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Hello, hello, hello! Show 9. Show 9? Show 9.
Welcome to the Alien Night Club, friends from around the galaxy. Welcome to all my fellow rageaholics; we know who we are.
All aboard the sodomy meat train. SMT.
Check out tonight’s tee shirt; I conjured it myself earlier. For those in the back or anyone who can’t see it, it’s a simple black tee shirt as always and it says 258366. You’ll see why in a little while. Unless you’re smart and you already figured it out.
Welcome, welcome, welcome. Happy to be here. Hope you all are as well.
No show notes today. Today’s prep was kind of different. It was pretty much breakfast and then straight to work; straight here. A scrambled egg sandwich on white bread with mayo. Good stuff. And a protein shake. And two cups of coffee. Two cups of Joe. Why is it called Joe? I don’t know.
Have you guys seen the Biohazard tattoos people put on themselves because they believe humans and thus themselves to be hazardous to the Earth? This is something I just recently found out about. I’m not sure that degree of self loathing is warranted, appropriate, or healthy. Hating yourself and wanting to die because you believe you’re a blight on the Earth? That’s gotta be a Hell on Earth I don’t even want to think about.
Speaking of Hell on Earth…
Just kidding.
Speaking of being on an alien space station spaceship vessel the size of a thousand ten-story parking garages populated by strange, weird, and wonderful proper nouns, people, places, and things, have I mentioned how weird it is not to be able to read or speak to anyone? None of the signs here are in English. Not a single one.
Which brings me to Stranger in a Strange Land, which is a novel by Robert Heinlein I’m currently reading. It’s kind of weird to be here and then to do something as normal as read a book. But I think it’s good. It’s centering.
But yeah, not being able to read or speak the language. Interestingly, however, up here it seems more peaceful than Earth. Not as many distractions. I came across a part of the book and want to share a quote with you from the author Robert Heinlein. I’d like to give you all a brief bio but I don’t know that much about him. I know he was born in the United States in the early-to-mid 20th century, which means 1930s-ish. He was in the Navy, the United States Navy, which is a branch of the United States military tree that does stuff on water. They have lots of ships and boats and submarines and it’s pretty impressive. Harvard mouths and faggoty white uniforms notwithstanding. To be honest, though, I really know almost nothing about it. I was never a sailor or a seaman. Though I was once a semen. I was a sperm. Half of me was. So there’s that.
But yeah, Robert Heinlein takes a fancy to writing and he starts writing science fiction stories, among other things, and he manages to sell some of them to the magazines that were publishing short stories at the time. And he manages to build up quite a nice reputation for himself.
And one of his books, Stranger in a Strange Land, is about a young man who is conceived by two humans on Mars but later is brought back to Earth. And he has special Martian abilities like telekinesis and all kinds of cool Firestarter-y type of stuff.
And here’s the kicker: Even back then, in 1960, the same shit was happening. How many decades has it been since then and the same shit is happening?
What shit, you ask? I will tell you.
Here’s the quote to the best of my recollection: Most neuroses can be traced to the unhealthy habit of wallowing in the troubles of five billion strangers.
Let’s take a moment to let that sink in. Because holy shit. That freaked me out when I read that.
Most neuroses, or problems, psychological problems, can be traced to the unhealthy habit of wallowing in the troubles of five billion strangers. Except now it’s even more than that. It’s a lot more than five billion strangers. I have no idea how many it is now.
But the point is that this book was published in 1961. Before the internet. Before social media. Before the 24-hour news cycle. Before influencers. Before any of that stuff. And even back then, it was clearly a problem, a problem big enough that a writer who served in the Navy was able to observe it in the culture around him, identify it, codify it, articulate it, and put it down in a novel. A novel that actually got published and has been read and enjoyed by millions of people since then. And now by me. Captain Blank. A douche on a space station. An illiterate douche on a space station. Maybe I can conjure a universal translator like they gave what’s-his-name in The Last Starfighter. So everyone speaks their own language but I hear English. And when I speak English, they hear their own language.
Did you guys ever see The Last Starfighter? It’s good. What about Enemy Mine? Also good.
I don’t know why but that reminds me of a joke:
A guy arrives at work one morning on a typical day. He got up, drank his coffee, did what he usually does, got in the car, endured the commute traffic, survived it, and got to the office, where he parked his car and now he’s walking toward the building.
This could just as easily be a woman, by the way. Or any person, really. So let’s not get bogged down in the identity of this person.
The point is that this person has arrived to work and they’re hoofing it across the parking lot so they can go inside, go to their desk, or cubicle, or whatever, and start their day.
As they’re walking, they see their boss, who is perhaps not their immediate supervisor but they know this is the person who owns the company. The CEO, the founder, the whatever.
And the CEO stroke Founder stroke whatever is getting out of a beautiful shiny red Ferrari. Or whatever very expensive automobile you’d like to picture in your mind. A Lambo, a Bentley, a Rolls, whatever. Point is, neither of us can afford one. And neither can this person who is on their way to work.
But this person makes eye contact with the CEO stroke Founder stroke whatever and says, Nice car.
And the CEO stroke Founder stroke whatever says, Thanks! You know, if you work hard, really really hard, and you come in early, you stay late, you work nights and weekends, you miss family dinners, holidays, your kids' birthdays...your anniversary...and you work really, REALLY hard, in a year from now, I'll be able to afford another one.
Point being, stop obsessing with the lives, or troubles, of others. Stop wallowing in that shit.
Start wallowing in your own life.
Start building your own dreams. Get crankin on that side hustle. Find a way to monetize it. When it is earning more for you than your 7 to 7 plus weekends, and you have at least a year's worth of expenses in the bank, start thinking about making that big switch. Grind. Hustle.
247365.
Or 258366.
It's scary, I know. Leaving the security of that day job. But what's scarier? Leaving? Or staying for 40 years and retiring or, worse, getting quote-unquote let go because you're old and the new, ageist, asshole younger management doesn't like you, and being left with a cardboard box full of office supplies, photographs, and regret?
