Equatorium

FIRST TOILET SCIENTIST: "Okay, here's a riddle: if you flush a toilet down another toilet exactly on the equator, what direction does the whirlpool turn?"

SECOND TOILET SCIENTIST: "Which one?"

An Armchair Furniture Repairman

I'm doing work as a "standup straight-man". And, boy, did I bomb with my audience the other night. I guess they thought I just wasn't very serious.

Dulles Bedulled

"If you stitch up your mouth, there's no telling what you can accomplish."

Pointed Opening

Hey, you know, most people don't know this, but I've got my own Internet, too. It's between my living room and my bathroom. I just keep dragging back and forth between the two, all day long. I once tried to set up another Internet between my house and the nearby liquor store, but the automobile system kept crashing.

Entropian Worldwide

Like most folks, the first thing I do every morning is to "go to the bathroom", but, oddly enough, on each occasion I find myself, instead, just going to the bathroom. It's pretty frustrating: I get myself all set up and start to "go", and at once find myself merely going again. And to make matters worse, the glitch goes on infinitely. Now, as logic would have it, the resulting infinite set of nested bathrooms intersects in a zero-dimensional point. But it's just my luck that, as current-day plumbing design would have it, the damned thing is pretty much a sure bet to be plugged up.

Nano-Medieval Cryonic Meme Singularity

"Hi, everyone, I'm Noddy Holder, well-known rock figure and professional lab assistant. I've just been informed I've moved up to 2nd in line after Mr. Rodgers himself to hook up with Queen and all that and I must say that I'm just awfully stoked."

1st Turd: "He’s such a failure he had to move in with his fossil record."
2nd Turd: "Hey, d'ya think I could extend and enhance my lifespan now with spirulina and other reasonably-priced high-energy supplements?"
CURTAIN

1st Rodgers: "I've got this er, 'fractal' house."
2nd Rodgers: "I'm certainly impressed."
1st Rodgers: "And, anyway, um, I've just sent in my application for 457th turd-in-waiting for um, Queen."
2nd Rodgers: "Well, then, you certainly seem to have done well for yourself. With the fractal house and all."

(457th stand-in excretes into lab coat pocket; similar object envelops fractal house, reading 'INCREASE YOUR FOSSIL RECORD WITH SPIRULINA TODAY')

(teleports compost)
Hm.
Now, that didn't really accomplish much.

A Man Hitchhiking On A Comet, Waving...

A man, hitchhiking on a comet, waving...

...wearing suspenders and talking in a "kooky" foreign accent.

Horrible!

A police car drives through a giant donut. It's romantic comedy.

Two hillbillies are talking and spitting tobacco juice over opposite sides of an infinite-dimensional county line. "Well now, our population over in this-a-here dimension is just one, and we're pretty durn proud of it." The other hillbilly stops and thinks for a minute and says, "Well, our population over in this-a-here dimension is fully two, and we're even more proud of it." Suddenly a man waves from a comet overhead. "Man, that ain't nothing," he remarks and spits. "Hell, boys, up in this-a-here dimension we even got ourselves a squad car."

Extra bonus punchline: Suddenly a bedraggled-looking, barely existent hillbilly limps out from his dimensional porthole to the county line and says, "Well, I tell you, it's still 'population zero' out in my neck of the woods," then dispatches a dotted-line jug of moonshine in a single gulp.

"Say over there, how's things over on your comet?" asks the first hitchhiker. "Well, things are pretty fair over here, I guess," answers the second hitchhiker. "I been doing me a lot of Alpine yodeling and that suits me just fine." "Well now, the same thing done been a-happening to me, too," says the first hitchhiker. "Of course, this sure cuts back on my ability to pull people over and write tickets."

A man is hurtling through space at a high velocity. He says to himself: "Well now, I may very well be oddly proportioned, socially dysfunctional, and generally lacking in muscle tonus, but I am now traveling at near-light speed, and I know that this will impress any woman alive." At once a schoolbus comet appears in front of him with flashing red lights: "STOP... STOP... STOP.." "Aw, hell," he says, pulling his handbrake ruefully. "Just when I think I've got things worked out perfect, there's always some damn thing to come along and mess me up."

***Comet Joke "Building Blocks", In No Particular Order***
"Hey, you know whut?" "You know, I done got me a traffic ticket t' other day offen a comet squad car." "Well, no kidding. I just now had the same thing happen. What'd you do?"
"Whut's that?"
"Say, I'll be damned. Me, I was drunk and barely missed hitting the Earth and bounced straight agin' a telephone pole."
"Yodeling? Gee, and I thought I was athletic."
The guy on the other comet looks across to him and says, "Hey, you gonna eat that?"
"Infinite variables? Hell, I can barely make enough to keep myself in liquor, automobiles, and telephone poles."

