The Quip and the Dead

Putting the fun back into the crime scene investigation

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Originally published October 2012

The Gang's All Here!

The star-studded casts of both NTSF:SD:SUV:: and Children's Hospital got together for a once-in-a-blue-moon photo.

Originally published October 2012

The Occasional's Guide to Voting

A How-To with Andy Richter

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Remember the old days of pulling a lever to cast your vote? Of course you don't! That was a dumb time that only old people lived through! We're young and our time is precious, which is why the government made it easy for us to choose politicians by marking a ballot and scanning it into a computer. But for the few of you who have never felt the ecstasy of participating in our democracy, Andy Richter is here to show you how to take part in the 2012 election.

Step 1

Carefully study the candidates and decide who you feel will best lead the nation. Today's the day you vote for President.

Step 2

Check in to your polling site by providing proper identification. 

Step 3

Step into the booth, close the curtain, and prepare to fulfill your duty as an American.

Step 4

Go over your decision one last time. Remember, this vote directly impacts the fate of America.  

Step 5

On your ballot, find the name of the candidate you wish to vote for

Step 6

Confidently make your selection by filling in your ballot with the pen provided.

Step 7

Exit the voting booth with your ballot in hand.

Step 8

Find one of the many scanners outside the booth and insert your ballot. Don't worry. This seems tricky, but a volunteer will assist you.

Step 9

Congratulations. By casting your vote, you have played an essential part in the political process.

Step 10

That night, turn on the news to see who won the general election. 

Step 11

After four years, prepare to do your part as an American all over again. It's democracy in action. 

This article was originally published October 2012

Horses Dish on Rafalca

The real dirt on the Romney’s dressage mare.

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Clover Handbag

Racehorse

"First of all, what kind of name is Rafalca? Seriously. Any self-respecting horse would have a normal name, like Uncle Vanya’s Deposit or Remembering Another Dashboard. I was introduced to her by my friend Too Many Corduroy Balloons, and I said, ‘Girl, you gotta do something about your name,’ and she was like, ‘Mummy and Papa think it sounds classy,’ and I was like, ‘Rafalca sounds like someone throwing up in the middle of saying alfalfa.’ And she got really mad and whispered, ‘I’ll pay someone to turn you into glue just to watch you die.’ That’s when I realized: It doesn’t matter what her name is. This horse is an asshole."

Heraclitus

Dressage Horse

"Look, most of us dressage horses are pretty well off -- well, not US, exactly -- we’re still horses, after all, and we’re bred to dance around like mincing idiots for millionaires -- but our owners are pretty well off. But Rafalca’s owners are ... different. I mean, they have all this money, and yet they don’t drink? My owners spend thousands of dollars on champagne every month. What do Rafalca’s owners spend their money on? Rafalca’s always bragging that her hay is really high quality, but c’mon -- it’s hay, you know? It can only be so nice. I’m no accountant, but part of me wonders if Rafalca’s owners keep their money hidden somewhere, out of sight."

Adagio

Quarter Horse

"Those Romney people spent all that money on her, and then she only placed 26th at the Olympics! We all had a good laugh over that. Her canter looked like four buckets falling off a staircase."

Lulu

Dressage Horse

"As a Christ-centered horse, I was bothered by Rafalca’s Mormonism. At first she was real cagey about it -- ‘It’s not my religion, it’s my owners’ religion,’ things like that. Then one night me and some other horses were up late talking about what happens after you die and Rafalca overheard us and got all excited and started stamping her hooves and talking about how in Mormonism, when you die you go to a different planet, like on Star Trek -- she kept saying, ‘I’ll be a space horse, I’ll be a space horse!’ And we were like, ‘Chill out, already. You just knocked over a water bucket,’ and she yelled, ‘All non-Mormon horses will be cast into the Outer Darkness!’ and left."

This article was originally published October 2012

Fucking, Privates, Ryan

Gay Erotica from the top of the GOP

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T

here was never any doubt in his mind who was going to be his running-mate.  The whole search was just a pageant, a show.  Kicking the tires, testing the gag reflexes, putting his detractors in their place. Not below him so much as under him.  Looking up at him. Choking on him and saying “thank you” with their mouths full.

No, it was never even a contest. No game to be gamechanged.  He’d known it the first time he saw Paul Ryan. Fat-free, big-eared, that widow’s peak such a perfect cum-target, only God could’ve made it. Budget schmudget, Daddy Mitt wanted to fudge it. Now that he’d basically farted his way to the top of the GOP, he was gonna get whatever the fuck he wanted for a change.  

And he wanted Paul motherfucking Ryan. Superstar.  

Privatize Medicare? Sure. How ‘bout publicize your taint? Squeeze it up against a fax machine and push Send with the tip of your dick.  

Subject: Grundle. Message: “All Yours!” Number of Pages: Less than 1.  

There were lots of fun things to do in an office at any given point throughout the workday. He remembered fondly the first time it occurred to him to staple his assistant’s tie to the desk while plowing him from behind. DJ loved his ties almost as much as he loved getting an assful of Daddy Mitt for lunch. Life was is all about give and take, and it’s the mentor’s job to teach his mentee about life. He liked to put condoms next to his deskside espresso machine with a little sign above them that said “Things We Don’t Use.” Caffeine’s a sin.

Few things made him laugh as hard as watching the media figuring out how fucking beautiful Ryan’s body was. What took them so long, were they bind? Blindness would explain the way they trip all over themselves sometimes, trying to ask him about P90X and food stamps in the same sentence. “How do you keep your abs so cut-up, and why are poor people fat when they can’t even afford food?”

Ryan had told Mitt all about his fitness routine the first time they’d met--a blustery fuck of a day in Wisconsin years back, when Mitt was passing through on a tour of America’s unfuckable midsection.  

“Muscle Confusion” was the general thrust of the workout philosophy, he recalled--the idea that if your muscles are constantly doing something they’re not used to, that they don’t see coming, the results would be magnificent. The wheels began turning then.  

There were so many things Mitt could do to confuse Paul’s muscles. Lick them, sure, but maybe they’d see that coming. Maybe Janna even did that for him, who knows? He’d seen a woman lick a man’s muscles in porn once, but she was just probably trying to extract a little extra cocaine from his sweat so she’d be awake for the cumshot. Showbiz is all about lies.

Maybe he could tickle them? Squeeze them? Pour hot wax on them and watch it dry. Definitely cum on them, piss a little, but that was getting ahead of himself. Act like he’s about to lick them and then fucking bite them? That sounded more like it. Surprise is confusion’s fun cousin. Hey, that’s a smart thought. He’d write it down if his hands weren’t so busy brutally jerking his big Mormon dick, a two-handed job since the age of 13. But back to muscles...

The anus is basically just a muscle covered in skin and removable hair. A sphincter muscle, he’d learned from watching a VHS of Wayne’s World at church.  

“Sphincter.” So scientific. He hated science for ruining the magic of ignorance. The possibility to go through life not knowing what stuff is called, what it does--that was a fundamental right that’d been chipped away at for too damn long. People should be allowed to choose to know nothing. Everyone deserves that choice (and no other choices).  

He preferred to think of the anus as a tiny mouth sometimes, other times a peachy door to be kicked down like the cops do in movies. What was behind that door was anyone’s guess, different every time. A hot balloon, an empty tomato...

Whatever Paul’s inside-muscles were like, they were about to get the confusion of a lifetime. Even if Paul wanted it, which he almost certainly did not, it wouldn’t be easy. He’d have to start slow, very slow. Almost lovingly, which was too human an emotion for Daddy Mitt to rest his sack on these days, but he could fake it. He could fake anything.