Punch the clock. Punch in, punch out. Clock in, clock out. That's like life. We punch in when we're born. We clock in. Probably in a hospital. Maybe in a kayak.
By the way, if you wanted to one-up your at-home competitive natural birther friends and online pseudo friends, how hard would it be to time your delivery so the baby is born during a skydive? Like you're in labor, you’re in the plane, you’ve got those funny goggles on, the altimeter thing strapped to your wrist, and just before you do the final push, you jump. Baby squirts out. Somebody catches it, puts a tiny parachute on it, just in case. You grab it, pull your chute, fly down to the landing zone. Imagine the fluids. Spraying out at 120 miles per hour. That would be messy. It's asking a lot of your lamazda coach or partner, too. That's where if you jump out of the plane by the end of the month, they give you 2% financing. Frank Junior Junior. Wouldn't that be Frank the Third? Don't get me started.
Where do you want to be when you're 65? 70? What do you want to be doing? Where do you want to be living? What sort of house do you see yourself living in? What is your standard of living? Loaded? Wealthy? Solidly middle class?
And more importantly, what people do you want to have in your life? Family? Friends? You know the cliche about the lonely senior citizen who lives down the street? That could be you. Go to bed and wake up enough times and you'll be that age, too. Hopefully happy, healthy, with at least some degree of wealth even if only for financial independence, and with an active social life. Friends and family. A lover.
Sometimes we do everything right and everything goes to crap. Maybe we end up alone. Even though we didn’t want to be. Or maybe we didn’t used to be. But things happen. And now we are. And it’s hard not to be sad sometimes. And it’s okay if we are.
But if you’re still young and time is on your side, whatever it is that you imagine, work it backwards. Think about the steps required to get from where you are to where you want to be. And break each step down into smaller steps. That makes each step easier to accomplish. After that, it’s mostly a matter of persistence and consistency. Don't quit. Don't give up. Or, because the human mind can't screen out the negative, keep going. When we say Don't quit, the mind focuses on quit. When we say Don't give up, the mind focuses on what? Giving up.
Ergo...let us instead focus on the positive. So keep going.
Apropos of nothing, so sayeth Alanis, middle-aged impotence is one of the most insidious feedback loops I can think of. When you get older, your erections are not as erect. And you don't know why.
This messes with your head, the big one, to no end.
And you develop performance anxiety. Which further impedes erectile function.
Which messes with your head even more. Imagine wanting to orgasm but you can't. You can barely even get it up. Which is why Viagra was invented. And it's amazing. It was discovered by accident while some very smart people at Pfizer were trying to invent a new blood pressure medication. And they discovered this compound that inhibits an enzyme that plays a role in blood flowing out of the penis. If you inhibit that enzyme, blood flows in and stays in. And you get a really, really good boner. It's probably a lot more complicated than that but that's the essence of what I read years ago.
And for anyone who thinks men in their 70s shouldn't be having boners, wait until you're 70 and your dick doesn't work. You'll be popping sildenafil from a Pez dispenser. Like Nickelback. Gonna pop my pills from a Pez dispenser. I'll have the quesadilla.
I love that song.
Has anyone ever made an actual Pez dispenser that can hold Viagra? Sildenafil? I want one. I'd buy one.
It would probably be easier to make sildenafil tablets that fit in a Pez dispenser. Shaped like flat little rectangles. Better make them black, though. Make them look like poison so kids don't eat them.
Jesus, has that ever happened? A little boy finds daddy's Viagra under the sofa and thinks it's candy and eats it. And 45 minutes later, when mom gives him a bath, she's like…WHAT?
Parents, has this ever happened to you? You find your little boy with a boner? I guess it's normal, right? Probably best not to make too big of a deal of it. Don't shame the boy. You start screaming at him about how disgusting and wrong that is and he grows up torn between his inherent, unstoppable biology and the inescapable shame you put on him. And he grows up to be one of those guys who likes to be punished, who likes to put his penis through a hole in a board and have a woman stomp on it in high heeled shoes like his mom used to wear.
That's rough.
But yes, a Pez dispenser full of Viagra? I'll take two.
What should it look like? The little character on the top of the dispenser?
The Incredible Hulk? Hulk smash! Got that right.
You ever smoked some weed and taken Viagra on a cruise ship? Then you go outside and walk up to one of the top decks, and walk over to the railing and look over the side, down at the water splashing and foamy and white as it slaps against the ship.
And you look out at the horizon...and all you see is water.
You look all around and you see nothing but blue, blue ocean. And the THC kicks in, flooding your brain, and you realize after about 10 minutes that you're high as fuck.
And you're on a cruise ship surrounded by water.
And you start thinking about the Titanic.
And the reality of being on a ship as it sinks hits home and becomes clear in a profound and frightening new way that you never truly understood before. And if you had understood it, maybe you would’ve stayed home or gone to Disneyland and gotten high as fuck and ridden Pirates of the Caribbean, instead of coming out here on a giant boat much larger and scarier than the cute little boats they use in Pirates of the Caribbean.
And you now also realize how big that ocean is...and how small you are. How powerless you are in the face of it.
And it's humbling.
Maybe you're not the big shot you think you are. Even if you are the CEO stroke Founder stroke whatever who gets to drive a Ferrari to work every day.
If you fell overboard and no one saw it happen and the ship just kept sailing…for hours…until someone realized that you were missing...and you were floating in the water that whole time, fighting for your life in the frigid water, and by the time they realized you were gone and the crew called the Coast Guard and the Coast Guard sent a rescue helicopter to go out and look for you...and hopefully the current didn't carry you so far away from the ship's course that they never find you….
Imagine that.
And the whole time...the whole friggin time...you've got one of the best erections you've ever had.
What if a shark swims by?
