Fantasy Creepy Uncle League

30 07 2008

It’s well into this year’s baseball season, and any fan worth her salt is deeply involved with a fantasy baseball league of sorts, presumably to give added incentive to follow a game where most of the time is spent watching a pitcher work through a before-pitch twitch-and-scratch routine borne of years of athletic neuroses.  But there is something truly compelling about assembling a whole out of a bunch of parts to make something truly spectacular.  That’s why I invite you all to join my own Fantasy Creepy Uncle League, where participants each try to combine elements of the truly creepy to form a relative worth hiding from.  Below is my submission:

Nicholas Cage – Hairline.

Early appearances of Nicholas Cage’s hairline in such films as Raising Arizona declared to world, “Here be a balding man.”  Yet, possibly through a combination of advanced CGI and spray-on hair, Nicholas Cage’s hairline has stood strong, with hairstyles from the more recent The Wicker Man and National Treasure: Book of Secrets forming a veritable carnival of horrors.

Keith David – Mouth.

As a whole, Keith David is an exemplar of bad assitude.  But the combination of his voice and a closeup of his mouth in a memorable scene in Requiem for a Dream is enough to make cute puppies explode.

Walter Mathau – Jowls.

The Mathau jowl-to-face ratio necessitates a pie chart.

David Lynch – Basement projects.

Any mention of a basement project from an uncle is enough to make said relative creepier than the cold that follows death, but if that project involves assembling a deformed baby out of a calf corpse, it is acceptable to cut off your own hands to avoid helping out.

Robin Williams – Tendency to engage in Robin Williams-esque humor.

The typical creepy uncle’s attempts at humor would probably not be as frightening if his comedy idol was not a coked-out furry leprechaun with a penchant for funny voices.

Charlie Sheen – Sex life.

A lot of people are happy to assume that their uncles blow inordinate portions of their salaries on LA hookers.  But having this confirmed by a high profile media explosion in the early nineties is a little too much.

Andrew Jackson – Streak of racial bigotry/compulsion to invade Florida.

Your uncle may have made that awkward comment last Christmas about how Chinese people drive, but at least he didn’t sign into law the Trail of Tears, though his insistence to spend next Christmas in Orlando is atrocious in its own right.

-Mister Andy Lavender


While I’m on the subject of God…

29 07 2008

While I’m on the subject of God. My last post talked about a crazy church experience I had not long ago.  This hasn’t happened, yet.  But, when it does I am sure to dance a little jig of joy.

Three men went to their seats at a Carolina football game last year and there were a couple of nuns sitting in front of them.  The men wanted to drink their beers and swear at the referees and not bother with the nuns, so they decided to be mean and get them to move. The first guy says, “I wish I lived in VA there’s only 100 Catholics there.”  The second guy boasts, “I wish I lived in GA there’s only 50 Catholics there.”  The third guy chimes in, “I wish I lived in FL there’s only 25 Catholics living there…”

Frustrated, one of the nuns turned around and yelled, “Why don’t you ALL just Go to HELL?  There aren’t any Catholics there.” Enjoy your Tuesday.

-Mister Joe Jones

* joke care of my Uncle Tony

Dave Matthews taught me how to.

28 07 2008

That’s it. I could take time and go into exhaustive detail about ALL the things Dave taught me, but let’s be honest, I’m too busy. And so are you. He simply taught me how to. And he taught you too. Whether you realize it or not. I have a copy of an acoustic show with Dave Matthews & Tim Reynolds at Converse College (1997) for the person with the best DMB story. Being that this should be a comedy blog, this could be seen as a joke. It is not.

– Mister Zach Ward

Conversations With David Sedaris

25 07 2008


“David Sedaris,” I’d begin, “as I live and breathe.”


            David would smile patiently and gesture with his tiny man hands for me to sit. “Mister Paula Pazderka,” he’d say, “as I live and breathe.”  We’d both chuckle at that and although Open Eye Café in Carrboro doesn’t have a wait staff, a waiter would come by and plop a large ice coffee down in front of me with 2 Splendas, a significant amount of half and half and a bit of sugar.  The waiter would curtsy, his black fingernails shining.


