Ask Jason: War Declared on the Jasonites

America has questions and Jason has answers.  Want to know the square root of 3?  Need to find a good way to break up with your girlfriend?  Want to know who will win American Idol?  (Please don’t ask me that.)  Looking for a cheap plastic surgeon?  Do you really think I can help you with any of these things?  You’ll never find out if you don’t ask.  No question will go unanswered and no subject is off limits.  Ask anything.  Let us begin.

Q:  Jase, if you could have any animal as a pet, what would you choose…and why?

Signed,

Anonymous

 

A:  Ann, as we can see by your question, we are now on a shortened first name basis.  There is no longer the need to write out your full name when sending me questions.  What animal would I like as a pet?  This is a tough question.  I can tell you what animal that wouldn’t be.  A bird.  The sole reason for this decision is that I’m scared to death of them.  I had a bird when I was younger and somehow, he frequently broke out of his cage.  Every time he did, my mom would freak out and yell “RUN!!” and shove my brother Marvin and I in the nearest closet while she shielded my then-baby sister Jessakin.  If that doesn’t sound like a mentally scarring experience, tell me what does.  Quick aside, yes my name does rhyme with my brother’s and sister’s names.  My parents were poets and they definitely did know it.  And it was embarrassing.

Wait, was my cousin kidding when she told me that I could take my fish out of his tank to play? Fuck.

Q:  Do you think it tarnishes the legacy of a star player if he fails to win a Stanley Cup with his  long-time team but wins it with a perennial contender?

Signed,

Joe B in Lockport

 

A:  YES!  Sports!  I’ve been hoping and praying for a sports question to come my way.  Thank you for answering my wishes Genie Joe.  Also, can you believe I have readers in Lockport?!  Talk about going worldwide.  When I look at this question, the first name that comes to mind is Lanny McDonald.  For those that are unfamiliar with Lanny, he had the most beloved mustache in the history of hockey.  He was a pretty good hockey player too.  Lanny reached superstar status as a member of the Toronto Maple Leafs in the 1970s but was unable to bring the elusive Stanley Cup home as a member of the team.  As Lanny’s career wound down, he spent the last half of his career with the Calgary Flames.  In his last NHL season, Old McDonald finally had a Cup on his farm.  Is Lanny McDonald’s legacy tarnished for not winning a Cup with the Cable Thiefs ?  Lanny’s real legacy is his mustache.  I’ll always remember Lanny for his last moments as an NHL player.  Lanny sipping from the world’s most prestigious pimp cup as his mustache (now fused into a magnificent playoff beard) cried champagne tears of joy.  My answer is no.

Salty, champagne beard-tears.

Here is a letter that I received from a member of an apparent anti-Jason coalition.  I have included my answer as well.  Please note that he insults each and every one of you.  This means war.

Dear Jason,

you suck. Yes I am aware that is not a question, but I felt that everyone should know the truth. Here is a question for you, How do you manage to suck so much? Now I now this is a bit vague and hard for you to comprehend, but for the sake of your “readers” please try to explain how it is that you suck more than a Flow Bee in a Billy Mays commercial. Riddle me this O Great Wizard!

I hope you die in a fire,
Not your pal Ralph

Ralph,

Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me.  That is, unless they’re spelled incorrectly and used improperly in a sentence.  But I’m not going to be that douche bag that points out your grammatical errors.  (Wait, I already did that?)  I have much more that I’d like to say to you mister.  By putting the word readers in quotes, you have managed to insult each and every one of the Jasonites.  By insinuating that they don’t exist, you’ve guaranteed yourself the top spot on the sinner list at the Jasonic Temple.  The fact of the matter, Ralph, is that you’re actually the one that sucks.  Want to know how I know?  You know what a “Flow Bee” is.  Sorry, I have much more important things to do than catch up on five year old Billy Mays commercials.  What is a Flow Bee though?  I’m curious.  No, actually I’m not!  No real person would ever give a Ninja Turtle flying-kick fuck.  This “question” is the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen.  All of my teachers that I had growing up that said that no question is ever a stupid question must have never met you.  This is a worse question than “ooooh, did you get a haircut?” when you come into work bald after having a mullet the day before.  No idiot, it fell off and I spent the entire night in the hospital.  Does it look noticeably different?  Please help, I’m scared!  Anyway, I hope I die in a fire too.  When I’m 165 years-old though.  That sounds like a much more legendary fate than “succumbed to cance (my personal nickname for cancer).”  I’m glad you’re not my pal.

Never chew your nuts,

Jason

 

 

Here's a picture I found of Ralph crying and holding a purse. A real man's man.

Please submit your questions for the next edition of Ask Jason.  They can be submitted as comments here or in an e-mail to JasonNotImaginary@gmail.com.  Or you can exercise your creative muscles and figure out another way to get them to me.  I hope someone rips Ralph a new one.  New hole in his purse that is.  I love you all, signed Jason.

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Be sure to rate this post (even if you hate it!).  Subscriptions are always appreciated, just fill out your e-mail address in the box on the top right of this page and click I Love Jason! to subscribe.  Now, please take time out of your extremely busy and important day to participate in this poll.  The winning answer (question? Me sooo confused!) will be featured in the next edition of Ask Jason:

Ask Jason-Round One

Is your life confusing?  Do you need relationship advice?  Do you want a psychic reading?  Do you need help with your math homework?  Well, you need to ask Jason.  This is round one of what will hopefully be a recurring section of my extremely important blog where I will answer your questions about anything and refer to myself in third person.  Today’s edition features a couple personal questions that will help all of my readers become best friends with me and an extremely important educational question.  Without further ado, I give you the world’s new favorite advice column.

Q:  Jason, what is your favorite song?

Signed, Anonymous

A:  I’m very happy that you asked me that, Ann.  Can I call you Ann?  I think that if I spread my great musical taste to the rest of the world, I can help everyone forget about the garbage that is getting spewed out by “artists” like Lady Blah Blah and Sticky Menage.  Although I can’t narrow my answer down to one specific song, I can give you a couple different songs that I will recommend to anyone with ears.  “Owjay” by Painful Sex and “Bubblegum” by Beautiful Jessica are two of the greatest songs ever written.  If you’re unfamiliar with those, I’m hoping I can share them with you someday soon.  Another one of my favorites is the Jason theme song that I hope will exist one day.  The only thing I can tell you about it is that it will feature the chorus of “Feed the World” but with the words “Jaaaaasoooon, wooooah-oh” replacing “feed the world.”

Q:  Dear Jason, where do babies come from?

Signed, The Great Jessica of Cheektovegas

A:  It appears as if we have one of my younger readers here.  Either that, or we have someone that coincidentally slept through the same lesson in class for five years straight.  Let’s assume that we have a younger reader and keep this clean for the children.  Great Jessica, most , if not all babies originally come from Jason’s magical wizard.  Does that mean that there is a chance that you are one of my children?  It is very possible.  I will give you a couple minutes to celebrate but I will warn you, don’t expect much of an inheritance to be left for you.  All of the money will be spent.

Q:  Jason, why do you act like some hard-ass, almighty genius but you are scared to tell us your last name?  Be a real man, Jason.  What is your last name?!