Or a horny dolphin? Dolphins love to get it on with humans, by the way. There’s documented cases of women having sex with dolphins. Whatever you think about it, right or wrong, it's happened. There’s probably a drunk woman in Florida making love with a dolphin right now. You know all those Florida Man jokes? Let’s not discount the Florida Woman. Because behind every great man…is a great woman rolling her eyes.
I’ve heard psychologists say that that rolling of the eyes is a disgust response, by the way. And if your partner rolls their eyes at you, or you roll your eyes at your partner, there’s a higher-than-average probability that you two will get divorced. So if you’re doing that, or they’re doing that to you, you’d better spend some time in quiet reflection, thinking about this journey of self-talk you’ve taken yourself on that took you from being attracted to this person and loving this person to now rolling your eyes at this person and kind of despising this person. Because it’s not healthy for anyone involved.
So if you're on a cruise ship, high as fuck, with a Hulk smash boner, maybe have a pair of goggles around your neck so you'll be able to see underwater if you fall in. And maybe have a fanny pack with a waterproof satellite phone, a flare gun, a bottle of water, and a snack. Because you're going to get the munchies. While you're waiting for the Coast Guard to come down and pick you up with one of those baskets they lower down out of the door of the helicopter. And probably after all the mind-altering underwater dolphin sex. Getting nailed by a dolphin gives a whole new meaning to the term Power Bottom. All the other bottoms are like, Oh, yeah, I bottom; you've never had any like this before. And then you take out your phone and show them the footage of you and the dolphin...and they're like, Okay, you win.
Because you haven't lived until you've squeezed off a dolphin while holding your breath as he drives you 50 feet under.
Remember to do the Valsalva Maneuver, by the way. That's not a sex thing. It's where you pinch your nose and blow out gently or swallow several times to get your ears to equalize, because as you go down under the water, the pressure increases and it makes your ears hurt. So you do the Valsalva Maneuver to alleviate it. They teach it to you when you get SCUBA certified.
Think there'd be any foreplay?
Do dolphins like foreplay?
We know they're intelligent and that they like to play with their food before they kill it and eat it.
So maybe that dolphin would enjoy a little 69 action before the main show. A little amuse bouche. That's French for Happy Mouth.
Cue Sexy Black Voice: And now, here to perform for you, ladies and gentlemen, friends from around the galaxy, fellow rageaholics, prepare your creamy earholes for even more cream because The Hot Fudge Sundaes are about to power-top your mind with their delectable chocolatey sound as they sing their newest hit song Amooz Boosh, which they chose to spell phonetically in order to help with everyone’s pronunciation. Fellas, take it away!
{musical interlude}
Thank you, The Hot Fudge Sundaes. I definitely have P.E.
Speaking of P.E., that’s premature ejaculation, do you think the other dolphins would watch?
Would they swim over and be all like, Wow, Hank is really going to town on that human. Check it out, the human is wearing goggles. Smart. Not smart enough to avoid falling overboard, apparently. But you know, for a human.
And then a big toothy shark with a deep voice swims over and is all like, Hey, can I get in on that?
And the dolphins are all like, No, Bruce. You bit the last one's leg off. You gave a whole new meaning to sloppy seconds.
And Bruce is all like, What?! I had the munchies!
And they're like, You always have the munchies.
And he's like, No, shit! I'm a shark!
Bruce was the name they gave to the mechanical shark from Jaws, by the way. But it didn't function properly and it kept breaking down and a lot of the footage looked stupid. So the movie wound up having a lot less footage of the actual shark. But this made the movie scarier, thereby helping Stephen Spielberg’s career. Which I find fascinating because he also has a reputation for making movies for kids. Yet a lot of his movies are disturbing. The two most horrific cinematic moments I’ve ever seen and which haunt me in my dreams to this very day both come from Stephen Spielberg movies. The first one is Jaws, when the shark comes up on the back of the boat, with Robert Shaw, and we all know what happens after that. Which is why I’m afraid to swim in the ocean. Me and millions of people like me. The other moment is from Saving Private Ryan, or as some smartasses like to say, Saving Ryan’s Privates. You remember Joey’s roommate Eddie? What happened to him in Saving Private Ryan?
I don’t even like to think about it.
Speaking of getting eaten by a shark, or stabbed by a Nazi in a knife fight while your platoon mate does nothing, are you guys afraid of expiration dates?
Well, Captain, you’re saying to yourself, it depends on what it's for. If it's the Born On date on my bottle of Bud, no, I'm not worried at all. If it's the date on me, yes, I'm somewhat more concerned.
I've never understood being afraid of expiration dates. It's not like it goes bad on that exact day. It doesn't suddenly turn to poison. It's not like Cinderella. It's not like at midnight on the day stamped on the carton or the package an alarm goes off, with flashing yellow lights like we're at Defcon 1: Warning! Warning! Sour milk imminent. Evacuate the area immediately. Do not open the refrigerator. Ever again. Run for the hills. Become a dirty hill person who eats grubs and forgets how to speak. And then somehow get a leather glove and a sharp metal boomerang and be like the little kid in Road Warrior. I’m not gonna shoot you between the eyes, I’m gonna shoot you between the balls! Let off some steam, Bennett.
The manufacturer builds in a buffer zone on the milk, by the way. They give you several days or a week after the date before the food goes bad. If it has something growing on it or in it, something white or green or black or orange that's fuzzy, don't eat it. Throw it away. Add it to your compost pile. Recycle it. Whatever it is you do.
If it was a liquid when you bought it and now it's a solid, don't eat it. If it smells bad, looks weird, tastes weird, don't eat it.
Why do cats and dogs and probably most other animals smell their food? That's how they know if it's safe to eat. Why do female gorillas run over to the big alpha male Silverback and turn around and show him their naughty bits? That's how he knows it's safe to eat.
