I’m in the middle of a fight. With a demon. I use my hallway wall as a springboard and throw my magnificent body at him. The demon catches me in mid air with his pinky and starts to choke the life out of me.
Suddenly, I wake up and scream. “What if I were a super hero?!” All the commotion wakes up my girlfriend who’s clearly terrified. “What’s going on!?” she asks.
“What if I was a super hero? I could beat the demon! I could do whatever I wanted! I could…”
“Really? You’re screaming in the middle of the night because you want to be a super hero?”
At this point, I don’t even care. About anything. Seriously, what if I was a fucking super hero!? This isn’t even about beating the demon anymore. Fuck the demon. This is about being able to do whatever the hell I want!
This might be the most important thing I’ve ever thought about. What powers would I have? What would my costume look like? I’ll tell you one thing. I wouldn’t wear a cape. I’d have a tail. Just think about the shit you could do with a tail instead. One, you can beat demons with it. Two, you can strangle demons with it. Three, it doesn’t get awkwardly wrapped around your no no spots while you’re flying around town like a cape would. A tail would also be a huge advantage because, well, have you ever seen a human with a tail? Yeah, neither has Megaclops.
One power that you need to have is the ability to fly. Without a doubt. But flying is boring without the sound effects. So I’d want the ability to make motion-picture quality sound effects. Then, not only would I be able to hear the most beautiful swooshing noises wherever I went, I’d also sound like the biggest hard ass ever while karate chopping Mouse Boy into a million pieces of squealy little bitch.
What about my weakness? What would that be? I can only think of one possibility. Being haggled by those that know you’re pee shy. Really, this is secretly the weakness of every single super hero. Even every measly human. Think about it. You’re heading into a big battle with Dangerous Marty and you have to use the bathroom. Dangerous Marty’s henchmen Tiny Dave and Wonder Hair know that you’re pee shy and follow you to the bathroom door. You’re never going to be able to pee again. Plus, you just missed your battle with Martha Danger.
I’m saving my best power for last. This power is revolutionary. No one has ever even dreamt of this power. No super hero has ever had it either. Trust me, I’m friends with all of them. I would have the power to be able to diss anyone. We’re not just talking a your mama joke or calling someone a silly goofball. No, this would be the ultimate diss. This diss would make your grandmother throw up, even if she didn’t hear it. This diss would end any villain’s career. The diss would be so powerful that there would be a special announcement every time it was used. Something like ULTIMATE DISS POWER: ACTIVATE! That way everyone around knew Jason was in town and to keep their mouth shut. I have a mind boner just thinking about it.
I fall back asleep and kill the demon with a diss about his receding hairline.
Beautiful love on a mid summer’s eve
Beating the shit out of a guy named Steve
Sunsets and shooting stars fly through the sky
As you tell a sixth grader she stuffs just to make her cry
Romance by candle light and walks in the park
Feeding your friend’s goldfish to a great white shark
The little things in life that help make us tick
Getting kicked out of a wedding for showing your dick
Finding the beauty around us in our everyday
Sing songs about people sleeping that really passed away
Learn to appreciate all four of the seasons
Tell your friends you hate them and list all your reasons
Keep your chin up, never get down
Tear down posters of missing pets all around town
Appreciate your family, spend time with your dad
Piss someone off on purpose and ask why they’re mad
Show our great planet your appreciation
Prepare in dark corners for the alien invasion
Sniff flowers, play hopscotch and roll down a hill
If someone talks too much, slip them a sleeping pill
Practice great hygiene and always brush your teeth
Tear down your neighbor’s Christmas lights and burn their best wreath
These are the things that make our lives grand
Just don’t tell your therapist, they’ll never understand
This week, I have a question for you. Can anyone explain to me what this is all about?
Your help would be greatly appreciated.
Q: Dear Jay, what’s the average top speed of a fully mature male hyperodes weevil?
With care, Brian Durner
A: The master of illusion and confusion! Brian Durner! Trying to confuse me with your grown up language and big boy talk!? Well, I’m a big boy too! Just because I didn’t win the scientist competition doesn’t mean that I can’t understand magic! Right? However, I do claim to have an answer to every question. With that clause in my contract, I must provide you with an answer. On a side note, I will never prepare myself a legally binding contract again.