But when?  

At the Convention? Too obvious, and anyway, that was always the best time to fuck the press--they were so horny for any attention, anything extra, a non-speech moment that was all theirs. His favorite was the PBS intern pool because they reminded him of the ugly kids at LDS camp who’d let you do anything to them. The back of their heads were basically flat by the end of the summer.

Some fake security summit would be ideal, imminent threat in the air like the hot, toxic exhalation of a good hit of poppers. But who had the time to call one? And was there anything to be scared of anymore? Mitt couldn’t remember. DJ loved poppers.

Ryan loved budgetary hearings, that’s where he really shined. Daddy Mitt could could call a special one just for them, let the kid show off a little bit, feel special, then BAM! Thumb up his ass! “Great job Vicey,” he’d whisper into one gigantic, vanilla-flavored man ear. “You gotta tighten that fuckin’ belt, baby. Let the good stuff trickle on down.” And then THRUST.

"DJ," he grunted into the intercom on his desk, mid stroke, his hairy knuckles sticky with Satan’s boogers (that’s what they called precum in church every week). "Call Ryan in here to talk about our budget, get our platform banged out." He meant ‘ironed out,’ but he’d never ironed anything before and didn’t want to lie.

"Yes, sir, Daddy!" the twink chirped back from less than 30 feet away. "In the meantime--"

"Yes, baby. Bring in the stapler and that sweet little puss of yours."

This article was originally published October 2012

K&A: Joe Mande

Julie Klausner chats with Joe Mande, a successful writer & standup, and a rapscallion on Twitter and a must-follow.

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Julie Klausner: Hi Joe Mande! How are you liking living in Los Angeles so far?

Joe Mande: Los Angeles is good, thank you! I got a Prius and an apartment in Los Feliz.  I’m settling into an exciting new cliché!

JK: What will you miss least about your old neighborhood in Brooklyn?

JM: I’ve been away from Brooklyn for only two months, but already miss it very much. However, what I definitely don’t miss are the Brooklyn sidewalks, which seem to be constantly littered with an almost defiant amount of dog shit and used condoms. 

JK: When will your dog, Blanche be joining you in California? Do you think she will like LA? 

JM: I’m very excited for Blanche to become a California resident. Dogs just seem happier here. What LA lacks in used condoms on the sidewalk (her #2 favorite thing in the world), it more than makes up for in sunshine (her #1 favorite thing).

JK: Tell me about your friend JoeMande on OKCupid. Who do you think would be a good match for him, romantically?

JM: JoeMande is an enormous black man living in Norway whom I found recently online while googling myself. He seems pretty chill. If there is a massive Norwegian Nubian princess on OKCupid, I hope they find one another.

JK: I know you’re working for Parks & Rec now. Do you follow politics in general? I know that show isn’t really about politics. It is a workplace comedy! But I am using it as a point of departure.

JM: I follow many politicians on Twitter. Does that count?

JK: Yes. What do you think of Paul Ryan?

JM: He seems nice, but his views on women’s reproductive rights and the role of government in general frighten me and should prevent him from becoming the Vice President of the United States. That being said, I do think he looks like he could manage the fuck out of an Applebee’s.

JK: What is your Brunch order?

JM: That’s probably the hardest question to answer. Like, in life. I wish I could eat brunch for every meal. French toast is always a pretty safe bet. Sometimes I go crazy and get chicken and waffles. Or just a biscuit with cream cheese and hot pepper jelly. A lot of the time I just  want to stuff my face with baked eggs, you know? If a place knows how to make a good roasted tomato, fucking forget about it. (I could go on for another 8 pages, but will stop as a gesture of respect to your other questions.)

JK: That is wonderful. What was the last thing you looked at on the internet while you were high?

JM: I had recently developed a bad habit of watching a lot of open-heart surgeries on YouTube, but then my girlfriend requested that I stop doing that. I believe the last stoned YouTube rabbit hole I went down was watching all the various theme songs to Martin and the Cosby Show. Really great stuff. 

JK: What’s the whitest thing about you?

JM: I have a season pass for Meet the Press on my DVR.

JK: What were you like in junior high?

JM: I was about four feet tall, rollerbladed to school, masturbated constantly, wore Smashing Pumpkins and Beastie Boys t-shirts, and was elected student council president.

JK: Why don’t you have a podcast? Is that legal? You’re a standup comedian in LA.

JM: Well, I’ve noticed that the only things I talk about on a regular basis are: sneakers, coffee, The Newsroom, and the racial makeup of the Minnesota Timberwolves. I feel bad subjecting my friends to these conversations. I can’t even imagine recording myself and expecting strangers to listen to them.

JK: Do you like cats or do you think they are dumb?

JM: I get that cats are low maintenance, which is great. But the only cool cats I’ve ever met were the ones that acted like dogs. So just get a dog. I’m speaking to you specifically, Julie. I want you to get a dog.

JK: I WANT TO GET A DOG! I will get a dog when I inevitably move to LA. Until then, it’s Cats, Cats, Cats! Anyway. Please tell the world what you and your awesome girlfriend Kylie say to Blanche when she misbehaves.

JM: When Blanche acts up we say, “Time out, Blanche” and she runs into the bathroom and stares sadly into our bathtub.

JK: HAAHAHA! I love that. I miss you! This isn’t a question. 

JM: I miss you too. Am I getting fat? That is a question.

JK: No!!!!!

This article was originally published October 2012

Dating Advice from an Eight-Year-Old

Dear Lucas, 
I'm 30 years old and never had a serious relationship. I've been out with so many guys that I no longer think I can recognize Mr. Right. How will I know if I really love someone?Tired in Tahoe

Dear tired, 
You know you've found someone you love when you vomit every time you see them. My Mom told me that's why I vomit all the time. Because I'm in love. My school nurse said it's because I'm not getting enough nutrients in my diet and my body is rejecting everything. Love is so fun!
Lucas

Dear Lucas, 
My girlfriend just told me she's never had sex and I can't decide if this is a good thing. I don't know if I can handle the pressure of being her first. What if I'm bad and she never wants to do it again?
Scared in Sacramento

Dear scared, 
This is great news. When I hide under my parents' bed at night, I always hear my mom tell my dad "Already?" and then he says "I'm under a lot of pressure at work, can we try again in ten minutes?" And then he says something about it being her fault. Then she says the first time they had sex was the "biggest mistake of her life," which is funny because that's what she calls me! My mom's always joking and crying. Anyway, my parents are very happy and they wish they never even had sex so you should be happy you and your girlfriend still haven't, too. 
Lucas

Dear Lucas, 
My boyfriend and I were at McDonald's and we got in this huge fight. He stormed out and I haven't seen him in a week. Do I give him his space or should I reach out to him?
Boyfriendless in Boise

Dear Boyfriendless, 
You were at McDonald's! I'm so jealous. My mom brings me to Wendy's on Tuesdays and drops me off for 45 minutes while she checks into a hotel for a nap. She says it's the same thing but I wouldn't know. Does McDonald's also have a man with a beard who sneezes on your Frostee?
Lucas

Dear Lucas, 
I'm not sure you should be hanging out at a Wendy's by yourself. Also, what should I do about my relationship?
Still Boyfriendless

Dear Boyfriendless, 
Please answer the question about the Frostees. I'm very thirsty.
Lucas

Dear Lucas, 
Tell me what Wendy's you're at and I'll come help. I'm a social worker and would love to talk to you about your home life.
Still Boyfriendless

Dear Boyfriendless, 
Whenever my dad is on a business trip, my mom has what she calls "morning friends." When I ask them what their favorite cereal is, my mom tells me I'm not allowed to talk to strangers so I don't think I can talk to you. It is my professional opinion that we end our correspondence. 
Lucas

This article was originally published October 2012

Five Questions with Kyle Kinane

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What is the greatest state?

