Wednesday, August 5, 2009

The Monkey Presents Hamlet

To Be or not to be, that is the question. whether tis nobler to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageuos fortune and to then and only then to consummate roughly upon thine bed many a vagina out of wedlock....with my cock.

To sleep perchance to dream: ay, there's the right there to the left. A little bit harder...oh you 've got it! Thank you! Now where was I? Ah, yes...
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come but those where I wake in the middle of the night and must rush most exquisitely mine sheets to thine washer.

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time except those that be of the most kinky disposition. 555-5555 is the number that belongest to mine heart. Ring upon that line not before the hour of 4 on weekdays for I work the early shift at Ye Olde King of Moo Burgers. The boss is a major douche.

Alas, poor Yorick, I knew him well. A jester of jokes, a tickler of fancies. A handler of goat testicles. I knew him well. And to that end I must say we got it on not once, but many times a fortnight. Oh there were many sloppy days with Yorick....of course he was dead long before I was born, so you can imagine the amount of KY it took to get into that sucker!

To thine own self be true. Oh but that line lies asleep with another character. That, Pelonius guy. That 'tis who speakest those words....Dickbag...he hath retrieved my best foil from the parlour claiming it as his own. Hamlet swears that by the end of the day he shall feel Pelonius' blood on his hands!

Well, I'm off to sleep with my crazy sister and leave my whole famly dead. Ta!

Storytime! July 4th Edition

On a day not unlike this one, in an orange grove that looks nothing like your living room an old man trudged along bearing most of his weight on his cane, which bared an odd resemblance to a prosthetic leg. The old man, let's call him Sal, came upon a clearing in the orange grove in which several children were gathered around a tree stump. Sal paid them no mind instead focusing all his attention on the task at hand, which was, of course, maneuvering his feeble old bones in such a way so that he would be able sit on the stump. He was able to do so without even fracturing a single vertebra. It seems as though death had not caught up with Old Sal. At least not yet anyways.

The children stared in rapt attention at Old Sal, taking in the erotic scent wafting from his pores, the kind of smell that can only come from the age old mixture of Geritol, Old Spice and Jack Daniels, waiting for him to spin a tale as he always did.

"Okay, kids" Sal uttered in the way he always did, without a shred of pretense for how much his breath wreaked "I got a story for ya."

The children sat forward captivated by the lecherous hump that sat before them.

“So about twenty, no thirty. Wait…like...two years ago. Our forefathers cloned some dinosaurs. Now, you see 500 years ago, back in 1932. Things were different. There was a tax on sandwiches, for instance. But not all sandwiches, just ones with the crusts cut off. Like your mom makes them, Timmy.” Sal said gesturing toward a freckled youth in the front row.

“I’m a girl.” Said the youth.

“Shut up, ya succubus. I swear as soon as women got the right to vote. You know what I’m talking about Johnny.”

“I’m still a girl” said the youth.

“Grow a penis!” Sal screamed, expectorating on many of the children in the process. “So, as I was saying, I want to bang Timmy’s mom. Now if any of you can tell me what time she goes to sleep and maybe what kind of birth control she’s on, that would make my life infinit…infainitum…infinitely easier.

“Dinosaurs were everywhere. To the left of me. To the right of me. They were in the cupboard. I needed to pick up some milk, but I didn’t have time. I had a hearing at the local court that day and it would have been bad if I missed it. No big deal, they caught me for unleashing the wildebeest, that’s what I call my penis, on some unsuspecting girl. Since when is rape a crime? Can you tell me that?! Huh!

“Anyways, Lincoln was coming out of the shower and I handed him his towel. He was always a sucker for a fresh towel, and I’m not gonna say that I was in love with him or anything, cause I’m not gay. So stop eyeing me like that James!” Sal pointed wildly into the sea of children at a boy in the back row.

“but he had a rockin’ ass! And I had sexual relations with him, on several occasions. We used Jefferson’s place. The shit that went down there, man! Jefferson was into some freaky deaky shit! I can’t even…you’re too young to hear some of that shit. I’ll tell you when you all get older and I’m dead and haunting you in your dreams and watching Timmy’s mom shower and washing her sweet sweet breasts.

“So I had a problem. There were dinosaurs and Washington’s Pinto had just run out of gas. We were stranded in a sea of Velociraptors with claws that if you saw them would make you want to brush your teeth for some reason or other. A lot of shit happened to me in the war.

“All of a sudden that bastard, Arthur Sullivan comes out with a pancake on his head screaming at the top of his lungs ‘My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard’ and then he got eaten by a dinosaur and me and Washington made nasty-hot yet tender love in the backseat of his Pinto.

