Jack Kukoda

There comes a time in every comedian’s career when he knows he’s finally made it. When the years of hard work and scraping by culminate in an honor so great he can barely believe it. That day has come for me! My local deli named a sandwich after me. It’s called the “Jack-wich” and it’s delicious.

It’s about 30 feet across and 20 feet tall. If you order the Jack-wich, it will be placed on top of a giant outdoor sign. It is then your responsibility to climb the sign in order to eat the sandwich. But oh, boy, it’ worth it!

Let me tell you what’s on that sandwich. We start out with two 30 foot-wide sesame rolls. Then we layer lettuce, tomato, cheese, ham, pickles, more cheese, salami, cucumbers, lettuce, and peppers on there. And, from what I can see in the picture, it appears there’s also a turkey leg tossed in for good measure. So be careful when you’re eating that thing. There’s bones in there.

If you manage to finish the sandwich in one sitting, the purveyors of the deli tell me that they’ll throw in a free Diet Coke! Let’s see the Subway compete with that!

Yesterday at Midnight was the absolute deadline for filing your taxes. I finished mine around nine o’clock. But the good part is that while I was sweating over my W2’s and 1099’s, I managed to come up with a whole slew of hilarious tax-related jokes! I might try these out onstage soon while this tax thing is still fresh in people’s minds. Are you ready for them? All aboard the Tax Train! Too-toot!

Hey, you know what TAX stands for? “Take Away (your) Xylophones!” At least, that’s what it stands for if you’ve cheated on your taxes and all of your revenue is tied up in antique xylophones. ‘Cause the IRS will audit you and then take your xylophones! Am I right? You know I am!

Wait, hold on one second. This Tax-Related Locomotive of Hilarity has a few more stops to make. Choo-choo!

You know what I.R.S. stands for? I Repossess Sandwiches. Or it would, if you funnelled illegal profits through a shell company in order to buy lots of sandwiches! Zingadingaroo! Let’s see if this Tax-a-motive has one more stop on the Northeast Corridor of Comedy! (Train noise!)

What do an accountant and a tax collector have in common? They both deal with taxes!

That will do it for this morning’s tax-related hilarity. You might want to go to the doctor to get your funny bones fitted for a cast. ‘Cause I just fucking broke them! With my ass! I need sleep.

I like to call the Monday after Easter “The Real Reason to Celebrate” because today’s the day stores mark down all their unsold Easter Candy as much as 75%. Only suckers buy their candy before Easter. You hear, me suckers? I know you do.

Right now there are Cadbury Creme Eggs at Duane Reade, practically begging you to eat them. Same thing for Peeps, although, if you like Peeps, you are disgusting and I don’t want to be your friend. So don’t buy Peeps because they’re gross.

Today is also Dyngus Day. For those of you who are not of Polish ancestry, here’s a quick tidbit on this most Polish of holidays from Wikipedia:

“Traditionally, boys will awaken girls early in the morning and douse them with water and strike them about the legs with long thin twigs made from willow, birch or decorated tree branches (palmy wielkanocne). This practice is possibly connected to a pre-Christian, pagan fertility rite, although the earliest documented records of Dyngus Day in Poland are from 15th century, almost half a millennium after Poland adopted Christianity.”

Good for you, Poland! Oh, and while I was researching Dyngus Day, I discovered that my hometown of Buffalo proclaims itself “The Dyngus Capital of the World!” I wish I were joking about that.

Today is also the deadline for filing your taxes in New York State. So I’ve got a full day ahead of me: hitting girls about their legs with twigs, gorging myself on chocolate, topped off with some kick-ass tax-filing. Jealous? I thought so.

Here’s the complete rundown on Dyngus Day.

Would be a great name for a Mexican restaurant run by two guys named Paco and Rocco. Don’t you think? Just say it to yourself. Or imagine a waiter saying to you, “Welcome to Paco’s and Rocco’s Tacos and Nachos. I’ll be your waiter “Jocko.” They call me “Jocko” because I’m athletic. My real name is Baco. Anyway, can I bring you something to drink?”

Oh boy, that is a restaurant that I would want to go to.

Another good name for a restaurant would be “Pierre and Claire’s Lair of Eclairs.” That would be a French restaurant specializing in pastries. Obviously.

What else?

How about “Tony Baloney and Sony Nakoni’s Macaroni Pony?” That would be an Italian-Japanese fusion restaurant that also offered pony rides. The “Macaroni Pony” would be a great place to bring kids on their birthday. Not because of the pony rides, but because Tony Baloney would do magic tricks for them in between making ravioli. And who doesn’t like magic tricks? Exactly.

And have a solemn Good Friday, everyone. Or not. I won’t judge.