I think the answer to your question lies deep inside your heart. How much do you believe in the mature male hyperodes weevil? How fast do you wish he could run? Or fly? Or…weevil? You see, there’s an important unknown fact about the fully mature male hyperodes weevil. Genies have evolved from them! The weevil, nature’s genie. Catch one and make your dreams come true! Then wish it to weevil around wildly.
Q: Jason, do you look when you wipe?
Signed, Jubilee Swanson
A: Most answer swamis wouldn’t touch this question with a ten foot roll of toilet paper. Lucky for you, I’m wearing a NO FEAR(!!!!!!) t-shirt today. I’m aware that most of you would love a graphic description of my bathroom rituals but I will spare you this time.
Long story short, yes of course. If you don’t look, you’ll never know if you’re really done. Some people claim to be equipped with the seventh sense of rectal awareness. Unfortunately, I’m not one of those people. I will look until the day I die.
Q: Ay-yo, Jase-o! Why do all da girls pose wit dere hand on da hip in all da pictures dey do?
Scribbled, Smart People
A: Brilliantly worded. This is an important issue that I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about. The answer is really quite simple. Because it’s fucking glamorous! Who doesn’t want to pose with their hand on their hip like that? All the dudes want you, all the girls are doing the exact same thing as you, and all the studios are writing movies for you. You’re big time. You’ve seen it all. You’ve done it all. You’re wearing a $23,000 pearl necklace that Jacques Cousteau made for you out of hand-plucked pearls and a string from the harp of an angel. You jelly? See you in the Hamptons bitch. They were like, named after me.
I have one last question to ask and this is an important one. Extremely important. I was running through my computer looking for some pictures when I came across this:
Who is that!? How is this picture saved on my computer!? Can I borrow your tie!? I seriously have no idea who this is or where the flaming tie this picture came from. From the few clues I could gather, it appears as if his name is-I’m not kidding-Joey Cookies. Who is Joey Cookies? Do you know this man? If you have any clues or leads regarding the mysterious Joey Cookies or how I ended up with this picture on my hard drive, you should report them to me immediately.
Do you have any questions you’d like me to answer? Do you have any information on Joey Cookies? Well send them to me. I will answer anything. JasonNotImaginary@gmail.com, tweet @YourPalJason or leave a comment here. Now vote on these hot button issues. The winning selection will be featured in the next presidential debate.
My summer of adventure continues! This time, I took my cute little bottom to the county fair! Now, our county fair isn’t just any county fair. No, it’s the fourteenth largest county fair in the country! Fourteenth!!!! Walking through the gates, there’s no way to forget that. There are banners everywhere, giving us something to be proud of! Parents give their kids pride noogies.
As I walk through the gates, I’m feeling good. Scratch that, I’m feeling GREAT! We’ve got something to be proud of! I start to do a little song and dance number. “We’ve got something to believe in! We’ve got a city to feel great about!” I’m going all out, really getting into my performance when I do a spin and turn to my friends. “Come on!!” I yell as I’m expecting to lead a musical parade through the fair. Instead, I’m greeted by dirty looks from everyone in a twenty yard radius. WHY WON’T ANYONE EVER MUSICAL WITH ME??
I give up my dreams of filming my city’s next ad campaign and realize that I need to use the bathroom. I find a porta potty and walk in. What do you know? Diarrhea in the porta potty! I’m not surprised at all, everyone knows that there is diarrhea in every porta potty. It’s a fact of life. I walk out of the bathroom and have a plate with money shoved in my face. It’s the “bathroom attendant.” He says “alright,” and I just laugh. There’s no way I’m tipping him. His diarrhea-filled stench closet was the anti-tip.
We’re ready to move on. While walking around, one of the best parts of the fair is the people watching. You look one way, you see a toothless grandmother brushing her tooth with a cigarette. Look the other way, there’s a Native American playing a flute. Look behind you, there’s a carnie on stilts. Up ahead, there’s a flash mob parade with thirty horses, pooping with every step they take and smelling up the fairgrounds. Next to you, a fight breaks out at a charity booth when a drunk old man with a mullet accuses the workers of stealing. What more can you ask for?