Signed, Jim Business

A:  Aaaah yes, my good friend Jim Business.  Jim, you don’t have to be bitter about the incident in the grocery store anymore.  Let’s just put that behind us.  As for my last name, I’ve never revealed it because I don’t have one.  That’s right, I’m the Madonna of real life.  I bet you feel stupid now.  Coming on here and trying to talk like the big boy down the street who was the first one to get a Power Wheels car.  Shame, shame James Biz.

Well, that concludes Round One of Ask Jason.  Thank you to everyone who participated, except for Jim Business of course.  Asshole. If you’d like to participate in the next edition of America’s new favorite advice column, you can either comment on this post or send an e-mail with your question to Jasonnotimaginary@gmail.com.  There are also other creative ways to come into contact with me that I’m sure all of my intelligent readers can figure out.

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Be sure to like or rate this post and don’t be afraid to comment.  If I do comment back, I promise to be my peachy little self.  Also, a subscription would be greatly appreciated.  Now please take time out of your busy day to take this important poll about myself:

The Party (To End All Parties)

Fun fun, party, goin’ to a party.  Fun fun, party, it’s a fun fun party.  Who doesn’t sing that to themselves when they know they’re going to a party?  I know I do!  Yeah!  The Beach Boys!  Wait, that isn’t a Beach Boys song?  I just wrote that!?  What’s up career change?

Everyone loves a good party.  In fact, there was one party that I loved so much that I haven’t set foot in another one since.  That was four years ago.  This party has me pretty convinced that I’ll never attend another because it is impossible to match its greatness.

The party was at my friend Ricky’s house and it was hyped for months.  We knew it was going to be huge.  He made fliers that I helped pass out at all sorts of local stores.  He even listed the time on the flyer as 8 PM until question mark!  That’s secret code for “someone is going to die.”  Unbeknownst to Ricky, I edited my stack of fliers to advertise “must-see attractions” like circus freaks, a petting zoo and strippers being part of the party.  This was nowhere near true and might help explain the protesters from the “Equal Rights for Circus Performers” group that had gathered outside the party.  I had no idea that the term “circus freak” was considered offensive by actual circus freaks.  That’s almost mind blowing.

When I showed up to the party, the scene outside looked crazy.  I didn’t get there until around ten o’clock because there was no way I would ever go to a party on time.  But that’s not because I’m so cool that I need to enter the party to Hulk Hogan’s theme song or anything like that.  It has more to do with the great opportunity being late gives you to laugh at all of the completely plastered idiots stumbling around like zombies and telling you how much they love you after you tell a lame joke about farts.

As I drove by Ricky’s house, I saw a kid already stumbling around on the front lawn.  Pretty early for that, I thought to myself.  There were so many cars parked on Ricky’s street that I had to park two blocks over and walk.  As I got closer to the house, the shouts of the aforementioned  protesters got louder and louder.  The half-human, half-snake lady led the group in a spirited chant of “we’re not freaks, we’re just peeps,” as I crossed the street in front of them. I thought about how terrible and ineffective their chant was and couldn’t help but laugh out loud.  As they watched me walk toward Ricky’s house, the crowd let out an enormous boo in unison.  Even though I was the reason that they had shown up in the first place, I was pissed that they booed me.

“Shut up you obnoxious freaks!” I yelled across the street.  Upon hearing the insult I had hurled at them, one of the acrobats that was part of the group sprung into action.  Literally.  He did a back-handspring-into-a-back-flip combo across the street in an attempt to avenge my verbal attack on his freak friends.  Luckily, he wasn’t able to reach me in time and I slipped into the house unharmed.

Inside the house was even more unbelievable than outside.  It was one of those parties that you just knew the cops would show up at.  It felt like it was just a matter of time before they did.  There were people everywhere and hardly any room to move around.  People were already passed out on couches and even on the floor and stairs.  There were empty beer cans everywhere and you could barely hear yourself think.  Like any great party host would, Ricky had set up his TV to play reruns of old cartoons all night.  His Rescue Rangers DVD was currently on continuous play, showing the select few that were conscious enough to watch it one of man’s defining creations.  I slithered through the microscopic gaps that the party-goers had left between them on my quest to find Ricky and a few other friends.  Just as I thought I had made it out of the room, I was stopped.

Out of nowhere, a hippie-looking kid popped up from the floor.  He was inches from my face when he finally spoke.

“Meeeoooow, I’m Doggy Boy,” he said in his groovy accent as he grabbed one of my beers without asking.  The way that he was staring at me, actually right through me, I could tell that he was tripping on something.  Before I could say anything, he turned and did the hippie dance all the way to the TV.  When his nose was resting on the cleavage of the boob tube, he spoke again.

“Is that me on TV!?”

Meeowww, Doggy Boy is on TV

I had no answer for him.  It was clearly Rescue Rangers and unless he was an animated chipmunk, I’d have to go with no on that one.  I walked away and left Doggy Boy to himself.  I finally located Ricky, who was the best dressed party host I’d ever seen in his puffy and half-unbuttoned white, pirate shirt and short black shorts.   Ricky was standing in the back corner of the room, along with a couple other friends, bearing witness to an epic Dick Challenge.  For those of you that are somehow unfamiliar with the world-famous Dick Challenge, it’s exactly what it sounds like.  One contestant will stare directly into the eyes of the other potential contestant and declare “dick challenge!”  Both contestants will then “present it” and a panel of three impartial judges will declare a winner.  It was currently ranked as the number one party game in the latest issue of “Games Weekly” so it’s no big deal that I would have inside knowledge of this game.  Just as the judges were about to hand down their ruling, Doggy Boy burst into the room.

“Something about…my parents!?” he yelled.

At this point, it was pretty clear that noone at the party actually knew Doggy Boy.  Everyone looked at him like he was nuts.  He might have been nuts.  Everyone was pissed that he had ruined the Dick Challenge and he definitely received his fair share of hateful looks.  How dare you interrupt our completely normal fun?  Doggy Boy could sense the danger.

“Should I kill myself?!” he asked.

The sad part was that he was so seriously confused that there’s no doubt in my mind he would have ended his life right there.  For the sole reason of not being investigated for murder, Ricky tried to console Doggy Boy.  But here’s where Doggy Boy somehow gets even weirder.  For whatever reason, Doggy Boy had introduced himself to Ricky as Kitty Boy.  Apparently this kid was so gone that he had no idea of what his real name was and was even more baffled by what he’d like his hippie nickname to be.  Ricky offered him some water and jokingly said that he had a lot of it.  Doggy Boy responded with “yeah, my aunt has a lot of water.”  Oh.  I don’t know if Doggy Boy ever did get his glass of water.

I took my attention off of Doggy Boy for a minute.  Or was it Kitty Boy?  Who knows at this point.  I headed to the next room to see what kind of wacky surprises I could find there.  As I walked in, I caught my friend Greg doing flying dropkicks to a closed closet door and laughing like a maniac.  He looked up and saw me and started to laugh even harder.  For a few seconds, I was convinced he had gone on a little trip with Doggy Boy if you know what I mean.  But before I could ask him what he was doing, Greg started to scream at the closet.

“You’re going to die in there! Hahaaaaaaa!  You’re never going to get out!  You’re trapped forever hahahaaaaaaa!” he drop kicked the door again.

“Dude, what the hell are you doing?” I finally managed to ask.

“I trapped some little wasted kid in the closet!  Hahahaaaaaa!  He’s never going to get out, he’s going to die in there!  Hahaaaaaa!”

