Saturday, May 30, 2009


This really old guy at work, Jasper, was finally going to break down and buy a new car after having no other choice. He wanted to get as bare bones a model as possible, and didn’t even want a radio in the car.

“A radio? Why would I want a radio in my car? They charge extra for that, don’t they? What is it, both AM and FM? I don’t even know the difference, and you know what? I don’t care.

“Back in my day we didn’t have confounded radios in cars to entertain us. Me and my mammy would drive along and have whistlin’ contests. You know, who could whistle the longest, who could whistle the loudest. Sometimes if we got tired of that we’d play Name That Tune by whistlin’ a little ditty and tryin’ to guess each other’s song. Of course, we only had three songs back then.”

(There was no way I was going to tell him that I have media overload in my own car, with my AM/FM, six-CD changer, satellite radio, and auto-suck installed.)

Jasper continued on his nostalgic roll.

“In fact, I think we would get along just fine without these car contraptions. When I was a youngster, we would wait all day for the Pony Express to come along and deliver our mail. I still remember that snorting, fine brown steed dropping road apples as he ran down the dirt path to our farm. Later on, Pa and I would mosey on down to the fishin’ hole for a spell and catch a perch or two. We’d grill those up, untie Ma for a while, and maybe fuck a couple of sheep.”

And it was then, as the old guy was staring skyward, eyes in the back of his head, a little stream of drool slipping down the corner of his mouth, that the clowns came and finally took Jasper away.

The next day, the entire office staff celebrated with special cupcakes. Mine was vanilla with rainbow sprinkles and a little plastic tractor on top. “This is for you, Pops,” I said as I swallowed the tractor and danced the Funky Chicken, to the amusement of all.


I already have my opening speech prepared for the first day of teaching summer school this year.

“OK students, before we start let’s take a minute and hope that God is looking down on us all on this first day of summer school and is going to guide us through this experience.”

I will then look to the skies and after a dramatic pause, when all is silent, make a little muffled whispery noise out of the side of my mouth.

(Looking around, amazed and wide-eyed.) “Wait a minute. Did you hear that?”

More whispery noise.

“That sounded kind of like a kitten, but all the kittens around here were killed a long time ago.”

Whispery noise.

“You know what? I think that’s God. He is looking down on us! Shhh, let’s listen.”

Whispery noise.

“What’s that, God? You are watching over us? And you have some thoughts for us?”

Whispery noise.

“Oh, I see. Yes, God, I will pass on your words.”

(Back to addressing the students levelly.)
“God told me that you all losers better fucking pass summer school.”

Monday, May 25, 2009


It seems that every year there is a research study that concludes peoples’ biggest fear is public speaking. I beg to differ.

In fact, according to a new report using laboratory chicken experimentation, the biggest fear people have is: Making a doody somewhere other than their house.

This is probably most difficult to avoid when you are work, and often put into motion only as a last resort. Even then, we need to wait for the right time.

They say there are no atheists in foxholes. I also believe there are no atheists when you have to unload at work, because soon the praying begins…

“Please Lord, don’t let any co-workers be in the restroom when I:
a. Enter the restroom.
b. Enter the stall.
c. Am in the middle of my movement.
d. When I exit the stall.
e. When I exit the restroom.”

I had insult added to injury yesterday when I visited a teacher at a different high school. Before we got down to work she asked if I needed to use the restroom.

I desperately needed to. I was hoping to hold my bowels hostage until after our meeting and I arrived home. But like an expectant mother, that precious bundle of brown joy was coming out and had a mind of its own. So, I was actually glad she offered it.

But then came the kicker. I had to get the key from the Main Office. No big deal, I naively assumed, until the key came.

I was handed a giant, four-foot piece of wood shaped like a key. It may as well have been 10 feet tall and fluorescent pink. Attached to this was a heavy-duty chain from which the real restroom key was dangling.

So now I have to prance down the hall, holding this enormous wooden key that tells the entire world that I’m going to the bathroom.

I felt like I was leading a parade, holding my giant toilet key like a baton and shouting gleefully, “Hey everybody, follow me! Come join the doody parade! Ta Ta Ta Da Da Da! Yay!”

