You see, Korzybski was a linguist. A real cunning linguist, if you know what I mean – woff woff woff, arooo? Actually, what I mean is, he realized that the word “to be” is all wrong. He realized that you can’t say what something “is”. Like, say you hire a contractor – ’cause the old lady won’t let you sleep at night until that kitchen counter is installed, y’know? Like her life is depending on it – which, if you’re doing things right, it should – so you call the guy up, he comes over and say, “yeah, that’s gonna be about $1800″. And then he and his dumb klutz nephews show up and run you $2500 and any beer you had left in the fridge!

Heck, I’m guilty of that too. On my show, I’ve given estimates that got more queered up than my youngest. Hell, you’ve seen the show, you know what I’m talking about. Thing is, at the time, the job definitely did seem to “be” about $1800. Later on, it only made sense that it was $2500 and some Budweiser, woff woff woff. So when you say I “was” doing 90 in a school zone, and when that machine says I “am” twice over the limit, you just think about what you and the machine’ll say in eight hours.

And then, on top of that, you got a bunch of eggheads who talk in E Prime! You know the types: big, thick glasses; high, rounded skulls; absent, Canadian girlfriends? Yeah, I used to rough ‘em up too – but cut ‘em some slack, ’cause while we’re working on that new porch, they’re doing renovations on the space shuttle! Also, those guys realize that since you can’t say that anything is anything, or that Tim Allen is picking his kids up drunk at 4 PM, you shouldn’t use the verb “to be”! They wouldn’t say “Tim, you are due in court three months from now,” they’d say “Tim, you look great!”

Officer, officer! Think about this: the bonds between atoms are so weird, and so wacky, that you can’t even say that that ticket isn’t already ripped up! Officer, did you know that through spooky action at a distance, and quantum entanglement, no one who sees me put these folded bills into your pocket can say that they saw it, or that I actually put it there? What’s to say this sixty simoleons wasn’t in your uniform all along?

Officer, what’s the point in these handcuffs? You can trust me! And odds are that the atoms will all line up, and they’ll just fall right off!

Officer, come on! Just take the cash, let me out of here, we’ll get some shooters and walk through some locker room walls! I am immortal! Kings have knelt to kiss my rings! Have you ever heard of Count St. Germain?

A-woff woff woff! Aroooah!

THE END

I am a middle-aged, second-generation immigrant to your land looking to find an honest day’s work for an honest day’s wage. I am an extremely sturdy worker, whose size betrays a strong, working-class back/ethic. I should add that when I work, I do not wear a shirt. Instead, I prefer to wear trousers held up buy a set of high-duty suspenders. I also do not wear CSA approved steel toe safety boots, but rather a pair of dirty tennis shoes I’ve owned since 1982. I do not carry a wallet.

The following are some manual labour jobs for which I am well suited…
Painting outdoor banisters: If you have a steel banister that is one colour and you would like to change it to another colour (or—why not?—rust proof it) using paint, I’m your man. I am able to paint a banister of average length, width, and grade in a period of an afternoon, accounting for two bagged lunch breaks and the time it takes me to search for the pack of cigarettes that was in my back pocket the whole time. Unlike many banister painters in this town, I am not worried about getting paint on my shirt. (I won’t be wearing one.)

Manhole cover adjustment: If you are a mayor of town or city who has a make-work project involving adjusting the position of manhole covers or anything concealing street access to a sewer, give me a call. I can adjust the manhole covers anywhere from 45-80 degrees in any direction. I can also switch manhole covers from one manhole to another, or just stand there and stare at them intently, so that passerby will think I’m planning to do something with them. My presence there may also deter people selling manhole covers for scrap. Also, if you are looking to steal manhole covers and sell them for scrap, I am willing to work on a ten-percent commission.

Security: If you are hosting a stag and doe or other event at a local Legion, Polish Combatants Hall, Italo-Canadian Cultural Centre, or Victoria Edelweiss Club, I am available to stand outside the door and keep out the riff-raff who lack the ethnic background required for entry. Will work for 50/50 draw tickets.

Botched car interior reupholstering: I don’t have much experience reupholstering the interiors of cars, but if you’re looking for a big guy to get inside of your automobile and just mess around with a linoleum knife, look no further. If your interior is leather, don’t bother calling: I’d only resent you and not even bother attempting to competently finish the job. (Note: As I do not wear a shirt, there may be some perspiration stains left on your new interior.)

