Tag Archives: Fun

Epic Hatred

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Silky Johnson sends his best.

I was flipping through television channels the other day and I stumbled across shows entitled: Epic Pools; Epic Homes; Epic Vacations; and an infomercial bearing the name Twenty-nine Ways to Grow an Epic Garden. My head started to fizzle like Alka-Seltzer and I’m pretty sure the remote left my hand like a missile that targeted the TV.  Before I knew it, I found myself running across the room while intoning an epic rant. In mid sentence, I took an epic leap out an open window, which I later realized was manufactured by Epic Windows. Luckily for me, it was a first floor window and I ended up brushing myself off and looking around to see if anybody witnessed my epic moment of insanity. I’m sure by now you’ve figured out what set me off. Each usage sounds like a mix of ten thousand lap dogs yapping in the purses of  Kim Kardashian and Paris Hilton, who are both PMSing and  trying to screech over each other while Techno music is pulsing at ear shattering decibels. Every time I hear the word I’m tempted to stick a ball-gag into the offender’s mouth and give them the honor of being the first victim of my Epic Inquisition.

Thinking I couldn’t be the only one who curls up into a little ball of miserable human flesh every time I hear the insanely overused adjective, I inquired with the high authority of modern word usage, Urban Dictionary.com and was delighted in what I found. Taken verbatim from their hallowed tome:

Epic Inquisition Launched!
Epic Inquisition Launched!

Epic:  “A word, whose meaningful definition(s)and correct applications are now obscured and have been raped to death mostly by the 25 and under crowd. It has been overused as ‘the’ catch phrase used to describe a situation, person, event, movie, taking a shit, etc. The abuse and birth as a catchphrase has its origins among avid gamers and pretentious English majors. There are too many ‘epic’ examples to count, just go walk onto a college campus and listen closely.”

My favorite Epic.
My favorite Epic.

Ah, at last, I have someone to blame for my Epic Headache. To be honest, I felt guilty blaming the word, it was like blaming the victim of a crime. After all, it’s a pleasant little word meant to describe a Tolstoy novel or a Charlton Heston movie, it wasn’t designed to make a human being bristle like a preacher in a whorehouse. It was minding its own business with no intention of replacing any other four letter words until the light bulb clicked on in some languagesta’s head.

Now that I have a target for my outrage, unimaginative linguistic bandwagon jumpers take note: Keep on naming your companies Epic This or Epic That; keep on saying that every ballgame is its own epic saga. For crying out loud, the word has jumped the shark. It’s over, like your careers should be. Authors, Writers or Reviewers who abuse the word, realize you’re trying to catch a train that has already left the station, you’d earn more respect from me if you were a Wal-Mart greeter. Finally, people in my life who insist on abusing the sweet little four letter word

I will neither confirm or deny that this was my TV.
I will neither confirm or deny that this was my TV.

be warned that every time you say or type it, know that I’m thinking you’re the equivalent of the fat, pimple faced kid who sharted in gym class and is clenching to keep the rest of us from seeing the evidence.  Before you get that wild grin and start sharpening your fingernails in preparation of running that four-letter bomb down the proverbial chalk board, allow me invoke the words of word-class hater Silky Johnson, aka. Dave Chappelle, “I hope that all the bad things in life happen to you and nobody else but you.”

Now that I got that off my chest, does anybody know where I can get a cheap flat screen?

Flash Fiction… Mike Tyson’s Carrot

images (9) A while back I was interviewed for the inaugural issue of the online magazine Write Mag. During the interview, Anthony Vernon asked if I could write a good flash fictionimagesCACEJK1Z story that could make Mike Tyson eating a carrot seem interesting:  Here’s the result.   For the rest of the interview of more info on Write Mag, click here.  Enjoy!

Q- If I forced you to write a story about Mike Tyson eating a carrot do you think it would be a good story?

A-     Why don’t I write one and you be the judge?  This is off the top of my head, so let’s hope it makes sense.

“Eh, is that Mike Tyson walking down the street?” Yellowfeather, asked.

“Where?”  Tom Hawk asked.

“Are you blind?  Right there,” Yellowfeather said pointing with his chin across the street.  And he’s munching on a carrot.”

“Nah, you’re crazy. That ain’t Mike Tyson. And that’s no carrot, now, is it?  It’s George Foreman and he’s smoking a cigar.

“Caw, you can’t smoke a carrot.”

“You can’t eat a cigar,” Tom Hawk insisted.

“He’s getting away!  HEY MIKE! MIKE TYSON! WHERE YA GOING?” Yellowfeather shouted.

The man across the street kept walking, either not hearing or ignoring the voice calling after him.

“You fool, I told you that wasn’t Mike Tyson, it’s George Foreman.  Watch and learn.”  Cupping his hands about his mouth, Tom Hawk bellowed: “MR. FOREMAN, HEY MR. FOREMAN.  I imagesCAK7WA1BLOVE YOUR GRILL. MY MOM COOKS ON IT ALL THE TIME.”