The real reason that anyone comes to the fair is to eat. That means you, foodies! By the way, what is up with that word? Foodie? Who decided that was a word that people should be using? I think it’s just a cute little nickname for a fatso! The fair is a fatso’s dream come true! The goal for a fatso like me isn’t just to eat until I throw up. It’s to eat until I throw up, pass out and have a triangle seizure. That’s easy here. They have every food you could ever dream of. The sticky double fat burger with rainbow sprinkles. Deep fried hot dogs dipped in chocolate. Breaded jelly beans. Fat fuck french fries covered in peanut butter and jelly. Classy, gourmet food and somehow, you don’t even need a reservation!
If you’re able to move, you can explore the rest of the fair. DO NOT GO ON THE RIDES! Do you really trust Michael Carnie with your life while you’re spinning upside down and getting vomit sprayed in your hair on Lucifer’s Loop? If you said yes, we don’t talk anymore.
On your way out, make sure to stop by the World’s Largest Infomercial. This is a fair exclusive! You can’t get this shit anywhere else! For three weeks only, in one place, united as one, every infomercial you’ve ever suffered through! The Flapper-Scooper? Yep! The Ring Dang?! You got it!! EVEN THE SLOP-O-MATIC!!!!!!!!! How many exclamation marks do I need to use to express how excited I am about the Slop-O-Matic? It’s everyone’s favorite Irish pig food server!! If you’re really lucky, you’ll be able to find an empty stand here. Pretend it’s yours and try to convince the crowd you’re selling human livers on the black market. Cha-ching!
Yeehaw motherfuckers! What? Couldn’t you guess I’d start a formal essay about the rodeo like that?
I know what you’re thinking. Jason doesn’t seem like the rodeo type. Jason wouldn’t survive a day on the range tackling donkeys. Jason doesn’t know the difference between a rope and an umbilical cord. Stop whispering to each other about me.
Well, the rodeo is outrageous. Here’s how it starts. You ride a horse thirty yards from the parking lot to the “no camping in the parking lot” sign where you pay for your tickets. You have two payment options; you can either pay with a Buffalo (applause, x10million Buffalo points) head nickel or with your old toothpicks. Toothpicks get you a five dollar discount.
You’re not on your way to your first rodeo yet? Do you have a disease?
The next step is the beer. Just like any extremely intelligent festival or event, you have to buy tickets first. Like they always say, two lines are better than one! After you survive the lines, you have your choice of two different beers. America or America Light. The bad guy cowboy in the black hat tries to convince you to buy a commemorative rodeo beer koozie by strangling a little kid. You’re convinced to donate to your favorite charity out of fear for the human race. That’s the only way you can help stop the black-hatted cowboy. You buy the beer koozie too.
The next stop is the western wear hut. Here you can try on your favorite flowery western shirt and pink cowboy hats. The cowboy fashion judges hold up score cards as you walk by and the winner gets a free Harley Davidson belt buckle. Ok, that part was just from my rodeo fantasy. It didn’t actually happen. But you still try on the hats and shit. Of course, you’re already wearing some top of the line western gear. Who would go to the rodeo without it? Cowboy boots, a bolo tie, a cowboy hat and a bandana is the obvious necessary attire. A western shirt is more or less mandatory.
On your way to the seats, you can grab some food or stop by the hoedown barn and do some square dancing. The key to this is having no idea how to actually square dance and bumping into the professional square dancers around you. They’ll love it, trust me. Make sure you don’t waste too much time though, you need to make it to your seat in time for the opening ceremonies.
The first of the opening ceremonies is America: The Musical Prayer. This nifty little song and dance ditty features synchronized flag waving, horses jumping through flaming hoola hoops and (I think) Donny Osmond on lead vocals. The line “Jesus was the first American cowboy” always gets a rise out of the crowd but I’m pretty sure that’s not how it worked. Not even the Mormons believe that.
I can’t think of anything more boner-inducing than a reasonably attractive female riding two horses at full speed while doing a headstand. Perfect, because that’s exactly what we are getting ourselves into in this next event. Cowboys faint as this beautiful daredevil defies the laws of cowboyery. I’m pretty sure those are the exact words that the PA announcer used. She gets an awkward standing ovation from the boner-hiding cowboys. Myself included.
