Teenager In Scary Jacket Holds Community Hostage

Morgan Peasely in his mystical jacket.

Woodland – Several members of the community have been on edge ever since Morgan Peasely, 17, came into the possession of a black canvas trench coat nearly a month ago. Since then, they say, the once shy teenager’s behavior has grown extremely erratic.

“So, I’m coming home from Piggly Wiggly when I spot this sinister looking sunuvabitch sauntering down the middle of the street with this deadpan look in his eyes,” said Glen Kensley, street grump and head of the neighborhood watch group The Woodland Wolves. “I mean here’s this guy looking like a villain straight out of the pages of a Hardy Boys novel, so obviously my first reaction is to run him over.”

It wasn’t until after the boy had battle rolled out of harms way and bound up a tree with a supernatural like agility that Kensley realized that it was Little Morg from down the street. Although somewhat relieved he didn’t kill anyone, Glen admits to never caring much for the boy in the first place.

According to school Phy Ed teacher, Mr. Link, the boy’s abnormal activities while draped in the menacing cloak have spilled into the educational sector as well.

“He refuses to change into his gym clothes or participate in anything other than dodge ball. Even then he’s unruly, often tagging out members of his own team and refusing to leave the game after he’s been deemed out,” said the former 1986 regional wrestling champion turned out-of-shape instructor.

After receiving multiple calls from frightened citizens the city council has agreed to vote on a measure that would ban anyone under the age of 50 from wearing a trench coat in the downtown vicinity, with the exception of public and/or private detectives.

The boy’s parents on the other hand feel that the community is blowing what is simply a “normal phase of self-discovery” out of proportion.  As for the boy’s friends, it remains unclear as to whether or not they actually care at all.

“Morgs is gonna do what Morgs is gonna do. Sure it sucks that he would rather hang out on rooftops and dangle from fire escapes instead of cruising Canal with us, but whatever – it’s his life.” said Mike Evans, supposed friend and self-proclaimed leader of the “Prick Pack”. The Pricks are well known for their efforts to gain press without actually having any relation to the stories being reported on.

Morgan’s real friends however tell a different story saying there have indeed been talks of staging an intervention. Unfortunately, most admit that they remain too spooked to approach him out of fear he may be concealing a sword or book of spells in the jacket.

As for Peasely, he continues to refuse requests for comment, instead choosing to try and hypnotize reporters with his eyes. Unsuccessfully.

Advertisements

“Is that fucking Uncle Jesse?”

I went looking for this gem after making a tweet in regards to the above summer blockbuster of a hit. And shit, did I forget the awesomeness. I remember when the song first came out and the appearance of John Stamos had everyone reeling. “No way! Is he, like, the new beach boy? Oh man, that is so cool.” Everyone loves a stupid story. Back then of course there was no Internets so if you were curious about anything you’d just dial ‘0’ for the operator. “Yeah, you heard anything coming through the wires about these new Dukes of Hazzard boys? Are they like cousins, because they kinda look and act like them, but it ain’t quite them. Wasn’t really paying any mind, on account of I was reading the new HBO guide. I love those little descriptions they give.”

 

In hindsight, more than likely the director of the video needed a piece of eye candy to take some of the attention off the forgotten old beach farts trying to look cool. “Get me that guy, you know the hip uncle dude from that show about the little shits. The one with the nice hair.” Pretty certain that’s how it went down. The video was also a promotional vehicle for the Tom Cruise movie “Cocktails”. Man, I bet liquor companies were making a killing at the time because of all bottles of booze the dumb ass real-life bartenders were breaking trying to imitate the dangerously cool moves. Anyway, let be a lesson to future musical video directors – two white super studs is too much to take in. Too much.

BTW, technically that’s two Uncle Jesse’s, one post. Welcome.

