New Year’s Resolutions I Intend To Keep

Besides modesty, the characteristic I love most about myself is the unbiased honesty about myself I have with myself. That’s why I stopped making New Year’s Resolutions — my pledges were either ridiculously lofty (lose twenty pounds, grow three inches, stop swearing) or were made solely to impress a woman (lose twenty pounds, grow three inches, stop swearing). No matter the motivation, the goals were doomed to failure.

I even tried rebel-resolutions (gain twenty pounds, stoop like I had osteoporosis, swear more) — also to impress women — after I read the magazine article Why Good Girls Are Attracted To Bad Boys, But Not Vice-Versa (Except In Utah). Not only did this strategy fail on all counts, but it caused my good cholesterol to go bad and my back to throb with the pain of a hypochondriac bucktoothed sword swallower. However, as far as I can determine, the increased swearing has had no ill effects except during Meet The Teacher Nights and job interviews.

For several years now, I have abstained from New Year’s Resolution making, but there has been a discernable void in my life, much like when a recovering gambling addict first hears someone innocently say, “I bet you can’t eat just one.” Therefore, I am back in the game. Only this time, I am positioning myself to successfully fulfill each and every promise.

To wit:

  1. So as not to upset religious people and telemarketers, instead of saying goddamnit, which when said quickly apparently is interpreted as an insult to God, I will utter the phrase slowly so that it will be heard as God: damn it, and understood to mean what I intended: “Excuse me, God, I know you are probably either working in mysterious ways or resting. But I was wondering if you could do me a solid and punish this son-of-a-bitch like he’s never been punished before. Let him rue the day that he chastised Bob Iozzia for swearing in front of nuns, Saint Bernard puppies and former President Jimmy Carter. Thank you for your kind consideration.”
  1. I know that combining peanut butter and jelly in one jar has been a marketing failure, but the concept can be successfully applied to a more popular culinary combination: ham and cheese. I resolve to convince Hillshire Farms and Kraft Foods to pool their resources in order to develop a humane and delicious way to inject pigs with a cheese such as Swiss, Colby or Jalapeño Jack. The goal would be to have every slice comprised of equal halves of succulent ham and tangy cheese. When the process has had a decent track record (statistically-insignificant deaths and immorally lofty Third World sales), we can get fancy and add mayonnaise, mustard or horseradish. For those of you who are troubled by species crossbreeding, horseradish is not an animal.

I have finally learned to set attainable goals and am pleased with my first list; I’ll keep it to just the two items for this first year. We’ll see how it goes, but I’ll probably have a three-item list next year.

I am also happy to report that I no longer have shallow, self-centered goals — I realize that it isn’t important that I haven’t lost weight or even that I continue to swear. I am married and don’t care how I look and I’ve reached an age where my cursing is considered an element that contributes to others seeing me as “a character.”

Wow, I can’t believe it — I’m hungry again, goddamnit.


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There once was a man from Nantucket … who moved to Arizona because he developed a seafood allergy and could no longer stand the way everyone sounded like either the Gorton’s fisherman or upper-crusters from 1930s-era films.

Early in his attempt to assimilate in Arizona, he alienated many locals who hated how he smelled like fish and spoke like an upper-cruster from 1930s-era films. Now that was an ironic kettle/black boomerang if ever there was one!

Not wishing to risk a mental breakdown by dealing with the problem by himself, he swallowed his pride and for once consulted his imaginary wife, whose name changed from fantasy to fantasy. Sometimes, she was the bespectacled pharmacist Sheila with neck tattoos and spikey black hair with purple tips. Sometimes she was the perpetually-randy Janeece, a gynecologist’s assistant who occasionally liked to bring her work home.

This day, she was former nun and current community college adjunct professor of English For Illegals Mary Elizabeth Margaret Catherine, a bit dazed and confused for having just been in a minor traffic accident. He explained his concerns to her but became agitated when she couldn’t focus due to the trauma of her fender-bender (and being imaginary, to boot).

All of this rambling is my clumsy way of wishing you all a HAPPY THANKSGIVING.

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I must have been crazy to ask a friend to read and render an opinion about a humor piece I was working on for “Popular Proctology Magazine.” At that point in my life, I was mentally tired and unable to catch sufficient sleep and typos. Unbeknownst to me at the time, my friend — a brilliant physician, medical writer and the guy entrusted with my typos — never proofread his own email correspondence.