And then he bangs her real quick and impregnates her. Makes more little monkey babies. Actually, they're ape babies. Monkeys have tails, apes don't. I believe that's the rule. Back on Earth, anyway. There are probably exceptions.
But how does he do it so fast? Why can't I do it like that? How can he do it so many times a day, too? And why can't I?
Because he's better than me, that's why. That ape is more man than I. No matter how much Viagra I take. No matter how many Hulk Smash Pez dispensers full of little blue Viagra diamonds I have. You guys think Marvel would ever go for that? Licensing the Hulk I.P. so Kevin Bacon and the Pez People can make dispensers full of them? And Pfizer or someone else who makes sildenafil would have to make them the right shape to fit in the dispenser so it’ll work properly and won’t get all jammed up when you tilt the head back to pop another pill from it.
Do you think the male dolphins would get pissed if you ate a bunch of Viagra and topped one of their female dolphins?
What if you went into the rainforest and found a herd or a group or a pod or whatever of gorillas and you got high as fuck and snorted a bunch of crushed up Viagra and you tried to mate with a female gorilla?
Think anyone has ever tried that?
Would she even let you? What if she did? What if she was into it? What if she pushed you over onto your back and got on top of you and went to town?
Would the males sit and watch? Would they look over at the big Silverback like, Is this okay, boss?
And then what? Most likely he charges over and rips your arms and face and dick off...or he bluffs and pulls up short and lets you guys finish.
Would that make you the new alpha male?
Is that what Tarzan did? He started out as a baby so the gorillas weren't threatened by him and they protected him and cared for him and raised him. One of the mommy gorillas probably nursed him. Can a human drink gorilla milk? And he grew up as one of them. And he had a paper route delivering the news to jungle residents and he went to prom and he grew up and got boners and wondered what to do with it and because his gorilla mommy didn’t shame him for it, he started banging all the female gorillas. And they’re all at the rainforest prom wondering who Tarzan will want to dance with. Imagine the gorillas are all dressed up; it’s friggin prom! They’re looking GOOD.
Think about that: a prom, a high school prom, put on by and attended by GORILLAS. The Bored Ape Yacht Club has nothing on the Rainforest Prom. Make NFT’s out of THAT. Three percent! And I want the first one.
We all know how much we all love gorillas. Right?
Right???
Yes, Captain Blank.
Thank you. Are you guys even awake? Am I that bad?
Yes.
Anywho…
Or is it hoo?
I dunno. Doesn’t matter.
What matters is that the gorillas are having their annual prom just like they’ve been doing every year for decades or perhaps millennia…. However long gorillas have been around.
You see the videos of them at the zoo sitting up against the glass with a human person and the human person is showing their phone to the gorilla, showing him pictures and stuff?
And the gorilla is so cool about it. He comes over and sits down. And he’s gotta be thinkin, Oh, look: here come those weird creatures again.
Gorillas are black, right? Same as zebras? Zebras’ black stripes come from melanin, which is the pigment that makes skin brown or beige or tanned. Although that’s caused by the sun, rather than being something you’re born with. Basically zebras — and gorillas — are black. Not Black, with a capital B, because they’re gorillas and they don’t think like that. They don’t have racism. Or shall we say Racism, with a what, Sammy?
Cue Sam Jackson Voice: Capital Motherfuckin R.
Thank you, Samuel L., you are the man. Everybody knows it. Probably even those gorillas.
My dad always says I’d bitch if I was hung with a new rope.
Like back before I got abducted, when he and I were having a cold beer at his house and the man came down from the sky and took me up with him, my dad would sometimes say that.
It’s probably true but, knock on wood – cue Sammy!
Cue Sam Jackson voice: Knock on motherfuckin wood!
Knock on wood indeed…that I would never actually find out if I would bitch about being hung with a new rope because the only way to know would be to be hung with a new rope, to actually go through with the experience and see what it’s like.
But then it’s too late.
Because the thing opens and you drop and the rope is pulled straight.
They SAY, by the way, or so I’ve heard, that if it’s done correctly - quote unquote correctly, Gawd stroke God help us – if it’s done correctly, the knot in the rope snaps up really fast and hits you in the back of the head and knocks you out. Cue Sammy Voice.
Sammy Voice: If it’s done correctly? If it’s done motherfuckin correctly? If some asshole is putting a noose around my neck and fittin to hang me, I can at least take comfort in the notion that this motherfucker cares enough about me that he wants to minimize my suffering as he goes about doing what he clearly and obviously believes he must do, which is to kill another human being. In public. During the day. Surrounded by motherfuckin witnesses. Imagine seeing that shit. You think social media is bad now. Imagine if we were able to go outside and see a public execution. Imagine monetizing that shit and putting it on your channel. Or putting it on pay per view. Dana? Do you wanna get on that? That’s right: Fuck no, you don’t. Because that shit must never happen. Why do you think so many writers have written about that shit? Because it’s wrong. They saw that shit comin from decades away and they wrote about it. And then they lived through it while it happened, and it happened because no one believed them when they’d warned everyone about it so many years ago. Point being that if that motherfucker who’s hanging me does it correctly, the knot will snap up and hit me on the back of the head and knock me out so I won’t be awake and conscious during the full and complete experience of watching my own death as I’m dying. What a gentleman.
I totally forgot where we were going with that.
Sammy Voice: Gee, wonder why.
Indeed, Sammy, you are 100% correct. But imagine this: getting back to gorillas, given that gorillas are bad-asses, and Sam Jackson is a bad-ass, what happens when Sam Jackson comes face to face with a gorilla?
Likewise, simultaneously, in fact, what happens when a gorilla comes face to face with Sam Jackson?
The logical answer, by the way, is that they immediately recognize each other.
Immediately.
Like, Samuel isn’t even all the way up to the glass yet. He’s still strollin, one hand holdin his coat shut, that sweet-ass caramel brown leather coat that makes you simultaneously hungry and horny.