Like this was a production of “The Music Man” and I should be wearing some ornamental headdress and be followed by trumpet players and baton twirlers. What was I, The Pied Piper of Poop?

I won’t even pretend to understand the school’s motivation for forcing visitors to cart around such a humiliating talisman just to use the facilities.

The only good news was that despite all the turmoil, everything flowed like a doody-filled river.

Good thing too, because I faced Memorial Day traffic on the way home, and my usual 20-minute drive took 60 minutes. Had I not used the restroom, I would have experienced my own battlefield with an explosion in my pants.

Tuesday, May 19, 2009


The World’s Worst Comedian stopped by my living room the other night to share his humorous observations.

“So I’m looking through my morning newspaper and I see an ad for a pizza joint. The ad says that to make my pizza meal complete, I can add a two-liter Pepsi and an order of Crazy Bread.

“Now, I understand the Pepsi, because that’s an all natural beverage and quite healthy for you. But Crazy Bread?

“I don’t know about you, but while I’m eating a pizza--which is, um, bread—why would I want to add more bread to it?

“And if I already had bread in my pizza, how would adding more bread make this meal in any way more complete?

“Are they calling it Crazy Bread so they can trick people into thinking that it’s really not bread--it’s Crazy Bread!

“I say you would have to be Crazy to even eat it!”

…And then, as mysteriously as he appeared, the World’s Worst Comedian vanished, leaving nothing behind but the stench of stale cigar smoke, and a hearty “Hey-Oh!”

Sunday, May 17, 2009


If you have any kids, you will know the answer to this question.

When does your kid tell you that something is due at school on Monday morning? That’s right: on Sunday evening.

My little peep has been working on his John Hancock (how appropriate!) book report for several weeks. We have been ahead of schedule, following the teacher’s written instructions, confident that he’ll be ready on the due date.

But what I didn’t know was that the teacher told him that he also needs to dress like John Hancock as he delivers his oral report.

Which led him to ask Mrs. Jerry K, “Mom, do we have a tux?”

Now, realize that I work in public education. Translation: I have no neckties, one old sports coat that is forced to match with everything, and nothing even approaching a tux.

By some miracle, my hen produced a black sport coat, and something resembling a tie. And it didn’t look bad on him. The length of the coat even fit in with Hancock’s era.

He was a little hesitant about the faux-tie, however. And that was when I informed him that ties are just there to cover up the shirt buttons anyway.

Well, you thought I had farted at a tea party or something.

My hen shot me one of those looks. “Why are you making up such stupid stuff?”

So, off to the Internet I went, because everyone knows that everything on the Web is true.

Turns out that no one is exactly sure why men wear ties. My answer was among the many, so I felt somewhat vindicated.

One answer I found frequently was that men wear ties because they point to their crotches, thereby communicating an image of power.

I never heard of that before, probably because my penis is so enormous, I figured I would never need to point it out to anyone.


Somebody made my day--perhaps my year--yesterday.

A young, blonde, beautiful bank teller asked me, “Did anyone ever tell you that you look like Tom Hanks?”

This is the first time anyone ever told me I looked like someone who others may actually consider handsome.

Now, when I related this story to Mrs. Jerry K (aka The Hen), I was met with a fusillade of guffaws. I milked the teller’s remark for all it was worth, as husbands will do. Now, two days later, she refers to the teller as “some blonde bitch.”

I just respond by explaining how this teller not only had perfect eyesight, but was also quite intelligent and perceptive.

I have actually been told before that I look like someone else. For example, students have told me I look like Jon, Garfield’s owner in the comic strip. Then again, those students were on crack.

Usually, I will get compared to the actor Daniel Stern. In fact, I was once in a video store, and a little boy approached me and asked, “Were you in ‘Home Alone’?”

“No,” I replied, “I just look like him.”

I’ll never forget the disappointed look on that little boy’s face. If I had to do it over again, I probably would have lied to him. After all, everyone knows that it's perfectly OK to lie to a kid if it makes him happy. That's why my son thinks I wrote "Harry Potter."

The funny thing is, all these people are mistaken, because I think I really look an awful lot like Brad Pitt.

