“Justice has been done,” the president said solemnly. “Sajak was a terrorist responsible for the boredom of thousands of innocent men, women, and children. For nearly three decades, Sajak led nightly attacks against our country. Also, he was kind of a dick.”

Sajak, the leader of Al Qaeda and the most hunted man in the world, was not found in the remote tribal areas along the Pakistani-Afghan border where he has long presumed to be sheltered, but in a large “Wheel of Fortune” filming compound in Burbank, CA, about ten minutes north of that Ikea store that seems to only hire fat chicks.

The whereabouts of Sajak’s second-in-command, Alex Trebek, is unclear. Experts say Trebek may be sexing himself on the icy peaks of Canada’s highest mountain ranges. Canadian officials have politely agreed to bomb themselves until Trebek’s corpse is found.

The successful effort to track down Sajak centered on a trusted courier, identified only as “Vanna”, whom officials described as a buxom blonde woman who rarely spoke, but often showed her approval of Sajak’s terrorism by smiling and clapping politely. Sajak would often hide his propaganda in puzzles, and Vanna would slowly reveal them to the world, letter-by-letter.

Sajak reportedly tried to use Vanna as a shield during the firefight, taking cover behind her bosoms as he fired on 30 Navy SEALS. Vanna, like Sajak, was killed in the raid. Officials positively identified Sajak by testing his DNA against other complete douches, and finding a near 100 percent match. Vanna was identified by removing her breast implants and checking the serial number.

Network television tradition requires burial of dead game show hosts within 24 hours, to clear out the dressing room for the younger, more attractive replacement host. American authorities complied with all the various entertainment industry standards: Sajak’s face was peed upon by Chuck Woolery, and an audio recording of Merv Griffin cursing angrily at a flight attendant while she fellated him was played as Sajak’s body was dumped into the North Arabian Sea. The sea burial is beneficial because it denies elderly women who worship Sajak a shrine to visit.

U.S. intelligence officials removed a large trove of documents from Sajak’s compound. One document has already leaked onto the internet. The top half of the classified document reads, “Category: Before & After”, while the bottom half reads, “Seventh-Inning Stretch Pants.” Officials wouldn’t comment on the meaning of the document, but experts believe it’s stupid enough to have been a puzzle used on the actual game show.

Sajak’s demise is a defining moment in the American-led fight against bad television, a symbolic stroke affirming the relentless pursuit of networks and actors who bore millions of Americans with endless clones of “Everybody Loves Raymond” and dull reality shows about non-Kardashians.

The public reaction following the news of Sajak’s death was jubilant. Even college students, who were only eight or nine years old when Sajak flew planes into the World Trade Center, were celebrating in the streets. But perhaps the most surprising approval came from former President George W. Bush, who complimented President Obama despite claiming during his own administration that Sajak was not a priority.

“I don’t know where Pat Sajak is,” said President Bush during a 2002 interview. “I have no idea and really don’t care. I’m not Mrs. Sajak, so I don’t have to keep track of him. Maybe he’s on the Wheel of Fortune set. I dunno. I don’t have time to look.”

The remaining members of Al Qaeda haven’t commented on Sajak’s demise, as they all live in the Middle East, where pop culture news from America tends to take 5-10 years to get there. At the time of the 9/11 attacks, Bon Jovi was really huge in Iraq. Right now, Ma$e’s album “Harlem World” is quickly shooting up the charts in Pakistan. Around 2023, U.S. terrorism officials will begin preparing for Sajak death retaliation attacks.

When President Obama addressed the nation on Sunday evening, one of his main goals was to remind citizens that the United States is not at war with television. Even though MTV’s “Skins” remake is boring and severely lacking in charm/nudity, and “Mike and Molly” is just 22 minutes of jokes about Molly smelling her own farts and Mike not being able to pee accurately because he’s too fat to see his own penis, television is still worth fixing.

“Sajak was not a television leader; he was a mass murderer of television,” said President Obama. “His demise should be welcomed by all who believe in human dignity. All we need is one show worth watching, just one single show that isn’t stupid and full of jokes about masturbation, and television will be right back on track. We don’t have a show like that yet, and we haven’t for nearly 20 years, but we’re bound to get lucky sometime.”