Install a screen door: I like this job because sometimes the fine mesh steel of the screen grates against my bare gut and it feels good. You may like this job because I do not have to enter your home and my grappling with the screen door itself will create a physical barrier between me and you/your children/your pets.

Chest freezer reassignment: I’m pretty good at moving whole chest freezers around: up or down stairs, etc. The leather suspenders I wear provide solid back support and I can usually just haul the thing around for a few minutes without pulling or tearing anything.

Hammer dummy: If you just need a guy who is wearing suspenders (but no shirt) to swing a claw or ball-pein hammer against a brick wall for a while for some reason, I can handle that. I can’t drive an actual nail for love or money, though, so don’t even ask.

Child rearing assistant: Gimmie a call if you’re looking for a guy to sit on the edge of your son or daughter’s bed breathing heavily. When they eventually wake up, panicked, they will see my sunburned, smiling face as well as my all-purpose work suspenders and calloused labourer’s hands, and realize the value of a college education. For jobs like this, I will generally leave your house at my own pace and treat myself to one item from your chest freezer.

General labour: If you have any unskilled labour tasks (i.e. no plumbing, grout, wiring, rolling up loose change, or duct work), fitting for a man with no particular skill set or shirt who smells like capers and the case of OV he drank last night, I am open to hearing about it. I also know a guy who makes a bad habit of leaving the keys to his truck in the driver’s side visor, so if you have any tasks that require a truck, I can help with those too (no driver’s license, though: wouldn’t let me pose for the photo shirtless). I prefer to work for cash or trade my services for items you own, though I can maybe make arrangements to accept major credit cards, if I ask my nephew about how to do it.

If you have any work at all for me, please contact me. I can usually be found admiring fence post diggers in back alleys around town, dusting dry cement mix off my bare chest in front of independently-owned submarine sandwich shops, and can also be reached by e-mail: gravedigger_fan@mindspring.com.

We’re putting our quarter-life crises behind us, and getting ready for our third-life crises. We’re long enough out of school and far enough from a real job that our parents just tell our grandparents that we’re “doing fine” in the city we’re in. Time was, all our free time was party time. We’ve still got the free time – we just don’t really party. We’re learning about food allergies instead. We wouldn’t know where to get pot if we tried. We haven’t seen shrooms since that guy with the stupid jacket went to do his master’s at Queen’s. We’re completely out of the mind-blowing loop. But we’ve got a hookup for Miller Chill. We’ve got a hookup for Bud Light Lime.

We’re hitting a stride, an ontological groove. To wit, we haven’t really cared about ontology since we last found pot. But our Facebook profiles are getting sleek, lean, and efficient – no overshares, decent privacy, and distinct tones, voices and types of links posted. We chit chat on Facebook, but we get real on Gmail chat – we know to keep that Gchat box exclusive. We know our sites, we’ve got our morning log-on routines, and we haven’t been caught off-guard by the news in five years. We haven’t had the great epiphanies we hoped would set us on our paths and get us up in the morning. But we’ve stayed up ’til 6 at a friend’s parents’ cottage, bonding over that. We were drunk on Miller Chill. We were drunk on Bud Light Lime.

We don’t own homes. We don’t see ourselves owning homes for another decade at least. We don’t even have a driver’s license. But we’ve accumulated enough bargain furniture to fill most of a bedroom and one third of a living room. Our DVD and record collections are now comprehensive enough to speak for our personalities, so our personalities don’t have to speak for themselves. We’ve thrown out the band posters that aren’t aesthetically justified in hanging on our walls, and when we find a ratty old soft-core porn poster at a garage sale, we only put it up for a week before quietly putting it in storage. When we sit drinking in our barely-tasteful, mostly empty apartments, we don’t want tasteful beer to throw them in stark relief. We want Miller Chill. We want Bud Light Lime.

We’re more stylish than we were five years ago, but we’re fatter too. If we can grow a beard, we’ve got one. If we can’t, we’ve deleted the pictures of our attempts. Yeah, we still troll for sex, but it’s getting to be a bit of a chore. We’re not scared of girls, but we’re dismissively misanthropic in the wake of undergrad. We’re horny, but we recognize the value of a good night’s sleep. We’ve taken “A Man Needs A Maid” at face value once or twice. But in spite of all our creeping curmudgeonliness, we know we’ll get fed up with trolling soon enough and want a girlfriend again before winter comes. And when we groan our way out of our roommate’s La-Z-Boy to look for her, we’ll steel ourselves with Miller Chill. We’ll steel ourselves with Bud Light Lime.

