Hookers or Cake

Where the self-obsessed get serious about silly
I'm too wacky to be hip.

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      • ------------------------------------- How this blog got its name

      ------------------------------------ There was a large painting of Evel Knievel shaking hands with Richard Nixon. It hung in the Mayors office. Late one evening after everyone went home. I took it down to the lab. I zoomed in on Evel’s left eye a 100x and enhanced it. It was an address. I went to the address. It was a modest, 1970’s style, split level ranch home in the suburbs.

      ----------------------------------- Inside I found a dead parrot lying on a waterbed. I revived the parrot with some saltines and adrenaline. We became good friends. The parrots name was Randy. One night a few years later while Randy and me played Gin Rummy, he sang me a song about a fire. The title of this blog was never mentioned but I sensed it, and Randy confirmed it by giving me ‘THE LOOK’.

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          • October 17, 2009 12:30 am
            “Eh, no thanks George. I don’t wanna piss off Raoul,” you shyly mutter, adverting your eyes. George takes a step back and looks confused, “Why You… come into my home? You sad ass piece of…” She starts to cry. This is not good. You reach out to console her and she knocks your hand away. “Don’t you touch me!” she growls her voice lowering. George is no longer the sweet little girl, but is now the 6’5” former wide receiver. She shoves you hard with both hands as she had many times on the football field, breaking through press coverage. You are easily flung backwards over the 3rd story hand railing. You do a perfect 1 1/2 back flip, headfirst into the concrete. Greg Louganis would have proud. You barely made a splash.THE END or back to the beginning

            “Eh, no thanks George. I don’t wanna piss off Raoul,” you shyly mutter, adverting your eyes.

            George takes a step back and looks confused, “Why You… come into my home? You sad ass piece of…” She starts to cry.

            This is not good. You reach out to console her and she knocks your hand away. “Don’t you touch me!” she growls her voice lowering. George is no longer the sweet little girl, but is now the 6’5” former wide receiver. She shoves you hard with both hands as she had many times on the football field, breaking through press coverage. You are easily flung backwards over the 3rd story hand railing. You do a perfect 1 1/2 back flip, headfirst into the concrete.

            Greg Louganis would have proud. You barely made a splash.

            THE END

            or back to the


            Filed under:  ., Choose your own mustache, choose your own adventure, mustache,.
          by Peter Vidani. For .
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