Well, upon hearing the resulting joke, the audience starts to laugh so hard that they begin to lose their very sense, and set themselves to running throughout the concert hall searching for Osama bin Laden. All of a sudden: "He's over here! We sure got 'im now!" somebody cries. One guy is holding him up by the scruff of his neck while the audience gathers around. "Now, lissen, you old bin Laden," says the audience's leader sternly. "We're a-liking thisahere joke so much that we're a-gonna let you go. But you better consider yourself real lucky that it was so doggone funny." They release him and he runs out of the concert hall, hops on a nearby comet, and flies off.

I have errands three days a week. On the first day, I go out to buy liquor. On the second day, I head out on foot to buy a new automobile to replace the one I crashed into a telephone pole while going out to buy liquor on the first day. On the third, I get out of jail after posting bail for walking down the center of the highway on my way to buy an automobile. On the fourth, I retrieve my wrecked automobile from the tow yard and drive it home, carelessly smashing it into my new one. By the fifth day, I have run dangerously low on liquor and must make plans to replenish before things have strayed significantly from their proper three-day course.

(climbs onto comet, waves jovially, flies off)

Just the other day, whilst fastidiously maintaining a deep and protracted stupor, I was visited on a my favorite curb by a powerful spiritual entity. "You have impressed me well, Lester Vergiss, with your selfless dedication to a life of absolute purity, and I will now grant you one wish." "Immortality," I replied, "so that I might then achieve eternal sleep."

(steers comet into telephone pole, climbs out, staggers down street to another comet, flies off again)

Psychiatric Mishaps

You know, I used to have this great little thread called "I liked my fucking nose so much, I went ahead and breathed it", but AG came along and took it away from me. Please forgive me, I suppose I'm getting a little sentimental here. (honks in hanky)

But it's really ok. These days, I use a little trick Rodney King taught me. I just get high using linear perspective, shrinking myself down to an infinitesimal point, and then foreshortening myself a little bit more, besides.

Well, then, what the heck. I actually do a giant mess of PCP and crack. And then I do the perspective.

Speaking of breathing, you know, I once knew this guy who was a reverse breatharian. He got it down to not doing anything *except* eating. Of course, the first thing to fall by the wayside was breathing. But I guess I didn't even need to mention that.

I used to be a reverse New Ager. Like, I used to go a reverse Ayurvedic. That's a doctor who is so great that he can order an array of sophisticated diagnostic tests and tell you precisely what your urine tastes like.

Sylvia Browne told me that she saw my afterbirth in the afterlife. She said that he wanted me to know he is doing just fine, and his little body doesn't hurt him anymore. He just can't wait until I can come join him in Heaven, and we can be reunited!

That reminds me of a quite annoying and disturbing occasion when I traveled back in time in order to find out where I had misplaced my wallet. Unfortunately, during this course of events, I somehow managed to misplace my time machine. Of course, since I would now be pretty much stuck where I was, I attempted to convince the "past me" to loan me his time machine so I could go back and see what I had done with my own machine, but I could tell he really didn't want to. His preference was for him to go back and observe my previous actions, then travel forward to where I was and tell me where it had been lost. But I suppose that the "past me" hadn't yet learned to be careful about misplacing his own time machine-- and as it has turned out, this process may have gone on forever, since I have found myself waiting very listlessly, very disconsolately, with an infinitely large crowd of "past me's", all of whom are missing their wallets and time machines.

I really like the American porn system because, by adding the middleman to sexual intercourse, we de-simplified and de-streamlined the whole screwing process. This, of course, allowed considerably greater red tape, regulatory bodies, and overhead to be passed on to the grateful consumer.

You know, people come up and ask me everyday, "Lester, just how is it that you can be such a consistently stupid asshole?" To this I can only gratefully respond, "You see, friends, I've been able to see a lot less than everyone else because I stand on the shoulders of midgets."

You know, lately some fellers down at the old Fermilab have been trying to produce an absolute vacuum, but their results thus far have been pretty darned frustrating. "Damn! we're all screwed up here!" said one of the head scientists. Well, being a person of great spiritual power and all that, my friend mini-deth flew right out to the site and told them, "Hey man, you just got to look at your absolute vacuum as 'half-full' rather than 'half-empty'."