The Paradox of Plagiarism

I noticed this thing has been getting a lot of play on Fartface lately, and although I usually just do the old scroll-by, the language in this one grabbed my attention. Which makes sense as I had read the essay, written by the late George Carlin, hundreds of times over the three years it spent taped above my work desk. No doubt you can imagine the magnitude of my miffing after discovering that the Dalai Lama was now getting credit for the essay Carlin had written following the death of his first wife of 36 years, Brenda, in 1997. Goddamn thieving monk.

However, before embarking on a berserker finger-pointing rampage, I figured it best to look further into the matter because “parallel thinking” as it’s called, has been known to happen. Just the part time high school sportswriting journalist instinct in me I guess. Anyway, you can imagine my surprise when I came to learn that Carlin had denied ever writing the piece, which he described as a “sappy load of shit” on his website. Well, that’s a bummer. Perhaps it was the Mr. Lama after all? Wrong again, turns out it was was actually penned by an anonymous Columbine student a few days after the infamous high school shooting went down. Now that makes sense, as a lot of times some of the most inspiring words are written in the wake of a horrible massacre. Thank you, oh faceless pupil.

*UPDATE (cue Unsolved Mysteries theme music here) – As it turns out, in real life, “The Paradox of our Time” was in fact published in a book entitled Words Aptly Spoken, a collection of prayers and such authored by a man named Dr. Bob Moorehead. Moorehead, a former pastor for Seattle’s Overlake Christian Church, was forced into retirement in 1998 after twenty-nine years of service, following an investigation that proved he was responsible for the sexual assault of over seventeen male members of his congregation.

If You Thought Electricity Was Amazing…

“It’s been an honor serving with you.”

No doubt by now you’ve heard about Swiffer’s induction into the Greatest Inventions Hall of Fame. Oh you haven’t? Good, that’s because it was a false statement I totally made up. Contrary to popular belief, the Swiffer is not some groundbreaking piece of household toolery. If you’ve never had the opportunity to use one, don’t don’t bother buying it because making your own is simple. Just piss on an old rag, nail it to a broken mop handle and proceed swishing around whatever grody shit has accumulated on your floor in broad, swiping swooshes. To experience the full effect of it’s brilliance be sure to sprinkle a little rat poison about the area to ensure the death of the family pet, because I guess that happens sometimes too.

Dudes Without Dads, Revisited.

Illustration by Patrick Smith, Member

Father’s Day is, by far, my favorite holiday. More so because I am one, not because I got some killer old man who brought me up forthright and taught me the dealings of men and I can’t wait to hang out with him. Total opposite. He was a bum, like a real bum. I remember one of the few times I talked to him in my teens after I asked where he was living and he replied:

Oh around. I don’t really have a place right now but it’s okay. If it gets too cold I just sleep in one of those Port-A-Johns…keeps you outta the wind at least. I kinda got a lady friend too, so once in awhile she’ll let me stay at her place.

To this day I’m impressed with how honest he was without the slightest hint of shame in his voice. Just the facts, kid. On the other hand all I could do was imagine how disgusting this broad must be to let some drunken transient who just spent all night marinating in a pen-of-a-thousand-beer-shits, stay in her home. Chalk it up to the old Outhouse Charm I guess.

I believe it was while discussing the lameness of Father’s Day some years back with my former significant that we realized how many of us poor bastards there were, especially among our circle of friends. And so from the ashes of this once degrading holiday rose the Dudes Without Dads (DWOD), an exclusive club made up of the fellow abandoned. Actually, it was less of a club and more of a list that ran in each new issue of Skunk. It’s not like we met in a basement once a week or anything but we were all aware of one another and it brought a good sense of humor to our “condition”. I got to thinking about the old gang after meeting up with a few of the early alumni, one of which pointed out that this particular breakfast was officially the first meeting of the DWOD Rad Dads. Which was an awesome point because the majority of us are parents now and actually really like (okay love) our stinkin’ kids.

Anyway, I think there might be a joke in there somewhere.

