Every now and then when I need to remind myself
how much better off I am these days Iíll take out my old prison diaries
and read a couple of entries.
October 6, 1988 - Vasques still insists
Chaplin was superior to Keaton. Spic son of a bitch. Weíll see if he
still thinks "The Gold Rush" is a superior film to "The
General" once I sharpen this spoon enough to cut his Little Tramp
worshipping face off.
October 7, 1988 - I may need to save
my spoon for bigger fish than Vasquez. Some new punk looking to make
a name for himself has heard I say Jackie Gleason kickís Sid Caesarís
ass and now heís going to get me in the showers. Ha! What he doesnít
know is if thereís one thing we hate in here even more than Nichols
And May itís Sid Stinking Caesar. That dope keeps shooting his mouth
off and heíll wind up just like that damn fool who was always running
down Bob Newhart.
October 8, 1988 - Vasquez is all I
have to worry about after all. That new punk started talking about The
Second City in front of The Three Stooges Crew from Cell Block D and
now it would take less time to pick up each little bit of dirt in the
yard than it would to pick up each little bit of his dead ass in the
yard. If I could project my psychic powers beyond the walls of this
hell hole Jay Leno would drive one of his motorcycles into McDonalds
and stick his head into the french fryer until his brain explodes and
they sell it to people as Chicken McNuggets.
October 9, 1988 - I was a fool to
divert my attention from Vasquez and his crap. If there is just one
damn thing that is law in this Place it is that "Donít Crush That
Dwarf, Hand Me The Pliers" by The Firesign Theater is the funniest
comedy album of all time and anybody dumb enough to say otherwise is
Cold Meat. Iíve lost track of all the ass Iíve had to kick around here
until even the goddam guards go "Yo, Donít Crush That Dwarf!"
or "Hand Me The Pliers, my man!" every time they see me coming
and theyíll have to send my nuts home in a jar of pickle juice before
you ever hear Cheech And Chong or that stupid Monty Python around here
again. But what do I hear coming out of Vasquezís cell as soon as I
open my eyes this morning but that goddam Two Thousand Year Old Man
carrying on like a goddam old fool and that goddam telling Vasquez everybody
in the place "Yo! The Two Thousand Year Old Man freakiní RULES!
You hear dat!? The Two Thousand Year Old Man KICKS ASS!! Donít Crush
That Dwarf, Hand Me The Pliers is The Two Thousand Year Old Manís BITCH!!"
All eyes are on me now. If I donít put an end to this right now my ass
wonít be worth last monthís issue of CRACKED.
Oct 10, 1988
- Not much time to write, theyíll be in here to throw me into solitary
any second now. Letís just say that Vasquez is in Hell being passed
around like a joint between Lenny Bruce, Freddie Prinze, and John Belushi
right now and The Firesign Theater is blastiní out of every ghetto box
in the place. At this moment my Powers are so strong thereís no telling
what youíll get stuck between your teeth if you order the McNuggets
at McDonalds tonight - Whoopie Goldbergís butt, Martin Shortís -
Yeah, those were bad times and maybe youíll never understand
why I am compelled to reread these diaries day after day year after
year. Wouldnít it be better to just forget? Even if I took these notebooks
and set fire to them in the gutter Iíll never be able to forget those
years. Not for as long as I go through this life with BILL MURRAY IS
THE MAN tattooed across my back. Not for as long as Iíve got ROBIN WILLIAMS
EATS SHIT emblazoned across my chest. Not for as long as I live and
breathe, you bastards. Not for as long as I live and breathe.
for The National Lampoon while he was in high school, was a stand up
comic in New York, and has contributed to the net humor zines Schmuck.com,
Campaign Central, and the legendary American Jerk. He's on medication
now so he's probably a little nicer now than he was when you met him
earlier. Email - firstname.lastname@example.org