Friday, January 20, 2017

Inauguration speech of President Donald J. Trump



(Mr. Trump approaches the podium as Queen’s “We Will Rock You” blasts)

(Thunderous applause)

(Mr. Trump postures and poses until the song transitions into “We Are the Champions.” He leads the crowd in a sing-a-long.)


Thank you, you wonderful poorly-educated people.


(Wild cheers)


We did it. We motherfuckin’ did it. That’s right, I can say “motherfuckin’” on national TV and there’s not a motherfuckin’ thing anybody can do about it.


(Hooting and hollering, guns fired into the air)


Let’s get right to it. My hands are normal-sized and my dick is enormous. It’s the kind of dick we need to make America great again.


(Whistles and hoots from women)


Me and my dick will build a wall on the Mexican border. I mean a wall that will put that wall in Game of Thrones to motherfuckin’ shame.


Woman in crowd: You’re cuter than Jon Snow!


Thanks, doll.  Have a few chips, good at any Trump casino.


(Tosses $25 in casino chips)

(Woman enthusiastically exposes her breasts)


Thanks again. Anyway, back to me. ISIS? Those motherfuckers are toast. I mean drone strikes 24/7 till the motherfuckin’ cows come home. Which will be never.




Are you motherfuckin’ kidding me?


(Wild cheers)


And you damn minorities? You make me want to puke my motherfuckin’ guts out. You’re fired.


(Loud booing)


Minority Protester #4,972: You suck, Orangeface!


Have everyone killed.


(Everyone in the audience is killed)


And there you go. Buy my books.




Have those crickets killed.



I’ve been kickin’ around now for 52 years (and I still have all but one of my teeth).

If I had to choose a favorite year out of all of those, I’d say it was 1994.  Here’s my breakdown of why:

1. I was seven years into my marriage – and thought it was a good relationship. (The marriage ended five years later.)

2. I’d been doing (local) stand-up comedy for four years, and was having a lot of fun with it.

3. As a punk-pop fan, three of my favorite albums were released: Smash (The Offspring), Punk In Drublic (NOFX), and Dookie (Green Day).

4. As a movie fan in general, I love: The Shawshank Redemption, The Last Seduction, and Pulp Fiction.

5. Bill “Studmuffin” Clinton had been in office a couple of years; of the nine presidents in my lifetime, I have to say he was the best. The country was at least relatively employed, and we had a surplus of cash in the coffers.

6. Beatlemania was in high gear. Wait, that was 1964.

Anyway, I look forward to my new favorite year. I’m guessing it’ll be 2175 (I plan to be cryogenically frozen, then reawakened.)

I finally started watching the Netflix series “House of Cards.” In one episode, a young journalist, Zoe (Kate Mara), quits her newspaper job and starts working for a blog. She’s chatting with her boss, also a young woman, and the boss says she’ll likely sell the blog sometime down the road.

Zoe: So I might not have a job in two years?

Boss: Do you really want ANY job for more than two years?

That response got me thinking about the jobs I’ve had, and about my life in general. You know what? I seem to have a pattern of short-term commitments.

The longest romantic relationship I’ve had was my marriage, which was 11 years. Interweb statistics on this vary, but I think that’s a little less than average. Still, not bad, considering she was quite the harpy shrew.

The longest I’ve been employed at one company is 7 years. Google sez: average is 4.4 years. Pretty impressive, considering that both the commute and my boss completely sucked.

The wife and I moved to the Chicago area in 1990. I had a job and she was looking for one. Within the first two weeks, she started working as a receptionist at an insurance company.

She’s still there (in a much higher position). She will be there until she retires…a total of roughly 40 years.

I can’t wrap my head around that. Forty fucking years. At the same company. At 40 hours a week, that’s 83,200 hours of your goddamn life. AT THE SAME COMPANY.

And then there are couples who have been together for sixty years or more. SIXTY FUCKING YEARS. Damn. The sex better be mind-blowing, even after you both turn 80.

Let’s see – other romantic relationships since my divorce? 1. A little over a year 2. a couple of months, and 3. a couple of weeks. Other jobs? Those stints range from six months to four years.

I’m now at 2 1/2 years at my current job, and I’m ready to leave. So I totally get the “more than two years?” line.

Why am I such a short-hauler? I guess I’m just a person who bores easily, or quickly gets tired of the grind. Perhaps it’s because I have a hyperactive brain. Maybe it’s because I really don’t like working and don’t care if I’m in a relationship.

