February 6, 2008
An email to John Bizarre & Shawn McMaster
Good morning, gentlemen.
I should be in bed asleep. I should quit smoking. I should quit smoking on my patio roof at two in the morning when it's freezing outside. Random drunk people should stop walking down my street at two in the morning staring at me while I'm smoking. I suppose they figure they are the normal ones and I'm the moron - they've chosen to walk home drunk rather than drive - I'm the moron who's freezing his ass off in a robe on his patio roof filling his lungs with 4000 cancer-causing chemicals at two in the morning.
Fuckers.
Little do they know that while they're walking home drunk from the local bar of their choice I've had to step outside for a smoke to ponder the life of Harold Einstein.
Harold Einstein was born in 1904. Harold Einstein was better known as Harry Einstein. Harry Einstein got into show business better known as Harry Parke. Harry Parke was famous as Parkyakarkus, a character on Eddie Cantor's radio show.
Among the children he fathered, Harold Einstein had a son named Robert Einstein and a son named Albert Einstein. Robert is famous in show business as "Super Dave" Osborne the comedic stuntman/daredevil. Albert Einstein is better known as Albert Brooks, America's beloved comedy film actor.
On November 24, 1958 Harold "Harry Parke" Einstein was at the podium of the Friar's Club roast of Desi Arnaz & Lucille Ball. He finished his "set" to a great round of applause & laughter, sat in his seat, immediately died of a massive heart attack and slumped over into the lap of Milton Berle. Milton, trying to distract the audience & handle the situation, quickly asked singer Tony Martin to sing a song. Tony's unfortunate choice was "There's No Tomorrow".
It's stories like these that make me think if there is a God he occasionally takes a break from running The Big Show and hands things over to a group of very drunk, cynical, dark-humored, giggling comedy writers.
And it's stories like these that make me finish writing this email and step outside at 3:18 in the morning for another smoke.
It's gonna be freezing again outside, but at least the drunks should be home by now.
Good morning,
-Keith Dion
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Dear Keith,
Got your e-mail. Its arrival reminded me to tell you that I am starting a band called Stoolie McLoafage and Pinchers Three. No guitar, no bass, no drums. All of us play the triangle and, in the spirit of the great Mariachi bands, the fattest guy has to play the big triangle.
I loved the story about Harry Einstein dropping dead in Milton Burle's lap. God, I hope my death is that funny. I really do. I hope when I "bite the final bag" people are bursting out laughing, wiping their eyes and saying, "Stop, it's too much, I'm dyin' over here! No wait, you're dying! Ah ha ha hahaha..."
You know, people always get hammered at Irish wakes - beer, whiskey, etc.. At my funeral (assuming anyone ever finds the body) I would like people to be huffing nitrous oxide, snorting milk out their noses (even though no milk will be served), and howling at the way the funeral director has displayed my body - face down, bent in half, scrunched into a child's casket with my butt sticking way up in the air. Everyone will be required to take a big hit of nitrous oxide and then slap my ass while paying respects.
Enjoy your patio roof smokes. I don't really know what a patio roof is. I mean, I know what the words mean separately but when you put them together my face bunches up and I wonder if you've gone goofy on me. You haven't gone goofy on me, have you? Don't be going goofy on me.
un-bunching my face I remain,
your most humble and obedient servant,
unless you've gone goofy on me,
John Bizarre
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