So picture the scene: Sam Jackson…strolling amonging the other zoo patrons.
Amonging?
That’s not even a word. It’s right there with Transponster and Strategery, though. It sounds good and if we all go around saying it, all the people who don’t know any better will think that that is how you’re supposed to speak and to talk; which you are not. Like when Joey said Supposably.
So, yes, picture the scene: Sam Jackson goes to the zoo. Or an animal sanctuary. Wherever he can go that is the least cruel and depressing. Ever since Harambe, I think we can all agree that seeing animals in zoos just is not as fun as it used to be. Because every time I do, I feel bad for those animals. Even though the zoo people always say that these animals were rescued, that these animals were sick or dying and would have died FOR SURE if they had not been brought to the facility, where we saved their life. We brought them back from the brink of death. We tended to them and bandaged them and put IVs in them and did crazy full-on surgery on them and watched them as they woke and and slowly came around and then slowly got better. Until one day, and it takes a really long time, and the whole process is hopeful but agonizing, one day we let them outside. And that’s it. They are well enough to go live in the preserve or in their area that we built for them.
It is not easy finding enough money for a proper zoological rescue facility.
So what do we do?
We monetize it. And wham: zoo.
And then, over time, other people view this as a new business model. So they call people they know who have money and they discuss it and maybe they have dinner and one of them is all like, Oh, this filet is fantastic. Did it really come from Japan today? And one of the other people at the table is all like, Yes, it really did. Okinawa. All the way from Okinawa.
And then some other person says, Osaka.
And the other person is like, What?
And they say again, Osaka.
And the other person gets that oddly-universal android look of consternation on their face, perhaps even with a slight sideways head tilt, and then they go, I thought you said Okinawa.
And the other person says, No, I said Osaka. Look, it’s stamped on the meat.
And everyone at the table looks down and exclaims, literally verbally blurts out some nonsensical human verbal expression of surprise as they realize for the first time that written right there on top of their steak is the word OSAKA. And it’s obviously been there the whole time and they’ve been sitting there for probably 10 to 15 minutes and no one even noticed it. And then everyone at the table laughs jauntily at the fact that an entire group of allegedly-educated adults could miss such a thing as the work OSAKA while literally staring at their steak as they were prattling on about massless batteries and carbon fiber and exciting new ablative materials.
Point being that those people open a zoo of their own and hire people to run it but everyone involved is money motivated. They like animals, most likely — hopefully! — but they’re also doing this to turn a profit.
To make money.
To make their money work for them. Because that’s what they’re supposed to do.
And that’s what you’re supposed to do.
But not in a way that is harmful or abusive, to animals or anyone else.
Again, imagine the scene: Sam Jackson, sexy caramel leather coat.
Cue Sexy Black Voice!
Sexy Black Voice: Oh yeah…that’s right…. Ladies and gentlemen, here now for your earhole pleasure, The Hot Fudge Sundaes doin their latest number: Sexy. Caramel. Leather. Coat.
{musical interlude}
Oh, yeah. Oh, yeah. Oh, yeah. That was totally worth it. Sexy Caramel Leather Coat. Wow. So turned on and oddly confused now.
You guys see what just happened?
The way we feel right now…turned on and kind of in awe or something. And a little bit giddy. Maybe even a little silly?
This is how it feels.
This is how it feels when they see each other. When Sam Jackson and the gorillas see each other. Because he walks up, they see each other before he gets close, before he gets to the glass, and he’s walkin up, struttin up, Kangol hat and everything; he’s in full Sam Jackson Mode. And the gorillas are all eyein him. They see his ass comin from a mile away. They saw his ass in the parking lot as soon as he stepped out of the flying car. They smelled him before that thing even landed. And now they’re laying eyes on him for the first time, putting a face with the smell, because you know they could smell him…long before they could actually see him. See, that’s how bad-ass gorillas are: that’s how strong their senses are. Look at them: they’re physically superior to us in every way.
Which is what makes Sam Jackson such a bad-ass as he walks over to them and goes into THEIR house in his sexy caramel coat. He knows they could rip him apart. He knows they could kill him instantly if they wanted to. But he believes they won’t. And he’s willingly going into their house and sitting down with them face to face. And they view each other not as rivals, but as equals.
Now, who is the bad-ass female corollary of sorts to Samuel L. Jackson?
What happens when they go in there?
Who is it? Cate Blanchett, perhaps? I picture her going in there dressed in white. And then the gorillas smell her coming before she gets out of the flying car. Or maybe Sarah Silverman. And she meets the gorillas and she says, Gee, guys, could you really smell my cooch before I got here?
And the gorillas are like, We smelled you before you left L.A. We smelled you when you woke up this morning. As soon as you decided you were coming here to see us, we knew.
Speaking of animal ESP, have you ever heard of those crazy stories where people will leave their house and they’ll set up a video camera inside to watch their dog because the dog does weird stuff while they’re gone? The dog will usually sleep close to a window or a door and they will sense that you’re home as soon as possible.
Only THESE dogs take it one step further. These dogs sleep and then when the people randomly decide in that moment to go home, as soon as they decide and start to head toward home, the dog wakes up. The dog jumps up and gets excited. And the people aren’t merely across the street, waving at the dog after they jumped out from behind a tree.
The people are somewhere far away, like at the mall. Meaning that they got in their car and drove some distance away. Miles away. And they have a camera in the car recording and a camera at home recording and when they get home, they find the dog awake and excited to see them. So they cue up both videos and play them at the same time, side by side, which allows you to see the whole event in real time. And sure enough, you see the people at the mall, and the dog at home, asleep, snoring, and as soon as those people have the conversation about going home and they all agree to go home, that dog wakes up and jumps up on the sofa and looks out the window and starts wagging its tail and going crazy.
And it continues to do that the whole time as those people drive back home. And we see them come inside and greet the dog. And the dog is so happy.
But how did the dog have canine ESP to know when they were coming home? How?