Anyway, cheers to you lifers, both in jobs and relationships. You all have wills of steel that I could never possess.

Okay, I tried to be clever with that title, but it kind of fell flat. But it’s okay…you know why? Because I’m WRITING! I love writing! Even if it sucks!

Most people think writing is a chore. It’s something they made you do in school and it was stupid and hard and why was life so unfair?

Not me. I’d write (and illustrate) dozens of books just for the sheer pleasure of making pure art. You want to read cutting-edge joke, monster, or war books written by an eight-year-old? I was the dude.

Anyway, I’d say I’m the strong, silent type, but I can only lift about 12 pounds, so I’m more the silent type.

It’s because I think a lot. What do I think about? WRITING!

Writing is just putting letters and symbols and spaces in a particular order. I just blew your mind, didn’t I? WRITING!

Writing is probably my favorite invention. If it weren’t invented, you wouldn’t be reading this right now. Whoa! WRITING!

Anyway, here’s a shameless plug to an earlier blog post:


Cheers! Write your little hearts out!

— Gary (Pseudonym to be Determined)

Someone asks you: “what’s your dream job?” Do you have an immediate answer?

A few years ago, I was unemployed. At an interview at an employment agency, a young woman asked me that question.

I said, “writing for Stephen Colbert’s show.”

She smiled and said, “no, something realistic.”

I was taken aback. Mainly because if I ever asked someone that question, I would never respond with that.

If I asked you and your answer was, “feeling newly-installed fake boobs for realism,” I’d say, “you go, girl.”

I wouldn’t piss on your parade. If your answer were totally outrageous, I’d say, “that’s interesting. Do you think your skill set will help you achieve that position?”

I guess my point is: it seemed really unprofessional, and I hate unprofessionalism. My answer (laughing a bit):

“How is that not realistic?”

She just looked confused, then angrily scribbled on her questionnaire thing. I was never in touch with that agency again.


Oh, and my answer now? Colbert would still be great, but I’d really like to write for The Onion. (You guys are based in Chicago. If an Onion writer reads this, call me. XOXOXO)

I was born in 1964. Yeah, I’m goddamned old.

Anyway, here are my top 20 favorite celebrities who are also ’64 babies.

20. Courtney Love


19. John Leguizamo


18. Andy Serkis


17. Janeane Garofalo


16. Guillermo del Toro


15. Keanu Reeves

Keanu Reeves, host and producer of the documentary film "Side By Side," addresses reporters during the PBS Summer 2013 TCA press tour at the Beverly Hilton Hotel on Tuesday, Aug. 6, 2013, in Beverly Hills, Calif. (Photo by Chris Pizzello/Invision/AP)

14. Laura Linney


13. Clive Owen


12. Russell Crowe


11. Courteney Cox


10.  Nicolas Cage


9. Teri Hatcher


8. Sandra Bullock


7. Rob Lowe (this dude doesn’t age, I swear)


6. Hank Azaria


5. David Cross


4. Crispin Glover


3. Mary-Louise Parker

MARY-LOUISE PARKER at Weeds Panel at 2012 Summer TCA Tour in Los Angeles

2. Marisa Tomei


1. Stephen Colbert



[Editor’s note: Professor Smartstuff is a professor. A professor of truth.]


Dear Professor Smartstuff:

Are there bugs in my eyes?


— Bug-Eyed in Baltimore


Dear Bug-Eyed:

It depends on what you mean. If you mean “insects,” then yes, there are billions of insects called Itchbitches in every single human eye. They eventually eat the entire eyeball. Try not to think about it. It’s horrific.

If you mean bugs like the CIA would plant or the cops in “The Wire” would use, then the answer is probably still yes. The government has bugs everywhere. They’re probably bugging this computer right now, the bastards.



Dear Professor Smartstuff:

Who shot J.R.?


— Curious in Kalamazoo


Dear Curious:

Geez, I really don’t remember. Some chick, I think. Great, now that will be nagging me all day.



Deer Professer Smrt stuf:

I swallered three rattellsnakes. Will I die?


— Snakey McSnakerson


Dear S.M.:

We all die. Will you die soon? I’d say yes. That doesn’t sound like a survivable scenario. It’ll probably be really painful, too. Thanks for writing!



Dear “Professor” “Smart” “Stuff”:

Would you rather be Fred Flintstone or George Jetson?


— Hanna and/or Barbera


Dear Either/Or Person:

You’re not going to fool me with that question. I’d be a genetically perfect combination of the two. Duh.