The rest of the rodeo is kind of a bore after this. Self-proclaimed Rodeo World Champions tie up sheep and chase around baby pigs. The rodeo clowns tell extremely offensive racist and gay jokes. The rodeo clown trips. What a goofball! A bull gores a junior bull rider and jumps into the stands. Yawn. Your usual rodeo activities.
After a few hours, the rodeo wraps up. This time, we take a short bus from the bleachers back to our car. On the bus, shit gets wild. A weird old cowboy man holds a little boy’s hand against his will. The bus driver swerves to avoid an old western shootout. Luckily the bus ride only lasts two minutes, otherwise I might throw up on myself or have a heart attack.
When we leave, we blast country music all the way home. Not really. Who would listen to that shit?
See you next year rodeo. I love you.
It all started with my fucking pants. I just knew that wearing these pants today was a horrible idea. But how could I resist? They were beautiful. If you’re thinking to yourself in a nasally voice “beautiful is a sacred word that I would only use to describe my girlfriend!” you’ve obviously never seen these pants. The most precious teal color you could imagine, a dime-sized hole in the left knee. Perfection! But the draw string had fallen out long ago.
Normally, I wear the pants around the house but I have yard work to get done today. Going to war with my front yard without those pants was the same to me as leaving a wounded soldier behind. I needed something to hold them up! I settled on some old rope that I found in my basement and went outside. Hey, at least I didn’t use a dress belt.
I’m outside doing man shit. Jumping off of ladders, using screwdrivers as hammers, and screaming words like fuck and God damn it. Just me and my sweatpants. As I ascend the ladder for one last swan dive, my beautiful companion stabs me in the back. Down go my pants! The screaming starts immediately. High-pitched shrieking that can only be described as the sound of seagulls fucking. Surprise, surprise; an elderly lady. I turn to look at her with my pants around my ankles. The shrieks get more intense. Words are finally formed.
“This man! He violated me!” she swoggles (yes, I just made that word up. Can you think of a better word for that weird old lady voice that they all talk in? Yes, you know exactly what I’m talking about).
I’m confused. I’m scared. I try to explain myself. All that comes out is “p-p-pants down!” which doesn’t help my case at all. The neighbors begin to yell words like “Scattergories!” and “taco truck!” at me. At least that’s what I hear. All hope appears lost, I dart inside and start to knit (don’t ask). The cops arrive within minutes.
I’m brought into a dark room. Two police officers and the old lady. She starts to scream immediately. She swoggles and spits in my face by accident as her dentures grind together. The officers inform me that I will be in court in the morning facing public nudity charges. I’m brought to my cell where I stand in front of my toilet for three hours because of my severe case of Bladdoria (the pee-shy disease). I give up and borrow the harmonica that is conveniently located inside every jail cell.
“I got da pee jail blues, Lord! Got dem pee jail bluuuueeeess,” the harmonica squeals.
Court flies by. I don’t understand a single word that the attorneys say. I get called to the witness stand. I’m able to put together one coherent sentence. “I tied my beautiful babies with a rope.” The courtroom erupts. “Order in the court!” screams the judge as he pulls out a second gavel. “Crime of the century!” yells a reporter from the 1950s that’s stuck in a time warp. I want to tell him that he spelled “PRES” wrong on the index card that he’s taped to the side of his bowler hat.
The judge announces that the verdict is ready. Community service. I cry into my hands and think about how lucky I am.
Fast forward two weeks. I no longer think of myself as lucky. I’m trapped in the county’s mentorship program. State law states that a male can only work with a male and female only with female. But fuck that. The mentorship program is so neglected that there aren’t enough participants for that law to matter. I’m stuck with an eighteen year old female named Peggy that lives in the middle of nowhere. The last two weeks have been Hell. Luckily, I’m down to my last two visits with her. But I’ve been put through shit that no other human being should ever have to endure. High speed chases, threatened with a kitchen knife, you name it, it’s happened.
