some stories.

There are some things that just make me laugh for no apparent reason. This is an attempt to get them down virtually.

The worst cook I ever met was my ex-boyfriend's mother. Once she wanted to make Rice Krispie Treats. Only she used marshmallow fluff instead of melting butter and marshmallows together. Only she still put the melted butter in. Which made them goopy so she added more cereal, which made them dry so she added more fluff, which made them goopy and she was out of cereal. So she added coconut, which made them dry and she was out of fluff so she melted more butter which made them goopy so she added M&Ms, which made them dry and she was out of butter so she added corn syrup which made them goopy. She had nothing logical (?) left to add so she baked them for 25 minutes. Top that! -- Marijo Kist

Here is a birthday poem written by a friend of mine:

Sharyn November--siren, sphinx,
commanding force, loquacious minx,
still up on all the latest kicks;
still quite young at thirty-six.

Sharyn sing, and Sharyn dance,
a bit too small for her brown pants.
Dreamy girl of such romance.
I'd like to take her off to France.
-- Suzanne Lander

We Went On Mars
Me and my sister wanted to see aliens. We went on a spaceship, and landed on Mars. We saw lots of aliens, and we saw an astronaut. I said to the aliens, "What happened to the other astronaut?" "We ate him," the alien said. "Why did you do that?" we said. I said to my sister, "Let's get out of here! If we stay here they might eat us too. Back to the rocketship!" "Oh no, the steering wheel fell off. Try to jam it back in." "I can't! We're going down." Swoosh! The aliens yelled from Mars, "Come back another time so we can eat you." "I wouldn't count on it, Mr. Alien," I said. We landed back on earth.

We ran into our house ready for another adventure. Oh no, who knows where we will go now! --Michael, age 7

The Internet provides many ways to laugh yourself sick, such as this. (And this.)

A joke from David Coman-Hidy
Q. Before you go into the bathroom, you're American. After you leave the bathroom, you're American. What are you when you're in the bathroom?
A. European.

Harbor Seal poetry
Daddy has a harbor seal
It's not much fun in bed
but what on earth do you expect
from a piniped

Daddy has a harbor seal
a fixture in the dungeon scene
it doesn't go for S&M
but loves the feel of neoprene

Daddy has a Harbor Seal
Its lifestyle is just godawful!
It never cleans, it never bathes.
Its bed smells like falafel.

Daddy has a Harbor Seal
It's brooding and it's pensive
Left alone with its deep thoughts
For its odor is offensive.

-- you can blame Ben Jackson and his brother for these.

Alejandra Valera de Barrett shares a monkey story
I like monkeys.

The pet store was selling them for five cents apiece. I thought that odd since they were normally a couple thousand. I decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth. I bought 200. I like monkeys.

I took my 200 monkeys home. I have a big car. I let one drive. His name was Sigmund. He was retarded. In fact, none of them were really bright. They kept punching themselves in their genitals. I laughed. Then they punched my genitals.

I stopped laughing.

I herded them into my room. They didn't adapt very well to their new environment. They would screech, hurl themselves off of the couch at high speeds and slam into the wall. Although humorous at first, the spectacle lost its novelty halfway into its third hour.

Two hours later I found out why the monkeys were so inexpensive: they all died. No apparent reason. They all just sort of dropped dead. Kind of like when you buy a goldfish and it dies five hours later. Damn cheap monkeys.

I didn't know what to do. There were 200 dead monkeys lying all over my room, on the bed, in the dresser, hanging from the bookcase. It looked like I had 200 throw rugs.

I tried to flush one down the toilet. It didn't work. It got stuck. Then I had one dead, wet monkey and 199 dead, dry monkeys.

I tried pretending that they were just stuffed animals. That worked for a while, that is until they began to decompose. It started to smell real bad.

I had to pee but there was a dead monkey in the toilet and I didn't want to call the plumber. I was embarrassed.