Inertia. Or California. I love California. You can go to the beach, the desert, and the mountains in one day. I've never done that, of course. It is a preposterous notion. But I do go to the pho place down the street from my house, which is also right next to my laundromat. How many states have a mediocre pho restaurant next to a laundromat right by where I live? Not Michigan! No, sir. Mostly because I don't live in Michigan. Plus, I can see the mountains from my house when the smog clears, which is never. The best state is California, because you can pretend to see smog-hidden mountains from a syringe-covered beach while remembering there's a desert you have to cross when you drive to Vegas, which is never, because Vegas is a Swiffer mop for overfed retards. 

Who is the most American person of all time?

Psh. Evel Knievel. He invented the Grand Canyon and jumped over five presidents at once with a motorcycle and in 1972 he started eating a pound of Canadian soil a day just so he could shit it out and make it property of the USA. 

Are you, or have you ever been a Communist?

One time I got in trouble for bringing candy to school because the teacher said if I wanted to bring candy, I had to bring some for everyone in the class, so the next day I did, and then Joseph McCarthy blacklisted me from being in the school play.

Someone is treading on you. What do you do?

KEEP YOUR HASHTAGS OFF MY BODY... wait, what did you say? Treading? Oh, nevermind. I don't know what treading is. Who is doing the treading? Everyone's got something that gets them off in this world. Maybe I'm down with treading. Gotta try it first. 

What would your perfect flag look like?

First off, we need to get rid of these goddamn rectangles. I would have a circular flag that, when folded properly for ceremonies, would resemble a slice of pizza. I would have a pizza flag with Joey Ramone in the middle of it. 

Photography by Mandee Johnson

This article was originally published October 2012

Lifestyle Review: Shower

Artie Johann illustration by Gregor Louden

I’m here today to talk to you about a new lifestyle that I discovered last week while I was stealing bike pedals at the gym. It’s called showering.

You might be asking yourself “If you’ve never heard of showering, how do you clean yourself?” Good question, simple answer: tongue baths. My motto has always been, “If it’s good enough for a cat, it’s good enough for me.” So, if cats can bathe themselves, why can’t I? I’ve got less hair and a bigger tongue, so it seemed natural. And it’s worked out great for the most part. The only time it became a problem was when I was around people, or at work, or not around people, or not at work.

The thing is, I’ve always known what a shower was, I just didn’t think people used them for anything. I thought they were purely decorative. You know, like the fruit they put in living room displays at IKEA. That fruit is not real, by the way. But that doesn’t mean you can’t eat it. Just because something isn’t food, doesn’t mean you can’t eat it. Like this one time, I ate my neighbor’s kid’s tire swing. They didn’t even get mad at me. They actually bought me dinner for a week straight, then checked in with me sporadically for the next couple years. They said it was to make sure I wasn’t eating more garbage, but I think it was because they respected what I did to their swing.

Since discovering this showering thing, I decided to do a little research. And I found that there’s a whole culture of it in our country. Apparently, about 98% of our population chooses showering as their primary method of cleaning.  And here I am thinking it was only for fancy, ribbon-wearing horses. Sometimes I’m such a dope.  

After some more research, I decided to try this thing for myself. Here are three things I noticed since I started:

1. That smell is gone. You know that smell that follows you around all day every day since you hit puberty? The one that smells like fleshy onions and dirty hair? Well, it’s gone. Showering must have cleaned out my sinuses or something. So that’s pretty cool.
2. The drain is the perfect size for pee. A lot of life is finding places to take a leak. And in the shower is the perfect spot. You can clean yourself and get rid of your waste at the same time. I know what you’re thinking, and no, you can’t poo in it. For some reason babies are allowed to poo while they take a bath, but when adults do it people think you’re being an asshole. Which is okay. Unless they’re like a Duke or something, I don’t care if people think I’m an asshole.
3. You can smoke in the shower and there’s never anybody telling you it’s bad. It’s hard nowadays to go places without people criticizing you for smoking. For example, I have these parents who give me a bunch of guff about it. I just tell them that I did it when I was nine years old and I was fine then, so why would it be any different now? Plus, everyone thought it was cool when I was nine. And trends don’t change. Why ruin my rep because my parents “want me around longer”?

Overall, I think showering is a lifestyle that’s here to stay. It’s easy, it’s fast, and there’ll always be enough water.  I know this because there are literally millions of faucets. I think that’s the problem in Africa. No faucets. All they need is a good plumber. You know, my uncle’s a plumber, he could probably do it. Actually, probably not. He’s afraid of flying, so I don’t know how he’d get there. I’m sure one of his friends would do it, just as long as it doesn’t get in the way of their bowling league. Plumbers get real serious about bowling. So they can help Africa any day, except Tuesday and Thursday nights.

Overall Rating

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Four Out of Five Weird Baby Heads

(Baby heads are weird.  They’re bald and lumpy and mostly ugly.  But they must be a good thing because people seem to love babies.  I don’t get it, but I’ll follow trends off a cliff and babies are hot right now.)

This article was originally published October 2012

The Time I Went to Prison

An excerpt from Tasteful Nudes

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T

he joint, the hoosegow, the gray bar hotel. Call it what you want, but I’ve always held a fascination for correctional facilities and the incarcerated in general. Otis,1 for example, was my favorite character on The Andy Griffith Show. He was a man with a story to tell.

This is my story.

I was drinking with my friends Carl and Clark one night at a bar in Hell’s Kitchen when suddenly, from out of nowhere, I got an idea. 

“Wouldn’t it be funny if I did a comedy show in prison?” I slurred.

“That would be hilarious!” Clark said, choking on his beer. “You’d die!”

“Yeah, they’d totally kill you!” Carl agreed with a smile. “It would be so great!”

“I know, right?” I agreed back for some reason.

We spent the next few minutes busting our guts over how my comedy routine might go over in prison, the various ways in which the inmates would torture, then kill me, all the nonconsensual intercourse I would be subjected to both before and after my death, and who would have to call my parents to tell them where to pick up the body. We were having a really nice time.

When I woke up the next afternoon, though I struggled to remember exactly why I’d brought up the topic of prison in the first place, I thought, “You know what would be really funny? If I went ahead and called an actual prison to set up a show.”

As I sat on the edge of my bed giggling uncontrollably to myself in my underwear, I was pretty sure it was one of the best ideas I’d had in a really long time. I decided to hop on the Internet and research what prisons were convenient to my apartment. And, as it turned out, there was a place called Sing Sing about thirty miles north of New York City in Ossining, New York, just a train ride away. It is a very popular, very prisony prison. I decided I should probably give them a call right away.

“Sing Sing Correctional Facility,” a voice on the other end grunted after a couple rings.

“Hello,” I said. “I’d like to speak to the comedy booker.”

The line got quiet. As it turned out, Sing Sing didn’t have a comedy booker. Undaunted, I pressed on and, after a few seconds of hushed conversation on the other end, was connected with the “deputy of programs.”

“Hi, this is Dave Hill . . . from show business,” I said.

“Of course, Dave!” the deputy replied. “How can I help you today?”

“I’d like to come up there and give your inmates the show of a lifetime!”2

After a few minutes of back and forth, I succeeded in booking myself a show at Sing Sing, a place I was determined to make every bit as fun as its name suggests, if only for a little while. I had hoped the deputy would have just said, “How soon can you get here?” But apparently they had a pretty action-packed schedule already and the show had to be slated for about six weeks out. It was a little frustrating, but I was still thrilled and immediately called Carl and Clark to tell them the good news.

