From The Desk of Orlando Furioso... A Lucky Day Every morning, I wait by the yellow and white sign. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting for the stinking machine. It crawls along the asphalt like a bi-sected worm, and still I wait, standing alongside The Auctioneer (a frail, elderly sort who sits at the sign's foot, plays with his toothless lips, and smiles at nothing). After what seems like a midget eternity (and newly baptized by the hail of aged spit from the razzing miscreant's sad recreation), the bus arrives, and I demand that they lower the sacred platform, and elevate my countenance into the foggy haven of the contraption's innards. But the driver DENIES ME my holy rite - always offering the same lame excuse: "Mr. Furioso, you're not handicapped," he whines. But I am having NONE OF IT! If The Pope were to demand such passage into the lumbering vessel, then surely the wilted half-man behind the wheel would lower its great, yawning flap with the BEEP BEEP BEEP of divine capitulation! Call it a twenty-one BEEP salute! And for WHAT?!? The Papal, compared to Rossetti, is nothing more than a prune salesman! Every morning, the same dreary pattern works its insipid voodoo. The driver protests. I cross my arms. The driver pleads. I frown. Finally, sensing that I am as unmoveable on the subject as an industrial dumpster, the steering buffoon closes the door on my victorious face, and drives away - leaving me with a pristine excuse for missing yet another job interview. Later, I regale Dave, Steve, and Gargantua with the ribalderous tale, and our eyes fire with the satisfaction that only men can feel. Because we ARE men. Because our unsheathed buttocks tickle against the fluffy, white carpet of the condominium we share, and the four flea-bombs detonated just yester-eve have given the strands a new, delightfully coarse flavor. From out of nowhere, a bag of marshmallows appears! 'Tis strange how Rossetti so immaculately dotes upon the tender hearts of True Believers...

 

The Law (In The Form of Ha-Ha).... A woman walks into a bar. She sits down, crosses her legs, and orders a drink. "I'll have a Jack Daniels," she says.   The Bartender (without looking at her) replies: "we don't serve your kind in here."   The woman becomes irate. "Why not?" she asks.   The bartender answers her as calm as a pool of quiet water:   "Because you are not for me to believe. FOR ONE, you are the maker of useless noises. You repeat what a man has told you, yet you still get it wrong. You understand only half of what you force out your painted lips. And when only half of what is said is understood, it negates the other half. So therefore, there is absolutely no truth to what you have said. It is a case of simple mathematics... Or better 'manthematics.'   FOR TWO, although you crossed your foul limbs when you sat down, the stench of your 'wound' is giving me a sick feeling in my gut. My nose, while unpleased, is accustomed to repulsive odors - for I was once a garbage-MAN. But my gut, which is the seat of Rossetti, is disturbed by your hole.   FOR THREE, you demanded service. You never asked me. You seem to think that what you have between your legs is some sort-of special gift, and that I should jump like a school-boy to do your bidding because of it. You could not be more wrong. If you wish to dismiss me as a simple homosexual - and thus immune to your disease - go right ahead. You lack the mental capacity to understand that a man can be neither heterosexual nor homosexual. You will never grasp the concept of sexuality as an atavistic trait. For you, your horrid webwork of tubes and folds is a tool you use to slither through society. Unfortunately, your foul secretions help you to achieve this, as aroused women have been known to slide a distance of a hundred yards or more across hot concrete - utilizing their slickened thatch as a makeshift hovercraft. But regardless, let me just put it to you in this simple way... To you, a penis is a lever that is pulled to get a promotion. To me, it is proof of Rossetti's divinity.   FOR FOUR, You ordered a Jack Daniels. That is a drink named after a man, and therefore, it is a man's drink. Now please leave or I will be forced to ignore you."   At this, the woman gets up with a HUFF, in a SNIT, and leaves the bar.

 

 

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