion,

the bogus moon of tenderness and magic

you hold out to each prisoner like a cup of light?