“Sing Sing here I come!” I screamed.

Carl and Clark seemed just as excited about things as I was and, just as I had hoped, found my booking a show in a prison even funnier than our hypothetical conversation the night before.

“This is the greatest thing ever!” Carl said. “You’ll be killed instantly!”

“I know!” I laughed. “I know!”

Shiv Assortmant

In the weeks leading up to my Sing Sing debut, Carl, Clark, and I found the idea of me going to prison to be increasingly funny every time we discussed it. We even told all our friends about it, and it was funny every time then, too. About a week before my prison debut, when the reality of my situation finally kicked in, I suddenly didn’t find it quite as funny anymore. Instead, it seemed more like some sort of horrible prank I was inexplicably about to play on myself.

“What’s to stop a murderer who’s behind bars for life from killing again, maybe even just to break up the day a little bit?” I wondered.

I came up empty.

“I’m a dead man,” I moaned to myself.

Suddenly, all I could think about were the innumerable ways my show could go horribly wrong. I saw myself bombing, with microphone feedback filling the airspace where I’d hoped laughter would go. A lone inmate would approach the stage, slow-clapping at me before removing a shank3 from his waistband and driving it straight through my ribs, causing the inmates to laugh for the first time of the night. Then he’d call all his friends over to take turns shanking me, playing soccer with my head, calling me names, and having sex with my face. As I faded in and out of consciousness, I’d make eye contact with a corrections officer standing just a few feet away.

“Sorry, buddy,” his eyes would say. “I got a wife and kids and six weeks until I reach my pension—you’re on your own. Oh, and you need to work on your comedic timing.”

In the week leading up to the show, I watched this movie in my mind repeatedly. Sometimes I’d see it from my own perspective and sometimes I’d see it on one of those grainy security camera monitors I’d seen on those cable television prison shows.

“An auditorium full of furious and violent felons is no laughing matter,” the narrator would say. "Funnyman Dave Hill found out the hard way.”

Then they’d zoom in and freeze on my face and add some dramatic piano music to let the viewer know that I was pretty much the deadest guy ever.

Flyer

There were no two ways about it—I had to get out of this mess. To that end, I decided I would simply write an e-mail to the deputy at Sing Sing explaining that, as it turned out, I had been implanted with a baboon heart at birth and—while it had served me well for most of my life—it was now acting up and if I didn’t have surgery on it right away, I’d be dead by the weekend, which meant that I regretfully had no choice but to cancel the show. I’d even throw in something about how upset I was that I couldn’t just head on over to prison immediately after surgery because my uptight cardiothoracic surgeon was being a total dick about it.

Just as I was about to compose that e-mail, however, I saw there was another e-mail already waiting for me in my inbox. It was from the deputy at Sing Sing.

“I was just checking in to see if you were all set for your big show next week,” the deputy wrote. “The inmates are so excited to see you.”

“‘So excited to see me’?” I thought. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

And then I remembered: when I arranged the show, the deputy had asked me to send him a photo of myself so he could make a poster to hang around the prison. I had intentionally sent him the most effeminate looking photo of myself4 I could find because I thought that would be just one more funny thing in this whole scenario. And maybe it was, for a time, but now the men of Sing Sing knew exactly what I looked like. And, since convicts are historically irritable people and some of them might have been getting out soon, I realized I had no choice but to accept my fate.

“I’m really looking forward to coming,” I wrote back to the deputy, tears gathering in the corners of my eyes. “Oh, and, you know, just so I might better prepare myself, can you tell me exactly what sort of guys are ‘so excited to see me’?”

“So far about two hundred and fifty inmates have signed up for your show,” the deputy later replied. “They are all maximum-security violent felons and they really like jokes about being in jail. They will no doubt be your ‘toughest’ crowd.” Then, just to fuck with me, he put in one of those smiley face emoticons.

“That sick bastard!” I thought before slamming my laptop shut.

Despite my constant terror in the week prior, when the day of the show finally arrived, a sort of peaceful resolve washed over me, kind of like how the death row inmates always seem on those cable prison shows I was just talking about. Sure, I might get shanked or made someone’s bitch but—dammit—these guys were gonna get one hell of a show!

“Maybe I can just pretend I’m Bob Hope doing a USO show, only instead of soldiers I’ll be performing for murderers, rapists, and other guys who hate rules,” I thought. “Everything will be just fine.”

Eye Fucking

I had originally planned to head up to Sing Sing alone, but in the end I decided to bring Carl, Clark, and my friend Laura with me. If anything actually did go horribly wrong, I wanted someone to be able to tell my story. And since Carl and Laura were comedians, too, I had the option to push them on stage at any moment if I got too lonely out there by myself.

To help get into the spirit of things, on the drive up we took turns reading aloud from a dictionary of prison slang I’d found on the Internet. As it turned out, they have fun words for just about every- thing in prison. There was, of course, “keister,” a verb meaning to hide something in your ass, and “eye fucking,” which means to stare at someone aggressively for much longer than he’d normally be comfortable with. “Feed the warden” means to use a toilet,5 “jack shack” refers to the cell of a frequent masturbator, and “quit swinging on these nuts” is what you might say to someone who is being a sycophant.6 But our hands-down favorite was “fifi,” a fun word used to describe an artificial vagina made from a hand towel, a plastic bag, some hand lotion, a few rubberbands, and, presumably, lots and lots of tears.

Sing Sing itself occupies a stretch of land along the banks of the Hudson River that would likely be prime real estate if it weren’t for its current residents. As soon as we pulled onto the grounds, a corrections officer rolled up to us in an unmarked van.

“Hi.” I gulped. “We’re here to do a comedy show.”

The corrections officer stared at us blankly for a few seconds be- fore directing us to the main entrance on the other side of the build- ing. As we pulled away, he shook his head in the way those weary townspeople always do in horror movies after they’ve just reluctantly given directions to that wooded area where all those people were mysteriously killed that one summer to a carload of wayward and oversexed youth who think they’re gonna live forever.

After parking the car, we nervously made our way through Sing Sing’s massive front doors, where we were met by a handful of surprisingly upbeat corrections officers who guided us through airport- level security procedures. Unfortunately, they made us ditch the cameras we’d hoped to use to take all sorts of really fun “Let me outta here!” pictures to show friends and family around Thanksgiving and other holiday gatherings. Once we finally proved we weren’t trying to smuggle in one of those birthday cakes with the big file baked inside, we finally received hand stamps visible only under the ultraviolet lights that hung beside each of the gates that separated the inmates from freedom.

“No glow, no go!” the corrections officer bellowed not-so-jokingly as he pounded our hands with the stamp a bit harder than seemed necessary.

Apparently, the otherwise invisible stamps are used to prevent inmates from doing that thing that always happens in movies where someone clubs some other guy over the head with a pillowcase full of loose change, drags him into a supply closet, strips him naked, changes into his clothes, and then walks out of prison like he was just visiting or something. In light of this, I made a mental note not to wash my hands too aggressively at any point during our visit so I wouldn’t end up dating someone named Rollo by the end of the day.

As we passed through the ancient and ominous brick and steel corridors on the way to the auditorium where the show would be taking place, I felt as if we were suddenly in some old prison movie.

“This is so cool!” I said to the corrections officer leading the way.

He didn’t seem to agree, so I decided to just keep my mouth shut and stop pretending I was James Cagney in the role of Cody Jarrett, the ruthless, deranged leader of a criminal gang who winds up behind bars in the movie White Heat, something I was really enjoying but whatever.

