G.I. Joe Rejects

On the Briefing Room level of the G.I. Joe Command Center under the Chaplain's Assistant School at Fort Wadsworth, Staten Island...

DUKE: Thank you very much...um...[briefly searches resume in his hands] uh, Snake Charmer. We'll call you if we're interested in a second interview.

SNAKE CHARMER: Just remember: when I sing, he dances! [His pelvis does two quick revolutions before pumping out several staccato thrusts]

DUKE: Yes, yes. I don't think I'll ever be able to forget that. Please leave now. [SNAKE CHARMER exits. The three Joes in the room are seated on the same side of the conference table.] Scarlett, what the fuck? I thought you were supposed to be screening these people?

SCARLETT: Look, that guy sounded great over the phone. How was I supposed to know he'd show up here in spandex, waving around his...we fight Cobra, right? In theory, a snake charmer would be terrific, wouldn't it?

BEACHHEAD: Who's next?

DUKE: In theory...in theory, yes a snake charmer would be fan-fucking-tastic. If it was Cobra Commander he was charming into custody, then yes, you'd be getting a fucking medal right now, Scarlett. But instead, the man just waved his dick in our faces for five minutes! [Fist-pound on the table] Who's next?

SCARLETT: [Picks up a resume] Uh, "Flamer," sir. He apparently has extensive experience as a fireman.

DUKE: Well, that sounds promising. Barbecue is out with pneumonia for at least a month and Flash has been starting an abnormally large amount of laser-related fires lately. I think the "administrative duties" I've stuck him with are starting to eat at him, but that's another issue. We need a fireman!

BEACHHEAD: Agreed.

SCARLETT: Well, Flamer seems to be very versatile. He also has experience as a police officer, a construction worker and...it looks like he was a sailor for a while too, but he doesn't list which unit he served with. [She passes the resume to DUKE]

DUKE: We can ask him in a minute; I'm buzzing him in now.

The automatic door slides open and pumping dance music suddenly filters into the room. It gets louder as FLAMER enters, carrying a boom box on his shoulder. The door shuts behind him. In full fireman gear he sets the boom box down by the wall and spins to face the Joes.

FLAMER: Hellllooooo!!! Ooh, we have a lady in the house tonight! Fun, fun, fun! Okay, ladies and gentlemen, I heard that there's a fire in here! But I am most certainly not here to put it out. Woohoo! [He starts stripping, naturally]

DUKE: [Shoots up from his chair] WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?!

FLAMER: Bringing out the fire within, baby! Yeah! [Tosses his helmet to BEACHHEAD, who catches it and calmly sets it down on the table]

SCARLETT: [Turning scarlet] Uh, Duke, I think...

DUKE: Shut the fuck up Scarlett! [Runs over and lays an almighty kick down on the boom box, completely smashing it and silencing the music]

FLAMER: Hey! You're going to have to replace that, mister. And how am I supposed to do this without any music?

DUKE: What the hell is wrong with you?! Do you even know why we invited you into our secret fucking base?!

FLAMER: Secret fucking? Ooohh, that sounds hot!

DUKE: [Ploughing on] Do you know why it took six weeks of background checks to even get the privilege of being driven blindfolded, earmuffed and gagged here to see us?!

FLAMER: I thought that was kind of weird, but it was definitely the kind of kinky I can get down with. Just give me time to adjust, hon.

DUKE: Shut the fuck up and listen! This is an interview! For an elite fucking military unit!

FLAMER: Ooh, I think I can qualify for that, just let me show you my skills. I really need the music to get into it though. Do you have a PA system in here or something? Somebody broke my radio.

BEACHHEAD: I really don't believe this is happening right now.

DUKE: No more dancing! Put your clothes on and get out. Just get out now. We'll mail you a check for the fucking boom box.

FLAMER: Alright, but I'm very sorry that you were unhappy with my services. Maybe a little one-on-one would be better for you, sweety? [Winks] You have my number.

DUKE: Get out!

FLAMER: Okay, okay! [Gathers up the clothes he had taken off] Be a doll and toss me my helmet, would you? [BEACHHEAD complies and FLAMER exits with one last rueful look at his smashed boom box and a flirtatious wave at the Joes]

The door slides shut and DUKE retakes his seat. Silence reigns. SCARLETT looks like she wants to speak for a moment, but she decides to remain quiet.

