Jack Kukoda

Last night, the lady and I went to go see Strangers With Candy at the Landmark Cinema. Oh man, was I excited to see the movie. I’ve been a huge Strangers With Candy fan since college when Comedy Central used to run the repeats late at night all the time. So this was the first movie I was anticipating all summer.

We got to the theatre early to make sure we got good seats, but by the time I had purchased a massive bag of popcorn, Coke, and nachos, the theater was already pretty full 15 minutes before the start of the movie. I scanned the crowd and spotted what looked like a half-empty row. “Ooh,” I squealed. “There’s some open seats over there. The lady and I quickly made our way over to the seats to find a man slumped down into one of them. We were already halfway into the row when we noticed him.

There’s a certain sense you develop once you’ve lived in New York for a while. I don’t know if you can call it extra-sensory perception or what, but anyone who’s lived here for more than a year or two has it. It’s the ability to sense a crazy person. And I’m not talking about the person on the subway, clad in garbage bags, yelling about how everyone’s out to get them. Anyone can tell that that person is crazy. I’m talking about the slightly more subtle crazy; the kind that doesn’t reveal itself until it’s too late. Like when someone asks you for a light outside a bar, then, instead of going about his business, decides to stand right next to you and make bizarrely racist comments while you just want to finish your cigarette. That kind of crazy.

I immediately sensed the crazy emanating from the guy slumped down in his sleep. He had short dreadlocks, an ill-fitting gold dinner jacket, and was wearing sunglasses in the movie theatre. But against my better judgment, I decided to sit in that row, one seat away from him. Right after we sat down I went to the bathroom. When I returned the crazy man started right in on the conversation. “Yo, this movie is crazy. It’s really funny,” he said in a cockney accent. No shit. Cockney accent. “Oh, good,” I said. “I’ve been looking forward to it.” “Yeah, he replied. “I only saw the first half because I fell asleep the first time I saw it. So I came back to see how it ends.” “Okie-doke,” I replied. By the way, when I’m uncomfortable, I start talking like a midwestern house wife.

Even though crazy man’s banter seemed harmless enough, it was the way he was talking that tipped me to his craziness. It was really aggressive for no reason. He continued, “Damn, that’s a big bag of popcorn. Can I get some of that popcorn?” “Uh, okay,” I told him as I handed him a handful of popcorn. Crazy man took this as a sign of friendship. He told me is name and it sounded like he said “Sincere.” “Nice to meet you, Sincere,” I said. Then, to cement our friendship, he extended his arm. But he did that thing where you make a fist and then the other person is supposed to touch their fist to yours. I hate that greeting. I think it’s called “a pound,” but it always unnerves me when someone does it because I’m sure I’m going to screw it up and then people won’t think I’m as street smart as I really am. Which is pretty damn street smart.

I can’t remember everything Sincere said, but at one point, while looking at my nachos and popcorn(I’ve made no secret of my gluttony, he said, “Damn. Yo, you’re making me hungry. I gotta go outside and smoke a joint.” I have no idea why someone would want to smoke a joint when they’re hungry. If weed has any appetite-supressing properties, I’ve never heard of it. As soon as Sincere left, I contemplated moving to another seat, but decided against it. For one, the lady would have thought I was the biggest pussy in the world if I needed to change seats just because I was sitting next to a weird black guy. Not to mention a closet racist. And two, I earnestly believed that if Sincere came back and didn’t find us there, he would go looking for us.

It didn’t matter anyway because Sincere returned 30 seconds later complaining about the management. “Goddamn,” he said. “They wouldn’t let me go outside to smoke because I didn’t have my…my…” “Stub?” I offered. “Yeah, me stub,” he said. “They’re killing me! Bullshit.” “Uh, yeah, that’s too bad. That’s not…..” I trailed off.

The lights went down for the previews and I hoped Sincere would take this as a sign to stop yelling. Did I mention that his voice was a constant yell? I didn’t? Well, it was. And the previews only made Sincere louder. It was as if he were trying to be heard above the darkness. Sincere yelled all throughout the previews. Nobody did a thing. Pussies, all of us.