 
Harry Potter didn’t open his eyes at first. It was his nose that initially awakened, taking in the harrowing mixture of gasoline, motor oil, and vomit found in the back alleys near Tower Avenue. The moment the foul odor registered, Potter’s eyes fluttered open in horror.

It had been a long battle with Voldemort, and Potter scarcely remembered the conclusion. Like a fuzzy dream, there was a point when everything simply faded to black. Little did Potter realize that in the final moments, Voldemort had cast the magic world’s most forbidden spell upon him, the one that banishes people to Superior, Wisconsin.

Potter rose and stumbled gingerly to the back door of a place called Mama’s Bar. The smoky den was filled with withering elderly men, the sort of doomed misfits who regularly drank at 11am on a Tuesday.

“Excuse me,” said Potter. “I’m wondering if any of you can help me.”

“Look at them round smarty glasses,” said one drunk. “You think you smarter than us, college boy?”

“Please, no need for intimidation,” said Potter. “I’ve always been a friend to muggles like yourselves.”

“What’d you call me, boy?” said the drunk.

The mood in the bar turned sour.

“Them ain’t smarty glasses,” said another man. “Them’s those round glasses the faggots all wear.”

“He a queer!” screamed another man. “Smear ‘em!”

The men chased Potter out the back door, cornering him against a dumpster. He quickly produced his wand and shouted “Expelliarmus” at one of the men, knocking the beer bottle from his hand. It crashed to the ground, spilling delicious alcohol into the dry dirt.

“Expelliwhat?” asked one old man.

“He’s speakin’ French, like our terrorist enemies!” shouted another. “Let’s show him what we do to Frenchy beer spillers.”

* * *

Potter awoke many hours later, his head pounding. Blood trickled down his brow, dripping into his eye. The men had beaten him badly, but they were old and their fragile arms, lacking in basic nutrients, had not dealt any major damage.

A familiar cry echoed from the now darkened sky: Potter’s Snowy Owl, Hedwig. Potter quickly wrote a note to his friends at Hogwart’s and gave it to Hedwig. The beautiful owl rose majestically into the sky. Suddenly, a loud blast sounded and the bird collapsed to the ground. A dog raced to the scene and put the dead owl in its mouth.

“Puddles! Bad dog!” said a hunter, suddenly appearing. “You’re a good boy, but you still haven’t learned not to chew on the game.”

“That was my owl, not a game bird!” screeched Potter. “How the hell are you allowed to hunt in the city?”

“It’s illegal, but the wifey says I’m too drunk to drive to the cabin today. You don’t have a police radio, do you? Tell me if you hear any sirens.”

Devastated, Potter continued wandering. In the distance, he spotted a beautiful brown-haired teenage girl standing outside Stargate Nightclub. “Hermione Granger!” shouted Potter, running to her with great excitement. But as he drew closer, he realized the teen girl wasn’t very pretty at all, and certainly wasn’t Hermione. Though young, her skin was thick and leathery from years of tanning salons and chain smoking.

“This one’s kinda cute,” said the girl, pointing to Potter.

“Ugh,” said her friend. “No muscles and he looks like an accountant.”

“Shut up!,” she said. “He might be rich! (to Potter) I’m Maggie. Do you go to UMD?”

“Me?” asked Potter. “No, I’m a student at Hogwart’s.”

“What is that, like a community college or something? Gross.”

An obese middle-aged woman lumbered up to the group. Maggie noticed Potter’s bewildered look.

“Oh, this is my mom,” said Maggie. “She comes out to the clubs with us sometimes.”

Potter grimaced and continued traveling, finding a group of hicks outside Viking Lounge.

“Excuse me, is there anywhere in town where wise people gather?” asked Potter.

“The Ghetto Spur! At the foot of the high bridge,” said one man.

“That ain’t the Ghetto Spur, stupid! That’s the Chicken Spur! ‘Cause they got chicken! Hammond one’s the Ghetto Spur,” said a second man.