Wow, I did not know when the show began that we were going to take a stroll down Anthropology Row. That we were going to be talking about humans and gorillas and canines and their level of mind reading abilities.
So, Show 9.
Wait; it’s supposed to be Show 10, isn’t it?
Is this still Show 9?
Oh. Okay.
What were we talking about? Oh yes: the Rainforest Prom. All the gorillas are dressed to the nines. Hell, they’re dressed to the tens. Some of them, to the elevens.
And then Tarzan walks in.
And he’s a twelve.
Long hair. Loin cloth. Bowtie. Struttin. Adjusting those white things on his wrists that male strippers wear that make you think of a tuxedo. Thank you, Magic Mike. That movie was fascinating.
Do we have any strippers in the audience tonight? Excuse me; exotic dancers? Because we love what you do for us. It’s the reason we throw money at you. Granted, there’s definitely an element of degradation and abusiveness woven into the whole thing, but we’re so horny for you that we don’t really care.
We care….
But the desire is too great. The horniness is too strong. We must have you. And for some people, a club is the preferred place to do that. It certainly does cut through the bullshit. If you’re going to a strip club, you KNOW why you’re going there. You’re going there to see some tee-tees and some tay-tays and some backsides in the hopes that one of those girls is gonna fall in love with you and will come home with you and you guys will get married and have kids and wind up like Kevin James. Or Kevin…what’s his name? The short guy. Kevin Hart!
Also, let’s take a moment to thank the overweight dancers. The ones who don’t have textbook exotic dancer bodies. The Chris Farelys to the Patrick Swayzes. May they both rest in peace. Think they’re in Heaven doing The Lift?
The chubby stripper guys, who go out there on stage in breakaway pants and a bowtie, when you guys get naked, dancing around on a stage in front of 100 women who deliberately set out to go see naked men, and you strut your stuff and pretend to have all the confidence in the world…what happens?
The women go even crazier, don’t they?
Because it’s all about confidence. Confidence and the caramel sexy coat.
Here’s an idea: how about a cologne stroke perfume called Caramel Sexy?
Or is it Carmel Sexy?
I always pronounce it that way: carmels. Not car-uh-mells, with three syllables. Just two syllables: car-mulls. Shaq even did a commercial discussing it.
But it sounds better in this usage as three syllables: car-uh-mels. Sexy caramel.
Is there any way it can be an edible sex aid? Like George Costanza’s pastrami sandwich?
That wasn’t a terrible idea. It was really the execution of it. George fell victim to one of the classic blunders: the thing about a land war in Asia – don’t do it – , the thing about a battle of wits with a Sicilian when death is on the line, and, finally, always bring your lover in on the thing you want to do. Don’t just do it without talking to them about it. You should definitely talk to them before they get naked, get into bed with you. And eight minutes into it, they’re sensing something is different and that you’re really into this, which makes them so happy and so they get really into it, too. And it’s the best sex you guys have had in a long time and it’s great…
And then they realize you smell like pastrami. And mustard. And rye bread. And…yes…a pickle. You brought a pickle. And it’s bigger than YOURS.
Guys, what do you do? Do you A) Keep going? B) Try to laugh it off? C) Offer her a bite? It’s the least you could do. Or D) Pleasure her with the pickle while you finish the sandwich? And then eat the pickle!
Ladies, what would you prefer? Are you offended beyond repair? Or do you want some sandwich, too?
So.
Sexy Caramel. It should be a sweet edible sauce that is all natural, totally safe to eat and have way up inside you after it was used as a lubricant. And not too sweet. You need to be able to eat a lot of it and not get a sugar rush or get that gross feeling like you’ve eaten too much sugar. And it must not cause or inspire uprisings of whatever yeast may be living in the vagina. Outlaw yeast. Outlaw, renegade, bandit yeast, hiding in the warm dark place where it’s safe.
If you think about it, that is some smart yeast. Because think about how great the vagina feels inside. People dream about it. They go to clubs and throw all their money at women because of it. Wars have been fought over it. That is the power of the pussy.
Should that be a Hot Fudge Sundaes song? Power of the Pussy? And it’ll be a song entirely totally 100% about cats. Felines. Breeds of felines. Types of cats. Like longhairs and shorthairs and Siamese and Main Coons and Ragdolls and those really big African Serval cats.
Those are a little scary for my taste. I grew up with cats and know cats well. I’ve had the pleasure of cohabitating with many, many cats. And there were times when I fought with them. We didn’t always get along perfectly. Usually, they did something I didn’t like, like shit on the carpet, and we’d have words. And sometimes, and this is usually how I got injured pretty much every time, it was because I was being a dick while they were trying to sleep and they swatted me and I was too slow to get my hand out of the way and their claws ripped my skin open. Or we were playing and I was too slow to get my hand out of the way and their claws ripped my skin open. Either way, it was my fault. I seldom if ever got injured when I was disciplining them in the hopes of teaching them not to shit on the carpet ever again. And these are regular housecats. And when they scratch you, or bite you, or rip your skin open, it hurts. And you have to stop what you’re doing and go to the kitchen or the bathroom and scrub the cut with soap and water and maybe put some alcohol on it and maybe even a Bandaid.
So there is no way in hell I am going to get anywhere near a full-grown lion or a Bengal tiger.
Remember The Tiger King show? I heard he had been in prison already for two years at the time that show was on Netflix.
By the way, everyone back on Earth says there are more tigers in captivity in private collections in Texas than there are tigers alive in the wild anywhere in the world.
Think about that: There are more tigers in private collections…in Texas…than there are anywhere else in the world. Including in the wild.
Do you guys know if that’s true? I’m gonna shit my pants if I see a Bengal tiger walking around up here tomorrow.
And what does that say about Texas? And the people who live in Texas. Texans.
Are they assholes for having all those tigers at their house?
Or are they doing the world a service and basically single-handedly keeping the species alive?