As soon as Jerri Blank appeared on screen, the theatre erupted. People were cheering and laughing. I thought maybe they would drown Sincere out. No dice! “Oh, shit! She is crazy!” Sincere kept saying. “This movie is crazy. Yo, it’s like this the whole movie!” And he kept doing that thing where he just repeats the last line of every funny scene. I hate that. Just when I thought I couldn’t take it anymore, I noticed Sincere had quieted down. I looked over and discovered that he had fallen asleep. “Thank you, God,” I whispered. I prayed that Sincere would stay asleep throughout the rest of the movie.

And guess what? He did! Even after the movie was over and people were applauding and the lights were up, Sincere was still slumped over in his chair, dozing. He had slept through the second half of the movie for the second straight time.

It occurred to me that Sincere might just live at the Landmark Cinema, sneaking from theater to theater, harassing people until he falls into his drug-induced sleep. When I was a kid, a life like that would appeal to me in the same way that camping out overnight at the Museum of Natural History would. It would seem like endless fun. Living in a movie theater, getting to see all the movies you want, eating nothing but popcorn and candy all day long. So that’s how I’m going to choose to remember Sincere. Not as a crazy, drug-addled transient who acts like a batshit loon until he inevitably nods out, but as a whimsical character who lives the life most of us stop dreaming of once we reach adolescence. Although, most of us don’t dream of shitting in our pants, which is what I imagine Sincere does when they lock up the bathrooms in the theater at night.

P.S. If you’re a fan of Strangers With Candy, I recommend you go see the movie right now. Now!

Oh, boy! Here we go again. When I last left you, my parents were nearly in tears after being forced to eat Indian food and endure my sister’s taunts. What will happen next?! The theatre, that’s what!

My brother-in-law and all-around good guy, Sean, had gotten tickets to see Spamalot at the National Theatre. So Sunday morning, we went to the gym, got dressed and headed to the show. For some reason, our nation’s government allowed the WNBA to have some sort of fan fest right by the theatre, so there was a ton of traffic. I’m sorry, but I don’t even know why the government allows the WNBA to exist. It’s women playing sports! Hello? What’s next? Cats running businesses? You fellas know what I’m talking about, right?!

Anyway, we dropped off my mom, dad, and sister, and looked for a parking space. It took a long time, but we managed to find one. Sean and I missed the first couple scenes of the show, but luckily for me, I’ve seen Monty Python and the Holy Grail about 15 times, so I knew what happened. The show itself was pretty good. The first act contained a number of scenes that were taken verbatim from the film, so that was a little disappointing. But I liked most of the songs, and the majority of the actors did a great job. Oh, you may be wondering why I would go all the way to Washington to see a Broadway show when I live in New York. Well, I’m not really allowed in most Broadway theaters after some unfortunateness. Last year, I got a little high on angel dust and went to see Wicked. Oh, by the way, don’t ever do angel dust and go to a Broadway show. Anyway, during the show, I freaked out a little bit and I ran on stage and tried to fight all the witches. It took ten stagehands to subdue me. So now my picture is in the box office of every theatre on Broadway with a note that says, “Do not allow this man in.” But I finally got my headshot in a Broadway theatre! Zingadingaroo!!!

After the show, we walked around and then went to dinner at a seafood restaurant. They didn’t give us a pager to let us know when our table was ready like they do at Red Lobster, but it was still pretty cool. They had a number of freshly-caught fish they would cook anyway you like, so I had the sea bass nachos. Not the best sea bass nachos I’ve ever had, but then again, I am the owner and proprietor of Captain Jack’s Mexican Fishery and Taco Emporium. You want good Sea Bass Nachos, that’s where you go. They’re listed on the menu as “basschos.”