“I thought Ghetto Spur was in Duluth,” said a third. “Man, I’ve lived here 50 years and I still can’t remember nothin’. Damn alcohol.”

“Look, is there anything unusual or treacherous afoot in this town?” asked Potter.

“Whole damn city’s treacherous,” said the first man. “Everything from the chicks to the Styx on the jukebox.”

“Has Voldemort taken residence here?”

“Voldemort? Do they make vinyl doors and windows? ‘Cause we already got FenTech. They been here a long time. Ain’t nobody gonna outdo FenTech. Voldemort’s wasting their time.”

“Oh God, this place is horrid,” said Potter. “I need to get back to London!”

“London? You’ll need to be rich to afford that flight.”

“I only have 20 quid.”

“You can get mashed potato balls at the Chicken Spur!” said the second man.

“Look, we got ugly chicks with bad teeth here too,” said the first man. “Go get yourself a job at the Spur. You’ll have the money to leave in five, maybe six years tops.”

The scar on Harry’s forehead began to singe, and he let out a blood-curdling scream. It was rumored that Voldemort loved to torture his victims mentally, but until now, Potter hadn’t realized the horror of that fate.

 
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I don’t mean to frighten you, dear reader, but I just woke up to a bird pecking at my window. “Bonk. Bonk. Bonk, bonk.” The bird is four inches tall, with brown feathers and a light yellow beak. It is obviously trying to find a way inside so it can eat me.

Once upon a morning dreary, while I pondered, drunk and bleary, over the dozen beers I had consumed the night before. While I snored, loudly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, from a flesh-eating bird gently rapping, rapping at my window decor.

Don’t panic! The glass on the old window is thick. It will take at least four minutes for the beast to chip through it with its razor-sharp beak. Once it does, it will devour my flesh and use my skull as the basis for a nest. It’s times like these that I wish the government allowed us to keep nuclear weaponry in our homes. Damn you, Obama! Forget the economy and come look at this damned bird! It has tenacity!

Presently my bowels grew weaker; I stifled an instinct to throw my sneaker, “Bird,” said I, “or Chick, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and you’re bugging the shit out of me with your rapping, Please stop your tapping, tapping on my window decor.”

“But Paul,” you might say, “It’s just a bird. It doesn’t want to eat you. It’s just confused because it doesn’t realize the window is made of glass.” Well reader, if fools were precious you’d be downright adorable, but they’re not, so you’re an idiot. We’ve all heard stories of birds flying into window panes, but this one isn’t suicidal like its brethren. This bird is hungry for brains. It will not give up until it devours human meat, and the rivers of blood that flow through me.

Deep into my bathroom fleeing, long I stood there unzipping, peeing, dreaming escapes no mortal ever dared to dream before. But the bird was unrestrained, and eyeing my jugular vein, and the only word there spoken was the tapping on my window decor. Merely this and nothing more.

Also, I’m a bachelor, so my windows haven’t been washed in years. They’re filthy. It would take a bottle and a half of Windex to see the true color of the sky.

Back into my bed turning, I told the bird – to ease its spurning – that I’d happily clean the windows a little more. But this only brought a tapping much louder than before.

Perhaps the bird won’t eat me if I feed it something else. Maybe I’m mistaking blood lust for normal hunger. What kind of sandwiches do birds eat? Ham? I’m out of that. Turkey? That’s a fellow species of bird. They probably won’t eat their own. Tuna fish? Do birds like fish, or just cats? Everything I know about animals comes from Looney Tunes cartoons. Regardless, I’m out of that too. Hey bird, stop pecking my window! I’ll make you some PB&J!

“Surely,” said I, “surely the bird will take a sandwich gratis; Let me see then, where the peanut butter thereat is, and fill up this birdly whore – Let the grape jelly I just bought be christened for this birdly whore – Then I shall hear the wind and nothing more!”