Thursday, May 14, 2009


An online classified ads website known as “Cluck’s List” was ordered to eliminate its “erotic services” category today on the grounds that some ads were actually offering poultrytution.

Was this decision a justifiable one, or just another case of walking on eggshells? Read these samples from Cluck’s List, and you be the judge:

• “Looking for a fine, upstanding young cock to take care of me and scramble my eggs. Interest in taking dirt baths a plus. Open to swapping incubators. No turkeys need apply.”

• “Do you like breasts? I am a young French hen with two juicy ones and am into grilling, frying and breading. I enjoy large peckers who like to cluck all day. I am open to Egg Beaters and like to keep a kinky coop.”

• “I am looking for that special cock who would like to pluck my feathers. I love to lay eggs, and prefer it sunny-side up.”

Sunday, May 10, 2009


If you get a chance, check out the new blog by my friend Jesus C. This is his first blog and he could really use the encouragement.

You'll find it at


Thursday, May 7, 2009


Today was my follow-up visit, two weeks after my first colonoscopy. The results are in: I had five polyps. One was quite large, another was medium-size, and the last three were small.

I have decided, with the guidance of my life coach Moishe, to call the big one Smegma, the medium one Yonkel, and the three little ones the Jonas Brothers.

The two large polyps showed “a tendency to develop cancer,” according to the doctor, while the other three were as harmless as an Owen Wilson movie.

But because of those two big suckers, I need to return in one year to have another colonoscopy. (I can only pray it will be as delightful as the first one!) That doesn’t mean I’ll need to have the procedure every year, but only that it is precautionary. Most people over 50 only need to have one every five years. I think I hate those people.

Bottom line (pun intended): It looks like I dodged a bullet, and that people the world over can rest assured they will continue to receive more much-needed chicken-related humor.

Oh yeah, and I almost forgot to tell you that I saw Jesus. He appeared to me as the doctor’s news echoed in my head.

He floated before me, and in each outstretched hand he held my two largest polyps. He was much shorter than in his pictures.

He said softly (and, surprisingly, in a heavy Yiddish accent): “Jerry K, my son, I have spared your life this time. But now you must go forward and tell my flock about the importance of having a camera shoved up one’s tuches.”

He finished by saying, “It is your duty,” and I could swear I heard him laughing at his own joke.

And then I realized something: I bet Jesus has a difficult time finding an audience for his jokes. For all we know, he may be quite the jocular fellow, but it’s not like he has the chance to hang around and banter with his co-workers or friends. He probably feels pressured to be philosophical and serious all the time, like he’s a 20-year-old Comparative Literature major or something.

And here I was feeling bummed out that I have to have another colonoscopy so soon, when in reality, it’s better than being Jesus.

Wednesday, May 6, 2009


It’s that exciting time of year once again when the major television networks—ABC, NBC, CBS, CluckTV—begin to promote their new shows for the fall season.

As a special treat, we present to you the original pitch ideas for new Fall TV shows. But here’s the twist:

(Answers below.)

• “Clown Dick”:
In this gritty one-hour drama, a circus clown (portrayed by Senator Barney Frank) enjoys entertaining the masses under the big top during the day, but at night leads a secret life as a private investigator.

• “Senior Cribs”:
Based on the popular MTV “Cribs” show, this documentary-ish series offers a voyeuristic look at the moist and confused lives of the residents of an assisted living complex in Barstow, California. In the first episode, Murray gets high when he mistakenly chug-a-lugs Polident, Evelyn tries to remember the name of a movie she saw the night before, and a disoriented Sylvia yells at her kasha.

• “My Little Jew”:
In this new sitcom, a washed-up supermodel (Anna Faris) gets drunk and finds herself married to a midget rabbi (Peter Dinklage). She tries to make the best out of it in this knish-out-of-water story.

• “America’s Favorite Geek”:
This new reality show is not about the nerdy guy who ends up being your boss or marrying your niece. It’s about actual geeks who bite heads off chickens. As we learn more about each geek by watching their sappy, heartbreaking yet oddly hilarious back-stories, viewers vote each week for the most deserving geek. The final winner gets a bag of shit. Sponsored by KFC and PETA.

(Answer: They are all real!)