After dinner, we went back to my sister’s house and ate more ice cream. I don’t know what it is about my sister’s house, but whenever we go there, my family eats like 4 gallons of ice cream. Who knows why? Not me, sir. Not me. Oh, then there was a huge thunderstorm. It rained for about 12 hours straight. The next morning, my sister couldn’t get to work and my parents’ flight had been delayed. I could sense the terror in my sister’s eyes as she contemplated the fact that my parents might be stuck at her house for an indefinite period of time. Luckily, my parents got onto a later flight, which meant my sister would not have to fake a heart attack to get some peace and quiet.

I ended up travelling a little the next day and then came back to New York. I missed it. Oh, and I caught a chicken on the bus back home. I named him Sir Pecks-a-lot and he lives in a pen on my roof. But don’t tell my landlord. He hates chickens!

P.S. Can you believe I found another photo of that puppy eating ice cream?

Previously: Washington, D.C. With The Family, As Told Through Google Images

I know, I know. I need to bring my camera with me on trips like this. Who knows how much longer my parents will be able to chew their own food at a restaurant, or wear regular underwear. I should be capturing those moments for posterity’s sake. But I forgot again. So Google Images will once again be called upon to illustrate my recent trip to D.C. Here we go.

I woke up on Saturday morning at 6:30am to pack and head to the Chinatown Bus. For those of you who don’t know, there are buses that run between NYC, Boston, Philadelphia, and D.C. They are super cheap. And no, there are no chickens on the buses. It’s not like that plane in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. Nor is it like the last episode of MASH. It was a baby!!!!

Anyway, I slept the whole ride down. I took a cab to my sister’s house and hung out with my Dad and brother-in-law for a while. My sister and mom had been out fabric shopping(because they’re totally gay) and when they got back, we decided to go out for lunch. My sister picked an Indian Buffet because we both like Indian food and are also unapologetic gluttons. My parents didn’t seem thrilled about Indian food, but they went along. While my sister, brother-in-law, and I went back to the buffet for multiple plates of food(like I said, gluttons) my parents sat forlornly at the table moving their food around on their plates. I think they found it a little too spicy, but rather than say so, they decided to pout like children. They are hilarious.

After lunch, Sean(my brother-in-law) and I went to play golf while my sister took my mom and dad to the oldest post office in the country. That was my dad’s idea. Jesus, that man is like a roller-coaster and a Lonely Planet Guide wrapped up into one mustachioed man from Buffalo. He always picks the craziest things to do! I’m talking ca-razy! Sean and I headed to the golf course, which was a local public course directly underneath elevated railroad tracks. Kiss my ass, Augusta National. I hadn’t played golf in about two years, so I was pretty horrible, but I hit a few good shots and had fun. I also drank beers in the sun. Oh, and I got a couple of nasty blisters that I never stopped complaining about all weekend.

Sean and I went back to the house and my sister and I immediately began making fun of my parents. This is something my sister and I do well. She doesn’t really have any comedy or theatrical experience, but when it comes to making fun of my parents until they are near tears, we’re like a vaudeville duo; finishing each other’s sentences, setting each other up, and riffing. Oh, how we riffed on those two. That’s family fun. Sean grilled steaks and shrimp out on the grill and we had a delicious dinner.

Afterwards, we all had ice cream! Weeee! I love ice cream. And because my father is a diabetic, we always have to have ice cream on hand. We watched a movie and then I headed upstairs to bed because I was tired from playing golf and drinking in the sun. My parents stayed up late and watched about five episodes of The Sopranos on my sister’s On Demand cable. My parents really like the Sopranos, but they refuse to get HBO at their house, so they catch up on it whenever they visit me or my sister. They’re leeches, these people!
All right, that’s all for now. Part II will be coming later. And, oh, the excitement you are in for!

P.S. If that picture of the puppy eating ice cream does not melt your heart, then you are dead.

Hey kids! I’ll be spending Tuesday morning on a beautiful Chinatown Bus from D.C. to New York. That is, unless the roads are still washed out. But I’ll be back to posting Wednesday or possibly late Tuesday, depending on when I get home. I have absolutely no idea how any of us will be able to survive until then, but we’ll have to try. Oh, God, how we will try.

