Vaude Has Done It Again

Man, I'm so sick of this! He always does this! And always when I need him most, too.

I guess I just won't be able to do a column today.

(Loud cheers erupt from readers)

What the hell? I didn't know I had more than one reader. And to think, I've been referring to my audience in singular form. Billy Ocean must have told people about this site. Heck of a guy, that Billy Ocean. Awful singer, but heck of a guy.

Anyway, my joke writer called in sick again. What, you think I write my own jokes? Yeah, right. I couldn't think up that many jokes each week. How naive of you to think I do this without outside help.

Remember last week, when I made the joke about my parents not being able to use the internet? That was Vaude, my joke writer. He's Woody Allen's third Jewish cousin-in-law, so he's good at writing jokes. Just like how I'm Irish, which means I'm good at making sure my liver dies a slow, horrible death.

Anyway, Vaude's jokes are rad. Remember this joke?

. . . and I will get regular nookie from (insert name of blindfolded farm animal).

Yeah, that's all Vaude. That's why I can't fire him. He's too good. But it pisses me off when he calls in all drunk at 8 a.m., saying he's sick and stuff. Just take a look at our phone conversation this morning.

Paul: Hello?

Vaude: Who's Paul there?

Paul: What the hell?

Vaude: Paul, it meee, Vaude.

Paul: Why aren't you at work yet?

Vaude: I sick. I barf all over curtains.

Paul: What? Hey, who's that person I hear in the background?

Vaude: That's my wiffe.

Paul: You're a Jewish comedian, Vaude. Jewish comedians don't have wives.

Vaude: What 'bout Jerrry Seinfeld?

Paul: Seinfeld doesn't have a wife, he has a slutty underage teenie-bopper he lured away with his immense riches.

Vaude: Well, that's what my ladee friend is, too.

Paul: Dammit Vaude! If you're not at work in fifteen minutes, you're fired!

Vaude: (Sound of Vaude vomiting)

Paul: Hello? Did you just barf in the phone? Because I'll take great offense to that, Vaude. I've never had someone dislike a conversation with me enough to vomit into the receiver before, and I refuse to let a drunken boob like yourself be the first.

Vaude: This not my phone. My phone orange? Um . . . uh-oh. I think I made the phone dirty.

Paul: Oh, never mind. Just sober up and come in tomorrow.

Vaude: Why should I?

Paul: Because if you don't, I'll erase all your Duran Duran mix tapes.

Vaude: Okay, I be in tomorrow.

It's probably my fault. I started adding in those drink recipes each Friday. I should have intervened when I saw him buying Tang at the Kwik-Mart on Sunday afternoon.

Oh well. I guess I'll just have to make do. Sadly, the column will only get worse after this week, though.

I gave Vaude all eight days of Chanukah off.