And to those of you who cannot afford a team of painters to elaborately decorate a giant Easter Egg full of chocolates and gold coins like me, I say, “Can you really call what you’re doing living?” Think about it.

By the way, the guy who lives next door to me is teaching himself to play Coldplay songs and “Stairway to Heaven” on the guitar. And he’s been doing so all day. I might just kill him! Just kidding, giant egg!

My roommate is out of town until next week so I’ve decided to rent out his room. If teen movies from the 80’s have taught me anything, it’s that renting out your house/room to some less-than-savory characters is great way to make a quick buck. With a few hilarious consequences to boot!

But before you move in, I’ve got to lay down a few ground rules.

1. If you paint my roommate’s room a different color, you have to paint it back to the original color before you move out. This is especially important because my roommate’s walls currently feature a scene from The Little Mermaid and he will definitely notice if someone paints over that.
2. I don’t wear pants until 2pm. This rule is not open to negotiation. It’s just how I do things. I like to flop around until the late afternoon, and nobody, especially some subletter, is going to stop me.
3. No parrots. If you try to bring a goddamn parrot in here, I will cut you good.
4. Rent is due every 6 hours. It’s a quirk in our lease, but we have to pay our rent in 6 hour intervals. I will announce that the rent is due using an ear-piercing air horn.
5. You must sing me to sleep. Preferably power ballads.

Once again, if you would like to be my roommate for the next week, just send a postcard with my name and your name on it to the post office and we’ll get this ball rolling. See you soon!

Related: Win a date with Jack Kukoda!

It’s about 70 degrees in New York right now, but before I go outside and play basketball, I thought I would let you in on this Spring’s hot new looks! Why? Because I’m super fucking generous and nice, that’s why. So strap on your Easter bonnets and get ready for Jack’s Patented Spring Picks! First up, it’s…

1. Horsies!

Don’t even think of heading to a garden party without this season’s hottest accessory in tow! What’s that, you can’t afford a horse? Then rent one. You don’t know where to rent a horse? Then get out of my face.

2. Novelty Dolphin Hats

Everyday is a day at the beach when you slap one of these foam dolphin hats on top of your head. Don’t leave home without it!

3. Acting Like a Zombie

Okay, this isn’t so much a fashion statement as it is an overall attitude. So get out there and work it!

That will do it for the fashion roundup.

You might be thinking to yourself, “That wasn’t a fashion roundup at all. It seems like Jack just did a Google Image Search for Horse Jeans, Hats, and Halloween Costume and then wrote some bullshit around it.”

If you thought that, you would be wrong. Now, I’m going to go out and enjoy the day. I suggest you do the same. Oh, and the lineup and details for the variety show I’m hosting have been posted! Check it out!

1. Get drunk and throw rocks at dinosaurs.
2. Leave a flaming bag of poop on Henry VIII’s doorstep.
3. Prank call Hitler.

That would teach ‘em!

P.S. Suck it, Camper Guy.

Sorry again for the light posting thus far, but I’m super busy putting the final touches on the Huge Ass Variety Show I’m hosting at the Slipper Room on Tuesday April 25th at 8pm. If you’re in the New York area, I absolutely expect you to be there. I’ll never ask you to come to another show if you make it to this one. Promise. I’ll be posting the details for the show and a sweet-ass flyer for it hopefully by tomorrow. You will love it.

In the meantime, I finally succumbed to the pressure and I’ve signed up on myspace.(sigh) So, if you want to be my “friend” as they say, go on over to here and it shall be so. I’m still trying to figure the whole thing out, and I’m a little scared of it, but my initial reaction is that I sort of like myspace. As a friend of mine aptly described it, “It’s like email with a little spice.” So yeah, go and be my myspace friend. Then let’s never talk about this blatant plea for friendship again. Agreed? Awesome. You’re the best.

Update: The Lineup has been announced! You can get all the info and check for updates here.

I’ve been trying to lose some weight recently. Nothing drastic, just shed a few pounds before bathing suit season starts. Ladies, you know what I’m talking about! To do so, I’ve been trying to eat a little better and exercise. And since I kept to my diet all week, I decided to reward myself on Sunday with a little fast food. I headed over to Canal Street to get some and ran into a dilemma. Should I go to McDonald’s, where I usually get my fast food, or the Burger King across the street?

On the one hand, I was in the mood for a Whopper. I hadn’t had a Whopper in over a year and it sounded really good. Shit, Whoppers are delicious. Anyone who tells you otherwise is a filthy liar. On the other hand, I really like McDonald’s fries. Damn, those are some good fries. Then I remembered, hey, this is America. I can get both. Who’s going to stop me? Not you, Saddam Hussein! You’re in jail. Thanks to me!(I didn’t really have anything to do with that.)

