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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          • December 22, 2012 10:49 pm

            John Prine - Jesus, The Missing Years

            There was a fat drunk mullet wearing idiot singing to a plate of pancakes at Denny’s. It was during bar rush so it didn’t seem that outta place. What made it unusual was is what he was singing, “I’m a human corkscrew and all my wine is blood, they gonna kill me momma, they don’t like me Bud.” I raised an eyebrow at my best friend. He smiled and whispered, “He’s singing John Prine.” Well that old boy sat there in his Starter jacket and Oakleys and sang 4 or 5 John Prine songs between mouthfuls of a late night/early morning breakfast.

            We saw him a few more times after that, always drunk and singing John Prine. I even saw him one night at some small country bar about twenty miles outside of town. “Fucking Todd!” was all the bartender muttered. “You know em?” I said. “Yep, runs a forklift over at the mill. Sonafabitch comes in every Friday night. After bout three or four beers he starts playing John Prine on the jukebox and singing along and he don’t stop till I close up.” “Why don’t you just take the Prine outta the jukebox?” I asked. “Well,” he sighed, “Todd’s wife died in a wreck bout two years ago.” “Oh,” I said. “Yeah,” said the bartender, “whattya gonna do.” “I guess be thankful he don’t like Garth Brooks,” I said.