Dear Sir:

How hot is ice?


— Timmy Toblerone, age 4


Dear Lil’ Timmy:

Ha ha ha! That’s cute. Seriously, not very fucking hot.



Dear Prof. Guy:

I’m broke. How do I get money?


–“Poorboy” Pickenberry


Dear “Poor”:

Go to a surly loan shark, get a bundle, and gamble it into a fortune. Easy-peasy! Just don’t lose, because, well…just don’t lose. Or maybe fake an injury and sue somebody. Actually, I have no idea.



Dear Smartypants:

Would you rather be in “Game of Thrones” or “Married with Children”?


— Charlie “T.V. Tool” Fensicle


Dear Tool:

I’d be Al Bundy in “Game of Thrones.” That would be comedy gold.



Dearest and Most Honorable Smartbrain:

Who let the dogs out?




Dear Sicko:

I did, this morning. Remember? Why…did something happen?


I’m 51 years old, and never had kids (or, as the cliché goes, none that I know of).  That’s mainly because the ex-wife didn’t want any, and I didn’t really care.

Sometimes people will ask, “Don’t you wish you had kids?”

That’s a good question. The answer is: no.

Why? Let’s say I had one offspring. For pronoun ease, let’s say I had a son.

That boy would be born angelic, as if spawned from some kind of bizarre supernatural spermatozoa. As he came out of the chute, an eerie but obvious presence would be present in the delivery room. The doctor and nurses would be really creeped out, but would continue with the procedure because they’re paid well and want to witness the mysterious miracle.

The kid would be a prodigy of which prodigies have never seen. By age two, he’d be playing twelve musical instruments, reading on a college level, and hanging out with Neil deGrasse Tyson (and it’s cool that Neil would change his diaper).

I’d quickly grow to resent the bastard (I use “bastard” figuratively here, assuming he was born in wedlock).

By age four, he’d he a neurosurgeon or important diplomat or rock star. I’d want to be a good dad, but his rapid achievements would just make me even more bitter about my own failings. I’d quickly slide into a vicious cycle of cocaine, heroin, crack, poppers, and fast food.

By age eight, when he’s President of the World, I’d slash my wrists with a rusty pen knife in the gutter under some broken-down bridge (which he’ll repair now that he’s President of the World).

So that’s why I don’t have a kid. His awesomeness would be my demise.

I was on the football team in high school. My freshman year, we were going through summertime two-a-day practices. One blazing-hot day, we were on the afternoon second practice.

We’d been running drills for at least two hours, and I was dripping with sweat and really ready to go home…as were the other kids.

The final drill was open-field tackling. One kid would tuck the ball, run toward a single defender, and try to get past him.

The coach said, “I haven’t seen a single good hit all day. If I see one good hit, we’ll take it in.”

I was in the line for ball-tucking running (I was pretty fast back in the day). Nobody in line before me did anything spectacular, so the drill continued.

I took the ball. The kid who was up against me for the defending position was the biggest kid on the team. Kind of freakish. Seriously, he could’ve passed for at least 22.

I said to myself, “How badly do you want this practice to end?”

So I charged at him full-bore, full-blast. I remember that at about 5 yards away he had this look in his eyes that said, “is this guy going to dodge or spin, or what?”

I ran straight into him. The next thing I remember was waking up on the ground, flat on my back. Everyone was looking at me, including the coach, who said, “okay, let’s take it in.”

Definitely worth it.

Ever been feeling low, then suddenly remember an obscure but really happy thought from way back when…and you were immediately cheerful?

This thought just came ‘round:

Back some New Year’s Eve in the early 90s, I was booked as the emcee for the night’s comedy shows at the Radisson Hotel in Merrillville, IN. It’s a big nice hotel, and instead of using the facility’s small comedy club, the shows were held in the main banquet hall, which is HUGE. It was the biggest audience for which I ever performed.

An hour or so before the first show, the club manager came up to me. She said, “you know, a few weeks ago when the agent told me the lineup for tonight, it was different. I said, ‘do I have any say-so in the talent?’ He said, ‘I guess…who do you have in mind?’ I said, “I want Gary Webel to emcee.’ He said, “I’ll give him a call.’”

Then I ravaged her. Just kidding. I thanked her profusely.

I just found it quite heartwarming that a manager (who never requested particular comics) would want me to start the biggest shows of the year – because she thought I kicked ass.

And the shows went great. Not a drop of flop sweat. And no broken guitar strings. That always sucked.