We’ve found our faults, we know where our weaknesses lie, we know what we’ll work on, and we know what we just won’t be bothered to change. We’re through bettering ourselves for betterment’s own sake and we’re taking virtue on an issue by issue basis. We know that life is short and grows shorter every day, and if someone wants to call us out for drinking a light lime beer, they can go right the fuck ahead. We know what single malt tastes like and we’ve seen the bottom of a Big 10%. We’ve followed bro drinking rules, we’ve comported ourselves to snob drinking traditions, and we’ve seen what those pettinesses do to people who follow them too long or too far. If we want a drink brewed a mile underground by straight-edge scientists who dispassionately engineered a beer that, on paper, is all you want in a beer if you could only bring yourself to drink it, then we’re gonna get it. If we’re not too broke, natch. We know ourselves well enough that, at long last, we can really, truly tell other people to fuck off. We’re not dads, and odds are good that we never will be, but life has brewed us full of dad flavour without the bitter parenthood aftertaste. So say your peace, you jackass, and let us watch Cops reruns in peace. We’re dead in fifty years anyways. Forty if we drink Miller Chill. Forty if we drink Bud Light Lime.

This could be you.

Hey fellas,

It’s hard out there to focus on a career and land a girlfriend, all while having to keep a roof over your head and food in your gut. We know. We’ve been there. That’s where Terminal Laughter’s Man Squad (a collection of our male and male-related bloggers) comes in.

Forget worrying about rent and food.

“But then how will I get a girlfriend? Girls love roofs and food.”

Well, there’s something else girls love more than roofs or food: consciences.

Environmentalism is all the rage these days with actual women, and the womanly men who are often their best friends and ones they turn to for advice on such pressing issues as, “Should I date this Terminal Laughter Man Squad blogger I just met?” You need to present yourself as an environmentalist. And how will you do this? Well, do nothing at all. In fact, quit your job. Do everything you do well: nothing. The less money you have, the more environmentally friendly you become. Lowering your eco footprint will ensure you’ll be putting a handprint all over her whatevers.

Scenarios

1. You have just taken a girl on a frugal date in a city park. After about an hour of playing the rousing game “Match owner to Dog” in the leashless zone, you invite her back home. Girl has entered your apartment and notices there are no lights on. She jokingly says, “Hey, it’s not Earth Hour.” You reply, “No, but this is planet Earth. And she is crying.” Soon the girl will cry at your sensitivity. Do not mention that the lack of lights is due to cheque bounceage. Play it off as a choice. Hang out in the dark, perhaps playing a two-person game of Marco Polo. If she asks for food, tell her you do not keep food in the house as cardboard and plastic packaging is terribly unethical. If feeling generous offer her a mint. (NOTE: Swipe mint from lobby of Greek restaurant earlier that day).

2. Things seem to be going well and so you invite Girl into your bedroom. Upon entry, it is clear that you lack a bed. When she points this out, say “Beds are made of wood. The clear-cutting of forests for bed production is something I cannot abide by.” It is a personal choice whether or not you would like to make a joke about the lack of wood in the room and presence of “wood” in your nether-regions. Depends on the Girl. If she has hoop earrings or a belt with a thickness greater than two thumb widths, go for it.

3.  After a long bout of back-breaking lovemaking on your parquet bedroom floor, the sun begins to rise and your apartment is finally illuminated. Girl sees that you, in addition to lacking a bed, also lack possessions of any kind. “I was going to suggest we watch a movie together, but I see that’s impossible because you don’t even own a TV.” Respond with a brusque shove and a declaration that this is by choice and that televisions are made of copper from notoriously noxious copper mines, and they use electricity, which everyone knows is a terrible drain to Mother Earth and a frequent cause of political clashes throughout the world. Drive your point home by lifting your shirt and revealing your tattoo, “No War For Electricity.” (NOTE: Use Magic Marker at the collating desk of your local Kinko’s to create “tattoo.”)

4. After a second bout of back-breaking love-making, Girl will probably hope to shower herself after all of the terrible things you’ve done with/to her. Happily tell her you would love to “do as cats do,” in lieu of an actual shower. Inform her that due to your green pledge, you do not subscribe to any hot water service. You would be keen to light a candle and wait a few days for a tea cup of water to warm. To do that, of course, would require a few days of ear wax collection to create a guilt-free candle though.