“And let me tell you, kids, God Bless America…and don’t ever lend a Scotsman your lawnmower because that’s how you get syphilis. And that’s how it was.”

With that Old Sal passed out from exhaustion, and the children went home a bit wearier of the true meaning of the 4th of July.

Things to Consider Before Choosing a Career in Super Villainy

How cool would it be to be a villain? Answer: very. Now how cool would it be to be a Super villain? Answer: So awesome that your spleen would liquefy from the sheer awesomeness of it and you would be left without a spleen. What you’re thinking right now is “Don’t I need my spleen to live and even if I didn’t wouldn’t the whole melting process hurt?” Answer: No, you don’t need your spleen to live. You just have to make sure that you don’t eat anything too toxic. However, it will hurt like fuck when it melts/liquefies. There’s no way around that. Oxy Contin and a bottle of Cuervo will numb the pain slightly, I have found. But a liquefied spleen is a small price to pay for such sheer awesomeness.

Now, when I talk about Super villains, I’m not talking about those pussy villains who are all like tormented and shit because their wife died or they were picked on in high school or they were horribly mauled by a pack of roving mutant squirrels. NO, I’m talking about the no rhyme or reason villains who are just balls to the wall crazy (and perhaps pure evil?). That kind of simplicity, that kind of crazy is liberating, nay it is downright freeing. (I know that liberating and freeing mean basically the same thing, but liberating has a kind of neo nazi feminist feeling to it and I prefer to wear bras outside so…yeah.) Right now you’re thinking, but is super villainy the right career path for me? Well, here are some pros and cons to consider.

PRO: Get to wear awesome evil clothing like goggles, gauntlets, cowls, capes, slimming lycra, and Shakespearean nuck ruffs.

CON: Shakespearean neck ruffs tend to be itchy. However, this itchiness can be remedied by applying numbing gel to your neck before wearing said Shakespearean neck ruff, sewing a silky satin lining into your Shakespearean neck ruff, or just foregoing the Shakespearean neck ruff altogether, because, let’s face it. It’s kinda gay looking.

PRO: Ability to utter Awesomely cryptic phrases on a daily basis and have it be socially acceptable. Example: The Hamburglar never knows whether to roll the dice and would pay many ketchup packets until he knows when.

CON: Who cares what’s socially acceptable when you’re pure evil. (Mwa ha ha). Although everyday communication to henchmen or your number two (not a poop joke) could be a problem. Example: You say “The Hamburglar never knows whether to roll the dice and would pay many ketchup packets until he knows when.” Your henchmen go kill the president of France when all you wanted was another roll of toilet paper. (poop joke).

PRO: Ability to kidnap and/or enslave anyone you fancied/ loved from away/ stalked casually for years on end.

CON: Would the love ever really be mutual?

PRO: Nihilism. (I don’t know if this is really a pro or con but for the sake of argument I’m gonna put it under pro)

CON: Is it ever possible to truly believe in nothing? Cause even if you believe in nothing isn’t that something? Furthermore, what if you attend a stage production of Peter Pan and it gets to the part where Tinkerbell is dying. Would you shout “I do believe in fairies! I do! I do!” in order to save her or would you stick to your non-belief guns and let her die, you selfish, selfish bastard.

PRO: Never-ending cashflow due to acts of robbery and thievery and alike.

CON: You may accidentally steal from charitable organizations/orphans (who cares? Not their parents.) or, more importantly, nefarious crime lords and other more organized evil doers who may try to kill you. But, whatever, more lambs for the slaughter. Your henchmen should be able to easily dispatch them. Should being the operative word.

PRO: Cool weapons that, more than likely, would cause awesome explosions. Cool weapons include, but are not limited to: slingshot, daisy air rifle, sparklers, napalm, “big ass” gun, Hattori Hanzo (Hanso?) steel, those three pronged Asian dealies that Rachel Weisz fights Anukh Sa Na Mun with in the second Mummy movie, poison tipped blow darts, sniper rifle with night scope attachment, and the best weapon of all- your own two fists.

CON: You must register or go through organized crime channels to obtain some of the above. Both of which are kind of a hassle to deal with.

PRO: Hunt the most dangerous game of all- MAN. Yes, contract killings could be your racket if you choose a life of super villainy. How could you do this? Perhaps with an awesome samurai sword utilizing your own inherent ninja skillz ( “z”s make everything cooler and more futuristic). Plus considering it would be a hunt, you could probably get to wear a cool flack jacket or at the very least a pair of those bright orange overalls.