For a minute or two, I thought this was the greatest thing I’d ever seen.  I immediately started to laugh like a maniac along with Greg as we took turns drop kicking the door and reminding our new found hostage that he would never make it out alive.  Somebody really was going to die at this party.  That hit Greg and I at the same time and the mood changed quickly.  Greg decided that since he was the one that kidnapped this kid, he should be the one to set him free.  We opened the door and BOOM!  The little wasted kid face planted onto the floor instantly.  We couldn’t have caught him if we tried.  Greg was beside himself.  It seemed like he had instantly been struck with a severe case of Survivor’s Guilt.

“Oh my God!  He really is dead!  I killed him!”

As I tried to reassure Greg that sometimes murder just happened, the little drunk bitch’s knight in shining armor showed up.  He was a friend of the kid’s and apparently, he had been searching for him for quite some time.  He looked like he had been crying and was relieved to find his nearly-dead friend.  He picked him up off the ground and started to drag him outside.   As he left, he thanked us for…I’m actually not even sure why he said thank you.   Greg was still upset and I didn’t want him to depress me.  I decided to leave him by himself to contemplate his place in the universe.  I moved on to yet another room.  When I walked in, I couldn’t believe what I saw.

The room was close to pitch black and all the lights were turned off.  The only outlines I could see were illuminated by the light coming from the adjacent room.  In the darkness though, I could make the outline of a figure.  I turned the light on quick to find Cat Dog, I mean Kitty Boy, errr I mean Doggy Boy standing barefoot and shirtless on top of a couch.  He turned immediately to face me and had a frightened look in his eyes.

“Doggy Boy!  What the Hell are you doing!?  Why are the lights off!?”

“I set it to be this way!”

“Dude, you are fucking weird.  What is your deal?”

“Something about…Jason!?”  I never told him my name and I have no idea how he knew it.  “I love…Jason!?” everything he said sounded like something he was repeating and totally unsure of.  “I guess these make me…say what I feel!?” I guessed that “these” were whatever he was on.  But I had no idea what he was talking about or how he knew my name.

“Doggy Boy, I don’t have the slightest fucking clue what you’re talking about.” The look on Doggy Boy’s face went from plain confusion to confusion and terror.

“Im really scared of Jason right now!  I’m really scared of Jason right now!” he started to scream and completely freak out.  I took that as my cue to get the Hell out of that room.

I walked back out to the Dick Challenge room and things had gotten completely out of control.  I looked to the left and saw a fight break out.  I looked to my right and saw a kid puke all over himself and the floor and then get punched in the back of the head by Ricky as a reward.  Right in front of me, some kids were playing the traditional party game of Shlong Pong (beer pong where the cups are arranged in the shape of, well, a shlong).  People were talking about everyone that was skinny dipping in the back yard, but the weird thing was that Ricky didn’t even have a pool.  It was so loud that I may have heard that incorrectly.  I needed to walk outside to check anyway.

Your Pal Jason: now with double the dick jokes!

Unfortunately, there was no skinny dipping.  Double unfortunately, I did see a body part that I had hoped to avoid.  The little drunk bitch and his knight in shining armor were outside together.  Now, the little bitch was being held up by his buddy so that he didn’t fall over and at the same time the little bitch was receiving assistance going to the bathroom.  That’s right, the knight in shining armor was holding the drunk bitch’s peen as he went.  I started to laugh and the knight in shining armor and I made eye contact.  All he could manage to spit out was “no,” in a wimpery little voice.  I started to laugh so hard that I decided I’d run away and hope to find some skinnie dippers in the front yard.

What I saw instead sucked.  The drunk kid from earlier was still stumbling around out there but the cops had just pulled up.  As they approached the drunk stumbler, he offered the cops a beer.  I thought that this whole scene was hilarious but I didn’t want to stop and watch.  I had to go warn Ricky so I turned around and ran into the house.  I was too late.  The cops had already made it into the house and were starting to introduce themselves as I walked in.

“I’m Officer Tillman and this is Officer Watermilk.”  Just as the second officer was introduced, Doggy Boy somehow dropped from the ceiling and landed in front of them.  He stared  at them for one second and then yelled.

“Officer Who-Cock!?!”

Everone in the house burst out laughing.  The police grabbed Doggy Boy immediately.  He started to scream like a child that had just had their favorite toy taken away.  He kicked and screamed and cried and sounded completely ridiculous as both officers carried him out of the house.  Another officer that had arrived on the scene stepped up to talk.

“Is everyone here a minor?” the officer asked.  Since this was a widely advertised party, there was a good number of minors at the party.  This could spell danger for Ricky since he supplied the party with alcohol.  Ricky, however, was pretty drunk at this point and didn’t seem to care about anything.  He was the only one to answer.

“No!  I’m a MAJOR!!” he yelled back.

The officer ignored him at first.

“Who lives here?” asked the officer.

“I do!” said Ricky fearlessly.

“And where did you get all the alcohol for this party?”

“I found it!”

“You found it?!  Don’t get smart with me!  Where did you get all the alcohol!?” he was now raising his voice.

“I stole it!  All of it!  And I’d do it again!” erupted Ricky even though he hadn’t even stolen one bottle.

“You stole it!?  You aren’t helping yourself out at all here!  Do you want to go to jail tonight!?”

“Yeah!”

“I’ll ask you one last time!  DO YOU WANT TO GO TO JAIL TONIGHT?!”

“You bet your dick I do!” Ricky yelled as he knelt down on one knee.  He extended both arms forward.  Ricky was asking the hand cuffs to marry his hands.  They screamed “yes!”  As Ricky was pushed out the door, the party broke out in chant.

“Ricky!  Ricky!  Ricky!” everyone yelled. Everyone was forced out of the house but the chants wouldn’t stop.  I stood in the street surrounded by the world’s biggest Ricky fans.  When the police car with Ricky inside finally pulled away, I watched until it was out of sight.  Wow, I said to myself.  There goes the bravest and best dressed party host I have ever seen.

Love, Diapers and Birthday Cake

I’ve been in a lot of weird relationships throughout the course of my life, but one in particular takes the cake.  Now everyone has been in complicated relationships with their fair share of misunderstandings and unfair treatment.  But believe me when I tell you, none of you have ever experienced something like this.  Remember “love jail?”  This is how I came up with that term.

I met this girl on a blind date that, for some reason, started at the movies for a showing of Sex and the City 2.  That should have been my first clue that this was a horrible idea.  My second clue was her name.  It was Desdemona.  When you meet someone with a name that you never knew existed, that’s a surefire sign that they can’t be trusted.  I found that out the hard way but in passing on my knowledge, I’m trying to protect the rest of you.

The date was set up by my friends Byron and Sasha.  In getting me to agree to the date, Desdemona was described to me as “funny, cute, smart and normal.” When someone that you’re considering going on a date with is described as “normal” before you have even met them, that’s a surefire sign that they’re actually hiding something and are completely fucked.  So that’s three warning signs that I ignored.  At this point, I can fully understand that the reader will have absolutely no sympathy for me.

My relationship with Desdemona started out reasonably normal.  Now that doesn’t exactly mean that it was healthy.  We were in the type of relationship that was more like a competition.  You know, the kind where one of the parties would make a mistake and the other party, or the competition in this situation, would be “winning” for a week or so.  This would change only when the other person was able to gain the upper hand through a costly relationship mistake, allowing a shift in power.  This would go on for a couple months and, sadly, this is the part of our relationship that I look back on most fondly.