5. Things should be going horribly well at this point. Girl should be falling for you hard. Well, if you are a true Man Squad abider, then you will know that this is the LAST thing you want. You must institute a change in your tactics at this point. After being rejected for the shower, she may ask to use your toilet. Inform her that the porcelain in toilets is harvested from a mixture of dolphin kidneys and emu souls and thus, you do not have one. “Do it on my chest,” you say now.

6. After a wild, somewhat disgusting and defiling bout of back-breaking love-making, you will now both be craving a shower. At this point, seriously, just take a shower. I never thought you’d get this far. Forget about ploys to get girlfriends— if you’re into what you just did and you found a girl who’s also into the filthy act that just transpired between you two, hang on to her for dear life. She’s a keeper.

Peace from the Man Squad!

Mangasm™

Mangasm™

Mangasm™

Are you tired of the same old borgasm day in day out? 7 seconds in penis-heaven not quite cuttin’ it? What if I told you that in 5 minutes you could double, triple, quadruple the length and intensity of your orgasm? What if I said that with a few weeks practice, you could be coming for hours, even days?

Got you’re attention huh. Here’s another thing I’ve got: Mangasm™.

Huh? What’s he talking about? Where am I? What?

Mangasm™ is not a drug! It’s not a tube OR pump! What I’ve got here are a few simple techniques (and one ancient secret ) that anyone can master. It’s natural, fun and GUARANTEED to lift you to knew heights of manly pleasure.

Here’s the deal. I used to be an ordinary Joe Boner™ like yourself. Then one day I lost my job, had my car explode, and my girlfriend left me for a rock star! Things were looking pretty bleak. Then I discovered a way to have over 9 orgasms in sequence. Who’s laughing now?

Ha! Me that’s who!

Go on try it. You know what I’m talking about. Do it right now, I’ll wait. Show me watcha got. Come on now, don’t be shy, I’m not actually watching you….

…oh you’re finished? You had to stop everything you were doing just for that? Yawn! I can teach you how to Multi-Task-Gasm™. I can even show you how to do two orgasms at once!

Fuck, I’m gasming even as I write this. In fact I spend over 23% of my day in orgasm, and you can too! My ebook and accompanying Blu-Ray DVD have brought literally 1000s of men to Mangasm™.

Yeah that’s right, I said Blu-Ray DVD. When you enroll in Mangasm University™ you get the real deal. Learn the secrets about the male orgasm “big-condom” doesn’t want you to hear. Learn techniques you never even thought of, plus one ancient secret that will BLOW YOUR……………MIND

FACT: The average male orgasm lasts for 6.8 seconds. (Hey I’ve had farts longer than that! thbthbhthbththbbbththbth)

SUPPOSITION: The prostate…not the penis…is the most erogenous zone in the body.

HEARSAY: The longest orgasm ever recorded lasted 86 years, 3 months and 2 days. It was passed down over 3 generations from father to son to grandson and produced enough “substance” to germinate an entire Assyrian Horde™.

(Well if that’s the stuff they give away for free imagine what you get when you pay!)

I’ll tell you what you get. You get over 16 hours of devilishly novel content. You get “boot camp style” personalized instruction to help you overcome your fears, identify your Pleasure Portfolio™, and craft your very own YOURNAMEHERE-GASM EXPERIENCE™.

And best of all you get complete hands-on access to the forums where you can share your newfound knowledge and glory with fellow Mangasmonauts™.

Come join the Man-Revolution-Gasm™!

Push yourself to new limits of pleasure!

Experience the zen-like™ power of one!

——————————————–Testimonials——————————————–

“Dear Mangasm,

Hi, my name is Andy, I’m 22 years old, and when it comes to gasming I used to be hopeless, helpless and clueless. I would experience nothing but failure. All the right things you’re supposed to do, I naturally did the exact opposite. I was the ultimate loser/wussy and I’d only had 1 orgasm when I was 18 and it lasted for about 6 seconds. Since I came across Mangasm a couple months ago, my life has been gradually changing in the most amazing ways so powerfully and almost supernaturally that it feels like I’m Steve Erckle transforming into Brad Pitt. I feel like I’m finally beginning to understand my true potential and it’s both fun and a little scary.