I went over to Burger King and got my Whopper. The Burger King was a piece of shit and full of meth addicts. It reminded me of this Onion article. Whopper in hand, I walked across the street to McDonald’s. That particular McDonald’s is pretty fancy compared to the Burger King, although I once saw a one-legged man piss all over himself while waiting for his filet-o-fish. Filet-o-fish’s are gross. So was the guy who peed himself. I digress.

I ordered a whole chicken Mcnugget value meal, For those non-McDonald’s afficionados, that’s TEN Mcnuggets, fries, and a drink. It came in a huge bag. Christ, I was embarrassed. Since it’s Chinatown, there were a lot of foreign tourists around, and I could tell they were looking at me with a combination of disgust and pity as I carried both a Burger King and McDonald’s bag down the street. I must have reaffirmed every stereotype they had ever heard about Americans being lazy, overweight slobs. I was sure somebody was going to take my picture and send it around the world in an e-mail forward, accompanied by a picture of a starving Ethiopian child. The title of that email would be “Why terrorists hate America.”

So look forward to that email. And look forward to less posts about my personal life in the near future. Because it’s boring and gross. Yay!

I wrote this a couple of days ago. I thought some websites might want to publish it. I was wrong. For your enjoyment I present:

A Recently-Divorced Movie Critic Reviews The Latest Films

Basic Instinct 2

Say what you want about how terrible this movie is, but at least Sharon Stone still makes an effort to look sexy. The woman must be nearing 50, but clearly finds time during her busy schedule to get to the gym. I know women twenty years younger that can’t be bothered to even wear their hair in anything but the most unflattering ponytail. Women who wear the same raggedy, shapeless, terry cloth robe to bed every night, then have the audacity to complain about a lack of romance in the relationship. Well, I’ve got news for those women: It’s a two-way street, sister! Try wearing a pair of high heels and a dress that doesn’t look like a cross between a potato sack and an art smock for once in your life. Then maybe you’ll get your precious romance. Basic Instinct 2 is rated R for nudity, violence, and language.

Inside Man

Spike Lee turns in his most commercial film to date with this taut, well-executed thriller about an unconventional bank heist. Denzel Washington, Jodie Foster, and Clive Owen all turn in solid, if not great, performances. But let me say this, if I were one of the thieves in this movie, I wouldn’t even bother trying to rob a bank. Instead, I’d marry the features editor of my college newspaper and convince him against his will to move to the suburbs, where I would try my hand at a few unsuccessful careers, including, but not limited to, opening a beaded jewelry store (for Christ’s sake.) I’d nag him until his hair fell out, then divorce him ten years later just as he’s trying to get his book published, and run off with his agent. Yeah, that’s what I would do. Newcomer Chiwetel Ejiofor does an excellent job as Washington’s partner.

Ice Age: The Meltdown

Ice Age 2 is the rare sequel that outdoes the original, mostly thanks to the surprising chemistry between Ray Romano and Queen Latifah, who voice Manny and Ellie, two wooly mammoths in love, respectively. Luckily for Manny and Ellie, they are the last two wooly mammoths on earth, which means that they don’t have to deal with a lazy brother-in-law who borrows money to start a motorcycle dealership, then proceeds to drive the business directly into the ground because he doesn’t know the first thing about tax codes or building permits. And prehistoric mammoths certainly didn’t have to subject themselves to all manners of invasive, humiliating, not to mention expensive, testing of their sperm, only to have the female mammoth suddenly decide that she doesn’t want children anymore because she needs to focus on another one of her ridiculous careers. Or maybe they did. I wouldn’t know since I’m told I’m “not a good listener.” Ice Age: The Meltdown delivers equal parts humor and heart. Don’t miss it.

ATL

“ATL” is the local shorthand for “Atlanta,” the Southern city in which this coming-of-age story takes place. ATL the movie, not the city, is long on style, but short on substance. It revolves loosely around a group of teenage boys that spend the majority of their time down at their local roller rink trying to meet girls. Good Lord, I loved this movie. I couldn’t help but approach the screen and place my hand on it, wishing in vain to somehow enter this world of carefree youthfulness. At the very least, I wanted to whisper to the characters, “Don’t let go of this place. Hold on to it with all that you’ve got. For youth is but a fleeting stop-over on the road of life, to which we can never return.” I don’t know how the movie ended since security asked me to leave because I was weeping so loudly, but I still feel pretty confident recommending it.

New to DVD this week, Brokeback Mountain
Really, who can blame them?

Remember how I went to Denver last week? Sure you do. Well I only told you half the story! You can catch up on it here.

When we left the Denver story, it was Friday night and I had just gone to a bunch of bars that looked like Ponderosa. I woke up the next day and my friends informed me that we were going to play disc golf. I had never played disc golf, nor had I ever had any desire to do so. As far as I’m concerned, disc golf is the same as hackey sack; an activity to be enjoyed by filthy hippies to fill the time between Widespread Panic concerts.