I get to Peggy’s house around two. Her mother is there like usual to give us directions on what activities we can do for the day. She tells me that Peggy has been dying to to chop her hair off and will probably try it today. I need to stop her if it’s the last thing I do. I say “yes ma’am!” and salute her because I’m cute. We walk to the car and Peggy tells me that she’s “getting that fucking haircut.” We start to drive, Peggy brings up the haircut again. I tell her no and she pulls a gun. “This really is going to be the last thing you do. Pull over!” she yells slowly. I get out of the car and the gun is pointed at me every step of the way. After five seconds at gun point, I pussy out. Let’s get that haircut, kiddo!
Peggy hops in the driver seat. One hand on the wheel, one hand on the gun. Gangsta shit. “Ride wit me, ride wit me” she raps out loud. I tell her that I am and she gives me a look like she doesn’t know how she hasn’t killed me yet. She swerves in and out of traffic and blows a red light. She sticks the gun out the window and fires two shots into the air. I’m hanging out of the passenger window screaming like a bitch. We cut across three lanes of traffic and start to drive through the woods. “Shortcut!” she says in her familiar, slo-mo voice.
Finally, Peggy Tokyo drifts into a parking lot. I look up at a sign that reads Big Pop’s Choppe Shop. Again, I feel the urge to point out a spelling mistake. Peggy warns me not to say a god damn thing about the haircut while we’re inside. I use a line from a Disney movie, I’m great with kids. She pistol whips me as a reward.
Peggy gets her hair cut. Actually, Peggy gets all of her hair cut. Peggy is now playing the role of GI Jane. I tell her that I can’t believe she would do this. She tells me that she doesn’t care and plans on telling her mom that I encouraged it. I think about arguing with her for four seconds. She has a gun, dumb-ass. I’m fucked.
Peggy pulls into her driveway, throws the car into park and hops out of her window. “See ya!” she yells as she runs into the house. I realize that she was the voice of Eeyore in the Whinnie the Pooh cartoons. I take off instead of chasing her inside. There’s no way I can face her mother.
I’m five minutes from home when my phone rings. Peggy’s mom. Fuck. I answer in a British accent hoping she gets confused and hangs up. No such luck. There’s screaming coming from the other line. “Jason! Help!” can be heard over Peggy’s Hundred Acre Wood drawl. It’s apparent that Peggy is holding her mom at gun point.
“Tomorrow…Jason…I will be getting my nipples pierced. There ain’t a God damn thing you fuckers can do about it!”
Her mother screams in horror. Peggy whispers bang bang. I hang up the phone in terror. Nipple piercings!?!
I’ve learned my lesson. Don’t wear sweatpants without a draw string.
Am I really going to start Ask Jason with a bunch of questions every time I write it? Does it bother you that much? What can you do to stop it? Do you really think that would matter? Are you delusional? How did you know I was? Wait, did you say something? So I might really be delusional?
Woah, that was intense! What even happened back there? Whatever it was, I’m glad it’s over. I’m happy you could join me again for another edition of Ask Jason. Gather around the fire, kiddies, and I will answer any question that your cute little brain can think up.
We’re back down to our usual three questions this time around. I’d like to take the time now to blame all of you for that. Maybe if I intimidate you and call you pussies, you will send me more questions. No, actually, I’m going to take the high road here. I understand that some people don’t feel comfortable asking questions, especially when they deal with such extremely important issues. However, I will commend the brave few that continue to to turn to me when things get confusing in their lives. Don’t be shy, I have the answer.
Q: Almighty Jason, what happens when you sneeze with your eyes open?
With Love, The Jasonites
A: Thank you to those of you who took the time to vote in the poll. It is always appreciated. The options were kind of weak this time, weren’t they? It won’t happen again, you have my word. Sneezing with your eyes open is something that has mesmerized me since I was a child. The first time that the idea of this heroic act even crossed my mind, I was in middle school. Every week, the teacher would distribute a children’s magazine of sorts that we would read together as a class. The cover of one of the issues featured the headline “NEVER SNEEZE WITH YOUR EYES OPEN!” in the largest text I’d ever seen. The headline was positioned over a picture of a cartoon cat with its tongue sticking out and its eyeballs hanging out of the sockets. Since then, I’ve been looking for volunteers to test it out so I could see the effects firsthand. What, you thought I was going to try that shit out myself? Yeah right. Sorry, but having the ability to lick my bungee jumping eyeballs isn’t the super power that I’ve always wished I had. But that could never actually happen to you, even if you tried. Any volunteers?