If you wanna learn how to build beautiful orgasms with the power of your own mind then I heartily recommend enrolling in Mangasm University ”

J.D. Sacramento, CA

“Big meeting with the Lerhman account last Thursday, we’re talking make or break here. Not just the execs either, they sent their lawyers, accountants, fuck there was even a guy from HR. I didn’t play any funny stuff, no gimmicks, just straight up grade-A bullshit start to finish. When I knew I had them I pulled out the big fat contract, they pulled out a big fat check. Christ you should’ve seen the look on Jim’s face, he could have blown his load right there. Little did they know I was already blowing my load, and had been for the past 6 hours. Your techniques gave me the confidence I needed to keep my cool, stay focused and get the job done.

Hears to you MG.”

T.Q. Chicago, IL

“Congratulations Mangasm for all the success you’ve been having. You’ve earned it!”

G.R. Victoria, BC

Dear Emile,

How firm a handshake is too firm?

Sincerely,

(Name Withheld)

A handshake is much like a dance, for one must lead. If you are intending to be a dapper, manly modern man then you must always lead the hand tango. The proper handshake grip depends on who is the handshakee, who is the female hand. If you are with a child, be aggressive and shake as hard as possible. This will inspire the young one to develop his own strong shake for future use. The next generation of hard-hand-shakers will get things done, possibly solving global warming, curing all global pandemics and finally figuring out what tie knot is superior (our vote: Half-Oxford). If you are shaking the hand of an older gentleman, shake lightly, perhaps even letting him lead for the first few bars of the shake. Let him remember his youth, when he led all handshakes. Always end with a firm squeeze, however, reminding him that it is you and your generation of dapper, manly modern men that are in charge now. A good suggestion, but by no means necessary is a pat on the back post-shake. (Note: Do not pat higher than solar plexus or lower than hips. Do not pat if older gentleman has history of back problems.)

If you are in an instance when you are shaking the hand of a man in your age vicinity, then good luck to you. The dance ends and the duel begins. Feel free to use your fingers as a fencer would an Épée. If after a few minutes the shake has not ended and it is still unclear who has the harder shake, declare a battle of the thumbs and settle the matter like men.

If you are shaking the hand of a woman, don’t bother. Leave the room. You should have kissed her.

Regards,

Emile Post

Emile,

I have a charity soiree to attend this month, the tickets for which I purchased many months ago when I was in a committed relationship. The relationship has ended since then and she is not on good terms with me. Is it couth to go stag to this event, in order to spare the feelings of my ex? If she attends on the arm of another man, however, I would feel foolish to not have a woman on my arm. In a fraught situation like this, is it completely rude to phone my ex and ask her her plans so as neither of us make the other uncomfortable?

Thanks,

Thomas

Thomas,
Attending an event as prestigious as a charity soiree alone is a social misstep so great in scope that you risk spraining the ankle of your position in the community. Bring a woman, but be aware of the image your interaction presents.
The protocol for situations such as these is actually quite simple, though frequently misunderstood or disregarded entirely.
If she appears without a suitor, the appropriate action is to offer her the services of one of your unalloyed gentlemen friends as a companion.
But let us suppose she has entered the room with a strange man already in tow. If her new suitor walks at her left side, it is important to maintain a crucial distance from your recently ignited flame. Observe your former with attention, keeping a keen eye for tell-tale signs on how best to behaviorally proceed. Has the gallant cavalier taken her coat? If so, hand-holding with your new not-spouse is most certainly a red flag; your ex is sending a subtle message that she is not emotionally invested in her latest date. If he has taken her coat but hangs it on a coat-rack, this gives you a little more room for play. Feel free to briefly graze the hand of your untried lady, producing the effect of a planned accident. If, however, he has taken her coat and hung it on a coat rack, but the coat is red in colour, it is crucial that you maintain a distance of no less than six parasols from your own escort, the slightest hint of canoodling between you and your new would send your kept-no-longer into convulsive fits of agonized despair.

If the paramour appears at her right, find a polite reason to excuse yourself from the event at an appropriate moment. Possible socially accepted justifications can range from having to take a doctor’s call (if you are a doctor) to having to clean up a mess in the bathroom (if you are the janitor for the venue at which the soiree is taking place).
Call upon your gentleman friend to resume your date, and brief him so that he may continue from exactly the point you left it.
If the man appears at her right, but is wearing a polka-dotted hat, then the gloves come off. Remove your partner’s gloves. Clear the table of ornaments in one fell swoop, and publicly indulge in an intertwining of lust. It is important to keep in mind the spirit of the evening, so please, be charitable with your drive.