I tried to slow down the decomposition by freezing them. Unfortunately, there was only enough room for two monkeys at a time so I had to change them every 30 seconds. I also had to eat all the food in the freezer so it didn't all go bad.

I tried burning them. Little did I know my bed was flammable. I had to extinguish the fire.

Then I had one dead, wet monkey in my toilet, two dead, frozen monkeys in my freezer, and 197 dead, charred monkeys in a pile on my bed. The odor wasn't improving.

I became agitated at my inability to dispose of my monkeys and to use the bathroom. I severely beat one of my monkeys. I felt better.

I tried throwing them away but the garbage man said that the city was not allowed to dispose of charred primates. I told him that I had a wet one. He couldn't take that one either. I didn't bother asking him about the frozen ones.

I finally arrived at a solution. I gave them our as Christmas gifts. My friends didn't know quite what to say. They pretended that they liked them, but could tell they were lying. Ingrates. So I punched them in the genitals.

I like monkeys. -- Author unknown

I have no piercings. Do you?

Food humor.
When I was growing up in Wyoming, a friend of mine once ordered a "Chicken Blizzard" from the local Dairy Queen. We were all in my car, going through the drive-through, and when I asked him what kind of Blizzard he wanted, he said, "How about chicken?"

So without hesitation I yell into the microphone: "I'd like three medium Blizzards -- one Oreo, one Butterfinger, and one Chicken."

"Chicken Blizzard?" the speaker squawked questioningly. "Chicken Blizzard," I reply. Tense pause. Then a somewhat devilish "OK" comes from the speaker, "That will be blah blah blah at the window please."

So we pull up to the window and we're there for a really long time waiting, starting to get nervous. The window pops open and we're handed three Blizzards and we drive off.

I open mine: it's an Oreo Blizzard.
Jeremy opens his: it's an Butterfinger Blizzard.
Sam opens his: it's a Blizzard with a breaded chicken patty blended into it.

We recoil in horror. it's a Chicken Blizzard. An honest to God Chicken Blizzard.

We all taste it, and it tastes horrible. Really horrible. Ice cream, breading, and meat. So we promptly set out to feed it to other, unsuspecting people. The script went something like this:

The three of us walk into Sam's house to find his little sister.

"Hey, there's a new flavor of Blizzard at the Dairy Queen."
"What is it?"
"Oh, just try it."

Sis looks dubiously at us, for we've done other untrustworthy things to her in the past, so you think she'd learn never to trust us. Well, Sam was the one who went on to become a Ph.D mathematician, so maybe he got more of the brains of the family. And Jeremy and I were eating what looked to be perfectly honest Blizzards ... Anyways, Sam shoves a huge spoonful of the Chicken Blizzard into her mouth.

She chews twice, and gets a horrible look on her face.
"It's chicken!" she cries.

"Ah hahahahahaha...." as we run away.

We got three other people that day. And we also wondered what else would Dairy Queen make a Blizzard out of. Like, could you just go into a Dairy Queen with a bag of meat and say, "Here, my good fellow, will you make this into a Blizzard for me?"
-- I wish I knew where Jamie found this.

Some musician jokes, c/o Garth Nix, Jamie Barnett, and my cousin Cliff
Q. How do you know when the stage is level?
A. The drummer is drooling from both sides of his mouth.

Q. What's the difference between a female lead singer and a Porsche?
A. Most musicians haven't been in Porsches.

Q. What's the first thing a female lead singer does when she gets up in the morning?
A. Puts on her clothes and goes home.

Q. Why are female lead singers always pounding on doors?
A. Because they're always out, they're always late, and they don't know how to come in.

Q. What do you call two guitar players reading from the same chart?
A. Counterpoint.

Q. How do you get a guitar player to turn down?
A. Put a chart in front of him.

Q. What's the definition of an optimist?
A. A trombone player with a beeper.

Q. What's the difference between a dead frog on the side of the road and a dead trombone player on the side of the road?
A. The frog might have been on its way to a gig.

