The Trouser Snake

“I’m sorry, I just cannot publish this in the children’s market.”

“It’s a children’s book.”

“You keep saying that…it’s…here’s the thing, your book, well, it’s just too phallic to be a children’s story.”

“Really? Phallic? Please enlighten me.”

“First of all it is called The Trouser Snake…”

“The main child finds a snake and keeps it in his pocket.”

“That may be…its just there has to be a better title than The Trouser Snake.”

“Sure, I’ll call it, There’s a Python in My Pants. Huh? You like that, don’t you?”

“That’s not better. Strangely enough it’s worse. Look, here’s the deal, I’m not publishing a children’s book that eludes to the penis in any way possible. Be it intentional or un.”

“Okay, okay…say I take out the snake and replace it with…I don’t know…let’s say…he walks past a laundromat and finds a roll of quarters…I’ll call it; Is That a Roll of Quarters in Your Pocket?”

“You can not be serious?”

“He’s walking in his backyard and finds one of those plastic rockets, I’ve Got a Rocket in My Pocket. Has a nice ring to it, no?”

“I am asking you to leave.”

“What do I have to do?”

“You have to leave. I will call security, hell, maybe even the cops. Tell them I have some perv here trying to sell kids a book full of innuendos about his penis. How does that sound.”

“Sounds like we have a deal. Good day sir.”

“Yeah, thanks.”


My Throat Hurts

It was four days ago that I saw that penis walking around holding a bottle of Dimetapp. I approached it and asked it for a swallow. He didn’t give me one and walked off. Later on that day I said to a bum, “Don’t you have a pot to piss in?” He handed me four pennies.

“That’s my life savings. I give them to you with the respect and knowledge and the hope you’ll keep them with you wherever you go.”

So I took the the pennies and gave his squirrel a high-five and a cigarette.

“A lighter would be exquisite,” said the squirrel.

I lit his cigarette and walked off. I continued walking ’til I reached a dead end in the middle of town. An ogre popped out of the woods and said:

“You pass if you give me a gift.”

I reached into my pocket and pulled out a ball of lint.

“Merry Christmas,” I told him and walked off.

I entered the woods and walked a mile. When I came to a four-way intersection I stopped. I turned to the right and saw Michael J. Fox sitting on the ground with a white mouse in his hand.

“Hello, I’m Stuart Little,” said Michael J. Fox.

“How are you?” I asked.

“A little shaken, but not stirred.”

At that moment James Bond appeared out of the brush. He swiped the white mouse out of Michael J. Fox’s hand and popped him in his mouth. Michael J. Fox stood and yelled:

“Why did you eat Stuart?”

“He was shaken…not stirred.”

I turned to look at Bond. He began a slow trot in my direction; so I ran off. He followed me a little of the way until a spaceship came and took him away. I then exited the woods and was attacked by Iggy Pop; who then stole my four cents. He then ran into the street, got hit by a car and died.

I Think I’m Going Crazy

Three days ago I ran into a man with no left hand. I approached the man and politely said:

“Dude, you have no left hand.”

He replied with, “No shit”, then hit me in the face with his nub. Right square in the nostrils.

“You hit me in the nostrils.”

“You’re damn lucky I don’t make you eat them.”

“What?” I asked, though he had run away.

At this time I grab my nose. Gripping it between my thumb and index finger I squeeze forcefully. Pain shoots through my whole face. I do this, for in my twisted way of thinking the more pain I feel to begin with the less pain I’ll feel later.

After a feeling of normalcy returns to my face I walk once again. Walk and whistle. Whistling the theme to Sanford and Son.

I pass a bum perched against a building. He waves. I ignore him, as I do with all street folk. I hear him mumble something to himself. I then feel the wind knocked from my lungs and fall face forward onto the sidewalk. I cough a couple of times and raise my head. I look behind myself to see a can of biscuits rolling down the street which have begun to ooze its doughy goodness from its impact with the back of my skull.

“Biscuits?” I yell in the bum’s general direction.

“Biscuits are the fruit of my loins!” he replies.


Before an answer can be given the bum slides a manhole from its resting place and dives inside, quickly closing and sealing so that I cannot follow.

I push myself up, jiggle my butt a little to work out the kinks imposed by those infernal biscuits. I place one foot in front of the other and continue my mission from God. To find that deliciousness that everyone is raving about. For I have no thought process. I must follow trends. Become Brad Pitt, Jr. No carbs can enter this body. I may lose weight…will it be worth the strain I place upon my poor, poor heart?

Oh! What is this deliciousness? Stupid bum. Stupid amputee. For they made me forget. I must follow this trend. I will die if I do not fit in.

I walk and walk. Keeping my head clear so as not to forget that which had once seemed unforgettable. That it may once again re-enter my inconceivable noggin.

I feel the sudden urge to spit. I hock a couple of times and let a big wad fly. It lands inches from my sneakers in all its yellow/green glory. I smile, pleased at my accomplishment.

Blue and red light flash from behind. I turn to find a cop exiting his vehicle.

“Phlegm is for old people and lung cancer survivors. Looks like I’ma have’a hall y’all in.”

“Y’all? There’s only one of me.”

The cop nods his head, signaling for me to turn around. I do…there…in all his glory is the one and only Benny Hinn who smacks me upon the forehead.

“Your cancer is healed. Walk. Show us the power of God-a, show us what God-a can do-a for you-a.”

“I don’t have cancer. Never have.”

“Really? Well, you do now.”


He runs from me and reaches a gathering of trees. Hiding behind one he signals for the cop to chase him. The cop stares and shrugs his shoulders, unaware of what to do.

“You are Benny Hinn, not Benny Hill!” I yell.

We have a laugh and part ways. I continue on my trek and begin whistling Take on Me by A-Ha. I whistle with such passion that I forget my task. So I sit, close my eyes and die.