Do you remember watching Conan’s last episode? They showed a bunch of clips from his past episodes. They all involved him, and they were all hilarious Conan moments. Jay Leno’s last episode? Apparently there were no funny Jay moments, so they showed a bunch of clips of Rodney Dangerfield’s standup and dumb people answering questions on the street. Thank God they’re giving him another show, right? Right.
Addendum: The musical guest is James Taylor, the blandest musician of all time. How fitting.
Outside of our hotel, my siblings and I witnessed something special. Ten cats were sitting outside, not moving, just staring at the wall of the hotel. Just staring. I tried to get a pic of it, but they ran away. It reminded my brother and me of Neil Gaiman’s A Dream Of A Thousand Cats. Tonight, the cat revolution began. Sure, we interrupted it, but soon the cats will rise again. And it will be adorable.
So I know The Dance has been a bit off the norm the past few days. Don’t worry, I’m still funny. But, you know, blogs imitate life (or something like that) and it isn’t always great being a Joke Guy, so…
My Grandpa Mike passed away in the middle of the night several years ago. It was incredibly jarring and I miss him greatly, although it was not as physically, emotionally, or mentally draining as my current situation, in that I have gotten 8 hours of sleep in the last 64 hours and we have taken my Grandma J. off life support (her wishes and ours) and have been watching her circle the drain for the past 5 1/2 hours. Yesterday was Grandpa Mike’s birthday.
My Grandma J. used to make wedding soup all the time. It was delicious and was one of the several-to-many meals I associate with her. As I also haven’t had much food these few days, I just came back from the hospital cafeteria. The soup of the day today is wedding soup. I didn’t get any because it looked like shit.
Moving on to the cute…
Maybe 8 hours ago my family and I were sitting around reminiscing (like ya do) and my dad, uncle, and aunt were all talking about stories from when they were kids. Some samples are…
My Dad: Remember when I was a kid and a Buick hit me while I was crossing the street? There was a dent in the hood from where it hit my head. I flew literally 20 feet in the air and fell to the ground. It would have been cool if I broke my leg or something, but I just scraped my knee a little. I got like one day off of school. That sucked.
My Aunt: ”Remember when I got a perm and one of our neighbors’ crappy daughters put their cat on my head and it shit all over my hair? The next day I went over to their house, grabbed the cat, and swung it around in circles by the tail until her mom chased me home with a broom.”
My Uncle: ”Remember when I accidentally set our neighbors’ garage on fire?”
My sister, my brother, and I looked at each other for a minute and came up with the following…
"Remember when we were little and mom wouldn’t let us eat in our rooms, so we snuck out late at night, grabbed some fruit, and ate grapes and apples in our rooms?"
"Remember when we would sit down together and read quietly?"
In my brief access to the internet, I wanted to share something real quick. My grandparents got in a horrible car accident last night and I’m now in Pennsylvania to be with my family. My grandfather is in okay shape, physically. My grandmother is currently in a coma and had to have her head shaved in order to perform surgery. When told that they needed to shave her head, my grandfather quietly responded, “But she just got her perm done…” Seriously, what a sweetheart.
The Curse Of The Moongician And Other Tales To Tell ‘Round Midnight
Sorry, Dashboards. This is long…
The Mask Next Door
Everyone hates masks. At least, that’s what Warney thought. Warney was a bit on the hate side of most things, actually. So much so that he even hated people who hate masks.
"What a complex character we’re dealing with," thought the narrator as he pat himself on the back. How wrong, he was, though. Warney was, in fact, so not complex that I could probably predict what happens in the entire story.