After a few months, there was a radical shift in power.  Desdemona became the chairman of the Love Competition Committee.  After analyzing important events in our relationship and doing months of research, I believe that I may have discovered the turning point.  It took place at Desdemona’s dad’s fiftieth birthday party.  While dramatically pulling a beer out of a cooler, I accidentally punched her dad in the nose on the back swing while following through.  As my hand and beer went behind my head, I socked him hard with my rock solid, freezing cold beerfist.  He let out a loud “ooof” and clutched his nose.  I saw blood right away.  I tried to apologize, but before I could say anything, he screamed at me.

“You drunk shit head!  You ruined my birthday!”

I wasn’t even that drunk.  Just because I screamed “Mighty Morphin’ Power Rangers” like a giggly ten-year old as I executed my dramatic beer grab doesn’t mean I was wasted.  But the party was ruined nonetheless.  A few women screamed at the sight of the blood and someone threw a plate of nachos at me.  The party cleared out quickly, Desdemona’s dad was rushed to the hospital and Desdemona and her entire family all told me how much they hated me.  I was more upset about not being able to complete my Power Rangers move as the party ended than anything else.

Despite the way the party ended, Desdemona didn’t break up with me.  And at the time, for some reason, I was relieved.  If I would have known that I’d be losing in the relationship game for the remainder of it’s lifespan, I think I would have been more upset than anything.  The days after the party are when things really started to change.

First, Desdemona decided that she needed to compile a list of rules for me to follow.  The list included twenty-six different rules that touched on everything from the type of aerobics I was required to do to stay in shape to the zipperless jeans I was forced to wear.  She also compiled a list of acceptable friends that I was allowed to see while dating her.  Of course, all female friends were excluded from this list.  She had both “important documents” laminated and framed them, hanging them over my bed and adding them to my summer reading list so that I’d never forget anything from her precious lists.

Around the same time, she started to have me run all sorts of weird errands for her.  Aside from the regular, but embarrassing, errand of “run to the store for tampons for me,” there were dozens of extremely insane errands I was forced to run.  The errand running itself was a bit of a problem.  I was more broke than a sex addict at a stripper convention and was without a car.  So on all of these errands, I was forced to ride my bike.

A couple of these errands stick out in my mind.  One of them took place just a couple weeks after the birthday party incident.  Desdemona had discovered an ant infestation in her house.  Now this was extremely terrible news to her as she was deathly afraid of bugs.  When she first spotted the little creatures, she had a panic attack and freaked the fuck out on me.

“Why would you bring those here?  You knew this would happen!  Why are you trying to kill me!?!” she sobbed while shaking uncontrollably.  I tried to calm her down but to no avail.  I recommended that we get some type of ant traps or some type of spray.  I even volunteered to go pick some up on my bike.

“Are you insane?!” she replied.  “You don’t understand anything, do you?  That would never work!  Why would that ever work?!  Answer me!  Don’t talk!  You don’t understand anything.  We need fear!  Fear is king!  Fear is GOD!”

She screamed God at the top of her lungs as if it were the crescendo of an opera written by Satan himself.  I had no idea what she was talking about.  How the Hell could you scare ants?  I didn’t dare ask her but I was soon to find out.  Desdemona barked her commands at me like a Nazi general.

“The only thing you were right about is that you’re going to go take your bike to pick something up.  We’re going to scare these ants to death!  You’re going to go to the store and pick up the biggest spider you can find.  I don’t mean a real spider dipshit!  You’re going to get one of those enormous Halloween decoration spiders.  That’s how we’re going to scare these ants!”

So I went out and picked up a huge spider.  Getting the spider home was ridiculous.  Unfortunately, I didn’t have any pegs on the back of my bike.  If I did, I would have had the spider ride home on them.  Instead, the spider had to sit on the seat behind me with it’s arms wrapped around me.  The ride home was completely embarrassing.  We looked like some kind of weird, arachno-love motorcycle couple.

As ridiculous as the spider experience was, one errand that I was forced to run sticks out more than any other.  For some reason, on top of all the other weird shit going on with Desdemona, she started to get into witchcraft.  After watching The Craft and Sabrina the Teenage Witch literally forty-five times one day, she decided that she needed to get her hands on a book of spells.  I’m sure she intended to curse me and make me date her for the rest of my life.  I considered becoming a warlock just so I could beat her in an apocalyptic spell battle if worse came to worst.  I decided against it so that I could remain a normal person rather than turning into some ridiculous Juggalo warlock with dreadlocks and a wizard’s staff with the insignia “Wikkid Wizurd” on it.

No thank you, I'm not interested. Photocredz: Mark

So I was given my command for picking up the spell book.  I was to ride my bike to a book store that was two towns over.  She insisted that this place would have a “centuries old Bible for witches.” I told her that I was pretty sure that witches didn’t read the Bible and she replied by speaking in tongues under her breath in a demonic voice while staring at me and shaking.

“Don’t you need your witch Bible to do your little spells?” I asked.

She ignored me and actually gave me some great news.  She informed me that I would be allowed to ask an approved friend to come on this journey with me.  I asked her for her copy of the approved friends list (of course she kept one) and tried to pick out one of the few non-lames that were included.  The fact that I needed to see the list to make a decision made her angry since she had already made reading them a homework assignment of mine.  Would I be able to convince any of these people to come with me on what would most likely amount to a four-hour long bike ride?  I chose my friend Josh and called him to try to convince him.  I gave him my best sales pitch and used words like “adventure”  and “archaeology” knowing that anyone would get super pumped when promise of those events were thrown out there. Somehow Josh agreed to come with and it was decided I would meet him at his house on the way.

I met Josh and we started out on our epic archaeology adventure.  I was pretty excited to be free from Desdemona and actually be around a friend.  I told Josh that we would ride slow and take our time so that I could enjoy the day off that the penitentiary had given me.  Just as I finished saying that, I got a text message.  Of course it was from Desdemona.

“i n0 wat ur d0ing.  ride ur byke fastr.  u bet3r b bak bi dinnr.  i wnt spel b0k.”

Da Wikkid Wizurd himself.

Not only was this completely impossible, but apparently she was also psychic.  I looked around to make sure I wasn’t being followed or watched by spies from the Army of Darkness.  The coast looked clear.  I told Josh about the text and suggested that we rode a little faster.

“You’re a pussie-whipped little bitch,” replied Josh.  “You don’t have to jump at everything she says, you know.”

“If your girlfriend was reciting Satanic tongues toward you, I’m prettty sure you’d do the same.”

I sped up and Josh followed.  I rode along in fear for a few minutes until I found some fun again.  There was an elevated spot in the sidewalk and I decided I wanted to do an amazing and nearly impossible bike jump over it.  I flew toward the jump, elevated over the bump and did a full 360 spin.  Somehow I landed.  Josh saw how much fun I had just had and wanted to follow suit.  He flew toward the ramp and took off.  Josh’s landing didn’t work out so well.  He crashed to the ground hard and was screaming in pain.

“Aaaaaaahhh my arm!  It’s broken!  Aaaah!!  This is all YOUR fault!  All you and your crazy girlfriend’s fault!  Fuck you Jason!  Fuck you!”

For some reason, I felt like I had to stick up for Desdemona.