When we arrived at the auditorium, a small sign at the entrance announced that my show would preempt that week’s movie night, a screening of How to Lose Friends & Alienate People.

“No biggie,” I thought. “ These guys probably know plenty about that subject already.”

Shortly after we got settled backstage, the inmates began to file in. And as much as I’d promised myself I wouldn’t, I still found myself trying to guess what each guy did to wind up there.

“The guy with the mustache and glasses looks kind of rapey,” I thought. “And that guy over there with the shaved head and hairy knuckles? Strangler all the way. A bit stabby, too, I guess.”

Still others looked like they just might be into dumping bodies into a river or maybe setting buildings on fire while people they didn’t like all that much were still inside. As their numbers grew, however, it became hard to focus on any of that stuff. Before long, they just seemed like a bunch of guys who all happen to work out a lot, have the exact same taste in clothes, and like to get face tattoos when the mood strikes. There ended up being about three hundred inmates in attendance, which—being in show business and all—I was happy to see.

“Maybe that sexy poster wasn’t such a bad idea after all,” I thought.

Knuckles

Creepy

In the event that I needed to stall for time, I’d brought along a small guitar and amp combo.7 So I decided to get the show started by playing overly animated heavy metal guitar solos, a skill I picked up in my lonely teen years. I’m not suggesting these guys were savage beasts or anything, but, not entirely ruling out that possibility, I figured a little music couldn’t hurt. And much to my relief, it actually seemed to work. By the time I stepped up to the microphone, the inmates appeared to be willing to hold off on shanking me or even hurting my feelings for at least a few minutes.

“I never thought I’d have the chance to say this, but it’s really great to be here in prison with all you guys,” I said to kick things off. I don’t normally like to cater to a specific audience when writing my material, but I decided to make an exception this time and come up with a set just for the guys at Sing Sing. Most of it had to do with whether or not I’d end up being anyone’s bitch should I ever wind up in prison. It was hard to make out exactly what they were saying amid all the clapping, laughing, and hollering, but the general consensus seemed to be that, if that ever did happen, I would be passed from cell to cell quicker than the latest issue of Juggs magazine. It was a little unsettling at first, but then the part of me that just wants to be loved more than anything else won out and I was flattered.

A lot.

“Who here is from out of town?” I asked the inmates once I got a bit more comfortable.

They seemed to enjoy that one.

“And who came from farthest away today?” I continued.

That line sort of confused them. As it turned out, most of the Sing Sing population hails from the New York City area. Still, they laughed politely until a guy in the front row slowly looked around, raised his arm, and yelled, “I’m from Kansas City!”

“So, did you always want to live on the East Coast?” I asked. “Or did it just work out that way?”

I thought I had hit it out of the park with that line, but instead of convulsing with laughter the inmates just groaned in unison while slumping in their chairs.

“I guess even violent felons have feelings,” I thought. “All right, noted.”

Despite that momentary bump in the road, I was having a really nice time in prison and decided to hand over the mic to Carl and Laura. Carl did a short set about his fictional workout regimen and the inmates ate it up, particularly after he decided to remove his shirt and blind them with his pasty flab.

Then it was Laura’s turn.

Being an entertainer and all, Laura decided to wear a lovely red dress to prison to enhance her already striking beauty, something the inmates seemed to appreciate a little more than she had anticipated. Her set was going well, but at some point she started to feel like one of those characters in a Bugs Bunny cartoon who turns into a giant lamb chop or turkey leg in front of some other character who hasn’t eaten in a really long time. Only she felt that way times three hundred.

“Thank you and good night!” Laura said, ending her set early as Big House vibes won out.

As Laura took shelter backstage where the inmates could no longer drool over her, a gargantuan corrections officer who had been assigned to prevent anyone from doing anything really prisony to us during our visit walked over to her.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Yeah.” Laura shrugged. “I guess I just got a little scared out there.” 

“You know why you got scared, don’t you?” the officer asked. 

“No. Why?” Laura asked hopefully, thinking the officer might perhaps offer her a little insight into the human psyche.

“See those guys out there?” the officer said, gesturing to my new buddies. “Those guys are all murderers and rapists.” 

Laura didn’t appreciate his answer too much, but—having the emotional maturity of a fifteen-year-old and all—I sure got a kick out of it. Things were getting better by the second in prison as far as I was concerned. So, with Laura on close watch, I took the stage to wrap things up.

“Thanks for coming, guys,” I said. “And I just want you to know I think Sing Sing is the best prison ever!”

“You’re a fucking moron!” one of the inmates yelled in response. 

“Is that you, Dad?” I shot back and immediately said good night. Go out on a high note, I figured.

To my sheer and unbridled delight, the inmates gave me a standing ovation before the officers began urging them back to their cells. And as we passed the cell blocks on our way back to the outside world, the sweet adulation continued.

“Dave! Dave! Dave!” they chanted in unison.

I’ll be the first to admit I sometimes seek approval in the wrong places, but it was still awesome. I felt like the lord of the fucking underworld.

Before we passed through the final set of prison doors, the warden handed me a copy of the poster used to advertise my show. It looked pretty much like a typical comedy show poster with the exception of one bold block of text in the corner that read “Must have one year clean disciplinary to attend.”

“Next time let’s make it one month clean disciplinary!” I told him. “I wanna pack the place!”

He just looked at me after that, so I decided to focus back on all that clapping and cheering in the distance as we headed back to our car. I couldn’t get enough of it, so I made sure to keep a leisurely pace.

“Would you come on?” Laura groaned at me. “I wanna get out of here.”

“Look, just because you’re not having a good time in prison doesn’t mean I have to be miserable, too!” I scolded her before basking in the adoration of my Big House buddies some more. I felt like Tim Robbins in The Shawshank Redemption only I couldn’t wait to come back.

“See you next year, Dave!” one of the inmates called out to me from his cell window, waving between the bars.

“Yup, see you next year,” I thought, waving back. “I guess I’ll just go do whatever the fuck I want now.”

It was hard not to consider how wildly the inmates’ lives and mine were about to diverge after all the good times we had just had together.

As we drove back to New York City, I was beaming. I had not only come out of that prison alive and unviolated but had actually managed to put on a show that everyone in attendance (other than Laura) seemed to really enjoy. But what was even more striking to me were the aftereffects of my visit to Sing Sing in the weeks that followed. My day-to-day anxiety seemed to be cut in half and I felt almost calm in situations that might have otherwise sent me into a panic. I didn’t suddenly fancy myself some sort of tough guy or doer of good deeds or anything like that. It was more like the anticipation of performing in front of a few hundred violent felons had built up so much pressure inside me that I busted some sort of emotional gasket by actually going through with it. And with that pressure gone, I could suddenly breathe easy, walk with a more confident stride, and not freak out about everyday life so much. All of a sudden someone’s overly loud headphones on the subway weren’t quite so grating and those televisions some asshole chose to install in the back of every New York City cab weren’t as annoying. I even found I could accept McDonald’s completely unpredictable and seemingly arbitrary removal of the McRib from their menu as just a part of life.

I was almost embarrassed to bring up this newfound state of well-being to my therapist when I saw him the week after the show.

“They say prison changes you, but could four or five hours be- hind bars really count?” I wondered.

“You took a trip to the underworld,” he said after squinting at me for a couple of minutes. “And it sounds like you had a really nice time.” 