DUKE: [Muttering to himself] "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" my fucking ass. I didn't have to ask. What the fuck is this country coming to?

BEACHHEAD: Who's next?

DUKE: Scarlett, who the fuck is next?

SCARLETT: [Clears her throat and gets her papers in order] Um, it looks like it's "Venom Sucker" next, sir. [Pause] On second thought, it looks like he's just a prostitute. [DUKE gives her the look of death] But, we also have "DATA" here! He does counter-intelligence.

BEACHHEAD: Why didn't you pick any women?

DUKE: Let me see DATA's resume before we let him in. [Looks it over for a minute, then suddenly clenches his jaw shut] "Objective: To find a creative outlet where I can apply my 'Don't Ask, Tell All' (aka DATA) philosophy of life to help others and bring about world peace and fabulousness to all." [Pause] Scarlett, you're never fucking helping with recruitment again.

SCARLETT: [Quietly] I thought that sounded like a good objective.

DUKE: So they're all waiting outside this room, aren't they? All these fucking rejects? Nobody's allowed to leave the premises on their own, right?

BEACHHEAD: Affirmative.

SCARLETT: Bazooka is watching them.

DUKE: [Pauses a moment] Let's get out there and see what's going on.

They all get up and move to the door.

BEACHHEAD: I've got a bad feeling about this.

The door swishes open and a fiery Latin beat greets them. The lively music is playing over the loudspeaker, echoing through the other rooms of the base. In front of the shocked Joes prances a conga line made up of the whole cast of prospectives...with Bazooka bringing up the rear, his trademark jersey nowhere to be found. A purple lay hangs from his neck. There is shredded paper confetti of all colors scattered about the room.

BAZOOKA: Sorry guys! I'm going with them! It was great serving with you and all, but this is where the fun is really at!

DUKE: [Apoplectic] GET OUT! ALL OF YOU! NOW!

SCARLETT herds the men, still in a conga line, over to the elevator to the surface, while BEACHHEAD manages to turn the music off. DUKE paces back and forth, cursing under his breath. In a minute SCARLETT returns alone, looking dejected.

DUKE: This is fucking ridiculous. We have a whole day of interviews and we wind up losing a soldier.

SEATED RECRUIT: Ahem! I haven't been interviewed yet.

DUKE: [Spins around and finally sees the man sitting in a chair by the wall] Holy shit, were you there the whole time?!

BEACHHEAD: Yeah, he was.

SCARLETT: [Flips through her stack of resumes for a second before looking up] Are you "Eradicator?"

ERADICATOR: Yep, that's me. Heavy weapons specialist, Green Beret, three-time combat veteran and former drill instructor at your service.

SCARLETT: [Whispering to DUKE] He didn't sound that good.

DUKE: What did I tell you Scarlett? Hey Eradicator. You've got a new job, if you want it.

ERADICATOR: Yes sir!

DUKE: Alright, follow Beachhead here down to the dormitories and he'll get you situated.

SCARLETT: Doesn't Hawk have to sign off on new team members?

DUKE: Are you kidding me? That worthless fuck is always drunker than an alcoholic on pay day. I learned how to forge his signature like five years ago. He doesn't do shit anymore.

BEACHHEAD: And look where that's got us.

DUKE: Hey Eradicator. Before you go, just one thing. You aren't like...those other guys, are you?

ERADICATOR: I'm not sure what you mean, sir.

DUKE: I mean...you're not...that kind of soldier, are you?

ERADICATOR: Sir, you'll have to be more specific.

DUKE: ARE YOU FUCKING GAY OR NOT?!

ERADICATOR: [Long pause] You're not supposed to ask that, sir.

DUKE: Aw hell, just get down there. [As ERADICATOR starts walking towards the elevator with BEACHHEAD, DUKE looks him over one more time] Hey! Newbie!

ERADICATOR: Yes sir?

DUKE: You're on "administrative duties" whenever Flash is on leave, you hear? You just come by my office and I'll go over your responsibilities very thoroughly. [Winks]

Exeunt

The stand-up comedy routine that never stood-up

So I originally wrote this thing on November 27th, 2005 in a notebook. I know the precise date because I radiocarbon dated the loose leaf page to establish a base, then conducted a sophisticated chemical analysis of the ink to determine the difference between the ages of the paper and the ink and then extrapolated from there to the top of the original page where I had written "11/27/05."

