Bad Comedy

(In the style of “Bad Company” by Bad Company)

VERSE 1

Comedy is supposed to be about fun

I’d rather off myself with a loaded gun

You were born with sense of humor cancer

The crowd is dead, army of a necromancer

CHORUS 1

That’s why they call you

Bad comedy, not a laugh or a cry

Bad, bad comedy, your edge is all a lie

Your edge is all a lie

Your edge is all a lie

VERSE 2

Oh so brave, a rebel you’ve been called

Truth teller? I’ve never been so appalled

And now these crowds, they boo you off the stage

Your lame-ass jokes, they will poorly age

CHORUS 2

That’s why they call you

Bad comedy, you got too many tries

Bad, bad comedy, no pay-per-view buys

No pay-per-view buys

No pay-per-view buys

BRIDGE

Laugh at the vulnerable

Laugh at the “truth”

You’re wasting your time

We’re wasting our youth

CHORUS 3

That’s why they call you

Bad comedy, go ahead and deny

Bad, bad comedy, shut up and make my fries

Shut up and make my fries

Until the day you die

Ripping the Piss

VERSE 1

Take a beautiful song, turn it into a joke

Every loving lyric burned into smoke

The message is gone, now only bathos

The singer is dead, now only pathos

Satire has been placed in the wrong hands

Out of the control of your favorite bands

Come on, everybody, let’s point and laugh

Only later will we worry about the aftermath

CHORUS

Oh-oh-oh! Ripping the piss!

Your ignorance is far from bliss!

Oh-oh-oh! Ripping the piss!

Turn it up! Turn it up, bitch!

VERSE 2

Take a beautiful love, turn it into porn

Make them wish they were never born

Into a world where nothing is sacred

Into a world for adults who are jaded

Sex and violence, all one in the same

You’re the biggest jackass in the game

Your so-called comedy is fucking lame

Your writing staff has no fucking brains

EXTENDED CHORUS

Oh-oh-oh! Ripping the piss!

Your ignorance is far from bliss!

Oh-oh-oh! Ripping the piss!

Turn it up! Turn it up, bitch!

Oh-oh-oh! Ripping the piss!

Motherfucking swing and a miss!

Oh-oh-oh! Ripping the piss!

I hope it’s worth all the shit!

VERSE 3

Take a beautiful woman, reduce her to tears

Take a handsome man, drown him in beers

Take a sweet little baby, laugh at his fears

Take a broken teenager, whom nobody hears

Take an elderly grandma, steal her checks

Take a dying grandpa, lethally inject

Nobody’s laughing except for you, buddy

Enjoy their trips to a grave so muddy

FINAL BRIDGE

Ripping the piss! Ripping the piss!

Covered in shit! Covered in shit!

Look what you did! Look what you did!

Taking our sorrows and ripping the piss!

Laughing Devil

CHORUS

He sits there and laughs all day

He sits there and laughs all day

He reminds you of the devil anyway

‘Cause he sits there and laughs all day

VERSE 1

Tickling in his brain until he goes insane

Until his ribs are in tremendous pain

What the fuck is going on in his mind?

Is this the answer you really want to find?

Torture and violence, the comedy of choice

Death jokes will unleash the chuckling noise

The hyena demon laughs about his semen

He plants the seeds just in time for the season

CHORUS

He sits there and laughs all day

He sits there and laughs all day

He reminds you of the devil anyway

‘Cause he sits there and laughs all day

VERSE 2

Carlin has nothing on the demons from hell

Maher has nothing on the jokes they tell

Noah never went to the darkest places

Never put slasher smiles on their faces

This kind of humor should never be public

But there’s always one who says, “Fuck it!”

