03/20/2010

"Do you want some pasta?"

"Sure."

"Here."

"Wait a minute. This meat sauce. Is this the bison meat you bought yesterday?"

"Yeah, so?"

"I'm not eating it."

"Why not?"

"I can't eat bison."

"Why not?"

"I'm not as adventurous as you."

"What are you talking about? You bought scalped Don Rickles tickets at a gas station parking lot at 5am in a bad section of town from a guy you found on craigslist. That's not adventurous?"

"Maybe. But I'm still not eating bison."

"But it's just a wild cow."

"I don't care, I like..regular cows."

"You'll eat a half-crippled heifer shot up with hormones, twitching from mad cow disease, hoof-deep in his own feces at a concentration camp on the side of the I-5 freeway, but you won't eat a healthy, free-roaming bison who's been eating grass and sipping spring water and kicking back in an open field reading Keats and Shelley?"

"Keats and Shelley?"

"Just try it."

"No. Wait a minute, you eat cows all the time. I've never heard you bitch about hormones and concentration camps before."

"Think of it this way. If you were a cannibal, would you want to eat some scrawny, scab-picking, crystal meth dealer who's been taking it in the ass for 10 years, or a happy-go-lucky mountain climber who's been frolicking in fields of daisies and freely swinging his meat in the open air?"

"Are you seriously using cannibalism as a way of getting me to eat that shit?"

"OK, bad example."

"And the visual of swinging testicles is not exactly making me hungry."

"Really? Not even a brief, salival squirt at that moment?"

"Salival. Nice."

"Look, native Americans lived on Bison for centuries, eating the meat, using the bones for tools, and tanning the hides to keep warm. They would even pray to the Great Bison Spirit in the sky, thanking him for the bounty and asking that the soul of the killed bison be allowed into bison heaven."

"Did you pray to the Great Bison Spirit before you made that fucking spaghetti sauce?"

"No."

"Then shut the fuck up."

"OK, one more try. It's a leaner, healthier cut of beef from a free-range animal with USDA approval, inspected, packaged, and then purchased from the same grocery store we always shop at. How about that?" 

"It's bison. I'm not eating it."

"What if it were 2012 and the world started crumbling beneath your feet and you had to run to Montana where you were forced to live off the land, hunting for survival in a Road Warrior world with the sun glistening off Mel Gibson's sweaty heaving chest as his tight muscular ass cheeks burst through his threadbare khakis while Denzel Washington rubbed hot cocoanut oil all over his arching, masculine lower back and George Michael sang Careless Whisper aboard a train going into a tunnel carrying Sir John Gielgud who was quietly dining on a banana and two meatballs..."

"WHAT THE FUCK IS THE MATTER WITH YOU?"

"I'm sorry, I'm hungry, I can't think straight."

"Well, leave me alone." 

"But Fess Parker died."

"What?"

"Fess Parker. He's dead."

"So?" 

"Well, it says here, 'Star of TV's Daniel Boone, Fess Parker, dead at 85. Autopsy revealed he died from an advanced form of bison meat deficiency.'"

"Alright, fine. I give up. Give me some of your goddamn Bison spaghetti sauce."

"There you go. Finish it off."

"Ugh. This is awful."

"I know."

"Well then why did you want me to eat it?"

"It's five dollars a pound. I'm not gonna just throw it away."

"Oh, I see, you make a stupid shopping choice and I have to eat a bowl of Chupacabra soup?"

"Come on, down the hatch. The Piggly Wiggly is having a sale on Bigfoot kabobs."

Copyright 2010 John Bizarre

03/08/2010

This week I officially became a certified pastry chef. Without the help of my folks and my beautiful wife, Nancy, I don't think it would have happened. It's remarkable how far the support of a loving family can take you.

During the graduation ceremony we listened to advice from faculty, teachers and celebrity chefs. I started to get the feeling that I had heard all of this advice before. Then I remembered that I was at least twice the age of almost everyone in that theater. Of course I had heard it before. I have been hearing it all my life.

Never give up. Learn something new every day. Save 10 cents of every dollar you earn throughout the course of your life and you'll retire comfortably. 

I couldn't help wondering what advice I would give to a room full of twentysomethings who have their whole lives in front of them.