Q. What do you call a drummer without a girlfriend?
A. Homeless.

Q. What were the drummer's last words before he was kicked out of the band?
A. "I have a song."

Q. What's a definition of a drummer?
A. Someone who hangs around with musicians.

Q. What's the difference between a drummer and a drum machine?
A. You only have to punch the information into a drum machine once.

Q. How many drummers does it take to change a lightbulb?
A. Ten. One to hold the bulb and nine to drink so much the room spins.

Q. How do you know when a drummer's at the door?
A. The knocks speed up.

Q. Why do so many people develop an instant dislike to banjo music?
A. It saves time.

Q. What's the difference between a banjo and an onion?
A. No one cries when you chop up a banjo.

Q. How do you distinguish one banjo tune from another?
A. By their names.

Q. How many guitar players does it take to screw in a lightbulb?
A. Six. One to screw it in, and five to say, "I could do that."

Q. What's the difference between a musician and a pig?
A. A pig doesn't stay up until 5 A.M. in a bar trying to fuck a musician.

Q. What's the difference between a groupie and a toilet?
A. A toilet doesn't follow you around after you use it.

Q. How many bass players does it take to screw in a lightbulb?
A. None. The keyboard player can do it with his left hand.

Q. How do you get a musician to complain?
A. Get him a gig.

Q. How do you get him to complain more?
A. Provide food at the gig.

Q. What is something you will never hear anyone in Nashville say?
A. "That's the banjo player's Porsche."

Q. What's the difference between a Tenor sax player and a macaw?
A. One is loud, obnoxious and noisy, and the other is a bird.

Q. What kind of calendar does a trombonist use for his gigs?
A. "Year-at-a-glance."

Q. What's the difference between a lawnmower and a tenor sax?
A. Lawnmowers sound better in small ensembles.

Q. What is another term for trombone?
A. A wind driven, manually operated, pitch approximator.

Q. What's the difference between a baritone sax and a vacuum cleaner?
A. The vibrato.

Q. What do all great conductors have in common?
A. They're all dead.

Q. Did you hear about the harpist who played in tune?
A. Neither did I.

Q. What do you throw a drowning bass player?
A. His amp.

Q. What's the difference between a cello and a coffin?
A. A coffin has the corpse inside.

Q. What's the difference between a girl singer and a piranha?
A. Lipstick.

Q. What's the difference between a conductor and a sack of fertilizer?
A. The sack.

Q. How many alto sax players does it take to change a light bulb?
A. Five. One to handle the bulb and four to contemplate how Bird would have done it.

Q. Why do violinists put a cloth between their chin and their instruments?
A. Violins don't have spit valves.

Q. What's the definition of a nerd?
A. Someone who owns an A clarinet.

Q. What's the definition of perfect pitch?
A. When the banjo doesn't hit the side of the dumpster.

Q. Why do clarinetists leave their cases on the dashboard?
A. So they can park in the Handicapped zones.

Q. How do you make a trombone sound like a French horn?
A. Stick your hand in the bell and play all the wrong notes.

Q. How do you reduce wind drag on a trombonist's car?
A. Take the Domino's Pizza sign off the roof.

Q. What's the difference between a savings bond and a musician?
A. Eventually one may mature and make some money.

Q. What should you do if you run over a bass player?
A. Back up.

Q. What's the difference between a bassoon and a trampoline?
A. You take your shoes off when you jump on a trampoline.

Q. How do you make a violin sound like a viola?
A. Sit in the back and don't play.

Q. What has three legs and an asshole?
A. A drum stool.

Q. What's the difference between masturbation and a bass solo?
A1. Masturbation is never more than a beat off.
A2. When you masturbate, folks can still hear the drummer.
A3. A bass solo always stops just when it starts getting hard.

