Head of Personal Assistance
I'm not the sort of person who cares about other people, the different kinds of lives that they have, their experiences. But what about other people? Do they feel differently? I didn't know.
I decided to spend a week as a deaf person, to see what it was like. Not that I cared. I didn't care at all. But a deaf person would care ... and I wanted to see what that was like.
I woke up late ... what the?! I had not heard my alarm and had turned it off. Crazy! And then I remembered: oh, yeah! I'm a deaf guy this week. Of course I hadn't heard it. And I realized that the deaf probably can't hold jobs, keep appointments. I decided to start over the next day, and I rolled over to get some important zees for that.
One of the worst things about being deaf is no more tunes. You can try, but it's not the same. It's just noise. It made me very, very depressed. Being deaf was so awful. But then I remembered that it was only a week. Anybody can do that. Not even a challenge. I felt a lot better ... and it occurred to me that a big part of being deaf is your attitude. Focus on the positive. Anyway, since it was not a challenge I threw on the old headphones and it was welcome back, tunes. See what I mean about attitude, deaf people?
The deaf can't hear when cars are coming, so today I wandered into traffic. You should have heard the freakin' brakes squeal. One guy leaned out his window and screamed at me. Asked if I was blind. Humiliating. I screamed back, "Fuck you, asshole!" But because I'm deaf, it came out sort of like, "Funt oo, antho!" Touché, society. One more little victory for you.
Another thing: just because we're deaf doesn't mean it won't hurt our ears when you scream at us. It will.
If you're deaf, you can't serve in the Marine Corps. So I paid a little visit to my local Marine recruiting office, so that I could both try to serve my country and not have to.
The guy praised the virtues of military life for a while until I told him, you know, fascinating and all that but you can stop now because I can't hear you. But it came out bad. All nasally and deaf-sounding. So I figured I'd give sign-language a try. How hard could it be? But nothing. Okay, I'll write him a note. But five minutes later all I had to show for my efforts was a napkin full of spelling errors, errors of grammar, bad language. I started sweatin' bullets. Finally I just got up and ran out, much to his surprise.
Anyway, that's the story of how LIAR George Bush almost sent me to die in Iraq.
Are deaf people simply mentally retarded? I have completely lost track of what day it is. How much longer must I do this? Whatever sympathy I might have had for deaf people is gone. I hate this.
I went to the park. Say: can deaf people hear dog whistles? It would be an ideal way to communicate with them. They could communicate back using regular whistles. I needed to talk to a pet store. I found a phone book, got a number and dialed it, and told the lady I was a deaf guy trying to get his hands on
Advisor to the Janitorial Team
Red Skelton invented the television clown character Clem Kadiddlehopper, but I had a more rational reason to kill him. You see, I had been looking for a hobby that would combine my love of art -- and I have taken graphic arts classes -- with my interest in violent crime. And I was down there in Red Skelton Galleries just sort of looking around me in bewilderment when I got this idea: I would purchase a painting by Skelton, murder him, resell the painting at enormous profit, and ... can you spell "vacationing on the beaches of Casumel(sp?)"?
Everyone knows that your paintings are more valuable after you are murdered. Why? Duh. Because it's in the papers, everyone's talking about it. And you know the saying. There's no such thing as bad publicity. You get more for your paintings.
I summoned the curator to my side. "How much is this one? What is it?"
She smiled. "This precious piece is a signed original portrait of Whistlestop Willie, one of Mr. Skelton's most popular clown characters. It sells for $169.95."
Bitch gets all whacked on me. "Sir. This one-of-a-kind original signed by Mr. Red Skelton himself sells for $129.95."
She didn't get it. I leaned in. "Look. If I already had money I sure as shit wouldn't be in here."
I ended up buying a cocktail coaster of "Clown #12," signed on the back by the owner (me), at the cost of a sweet crumpled fiver.
Now to murder him. I checked the phone book. Not listed. Hmm ... made sense. Like all artists, Skelton had a price on his head. But then I realized that "Red Skelton" was probably a stage name. Think about it. If your given name was, say, "Dick Long," you would change it to Red Skelton if you wanted anyone to take you seriously as an artist. Right? Of course. Well, turns out Mr. Long never heard of him. Hmm. So what about Jim Jizzum, or I. B. Putz? Not listed. No fool, this Skelton.
Next day I was kickin' back after a long day of trying to murder Skelton and was sampling a nice bottle of vino when I look over -- fuck! -- the Skelton cocktail coaster has a freakin' wine stain on it! Unbelievable, right? Fucking unbelievable. Coasters are designed to protect against stains. Skelton had sold me a bad coaster. I was so going to murder him.
Researching Skelton's home address at the library and get this. Turns out the guy already died. In 1997. That means my Skelton coaster had already appreciated in value before I bought it ... saving me much time and energy. And I made a mental note to find out who bumped him off and send him a letter blackmailing him.
I looked at my stained little coaster, decorated with Skelton's colorful clown painting. And I thought ...
... I hope his death was gory.
Now to sell it on eBay. First I would need a computer ... and for that I would need some dough. I went down to Pawn Mart to see how much they'd give me for my Skelton coaster. They apparently had not gotten the news about the murder, and looked at me like I was