One piece of advice I've given many young people over the years is this - Save a few grand, throw some clothes in a backpack, buy a round trip ticket to Paris or Vienna or Budapest, and just bum around Europe for a few months. Or a few years. Life is short and before you know it you're too old to take chances anymore. That's why you see old people on cruises and bus tours - it's safe and controlled and without any sense of "journey".

Fuck that. While you're still young, while you still have the energy and recklessness to stick your neck out, MAKE YOUR LIFE EXTRAORDINARY. 

Stop watching TV.

Stop pissing your life away playing video games.

Stop jerking off on FaceBook.

Stop texting every blithering lump of gibberish that pops into your head.

Grab a bull by the horns, jump on his back, and take a fucking ride, my friend. The world is full of people who made all the conventional choices, and that jealous desperation in their eyes should be all that's needed to push you toward a life filled with adventure. 

No matter how young you are, you're almost dead.

Life is like the ass of a beautiful woman - it's always time to take another bite.

Copyright 2010 John Bizarre

03/04/2010

The following article (by special request) is a slight diversion, primarily composed of graphic and occasionally disturbing sexual references. Those with weak constitutions are urged to exit the building at this time.

Slingin' the slang 

"That's what I'm saying. I felt horrible 'cause we were on her brand new silk sheets and I left her with a set of bacon strips."

"Bacon strips?"

"Yeah, dude. You know when you've become the beast with two backs and the bed sheet starts to creep into your snap crack? When you pull the sheet out you're left with bacon strips."

"My, that's unpleasant."

"Yeah, and it didn't even need to come to that because all I wanted was a Dutch Rudder."

"A what?"

"A Dutch Rudder. That's when you're throwing the Underhand Javelin in the Personal Olympics, but all you're doing is holding the spear while somebody behind you does the heaving."

"I thought that was a Sleepy Tortoise."

"Almost. A Sleepy Tortoise is the same thing except you sit on your arm first until it goes numb. I usually choose that over a Blumpkin."

"What's a Blumpkin?"

"A Blumpkin is when you get a root tootin' while droppin' the kids off at the pool." 

"I thought that was a Rusty Trombone."

"No, a Rusty Trombone is when you have a rim cricket toss your salad while reaching around to extend the main slide brace."

"I'm uh...I'm getting lost here."

"That's alright, take your time."

"OK. Now, what's the difference between a Dirty Sanchez and a Dirty Rodriguez?"

"The only difference is how the mustache is applied. The Dirty Sanchez uses an errant digit. The Dirty Rodriguez uses the baldheaded yogurt launcher. Another variation is the Dirty Book'em Dano. That's when you create the mustache by taking your pocket rocket and rolling it across her fulcrum like you're making a fingerprint."

"Well, that's clear enough. And what's a Liver and Onions?"

"That's when you're badgering the witness with a slab of liver and it exceeds your expectations to the extent that you cry yourself to sleep."

"Dude, that's sad."

"Life ain't pretty in the baloney pony saddle."

"Hmm. Let me ask you this. What do you call it when I'm tappin' the dirt pipe without a raincoat attempting to lay tracks for a Stanley Steamer when suddenly she yanks out the candy apple and gives me a Madagascan Monkey Flip which causes a Pasadena Mudslide that covers her sweater puppies with an unintentional Hot Karl and causes a throaty Queef to stumble out from behind the Meat Curtains?" 

"That's a double reverse Chocolate Necktie with a Burpin' Sally chaser."

"Doesn't anybody just fuck anymore?"

"No."

Copyright 2010 John Bizarre 

---

02/22/2010

Tiger Woods and the Size of the Universe

The speed of light is about 186,000 miles per second. How fast is that? Imagine flying around the Earth four times in one second. That's the speed of light.

We live in a solar system consisting of one star and eight or nine planets. At the speed of light you could get from our star all the way out to Pluto in about five and a half hours.

A light year is the distance you would travel over the course of one year at the speed of light. It comes out to about six trillion miles. 

Our solar system is a tiny dot sitting on the outer edges of the Milky Way galaxy, a galaxy that spans 100,000 light years across. That's six trillion miles times 100,000.