I don’t deserve this grief! Why is this happening? Do I have enemies with the capability to send a carnivorous bird to my window to devour me? Ones who knew my Saturday would be ruined if I woke up before 11am? In 17 hours when this damn bird finally breaks through my window, I guess they’ll get what they wanted.

“Doubtless,” said I, “what it does is its only stock and store.” Caught from some unhappy wanker, filled with angry, bitter rancor, the bird only knows to be hardcore. This and nothing more. “Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee – a bloodthirsty bird he has sent me. Respite – respite and nepenthe from thy memories of clean window decor!”

What kind of a retched world is this? How long must I live in these bowels of Poe, with ravens tapping at my chamber door, squawking about girls with easy to rhyme names? What’s next? A beating heart pulsating through my floorboards? My friends tossing bottles of amontillado into catacombs and sealing me inside? Pits and pendulums amidst the Spanish Inquisition? I can’t take this damned incessant window tapping anymore!

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil! – winged eater of turds and weevils! By that Heaven that bends above us – by that God we both find to be a bit of a snore – Spare my soul with sorrow laden, I have no beer, no porn, no maidens! I swear to you that life is already a chore! My 401k’s VIMSX stock has hit the floor – Quit the bust above my door!”

Quoth the bird, “Nevermore.”

 
Lovers have informed me on more than one occasion that I have a wiener. While I’m always complimented on my personality first, it’s clear that wieners are what ladies are attracted to most. Women love wieners. I’d have to say that without a wiener, I wouldn’t get nearly as many women as I do now.

I’ve had a wiener for as long as I can remember. I woke up one morning at the age of nine and, boom, there was my wiener. “What’s this for?” I thought. Then I remembered that I had been urinating out of it for quite some time.

In my freshman year of college I realized that while my wiener is sometimes unwieldy, I’m pretty glad to have it. I arrived at this moment of clarity in my first semester, when I attended a party wearing tight jeans. All of a sudden, ladies who had previously ignored me were buying my wiener drinks. It was like suddenly realizing that the lottery ticket you’ve been keeping in your pocket all these years is a winner.

And so went my late teens and early 20s. Girls like wieners. I had a wiener. Wieners get you things. Things greater than or equal to the quality of your wiener. I’ve been aware of my wiener power ever since. Want a free drink at a bar? Push your wiener against your pants. The more crotch cleavage you project, the more drinks the ladies will buy you.

Now I’m in my late 20s, and while my wiener is still awesome, I find it’s starting to lose the battle with gravity. My perfect wiener is starting to sag lower than usual. Some celebrities have work done, letting a surgeon give their wiener a nip and tuck to keep it fresh, but I don’t want a silicone wiener. I like to keep my wiener au naturale.

But as I’ve gotten older, I’ve found myself getting more frustrated by young, perky celebrities. In the video for her single “How Do I Deal?”, Jennifer Love Hewitt – the baron of perkiness herself – bounced around angrily in the rain, her wiener buoyant, perky, and damp. “Oh come on!” I shouted at my TV. “She’s not even wearing jockeys! A springy wiener like that with no support?! Goddamn it, her wiener can’t be real! It can’t!”

It’s difficult for us men to constantly see these perfect-looking people on TV without hating our own wieners. “My wiener doesn’t bounce in the rain,” we say. “My wiener hides from the rain, shriveling up when it gets cold.” Has Jennifer Love Hewitt had wiener surgery? Did she have a wiener specialist remove her stretch marks?

Only Carson Daly knows. And Wilmer Valderrama. And Joey Lawrence. And Enrique Iglesias, Tobey Maguire, Craig Bierko, John Mayer, Alec Baldwin, Andrew Keegan, and Rich Cronin. And Scott Bairstow. All of those men have seen Jennifer Love Hewitt’s wiener. But you know what? I don’t care. I don’t need some super wiener that defies gravity and God. I don’t care if my wiener sags all the way down to my knees.

Talking about my wiener reminds me of a story about my wiener. When I was a young high school student, my wiener got hit by a car. It was my fault. I had been playing with it in the street. I’ve since made a full recovery, but telltale signs of my wiener accident still remain. You can still see light imprints of the car’s snow tires. But you know what? That just means my wiener has character. Who wants a prudent wiener that hasn’t had adventures?