“Just because she’s a witch doesn’t mean she’s crazy!  Witches are real!  You have to believe!”

I rode my bike as fast as I could and left Josh writhing in pain on a stranger’s front lawn.  I couldn’t wait for him, I had to save my own life.  I rode my bike until I couldn’t feel my legs anymore.  When they started to burn, I decided I needed to make a quick stop.  I only had one more town to go but I needed a little rest and a drink.  I found the nearest grocery store and rode my bike in.

As I walked toward the store, I heard a terrible noise.  It was a disgusting mixture of hacking and coughing that made me think of someone gurgling blood.  It got louder and louder as I approached until I heard a cracked-out voice call out to me.

“Mahscoozme, sir.  Mahscoozme!  Sir, I need yur help.”

Although I was in my mid-twenties, the lessons I learned about stranger danger followed me around like a guardian angel.  I ignored the voice.

“Sir!!!  Mahscoozmes!!!  I need yur help!  Sir please!  I need you!”

My pending sainthood outweighed the lessons of stranger danger.  I looked in the direction that this wretched voice was coming from.  All I could see was a van that should have broken down fifteen years ago and a shadowy figure partially hanging out the window.  I slowly walked toward the van and realized that keeping my distance was probably the best idea.  I could only imagine how much ransom money could be demanded for such an important figure like myself.  I stopped once I was about ten feet from the van and could barely make out the outline of an extremely haggard middle-aged women.

“Oh sir!  Thank you so much!  God bless yur soul,” she nearly sobbed.  “Sir, I need you to do somethin’ for me.  I throwed up all over myself and I need to return these diapers.  There ain’t no way I can go in there and return ’em.  Oh my GodLord this is so embarrassin’.  Can you please return these diapers for me and bring me da cash?  Here’s da receipt.”

I didn’t know what to say.  First of all lady, you threw up all over yourself, isn’t getting home to wash up a little more important at this point in time than returning diapers?  I’m pretty sure you could come back for this at another time.  Do you need the diapers because you’ve shit all over yourself as well?  For some reason, I agreed to do it.  I took the diapers and receipt and headed for the door.  On my way in, I saw a scantily clad young woman sitting on the curb in front of the store.

“What the hell are you looking at?” she snapped at me.

“I didn’t know they sold hookers here, too!” I replied quickly.

In talking to the two females that I had just spoken to, I had broken rule number seventeen on Desdemona’s list.  You’d think that “no talking to other girls” would be rule number one, but everything she did was ridiculous and didn’t make sense.  I approached the register with the diapers and receipt and explained to the cashier who then grabbed her manager.

“We’re really sorry about everything,” said the manager.  I replied that it was okay even though it really wasn’t.  What were a couple of grocery store employees going to do to help this situation?  I got the money for the diapers and headed back outside.  As I walked out the door, I heard the most dreadful coughing and gagging noises I’d ever heard and was convinced that my scumbag friend had thrown up on herself again.  I walked to the van but stood far enough away to hand her the cash without getting throw-up all over myself.  As I handed her the cash, she grabbed my wrist and pulled me closer.  The stench of vomit, cigarette smoke and the piece of shit van she was in nearly made me throw up on myself.

“God bless yur soul!  But I ain’t  done witchyou just yet.  Today’s my son’s birthday and I need to get da boy a cake.  He loves da race cars so you gotta go on in dere and get me a race car cake made up all nice.  Here I made dis drawin’,” she pulled a terribly drawn sketch of what was supposed to be a birthday cake out of her bra and handed it to me before I knew what was happening.  It was slightly damp and when it touched my hands I almost passed out in disgust.  I pinched the corners of the drawing, barely hanging onto it.  “You see right dere,” she said pointing to a blob on the drawing “dat’s da race car.  And all ’round near it, dats all dat swirly stuff.  You gotta make sure dats how dey do it.  Oh God bless yur soul!”

She gave me the money from the diaper return and a few dollars more and I turned to walk toward the grocery store with the diseased drawing in my hand.  After I had taken two steps and was still a ways away from the store, a man in a shirt and tie stopped and held the door for me.  I told him to go on because I’d rather take my time but he insisted on holding the door.  I was forced to run to the door since he was holding it for me and I was pissed off.

“Oooooh thank you sooooo much Jim Business,” I said sarcastically.  “I’m not sure what I would have done without you.”

I walked to the bakery and handed them the drawing.  I was relieved that it was finally out of my hands.  I explained the entire situation to her and she responded by saying “sorry kiss,” which I thought was a little strange but I didn’t question her.  She started to make the cake and I told her that she needed more squigglies in a couple of areas.  I took the cake and cashed out.  As I walked outside, I noticed it was dark out.  I had missed my deadline of dinner time by probably a couple of hours.  Desdemona sent me another text.

“wat da fuk?  wher r u?  this iz ann0yin.  want mi spelz.”

I ignored the text.  I had more important matters to tend do.  I brought the cake out to the car and was thanked immensely.  I was told that I was an “angel from the God above,” and that “if I ever needed anythin’ to ask around town for Betty.” No thanks, bye.

As I started off toward the book store, I realized that my life was a joke.  Fuck Desdemona and her stupid spell book.  I didn’t care anymore.  I turned my bike around and started to ride home.  I wasn’t going to be her slave anymore.  A couple of hours into my ride home, I got a text from her.  It said “we r d0ne.”  I replied with “h00 karez.  Lurn 2 spel.” I went home and stole her money that she had given me for the spell book and I didn’t even care.

The Foolproof Plan

As a child, I was a genius.  I don’t mean that I was good at Lego’s or something like that.  I was a certified prodigy.  I feel like I’m being modest when I say that.  You know that song “Anything You Can Do I Can Do Better?”  From what I understand, it was written about my youthful genius and extreme talents.

Unfortunately, every Superman has his Kryptonite.  As hard as that statement may be for you to believe, this next one is going to be even more unbelievable.  My weaknesses were bathroom related.  Allow me to explain.  First of all, I suffer from a severe case of Bladdoria.  This is the disease that I have created to explain and help justify my severe case of shy bladder.  My case of this horrible disease is soooo devastating that if I think you’re thinking of me emptying the wizard’s bag of tricks, I would stand in front of the toilet for hours on end with no success.  Remember, since this is an extremely serious medical condition, you would be a huge asshole if you even thought about making fun of me.

There’s more to my bathroom woes than just my heartbreaking pee pee problems.  This second issue is what we will be focusing on today.  I also suffer from a crippling fear of publicly acknowledged bowel movements.  It’s a similar idea to the shy bladder disease whereas if I think someone knows I’m going, there’s no way I can go.  With the amount of time I spend emptying the dump trucks, there’s no way I’d be able to go undetected.  Life without Jason is like life without Frosted Flakes; it’s not sugar coated, there’s no cartoon tiger to hang out with and it’s definitely not grrrrrrreat!

Now that you have a little background, let’s set the scene.  Rewind a few decades to when sucking your thumb was still kind of cool.   I’m your average first grade student, except I’m not learning the alphabet for the first time and watching Sesame Street.  As I explained earlier, I was a direct descendant of an Albert Einstein/Steven Hawking hybrid.