It seemed so simple, but I had to agree with the guy. I did have a really nice time. And if I can have a really nice time in a room full of murderers, rapists, and other negative types, well, I reasoned, I can probably have a really nice time just about anywhere. In fact, part of me keeps wondering if spending even more time in prison, like maybe a few weeks or months, might have an even more positive effect on me.

Entering Sing Sing

Here’s to never, ever finding out for sure.

FOOTNOTES

1 In case you haven’t seen it, Otis was the town drunk on the show. He’d sleep all his benders off in one of Mayberry’s two jail cells, letting and then locking himself in with the sheriff’s key as he did it. It was funny every time.

2 Alright, our conversation might not have gone down exactly like that, but it’s my book and that’s how I choose to remember it.

3 A shank—or shiv, as it is also sometimes called—is a makeshift knife. Inmates use them because, as you might imagine, their access to actual knives in prison isn’t great. The fun thing is you can make a shank out of whatever you want—a screwdriver, an old toothbrush, or whatever. As long as you can somehow get it sharp enough to puncture flesh, you’re in business.

4 There are plenty to choose from. What can I say? I look a lot like my mother. And sometimes I dress like her, too.

5 You know, for number two. Think about it.

6 This is in case you don’t feel like just calling him a sycophant, which admittedly doesn’t sound nearly as prisony.

7 Also, I figured it couldn’t hurt to have a long piece of wood between me and any outraged attacker should things go south right out of the gate.

This article was originally published October 2012

The Many Moods of Rob Corddry: A Users Guide

Creative types have a legendary reputation for being difficult and moody. But Rob Corddry isn't your run of the mill "Grumpy till his first cup of coffee" personality. His particular brand of self-diagnosed "genius" requires significantly more managing than, for example, Dr. Henry Kissinger or Ralph Nader (both of whom also had shows on Adult Swim).

Over the many seasons of filming Childrens Hospital, we producers (or as Rob refers to us, "The Bar Mitzvah Boys") have learned to identify which of the many dark moods he's experiencing that day and how to channel it into telling jokes. To those who may find themselves working with Rob in the future, we offer them this cheat sheet of our survival tactics: Rob's mood paired with our prescription.

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Mood

Remedy

Omni directional rage

Assign a new intern to him for the day and hide

Unconditional self-centeredness

Set him up with a procession of bloggers. Every hammer needs a nail, right?

Generalized terror 

(with or without panic sweats)

Pretend he's invisible

Narcissism

Business as usual

Refusal to put on makeup

We solved this one in Season 3 by making his makeup heroin flavored

Faked writers block

Tell him Ken Marino is punching up his script

The giggles

n/a

Painful urination

A broad-spectrum anti-biotic

Disorientation and/or temporary amnesia

Totally fuck with him! This is one of our fun days.

Self-pity

Ice cream truck!

Obsessiveness resulting in gambling addiction

Mission Impossible style, we've built an entire fake Indian casino and racetrack outside Calabasas and staffed it with actors. It's rigged such that Rob always loses. Then he comes back to set, broke, hungry for his next paycheck.

Generalized alcohol abuse

Any day the call time is after 11am, you run the risk of Corddry showing up drunk. On those days, we schedule a phony pre-call punch-up session or tech walk-thru. So Rob has to come directly to set after dropping his daughters off at school. Otherwise, he has time to stop at a bar on his way in. Of course, if the call time is TOO early, we have the opposite problem -- he might still be drunk from the night before.

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As you can see, we're like the finest sous-chefs, constantly tweaking the ingredients in our "sauce" (Corddry's psychology) to make our signature dish (episodes of Childrens Hospital). The worst, however, is when Rob comes in happy. Then there's nowhere to go but down. He could flip at the drop of the hat. It's too nerve-wracking. On those rare occasions he's in a good mood, we just set the generator truck on fire and go home.

This article was originally published October 2012

The Lost Roles of Children's Hospital

Here are some of the roles in the original pilot script of Children's Hospital that didn't survive the development process for one reason or another:

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Pickles

Chief's severely handicapped toddler

Reggie McNeil

A punch-drunk boxer and assistant payroll accountant

Dr. Crotchgrabber

The Dutch Ophthalmologist

The Ant

A superhero with the proportional strentgh of an ant. Also, literally someone's aunt.

"Spleef"

The orderly who's always getting children high

Gacy

Blake's black sheep half brother

Monkey

A wiseass breakdancing monkey with no relation to the monkey on Animal Practice

Joey

From Friends

Brady

The homeless orphan shoeshine boy

"Buff" McCarthy

He's always buffing the floors. In the buff!

Dr. Hans Jackson

The comic relief/child killer

Nurse Cheryl

Really, really big tits

This article was originally published October 2012

Secrets Behind the Medical Props of Children's Hospital

Watching Childrens Hospital, you probably assume that what you see is 100% real. Ready to have your mind blown? Almost everything on television is phony. Even the political conventions. We couldn't possibly use a real human brain on the show. The art department has to fake it. Is your mind blown yet? No? How about now: All the animals in Sesame Street are PUPPETS!

Repurposing everyday items, the Childrens Hospital art department works overtime* to create a simulacrum of the human body parts that appear your favorite operation scenes. Today, we let you in on some of their secrets. So let's give props to our props!

*Note to payroll department, don't literally pay them overtime

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A Human Lung

Is created by taking a human kidney and bleaching it white.

An Adult Human Heart

Is made of two children's hearts sewn together. 

A Bowl of Lychee Nuts 

Is really just human testicles in a human skull.

When You See a Human Liver 

In the show, it's actually a human spleen cut in half. 

Human Muscle Fiber 

Is a cat turned inside out.

Lemonade

Is actually horse urine. Horse urine is limeade.

Human Blood

On camera, isn't human at all. It's one part chocolate syrup and two parts endangered panda blood, to make it redder.

Rob Corddry's Breasts 

Are silicone, not saline.

This article was originally published October 2012

Product Review: Screwdriver

I'm here today to talk about an amazing product: The screwdriver.  Some of you might be surprised that I’ve never heard of a screwdriver before, but that’s because some of you didn’t know I was legally deaf for five years. Sure, it was by choice, but that’s because everything before 9/11 was so boring. It’s actually pretty easy to pretend you’re deaf. All you have to do is scream, spit a little, and angrily point at your ears. You’d be surprised how many people don’t even try to talk to you then.

So, apparently, the screwdriver is a tool commonly used for construction. And if you can get past the wacky name, it can actually be a very useful product. You can use it for a variety of household tasks (i.e., putting up shelves, taking down shelves, stealing shelves from Rite Aid). In many ways, it makes life much easier. I guess the most difficult part about using a screwdriver is not thinking about its sexual connotations. Not only because “screw” means sex, but also because screwdrivers can fall into people’s butts pretty easily. I’ve even heard that it can happen in the bathtub last Tuesday night while my roommate was sleeping. But that’s just a rumor.  

The one criticism I have of the screwdriver is that it’s hard to be around it and not be horny. Come to think of it, it’s hard to be around anything and not be horny. That might be a me problem. Here is a list of three things and why they are sexy:

1. Rugs. Rugs are sexy because they’re basically hair. And hair is sexy because Sean Connery has hair. Anything Sean Connery has, or had, is sexy.  That could be a list on its own. I’m not going do it here, but that’s why they open up the floor at PTA meetings.
2. Holes. Holes are sexy because a hole is fifty-percent of what you need for sex. The other fifty-percent is your willingness to stick your stuff into holes. If you do the math, that’s about 500 things to have sex with per city block. So go ahead and add “cities” to the list of things that are sexy.
3. Mammals. I’ve thought mammals were sexy ever since I heard ZZ Top’s Legs. That song’s about mammals, right? I don’t give a shit if it’s not. I’m just going to think it is.