I hear Jennifer Love Hewitt is shooting a movie in town soon. Maybe my wiener and I will show up unannounced. Maybe I’ll instigate a wiener showdown. Maybe the police will be called. I don’t know. I can’t predict the future.

On second thought, maybe I’ll just stay home instead. I don’t need to wiener fight with some bitch from Waco. I’m perfectly content as a 28-year-old man with a 28-year-old wiener. One that shrinks in cold water and gets bigger when hit by a car. A wiener that smiles when it’s happy, frowns when it’s sad, and sneezes when you pet it. My wiener. America’s wiener.

 
The number four isn’t a good bus. The seats are covered with graffiti, the drivers are rude, and the people who ride the bus are a little crazy. Number four travels the entire length of Santa Monica Boulevard in Los Angeles, transporting some of the oddest freaks the city has to offer.

“I once saw a homeless woman pee on that bus,” said my co-worker Ron, quite proud of his story. “Yup. She sat down in the back, dropped her pants, and peed right on the floor. I had never seen that before.” Ron has also seen a homeless man poop on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. “But that’s a different story,” he said.

Number four begins its route far to the east, in the Silverlake neighborhood. Beck and the Red Hot Chili Peppers used to live in this artistic urban neighborhood. Nowadays, more generic hipsters and burnouts ride the bus here, but not this early in the morning. Hippies and druggies tend not to get up before 10am, so the bus is empty during the morning rush hour. This is the only quiet part of the commute.

Driving west to the next neighborhood, things get a little weirder. The eastern edge of Hollywood is where immigrants and transsexuals reside. It’s a low-rent neighborhood, which attracts the immigrants, but it’s also a sleazy neighborhood, which attracts the trannies. Most of the trannies are extremely tall black men, which doesn’t make them very convincing as women. If you’ve never seen a Mike Tyson look-alike boarding a bus in a sun dress, I’d highly recommend it.

The number four bus’ route gets even grittier as it pushes to the center of Hollywood. The streets are filled with trash, homeless people abound, and the entire area looks like it’s been hit with a bomb full of urine. Surprisingly, this rotten-looking area is full of trendy people: Socialites in expensive outfits, art students with indie rock cred and brightly-dyed hair, and a few old timers who never recovered from the Sunset Strip’s heavy metal heyday in the 1980s. Welcome to the club scene.

At 8am, the people from all these cliques are hungover. Don’t scoff. You would be too if you lived at the corner of Hollywood and Vine. Falling on the sidewalk is not just contagious in this area, it’s almost a bit of a mating call. I find it charming that homeless people wearing rags and trendy kids wearing Prada can share a few mutual vomits, if only for a few moments.

The landscape turns upscale as the number four rumbles into West Hollywood. This is a gay neighborhood, and I’m not mocking when I say everything is ridiculously gay. The street signs are a pretty blue color, many stores have rainbow flags and banners in their windows, the sidewalks are absolutely spotless, and everything is very tidy and well designed. They have bike lanes, for God’s sake. Trendy bastards!

I once heard someone refer to West Hollywood as “WeHo”, so I started calling it that as well. A gay friend of mine heard me use the phrase and got a tear in his eye. “Aww, that’s cute,” he said. “You’ve learned gay speak.” He was less enthused when I referred to the neighborhood as “GayHo”.

Nearing the end of its route, bus number four limps through the heavy congestion into Beverly Hills. The traffic here is a sea of BMWs and Mercedes’. Occasionally you’ll see a Porsche or Aston Martin. Last week I saw two Lamborghinis. Oddly enough, you become immune to it. A cherry red Lamborghini doesn’t even cause me to put down the book I’m reading anymore. Not unless it runs over a jogger.

By this time, the only riders left on bus number four are middle-aged Hispanic women. In fact, the bus is packed full of them. They work as housekeepers and nannies for the rich people in the area. In all my time riding the bus, I’ve never seen an actual resident of Beverly Hills use it.