School was starting to bore me.  Nothing cool had happened since this asshole kid Muhammad had thrown up all over himself during the school play the year before.  Every day was the same regurgitated slop of lunches, playgrounds and story time.  The only time you’d have any variety would be when you were thrown a curveball and served a green hot dog at lunch.  Memo to lunch staff:  the excuse that it’s green because it’s a St. Patty’s Day dog doesn’t even work on an average first grader and it especially doesn’t work in the middle of November.

Although my hot dog sensor was working well, I was facing the same problem everyday.  Whether it was hot, cold, sunny, snowing, raining or squalling, I always  felt the urge to release the hounds during story time.  Now most of the other kids had the ability to ignore the urge to go and focus on the fun story the teacher was telling.  However, hearing about Sparkle Spots the Dalmation climbing up a fire ladder didn’t exactly excite me.  After all, I had just finished writing my thesis on the extinction of the dinosaurs the night before.

This urge would never just go away.  It followed me around all day until I got home.  After story time, while all the other kids were smashing different shaped  blocks together, I would spend the majority of the school day running in place on my tiptoes and giving myself continuous, alternating spankings with each hand while whispering “no no poo poo.” I was living in pain and fear everyday and I couldn’t deal with it anymore.  This had to change and I needed to come up with something as soon as possible.

Then it hit me.  I can’t believe it took me this long to come up with this!  The next time I had to poo during story time, I would just go in my pants!  This way, no one would have any idea that I was going and nobody would know that I even went!  This had to be the greatest idea since the creation of VHS tapes!

Now let’s get something straight here.  The goal of my plan was to be able to successfully poo my pants while going completely undetected.  This plan was a failure if anyone had any idea.  The goal was not to be sent home from school or anything like that.  That would just be an embarrassment.  I was just looking for a peaceful way to go in secret everyday.

The day that I finally created my masterpiece of a plan, I was walking on sunshine and, gosh darn it, it really did feel good! Normally I took the bus home, but that day I was so excited when I got out of school that I accidentally ran right past it.  When I finally realized what I had done, my bus was gone.  I was stuck running all the way home and I didn’t even care.  Well, I kind of cared.  There was some crying involved, but we’ll just leave that part out.  When I finally got home, my mom was pissed.

“Where have you been!?!  You were supposed to be home over an hour ago!!  I was worried sick!!  Explain yourself, young man!!”

“SHUSH!” I screamed.  “None of this matters!  I have come up with the greatest idea of all time!  A foolproof plan, if you will.  After tomorrow, I will be paraded around on people’s shoulders and recognized as a national hero!  The days of this family living in a one bedroom shack made out of supplies from left over bird nests are long gone!”

At the time, we actually lived in a reasonable three bedroom duplex.

“And what might this little plan of yours be?”

“Tomorrow,” I answered.  “Tomorrow, during story time, when I feel like I have to go makey makeys, I am going to go in my pants.  No one will have any clue that I’m going and no one will know after I have gone!  This is foolproof!  How did I not think of this before?  I’ve got to…”

“That’s actually a really bad idea,” interrupted my mom.  “You…”

“SHUT UP!  YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND SCIENCE!!”

All my dad could manage to say was “fuck.”  I was pretty sure he was blown away by the genius of the plan and was wondering why he couldn’t have come up with it years earlier.  I was convinced my mom argued against my plan because she hated the fact that I used the term “makey makey.” She had told me numerous times to never say it again because it really annoyed her.  Yeah right, like I would stop when you’re providing me with ammunition.

After my encouraging family meeting, I was ready to roll.  I started to prepare for my big day.  First I wrote letters to the president and NASA to inform them of this scientific breakthrough.  I promised them that I wouldn’t let the country down and told them that I couldn’t wait for my Congressional medal of honor.  I went to the kitchen and poured a couple raw eggs into a cup and chugged it.  I did three pull-ups because that’s all i could do.  I took three chewable Flintstone vitamins and swallowed them down with a shot of whiskey. I didn’t even chew the vitamins.  I wrote out my will for the fuck of it.  Then I got into bed at 6:30 with cucumbers covering my eyes in order to be well rested for the mission at hand.  I had no idea what the cucumbers were supposed to do though, I just remembered seeing them in some movie.  However, I couldn’t fall asleep and it didn’t seem like the cucumbers were doing anything at all.  The only difference that I could notice was that I now smelled like vegetables.

The next morning I woke up feeling like P. Diddy.  Remember, this is before P. Diddy existed and probably before Ke$ha was even born.  They’re both huge posers.  For the first time in my life, I was really excited to get to school that day.  Like I did on other important days, I wore my Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles jumpsuit to school.  As I walked into school, I kissed my fist, gave a peace sign to the sky and said “one man’s dream is another man’s reality.”  I proceeded to strut down the hall to my classroom.

The day started out like any other day at school.  I made fun of a girl for wearing her snow suit, answered every question that the teacher asked correctly and set a new record in gym class for the fastest time a first grader had ever run the mile.  I dropped a couple cryptic hints throughout the day about my impending plan like “when the clock strikes noon, I’ll go boom boom,” and “if the story’s a hit, it’s time to shit,” to some kids who had no idea what cryptic even meant.  Story time would be here in no time.

“Alright children, gather ’round.  Gather, gather, yes, yes, gather.”  Mrs. Waldo-Atkins was kind of a weirdo.  The way that she talked creeped me out.  The only information she would share with the class was that she liked to sew and her favorite movie was Bambi.

“Yes, yes my children, gather ’round.  Oooh yes, oooh yes, it’s story time, yes indeed it is.”

This is perfect timing, I thought.  I had to go pretty bad.  I was so excited that it made me have to go even more.  Mrs. Waldo-Whatever Her Name Was started to read.

“Today, my children, yes, today we will be reading one of my favorites.  This is a story called, ooooh yes, it is WONDERFUL.  This story is called “The Duck Who Swam Home!”  Oh my word, my lord, my GOD!  Oh my man!  Let us begin!”

I doubt that this lady had ever been given a mental evaluation.  There’s no way she would ever be found fit to interact with humans, let alone teach children.  She began to read and I tuned it out, preparing myself to live out my dreams.  The moment had arrived.  Michael Jackson, This Is It.

“The ducky swam to the left.  Splash splash!  Plop plop!”

Splash splash plop plop is right.  I had done it!  A lot more had come out than what I had originally planned, but mission accomplished nonetheless.  As I started to revel in my greatness, my moment of joy turned on me like Benedict Arnold.

“Ewww!  Stinky!” yelled one of the first responders to the scene.  The smell started to circulate around the room.

“Oh my God!  My eyes!  They’re burning!” yelped helpless little Samantha as she realized she was trapped in Smell Hell.

“Ooooh poopie, P.U., my WORD!” said Mrs. Waldo.  “Is there something that someone needs to tell me?”

I was NOT going to volunteer this information.  It’s bad enough that people knew that someone  went.  There’s no way I can let then find out it’s me!  I decided to play it cool and make everyone suffer.  I started to laugh and tried to make a couple comments about how bad it smelled but I really started to feel down on myself.  I looked around at the human suffering taking place within inches of me.  I couldn’t let these poor young souls suffer anymore.

“I have something to tell you.  I have something to tell you!” I wept it first and then scream-cried it.

All great heroes have to accept defeat when it’s handed to them.  I was dismissed from class and waddled my way to the nurse’s office.  She was waiting for me when I got there with a respirator and rubber gloves on.

“So, how bad is it?” she asked in her deep smoker’s voice.