And to all the sexy teens who have been camped outside my apartment, awaiting my return, I say, “Sexy teens, you so crazy! Can’t wait to see you!”

My life is a sham.

Imagine my surprise when I saw this headline over the weekend:

Queen Elizabeth Invites 2,000 Kids to Tea

Listen up, Queen, because I’m only going to say this once: I am the king of gigantic tea parties. You hear me? You pull this shit again where you invite a couple thousand kids to your tea party and we’re going to have serious problems.

Goddamn, I’ve worked too hard over the years to let my title slip away now. You think it’s easy organizing and hosting giant tea parties for little kids? Do you? Well, it’s not. First off, you’ve got to figure out what kind of tea to buy. Then you’ve got to decide on what kind of snacks and little sandwiches you want to serve. Then, you’ve got to invite all the kids. That’s three steps. Three! And unlike the queen, I don’t have a big-ass staff of royal helpers to handle all the details for me. I do it on my own!

Wait, maybe I should explain why I throw these giant tea parties. Well, that’s simple. I love childred and I love tea. Bam. Simple enough for you? And the only thing I love more than children and tea is being known as the greatest tea party impressario in the tri-state area.

Also, when the children’s parents come to pick them up, that’s when I hit them with my Amway sales pitch! Hey, you! You, the person reading this, you ever think of buying some stuff from Amway? How about selling it? Do you know how much money you can make from home by selling this stuff? An assload, that’s how much. I’ve got some pasta sauce I can sell you by the gallon. It’s made by the company Frego, which, despite what Consumer Reports would have you believe, is far better than Prego. Or what about this nice Kolex watch? It was made in Prague by machines. Okay, how about this TV? It’s a genuine RCA!

Ooh, take that American-made electronics!

Queen Elizabeth Invites 2,000 Kids to Tea [Yahoo! News]

People often have difficulty pronouncing my last name. I can’t count the number of shows I’ve done where the MC, while introducing me, mispronounced my name. And let me tell you, nothing boosts your confidence more than coming onto the stage just after somebody has butchered your last name, the subtext of that being, “You are not important enough for me to bother getting your name right. So break a leg, Zack Kadoda.” Awesome.

But it’s never really bothered me, since I do have a pretty unusual looking last name. The easiest way to explain it is by saying, “It’s pronounced like the state, Dakota. But with a K.” But some people even manage to screw that up. So here’s a guide to the correct pronunciation of my name, in handy rebus form!

MINUS

MINUS

PLUS

PLUS

EQUALS

If you’re wondering how long this took me, let’s just say too long. Way too long. But I’ll try to come up with more if people get down on their hands and knees and beg me.

You know why? Because I’m heading to Washington, D.C. tomorrow to see my family. Don’t worry, the majority of the Kukodas are still keeping it real in Buffalo. But my sister lives in D.C. with her husband, so we’re all going there to visit. Anyone know of anything fun to do in D.C.? I’m already planning on riding the Lincoln Memorial. That’s a log ride, yes? I also hear the Washington Monument is super fun and scary.

Wait, I’m thinking of “D.C. Land,” the Washington-themed amusement park and casino in Las Vegas. Oh man, “D.C. Land” is awesome. They’ve got the loosest slots in town, and by that, I mean Dolly Madison and Betty Ford, two prostitutes that dress up as former first ladies. So yeah, I am looking forward to a little high-stakes poker and historically-themed thrill rides all weekend.

Wait, “D.C. Land” doesn’t exist. And I’ve never been to Las Vegas. I’m afraid to play blackjack online, let alone carry my hard-earned cash into a casino. Sorry, I got confused there for a while.

Oh well, D.C. should be fun anyway. I think we’re going to see a show while we are there. And my parents will probably be acting crazy and threatening to kill each other, which always brings my sister and me closer. So that will be nice. If any of my friends live in D.C. that I forgot about, send me an email and we will meet up. It will be like your birthday and Christmas wrapped up into one sexy, sexy package. Me!