Your answer to that question probably has a great deal to do with whether or not you live in Texas and how much you know about tiger population numbers.
I do not live in Texas. I live up here now. Apparently. And I know very little about tiger population numbers.
Sammy Voice: Cue Sexy Black Voice!
Oh, shit, Sammy, are you doing intro’s now?
Sammy Voice: Damn straight.
Sexy Black Voice: And now, ladies and gentlemen, earhole lovers around the galaxy, put your hands together for The Hot Fudge Sundaes as they perform their latest hit Tiger Population Numbers because 99 cents of every dollar goes to help endangered species so we can hopefully take all of them to Texas so people with accents and boots can look at them and talk about how much it cost to bring them there and keep them alive and how much they eat every day and reiterate over and over and over again that, no, you cannot go in there because they WILL jump on you, pin you down, and rip your face off. And then get bored, forget about you, and chase after a butterfly while you lay there slowly bleeding to death, gurgling and horrified and in terrific pain, wondering why you didn’t listen to the man who flew in steaks all the way from OSAKA, and who knew the steaks said OSAKA on top so maybe he knew the tiger would rip your face off so you should’ve listened to him.
Are we all going to start addressing each other now through abbreviations of our names?
Sammy Voice is SV, Sexy Black Voice is SBV, and I, Captain Blank, your non-intrepid, pseudo-intrepid, or perhaps entirely trepid host, am CB?
I sound like a truck driver. From back when there were truck drivers.
You guys, wasn’t it funny to see cities all around the world build really impressive transportation systems like trains and cable cars and buses and even cars that ran on electricity only to totally abandon it like 20 years later only to go back to electric like 80 years after that?
Have you guys heard about that? It’s wild.
You look at old photographs taken with cameras that could only take pictures that came out in black and white, and you see cities with grids of wires over the streets, strung between all the buildings. And there are cable cars and small bus-like vehicles carrying people, actual humans, and the tops of them had these long metal poles that stayed in contact with the wires overhead. Like when you ride the bumper cars. And that’s how they got their power. And they drove around all over the place. And I think they were free and you could just hop on one and ride it as far as you needed to.
But then those went away, the wires were taken down. And they were replaced by the internal combustion engine vehicles we’ve known for decades.
But then the cities got really stinky. The air got really bad because of all those little vehicles. Almost everybody had one. And most of them only had one person in them most of the time. Because suburbs were invented. And some of the vehicles were bigger and carried food and phones and stuff, which is important, so they weren’t all bad. And they helped people do lots of cool stuff and go lots of cool places they’d never been to before. Maybe to a zoo to see a gorilla. Maybe not. I dunno. The point is that the air got bad. So bad that doctors were all like, Hey, you guys! This is not healthy. Like, we have to do something or we’re all gonna get cancer.
And it took a really long time, like 30 to 40 years, but they finally made those little vehicles so they didn’t shit out as much invisible smoke. And the white, filthy air you couldn’t even see through slowly went away and things were better. But there were so many more of those little vehicles on the road that even though they were cleaner, the special juice was still causing problems. Only this time, it was up in the air surrounding the whole planet. So the scientists and doctors all looked at it and were like, Um, hey, you guys! It’s happening again. Or, rather, it’s still happening and it’s getting worse and our computer models are saying we could all die. And not from cancer. But from like geoplanetary catastrophe. And there’s no way to know without actually going through with it, which would be a dangerous experiment very much akin to getting hung with a new rope. And then all the English majors are like, And by the way: it’s not hung; it’s HANGED. Meat is hung; men are HANGED.
Did you guys hear about the guy in New York who was shot by the cops because they thought he had a grenade? But he was eating a pear. That’s one of Dane Cook’s jokes, by the way. I’ve always liked it and I’ve always wondered if it’s true or if it’s urban legend.
Do you guys have urban legends on your planet?
On Earth, an urban legend is a story that a lot of people have heard or somehow know about but no one is sure if it’s true or when it happened or if it ever actually did. But the story is messed up in some way so it makes it a lot of fun to tell. Like the guy who got shot while eating a pear in such a manner as was mistaken for the throwing of a live grenade. Which we would also call terrorism. Fruit terrorism.
Should The Hot Fudge Sundaes do a song about that? Fruit terrorism?
They’re sharking, no, excuse me, shaking, they’re shaking their heads No.
I agree.
Sharking, though? What is that? What if for Halloween, The Hot Fudge Sundaes performed with big shark heads? That might be fun. Or is it cultural appropriation towards sharks and towards people of shark lineage who come from a planet of shark people? Sharklings? Earthlings…Sharklings. Get it?
How many protein bars do you guys eat per day? Because I eat a lot of em. I eat 3 to 4. Certainly at least two. They’re easy to eat. I know I can conjure anything but they’re delicious and chocolatey and crunchy and easy to eat. I conjured a spaghetti dinner with garlic bread and a salad and a White Russian and a little silver bowl of Neapolitan ice cream because I was trying to recreate dinner at Spaghetti Factory. Or as my friends back on Earth and I like to call it: Spag Fack.
And by the way, don’t do anything stupid at your bachelor or bachelorette party. Because those parties are one night; your marriage is every night for the rest of your life. It’s like, Do you want me to give you $10,000 tonight or $100 a night every night for the rest of your life?
If you’re not sure, do the math.
We’ll all do it together: How many nights would it take to receive $100 before you had $10,000?
In 10 nights, you’d have a grand, right?
And to get to $10,000, we’d need to have that happen 10 more times.
So 10 times 10 is 100. 100 nights. That’s three months and one week. Thirteen weeks, basically.
That’s like $30,000 a year, by the way. If you went easy on it, you wouldn’t have to work. You could focus all your time on your side hustle.
This is a long show.
See why I thought it was Show 10?