“I don’t know,” I was inconsolable.  I just couldn’t believe that this whole plan fell through.  All the preparation, all the hope, the nation’s dreams resting all on my shoulders.  How could I fail them?  How could I fail myself, my family?  The nurse approached to investigate closer.

“Woah!  That’s real bad!” she hacked as she quickly snapped the elastic from my Superman underoos against my lower back.

I'm sorry that I pooped on your chest, Superman.

Arrangements were made for my mom to pick me up.  I didn’t want to talk to her, I knew what she had to say.  The whole way home I thought of what I could have done better.  How could I have made my dream a reality?

In the next few days, I noticed that one of my classmates had stolen my foolproof plan right from under the seat of my pants.  It was this scumbag girl Denise whom I had unfortunately become all too familiar with.  She had been caught red handed while stealing snacks out of my locker on a daily basis.  The Notorious Denise had started to shit herself everyday and was getting away with it!  She smelled like what you’d imagine a rotting carcass to smell like, but no one ever said a word to her.  She even strolled around with huge brown stains in her pants!

“Real original you little bitch!” I screamed at her the first day that I had noticed she had tried to steal my identity as the leader of the Foolproof Pooptroop.  She was so stupid that she just stared at me with her teeth hanging out of her mouth.  Surprise, surprise, they weren’t brushed either.

Though I’m still extremely angered by the fact that Denise ripped my plan right out from underneath me, there is something reassuring about the whole situation.  First, I know my plan could have worked.  Second, it taught me that men are obviously superior to women.  Let me explain.  My droppings nearly exterminated an entire class of school children and a teacher.  Denise’s go unspoken and she is ignored everyday while walking around looking like she got caught up in a mudslide.

I was never thanked for my immense contribution to society.  But at least I can rest easy knowing that I have the bowels of a God.  I’m currently suing Denise for copyright infringement.

The Funeral-Part Two

As I stood there pretending my eyes were watering because of my allergies, I saw a quick flash out of the corner of my eye.  All of a sudden, four strange old ladies appeared out of nowhere and scooped the casket up.  I jumped back like a scared little bitch that had just seen a mouse and screamed at the top of my lungs.

“WHO THE FUCK ARE THESE WEIRD GRAVE ROBBER GYPSIES?!?”

I lunged forward and tried to stop them but was met by the priest’s extended arm.

“Let The Sisters take her.  Give her to The Sisters,” said the priest in a creepy, yet reassuringly calm voice.

So I let The Sisters take her.  You can’t blame me for being freaked out.  These jangly-bracelet wearing weirdos showed up out of thin air and snatched a casket from my feet.  I bet if that happened to you, you’d have a Triangle Seizure.  What’s a Triangle Seizure you ask?  Well, that’s a story for another day.  Anyway, The Sisters got the casket into the hearse in record time and we crawled to the church.  We walked in, took our seats and the singing started up again immediately.

“SHE IS NOT DEAD, SHE IS JUST SLEEPING, SHE WILL WAKE UP SOON, WE TRICKED YOU ALL!”

I’m sure I heard that one wrong.  As we sat there listening to Funeral: The Musical, I started to daydream.  I started to gaze around the church admiring the beautiful stained glass and beautiful…women?  Out of nowhere, I spotted the hottest girl I’d ever seen.  This girl made Mila Kunis look like my fourth grade lunch monitor.  As I stared into her eyes, I started to hear music.  R. Kelly’s “Bump n’ Grind” and Meat Loaf’s “I’d Do Anything for Love” started to play simultaneously in my head, creating a mash-up that no one would ever want to hear.  I subconsciously started to gyrate, displaying my critically acclaimed “best hips in Western New York.”  As I started to imagine beautiful love on a boat and romantic summers at the flea market, I was interrupted by the priest’s singing.

“WHEN SHE AWAKES, YOU WILL ALL BE SCREAMING, I WARNED YOU IT WOULD HAPPEN, NEVER DOUBT ME!”

I gave the priest a dirty look and looked back toward my fiance.  What I saw disgusted me.  It turns out my daydream was more like a boredom-induced LSD trip!  There was no super hot girl.  The woman that I thought I had fallen in love with was actually one of The Sisters!  Even worse, she was staring at me, licking her lips and doing the solo-makeout-fakeout that got popular in the nineties, the last decade she was coherent in!  Even worse than that, she had a better moustache than I could ever grow!  I was trapped in love jail against my will and this priest was the warden.  The way that he kept singing about Aunt Iliana being asleep and not really dead, I was in solitary confinement on death row.  As I was read my last rites and started to eat my last meal, I was miraculously granted a last second pardon.  The priest came through.  Well, kind of.

“Now we will perform the sacred act of the Last Kiss.  I will call you up row by row and you will all kiss Iliana one last time.  Following the kiss, you may exit the church and head home.  This will conclude our ceremony for today.  AAAAAAMEN, A-MANY MEN MEN, AMEN MEN MEN IS THE MEN OF ALL MEN,” he sang one last time.

So let me get this straight.  We have to go play Sleeping Beauty with a dead person?  I guess if this the only chance I’ll get to escape love jail I’ll take it.  The way the rows were set up, I would be the first in line for the kiss.  This way I could give a quick kiss and then run out the church doors, forever leaving behind my love jail keeper.  But I was NOT looking forward to this kiss.  I started to freak out.

“Yo, this is kind of fucked,” I whispered to Marvin who was standing behind me in line.  Before he knew what hit him, I grabbed him and pulled him in front of me in the line.  Seniority wins in this situation.  I’m older, there was nothing he could do about it.  Marvin reluctantly went in for a quick kiss and I followed.  I pretended to kiss the body then began to speed walk toward the door.  Home free I thought.  Suddenly, I heard a lady scream in horror.

“OH MY GOD!!!  SOMEONE STOP HIM!!!!”

Not kissing her was really that big of a deal?  I turned around to the most outrageous scene I’ve ever seen in my lifetime.  I realized that the yelling wasn’t about me.  At the casket, there was an extremely disheveled old man giving his last kiss.  Now this wasn’t anything like the kisses anyone else had given.  This guy was really into it.  And I mean REALLY into it.  We’re talking full on romantic, possible tongue kiss.  There was no sign of him stopping anytime soon.  I couldn’t figure out if I was stuck in some weird romantic movie or if I’d been spendin’ most my life livin’ in a necrophiliac’s paradise.  Finally, after what seemed like twenty-five minutes, a few of the men in the church were able to pull Weird Sr. away.  As they carried him out of the church, he kicked his feet wildly and kept screaming “I’ve always loved her!”

As I stared at this horrible catastrophe of a man, I realized that I had lost track of my ex-wife.  Just as this thought had crossed my mind, I felt a tugging at my arm.  I looked to my right and was poked in the eye by gray moustache whiskers.  She had snuck up on me!  As she started to wrap her arms around me, I started to do the Electric Slide and broke out of her grasp.  I screamed to Marvin because he was my ride.

“Marvin, let’s go!”

There was definitely some hesitation on Marvin’s behalf.  I think he wanted some revenge for the beautiful maneuver I had pulled on him in the Last Kiss line.  I could tell that he thought it would be hilarious if this prehistoric Hornysaurus tackled me to the ground but there was no way I was going to let that happen.  As she reached for me, I boogie-woogie-woogie-woogied out of her range.  Marvin finally realized the danger of the situation I was in and started to run for the car.  Behind me, it sounded like all Hell had broken loose in the church.  Some people were still screaming and crying about the Last Kiss incident and others started to notice the super-psycho Sister that was causing all the ruckus near the church doors.

