Who’s your best friend?

I think most people could answer that pretty quickly. But, in all honesty, I couldn’t.

There have been many people in my life with whom I’ve had some kind of connection. I’ve never really considered anyone an enemy, and I suppose most of the people I’ve met have turned out to be mainly acquaintances.

But there are several folks with whom I really enjoy hanging out, conversing, laughing, and (almost certainly) drinking.

So I thought about it, and if someone asked me, “Who’s your best friend?” I’d answer, “I really don’t know.”

Then this dude whips out a pistol, cocks it, and shoves it against my temple. “Now, you son of a bitch,” he hisses, “I’m gonna ask you one more time.  Who’s your best friend?  You got to three. One…”

“Ummm…”

“Two…”

“Okay. I have male friends. They all have positive qualities that I admire, but I wouldn’t say any of them are any better than any other. They’re just good people for different reasons.  Same goes for my female friends. So if you could take each and every quality that I admire from the males, and do some kind of sci-fi thing where you combine them into one man, and do the same thing with the females, and have those two mate, their baby would be my best friend.”

The dude would relax and pull the gun away. A profound look would cross his face, and he’d say, “That’s beautiful, man.”

Then he’d leave, weeping and forever changed.

I’m in a weird mood.  One of those moods where I feel inclined to give a personal analysis of the alcohol mentioned in AC/DC’s 1980 song “Have a Drink on Me” (from the fifth-best-selling album ever, “Back in Black”).

Whisky, gin, and brandy

With a glass I’m pretty handy

Whisky:  As Jules Winnfield in “Pulp Fiction” might say, “the cornerstone of a nutritious breakfast.” It’s my favorite hard liquor, probably because I’ve developed a taste for it and it’s a really good mixer.  I’m a broke bastard, and I’ve found that Seagram’s 7 is both cheap and tasty.  Stir a dose in with some Coke or 7-Up and I’m in heaven.

Gin:  Gag me with a spoon.  I think I first tried this in college and almost puked.  I’ve since been bought a few gin and tonics over the years, and have politely drunk them while choking back tears of misery.  Who came up with flavoring perfectly good booze with juniper berries?  Were they drunk?  It smells like Pine-Sol.

Brandy:  Can honestly say I haven’t tried much brandy in my lifetime, but can’t say I hate it.  Still, she’s a fine girl.  What a good wife she would be.

I’m tryin’ to walk a straight line

On sour mash and cheap wine

Sour Mash:  A distilling process that’s usually thought of in the making of whisky; Jim Beam is probably the most popular.  I was on a JB kick for a while until I discovered (the much cheaper) Seagram’s.

Cheap wine:  Ah yeah. You can get a big jug or a box for, what, $10?  I like the wine “buzz,” you just feel sort of lightheaded and happy and carefree.  Unfortunately, it’s got loads of carbs (not good for a diabetic).

I’m dizzy, drunk and fightin’

On tequila, white lightnin’

Tequila:  My favorite drink from south of the border.  I like a shot here and there, and tequila sunrises are tasty.  I visited Tijuana many years ago and got a couple of fifths for about $2 each.  Rotgut, to be sure, but I still ate the worms.

White Lightning:  Moonshine.  Super-high alcohol content.  Brewed in the hills of the southern U.S. by barefoot hillbillies who rig their stills with deadly booby-traps.  Only tried this once or twice, but it’ll knock you on your ass.

My glass is getting shorter

On some whisky, ice, and water

Whisky (again):   Could someone refill my glass?  Pretty please?

IN CONCLUSION:

Forget about the check

We’ll get hell to pay

By all family accounts, I’m ¼ English (and ¾ German —  Jawohl!). I love British words and phrases.  Here are some of my favorites. And just think, if we’d lost the Revolutionary War, we’d all be saying these too.

Wanker: a jerk

Bullocks: bullshit (technically, testicles)

Fag: a cigarette

Pub: a bar

Boozer: a pub

Chips: French fries

Snog: make out, kiss

Pissed: drunk

Bob’s Your Uncle: and there you have it!

