January 21, 2015
December 22, 2014
December 17, 2014
December 15, 2014
David always had an irrational fear of sharks, until one day, Brie explained that he'd have a much better chance of being killed by a falling coconut than by a man-eating shark.
After that, David always had an irrational fear of sharks and coconuts.
December 13, 2014
December 12, 2014
December 10, 2014
December 9, 2014
60 seconds, motherfuckers. Just hang on for 60-fucking ticks. Christ, this is dick-sandwich time.
Stop it. No bad thoughts. No bad juju, not now. Now is when the Fish need you most. It's now time. Hold the line.
"Hold it. Right here, baby! We hold them here and it's ball game! Sweet Jesus who art in heaven, please let them hold it right here, baby!"
"Does baby Jesus root for the Dolphins too, Daddy?" Asks Charlene, the yelling guy's precocious 6-year-old daughter.
"Ask your mother, Char, Daddy's focusing...”
The Dolphins don't hold.
First down Bills. Down to the Dolphins 34. But the Fins are still up by 4.
"Right now, fuckers. Just keep 'em out the endzone, Fish! Right now!"
"That's a quarter, daddy. Actually, two."
"Charlene! Not now! And there's no charges during Dolphins games, right?" Now is when they always fucking take that big fucking bite of hot dick sandwich.
Bills reverse to Sammy Watkins for 4 yards.
Since I can remember, I've been affected by John Lennon. I recall vaguely the day he died, 34 years ago today, and being very scared, because my parents were very sad. It was the first time I can recall seeing sadness like that.
But mostly, my memories of John recall being infatuated with his life of art. Every little thing that oozed out of him was art. And John made me want to be art too.
These photos of doodles, which I retouched today, are taken from random notebooks I've kept through the years. I imagine each doodle came to be, because upon hearing John sing, I stopped doing whatever it was I was supposed to be doing, and became compelled to create instead.
He continues to have that effect. So for me, John's as alive as ever.
December 7, 2014
December 4, 2014
Toby liked to start his day with a game of solitaire. It got the mind moving while his bowels did the same. And what else was there to do once he'd finished scanning five self-allotted minutes of Facebook?
Unfortunately, Toby also allotted himself exactly one solitaire win. How else could he move on with the day if the game didn't finish to its proper completion?
Unfortunately, this day, Toby never won that game.
So he never left the toilet.
December 2, 2014
November 26, 2014
A few years back, my father's associate, Barney Rickshaw, persuaded him to go down to the boondocks of Argentina to go hunt doves. That's right, doves: the birds of peace.
At first it was hard for me to swallow. My dad—whose knowledge of shotguns was reserved for golf tournaments—was no killer. I laughed at the prospect of him doing anything so rugged. So manly. I figured it was probably just a good business move, as Rickshaw was one of Dad's best America-fleecing clients.
Surprisingly, my dad came back from the trip a bon-a-fide killer. Apparently, Argentina for dove season is unlike hunting anywhere else in the world. As the birds fly to and from their roost, they fill up the sky, turning day into night. There are no regulations as to how many birds you can shoot or how many shells you can load. So for those two hours, it's a hunter's paradise—a veritable dove genocide.