Q. How do you make a guitarist play more softly?
A. Put sheet music in front of him.

Q. How do you make him stop playing?
A. Turn it upside down.

Q. Where do you hide something so a bass player will never find it?
A. Under a bar of soap.

Q. How do you make a trumpet player's car go faster?
A. Remove the dead oboe player from the grille.

There is actually an entire web site devoted to drummer jokes. Too bad most drummers can't read. (Here's another joke site, for everyone else.)

Now we are six
I was reading the amazing book Greasy Grimy Gopher Guts, and this gem made me laugh so hard I almost threw up:

(to the tune of "Yankee Doodle")
Barney is a dinosaur
He comes from outer space
He kills everybody
By farting in their face.

Return to Woodstock
I (Mary Epstine) was on my way home home from school, walking with my friends, when I found a key. It looked like the key to my keepsake box. I wanted to go home right away to see if it fit my keepsake box, but I had already invited my friend Lisa over. Talk about luck! Lisa asked if it was okay with me if she went to Alison's house instead, so I said it was all right.

I ran all the way home so I could see if it fit. I tried it but it didn't fit. Surprisingly, it fit my closet door which has never been opened. Right before I had a chance to open the door my stepdad called me for dinner. After dinner I told my mom and my stepdad that I had a lot of homework to do and after that I was going straight to bed. As soon as I had finished my homework I got the key, put it in the door and turned it.

I opened the door and it was like stepping into a time machine; there were bellbottoms, tie-dye shirts and all kinds of hippie clothes. Then all of a sudden the door slammed shut and everything started spinning, then everything went black.

When I woke up I was surrounded by bright tie-dye shirts, loud music and the smell of marijuana. Where was I? I has no clue, but suddenly I remembered I had gone to Woodstock with my friends and I must have fainted from too much heat. Soon as I was back on my feet walking around the meadows on the farm in New York where Woodstock was held.

It was August 17, 1969, the last day of Woodstock. In a way it would be hard saying good-bye to the few hundreds of people out of about 500,000 people I had met there. I managed to say good-bye to about 50 of them. I was leaving early because my friends and I wanted to beat the traffic from all the other people leaving Woodstock.

When we arrived at my house I slept for 5 days straight. When I went back to work at Dairy Queen I heard on the radio that the Rolling Stones were having a concert in California called Altamont in December. So I told my friends and by the last day in November we left.

When we got there it was pretty cool. The Rolling stones were great, but it wasn't at all like Woodstock. The Rolling Stones hired Hell's Angels (a biker group) to make sure there were no fights or anything. The problem was the Hell's Angels killed 3 people and there was one murder. My friends and I left in big disappointment.

On the way home I fell asleep; and when I woke up I was back in 1995 in my closet. I opened the door and I was never so glad to see grade 9 school books!!!!!!!! -- Jessica, 11

A Random Joke from Tad Hutchison
Q. What did the Valley Girl say when she saw a man with one leg shorter than the other?
A. "Not even!"

"Would You Like to Play the Guitar?"
Lyrics by Pat Donohue
(to the tune of "Swinging on a Star")

Would you like to play the guitar
Carry money home in a jar
From a coffeehouse or a bar
Or would you rather get a job?

A job is the thing that makes you get out of bed
And work every day until you're dead
Your back is achin' and your brain is numb
And you just can't wait until the weekend comes
But if you don't want to starve or beg or rob
You're gonna have to get a job

Or would you like to play the guitar
Drive for miles and miles in your car
And pretend that you're a big star
Or would you rather book the gig?

An agent's the guy who takes his twenty percent
What he says isn't always what he meant
He'll clean you out in ways you never thought
Because he's good at business and he knows you're not
And then he'll sue if you ever make it big
'Cause he's the guy who booked the gig

Or would you like to play the guitar
For a living -- har-dee-har-har
I'll admit it's kind of bizarre
Or would you rather be the wife?