He Lives!

For an explanation, read this, particularly the comments. If anyone else sends me their renderings of horrifying animal hybrids, I will happily post them. I’m looking at you Laina, Photoshop whiz.

Thanks to Ben for sending this one. And for the record, a swarm of batsnakes would tear this thing to shreds.

So New York Magazine ran a story this week all about Urban Etiquette. You know, what is and is not permissible in a big crowded city like New York. And since I enjoy nothing more than ripping off other people’s ideas-I’ve got an idea for a sitcom about nothing called Kleinfeld in the works-I thought I would give you some etiquette tips on how to act around me, comedian, superstar lover, and all-around good guy, Jack Kukoda.

1. If you see me in a bar, you should not make eye contact. I don’t care if I’m by myself, with friends, or wearing a sandwich board that says “Look me in the eye.” Do not do it. I’m like some kind of crazy tiger that will assume you are challenging me if you look me in the eyes.

2. Please do not ask me to autograph your balls. Seriously, I don’t know when this trend started, but I would really appreciate it if it stopped. It’s one thing to autograph some girl’s impressive cleavage, but if one more of my male fans hands me a sharpie and pulls out their nutsack, I’m just going to lose it.

3. Thinking of sending me a delicious homemade pie? You go right ahead. I will never-I repeat never- turn down a free, delicious pie.

4. Don’t step on my Air Jordans unless you are prepared to die.

5. Please do not throw your baby at me, and then try to rob me when I attempt to catch the baby. It’s really annoying. Okay, this one really only applies to gypsies, but don’t anyone else go get any ideas.

6. Feel free to give me lots of sloppy puppy kisses.(Puppies only)

I think that is all the rules I can come up with right now. And when in doubt, use your common sense. Looking forward to those pies!

The other night, I was walking down North 6th St. in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. For the people reading this who live outside New York, I don’t even know where to begin describing Williamsburg. The easy way would be to say it’s where a lot of hipsters live. But there’s so much more to it than that. So much more horrible, rage-inducing, general assholed-ness to Williamsburg than that. Because it really contains every strata of New York asshole, with a few exceptions. Merely typing about Williamsburg is giving me a headache because I hate it so much, so I’ll make this brief.

The other night I’m walking towards Galapagos, a performance space and bar, for Becky Yamamoto’s Flag Day Show. It was a lot of fun, by the way. Anyhow, as I’m walking down the street, I see what appears to be a group of Eurotrash playing soccer in the street. One guy was standing on the sidewalk, in front of a garage with the gate down. I surmised that he was the goalie. The rest of the guys were out in the street, trying to score on him. I wanted to kill them.

Why? What’s wrong with playing soccer? Here’s what’s wrong: First of all, they were Americans. Maybe if they were Europeans I could understand the drive to play soccer whenever the spirit grabs you. But I doubt any Americans are so soccer mad that they just have to play no matter where they are, traffic laws and pedestrian safety be damned. Second, there was a park maybe 5 blocks away from where they were playing. I could understand if it were Rio de Janeiro and they had no choice but to play in the streets because there is no greenery to be found in their neighborhood slum. But they had a choice. And the choice they made was to play soccer in the street so everyone would see them and admire how continental they were.

Also, I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but I’ve got a pretty good idea it went something like this:

ASSHOLE 1: Soccer is the best.

ASSHOLE 2: Yeah, I love football.

ASSHOLE 1: Right, football. That’s what I meant.

MUSTACHIOED ASSHOLE 1: When I was in Rome, we played football everyday in this piazza near our apartment.

ASSHOLE 2: I love Rome.

MUSTACHIOED ASSHOLE 2: I’ve been to Prague.

ASSHOLE 1: I can’t believe Americans don’t get football. It’s the best.

ASSHOLE 2: I know.

MUSTACHIOED ASSHOLE 2: You guys hear me? I said I’ve been to Prague.