I predict that Warney will meet someone that just moved in next door. The person next door will act very mask-like and will say things that a mask might say. It will turn out that the person next door is actually a mask. Warney will hate this new neighbor almost most of all. I say “almost,” because someone else will probably move in to the house on the other side of Warney’s house and that person will hate masks even more than Warney. This new person will be named Garren or something stupid like that and Warny will hate Garren so much (because Garren hates masks and Warney hates people who hate masks) that he will temporarily forget about the mask that happened to live next door. Garren and Warney will eventually get into a fistfight and Garren will win. The mask will take pity on Warney and nurse him back to health. This will change Warney’s view of masks, which will make him hate people who hate masks even more than he previously hated people who hate masks. Warney and the mask will team up to take Garren down. They will end up killing Garren, and as Warney looks up to give the mask a high five, he will find that the mask is gone and (perhaps) was never really there. Warney, freaking out, takes in a deep breath and gets a whiff of the inside of a mask (rubber and sweat). Yes, Warney was a mask the whole time. The end.
The narrator put his head in his hands, clearly frustrated with the accurate prediction of his story’s eventual plot. “Fuck,” he thought, and picked up his in-depth outline. Quickly, he tore it up and started from scratch.
The Living Mask Or Whatever
Everyone enjoys a good mask. Warney knew this, which is why he one day wanted to open up his own mask shop. He was only thirteen years old, though, so he had to settle for working at Garren’s Scarin’ Ya With His Masks Mask Shoppe. Every day after school, Warney would hop on his roller bike and pedal all the way to Garren’s and help out in any way he could. Normally this would involve pricing masks or throwing out old masks. Today, he had a much more interesting job…
“Warney!” exclaimed Garren. “Right on time!”
“As always, Mr. Garren, sir,” Warney said as he tied up his roller bike to the roller bike stand Garren had installed when Warney started working at the store. “Any new masks in today?” he asked.
Garren smiled. He would ordinarily enjoy watching as Warney excitedly tried on all the new masks and invented voices and back-stories for each of those particular masks.
“No new masks today,” Garren had to tell Warney.
Warney’s face fell. What was he supposed to do today, then?
“What am I supposed to do today, then?” Warney asked.
Garren smiled again. “I have something exciting for you today, Warney,” he said, and gestured to the back room. “It’s time you became an integral member of the Garren’s Scarin’ Ya With His Masks Mask Shoppe family.”
“Do you mean-“ Warney began, his eyes widening.
“-Yes.” Garren confirmed. “It’s time you started making masks of your own.”
Warney jumped with Glee. Glee was another young mask-enthusiast who worked at the shop. He gave Warney a high five and shouted, “We’re going to The Show, Warney!!!”
Garren grimaced. “Actually, Glee,” he began. “Only Warney will be joining me today. In fact, you’re fired. Your work with the masks has been sub-par at best.”
Glee lowered his head and slowly walked out of the store without another word. No one ever saw Glee again. That is, of course, until the Moongician’s curse was lifted. It’s not foreshadowing if you just say it, right? Okay, didn’t think so…
When Glee was gone, Garren turned to Warney.
“Now,” Garren started, “It is time that you grow up and become a true mask.”
“Er… A true mask maker, I mean,” Garren corrected himself, quite suspiciously.
“I won’t let you down, Garren.”
Garren smiled. “I know you won’t,” he said. “Now you’d best be off to home if you want to get enough sleep for tomorrow.” He stopped suddenly. “In fact, I want you to skip school tomorrow. Fake sick. Sleep in as much as you can. You will need your rest for what you are about to endure.”
“Endure?” Warney asked, confused.
“Just a figure of speech,” Garren explained.
“What will I have to endure?” Warney pressed.
“Goodnight, Warney. Or should I say… Garren…” Garren said with a meaningful look.
“SHOULD you say ‘Garren’?” Warney asked.
“Yes. You now take on the title of Garren.”
“Wait, so Garren wasn’t your name?” Garren Warney asked.
“No, my name’s Ted.” Garren Ted replied, and paused. “Garren? That’s retarded.”
“Yeah, I guess so,” Garren Warney sadly agreed.
“Like ‘Warney,” Garren Ted said.
“You’re mean today, Garren,” Garren Warney pointed out.
“Please, call me Ted,” Garren Ted said.
“Can I leave, Ted?” Garren Warney asked.
“Sure. See you tomorrow, Warney,” smiled Garren Ted.