Take a piss: to make fun of

Gobsmacked: amazed

Knackered: exhausted

Nick: to steal

Snookered: completely screwed

Pull the other one, it’s got bells on: you’re lying

Git: a jerk

Lorry: a truck

Lift: an elevator

Piss off: fuck off

Chuffed as Nuts: very pleased

Redundancy: to get fired or laid off

Ring: call on the phone

Mobile: a cell phone

Sack: to fire or lay off

Completely Mental: crazy

Rubbish: trash

Shag: fornicate

Rumpy Pumpy: sexual intercourse

How’s Your Father: sexual intercourse

Fancy: to like or desire

Smashing: excellent

Noddy Blinkers: sleep

Tosser: a jerk

Pavement Pizza: vomit

Poofter: a homosexual

Slap and Tickle: make out, kiss

Throw a Spanner in the Works: fuck something up

It’s Monkeys Outside: it’s very cold outside

Strawberry Creams: boobs

Back when I was doing stand-up, sometimes I’d write a joke I thought was great.  I’d try it in front of an audience – nothing.  I’d try it at another show – nothing.  I’d tweak it – barely anything.  Eventually I had to admit that I found it funny, but nobody else did, and I’d drop it.  I’d get a little down about it, but then I’d think, “even Babe Ruth struck out a lot.”

MORAL OF THE STORY: You can’t hit it out of the park every time.

—–

Used a manufacturer’s coupon for a free box of pasta.  The store charged me tax for using the coupon.

Taxed on free stuff…kind of ironic in a country founded on not wanting to pay taxes.

—–

Ever think about how you’re a charismatic German frustrated artist who’s good with crowds?  Yeah, me neither.

 —–

If you don’t love yourself, respect yourself, and have faith in yourself, you’re pretty much fucked.  Get it together.

—–

Ever wonder if your pet thinks you’re a complete idiot and is only nice to you out of sympathy?

—–

In grade school, I loved to write and illustrate books.  They were short and simple, but it was great fun. But I recently thought about it, and I only wrote three genres of books.  There were joke books, with a riddle on the right page and the punchline on the next left page; monster books, where I could draw cools monsters terrorizing people; and war books, with lots of tanks and planes dropping bombs.  Now, monsters and war stuff is okay, but I still really enjoy the jokes.

—–

Great lyrics from one of the best live bands I’ve ever seen:

I went to Pauline’s Café in Birmingham

Jack said he’d be with me in a minute

I asked for a glass of water

He said, “what for? You wanna put some LSD in it?

“There’s already speed and marijuana in the hash browns

“Pauline always gets a kick outta that crap

“And that kind of service brings the customers back”

— Young Fresh Fellows, Searchin’ USA

—–

I’d like to try this line on a cute female bartender:

Me:  I’ll have a seven and seven.  Light on the seven.

Her:  Which seven?

Me:  Surprise me, sweetcheeks.  (Wink, lean back on bar, adopt Clint Eastwood attitude, chew angrily on toothpick)

—–

In junior high, I was a big Cars fan, and my friend was a big Cheap Trick fan. One day we were in a friendly argument and I sang, “my best friend’s girlfriend…”  He retorted with, “mommy’s all right, daddy’s all right…”  I said, “That’s Cheap Trick?” From that point on I liked Cheap Trick better.  Knowledge is power (and power chords).

—–

The lowest-paying professional job I ever had was as a newspaper editor for a small weekly rag.  It was also the only job where I had my own office.  It was a pretty cool office, too, with a big window overlooking Main Street.  Ever since, I’ve made much better money but have been stuck in cubicles.  Go figure.

—–

You can do a little to change how you are on the outside, but you can do a lot to change how you are on the inside.

Working title:  Bloody Bloodbath of Blood

Tagline: “When blood is outlawed, only outlaws will have blood.”

Preferred director: James Cameron, Roland Emmerich, or Michael Bay; whoever’s most expensive

Preferred cast:  Gary Sinise, Roseanna Arquette, Zooey Deschanel, Rutger Hauer, Mary-Kate Olsen, Jim Parsons, Paul Rudd, the gal who plays Sally Draper on Mad Men

Special effects/fake blood budget: Several billion dollars

Total budget: You don’t wanna know, it’s absurd

We open in a dark rainy graveyard.  A shadowy figure is kneeling by a gravesite.  Suddenly, he’s gunned down my unseen shooters.  Watery blood runs over the grave.

Cut to: The Pyramids.  Tourists are snapping photos.  One tourist wanders away from the crowd.  Suddenly, he’s gunned down by unseen shooters.  Blood runs into the sand.

Cut to: The moon.  An astronaut is gathering rock samples. Suddenly, he’s gunned down my unseen shooters.  Blood floats into space.

Fade in: Los Angeles Police Dept.  The Captain and The Lieutenant are trying to solve the shootings.  They call each other assholes quite a bit, and one guy smashes a coffee mug, then they decide they need the help of outside services.