Christopher Cross, Time Sailer

San Antonio, Texas – Kidnapped from an assisted living home in 1993 by the time demon known as Freeman, a heavily medicated schizophrenic identified as Christopher Cross, was transported to the year 1980 and dropped onstage. The directions were simple: freestyle his previous night’s dream in the form of sing-song and, if successful, he would get to continue living in that age and reap the benefits of any fame he may encounter. The rest they say, is history.

“Well, we certainly miss him at the house,” said former PCA to the superstar, Karen Kettle. “I mean, not the stealing and eating entire packs of raw hotdogs from the fridge, just the sitting quietly in his room and tripping out part.”

Clapton Hates Us All.

If you’re a comedian you know him as Chris Maddock, the founding father of Grumpy’s Death Comedy Jam, the longest running, most ruthless open mic in the Twin Cities. But to the average citizen he’s probably best known as the bearded homeless guy peddling his sorry self through a blizzard on a stolen bike and would have never guessed he’s actually the star of a newly released, beautiful two-disc comedy album. So you got two options: either buy it here or shake him down for a copy at The Joke Joint where he’ll be performing all week.

Fellow local comedian Mike Brody also just put out a disc That’s Not What I Meant and will be celebrating with a release party Thursday, May 17th at The Joke Joint.  If you can’t wait that long you can buy that puppy here, as well as check out his most recent interview or catch his show all week at the House of Comedy.

Ted, You Crazy Rock God.

“…we are Braveheart, we need to ride onto that battlefield and chop their heads off in November!”

I don’t think it’s any secret that Ted Nugent is crazier than a shit-house rat. I guess I can relate to the fear of having something you love unlawfully taken from you by the federal government (in his case, guns n’ stuff). Like if they if all of a sudden they kicked in my door and confiscated the small stash of comic books I’ve had sitting in the same box for about fifteen years, I would be super heated. That’s an entire summer of thievery down the drain(’93). I would feel like a black jew in a nazi clan rally.  I would want to cut folks heads off.

Then again what else do you expect from a dude who earned his oats by wielding an axe?

Let The Bodies Hit The Floor

You know it’s going to be a good open mic night when you walk out onto the venue’s patio and there’s seven shit-faced males reenacting scenes from the night their leader broke his hand “beatin’ the shit out of that motherfucker Steve”.

After reconvening inside with their broken looking better halves, it became obvious that a long night of heckling was inevitable. I guess the anniversary of your friend’s suicide grants you a free pass to be a loud, obnoxious asshole. And while my fear of hecklers isn’t nearly as bad as it used to be, I still thought it best to forego trying out new material and appropriately adjusted my set to include poop and skipping (two things proven to work on inebriated retards). I figured if I could squeeze a couple easy laughs out of them, I’d burn out my time and escape their wrath. For the most part it worked, but it left me feeling conflicted and tool-ish. They may as well have been shooting at my feet while commanding me to dance. And it’s not like their taunts were anything groundbreaking: You’re not funny. Tell a joke. Boo. By far their strong suit was in their contradictory bumblings – like how they kept referring to the comics as “niggers” and “faggots” and then getting in uproar when the term “you people” was directed their way (they were all white). Especially noteworthy was when one of the men defended his woman’s honor after hearing the word Mexican. “What the fuck about Mexican – her baby is a part a Mexican!” This before the joke was even told.

So, just as it was looking like we were doomed to play the role of the Bully’s Bitches, four dudes rose the occasion: Corey Adam (No Bullshit Mediator), Justin Collucci (Instigator), John Conroy (Destroyer/Grave Pisser) and Phil Kolas (Bomb Diffuser). By nights end the would-be tormentors were doing what most heckler types do after they’ve had their intelligence absolutely decimated – walk around with clenched jaws and balled up fists whilst making empty threats under their breathe. In their defense it should be noted that one of them did kick a metal patio chair.

Never has such a moment of vicariously lived revenge felt so satisfying. Thanks guys – ‘Vive Willy’s!