We made our way out the doors but she was still hot on our trail.  Now, she was joined by the rest of The Sisters and they were displaying their superhuman strength and speed that they had displayed during the day’s earlier event, the casket relay.  As I felt their old breaths on my neck, we were within arms length of the car.  I Greg Louganis’d through an open car window (it was very hot outside) and Marvin hopped in and started up the car.  “No splash, perfect ten,” I whispered to myself.  I felt a tugging at my foot and my shoe was pulled off but luckily Marvin was able to speed off before my foot was devoured.

As we drove off, I looked in the rear view mirror to see Zombie Bride making out with the inside of my shoe.  Wow, I thought to myself.  Maybe this WAS better than getting drunk all day.

The Funeral-Part One

Let’s start with a funeral.  Now, this isn’t just any funeral.  This funeral is actually more important to me than any  other funeral I’ve been to.  Not because I was emotional or anything.  Please.  But for the first time in my life, I was asked to be a pallbearer.  Perfect!  I love responsibility!

Here’s a little back story on the funeral.  The funeral was for my great aunt, an older Eastern European woman that I had only seen maybe three times in the last five years.  Every time I saw her, she always said “TOOOMMYYY” in her thick accent.  For some reason, she thought my name was Tommy.  In fact, she thought that every male under the age of 47 was “Tommy.”  I think she even called my sister Tommy.  Rumor has it that we had a cousin Tommy somewhere along the line, but my name is fucking Jason lady, get it right.

My great aunt was also the kind of person that would give you the same piece of advice every time you saw her.  I’m sure you all have relatives and family friends that do the same.  You know, feel the need to remind you about important everyday things like “don’t walk your dog in a tornado,” or “remember, never eat celery while playing hopscotch.” Well, my aunt’s advice beats out any other piece of advice I’ve ever gotten.  Every time I saw her, she would remind me to “allvays chew yur nuts.”  And every time I thought, WOW!  I was just about to take this jar of peanuts and shove the entire thing down my throat!  I was not planning on chewing at all, thank you for saving my life!  In fact, as I got older and started to see her less and less frequently, there were a few times when I swallowed close to an entire jar of peanuts without chewing and had to be rushed to the emergency room.

Alright, back to the funeral.  I was chosen to be a pallbearer, along with my brother Marvin and my cousin Jeffrey Jeffrey Robert Bobby.  Yes, that is his real name.  No, none of those are even a middle name.  It’s completely ridiculous.  The little prick won’t even let us shorten it to anything.  Every time we see him, we have to call him Jeffrey Jeffrey Robert Bobby.  For space and finger saving purposes, Jeffrey Jeffrey Robert Bobby will now be referred to as JJRB.

I honestly don’t know why I was asked to be a pallbearer.  My grandma, who was Aunt Iliana’s sister, called me and asked me if I could do it.  My personal interpretation of this responsibility was that it served as the beginning of the changing of the guard.  This was the first step toward becoming the king of the family.  Since this was the case, I gladly accepted.  I asked my grandma if I should be expecting my crown in the mail or if I’d get it at the conclusion of the ceremony.  She had no idea what I was talking about.  I appointed myself the CEO of Pallbearers, Inc. and hung up without saying goodbye.

The day of the funeral took forever to arrive.  By the time it finally did, I was kind of pissed off because I had scheduled prior engagements and would now have to pass up getting drunk in the woods for a day of dead bodies and dirt.  The thought of sneaking a flask into the funeral crossed my mind seventeen times, but in the end, I decided the risk of a PWI charge (Pallbearering While Intoxicated) outweighed the rewards.

Since I’m a hard ass, I sped to the funeral home, cut off the rest of my family and screeched my tires as I pulled in.  I almost hit some weird little man that worked at the funeral home as he scampered in front of my car.  That was his fault though, he should have known I was coming.  I got out of my car, threw my pointer fingers in the air and let out a big “WHOOOO!” since I had won the race that no one else knew they were in.  As I walked toward the funeral home, I was greeted by family members with all the pleasantries that I’m used to like “you really put on some weight,” and “you should really shave your face so you can look like a real human being.”  There’s nothing quite like family to cheer you up when times are tough.

As I walked into the room with the casket, I let out one of the top three loudest laughs of my life.  I couldn’t believe my eyes!  Tied to the casket was a balloon!  Apparently, it was Aunt Iliana’s birthday.  Now this wasn’t your average, every day balloon.  This was one of those super shiny, obnoxious ones you’d get for your daughter Jessica’s third birthday that screams HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!!! in your face.  The best part about it was that the balloon was half-deflated and barely staying afloat.  That seemed strangely fitting to me.  I heard a few people whisper, “this is exactly how she would have wanted it.  She LOVED birthdays.”

Happy Birthday Jessica!!!

We were asked to sit down and the ceremony started.  It turns out that Aunt Iliana was a member of an Eastern Orthodox Church and no one there really knew what to expect or how to participate in the service. It started out with some singing, followed by some singing, which was then followed by singing, one spoken word, forty-five more minutes of singing and then eighteen more minutes of singing.

“AAAAAMEN, A-MANY MEN MEN, AMEN MEN MEN, IS THE MEN OF ALL MEN!” sang the priest over and over again in his obnoxious, monotone church voice.

“What?  Are they going to sing the whole God damn Bible?” asked the older gentleman behind me in a voice loud enough to be heard even by the hard of hearing in attendance.

Good question, I thought to myself.  Finally, it was my time to shine.  We were ready to get this show on the road and head to the church for what I was sure would be at least three more hours of singing.  JJRB, Marvin and I were all called up for a quick pallbearers meeting which I took control of and told the funeral home employees that I could take it from here.  Using my previously appointed power as CEO of Pallbearers, Inc., I tried to fire one of the employees as an example just so I could show that I was going to run a tight ship.  For some reason, he didn’t go anywhere.

We picked up the casket and headed toward the parking lot.

“Holy shit!  This is sooo fucking EASY!” I said to myself as I one-handed bench pressed the casket over my head a few times.

We kept walking down the hall with the casket and I noticed that JJR-DB (yes I did that on purpose) appeared to be struggling with his end.  This didn’t surprise me one bit.  JJRB is a little bit smaller and younger than Marvin and I and is known to be a little bit of a whiner.  Let’s just say JJRB ain’t neva gonna ball with the big boys.

Being the great CEO that I am, I had actually thought that the probability of JJRB struggling with the casket was pretty high.  Being the inexperienced CEO that I am, I forgot to formulate some kind of plan in case it happened.  The casket started to shake like a girl in a Juvenile video.

“Jason!  Marvin!” whimpered JJRB.

No answer.  I sure as hell didn’t want to deal with his whining at a time like this.  I needed to step up and put this company on my back!  Pallbearers, Inc. is NOT going bankrupt, I thought.

“JASOOOOOONNN!!!!  MARVIIIIIIIINNNN!!!!!”

Marvin and I answered at the same time.

“WHAAAAT?!?”

BOOM!  Just as we answered and at the precise moment we walked out the door, we dropped the casket!  There was screaming and crying coming from everyone that had gathered outside.

“What have you done?!?” someone yelled.