The number four is filthy, broken down, and completely unreliable, but it’s great because it’s like a zoo for people watchers. If you’re lucky, on any given night you might see a cokehead jittering in his seat as if he were having a seizure. You might see a tranny who looks strikingly like NBA star Kevin Garnett. You might meet the guy who cleans up Paris Hilton’s dog’s poop. Or you might see nothing much at all. It all depends on your luck.

Either way, you’ll learn a lot more about a city (and leave much more fascinated) by riding bus number four than you will by visiting Disneyland. The real parts of a city and the real residents are always the best attractions in town.

I will drink many glasses of water the night before I come to move your fucking shit. That way I will not be hung-over. I will not huff the Sharpie markers you use to label your shit. I will put all your shit in my awesome van and fucking move it. My van is fucking awesome for moving all your biggest fucking shit.

I will not scratch or fuck up your shit when I move it. I will not take your pristine shit and fuck it all to hell. If your shit is fucked up, it is because your shit was already fucking broken. I am as reliable as all fucking hell.

If you bother me, ask stupid questions, or act like a dumb asshole while I am moving your shit, I will totally not say anything rude. Even if you are a total fuckface who deserves to have someone pee in your mouth while you are asleep, I will be as silent as a motherfucker. I am totally polite and shit.

If you fall asleep while waiting for me to pack your shit, you will not wake up with my penis in your mouth.

I will not have raunchy, sweaty, ball-slapping sex with you while I move your shit. Not unless you want me to, in which case I will fuck the living shit out of you until babies squirt out of your vagina. I will not fuck your brother in his eye socket while I move your shit. Not unless he wants me to and you want to watch, in which case I will fuck his goddamn eye until my man penis scratches his cornea.

And it will, because I will spend many hours the night before, sharpening my prince albert piercing with a metal blade.

I will not take a dump on the floor in your old place of residency, because I do not want you to lose your deposit. However, if you have already lost your deposit, I will wipe my ass on every square inch of your old place. I will slip the outside doorknob into my anus, so your former landlord will be unable to escape the shameful residue my poop cave has left behind.

I might be naked while moving your shit, but my nude ass will not rub against items that stain easily. I will not pee on your shit while moving it, or at least not intentionally. I will not speak ill of the Jews while moving your shit.

I will not drink whiskey while moving your shit. I will bring my own deodorant so I will not have to borrow yours. I will refrain from farting while handling your clothing. I will not belch when I move your shit, because sometimes when I try too hard to belch, I throw up in my own mouth.

I will move your shit really fucking good. You will never be more fucking satisfied than when I am moving your goddamn shit. You will not fucking regret having me move all your awesome shit.

Ah, but when I was a lad, the thought of an oncoming summer tickled my lavish pornographicies, to the point hither where my testicles could drop – one, two, huzzah – at the mere mention of May flowers. Indeed! It was hence a matter of discreetionous content that has made the spring halt in my memory for so many score and years.

Tis thee a flower, or a diarrheanous mudslide of discontent? I choose neither, and instead climax in the corner of yonder tree fort with a handful of sugar. Oh, what diapers full of mischief we once were! Sweet, molesting, penetrating mischief! How I suckled at yon teet for many a years! But then, as if by an act of Jesus Super Magic, Prince Albert in a Can gave me a slap on the bottom and said, “Nevermore!” And I did as I was told, for word has it the prince is gayer than Oscar Wilde, which is to say he is to be gayer than a man with a thin moustache serving wine in crotchless leather chaps.

Stop smiting! Condescend through my fortress of poon!

Are my accusations so erroneous, or hath thee farted in a wind of ill direction? Thee are not alone, reader. I once screamed to the queen, “Does abbernathy become thee, fangled bitch of thy toilet kingdom!?!” I feared she had cast a spell to prevent me from defecating my joy of springtime through my loins. Alas, it was merely the apple dumplings I had consumed a fortnight before, combined with a slow spring thaw, that prevented mine own groinage from tingling. Her highness tallied a win that morn, but I soon found revenge, lodging a common swine from yonder barnyard into her whilst her monthly enema was upon her.