But, since I would be playing with my friends and we would be drinking all day, I decided to give disc golf a shot. I also kept referring to it as “frolf,” which is a mash-up of the words frisbee and golf. I think that’s what George called it on the “Summer of George” episode of Seinfeld. At any rate, I thought it was hilarious that I kept calling it “frolf.” Nobody else seemed to agree.

If you’ve never played disc golf, the rules are pretty much the same as regular golf, but instead of trying to hit a little ball into a hole using a club, you’re trying to throw a frisbee into a bucket-like structure. Genius. We got to the disc golf “course,” which was a public park outfitted with 18 of these buckets, resembling a golf course. I thought it was a goddamn crime that they wasted an entire public park just so some dirty hippies could fling frisbees around, but what the hell do I know?

As soon as we got to the first “tee,” the hippies showed up. They’re like clockwork, those hippies. But this story isn’t about hippies. It’s about me. Everyone threw their disc and then it was my turn. Not to toot my own horn, but I have to say that I’m a pretty decent natural athlete. I can usually pick up new sports fairly quickly and I look better than average during pickup basketball games. I assumed my decent athleticism would translate to disc golf. I was wrong. My frisbee went about 10 yards, then turned over on its side, hit the ground, and rolled away.

“Oops,” I said, chuckling. “Looks like I should have stretched first. Ha ha.” I thought I would improve as the game went along, but I was wrong again. I was fucking terrible at disc golf. While everyone else was hurling their modified frisbees over 200 feet, I kept having to climb down a steep bank to fish my disc out of the filthy creek that snaked its way through the course. Adding insult, someone told me that when I threw the frisbee, I looked like Lamar from Revenge of the Nerds. I told that person to suck my ass.

Halfway through the game, someone asked me if I was going to use this story in my act. “Yes,” I said. “I will use this bit. It will be called ‘The worst Saturday of my life.’” The only fun part of the game came when I threw a stick into a filthy pond to make my friend’s dog chase after it. That dog got dirty. It was awesome. Petty revenge, thy name is Kukoda.

Later that night we went to some girl’s birthday party. Open bar! Woo hoo! I drank the hell out of that open bar. And even though I had never met the birthday girl, that didn’t stop me from telling her she was pretty and petting her face until one of my friends discreetly told me to stop. I also asked for a to-go box and loaded it up with food from the buffet right before we left. I’m a classy dude. You should invite me to your birthday party. I will class that shit up right away.

The next day we sat around the house watching sports. I enjoy watching sports. And that was Denver. I’d recommend going there. But don’t play disc golf. It is the worst sport ever invented.

Previously: Denver, As Told Through Google Images
Greetings From Denver!

Whoo, what a week! Again, not really. Sorry for the light posting this week, especially the crappy list, Ben and Tara, but I’ve been working on a bunch of projects this week. And I’ve been sick. So cut me some slack, jerks. I’ll be back to regular speed by next week and I’ll post the second half of the hilarious Denver story later on.

I might even have some super good news next week, but I don’t want to jinx anything just yet.

And to make up for today’s subpar list, enjoy this video. You’re welcome, ingrates.

1. Dung Beetle
2. Poop Fish
3. Diarrhea Bear

That’s a question that we all have to answer for ourselves. Some people tell me that I dress too sexy for my own good. They say that the reason that I can’t get a good job is because I show up to interviews in hot pants and tube tops that say stuff like “I’m a flirt!” or “Everybody loves my balls.” Hey, here’s a news flash, America: I’ll dress as sexy as I like. Furthermore, everybody does love my balls, which means I’m just telling it like it is. And you can’t fault me for that.

And since I’m such an expert, here’s a handy guide to what is sexy and what is not sexy.

Sexy: The Ross Ice Shelf

If you tell me that you can look at this hot piece of ice without becoming the least bit aroused, then you don’t have a pulse.

Not Sexy: The Larsen Ice Shelf

Hey, Larsen Ice Shelf! I know how we can slow global warming: by putting a paper bag over you, you unsexy block of frozen water! Ugh, I lost my wood just looking at you.

Sexy: The Sessile Oak

Damn, that’s a sexy oak. I’m gonna have to hose myself off after this, Sessy.

Not Sexy: The Red Oak

You’ve got to be kidding, Red Oak. On a scale of 1 to Sexy, you’re not even on the scale! Uh, I can’t believe I even have you on my website.

Sexy: Linguine with Vodka Sauce

Ooh, linguine with vodka sauce. I don’t have to say nothin’ to you. You just keep on keepin’ on, okay?

Not Sexy: Melanie Griffith

Yowza.
And that, my friends, is how you execute a cheap shot.