“Don’t you mean “Garren”?” Garren Warney asked.
“No. That’s my name. You’re Warney,” Garren said.
“So why did you-”
“-I like jokes.”
“Fine. Garren, NOW can I leave?” Warney pleaded.
“Sure thing, Garren.” Garren (Ted?) replied.
“So now my title is Garren again?” Warney (?) asked.
"Yep,” confirmed Garren Ted. "Like I said, me likey jokes."
“Whatever you say, Ted,” Garren Warney muttered.
“WHO THE FUCK IS TED, YOU LITTLE SNOT!?!?“ shouted Garren. He turned to the corner of the shop and set his eyes on the push broom.
“Please,” Warney muttered, not at all liking the turn this encounter seemed to be taking.
“Yes…” Garren whispered as he walked over to the corner. “Push broom.”
Warney’s eyes darted across the room, assessing whether or not he could make a run for it. By now, of course, Garren had returned with a push broom in tow.
Garren swung the push broom as hard as he could and smacked Warney right across the face. Warney fell to the floor and Garren glared at him.
“Why did you just call me Ted, Warney?!?!” Garren screamed and glared at Warney.
Warney spit blood onto the floor and looked up at Garren, who glared at him and stepped on his femur.
“I was confused by your joke about our names Garren,” Warney screamed as his femur snapped. The pain was unbelievable. He wiped blood from his mouth. All the while, of course, Garren was glarin’.
“What do you mean, ‘joke’?” Garren asked.
“That little joke where you said my new name was Garr-“
“-I HATE JOKES!!!”
Garren swung the push broom at Warney once again, this time hitting him square in the chest. Warney puked pretty instantly.
“You will pay for this insubordination, Warney,” Garren warned.
“I feel like I already have,” Warney pointed out, wiping blood and vomit from his mouth.
“Interesting theory…” Garren muttered. He ran his fingers across his chin. “You are free to go.”
Warney got up slowly. His body ached and his head throbbed, but he was elated at the opportunity to leave this awful place.
“See you tomorrow to make that mask?” Garren asked nonchalantly.
“Yeah,” Warney said as he limped to the door. “Probably not. You just beat the shit out of me and I’m fairly certain you wanted to turn me into a mask.”
“You’re a wise, boy, Warney,” Garren whispered. “See you tomorrow.”
“I don’t think you heard me. I won’t be coming back tomorrow.” Warney left the building.
“See you tomorrow, Warney,” Garren whispered, even quieter this time.
Later that night, the police showed up at Garren’s Scarin’ Ya With His Masks Mask Shoppe to find an empty warehouse.
“Looks like it’s been abandoned for years,” said Sgt. Lemurs.
Officer Jomathy Taylorb glanced up at the Sergeant and shook his head.
“Fuckin’ kid,” Jomathy began with a sneer. “Must have beat himself up and called us up just to get attention or something.”
Sgt. Lemurs nodded. “Stuff like this happens all the time, rookie,” he said. “Kids make up these silly stories so they can get popular on ViewTuber and FriendPlace.”
“Either that or we don’t investigate properly,” Jomathy pointed out with a laugh.
Sgt. Lemurs joined in and they both had a good chuckle.
“Ha ha ha ha ha!” came a third, much more sinister laugh.
Sgt. Lemurs and Officer Taylorb looked around.
“Did that push broom just laugh with us?” Sgt. Lemurs asked.
“I don’t think so, sir,” said Jomathy. “I don’t think it would have a motive.”
Sgt. Lemurs looked Jomathy up and down. “You’re gonna be a good cop one day, rook,” he said and jabbed Jomathy playfully in the shoulder. “Motive. That’s cop stuff.”
“The end,” the narrator thought about writing. He reread the story and shook his head.
Through The Looking Mask
People feel certain ways about masks. Warney certainly felt a very specific way about masks. He had a friend named Garren, who had a similar or differing opinion on masks. They were the best of friends, and together they would attend Masquerades (as well as Mask Parades). One day they met a mask that taught them an important lesson about being yourself. Then it made them go insane and kill each other. At one point during the story, they had to solve a riddle together.