           “You may not know this David, but I want to be you,” I’d pause dramatically just to be cute. “Not that I want to be a middle aged gay man, no not that, at all.”  Catching myself, I’d attempt to correct it.  “Not that I wouldn’t, I mean I’m sure it is fabulous. Absolutely fabulous! I love gay people. I used to hope one of my brothers were gay to make my family more interesting.”



*   *   *



“David Sedaris,” I’d begin, “Isn’t always kind of awkward to meet someone you admire?” I’d chuckle and he’d nod.   “You want to be clever and funny, but also yourself.”  He’d nod.  “Yeah, it could get real awkward… real awkward… really really awkward.  Yep.  And weird.  Have you ever heard the joke about two muffins in the oven?  And one muffin turns to the other muffin and says, ‘Boy it is hot in here.”  And the other muffin says, ‘Holy Shit, a talking muffin!’  Heh! That joke still makes me laugh.  Yeah awkward… real awkward… really really awkward.


*    *     *


“David Sedaris,” I’d begin, “did you know I’m doing the reverse of you?  I now live in Raleigh, after moving from Chicago and going to the ‘Tute,” I’d pause.  “That’s what I call the Art Institute of Chicago.”  I’d stop because that is the extent of my reversing.  David, a clever man, would assume there was more.



“And you were born?” He’d ask.





He’d look confused and search how this could possibly be in France.  I would sit by quietly not able to help.






“No, Nebraska.”


*   *   *



“David Sedaris,” I’d begin, “you look lovely in that long sleeved blue button down – although it is 98 degrees in here.”



*   *   *


“David Sedaris,” I’d begin. “I read your latest book When You Are Engulfed In Flames and no one since Spinal Tap has made death so funny and explosive.  He’d smile.  “Thank you for being funny,” I’d say and walk away.  When I reached the door I’d say, “For what it is worth you don’t dress like a hobo.”



– Mister Paula Pazderka


Why I love the Black Church…

24 07 2008

Why I love the Black Church (or more accurately Pentecostal churches).


Occasionally I preach at churches and speak at Christian Schools from many differing denominations, all across the country. I cannot find the words to how funny some of the things I’ve seen Christians do. Just a few days ago, I witnessed the worst rendition of Amazing Grace I have ever seen. The old woman singing did not know the words, she stopped and restarted several times, and it lasted at least a good 13 mins. I was so mad no one had filmed this fiasco – and then I saw this video and I felt better. This is not the church I was at, but at least you can get the full feeling of why “So You Think You Can Sing” is not a bad idea.


-Mister Joe Jones

Matt “Mutt” Anderson (Bully, Age 9) Reviews The Dark Knight

23 07 2008

A student in Mrs. Jarvis’s fourth grade class, Matt “Mutt” Anderson was assigned to write a one-page essay on the characters in the Newbery Medal-winning novel The Giver.  However, this Monday Matt instead turned in a three-paragraph personal exploration of his feelings towards the recently released The Dark Knight.

Firstly, lines suck.  They suck harder than that gayfer Thomas that used to sit in front of me in school.  Man, what a gayfer.  He’s so gay I bet he likes to wait in lines while smelling like farts and looking like a tard.  And when he gets to the front to line he says, “Oh goody!  Now I can see Mama Mia!”  Abba is for kids who got dropped on their heads as babies.

Secondly, Batman Begins was gay.  If Batman kicks so much ass, why is the bad guy in the movie Qui-Gon Jinn, aka some gay-ass vegetarian with a shitty mustache.  If I was Batman, I’d be all “Hey, asslicker!  Look behind you!  There’s a big ass for you to lick!”  And then he’d turn around, with his tongue flapping around and drool everywhere.  And then I’d shoot him.  With a gun.

Thirdly, The Dark Knight was cool.  But I almost didn’t see it.  My mom said that this gayfer Ebert said that it was not good for kids, and then she started crying, which is something that she does after she says dumb stuff.  So I was all like, “Hey, woman!  I cut my teacher, and she weighs more than you!”  And then she cried even harder and drank a glass of Jack Daniels, but she took me to the theater after like twenty minutes.  The Joker was funny.  The guy that sat in front of me during the movie was so gay.  He was all, “Would you keep it down please?”  And I was all, “Hey, dicksucker!  Turn around!  There’s a big dick for you to suck!”  And then turned around with mouth all open and stuff.  And then I shot him.  With a gun.

