Bilge, Dreck, Tripe, and Schlock
for Schlemiels, Schlimazels,
Schmucks, and Schmegegges
I’ve known a naughty nun from Nantucket who never tired of bragging about how she could deepthroat a twelve-inch Polish sausage.
I’ve called AT&T to tell them I’d be a little late in paying my phone bill only to find that their number had been disconnected.
I’ve often wondered whether a thousand chimps plinking away on a thousand typewriters could eventually come up with a play as good as Shakespeare’s Hamlet — until Lynyrd Skynyrd somehow managed to write the song “Freebird.”
I’ve known people whose idea of a “mobile home” was a shopping cart.
I’ve spoken with a theoretical physicist who is convinced that so-called inanimate objects aren’t really inanimate at all — they’re just “really lazy.”
I’ve known a sociobiologist who wants to test the nature/nurture issue by taking one group of people who only have genes and another group of people who only have an environment and seeing how they differ.
I’ve known a zoologist who insists that Homo erectus went extinct because it “spent a little too much time in the bathhouse, if you know what I mean.”
I’ve mistaken a demon suppository for a semen depository on more than one occasion.
I’ve been seen by my neighbors, naked and dancing the Funky Chicken in my bedroom, because, though my shades were drawn, they were drawn very poorly, by a second-rate artist.
I’ve climbed a mountain in Tibet to ask a wise man, “What is love?” only to have him answer, “Love is a stinky piece of poop.”
I’ve been told by my doctor that I only have nine months to live — but nine years to die.
I’ve dated a girl for so long that our menstrual cycles became synchronized.
I’ve seen a bumper sticker that read, “Please don’t ram my tailpipe — I may have a prison flashback.”
I’ve found out, the hard way, that exercise can indeed be addictive — especially when mixed with crack cocaine.
I’ve mistaken a cactus for a rectal thermometer on more than one occasion.
I’ve attended a press conference in which the pope accidentally opened with the following Freudian slip: “Good evening, labias and genital men. . . .”
I’ve gone to a fashion show in which the three rows of people closest to the catwalk were sex-starved construction workers, sex-starved dirty old men, and a bunch of drunken (and presumably sex-starved) teenage boys who had just hit puberty.
I’ve flung a cigarette butt out the window of my car while driving on the freeway only to have it land down a transsexual motorcyclist’s low-cut blouse, and while he/she/it was struggling to get it out, he/she/it crashed into a nun who was deepthroating a twelve-inch kielbasa.
I’ve drunk a certain dark Irish beer (whose name will go unmentioned, for legal reasons [hint: It has something in common with The Guinness Book of World Records]) that tasted suspiciously like a postmenopausal woman’s urine.
I’ve seen financial consultants filing for bankruptcy, having squandered every penny of their clients’ hard-earned money on Heineken and hookers.
I’ve gone to the Cassandra Mental Health Institute for Nuts, Loonies, Wackos & Crazies to finally meet my father (whom I hadn’t seen since he walked out on my mother, my brother, and me when I was only one and a half years old), and when I opened the door to his room, I saw him eating his own feces with a fork — and I realized he must be insane . . . a sensible person eats shit with a spoon.
I’ve mistaken sulfuric acid for eyewash on more than one occasion.
I’ve gone to the dentist for my yearly checkup only to find I had a cavity that he insisted needed drilling — but I thought it seemed kind of odd that he gave me enough anesthetic to render me unconscious, since only local anesthetic was required — and it was only after I awoke with a sore and sticky sphincter that I realized what cavity he wanted so badly to drill.
I’ve known a girl whose Christian name was Pagan.
I’ve dated a girl who thought spermicidal jelly was a sandwich spread.
I’ve been told by my cousin Kathy that I needed to work a bit on my parallel parking — only to find out later that by parallel parking she meant sex.
I’ve dated a girl who claimed she was a dog in a past life, which was her excuse for why she was always walking around on all fours sniffing everybody’s ass.
I’ve had my scrotum sac mistaken for a punching bag — while walking around naked in a feminist bookstore — on more than one occasion.
I’ve known a madam of a brothel in Las Vegas who put a sign over the exit of her whorehouse that read, “Thank you for coming,” and another sign in the employee break room that read, “Thank you for pretending to come.”
I’ve dated a girl for three months (and therefore had sex with her at least 23,672 times), but no matter what we did, she couldn’t conceive a child, so we went to a gynecologist to see what was wrong and found that, a few years ago, she must have tried tying her shoelaces while wigged out on LSD but somehow wound up tying her Fallopian tubes instead.