The following is an example of one of our email volleys:

Him: You need more comas.
Me: Huh?
Him: I can add them if you lick.
Me: What?
Him: Or if you don’t lick, you can do it yourself.
Me: Even if I was so inclined, I don’t think I could.
Him: Why, are you scarred?
Me: I’m pretty certain I would be if I did what you suggested.
Him: It’s not so bad; I do it all the time.
Me: Your wife is okay with this?
Him: Of course. It saves her the trouble.
Me: ?
Him: ??
Me: I have to go.
Him: Okay, don’t be a strangler.
Me: ????????????????????????????????


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Bunny Sleeps With The Fishes

1st in the series GOODNIGHT, BUNNY — A Child’s Introduction To The Mafia


Also In The Series:

Bunny In The Witness Protection Program

Bunny & The Loan Shark

Bunny & The Capo’s Mistress

Bunny Sells Bad Crank To The Wrong People






Once upon a time (twice if you are a Buddhist), a secret society was founded in Palermo or somewhere near Palermo, which is far away from where you live.

This secret society was formed by men of honor to promote free enterprise and to eventually control overpopulation in urban areas of America, which is where you live.

Fast forward many years and many miles to present day Bunnyville, where the livin’ is easy (for most people) and the cotton (among other crops) is high.

A college dropout named Bunny was bored.  All of his friends and acquaintances went to business during the day, leaving poor Bunny all alone during the day because he was unemployed because he was unemployable.  You see, society looks down its collective snotty nose at college dropouts unless they happen to be vapid young women with big breasts and booties.

Because Bunny was a boy, his flaws were not viewed as assets.  Poor Bunny couldn’t catch a break, he frequently thought.  Bunny often felt sorry for himself, but was too lazy and pathetic to improve his lot.

One lonely day when all of Bunny’s friends and acquaintances were at business, Bunny went to the local pool hall to kill some time.  After his eyes stopped tearing from all the tobacco and ganja smoke in the air, they focused on Pool Table # 6, occupied by  schizophrenic wiseguy Vincent “Crazy Shirley” Mortadella and his zaftig friend-with-benefits Sally “Alps” Gabbagool.

Mr. Crazy Shirley caught Bunny staring longingly at his friend, who was racking the billiard balls for the next game.  “What the fuck are you lookin’ at?” he politely asked Bunny.

Without the benefit of a good vocabulary — him being a dropout and all — that would have allowed him to choose his words carefully, Bunny blurted, “I was just admiring your friend’s rack.”

And quicker than you can say “Forgeddabouit,” Mr. Crazy Shirley escorted Bunny from the pool hall.  “You like fish?” he asked startled Bunny.

“I guess so,” Bunny said while being dragged out of town.

No one ever saw Bunny after that.  Most people in Bunnyville assumed Mr. Crazy Shirley drove him halfway across the country so that he could reenroll in college in order to improve his vocabulary.

Some people in Bunnyville had a different opinion, but they were men of honor who held sacred the code of omerta, and consequently, lived to not tell about it.

                                                                                     THE END (For Some)

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An Impatient Man’s History Of The Universe

(From The Beginning To The End Three Years From Now)

Theoretically, the Bang was big and from it was born an indisputable certainty — one that succinctly explains in everyday language why things virtually and actually go kablooey: Shit Happens.

Billions of years went by (allegedly) and worlds, including ours (Earth) were formed from the theoretical Bang’s debris — basically, garbage … which explains quite a lot about our current situation and where we are going. For example, it used to be that water was free and pornography wasn’t. Now, of course, it is all topsy-turvy and willy-nilly. For those who consume more porn than water, this is just fine (an off-topic word to the wise: water sports in porn very seldom involve boats).

Of course more events have transpired post-Bang than bottled water and unbridled internet titillation, but these two perfectly illustrate how out of whack our world has become (Don’t get me started on rude/entitled behavior in public places, distant and distanced customer service reps and reality TV [Please just say ‘yes’ to the goddamn dress already and then shut the hell up. Thank you.].).

The evolutionary path of peoplekind is headed toward full-blown cyberborgism — essentially, the end of life as we know it. It has already begun, with “smart” phones seemingly becoming permanent appendages at the ends of our increasingly atrophying arms. Eventually, all intelligence will be artificial, which will beg the rhetorical question, “Billions of years of evolution and you call this civilization?”

WTF … shit happens.

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