CON:…I don’t know… Maybe you’ll be hired to kill somebody you know, like your brother maybe. But even then it would make for a cool story where you kill the people who hired you instead, perhaps whilst you fly through the air on a motorcycle. They would call you The Crazy Motorcycle Killer. Does this section count as super villainy. I don’t really know.

PRO: A background in musical theater? No problem! Many Super villains have a taste for the theatrics.

CON: Probably shouldn’t break out in song and dance whenever you embark on a dastardly plan- could leave you vulnerable to attack by the “good guy” or the “worse than you guy.”

PRO: Lots of friends, AKA, henchmen.

CON: Henchmen are a faceless mass, and are also notoriously stupid and dull. Although they may be good to hustle money off of or fuck with (weak minds. “These are not the droids you are looking for.”) They’re nobody you want to have a conversation with or be in close proximity to or touch you even in a friendly, harmless way that does not indicate any sexual advances. Plus, let’s be honest, if you’re a Super villain you’ve probably got space issues to begin with.

PRO: Not having to put effort into choosing a new outfit every morning. ( Super villain uniform in full effect).

CON: Having a closet full of the same outfit. Plus, what do you wear to formal occasions? Must design formal evil wear.

PRO: Not having to deal with weighty issues of good Vs bad, moral Vs immoral, Burger King Vs Wendy’s. You are simply evil and that’s it. Okay maybe you also have a love for emu farming, but mostly, just evil.

CON: Burger King, unlike Wendy’s, is not open late. Not sure what that has to do with this, but it is definitely a con.

PRO: Evil theme song/musical score

CON: Getting tired of evil theme song/score but not being able to just kick back and listen to some ABBA because you are contractually obligated to play said tune every time you enter a room, think dastardly thoughts (a constant), celebrate a henchman’s birthday, or poo (for obvious reasons- poo is evil).

After considering all of the above it should be easier for you to choose the right career path for you.

Also, a degree from a liberal arts college helps.

A Note From My Mail Carrier

Dear Mail Recipient,

Greetings. This is your mail carrier. Long time deliverer, first time writer. Oh, that is such a cliché. Look at me, tongue tied. It’s such a shame. There are so many things I wish I could tell you. That I could just walk right up to and say. But, we both know that will never happen. The restraining order won’t allow it. When one inch feels like I’m a world away from you, you can only imagine what 50 yards feels like. I’ll make it easy for you- it feels like some number of worlds away that if I actually took the time to do the math out, I’m sure would be a lot. So, amount of worlds away it feels like: a lot.

I miss your hair. I miss your ass. I miss your smell (like fresh baked cookies, lady speed stick and, I wanna say, an earthy smell…) I miss getting up early in the morning, morning wood in full effect, walking into your ground floor room, and poking you with a stick (not a euphemism for my morning wood) until you woke up and I could poke you with my stick (a euphemism for my morning wood).

I miss the sound of the crane backing up to the house for your periodic visits to Jerry Springer. I miss giving you baths with a rag on a stick, and sometimes putting the rag on my stick, if you know what I’m saying. (I’m saying I used my penis as a towel rack). I miss the fact that I could have sex with literally ANY part of your body because the numerous fat folds and constant sweating created a million little pseudo-vaginas. I miss exploring your smoking hot (temperature-wise) body. I miss the million little things you used to do and not do. Not do more often than do, if I hadn’t made this one hundred percent clear already you are morbidly obese and thus can’t really do anything. Seriously, you’re like the mom from Gilbert Grape. But, I dig it, baby. And one day just like Gilbert Grape, I will be honored to burn down the house around you.

To quote the bard, and by “bard” I mean the eternal songs of NSYNC, “I want you back, baby. Oh yeah.” And with that in mind, I have written you a poem.

Your hair is like soft angel wings
Your back is a mountain range
You let me put it anywhere I want to
But all I really want is you
Is it because his penis is bigger than mine?

I was going for free form poetry. Your panties melted yet? Even if they’re not, they will be soon…I just lit the house on fire.

My Heart Will Always Be Yours,


P.S. Please stop sleeping with that guy I deliver mail to.

P.P.S. See you in Hell, you syphilis ridden, bitch!

A Letter From Your Mail Carrier

Dear Mail Recipient,

Greetings! This is your Mail Carrier, more commonly known as your Mailman, which sounds a bit redundant, but also known as Robert Moskowitz. But, today I am writing not as Robert, Robbie or even R-witz which was my nickname on my little league team, but as your Mail Carrier. I am simply a concerned party. I have been delivering your mail for about two years now and I have noticed a startling trend in the amount of catalogs, credit card bills and packages filled with baby stem cells that you have been receiving as of late.

