- "An" was changed to "a."
- "They" was replaced with "them."
- "He" was changed to "she."
- "Woof" was replaced with "meow."
- All words were omitted, then reinserted.
- "Hyphen" was replaced with "-."
- "..." was changed to "ellipse."
Monday, January 14, 2008
Thursday, January 10, 2008
911. What’s your emergency?
Greetings. My name is Alibaster Abthernabther. I am a best selling author, yacht racer, hot air balloon enthusiast, and recording artist.
Yes, what’s your emergency?
Well, I don’t mean to trouble you. I’d rather just forget the whole horrible affair. However, I do believe I was just assault by two of your peace officers.
What was that?
Two policemen. I believe they were off-duty. But they behaved quite boorishly, brandishing firearms in my immediate direction.
Where are you located, sir?
I am a recording artist.
Ok, where are you right now?
We were playing horseshoes on my front lawn when out of the ether appear two plainclothes policemen. They were yelling and pointing fingers and before I knew it they were pointing their handguns at me.
Can you tell me where you are?
I am a recording artist.
Sir, I need to know where you are so I can dispatch an officer to the scene.
You’ll have to speak up. You see, I’m a recording artist
Where are you, sir?
A recording artist.
I’m not asking who you are or what you do. I’m asking you to tell me where you are. Where are you located?
Oh, I understand the question now. I’m sorry; we must have a bad connection.
That is fine. Where are you?
I am a recording artist.
Sir, you will have to ---
Sir, please ---
I'm going to have to release the call if you won't ---
If I won't record a song for you? Well, that should be simple seeing as I am ---
--- blessed with an inherent knack for song.
I thought you were going to say you were a recording artist.
Funny you should mention that. I am a recording artist.
Monday, January 7, 2008
My good friend and standing gin rummy partner Prissy has received more than her fair share of flack in recent weeks. You may know Prissy from the recent media attention that has fallen upon her since it was discovered that her daughter may have fudged some facts in a silly little letter writing contest to procure tickets to a music concert of some sort. The details escape me.
The story has since ballooned to international proportions and much has been made of Prissy’s questionable maternal influence. However, I believe this belies the true matter at hand. As usual, the media is all too focused on what people are doing and saying, and not paying enough attention to what they are wearing or how they are presenting themselves physically. This is my point. My good friend Prissy is not just an unforgivably malevolent, disgusting troglodyte on the inside; she is also a hideous, foot-faced monstrosity of a woman on the outside. I can say this because she is my friend.
My friend Prissy (a nickname I gave her while we were both attending Yvonne Littlebutter’s Finishing School for Filthy Heartless Charlatans) has always had a way of bending reality to her whim and while doing so has always looked like a powdered balloon animal frog with eyebrows that have been penciled in by a prison tattoo artist.
Once she was caught shoplifting scratch-off lottery tickets at a gas station and was somehow able to evade criminal prosecution by stating that the lottery tickets had no visible price tag on them and therefore no monetary value. Another time she was stopped by a highway patrolman after commandeering a truck full of velour tracksuits, but avoided arrest when she pointed out that the truck’s license plate depicted three of the eight numbers that made up the full calendar date of her birthday and thus granted her some obscure type of birthright ownership. And just last week she murdered an elderly woman but circumvented the law once again by portraying herself as an angel of merciful euthanasia.
Very little can detract from the wisdom and insight one gleans from simply glancing at my good friend Prissy’s outward appearance. It just goes to prove the adage by which I live: You may not be able to judge a book by its cover, but you most certainly can judge putrid people by their vile visage. She really and truly is a horrific hell beast constructed from the taints of a thousand demons. I can say this because she is my friend.
Thursday, January 3, 2008
Dear J.D. Freeman,
Hello and good New Year to you, sir. My name is Alibaster Abthernabther. I am a best selling author, yacht racer, hot air balloon enthusiast, recreational botanist, and loyal KDGE listener.
As you are the DFW market manager for Clear Channel Radio, I’m directly propositioning you to take over the vacant time slot that will be left behind once the immensely talented and underrated Lex and Terry duo move from the Edge to the Eagle next week. I must say that their show is a delightful and introspective part of my morning routine. Each new morn brings about another deliciously subversive and satirical take on sexual stereotypes and the deeper societal ramifications of the fairer sex’s objectification in popular media. Also, they talk about titties and snatch a lot.
To be quite honest, my own personal brand of entertainment might be a tad on the sophisticated side of the commercial radio spectrum. However I would be more than willing to compromise, combining my own urbane sensibilities with the brand of humor and on-air techniques that the average Lex and Terry listener has become so accustomed to. For example:
- Ask former Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher why she dresses like such a “prick tease.”
- Interrupt a telephone interview with opera singer Ashley Putnam to play a quick game of “Would You Stuff Your Penis into It?”
- Make Mother Theresa an honorary posthumous member of the “Queef Brigade.”
- Ask Tom Wolfe why he dresses like such a “cock tickler.”
- Find out from Meryl Streep if her lady parts look like a split peach or a sideways roast beef sandwich.
- Daily visits from pranksters extraordinaire Garrison Keillor and the Gotcha Squad.
- Ask Dame Judi Dench why she’s making my balls all blue by wearing that short skirt.