The Milky Way is part of the Local Group, a collection of nearby galaxies spanning four million light years. That's six trillion miles times four million.

Our Local Group is but a speck in an enormous collection of galaxy groups known as the Virgo Supercluster, which stretches 150 million light years across. That's six trillion miles times 150 million.

The Virgo Supercluster is a virtually invisible dot in the observable universe, which is at least 93 billion light years across. That's six trillion miles times 93 billion.

And that's only what we can view given the limitations of light speed.

A friend of mine despises the whole idea of this stuff because it makes him feel small and insignificant. If the Universe is that large, he says, and the entirety of human existence is but a barely noticeable blip along an astronomical stretch of space and time, then what's the point of anything? Doesn't that mean everything is meaningless? 

No. And only a narcissist attempting to protect his fragile ego would even think to ask a question like that. Life has no meaning. It is a gift from the cosmos, an invitation to spend some time in a grand cathedral of wonder, and what you choose to do with that time determines your purpose in life, because purpose is something you assign to yourself and define for yourself. 

Vanity and futility are very closely related.

This brings us to Tiger Woods.

Really?

No, but we're going there anyway.

Here is what Tiger Woods should have said in his public statement last week:

"Good morning. Ask yourselves why you even heard about my infidelities. Is where I put my cock more important than investigating how our once great Republic is now an oligarchy run by Goldman Sachs? Is where I put my cock more important than investigating who manufactures electronic voting machines, who programs them, who is responsible for maintaining their accuracy, and how that process takes place? Is where I put my cock more important than how an illegitimate central bank literally steals your life savings through a hidden tax called inflation by counterfeiting your money without your permission?

Are your lives so empty and meaningless that you can't come up with anything better to do with your limited time on Earth than listen to corporate whores on phony news channels talking about where I put my cock? Are you truly so shallow and useless that you wake up every morning with the ability to explore absolutely anything in the world, any of the fascinating and awe-inspiring curiosities sprinkled around this magnificent celestial oasis, and you choose to listen to media hacks drone on all day about where I put my cock?

Fuck you."

Copyright 2010 John Bizarre 

02/09/2010

As a younger man I would occasionally experience rare moments of profound insight during a long afternoon of attempting to comprehend the concept of infinity.

Then I would put down the bong.

Was it really profound? Did it truly deserve merit? Had I actually captured a glimpse of the imponderable, or was it merely the accidental amalgamation of muddled conclusions that any mouth-breathing mongoloid could have assembled while scraping resin out of his crusted bowl with a pair of tweezers.

But what if it did deserve merit? What if that spooge shooting, Ketama Gold toking, Macallan 18 guzzling deviant, in between blood vessel bursting snorts of Taiwan Blue, had managed to stumble upon a provable alternative to M-theory that would give Stephen Hawking a big ol' honkin' bone-on, and cause Edward Witten to declare, "You got it goin' on, girl!" while throwing an errant arm over his head in a circular motion, followed by a snap?

It would certainly add authority to the notion that all is little more than a product of chaos.

The Large Hadron Collider, the multibillion dollar particle accelerator on the Swiss/French border where physicists are smashing protons into each other in order to better understand the conditions present at the beginning of the Universe, has been producing a buttload of mesons - subatomic particles consisting of one quark, one antiquark, and one Uncle Quark who rarely shows up because he's usually hittin' the sauce over at Tony's Quantum Bar. 

All this brings physicists closer to the elusive Higgs Boson (which is much like the Higgs Bison but with less hair) as well as finally explaining the origin of mass in space, and I don't know if you've ever gone to mass in space but the lack of oxygen makes the Eucharist very hard to swallow.  

Cynicism tends to relieve one from the arduous task of producing solutions, so let's park that sneer at the supersymmetric extension and move on.

According to Albert Einstein, "Mass is the shit between everything else, but I can't really tell you what the fuck it is." Yes, that's an exact quote, although it is assumed he had a few pops at Tony's Quantum Bar before he put it in precisely those words.

If you've never heard of Albert Einstein, he created Einstein Brothers Bagels with his brother, Mothra. It was Mothra Einstein who actually came up with the equation E=mc2, which turned out to be their recipe for success. It stood for Energy Equals Mass Times Cream Cheese, and proved that even a schlimazel could travel twice as far with a little lox and schmear in his belly. 