So this is a song I wrote and recorded two or three years ago. I was going to turn it into a music video that chronicled the events of the song and maybe had an unfrozen bear playing a guitar at the end. I still might, but I listened to it again today and I realized the incredible low appeal of and demand for something like this. It struck me as something that would be just cute, in that the most common response to a viewing of the video would be, “Oh, that’s a cute video.” It was kind of discouraging at first, but I realized that even though I may never be in one of those popular scum pop or even regular popular rock bands (although I actually will), I can still make stuff like this. And when/if I ever have kids, I will be able to write them songs that they will love for at least the first ten years of their life. Maybe longer if they can tolerate The Bernards.
This concludes Dr. Mister Cody’s segment of “Dr. Mister Boring.” I am now going to go write a spooky story.
"Mr. President, we’ve got to do something about this horrible squirrel rickets epidemic,” said Mr. President’s aide, Salma Talons. ”People are panicking and I, myself, am afraid that I might be coming down with a bad case of squirrel rickets.”
"That’s absurd, Salma," Mr. President asserted. "What do you know about squirrel rickets?”
"I know about a great many things, Mr. President."
"Well, what do you know about?" Mr. President asked. "Squirrel rickets?"
"Mr. President, I spent four years at NASA. I think I know a little something about squirrel rickets."
Mr. President looked to the only window in the room. ”The cool night air will clear my head,” he muttered.
Salma furrowed her prominent brow and shook her head as she watched Mr. President open the blinds to the only window in the room.
"Mr. President," she said. "I don’t think exposing ourselves to the infected outdoors is such a wise choice."
"Nonsense, Ms. Talons. It’s that kind of thinking that’ll get you sent back to NASA. We can not catch squirrel rickets simply by opening a window. Please," he whispered. "The cool night air is just a single pane away now."
Mr. President turned to Salma and stared at her with intensity. ”I started this,” he told her. ”Now I’m gonna finish it.”
Mr. President jarred the window open and a rush of cool night air came into the room. Salma was sweating now, and she took in one last deep breath and held it in. I ain’t gon kitch no aminal diseez, she thought.
Mr. President took a deep breath of his own, enjoying the cool night air. He exhaled and took in another breath because he enjoyed the first so much.
"You know, Ms. Talons," he said as he noticed Salma slowly passing out. "I’m breathing the air just fine and I don’t seem to have squirrel rickets."
Salma considered this, which distracted her from holding her breath, and she ended up taking a breath.
"Mr. President," she gasped as Mr. President closed the window. "You saved my life."
"It was nothing, my dear," Mr. President said and shot Salma in the chest. She flew back into the wall behind her. Blood began to pour into the room from her body, and Mr. President calmly walked to the window.
He looked back at poor Salma. Blood was now all the way up to his knees, and he would need to leave quickly. She was, after all, going to pop once all the blood was gone.
"Farewell, Ms. Talons," he muttered. "At least you won’t have to go back to NASA."
Mr. President, now up to his neck in blood, once again opened the window. The cold night air mingled with the warm human blood until they both really got into it and started fucking. Mr. President jumped out the window, landing comfortably on one of the several moon bounces he had ordered for an occasion nothing like this. They were supposed to have been for his birthday.
"Mr. President, you’re alive!" shouted Bretna Fapsey, another one of Mr. President’s aides with an amusing name. "Thank our many Lords and Saviors!"
"I’m fine, Bretna," Mr. President told her. "Just got a bit of a mess to clean upstairs, that’s all."
"I’m just glad you’re okay," she said.
She reached into her pocket and handed something to Mr. President.
"Here, have some pork products," she told him.
Mr. President took a big ‘ol bite out of the pork products. He, of course, quickly came down with a severe case of squirrel rickets, but it was okay because it turned out to just be human rickets.
"Actually…" realized Mr. President. "That’s probably much worse."