Just like the patient who was having sex with his psychotherapist. "Doctor, I'm pretty much psychotic, so how will I distinguish our actually having intercourse from my having a hallucination about our having intercourse?" "Easy," the therapist answered. "I'll just double up on the premature ejaculations in your hallucinations."

I have immature ejaculations. I... you know... play dumb pranks and write on the walls during orgasm.

I'm going to put on my pants in protest of everything.

Naturally, the pants-wearing event won't go on too long. After that, then, it's back to normal.

Well, folks, if I can just get out of all my doggoned lazy, procrastinating habits, my new forty thousand-page historical atlas is pretty much going to write itself.

Say, you know, high- tech special effects are just getting better and cheaper by the minute. These days, it's increasingly cost-effective for even mundane items to be done by special effects crews: nickels, table spills, vermin, most rashes. Now, I got LucasFilms handling all my premature ejaculations. Of course, they still give me creative input on the storygoarding, blocking-out, all that. I even get to go for the donuts. As a matter of fact, I have special muscles inside my head which allow me to attain a great number and variety of facial expressions. I have Westlife to thank for this ability. All my facial expressions have been copyrighted by Dreamworks. You should see the bills I get for the licensing fees!

Well, I just started working on the first page of my brand new atlas, "A Comprehensive History of Ant Societies". They've had a lot of important stuff happen, so the whole work is likely to expand to several hundred billion pages in length, but, you know, it really feels like it's writing itself! When I'm all done with that, I'd like to start on my next big project, attempting to hold down my food.

I once had an automobile made of gasoline. As fuel diminished, the car's mass would decrease, causing acceleration. The fuel hits zero and, of course, you achieve infinite speed.

I don't know about you, but when I'm driving my '67 dune buggy at infinite speed, creating sizeable disruptions in the continuity of spacetime, I'm feeling pretty much OK about my low self-esteem.

It's really not half bad, this business of deranged, dangerously unpredictable behavior.

It's pretty tough all around. The Nazi KKK are trying to eject all the Jewish Klansmen, while the KKK Nazis are trying to get all the African-American Nazis out of the organization. What's worse, I think one of my multiple personalities is having an affair on me.

It Stopped Clicking! Thank Goodness For The Antipsychotics!

So, you ask, "What's wrong with shit, anyway?" Well, it's really badly designed, for one thing.

(looks at watch: 7:36 pm. takes piece of paper labeled '7:36 pm' out of pocket and unfolds it. reads aloud: 'time to curl up in a ball'.)

I traveled into the future and damned if my favorite bar hadn't just locked its door. "You better go back," the bartender said, holding up his hours-of-operation sign. It said, 'open 1750 - 2007, weekdays', closed through the double glass. "I don't think there's anybody who stays open this late."

Sasquatch for dinner. I don't feel fitter. Sit at the plate and sulk.

Just like the story about the little crippled boy who prayed just as hard as he could that God did not exist. And he was always very good and obeyed his parents and so his prayer was answered.

Tar and feather beds, just like in illness magazines.

Well, I guess I was a-drinking again. My neighbors tell me that this time I was a-running my old time machine full-bore inside of my other time machine with each one a-going in the opposite direction. Well sir, things was rolling along just fine until I guess I went and crashed the whole damned mess into a telephone pole. So now these days it seems I just get one repair job all paid for and straightened out with the county when thirty or forty more just seem to pop up out from nowhere. And of course now I got so much stress, I got to get myself drunk just to go out and pick up the mail.

I'm Just Trying To Manage My Career

No kidding. That's why I crawled out into infinite space while clad in a single dirty diaper. But, you know what? There wasn't even anything good out there. So I came crawling back. And boy, was I ever humbled, having to return to my home town empty- handed and face all my friends.

My scabs are striking. I had a small crap explosion mounted in nice gold setting so I can wear it out of the house.

The joke's really on me. Really. No, no, hey, pal, now you just put that joke away. Your sense of humor's no good here. So, here's some news, then. Alright, then.

BEVERLY HILLS, CA:
Although, according to reports, "at one time the fastest of friends", the Gary Condit legal camp and the O.J. Simpson legal camp are currently at a standoff. It seems that both camps have recently made public statements alleging that the other has caused their client to disappear without a trace, with each camp denying the other's allegation. Now, at this point, it isn't clear whether the two individuals are really even involved in the dispute, or have actually vanished, for that matter; unnamed sources have it that both Mr. Condit's and Mr. Simpson's respective identities and legal records may have been "annexed" in "leveraged individual buyouts" for unnamed sums. An unnamed source to the source has reported that a single party may have been involved in both purchases, but the alleged unsubstantiated status of this has yet to be fully verified. Word has it that formal replacements may soon be appointed for both public figures, with veteran television and screen actors Michael J. Fox and Eric Stoltz competing for the parts of both. "These fellas sure knew how to party down," alleged one allegedly verified unnamed source. "And let me tell you, there are people in this town... people who really want these guys back, but bad."
Lester Vergiss reporting.