Emile,

What kind of girlfriend will make me look manliest?

Warm Regards,

Speltrum

Good aft,

I am hoping you have performed a typo in your question, for I do not deal with issues of “manliness” or “masculinity.” If you are wondering which girlfriend will make you look the most muscular, choose an anorexic waitress you meet on Craigslist. The bland, typical manly man spends his eves watching Home Improvement and his bathroom breaks reading “Don’t Stand Too Close to a Naked Man.” He pays for women. However, if you are more in tune with what I actually write about then I can help you. Your question should have been posed as, “Which kind of girlfriend will make me look the most gentlemanliest?”

And now, the answer: The Two Cs of Being a Gentleman.

1. Coordination – Plan your garb to match, not clash with your woman. We live in a practical world, one governed by laws and propelled by the almighty dollar. It is impossible to buy an entirely new wardrobe everytime you land a new girlfriend. Only the Mark Cubans of the world can afford new wardrobes. You can barely afford to smoke a Cuban cigar. The solution is to inspect your new girlfriend’s closet before she does indeed become your steady girlfriend. Make sure her wardrobe will match yours easily. Does she have a lot of charcoal? Browns? Reds? What colour eyes does she have? What colour eyes do you have? Think before you pin your letterman jacket on her, and insure that the jacket does not clash with her boots.

2. Caring – If you are not a naturally caring man, then try to date a woman with a clumsy side. If she frequently drops things, such as lipstick or mascara on the ground, this will give you plenty of opportunities to reach down and grab them for her, effectively saving your damsel in distress and making yourself more desirable to the opposite sex. Should your girlfriend’s clumsiness rise to an extreme level, causing her to clumsily walk off a bridge or into an electrified fence, you will have no trouble finding a new arm-accessory Women love to see men caring for their girlfriends. They will want you to be their gentleman.

Hope these help.

Thank you.

(FRANK&BEANZ)

Several months ago, I had the honour of being among a party with the express legal right – nay, the privilege – to unearth, exhume, and play rugby with the skull of Ernest Hemingway. It was a balmy night that threatened to give way into rain at all turns, but over the course of the evening, all that crossed the night sky was the partial corpse of a genius, as Skins took the match from Shirts, 3 tries to 2. I’m sure Papa would’ve liked to see those dainty cloth-wearers taken down a peg, and I like to think our victory repaid some of the injustice done (though his grievance should surely be with the Case Western Reserve University English Literature Society Lottery, and not with us participatory Papaites).

In any case, upon replacing the skull as best we could (given the dark lighting and our slight fatigue – again, complaints to the Lottery, please), we made a glorious discovery: there, in Papa’s cavernous ribcage, was a small notebook. Perhaps it came to rest there as stipulated by a bizarre will? Perhaps in a fit of bullfighting-induced hunger? Perhaps he had a dream about eating a large, daunting cookie, and woke up, sans book? His final subtext, no doubt. We picked up the leatherbound book (bound in his own skin, perhaps? True grit!), and by distant flashes of lightning, recited it to each other and the night in our most earthen, bassy tones. Here now, are some of these, the forgotten, shorter stories of Hemingway.

Dog

“Did you put out the dog?”

“No. Did you?”

“It’s your dog. Why should I put it out?”

“Because.”

Cold

“It’s cold.”

“Sure is.”

“Think we should get off this rugged mountain?”

“I think this rugged mountain should get off us.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“I don’t care.”

Keys

“Where’s the keys?”

“I don’t know. Did you put them somewhere?”

“Of course I put them somewhere. Where else would I put them?”

“Somewhere else?”

“…”

Scampy

“I’ll have the shrimp scampy.”

“You had that yesterday.”

“I know. I like it.”

“You came here yesterday too.”

“I know. I like this place.”

“You would.”

Sex

“Let’s have sex.”

“Let’s not.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“That’s cool.”

Hunger

“I’m hungry.”

“I know.”

Love

“I love you.”

“…”

Shut Up

“Shut up.”

Oh man, isn’t it great how we all hang out like this? We’re the best. A real gang. Like Seinfeld. No. No. Wait. More like an Old West gang. Yeah. Like Young Guns or some shit like that.

Only instead of guns, it’s bongs. Young Bongs. That’s us.