He sits there and laughs all fucking day

There’s something funny about unholy decay

BRIDGE

Laugh like Nelson from The Simpsons

Like a coyote hunting down a chicken

Like a serial killer in an erotic thriller

A cartel gangster carving up a prankster

EXTENDED CHORUS

He sits there and laughs all day

He sits there and laughs all day

He reminds you of the devil anyway

‘Cause he sits there and laughs all day

Lock his ass up in the darkest corner

Far beyond this nation’s borders

Far beyond this solar system

Only Dahmer has ever missed him

Born to Die

“Clear your mind. Let your thoughts flow from you like water. Be as still as the mountains.” India Malakar heard every peaceful mantra ever told by his martial arts masters. Even so, none of these calming chants could keep his blood from boiling or his mind from exploding. His fists were clenched with anger, his teeth bit down hard, and his eyes were full of emotional fire. He didn’t look like a serious monk at that point, but his teenaged years were evident in the lack of wisdom his pose showed.

Then again, since he was standing right outside the entrance of the Jackrabbit Marine Bar with drunken mercenaries laughing their asses off, it was hard to remain cool. These same mercenaries implanted thoughts in India’s brain of them burning his village to the ground while asking where the hell their protection money was. The Born To Die Mercenary Guild may have been protectors at one point, but money was their only creed and humanity was in short supply.

India tried to push the angry thoughts of violent retribution from his mind. He tried to forget the traumatic ghost that filled his thoughts with fiery huts, bloody corpses, and laughing soldiers. The harder he pushed them down, the stronger they came back up. A wiser monk would have made peace with even the closest memories of the past. India was barely out of high school and wisdom wasn’t his best feature. His fists, feet, elbows, and knees, on the other hand, looked like they were ready to do some ass kicking. The pissed off monk took a deep breath in and out (as if it would actually calm him down) and entered the bar without a second thought.

The Born To Die squadron was in full force at the Jackrabbit Marine Bar. With spike armored, camouflage clothed, and rifle-wielding mercenaries cheering her on, the leader of this pact, a giantess of a woman named Jill Henderson, was chugging a glass of beer that was so tall it came up to her waistline. Despite the ample volume of alcoholic liquid, Jill chugged it all like a dam busting open down her throat. The mercenaries cheered as she slammed the tall glass on the bar and ordered the bartender to pour her another one.

Except the bartender wasn’t focused on Jill Henderson’s drinking habits. He was focused on India Malakar’s rage and age. Everyone went silent and stared at the young monk when the horseshoe-pattern haired barkeep said, “Hey there, little guy. Are you sure you’re supposed to be in here? This place is for grownups, not for little kids. So take your skinny ass outside. We don’t want you here.”

Instead of doing as he was told, India shouted at the mercenaries in swear words that were from a foreign language. Nobody could make out what he was saying, so out of sheer ignorance, they laughed at his attempt at hurling insults.

Jill shoved her beer glass off the counter and let it crash to the floor (the bartender couldn’t give two shits about it). She slowly approached the tight-muscled, sash-wearing monk and leaned her massive frame down to his level. She then proceeded to insult India in her own made up racist language when she said, “Aso, aso, aso! Ching-chong teriyaki! Yuki-yuki sooki! Cawpet munchah!” Her “comedy” got a good laugh from her compatriots.

The one person who wasn’t amused was India, who threw a hard slap across Jill’s face with the mercenaries “oooing” in the background. Despite the loud impact, the slap didn’t even cause the seven-foot tall mercenary to flinch. She instead smiled her nearly toothless smile at the little kid and said, “Bitch, you’ve got nothing. Absolutely nothing. Here, let me show you how it’s really done.”

In one brutal motion, Jill smacked India across his face so hard that the adolescent warrior was knocked over a table where a mercenary was sitting, who then proceeded to shove him onto the floor. The laughter was even louder and more obnoxious than before.

“Let your actions flow like the river,” said the sagely voice inside India’s head. “Let your enemies come to you. Seek justice, not vengeance. Choose peace over war.” With the kid lying face down on the floor while everyone is laughing at him, it was even harder to allow peaceful justice to take over his mind. This was a stupid idea. India was vastly outnumbered and much weaker than most of the people here.