Feel free to laugh at it or with it. It isn't complete (i.e. there's no intro) and needed a little editing for coherence, but it does represent that week of my life where I wanted to be a stand-up comic. Maybe it was a Thanksgiving hangover or something. I never performed the routine and only a few people have ever read it, but I didn't want it to be completely forgotten and it's my fucking blog so I'll post what I want, okay? Just remember that the material is almost four years old at this point and some of the jokes are pretty dated (while I think some are even funnier in light of later events). Others, like Bush-induced self-inflicted thermonuclear war, will never get old. Or so I hope.


Saddam Hussein's spider-hole really didn't seem that bad to me. I was looking for apartments around DC and I saw some worse places. I mean, I bet his rent wasn't that bad. Out there in the middle of the Iraqi fucking desert...a war going on around him. You know how it is...depleted uranium contamination is always driving down prices. Throw in some daily suicide bombings and a little white phosphorous sprinkled in here and there and you've got yourself a buyer's market!

Couldn't you see Saddam living like that in DC, though? They should've picked up his little hole in the ground, airlifted it to Columbia Heights and just told the fucker to settle in and make due. Of course, the landlord would be the first one on the scene to make an assessment. "Okay, we got an efficiency, 40 square feet, no gas, no electric, no running water, no laundry on premises, dirt walls, dirt floor, 5 foot ceiling, it'll fill with a foot of water every time it rains and you've got to enter through a trap door...hmmm...twelve hundred a month, you're near a Metro."

Shit, Saddam would think he meant twelve hundred Iraqi dinars, which would be like four bucks. He'd be working it out in his head: "Well, that's a little more expensive than the place near Tikrit, but if I run the jihad a little bit tighter I should be able to swing it. I may have to cut back on the Martyr's Benefits program...and I'll have to lease for car bombings." Dude thought he hated America before, just wait until a homeless guy is pissing down onto his bed every night. That kind of shit'll motivate you to keep an insurgency going.

Yeah, but we shouldn't be worried about bombings over here, though. No one's going to burst the housing bubble with a 5,000 pound truck bomb, right? Imagine what that shit would be like, though. Cable news would be all over it. "Welcome to Fox News Channel, where the spin meets the gin. I'm Dumb-Son-Of-A-Bitch and with me is Brainless-Bimbo-That-Brings-In-The-Male-Demographic. In tonight's top story, crazed affordable housing militants have destroyed the housing bubble in an evil attack on America's values! With the nation gripped in paralyzing terror, the White House plans to issue a statement just as soon as President Bush is finished playing 'Choo-Choo Train' in the Lincoln Bedroom."

Then you know how it goes. Once Bush receives the report of the attack, he immediately declares a War on Bubbles. Seven seconds later Congress unanimously passes legislation allowing all of our nuclear weapons to be automatically fired against whoever was responsible...which turns out to be Saddam Hussein, trying to knock a few bucks off his rent.

So now all the nuclear missiles go up from their silos and submarines and they all gracefully arc through the atmosphere, converging on DC. Of course, now everyone in the White House and the Pentagon is going crazy, running from situation room to situation room, trying to stop the missiles. But because Bush is never wrong, he fired the guy with the abort codes the day he took office. So now they realize that they're totally fucked and try to board the emergency evacuation helicopters, but all the generals and political officials are giving the pilots contradicting orders, so they just wind up criss-crossing DC until the missiles arrive.

And there you have Saddam standing on a street corner on his way back from the Giant, carrying his grocery bags. And he casually looks up, while waiting for the walk signal. And you can see the reflection of all the missiles streaking across the sky in his eyes. And his shoulders slump and he mutters, "Oh, shitballs."

And in an apocalyptic flash 5,000 thermonuclear weapons simultaneously detonate above DC.

And all is silent. Until the survivors emerge from the rubble...because there's always survivors. They're burned, they're scarred, they're poisoned, they're desperate for food, water and shelter. And they find the landlord sitting among some twisted beams, counting his cash. And they ask him if he has somewhere they could rest. And he says, "Well...I do have this one place. It's an efficiency, 40 square feet, no gas, no electric, no running water, no laundry on premises, dirt walls, dirt floor, 5 foot ceiling, it'll fill with a foot of water every time it rains and you've got to enter through a trap door that was incinerated in the recent blast, which also so thoroughly irradiated the place that you'll be nauseous every minute you spend inside of it...hmmm...sixteen hundred a month, you're still near a Metro."