I’ve driven by a Buddhist temple that (ironically) had a huge neon sign in its front yard, so all passersby could see their slogan:
If you wanna be a Buddhist
Then you wanna join the flock
Of this short, fat monk
With a long, skinny cock.
I’ve known an unfortunate fellow who — as if it weren’t bad enough that he suffered from chronic diarrhea — was born with a rare genetic mutation that caused taste buds to form in his rectal cavity.
I’ve taken a creative writing course in college in which we students were given tests that asked questions like: “Which sentence is more clear and vivid? (A) You can enjoy yourself while fellating me, or (B) You can suck my dick and fucking like it.”
I’ve seen a sign on a Dumpster in a trailer park that read, “White Trash Only.”
I’ve mistaken a zucchini for a suppository on more than one occasion.
I’ve annoyed an annoying woman at the local Kum & Go by saying her period couldn’t be nearly as bad as she claimed it was, to which she irritably replied, “What the hell does a man know about a woman’s period?” to which I cheerfully replied, “Well, for one thing, I know it doesn’t taste nearly as yummy as it looks.”
I’ve gotten so drippy-drunk on a rainy afternoon that I stumbled into a Catholic church, ambled over to the confessional booth, and mumbled, “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” to which he boisterously replied, “Hell, you think you’ve sinned? I just got done molesting a little boy!”
I’ve dated a girl who refused to have sex with me till we were married, because “in a past life” she was a “dirty asswhore,” and if she were to “sin” like that in this life, in her next life she’d be reincarnated as a “yeast infection.”
I’ve seen a dainty Muslim girl, imported from Abu Dhabi, sit down at the table next to me, in a five-star restaurant, and order a big bucket of bloody pork.
I’ve dated a girl who was such a devout Baptist that she couldn’t bear the thought of our dancing at my senior prom, so instead of going to the prom, we broke into the Methodist church and fucked in the nursery.
I’ve seen the pope saunter into a gay bar and stumble out three hours later, naked, slathered in semen, and flossing his teeth with another man’s pubic hair.
I’ve mistaken the pope’s mouth for a urinal on more than one occasion.
I’ve heard a middle-class white guy named Ed mis-translate the sentence “Arizona’s hotter than a motherfucker” as “Arizona’s hotter than a guy havin’ sex with his mother.”
I’ve heard a preternaturally precocious parrot from Pasadena (who could somehow enunciate the letter p, despite the fact that he had no lips) at Pinky’s Purdy Pets, in Pollyanna, Iowa, say, “Precariously poised on the precipice of impropriety, the pedophilic priest peed on Pete’s peter,” and then he gave a soliloquy that he had fashioned by reformulating, into iambic pentameter, a bunch of things that you — yes you — said, the last time you were in there:
My penis caught a bullet train to Maine,
My sphincter caught a speedy plane to Spain,
My testes drove to Canada, and now
My perineum’s lonely, once again.
How can I pee and poo and shoot my goo
Without my cock and balls and asshole too?
Though I would like to sing a happy song,
How can I jam a mammy with no schlong?
A mammyjammer once told me that he
Would jam my mammy anytime for free —
Would jam my mammy in her fanny now . . .
If she weren’t such a big, fat, hairy cow.
I’ve been struck by lightning while having sex with a nun in a puddle of water out in the middle of a hilly golf course during a thunderstorm, while the crowd of people who had gathered around to witness the deflowering of Sister Jezebel cheered excitedly, as they threw triple-rippled butt plugs made of cheap plastic at me to distract me, so they could steal my gold-plated anal beads and sell them on the black market for a fortune — but I foiled their diabolical scheme by scampering into the woods, changing into my Jehovah’s Witness costume, and trying to coax them into buying a lifetime subscription to Awake magazine, while surreptitiously injecting and infecting them with a lethal dose of Ecstasy, which at first only made them horny, so we all tore our clothes off and had a big Dionysian orgy that lasted till dawn, when everyone but me died a slow, painful — but positively ecstatic — death.
You can read more about the things and people I’ve seen, heard, smelled, touched, and tasted in my forthcoming tell-all book: A Portrait of the Artist as a Lowdown, Dirty, Rotten, Scurvy Shyster Bastard: The Unauthorized Autobiography of Len Kennedy, Esq. — by Anonymous.