The wife is the one who has to rescue our butts
She's either a saint or else she's nuts
She gets impatient and she gets annoyed
'Cause she's the one who must remain employed
And, by the way, if you want to wreck your life
Become a guitar player's wife

'Cause all the monkeys aren't in the zoo
They can be trained to play guitar, too
Some do a whole lot better than you
But even if you don't go far
You could be worse off than you are
At least you're playing your guitar
--courtesy of John Neilson.

Leftist Pick-up Lines
1. Yo baby, wanna listen to me talk for seven hours?
2. Yo baby, wanna be on my leftist agenda?
3. Yo baby, if you like the Spanish Revolution, you'll love this!
4. Yo baby, why don't you come over my commune?
5. Yo baby, I heard you were a feminist. That's great, cause then I can let you be on top!
6. Yo baby, I heard you like saving whales. Why don't you come over my place and free Willy?
7. Yo baby, you like Marx? Well, we got something in common. Neither do I!
8. Yo baby, you got a phone?
9. Yo China!
10. Yo baby, wanna go to a shitty bar, drink pissy beer, sit around a tiny table with ten other bitter socialists and listen to us talk for another seven hours?
--I don't know Rebecca Smith and Daisy Chung, but they are geniuses.

Be nice to your server, please
I have never been a waitress. I admire the people I know who have waited tables; it's a bitch of a job. The Stained Apron is a site where waiters tell their stories, and they are pretty amazing, not to mention funny and enlightening. (Here's a similar site: Customers Suck.)

Meaningful Poetry
I had a little basket.
It was my very own.
Roger put some mud in it
And topped it with a stone.

"That was not very nice of you,
Roger," I said.
I took my little basket
And dumped it on his head.

(I have no idea who wrote this.)

Mystery Solved!
Years ago, one of my exes recited part of a poem he had read in Creem's letters column in the late 70s/early 80s. I put it up here and begged anyone who knew the rest to email me. Years later, it happened. Thank you, Randy:

Punk rockers are really great.
Zeppelin fans ejaculate.
Punk rockers receive good head
From the bloody fuckers that listen to Led.
Johnny Rotten can always sing better
Than Robert Plant, the faggot bedwetter.
Steve Jones can always outplay
Gay Jimmy Page on any day.
Paul Cook is the best drummer.
John Bonham can drum on his cummer.
God save the Zeppelin freaks
When the bloody levee breaks.
The memories of Vicious will always live on
When rock and roll is long, long gone.

Randy adds: "Here are the lyrics as I wrote them down in (probably) 1978 copying them from Creem magazine. I thought it was really great because most people took musical sides in the day, but I was in a punk rock band and listened to Led Zeppelin so I got more than my share of harassment from both sides."

What do you call a gallery devoted to stories? Storyopolis! And Every Picture Tells a Story.

For whatever reason, musicians (and groupies) are a great source of humor-slash-ridicule. See for yourself.

"722-4822" by Patrick Hanifin
Now get this. I was sitting at my desk, when I remembered a phone call I had to make. I found the number and dialed it. A man answered nicely saying, "Hello???"

I politely said, "This is Patrick Hanifin and could I please speak to Robin Carter?" Suddenly the phone was slammed down on me! I couldn't believe that anyone could be that rude.

I tracked down Robin's correct number and called her. She had transposed the last two digits.

After I hung up with Robin, I spotted the wrong number still lying there on my desk. I decided to call it again. When the same person once more answered, I yelled "You're a jerk!" and hung up.

Next to his phone number I wrote the word "Jerk," and put it in my desk drawer. Every couple of weeks, when I was paying bills, or had a really bad day, I'd call him up. He'd answer, and then I'd yell,"You're a jerk!" It would always cheer me up.

Later in the year the phone company introduced caller ID. This was a real disappointment for me, I would have to stop calling the jerk. Then one day I had an idea. I dialed his number, then heard his voice, "Hello???"