Overall, I think the screwdriver is a great product.  If you’re thinking of buying one, it’s definitely worth the money.  Unless you’re thinking about buying an Xbox.  In that case, all other purchases should go on the back burner.  Xbox is great because if you play it too much you can die.  I heard that happened to a Chinese kid.  I felt bad for him until I remembered he died from playing video games.  That’s a fun way to go.  Better than being squished by a wrecking ball.  I heard that also happened to a Chinese kid.  Chinese kids are always dying weird.  

Overall Rating

Four out of Five Hostess Cupcakes  

(I rate everything in products I can potentially get for free.  And I figured Hostess has plenty of cupcakes to spare, especially for a guy who uses them exclusively to throw at his neighbor’s stupid motorcycle.)

Film School

KUMAIL NANJIANI RATES MOVIES BASED ON HOW EDUCATIONAL HE FOUND THEM.

Ted

2 Life Lessons

1. If you call 911 because your magically sentient teddy bear has been kidnapped, do not say “My magically sentient teddy bear is kidnapped!” Instead, say that your friend has been kidnapped. It’s true, and will yield a more considered response.
2. If a magically sentient bear is born and everyone knows about it, the government will let the boy keep the bear. Instead of, you know, sticking it in a lab for testing. This whole movie should be set in a research facility. The bear would not be renting hookers or cracking wise or singing Hootie at a karaoke party. It would be strapped down in a gurney with syringes sticking out of it, surrounded by men in lab coats saying things like “But it has no lungs! How does it convey oxygen into the blood stream?” or “Some guy who looks like Marky Mark shows up every day to ask for his Christmas present back” or “If it has no hormones, why does it keep telling Dr. Cheng that he wants to see her big wontons? Also, this bear is casually racist.”

Prometheus

6 Life Lessons

1. Just because a movie has closing credits does not mean it has an ending.
2. Trained geologists will freak out at the first evidence of a far away ancient civilization, but will be totally fine petting an obviously evil reptile vampire monster just 20 minutes later. Totally fine.
3. Make sure your captain is Idris Elba.
4. Idris Elba is the shit. He’s just awesome.
5. This movie is a prequel to Alien, so apparently later the space ships get shittier. The biggest technological upgrade that the Nostromo (ship from Alien) gets over the Prometheus (ship from Star Wars--joking it's the ship from Prometheus) is the addition of a room with wet, rusty chains hanging from the ceiling. And I don’t know what kind of technological upgrade that is.
6. About a year ago, Patrick Wilson’s agent called him and said “Can you do a British accent, and are you free this afternoon?”

Magic Mike

12 Life Lessons

1. Full disclosure: I didn’t see Magic Mike, but my wife has seen it 3,222,556 times. High five. Good joke.
2. I should stay away from carbs, I guess?
3. How many sit-ups does it take to get a six pack? I don’t know, but I do know that it’s more than I’ve done in my whole life.
4. Maybe I’m not drinking enough protein shakes? That might be it.
5. Okay, this nutrition thing is hard. Did you know onions have calories? Fuckin’ onions, guys. Straight to your butt. That’s where the phrase onion booty comes from.
6. I mean, I bet Channing Tatum doesn’t get onions on his burgers right? I bet he doesn’t even eat burgers. I bet he eats raw chickens that have been shown Pumping Iron clips their whole lives.
7. Maybe if I shave everything I’ll see my results quicker. BRB.
8. My everything hurts.
9. Every muscle in Matthew Macaunaghey’s body points to his dick.
10. Don’t leave your wife/girlfriend alone with Matthew Macaunaghey. But you already knew that. (See 9.)
11. I don’t know how to spell Matthew Macaunaghey. And I don’t care. And get away from my fucking wife, dude.
12. My friend’s wife used to call him “Matthew McCumOnMe.” They got divorced later that summer.

The Amazing Spiderman

5 Life Lessons

1. If you are going to be a nerd, it helps to have the bone structure and hair of Andrew Garfield.
2. You are a nerd even if you don’t look or sound like a nerd, as long as the people around you treat you like a nerd.
3. The webbing apparatus that is extremely cutting edge, is also surprisingly cheap! How else could a high school student from a lower middle class home afford it?
4. Big time research labs will allow high school students to do experiments there, and to lead in depth tours of other high school students. As long as you look like Emma Stone.
5. The scientist who really hates that he has only one hand, and stares at it sadly all the time, and is working on a thing that’ll regrow limbs no matter what the cost?  Yeah, he’s the bad guy.

This article was originally published July 2012

D.A.D.S.

Originally published July 2012

Mitt Romney: The Man Inside The Man

An Erotic Look at the Republican Hopeful

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“P

resident Romney.” He hadn’t said it yet that morning, and it felt fucking good.  

The last time anyone else called him that was a decade ago, at the Salt Lake City Olympics. President of the Winter Olympics—now there was a job with perks. Luge team onesie fittings, the rifelry boys spread flat on their stomachs in the middle of the woods, the fact that no one asked him any questions when he told them to piss in a cup…

Now they just looked at him like the piss freak he was, and it hurt to think that he’d probably have to stop doing that sooner rather than later.

A lot of things were gonna have to end. That was for sure. His assistant, DJ, should probably stop calling him “Daddy” in text messages. Maybe even stop texting him altogether, but that was too much to think about right now. And whose fucking business is it anyway? DJ’s into it. And so is Daddy.  

“Daddy’s into a lot of shit,” he accidentally said out loud. Good thing no one was around.

No one was ever around. He’d fought all year to become the Republican nominee, and he’d won. But no one liked him still. How did that happen? Where’d he go wrong?

He’d had his head squared by the best doctors in the Midwest. Had hard pecs with just the right amount of hair on them—not so much that anyone would think he was Jewish, but not so little that anyone would think he groomed it as often as he did. Maybe he did too many pushups—most of the politicians that seemed to get ahead were on the verge of a stroke from how hard their male breasts sagged and pulled on their necks. But Daddy loved his titties. So did DJ.

Plus, he was white, and richer than humanly possible. His church was as fake and fucked up as any of theirs. His wife had blonde hair and a famous disease. Sure, M.S. wasn’t as glamorous as, say, nipple or pussy cancer, but it was something. She was trying.

“Poor Ann,” he said, looking at her picture on the corner of his desk. So pretty. So willing to become a Mormon for him, to swear off work and ambition to stay home and raise his five hot-as-fuck sons, each one hung bigger than the one before him. All the while, just bouncing around on billion-dollar horses, dressed like a jodhpur model, pretending to give a shit about poor people and retards.

But she just wasn’t enough. He knew it from the first time they’d fucked, in the middle of their wedding ceremony, while his parents watched but hers didn’t because they weren’t Mormon and weren’t allowed inside. She couldn’t help that she had a pussy instead of a dick, and she’d been a sport, and moaned real low the whole time. But it was a façade.  

Façade. A French word as beautiful as the French boys he’d bedded as a young, swinging missionary in the ‘60s. The LDS church had sent him abroad for almost three years to convert the heathens, but he hadn’t found any heathens who wanted to hear him talk. Just ones who wanted to stuff his mouth with their uncircumcised dicks to shut him the fuck up, and it had been eye-opening to say the least. Ass opening too.  

French men be crazy at fucking he remembered writing in his missionary journal after a particularly brutal gangbang outside Bordeaux. How scared he’d felt the next morning, taking a home pregnancy test, wondering what the hell he was going to tell the Elders, if they ever let him come home.  