Man. Those guys all have nicknames, don’t they? Billy the Kid. Um, Cannonball Jim. Probably. Who knows.

Nicknames though. Nicknames. That’s the mark of a real group. A group people are intimidated by, want to be a part of but no, sorry, you don’t pass our test. How long can you Indian-toke for? Not enough bro, back o’ the line. No nick for you.

But we, we all need nicks, eh? Agree? Lou? Craig? C’mon back Geoff. Geoff. Geoff.

Seriously. We should make names up for each other.

Or I could suggest some.

No. No.

Stay. Seriously. Stay. This isn’t lame. I swear. Nicknames. Everybody worth anything has a nickname. Clinton’s got Bubba, right?

Bubba. Craig, you be Bubba. It suits you.

Now Lou’s gonna be Doc, just because that’s the type of dude Lou is.

Geoff. Lampshade. That’ll be good.

Sam’s gonna be…Sam should be…Carpet…cause of…

No, really, there’s a reason.

He’s always rolling around on carpets, right? Man. That’s Sam for you. Can’t hold his weed. Total Carpet move! Oh man, that’s gonna be said so much from now on. Hold your applause.

No, dude, we do smoke that much. It’s totally like our thing. Other groups rob banks, this is what we do. Got it? Carpet? Bubba? Doc? Lampshade?

Ok. So we’re a group—–Oh shit. You know what? I totally forgot my own nickname. I’ve gotta have one too, right? The Young Bongs featuring Bubba, Doc, Lampshade, Carpet and…And….

Bong.

Call me Bong. Yeah. I guess. Hmmm. Sounds ok I guess to me. Why not, right?

Geoff, that’s not a reason. I mean, Lampshade, shut up. That’s not a reason. It’s whatever. Whatever. I just said it. It’s not written in stone or anything. I just think somebody, one member of the Young Bongs should actually be named Bong. You guys already have some pretty sweet nicknames. I mean, it’s not like mine’s as original as any of yours. I would gladly trade with any of—-

No man. Dude. You own Bubba. I don’t even think “Craig” when I think of you anymore man. It’s Bubba fully and completely.

Carrrrrpet. I can’t imagine you without that name.

Listen, I’m doing all of you a huge favour. Bong will be my name from now on.

I won’t answer to that. You know what to call me.

But I didn’t “make up my own nickname”. I just took the last one available. It’s like I got to the video store and How High, Half Baked and Big Lebowski were all rented out so I took some slightly boring but still pretty solid movie like Microcosmos out, ok?

Don’t call me Microcosmos.

Don’t. Seriously. You know my name. Bong doesn’t want to be called that.

Good. Thanks.

Microballs? What does that even mean?

Whatever dudes. I’m gonna go drop a deuce. Peace.

No way Carpet, I’ve always said that.

What’s that? You think that just because you taste like shit I’m not going to drink you? Ha! You can’t stop me; shittier beers than you have tried, my thrice-fermented friend. I’m talking the sort of cardboard boxed, erection-stifling ass-piss that’s only brewed in Eastern European satellite states that don’t even exist anymore. Yeah. You heard me. It was me who bought all that Zlänk when the bloc collapsed, you lukewarm excuse for a yeast infection. You’re gettin’ drank and I’m gettin’ drunk.

I tell you what, shitty beer, you’re gonna regret ever being brewed in that Turkish guy’s hot tub. Yeah, that’s right. I know your kind. Summer 1987, East-end Pittsburgh, am I not mistaken? Yeah, you don’t need no label for me to read you like a book.

Maybe you’ll see some old friends down there, shitty beer… back in Sigma Tau, they called me the Yeast Beast, mainly ’cause I drank any beer they threw at me. Brampton Beer-’n-Glass? Did kegstands! Mule Fist Brew? More, please! Wacky Wizard’s Mystery Mead? Fuck, I think so… point is, you’re fucked.

What, you think I’m scared ’cause the cops just drove by? News flash, Einstein – this van hasn’t run in eight years. Scream, and I’ll drink you.

I don’t care if you were translucent when I first cracked you open this morning; I figure you got at least three more hours of being liquid left in you. And even if you do begin to coagulate, once I strain your sorry ass through this here Steelers jersey, it’s clear sailing right to Gut Town USA, you son of a bitch.

KISS MY ASS, SHITTY BEER!

Get in there. Get in my stomache. Do it, beer.

…

Ooh, fuck. We’ll call it a draw.