MUSTACHIOED ASSHOLE 1: Let’s go do something whimsical.

ALL: Yeah!

MUSTACHIOED ASSHOLE 2: It’s pronounced “Pra-ha.”

So that was my day.

Longtime readers of this site are no doubt familiar with Galoshes, my pet puma. If not, you can get up to speed by reading this. Man, Galoshes is the best. He’s like some kind of freaking super poontang magnet. If you thought a puppy was a good way to meet girls, then you should see how the ladies flock to a talking puma with a British accent.

Anyhow, the other day, Galoshes wanted to get some exercise, so I decided to take him to the park. We decided to play “Kitesbee,” which is cross between frisbee and kite-flying that I invented because I’m so goddamn whimsical. Seriously, if you want whimsy, then I’m your man. Sometimes I wear outfits that I knitted myself completely out of pony hair just for the hell of it. So yeah, I am great.

Anyway, while we were playing kitesbee, this smoking hot chick(yes, that’s exactly how I describe women) walks over and starts petting Galoshes. “Is this a cougar?” she asked. “Actually, I’m a puma,” Galoshes responded. The woman seemed a little startled that my puma could talk and she jumped back just a little. “Don’t worry,” Galoshes said. “I don’t bite…hard.” Oh, we all had a good laugh at that one. There’s nothing more appealing than a mountain cat using sexual innuendo on some woman he just met.

With Galoshes’ help, I got the woman to come back to my place. I poured us all a round of drinks while Galoshes rolled a huge joint. Ghostbusters II was on HBO so we started watching that. I thought I was at least going to make out with this girl, but I got really high and got too paranoid to make a move. So that’s how the night ended: Me, some girl, and my talking puma watching HBO, sitting on the couch, too stoned to move. Just like a fairy tale.

Previously: The H Is O, But My P Is S

Some of you may have noticed that I didn’t update this site yesterday until way late. Sorry. It’s been a rough couple of days. I don’t want to get into it too much, so let’s just say I wasn’t getting enough sleep. But that’s what happens when you’re out saving lives. Whoops.

Did I let that slip? Darn it. I didn’t mean to mention that in my spare time, I rescue baby animals from fires and other assorted dangers. Now it just seems like I’m bragging, doesn’t it? Shoot. Really, that’s not what I was trying to do. I wasn’t trying to casually mention that I do things defend baby ducks from coyotes or run into burning pet shops, a la Pee Wee Herman, to save the lives of defenseless, and adorable, baby animals.

Oh, listen to me ramble on. Next thing you know, I’ll be blabbing about my work with the elderly. Shit. I did it again. Seriously, I’m not trying to charity-drop here. In no way did I mean to tell you all about how I carry elderly people on my back to sensibly-priced restaurants, so that they can enjoy a meal at the Olive Garden. I don’t need your accolades. The look on an old person’s face as they cling to my back while I race through traffic is thanks enough. I’m just going to keep quiet now before I let another one of my good deeds slip.

Have a good weekend, everybody. I hope you’ll all get outside and enjoy the beautiful weather. Not me, though. I’ll be too busy teaching teaching the blind to paint and counseling depressed ponies. Ooops!

Because my family got swindled again. This is about the umpteenth time my father has been taken in a Ponzi scheme. What’s interesting about it this time is that the guy who swindled my father was actually named Ponzi. Pete Ponzi. I cannot believe my father did not see that one coming.

But this isn’t the first time the Kukodas have been swindled. The Kukodas are, in general, a likable and good-natured bunch, but we are too quick and willing to trust people. When I was a kid, this guy came to our house and said he had been robbed and just wanted to use our phone to make a phone call. He tried to call, but said the line was busy, and asked if he could wait in our living room for a few minutes and then try again. We said okay. That man ended up living in our house for eight years. Most families, after an hour or so, would have asked the guy to leave. Not the Kukodas. True story.