He tried to crawl on his hands and knees out of the bar, but he felt a stiff boot come down hard on his spine, holding him still and causing him extreme pain at the same time. That boot no doubt belonged to Jill, who stared at the back of India’s head and said, “You ain’t got the balls, son!” The monk then felt beer washing over his pony tailed hair and suffocating him at the same time. And then more annoying laughter boomed over the bar.

Jill grabbed India by the scruff of his neck and threw him out onto the street with such force that he rolled several feet. “And stay out!” yelled the giantess warrior before getting back to her night of partying.

With India lying in a pile of garbage bags and newspapers, this would have been the perfect time to tap out and cry the night away. Wallowing in self pity and mourning the loss of his villagers and family seemed reasonable considering it was one versus all from the very beginning.

But then a strange feeling came over Mr. Malakar. The trash bags he was lying in happened to be stuffed full of shredded paper from an office building, which felt remotely like his own comfortable bed. This feeling of softness took him back to his childhood years when peace, love, and understanding were easier to achieve. Drinking his mother’s milk, playing around with his father, getting pushed in a wheelbarrow by his older brother…and then the feeling of harmony washed over him once more.

“Are you still here?” said a mocking female voice. India slowly opened his eyes to see Jill Henderson towering over him with her fists clenched and brows furrowed. The monk must have been passed out for hours, because the sun was now underneath the horizon and the moon and stars were out.

Despite the rude awakening, India still had that feeling of calm wash over him from sleeping in softness. His calmness would be tested once more when Jill pulled out the rifle that was slung over her shoulders and cocked it with the intention of finishing off the stalwart monk.

“You know something, my little Kung Pao chicken shit?” said Jill. “I haven’t had this much fun toying with someone in a long time. Usually when me and my men are out on a mission, we have to kill a whole bunch of moronic civilians before we have any fun burning shit to the ground. But now playtime has taken on a whole new meaning for me. Now that your pathetic villagers are rotting in the ground, I just have one question for you, little man. Where do you want me to shoot you: in the head or in the chest? Maybe I’ll blast your tiny dick off first.”

Jill expected that string of insults to rile up the little teenager. Instead he smiled the most beautiful smile his overly whitened teeth allowed. India said in a calm and cool voice, “You don’t understand, Miss Henderson. I don’t need vengeance. I need justice.” With one well-placed kick, he snapped Jill’s leg in half and caused her to accidentally fire her rifle in the air. The surprised mercenary dropped to the ground clutching her torn knee and screaming in agony.

India slowly picked himself up and dusted himself off. He looked around and saw that the other mercenaries in the Jackrabbit Marine Bar had gone home for the day. This couldn’t be more perfect. He picked up the rifle off the ground and said, “Only a coward would ever use one of these!” He broke the weapon over his own knee and discarded the remains in the pile of shredded paper where he was sleeping.

Jill’s broken leg was causing her to roar like a wounded bear. She tried to calm herself with quick raspy breaths, but they did nothing to ease the pain. They did allow her enough room to speak, though: “Go ahead! Kill me, you little prick! You got what you wanted! Now do it! Kill my ass!”

India leaned his face into his opponent’s and said, “You’re wrong, Jill. I don’t have what I want. Like I said, I want justice, not vengeance. Killing you would free you from your punishment of having to think about all of those innocent people you’ve murdered, many of them members of my family. I don’t want your life. I want your career and your thoughts!”

India made a peace sign with his first two fingers and then in one fluid motion ripped out both of Jill’s eyes. Her screams and howls were raised a few octaves as her sockets were bleeding profusely and her broken leg was still killing her. India took a look at the eyeballs in his hand with scorn and then squished them in the palm of his hand.

As soon as Jill was able to listen, India had only one thing to say to her: “Your career as a murderer for hire…is over!”

