I want to start by saying that you are the greatest readers who ever lived, even better than the readers who are buried in King Tut’s Tomb. King Tut insisted on being buried with anyone who ever laughed at one of his jokes, so I guess if you laugh at one of my jokes today, and I become a pharaoh, then I’ll probably want to be buried with you in my tomb.
I’m waiting to turn left on the corner of Freedom Parkway and Ponce de Leon Avenue, when a man approaches my car and taps on my window. He motions for me to roll my window down. I just look at him. I don’t even turn down the radio, so he scowls and continues to move his lips soundlessly on the other side of the glass, as I continue to say, “What? What?!”
As the newest hire to the Ghostbusting team, I have to ask myself, will I be an ethical Ghostbuster? Sure, if I see a ghost stuffing his mouth full of fancy hot dogs right in front of me at a ritzy hotel à la Slimer, then yes, absolutely—I’ll shoot a ghost right in his face with my proton pack. But what about the other ghosts whose crimes aren’t as clear?
You know, my stepdad’s brother had a sailboat like Robert Redford’s in All Is Lost. He mostly kept it docked in Savannah, and sat around on it listening to Bonnie Raitt songs and drinking beer. When I was twelve, he took me out on the ocean, and after it got too hot I went below deck and curled up on some life preservers, and listened to the sound of the water lapping against the side of the boat, daydreaming about a girl I had a crush on who had crimped bangs.
Wow, Thor just hit that giant in the face with his magic hammer and turned him into a pile of rocks.
I had a run-in of my own with a giant last weekend, at the Zaxby’s near my house. I’ve been trying to eat at this particular Zaxby’s as much as I can before it becomes Poncified. Poncification is the process in which the baked-into-the-pavement entropy on Atlanta’s Ponce de Leon Avenue mixes with the Skid-Rowvian desperation in the air and seeps into nearby businesses and homes.
Dracula sure knows how to swing a whip, doesn’t he? I used to have a whip I played with as a kid. Probably around the time the first Castlevania game came out. My grandparents bought the whip for me at a Cherokee Indian Reservation close to Gatlinburg, Tennessee. We were headed to the Smoky Mountains, but I wanted to go to Dollywood.
Looks like the hero in inFAMOUS: Second Son is a graffiti artist in addition to having superpowers. I never got into graffiti, but one of my friends used to tag “JungleKid” all over Atlanta back in 2000.
Back in the 90’s, an acquaintance of mine started dating an older woman, and she made him get rid of his cardboard box full of unlabeled VHS porn movies. I guess she didn’t want any smutty tapes ruining her May-December romance. Although, if she’d really wanted them out of his life for good, she’d have waved a magnet over the box and erased them.
Boy, that Riddick gets into a lot of scrapes, doesn’t he? I almost got into a fight myself the other day.
A guy in an American Apparel tank top and lime green sunglasses yelled, “You can’t park for shit!” at me from his car, then sped off in a cowardly (yet stylish) fashion. How threatening could I have looked? I was holding toilet paper from CVS and an iPad charger I was returning to Verizon. Stand and fight me, American Apparel guy! I will crush your cool shades beneath my Cottonelle!
Last weekend, my friend from New York came down to visit Atlanta, and she was all about shooting guns. “I don’t care what else we do, but we have to shoot guns. In a field. Outside. I want to do something I can’t do in New York.” When I said maybe we could go to a museum in addition to shooting guns, she said, “New York has a museum on every corner. Fuck museums!”
Ever since I texted my girlfriend a joke about “Pussyville,” my phone’s been auto-correcting all the “P” words I type to “Pussyville.” So if I text you that I’m taking you to Pussyville, don’t get too excited—we’re probably going to P.F. Chang’s.
Batman probably doesn’t even need auto-correct. I’m sure every wireless communication Batman sends is flawless, concise, and to the point. If he texts you that he’s taking you to Pussyville, you can be damn sure you’re going straight to Pussyville. And then he’s going to take you to P.F. Chang’s.
There’s a floor in my office building that I think might be a portal to another universe. People on the elevator are always getting off on this floor with their suitcases, but nobody ever comes back down with any luggage. What if there’s a Bioshock Infinite-style tear in the fabric of reality on that floor, and people pay to travel to different versions of our world?
I’m bringing back “Great, kid. Don’t get cocky!” You know, from when Han Solo says it to Luke Skywalker in Star Wars. I say it all the time now. Watch out, people who just did something great but are starting to get cocky about it—you’re about to get put in your place. By an old man quoting Star Wars.…
Last week during our vacation, my girlfriend looked over at a woman feeding seagulls on the beach and said, “Look at that bitch feeding the seagulls.” My girlfriend doesn’t normally go around calling women bitches, but this lady was definitely causing a seagull problem vis-à-vis feeding them in a bitchy fashion.
Next thing you know, every begging-ass seagull on Panama City Beach shows up wings a-flappin’ bothering all the sunbathers. Then this old woman walks off smiling like she was doing everybody a favor. Great job, Angela Lansbury. Seagull, She Wrote!
It’s the year 2154, fish aren’t frying in the kitchen, and beans aren’t burning on the grill. Because the Earth is ruined. Looks like the super wealthy are finally getting a piece of the pie, though. They’ve moved on up, to the Elysium side, to a deluxe apartment in the sky, leaving the rest of humanity to rot. See you later, poor people! Don’t let the door hit ya where the Good Lord split ya. Come to think of it, who put the Good Lord in charge of splitting butts?