Another time, my parents were driving me to baseball practice, and this guy on a mountain bike pulled up next to our car at a red light. He told us that he was from the car company, and needed to do a routine inspection of our car. We should have known something was up when he just used the term “car company” instead of the specific manufacturer of our car. Hindsight is 20/20. Anyway, we all got out of the car like he asked so he could perform the inspection. He got in and drove away. My dad drove me to practice on the mountain bike the guy left behind. Another true story.

Oh, and just last year, my father lost our house in that carnival game where you throw darts at balloons to try and win a poster of Jessica Simpson. I have no idea how that happened. True story, though.

Oooh, look at me! I’m Donald Hall, the nation’s soon-to-be-named poet laureate. I’m so great!

You know what I say, Donald Hall? Screw you! Screw you and your stupid poems and your stupid folding chair on your stupid porch! You want to know the only reason the Library of Congress chose you as poet laureate and not me? Because I’m too real. That’s right, I’m like a big bowl of reality served up with a big old side of open-your-eyes mashed potatoes. Did you like that food metaphor? Or was it too real for you? Don’t bother answering, because I already know.

Here’s how things went down: last week, the head of the Library of Congress called me into his office and asked if I would like to be the poet laureate. I put my feet up on my desk and said, “What’s in it for me?” He said that I would get to speak at events and get a fancy medal and stuff. “Fuck your medals!” I shouted at him. Then I read my latest poem. Here it is:

America,
You think you’re so big.
Whatever,
Yeah, whatever.

Bammo! I knocked Mr. Librarian straight on his ass with that one. Never before in the history of mankind has a poet spoken truth to power with such startling veracity. The truth is, I don’t need any fancy titles to tell me that my poems are awesome. I’m part of an AOL group, comprised mostly of adolescents, and we share our poetry with each other online. And you know what, they tell me that I’m awesome. That’s all the praise I need. Here’s another poem I wrote about parents.

Parents,
You think you’re the boss of me.
Guess what,
You ain’t.

Kablammaroo! I bet that one knocked you all off of your chairs. I’ll give you a few minutes to compose yourselves before I hit you up with another poem that will blow your mind. So in the meantime, let me-PSYCH! Here comes another!

Rocky Mountains,
You seem to think you’re pretty big.
Oh yeah,
The Alps would disagree.

Kazzammazzamaroo! You see how I stuck it to those snooty Rocky Mountains? I know you did.

Related: I Got Freaking Jobbed
Outspoken New Englander Is New Poet Laureate [NYTimes]

Uh…Seriously. Anyone out there looking to purchase a dolphin? Maybe for your lab or as a birthday present for your niece or something? I bet your niece would like this dolphin. Dolphins are like ponies of the sea. Really, I need to get this dolphin off my hands real quick. The authorities will be looking for me soon and he is splashing water all over my bathroom. I’ve got him in the tub now, but he barely fits and I think he’s getting mad. So, you know, make me an offer on this dolphin. I will consider any price. No offer is too low.

Now, on an unrelated note, let me give you folks a piece of advice. If your friend calls you late at night and asks you to come drinking, make sure you know ahead of time where you will be drinking. Because you just might end up at the aquarium, doing shots of Kahlua until he dares you to steal a dolphin. And it will seem like a hilariously good idea at the time, but then you’ll wake up the next morning with a VERY angry dolphin flopping about in your bathtub. And then you’ll spend the next 3 hours piecing together the events of last night, trying to figure out why in the hell a furious dolphin is eating your shower curtain and making those horrific screeching noises.

Also, if you’re drunk at the aquarium, do not-DO NOT- under any circumstances, try to fight an octopus. They are well versed in many fighting styles, apparently. And those suction cups on their arms hurt.

And finally, don’t feed a burrito to a shark. Seriously, I know it might seem funny at the time. But if you thought that alka-seltzer and pigeons was a bad combination, you don’t even want to know what a gas-station burrito will do to a small hammerhead shark.

Good God, my head hurts. And don’t forget, make me an offer on this dolphin.