I think we should combine them together, Shows 9 and 10. And tomorrow will be Show 11. And if anyone ever sees a written transcript with a table of contents, they’ll be all like, Where’s Show 10? Where’s show 10? Mine doesn’t have Show 10. Mine is missing Show 10. I need a different copy. Or a refund.
When all along, Show 10 is right here, safe and sound, nestled snugly between Show 9 and Show 11. Just like the yeast snuggled between the walls of the vagina.
This is the part where Sarah Silverman says, Everybody loves a vagina!
And then we’d cut to like a super-gay West Hollywood gay guy looking at his nails and standing on the sidewalk in front of Cuck-u-Roo chicken and he kind of laughs because he’s smart and he’s in on it and he goes, Not everybody.
And then Sarah’s all like, Ah, shucks!
I loved Wreck It Ralph, by the way. Haven’t seen the sequel yet, even though it came out a million years ago. I guess I don’t want it to not be as good, which would leave a scar on my love of the first one.
But speaking of vaginal yeast, we don’t want that. I believe a healthy vagina is a mostly yeast-free vagina, yes? Is that correct? Correct me if I’m wrong, please. I always thought yeast infections and a trip to Walgreens resulted from the delicate vaginal balance getting out of whack and there being suddenly too much yeast. It’s like you have spooks, spectres, or ghosts in your vagina so you have to call the Ghostbusters and Bill Murray will shrink himself down like Matt Damon in the shrinking movie and he’ll go into your vagina with his positron collider laser gun thing and he’ll get all those unwanted yeasts and he’ll put them in a trap for you.
Is the word spook still racist, by the way? It meant ghost for a long time and then it came to be a bad word for Black people. Like the N word. Or is it okay now? Because they used the phrase quote unquote spooks, spectres, or ghosts in the Ghostbusters movie. But then spook was used as a racial epithet horrible no good very bad word by that little White pissant peckerwood in Back to the Future when they locked Marty in the trunk of the car. Not realizing that the car belonged to the band that was there playing at the Enchantment Under the Sea Dance. And the guys got out of the car, which it seemed they were hotboxing, by the way — how baller is that? — and one of them is like, What are you doin to my car?
And the White pissant bully says, Beat it, spook, this don’t concern you!
And then the rest of the band gets out of the car and now outnumbers the two dipshits throwing Marty in the trunk. And one of them says, Who you callin spook, peckerwood? And then they chase after them. And then one of them uses a knife to pick the lock on the trunk to rescue Marty. But he slices his hand open and can’t play. Which is how Marty comes to be on-stage, playing guitar at his parents’ Rainforest Prom.
And that was in 1955.
Ergo, do you guys have racism where you come from? Is it an intergalactic phenomenon or merely a stupid Earth one? Like you see groups of people who don’t like other groups of people because that second group of people comes from a different place or is different in some way?
It seems like a dumb reason not to like someone.
Just because of where they’re from?
Especially if you don’t even know them. Even if you know them and have interacted with them and they’re always an asshole to you, along with all of their friends, then, yeah, I could see why you wouldn’t like them. But you wouldn’t dislike all the people like them just because that small group is a bunch of dicks.
You shouldn’t, anyway.
When people go to the zoo and sit with a gorilla and show him or her pictures on their phone, what do they show them?
Pictures of bananas? Pictures of other gorillas? Pictures of humans and gorillas? Like Robin Williams and Koko hugging? That’s probably a good thing to show them. It teaches them that humans and gorillas are friends. But it might be sad because then that gorilla will want to hug you but won’t be able to because of the glass between you.
But, like the guy with the OSAKA steaks, it’s a good thing that glass is there because that gorilla could lure you into a false sense of confidence, making you think he’s gentle and he’s like Harambe and he won’t hurt you. But in reality, the psychotic, stoner zoo keepers have put King Kong or Planet of the Apes on repeat every night at closing time for the past seven years. And now this gorilla and all of his family and friends and fellow gorillas in that enclosure have seen what humans do to gorillas, especially to gorillas who dare to fall in love with a human.
They kidnap them and take them to their city and make them perform for people who paid money to see them.
Kind of like the women who paid money to go see guys at the strip club.
From which I think we can conclude that humans are selfish and voyeuristic.
Point being that that gorilla has seen King Kong 2,555 times and the reason he comes and sits next to the glass is because he is hoping it will break and he’ll be able to grab your punk ass and hold you down while he takes big bites out of all the various parts of your body that do not contain a major artery. Like your hands and your feet and your face.
What do you guys think would be worse: Getting mauled by a tiger or by a gorilla? Or a bear?
Tiger
Gorilla
Bear
Enter your final answer now.
Or a shark.
D should be a shark.
Tiger
Gorilla
Bear
Shark
Are there any other creatures known to maul humans? Those four seem like the main ones.
Not a pleasant choice, is it?
Or what if one of Khaleesi’s dragons roasts you and eats you? Or would you rather be swallowed whole? Like Tommy Lee Jones at the end of the first Men in Black. And then you’re in there, alive, it’s probably hot and humid and smells really, REALLY bad and there’s probably not a lot of oxygen and you’re probably swimming and thrashing around in hydrochloric acid, which would soon start to burn really bad. Because we have hydrochloric acid in our stomachs and it helps dissolve our food and when we barf, it burns, right?
This is humans I’m talking about, by the way.
I’m not sure what all you other folks do when you need to regurgitate something previously ingested. Maybe a protein source from your home world that hopefully was never sentient. Perhaps something, or, gulp, someone, italics on the one, from another planet.
Like, do you guys travel to far-away planets just to gather up stuff you like to eat back home?
Kind of like flying in world-class Kobe beef from Osaka for your fellow zoo owners who will soon ignore you and be mauled to death by your tiger, Fluffy, before she lopes off to chase butterflies the way she does. Which pretty much means your fellow zoo owner chose answer A: Tiger.
That’s our show!
Thank you and goodnight!
Enjoy your evening!
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