Thank you!

What I did today

This afternoon:


I was down at the airport with an enormous crew dedicated to making the above photo possible. It was glorious.

Then came the rain and glory turned to tragedy:


The weather jockeys did warn of flash flooding, but you know what the amazing thing was? Once the tarmac was covered in about five feet of water our little friends kept on pulling, even though they were completely submerged. Such brave souls. When the plane finally stopped moving, we all held each other in a moment of silent respect. Well, it was silent until Dave suggested that maybe they were pulling for their lives because we forgot to unharness them before we sought higher ground.

We slapped Dave (all of us, one after another) for his disrespect of their memories. Then we went home.

Though, I didn't make it to my apartment without incident:


Some advice: don't interrupt Jedi Squirrels while they're sparring. Apparently, they think force choking smart-ass humans is the funniest thing since Darth Maul got cut in half on Naboo.

What the dogs did yesterday

--Lily (aka "Lily Schmilly," "Lechuga Lily," "Liltronic [variably "Lectronic Lily"]," "Lilibatun," "Lillers," etc.) and Juno (aka "Junta [variably "Junta Juno"]," "Juntorious,""Junu al-Khair," etc.):

Made a mockumentary about eating carp. They showed it to me late last night and I have to say...it was one of the most surreal films I've ever seen. Disturbing, really. And it wasn't even funny, like mockumentaries usually are. The production values were pretty high, so I was almost tempted to treat it like an art-house flick or even a film school final project, but then I remembered that Lily and Juno made the thing, which removed any thoughts of the avant-garde from my mind. It was basically a totally disjointed, two-hour long celebration of gluttony, interrupted only by the occasional wink at the audience through over-the-top camera tricks. I pretended to like it to save their feelings, of course, but if you see it playing at Sundance, don't stick around for the show.

Side note: I really hope they don't ever learn to read, because they'd totally piss on my pillow if they knew I wrote this.

--Marley (aka "Mota Marley," "Montaña Marley," "The Jerk," etc.):

Rewrote the 47th page of his doctoral thesis so many times that his eyes practically started bleeding. I think he literally spent about seven hours revising two paragraphs on that page yesterday before he finally threw his spectacles across the room in frustration. The smell of all that carp was apparently getting to him. As far as I know, he never raised his voice at the younger dogs, though. He reports that he will likely still complete his Ph.D in Human Studies at Yishnau (rough transliteration) University sometime late next year, despite the many setbacks he has faced in the past five years. The Ya'Nayy are eagerly awaiting his return to their quadrant of the galaxy, as well as the presentation of his research.

Second side note: Marley, please don't read this post to Juno or Lily. I know you've got my back. Thanks man.

--Wire reports from New York indicate that Missy (aka "Mista [variably "Da Mista"]," "Missii," Missou," "Missay," "Missy Bella," "Missy Pissy-Paws," etc.):

Went to a wedding reception and took a shit in the punch bowl, purely for ironic effect. She didn't know the people involved in the wedding, so it definitely wasn't because of any grudge she had against them or something like that. It really didn't matter who's wedding it was, she says that she just lives for that moment of recognition in which people go from, "Oh my god! That fluffy little white Westie is sooooo CUTE!" to, "Oh my GAWD! That Westie is shitting in our punch bowl! Ew!" I can't say I blame her.

Third side note: Missy, you're my hero.

--BONUS from the "Yes-this-seriously-actually-totally-really-happened" category:

Last Saturday we were finally getting up from the breakfast table at about 4pm (I know) when I noticed that Juno had a little plastic tag stuck to her side. I chuckled, bent down and pulled it off while telling Rachel and Kirsa, "Heh, look at what was stuck to Juno."

I raised the piece of plastic to eye level and what did it say? "Product of Argentina," of course.

Now we know where Juno came from before we picked her up at the Humane Society last year. Fucking Argentina, man. The "Junta" nickname is all the more appropriate now, isn't it? All I want to know is, how did she keep that tag hidden for so long?