"The Cat Who Killed Lilian Jackson Braun" by Robert Kaplow

Can someone please explain to me why The Cat Who Killed Lilian Jackson Braun has less than three stars on Good Reads right now? Is it because of the crass humor? If that’s all the reviewers have to go on, then they don’t have me convinced, because from page one, I’ve been laughing my ass off like a psychotic hyena. In fact, if you were sitting in the living room by yourself in the dark and I was reading this book in another room, you’d think you were trapped in the house with a serial killer akin to The Joker. The sex jokes, the toilet humor, the cat mystery satire, these things all made me laugh because for one, I’m a sick twisted fuck, and two, I’ve read a few Lilian Jackson Braun books in my life. I know what style she employs to the point where it becomes her mathematical formula. Robert Kaplow not only wrote down a list of crude jokes, but he did so in mockery of the Cat Who books. He too knows the style and he emulated and mocked it perfectly. The main character, an author named James Macintosh Qafka otherwise known as just Q, did everything you’d expect the character he was parodying to do. He lived with two precious felines, he went to random restaurants and ate weird ass food, he met with random friends in search of answers, and he was an avid writer. Take all of those traits and make them into the most disgusting, perverted, sickening tropes you could ever imagine. What you have is a mixture of snot, semen, blood, and God knows what else that not even a hazmat suit-wearing scientist would want to be around. Despite the overwhelming crudeness of the humor employed in Robert Kaplow’s parody, sooner or later, you’re going to laugh your ass off and sound like you belong in a mental ward. I’ll bet an entire month’s worth of SSI benefits that it’ll be sooner rather than later. You know what the best part about this book is? You don’t have to have read Lilian Jackson Braun’s works in order to understand it, because it plays out like a legitimate mystery with the suspenseful elements and sharp twists. Don’t judge a book by it’s cover. Actually, it’s okay to do that since the cover has the shadow of a cat with a blade in it’s paw. When I first saw the cover, I laughed my ass off. Imagine that: I actually laughed long before I opened the book. That should tell you something. And now I’m telling you all something: buy this book. Now.

　

***FACE BOOK POST OF THE DAY***

“A little self-deprecation never hurt anybody.”

-Me-

"Napalm and Silly Putty" by George Carlin

George Carlin had a career that spanned multiple decades of giggles and guffaws. And now you can have the best of his routines in one single book. It’s called “Napalm and Silly Putty” and reveals the dual nature in which he thrived. The napalm represents his destructive, dark, and violent side, while silly putty represents his giggly and joyful side. Put them together and you’ve got the makings of Mr. George Carlin. This book was published in 2001. Think of all the comedy routines you’ve heard before that time and jam them into this well-written book. You’ve got his jabs against pro-lifers, his love for entropy, his reasons why certain sports shouldn’t be considered as such, his hatred for euphemistic language, and many others that not only provoke thought, but also garner hyena cackling. And then you’ve got some routines and short takes that weren’t previously in his material, my favorite out of all of the unknowns being the death wishes section. If you’re feeling really suicidal, walk through Harlem dressed in a KKK robe or go to a cult sacrifice with a crucifix and a priest collar around your neck. Not only will you have more bruises on your body than hairs on your head, but you might actually pass on to the afterlife. And then you have those short takes that he bursts into every once and a while. “An art thief is someone who takes pictures”. Think about that one for a moment. Remember his routine about not giving a shit if the pandas fuck again this year? That’s in there too. He’d have to include that one, because really, can you actually get a hard-on while some loser in a green shirt is taking your girlfriend’s rectal temperature? Leave these creatures alone! Of course, a George Carlin book wouldn’t be complete if he didn’t have a list of war statistics. You know, the number of times we’ve had “enhanced interrogations”, “terrorist attacks”, “beheadings”, and “counter-insurgencies”. There are no real stories in this book. It’s basically a compilation of his greatest routines. If you’re looking for a structured story, check out “Last Words”. But if you’re in the mood for achy ribs and a crooked spine from laughing so hard, buy this book today.

　

***COMEDIC QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“Catholics and other Christians are against abortion and they’re against homosexuals. Well, who has less abortions than homosexuals?! Leave these fucking people alone for Christ’s sake! Here’s an entire population of people guaranteed never to have an abortion! And the Catholics and Christians are just tossing them aside! You’d think they’d make natural allies!”

-George Carlin-