They show up at the lair of a little-known hero and sometimes-when-it’s-profitable villain known as “Plutonium Phil.”  Phil is convinced the shootings are the work of his nemesis and even-lesser-known hero/villain, “Dickhead.” (Dickhead is female.)  He vows revenge for the shootings.

Enough setup.  For the next two hours, it’s non-stop car chases and explosions and gunfights and swordfights and ninja fights and explosions and even bigger explosions.  Body parts and entrails will be everywhere.  Dialogue and plot advancement will be minimal; emphasis will be on sheer mayhem.

Then angry extraterrestrials and even angrier giant robots show up out of nowhere, and the shit REALLY hits the fan.  CGI expenses from this point on should be budgeted at $2 million per frame.

The climax: Dickhead and Phil fight to the death while the aliens and robots battle all around them.  Phil pulls a chunk of plutonium out of his tattered shirt and shoves it in Dickhead’s mouth.  Her last mumbled (and subtitled) words are, “Thanks, Obama.”

Happy ending: the LAPD Captain and Lieutenant get married.

Recurring catch phrase: “You fuck a pumpkin, you’re gonna get seeds on your dick.” (I can envision it on T-shirts and bumper stickers everywhere.)

When my time finally comes (hopefully sometime before 2061, because that’s when I predict the zombie apocalypse will occur), here are the options I want carried out for my lifeless husk.  Just pick whatever’s most convenient or practical at the time.  I’d specify details in a will, but wills are for saps and suckers.

Donate me to science

Surely there’s some sort of value in this carcass from which the sciency guys could benefit.  I mean, I have a 522 I.Q. and an even higher cholesterol level.  Maybe I could even get a dead-guy guest spot on “The Big Bang Theory” (which, as we all know, will likely run at least another 50 years).

Bury me in the center of the Earth

Get out your shovels, folks!  I want be way, way, way down there.  I mean thousands upon thousands of miles down.  Put me with the creepy troglodytes and slithering eyeless things. As far as a casket, a rusty discarded refrigerator from the 1950s will do.  Just stuff me in there all willy-nilly.

Cremate me

Burn, baby, burn.  And I’m going to be one of those pains in the ass who wants my ashes spread in a really specific manner.  I want a paraglider to spread me over the Alps in Bavaria.  But he/she has to be wearing a Mila Kunis mask while listening to the Ramones and eating deep-dish pizza.  And if you just scatter me in your backyard instead, I will come back and haunt the living shit out of you.

Toss me off a cliff into a body of water

Ah, food for the fishies and sharks.  Plus, if a fisherman finds me and reports me, it’d be amusing to say, “yeah, we threw him there.  It was at his request.  Yeah, we know it’s stupid.  Just carry on, piscator.”

Throw me into the woods

More food for wildlife.  I’ll be perfectly content looking down from above (hopefully, it’ll be above) and seeing the wolves rip me to shreds.  Or squirrels or ferrets.  Or field mice.  Or butterflies.

Freeze me

If it’s good enough for Walt Disney, it’s good enough for me.  Maybe I can be unfrozen hundreds of years later and freak out at a post-apocalyptic dystopian world.  That’d be cool.

Shoot me into space

Maybe I would land on the moon; I always thought the moon is pretty.  Or I could come back to life via some science-fiction ploy like in “Star Trek III: The Search for Spock.”

Put my head in a jar of liquid like on “Futurama”

Now how cool would that be?  With any luck, I could hang out with the Planet Express crew and smoke cigars and chase women with Bender.

Mummify me

Then I could live out my dream of being Boris Karloff and coming back to life and terrorizing everybody.  None of that modern Brendan Fraser shit, though.  And throw lots of spices and perfume in there.  Nobody likes a stinky mummy.

Plasticize me

I could see being in a museum with lots of slack-jawed yokels staring at me, a sliced-in-half dude, posed in an “I’m about to serve a tennis ball” stance.  The tour guide could say, “here’s a perfect example of a human who had no regard for his body whatsoever.  Beware.”

Freeze-dry me

But add some flavor to me, like French vanilla or hazelnut, so folks could enjoy me as a coffee.  “This mocha-flavored Webel really hits the spot on this cold winter morn.”

Eat me

No, really.  If there’s a massive food shortage, just eat the hell out of me.  Groceries will probably be extra-expensive.  All I ask is that you eat my buttocks last.  I want my ass to be the final thing this world sees.