Q: Jason, can you describe what a normal trip to Walmart is like for you? What items do you usually buy?
Signed, Jubilee Swanson
A: I think you meant to ask what a normal trip to My Fashion Headquarters is like for me. But there are a few different kinds of Walmart trips. There’s the grocery shopping trip which we all know I despise. Then there’s the random shopping trip. This one obviously starts out at My Fashion Headquarters, moves to the toy aisle so that I can browse the newest wrestling action figures, then will end up in the health section as I stock up on vitamins and muscle powder to help further advance my bodybuilding career. The third and final kind of Walmart trip is my favorite. This is the “it’s three in the morning, I’m bored and Walmart is the only thing open” trip. Believe it or not, this trip is actually fun. This one starts out in the action figure aisle! After ripping open the packaging of the two toughest looking wrestlers and having a hardcore, anything goes match with them, I stuff them in my pocket and sprint to the gun counter. I ask to test out the telescope on each gun (I think that’s what they call it) but once I get one in my hands, I spin around in circles while pointing the gun forward and making machine gun noises. I won’t stop unless the guy working the counter yells “atten-hut!” and I tell him that as he’s screaming at me to stop. Eventually, I get bored with my machine gun game and find as many toy instruments as I can. I rush to the karaoke machines and make up as many songs as I can think of. That’s right, once every couple of weeks I record a Walmart album. I normally leave the tape in the karaoke machine so that whoever buys it can have a piece of history. Once my classic album is finished, I find some roller skates and strap them on. Then I skate as fast as I can out the door with the wrestling action figures still in my pocket. Success!
Don’t worry guys, Ralph is back.
What are you thinking? You are a bunch of idiots! Jasonites?, really that’s a stupid name. It sounds like some sort of heaven’s gate cult or something. So why don’t you all go do us a favor and strap on a pair of white Nike’s and kill yourselves. By the way sorry you haven’t heard from me for a while but I was on vacation in the Ozarks. I would have read the blog on my phone but I have to take a break once in awhile as I feel that reading this garbage decreases my intelligence and my sanity. Also only poor people would suffer through this dribble for entertainment, I’m surprised you can even afford an Internet subscription. Before you even start I don’t come here for entertainment purposes, what I do is a public service.
Screw you guys,
Jason, you don’t want to rap battle me again, or did you forget what went down back in ’93.
Woops, typo! It’s one thing when you come on here and insult me. It’s another thing when you blatantly attack the Jasonites. I’m sorry that you don’t find my memoirs entertaining. But those that do clearly have better taste in entertainment than you do. Vacationing in the Ozarks? What’s the main attraction there? The sister-kissers club? Ole Ollie’s Down Home Blue Grass Saloon? You’re right, I’d much rather be doing that right now. Oh the excitement! What do you mean reading this blog decreases your intelligence? This blog has more coherent thoughts in a single post that you’ve had in your life. Thanks for proving that to me in your latest letter. No Jasonite is going to kill themselves either. I know that would really help you get off (suicide loving sister-kisser), but it’s not going to happen. Jasonites are an exclusive group of people that know how to practice self-appreciation and understand how important they are to the world around them. I’m sorry that you feel worthless, but the people that come here sure as hell don’t. As for calling us all poor people, that’s a joke right? This blog is clearly tailored to those with insanely high IQ’s and stacks upon stacks of money just hanging out in their bedroom. If what you do is a public service, then what I do is charity work. Your useless services are going to fall victim to budget cuts, while this blog will go on forever as a useful, free goldmine of love. Muah.
I will always hate you, Jason
P.S. Big deal, you made me cry in the first rap battle I was ever in. Let’s try it again. I promise you the outcome would be different. Remember, I beat Lil Wayne.
That will do it for this edition of Ask Jason. PLEASE send me your questions. Remember, you can ask anything! You can either tweet me @YourPalJason, e-mail me at JasonNotImaginary@gmail.com or leave a comment here with your question(s). Any other way that you could get it to me would be greatly appreciated as well and I would specifically prefer a Blue Mountain musical e-card. Now, please help select the question that will be answered from the poll in the next Ask Jason.