Fondled reader, why does thou not participate in the joy of thee finest season in thy land? Thyst work all day, then return to thy motorized home court to plop onto thy elephant of a spouse. When will thou bequeath thyself from such a trivial life and join my wiener in the garden of pink balloons? I fancied shagging your mother since I viewed her gargling lard in a vestibule outside my prestiged estate! Oink oink indeed, my little piglet! Soon thee shall merge with the foulest intentions of my underparts! Twiddle twiddle, reader! Thy biological mother shall feast upon my forbidden area!

Spring is upon us, and apologies and warm wishes shall not be turned until thy season of wonder has vanquished! I SHALL NOT be deprived of mine own glory! You, with your gigantic gams, you shall not stop me! I am forever a boy of springtime love! Hail Hitler and his dancing ponies! Dirty pillows of fartitudous remittance away!!

 

No, seriously, I mean look at that freakin’ hair! It’s time for Paul to get ready for a haircut!

 

First, Paul must shampoo his hair. You don’t need to leave the shower to read the bottle, Paul! Haha!

 

Oh no! Paul is trying to save money by cutting his own hair. Bad Paul!

 

The best way to get long hair like Paul’s dry is to wrap it in a towel. If Paul isn’t mistaken for a Taliban supporter and shot in the face, he’ll be all ready for his haircut!

 

While Paul gets his hair cut, let’s take the photos for this column and edit them. People will praise this column, even though it only took lazy Paul four minutes to do! Suckers!

 

Paul’s haircut is done. What the hell was the use of it, when he doesn’t do anything at work all day anyway?

Clerk: A cure for what?

Man: Everything.

Clerk: Everything for what?

Man: Everything for everything.

Clerk: I’m not following you.

Man: I want a cure for everything. I have a lot of problems, and I’d like a pill or something to take care of them.

Clerk: Well, what do you have problems with?

Man: Everything.

Clerk: Surely you don’t have problems with everything. That’s ridiculous. That’s impossible.

Man: Maybe I don’t, but you never know what problems I may have in the future. I’d just like to get a cure for everything, so that way I’ll be covered for any new problems I develop later.

Clerk: Are you crazy? You can’t have a cure for everything!

Man: Why not?

Clerk: Because life doesn’t work that way!

Man: Why not?

Clerk: Because . . . because it just doesn’t!

Man: That’s a pretty sorry excuse. You’re not going to send me away satisfied with a lame explanation like that.

Clerk: Look, if there was a cure for everything, and all of life’s problems were solved, life itself would cease to have meaning. The whole point of life is to work at solving problems so you can feel good about solving them.

Man: That’s why I want a cure for everything, so I can solve my problems and feel good.

Clerk: Yes, but then everything would be perfect, and life would be boring and meaningless.

Man: I don’t want things to be perfect. I just want them to be acceptable. I don’t want lots of money, a nice car, or the ability to run a four-minute mile. I just want a cure for all the little things. I want a cure for those times when I’m unhappy, even though I have no reason to be. I want a cure that keeps me from feeling bad about stuff that isn’t my fault. I want a cure for all the things that make me uncomfortable for no reason. I want a cure for not having anything to say to people. I want a cure for being nervous around people I don’t know. I want a cure for moments when I’m not being myself, when I’m trying to be someone else even though I know I shouldn’t. I want a cure for those times when I’m not having fun, even though I should be. I want a cure to keep me from convincing myself that I’m less of a person than I really am. I want a cure that keeps me from thinking a girl doesn’t like me, when I know for a fact that she does. I want a cure for being afraid. I want a cure for not liking my job. I want a cure for not liking any job. I want cures for everybody else too, so when I hang out with people we’ll be able to have fun, instead of sitting around complaining about everything. These are small changes, but the effect will be astronomical, so I want a cure.

Clerk: You sound like you’ve had a rough day. Maybe you should just go home and rest. Everybody has bad days once in a while, especially on Mondays. It’s probably just a Monday thing.

Man: If that’s the case, then every day might as well be Monday.