The man seemed to not hear Tom Hawk’s cries and slipped inside a bar. Being too young to drink, even too young to go inside, they sat outside the bar and waited. Every time the door open the two friends jumped up only to be disappointed.  Soon the sun dropped lower in the sky, and a chill settled over the town.

“Hey,” Yellowfeather asked a drunk stumbling out of the bar. “Is Mike Tyson in there?”

“Huh? Oh yeah, sure kid.  And he’s belting ‘em down.”

“See, I told you,” Yellowfeather told his friend.

“Naw,  you gonna believe a drunk?  Let’s ask the next guy.  I still say it’s the grill guy,” Tom Hawk insisted.  Just then, the front door swung open. “Hey mister, is George Foreman inside?”

The drunk laughed. “Yeah, he’s in the kitchen flipping burgers like a champ.”

The boys bantered back and forth until the sun sunk beneath the hills and the chill turned cold. Soon their teeth were clacking louder than their voices.  Yellowfeather spoke up: “Hey listen, I’m getting cold. I don’t really care if it was Tyson or Foreman, I want to go home, how about it, eh?”imagesCA9CT7GZ

“But what about finding out?”  Tom Hawk asked.

“Let’s flip on it.”  Yellowfeather said.


“Heads it was Tyson, tails it was Foreman.”

“But was it a carrot or a cigar?” Tom Hawk asked.

“We’ll flip on that, too?”

“You have a quarter?”

“Nope.  How about you?”

“Nah, don’t have one.”
“Man, now we’ll never know,” Yellowfeather complained.

“What do you mean, I’m telling you, it was George Foreman,” Tom Hawk insisted as the boy’s shadows slipped from the streetlight’s glow.

The Shithouse Poet… Another Installment of The Barroom Chronicles

Considering this series started with a quote from the Ladies’ room wall, maybe it’s time to take a deeper look at thou holiest of all places and the artistry scribbled upon its walls.  (Men, you’ll have equal time, Men’s room poetry will be featured in later post.)  If you are a minor, or do not posses a sense of humor, you are not welcome here. Go Away! We don’t want your whining to interrupt our good time. Without further ado, may I point you to the last door on the right.

As with all quality pieces of lit, this is dedicated to the poet of the house of shit, whoever and wherever you are!


Welcome to the Ladies’ Room:

– If you love your man and have some class-  Don’t write his name where your wipe your ass!

-You cry, I cry –   You laugh, I laugh – You jump off a cliff, I laugh even harder.

-Why do men like being on the bottom during sex? They only know how to fuck up.

-I’m starting to see double and act single.

-Whip me, beat me, bite me, blow me, suck me, fuck me, very slowly, then walk away like you don’t even know me!

-Some people are like Slinkies… Good for nothing; but they still bring a smile to your face when you push them down a flight of stairs.

And that’s only what’s written on the door.

My personal favorite:

The right pic is a close up of the verbiage so elegantly written above the toilet paper.  Gives me a chuckle everyday, but I have an eight year old’s sense of  humor.


Continuing our tour:

The Bar Nazi demanding that the toilets flush on time!

The Female’s Prayer:  As he lays me down to hit, I pray his dick ain’t small as shit – and if his dick ain’t long and thick – I pray that he’s good at lickin’ it.

Of the Philosophical realm we have: (Please ignore the Bar Nazi.)

– You’re born…  You die… And somewhere in the middle… you live. If you make it happen.

– Wage + Debt = Slavery

Shithouse Poet busted in the act!

– Life is like a cock, when it’s soft you can’t beat it – when it’s hard – you get fucked!

For the Epicureans:

A blowjob is the healthiest breakfast –  you get sausage, 2 nuts and a shot of protein.

If it tastes like chicken, it’s good for a lickin’ –  If it tastes like fish, add some sauce, it’s a dish –  If it smells like cologne… leave it alone!

If vodka were water and I was a duck, I’d swim to the bottom and never come up. But vodka ain’t water and I’m not a duck, so slide me the bottle and shut the fuck up!


A Tale of Eternal Love:

Here’s to the man  –  I love the best – I love him the best – when he’s undressed – I’d fuck him – Sitting, standing, lying

If he had wings – I’d fuck him flying

And when he’s dead – and long forgotten – I’d dig him up – and fuck him rotten.

I’ve hope you’ve enjoyed our little tour, if you didn’t, there’s the f’ing door!

For those of us remaining. Repeat after me…  (You have to say this out loud for full effect:)

I’m sofa king…  I’m sofa king we-Todd-it!


If you fell for it, you’re in good company, I bit hook, line and sinker the first time a barroom prankster pulled that classic on me.


Till next time, keep a Sharpie in hand, because inspiration may find you where you sit or you stand.