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My Goldfish Smokes a PipeGreetings ladies and gentlemen. I come to you with important news that I discovered last night while feeding my many pets. My goldfish smokes a pipe. Now, I know what you’re thinking, but you are wrong, Suddenly Susan is not the worst show on television. The worst show was a show called Sisters. It consisted of three sisters who only stopped talking when their mother started. So for those of you who remember their multiplication tables, that makes 4 women on a one hour show, which according to Geraldo’s theroem makes 4,000 total hours of women whining about men. The only show possibly worse than this would be a show called Golden Girls which goes to great lengths to depict as in depth as possible the active and wrinkled sex life of 3 octogenarian women and their highly Italian mother. This turns men on about as much getting kicked square in the jiggles. This show could easily have been called Overcooking the Pasta, as both leave you with a permanently limp noodle and yes, Overcooking the Pasta would be a great name for a rock band (D.B.). Now guys, before you get concerned wondering how I know all this, and possibly even alert the Testosterone Awareness Board, allow me to explain how I know so much about these shows.In a childhood game of Field Hockey, I was playing defense, when the other teams star forward, who looked as though he were an escaped murderer, (though his parole officer assured me he was only convicted of rape and arson) fired a shot at roughly mach 4, straight at me. Although, in his defense, I was stupidly standing in front of the goal area, which was where the coach told me to stand. If I had my choice, I would have chosen someplace safer, like Cleveland. Anyway, the shot appeared to be heading straight for my shins, so I placed my stick accordingly, although I believe the stick would have proved no more defense for me, then a sneeze guard would at a salad bar for midgets. However, I of course forgot to account for NADAR (Nuts and Dinga Ling Attracting Reaction) which occurs in all sports projectiles (just ask Harry Flat-Ball Stevens). Needless to say, this was the most painful experience of my life, except for possibly the time when I had to sell my pet clown (See clowns for sale) but that’s a story for another day. Hey! Women out there who complain about how men can never understand the pain of childbirth, grow a pair and take a line drive or two, then we’ll see who who’s got it bad. The point of this little ramble, is to show that for several days, the flow of testosterone to my remote control finger was cut off and I was powerless to resist the evil magnetic pull towards Lifetime. But I digress, back to the goldfish. When I first noticed he smoked a pipe, I was shocked and concerned. I ran immediately to my parents and said, “How come my pets get to smoke and I don’t?” But then my parents explained to me that fish don’t have lungs, and there is no such thing as gill cancer. hey also told me that since I keep my fish in a bottle of white wine and feed it nothing but the worms from the tequila bottles, that he probably wasn’t going to live very long anyway. This made me feel much better, and I began to encourage smoking in all my pets, my dog even fashioned my pet snake into a makeshift bong. But none of my pets took quite the same shine to it as my goldfish did. He just sits there, puffing away, and he looks so damn sophisticated. He’ll sit silently, pipe in his mouth, a fine cognac in hisfin. I often sit in utter amazement, I think I amuse him slightly, in my own primordial way. He often tosses me bits of his vast wisdom and clever wit for me to feed off of. He’ll sit there reading, or in deep, meditative thought, and after a few hours, his mouth will open and state non-chalantly some profound universal truth. Last night, while contemplating the meaning of life he looked straight into my eyes and with the confidence of one who knows his own superiority said, “Blub”. and I reel back in awe. My mind races to contemplate the subtle truths and brazen implications of his statement. The magnitude overwhelms me, and I am lost in a murky sea of knowledge. I consider myself a smart man, but this pipe-smoking fish, made me feel like Saliarie. I fear my puny and linear mind can not even fully comprehend his enigmatic proverb. Is life “blub”? Is God “blub”? is a ham and cheese on rye with mayonnaise “blub”? So many interpretations, and I am afraid that therein lies the tragedy of his genius. He is so damn smart, that only he, the one who doesn’t need the intellectual security of his word, can understand and truly appreciate the magnitude of his own statements. More importantly, he can blow smoke rings in the shape of Mickey Mouse shaving with a belt sander. Yes, he does love that pipe, I don’t think I could pry it away from him. It will be a shame to lose it when I flush him down the toilet. That was my favorite pipe too. By Derek | |||
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Link Back Links Writer(s) |
 Danny's weekly video game column. Culture, history, gameplay, tech, and dick jokes. Funny, if you're a dorkmo. |
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