-Mister Andy Lavender

Scatological Humor

22 07 2008
This is NOT a hat.

This is NOT a hat.

“This is your hat,” says the nurse wearing a Harley Davidson T-shirt.

“Bullshit,” I think as she hands it to me. This is a plastic bowl that you want me to shit in. Don’t call it a hat. A hat is something you put on your head to block the sun, keep your ears warm, or cover your bald spot.

I’ve never had to give a stool sample before so today was going to be an adventure of sorts. I’d been having stomach cramps for the past week so I figured I would schedule an appointment with UNC’s Student Health Services. The consultation was without incident but afterwards the doctor suggested I give a sample, “just to be on the safe side.” I’m generally a pretty hygienic person. If the so called “safe side” involves fecal matter, I’d much prefer the other side of whatever type of medical boat metaphor we’re riding. But the doctor insisted. Which led me the nurse in the Harley-tee; the Hospital Haberdasher if you will.

This IS a hat.

This IS a hat.

“So I’m just supposed to…”

“Put it in the hat.”

“Right, I put it in the hat. But I don’t really have to go,” I say. “Is there something I can do to make this easier?”

“Just think about it,” replies Harley. “It’ll happen.”

She leads me down the hallway to the bathroom, the room which, over the course of the next three hours, I would come to think of as my bathroom. I acquaint myself with the room, adjust my hat, flip through a Reader’s Digest (the hospital bathroom magazine of choice), and I wait. About fifteen pages later, I get something. It’s not much, but its something. I’m proud of myself. I feel like a kitten who’s just learned to use the litter box. I smile at the woman in the Harley-tee as I walk towards the exit.

“You put it in the hat?”

“I put it in the hat.”

“Alright, we’ll do a few checks and you’ll be good to go.”

She vanishes into the backroom for a minute and then returns with a disappointed look on her face. I can tell before she opens her mouth that I should put my kittenish tail between my legs.

“Its not enough,” she says.

“Oh,” I say. “I’m sorry…I guess.” Is this something you’re supposed to apologize for? She just told me where to put “it.” She didn’t say there was a minimum amount of “it” necessary.

“We need you to try again.”

Her mind-over-fecal-matter strategy simply isn’t working for me. So I ask her if it’s okay if I go get some help. “Are there any places near here where I can get something to eat?”

“There’s a southern fast food restaurant upstairs.” This sounds good to me, but I’m thinking I might need a little more… “and there’s a Starbucks on the first floor.” Bingo.

Tony probably has people to shit for him. One of the benefits of being a Made man.

One barbeque sandwich and a double espresso shot later I’m back in the my checkerboard tiled cell. I’d figured to get straight to the point by ordering the double espresso. Plus, I always feel like Tony Soprano when I drink one.

I’ve now officially been trying to shit for two hours. Outside I hear the nurses start to pack up, wishing each other a fun evening, one that I imagine involves untamed motorcycle races around the greater Chapel Hill/Carrboro area with men named Skud, Mutt, or Hoggish Greedly. My heart beats faster as 144 mg of caffeine pump through my bloodstream and I begin to worry about the very real possibility that I may soon become “the night shift’s problem.” But what if that wasn’t enough time? What if I’m still in here tomorrow morning? What if I become the Rip Van Winkle of stool samples, emerging just in time to see Maddie Briann Spears’ sad downfall from pop-stardom?

This has gotten totally out of hand. I close my eyes and try to calm myself. I try not to focus on the task at hand and to just inhabit the bathroom. I take a few deep breaths, pick up my Reader’s Digest, and sit down contentedly above my hat. A minute or so passes…and then its over. Mission accomplished.

It’s in this moment that I have an epiphany: Shitting is like your first improv rehearsal. If you try to force it out, it’s just not gonna happen. You can try as hard as you want to be funny (and you may even get a little something) but it won’t be enough. The funny doesn’t happen until you can relax and just enjoy the space you’re in. Nurse Harley was wrong. Don’t think about it; just go.

Now that’s something to tip your hat at.


– Mister John Reitz

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