(puts shit on glass slide. puts glass slide in microscope. flushes microscope down toilet.)

I'm rather fond of anything that is an explosion of crap and that knocks me down. I've just been given an immature burial. I make silly quacking noises and spit and throw rocks inside my coffin.

For my new career, I have decided that I would like to become a football diplomat... one who can hash out differences between the respective teams, and who can bring a true peace, so that no vulgar, boring, violent game need ever again occur.

As a matter of fact, I think most dirty jokes can be "fully resolved" by the right diplomatic intervention. I mean, we're talking about a true, lasting peace here.

Not to mention the fact that the "ball" itself is, well, it's just plain fucking odd. Not to mention that the whole thing of "goal posts" has been a mainstay of bizarrely disorienting self-help analogies for, well, a long damn time, really. Hell, I just want to get drunk and double people's money.

As a matter of fact, my new business looks pretty promising... I've already made two nice, shiny pennies out of one. Well, that is, if I hold my head a certain way.

Well, here's a joke:

FIRST SCIENTIST: "Here's a riddle, Mister Second Scientist: if it is located exactly on the equator, which direction does the whirlpool turn in a giant toilet?"

SECOND SCIENTIST: "Gee, I dunno. Which way is that?"

FIRST SCIENTIST: "Any way it wants to, brother."

SECOND SCIENTIST: "Haw, haw. Hey, so which direction did you say that plague-infected mandrill ran again?"

Hey, hey, lookit. I'm bombing here. (grins to show mouthful of blackened teeth) Really. I mean, this is really great. (hands out x-rays of deformed pelvis to audience) Look hard, and you can even catch my blackened teeth in there. Hey, thankyouverymuch. I'm milking it for all it's worth.

I'm pretty dumb, but I always move at breakneck speed. You know, I may be a nobody these days, but at one time I was quite precocious... I was a no-talent clear back when I was only one or two. So, then, anyway, I'm jumping straight ahead to my late- career, "sad self-parody" phase. But, well, I mean, these facelifts were meant to be *used*, right? One shouldn't just lean back and rest on one's facelift.

Well, so there it is. I made me a decision today. I'm a-gonna get that dirty diaper back on and I'm gonna jump right back up into space. Just got to give it another shot, you see. And when I get back up there, I'm gonna start right at the bottom and work my way up. No more hotshot airs and bigshot pretenses for me. Nossir. I've learned my lesson. Yup, and this time things are really going to be different... I can just feel it!

So here's a little story.

FIRST PRETENTIOUS RADIOHEAD FAN: "I can see you caricaturing me, there, buddy... you can't hide it from me. Now, you'd better hand it over."

SECOND PRETENTIOUS RADIOHEAD FAN: "But... it's just one graceful arabesque! Surely..."

FIRST PRETENTIOUS RADIOHEAD FAN: "Naturally, naturally... and you've quite handily captured my deepest essence. Alright, now I'm honked."

"Say, I been a-chewing my leg off the these last six months now and I still am not getting the critical recognition and acclaim I deserve."

"Ah, that's OK. They may not dig on you right now, but wait until you get to the late-career, "sad self-parody" phase. You'll be a-cleaning up.

(gets drunk, doubles everyone's money, finishes chewing off leg)

(show Tony Bennett, William Shatner, and Robert Goulet, each applying finishing touches to chewing off his own leg. 'Hey, it worked out just great for us.')

Say... hey... these two pennies just turned back into one again. (phone ringing) Aw, shit... now I bet that-there's the goddamned FDIC.

(crap explodes)

(Flirts With The Idea Of Becoming An Indecipherable Heap)

(bang bang bang)
- Who's there, piece of shat.
- Why, it's twenty pipes, ma'am.
- Got me no twenty pies coming, dirty crapper.
- No? Well, it's off, then.
- Well, you can pieup a thishere sleepy twat to theright right overthere there.
- Oooo, do see 'im, fuzzy are nightshade. What of bout face to the left?
- Boxed in flat alright. Wake for years. And now it's soda biscuits up to ceiling.
- Ah, well, it's wood ones, then it's metal ones (harn't hit steam age, but a-bucking-to). (pipes)