I made up a name. "Hi. This is Herman with the telephone company and I'm just calling to see if you're familiar with our caller ID program?" He went, "No!" and slammed the phone down. I quickly called him back and said, "That's because you're a jerk!"

And the reason I took the time to tell you this story,is to show you how if there's ever anything really bothering you, you can do something about it. Just dial 722-4822.

But the story does not end here.

The old lady at the mall really took her time pulling out of the parking space. I didn't think she was ever going to leave. Finally her car began to move and she started to very slowly back out of the stall. I backed up a little more to give her plenty of room to pull out. Great, I thought, she's finally leaving.

All of a sudden this black Camaro came flying up the parking aisle in the wrong direction and pulled into her space. I started honking my horn and yelling, "You can't just do that, Buddy. I was here first!" The guy climbed out of his Camaro completely ignoring me. He walked toward the mall as if he didn't even hear me.

I thought to myself, this guy's a jerk, there's sure a lot of jerks in this world. I noticed he had a For Sale sign in the back window of his car. I wrote down the number. Then I hunted for another place to park.

A couple of days later, I'm at home sitting at my desk. I had just gotten off the phone after calling 722-4822 and yelling, "You're a jerk!" (It's really easy to call him now since I have his number on speed dial). I noticed the phone number of the guy with the black Camaro lying on my desk and thought "I'd better call this guy, too."

After a couple rings someone answered the phone and said, "Hello."

I said, "Is this the man with the black Camaro for sale?"

"Yes it is."

"Can you tell me where I can see it?"

"Yes, I live at 1802 West 34th street. It's a yellow house and the car's parked right out front."

I said, "What's your name?"

"My name is Don Hansen. I'm home in the evenings."

"Listen Don, can I tell you something?"

"Yes."

"Don, you're a jerk!" And I slammed the phone down. After I hung up, I added Don Hansen's number to my speed dialer.

For a while things seemed to be going better for me. Now when I had a problem I had two jerks to call. Then after several months of calling the jerks and hanging up on them, the whole thing started to seem like an obligation. It just wasn't as enjoyable as it used to be.

I gave the problem some serious thought and came up with a solution.

First, I had my phone dial Jerk #1.

A man answered nicely saying, "Hello."

I yelled "You're a jerk!" But I didn't hang up.

The jerk said, "Are you still there?"

I said, "Yeah..."

He said, "Stop calling me."

I said, "No."

He said, "What"s your name, Pal?"

I said, "Don Hansen."

"Where do you live?"

"1802 West 34th Street. It's a yellow house and my black Camaro's parked out front."

"I'm coming over right now, Don. You'd better start saying your prayers."

"Yeah, like I'm really scared, Jerk!" and I hung up.

Then I called Jerk #2.

He answered, "Hello."

I said, "Hello, Jerk!"

He said, "If I ever find out who you are..."

"You'll what?"

"I'll kick your butt."

"Well, here's your chance. I'm coming over right now Jerk!" And I hung up.

Then I picked up the phone and called the police. I told them a big gang fight was going down at 1802 West 34th Street. After that I climbed into my car and headed over to 34th Street to watch the whole thing.

I turned onto 34th Street and parked my car under the shade of a tree half a block from Jerk #2's house. There were two guys fighting out front. Suddenly there were about 12 police cars and a helicopter. The police wrestled the two men to the ground and took them away.

It was a nice way to break the boring cycle I had gotten myself into. :)

-- Alexis Banyon is a wonderful person.

Medeski Martin & Wood Have a Bad Press Agent
From a release for their CD, Shack Man: "A retro-modern 'post-Alternative' alternative to Alternative, whose unique energy and outlook is proving them the fastest 'out-of-the-box' sensation we'd seen here in Rykoland all year." (A tip o' the keyboard to Matt Barton.)

If you have any good stories or poems to share, email me and I'll put them up here.

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