He knew men made his dick hard from an early age. The oil painting of Joseph Smith on his knees before the Angel Moroni that hung above his boyhood bed had instilled in him a certain curiosity. Why would a man as strong and strapping, pure of heart and, presumably, cum, as Joseph Smith ever kneel down before another man—angel or not.  It would be a long time before he figured out the answer by trial and error: because that’s how you get a dick in your mouth, which is literally the best shit possible.

Joseph Smith and the Angel Moroni were recurring characters in Mitt’s early fantasy life. “Revelation” came to mean ‘boner,’ “and the fact that Joseph was known to be such a great “orator” made him squirm in his long-sleeved church-issued underpants (or Temple Garments). Sometimes Moroni was on top, like in the painting, but usually Joseph overtook him and showed him how to fucking sin.

Because sinning absolutely rules. It was a fact that electrified Mitt every time it occurred to him, which was usually about five times a day, or more if he rode on a train, which was rare.  

“It’s on, Daddy!” DJ chirped into the intercom out of nowhere.

“What channel?”

Obama was speaking from some piece-of-shit school in god-knows-where New York City. He looked amazing—fresh blue shirt, striped tie, no jacket. How does he do it, Mitt wondered. Look so fucking cute all the time, and what does he smell like? What did any black person smell like, for that matter?

Mitt had met a few, mostly while firing them during his Bain Capital days. They cried and begged, just like white people. And Asians. But he never got close enough to really take them in.  

And now one was President. Mitt got hard as a rock every time he pictured moving into the Presidential bedroom right after Obama moved out. First thing he’d do would be to smell the sheets. Barack probably still fucked Michelle—you could tell—so it would smell like two of them. What a crazy fucking world.

DJ was standing in the doorway.

“Yo,” Mitt said, and the word felt weird in his mouth. He’d never said it before. Too much time spent thinking about black people, he guessed. He’d be careful not to do that again anytime soon. “I mean, howdy doody, Sport.” 

“Daddy, your 2 o’clocks are all here.”

That’s right, he thought. Running mate day. It was a day he’d been looking forward to since the first time he ran for President in 2008. It was a beautiful thing—the nasty shit that could happen between a President and his Vice (“are you trying to rim me to death so you can be President?!”—stuff like that).  

Too bad Jindal was such a screamer—it could never work.  

“Send in Rubio first,” he said, checking his breath in his palm and choosing not to conceal the massive erection he’d been brewing in his khakis all morning. Why the fuck should he? He wasn’t President yet, but maybe that’s just because he hadn’t fucked anyone hard enough yet.

“President Romney.  President Romney.”

This article was originally published July 2012

K&A: Jackée Harry

Julie Klausner chats with Jackée Harry, you probably know her from 227, Ladybugs, and being fabulous.

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Julie Klausner: Hello Jackée! Thank you for joining me for this interview. What are you doing this very moment? Please give our readers a sense of your current setting. You don’t have to tell them what you’re wearing, though that would certainly help.

Jackée Harry: Picture it: Beverly Hills. 2012. Yours truly has just settled into bed wearing a raw silk negligée and grabs her Kindle, longing to discover the 49th shade of the Fifty Shades Of Gray, while sipping on a delicious glass of Perrier-Jouët when suddenly, the phone rings. Enraged by the interruption, an agitated Jackée begins this interview. How’s that for my setting?

JK: Absolutely perfect! And I’m sorry to agitate. So, you are a hilariously funny actress. Who did you watch growing up and wanting to emulate? I know you’re a Lucille Ball fan.

JH: Yes, Lucy was an inspiration, as well as Rosalind Cash, Diahann Carroll, and Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis (for whom I was named after).

JK: Any female comedians or comic performers you’re a huge fan of? Besides me, obviously?

JH: There are so many amazing comediennes out there! Some of my faves are you, of course, along with Jenny Johnson, Rachel Dratch, Lisa Lampanelli, Kathy Griffin, Wanda Sykes, Ellen Degeneres, Luenell, Joan Rivers, Kristen Wiig, Melissa McCarthy and Tina Fey. 

JK: How did your career change after you won your Emmy?

JH: I added a few zeroes to my net worth, and discovered which of my accountants were genuinely honest people. None of them! In all seriousness, it was a career highlight, but a lonely experience for me.

JK: Do you find that people want you to be as sassy and man-hungry as Sandra from 227? What are some important differences between you and Sandra? Both of you have gorgeous breasts.

JH: Of course, people expect me to BE ‘Sandra.’ That’s absolutely ridiculous; we are NOTHING alike. Sandra kept a little black book, whereas I rely on my little Blackberry.

JK: Are you addicted to anything?

JH: Yes, being faaaaabulous! But I’m taking it one diamond at a time-- I mean, day. 

JK: That’s a sound philosophy. Tell me about the new projects you have on your horizon! I know you’re working on a new sitcom, First Family for Byron Allen’s production company?

JH: Yes, I taped the pilot for that series with Gladys Knight, Marla Gibbs, Kellita Smith, Christopher B. Duncan, and John Witherspoon. I’m also doing a play with Marla, Let The Church Roll On, and just shot a film with Dan Garcia and Clifton Powell. My very own product line may be hitting stores soon also. I’m not ready to reveal what type of products yet, but you’ll be one of the first to know.

JK: I love products! Speaking of Byron Allen, have you ever seen an episode of Comics Unleashed?

JH: YES, and that show is a Godsend! Before then comics were so… leashed? 

JK: Agreed. What is it like working with Gladys Knight?

JH: Working with Gladys is perhaps one of the most enjoyable experiences I’ve had in my career. She’s humble, reverent…a true legendary talent. Not to mention, she travels with an entourage of gorgeous men she calls “Pips.” What’s not to love?

JK: What makes you laugh?

JH: When funny thangs are heard, endorphins are released within my brain and the zygomatic and risorius muscles found in my face contract, resulting in a stunning smile. Then my vocal cords vibrate uncontrollably forcing a burst of air out of my mouth, which produces a “hahahaha” sound.

JK: I love a technical answer. What’s your cocktail?

JH: Grey Goose… chilled.

JK: How often do you Google yourself?

JH: I never Google myself, but I Bing myself at least twice a day.

JK: Brilliant. What websites do you visit before noon?

JH: myidriselba.com and zaxbys.com. LOVE them chicken tenders. 

JK: What’s the most scandalous thing you’ve done today alone?

JH: I plead the fifth. Let’s just say it involves a strappy pair of Christian Louboutins, whipped topping, and solar panels. 

JK: That’s very green! Tell me something people wouldn’t generally know about you.

JH: I ALWAYS wake up looking fucking fabulous. Without failure.

JK: Of course. Can you share a particularly tender memory of working with Rodney Dangerfield?

JH: The entire experience of working with Rodney was great. I miss him dearly. 

JK: Who, besides your son, is the love of your life?

JH: All three of my husbands, and my Emmy, first name- Edwin.

JK: You have one of the longest and most diverse careers of anyone working—what advice would you give to people who are in between jobs and don’t want to give into feeling too blue or inactive?

JH: Keep the faith and cast all of your troubles upon a full sleeve of Golden Oreos.

JK: Golden Oreos! Interesting. Moving on—when you tweet that you’re getting your #CardioGroove on, what does that generally mean? The Elliptical? Sex?

JH: Aren’t they one in the same, darling? 

JK: Have you ever slept with one of your fans?

JH: Hell no! I always have them leave before dawn.

JK: What’s something you’d love to do in your career?

JH: Idris Elba. 

JK: Thank you Jackée! I love you—you are my absolute favorite!

JH: I love you MOST, Jules. Thank you! xox

This article was originally published July 2012