You seem to be getting more and more every day, especially the baby stem cells (is that redundant for me to say baby stem cells since they already come from aborted fetuses?) Don’t get me wrong I have nothing against the use of stem cells for the greater good. I subscribe to the Indian ideology of using the whole buffalo or in this case aborted fetus. It’s just that I don’t know what you could possibly be doing with the sheer tonnage of stem cells that I deliver to your doorstep on a daily basis. Also, this seems like a thing that you wouldn’t get through the regular post, but rather a private parcel service. Are you using them to help cure an ailing relative? Are you using them for research? Are you bathing in them as if they were lavender scented bath salts? I’m worried about you. I’ve seen you progress from Maxim to Playboy to Bitch Tits Weekly to the occasional Buns n Ammo (I, myself like to indulge in same sex pornography every now and again just to see what the big hoopla is. Turns out, the hoopla is anal sex, between two consenting, and sometimes not consenting, adult males.) I’ve grown with you, is my point. And now you’re getting all these catalogs and credit card bills and packages and frankly they’re heavy as fuck. My back hurt, and I was due for my annual hump inspection (just to make sure I remained a hump back and not a hump chest-these things travel sometimes- the humps) so I went to the doctor last week. He found (because let’s face it, women as doctors, p’shaw) that half of my spinal column had ground down to dust, which sure does explain the dramatic height reduction in the past two weeks. I mean I’m a humpback, but I’m no fucking midget. At least, I wasn’t two weeks ago anyways. But, I digress. You’re only hurting yourself with all of the catalogs, credit debt and stem cells (are you using them as some freaky aphrodisiac that must be rubbed vigorously on your genitals in order to be activated?)

I mean, let’s look at what you’ve got here: Lillian Vernon, Coldwater Creek, Newport News, H&M, LL Bean, A&F Quarterly (I didn’t even know they still made these. I’ll tell you the photography in these it sheer artistry. Sheer hot, sexy, naked, teenage male artistry), Frontgate, Hammacher Schlemmer, The Sharper Image, Brookstone, FAO Schwarz,, Harry & David, Sky Mall, Old Glory, Black Dog, Big Dog, Victoria’s Secret, Fake Penis Outlet, Omaha Steaks, West Elm, Guitar Center, Pottery Barn, Pottery Barn Kids, PB Teen and finally the American Girl Catalog (those dolls do have the coolest accessories. I wish I had a pony.)

Listen, you my friend are in a rut if I ever saw one. What you gotta do is 1) cancel all these catalog subscriptions, which would actually help me a lot and waste a lot less paper (Think green!) 2) Open a window (Every time I deliver your male the only things I can smell are stale stem cells, three week old pizza and despair) 3) Get out there and find some nice girl, buy her a wine cooler and just talk. You, my friend are a catch. Get out there! Any woman would be lucky to have you. Go shake some booty. Have some anonymous sex. It ain’t unprotected if you’re carrying a gun while doing it. The gun=your penis. You’re gonna be just fine. You just need to get out of the house.

Also, who’s Eric? You seem to get a lot of letters from him. I mean I feel like I know him from reading your mail (I do that sometimes. Okay, a lot of the time. Okay everyday when I’m on the crapper), but I still can’t get a feel for who he is really. What is the essence of Eric? Does he smell like vanilla schnapps or peppermint schnapps? Does he like long walks on the beach or candlelit dinners (or perhaps both?) Is his penis bigger than mine? These are the things I want to know, if it’s not too much trouble.

So…I would really appreciate it if you would drop me a line. You know just put a letter in your mailbox, you don’t have to put a stamp on it, just address it to Mail Carrier at The Mailbox and I should get it. Unless, it’s my day off. Then Jimmy will get it, but it’s okay if he reads it because I was going to post it on the board at work anyways, so you know. No matter what it will get to me.
Remember what we talked about. Stop living a hermitted life of excess mail and also remember to put the full zip code when you address any of your mail. They always tells us to encourage that at the office. Between you and me, though, the zip code doesn’t mean shit. I mean it’s just a series of numbers. The computers can’t even read them cause people have such crappy handwriting, but not you. You have the touch of a fine calligrapher.

Forever Yours (too forward?),

Robert “R-witz” Moskowitz

P.S. Please stop sleeping with my wife.

P.P.S. “Accidentally” opened your test results. Sorry ‘bout the syphilis. My bad, about the mail, not the syph. It was your choice to sleep with my wife whatever disease you inadvertently contracted from her (which admittedly, she caught from me) is your own fault. You stupid stem cell aphrodisiac using God, you.