So to truly grasp "the shit between everything else" one must be aware of the three properties of matter: inertial mass, active gravitational mass and passive gravitational mass.

Inertial mass is the resistance encountered while trying to move a fat guy off a couch. Active gravitational mass is when a fat guy falls off the back of a truck and kills the dog that was chasing it. Passive gravitational mass is when a fat guy makes you feel guilty for not bringing him a cupcake on your way back from the fridge.

It all comes down to the hypothesis of the primeval atom. 14 billion years ago there was no time, no space, and no temperature, which made it very hard to get to a show on time, find a seat, and know what to wear.

Then there was a pop. Some call it a bang. Some call it a big bang. Others call it an astronomical explosion that could rip the foreskin off the cock of God.

Two weeks later the first Taco Bell appeared, offering the Bell Beefer and later the Chili Cheese Burrito, until both were eventually removed from the menu, making one wonder why McDonald's can keep bringing back the stupid-ass McRib sandwich but Taco Bell can't do me a solid and BRING BACK THE GODDAMN CHILI CHEESE BURRITO, I MEAN IT'S ONLY A FUCKING SCOOP OF CHILI IN A TORTILLA, YA NAZI BASTARDS!

And that's the story of the universe.

Copyright 2010 John Bizarre   

02/01/2010

Gastious proudly held his ground, although few men would have been physically able to move him, had they so desired. He seemed almost mounted to the earth, as though he were a part of it, like a fat tree with fat roots. It would have been easier to move the entire planet beneath him than attempt forcing his massive frame even one inch from its stubborn location.

Peggo the pirate pointed his wooden leg at Gastious. "Take back what ye said about me lady or I'll be cuttin' yer throat and drinkin' yer blood."   

Gastious shook his meaty head, sloshing it back and forth defiantly in his sea of neck. "I'll not retract a word, you bubbling cauldron of pestilence. And that 'lady' to which you refer is little more than a rotting clump of driftwood infested with the unmistakable odor of unwashed scrotum. Take it as oath and tuck it neatly into your foulest cavity." 

"Damn yer eyes," barked Peggo. "Nobody calls me cavity foul!"

Gastious placed an index finger on one nostril and pointedly shot a menacing booger out the other. "Dine on that, you scurvy-riddled savage." 

The booger landed on Peggo's eye patch with a thwack. "Throwin' down the snot gauntlet, are ye? Prepare to meetcher maker!" Peggo withdrew his sword from its scabbard and plunged it into the wildly protrusive belly of Gastious. 

A dollop of pudding squirted from his mouth. "You'll have to do better than that, you dribbling pustule, as these extravagant layers of girth protecting my vital organs far exceed the length of your blade."

"Bytcher tongue, ye hanky-wavin' rump wrangler, ye wrangler of rumps," Peggo shot back. "I won't be havin' no poop chute pokin' pansy pontificatin' on the prolixity of me pecker!"

"No one mentioned or even briefly considered the length of that withering, barnacled appendage gathering flies between your stumps, you slobbering lummox," said Gastious, "but now that you mention it I cannot imagine your most athletic thrust of pelvis having the slightest impact on the nether regions of even the most forgiving member of the fairer sex, God rest her imaginary soul." 

"Ah, well then, allow me to yank the hoof from yer mouth by whipping out the captain and showin' ye how wrong ye can be!"

Peggo reached a scabby hand into his trouser hole and produced his manhood, allowing it drop to the dirt with a thundering whump that almost toppled Gastious ass-up.

"I stand magnificently mistaken, my parasite-hosting antithesis," Gastious said, "and I trust you will indulge me in extending my humblest apologies over a frothy cup of ale while we discuss the further applications of your recently revealed, heaven-sent gift, in the hopes that you will regard my warm and welcoming, hindmost cathedral of love to be your every port in any storm."

Peggo knitted his brow, scowled a bit, hoisted his manhood high above his head, and then beat Gastious to death with it, a fitting end for a man who often dreamt of being on the receiving end of just such a weapon.

Peggo boarded his vessel and set out to sea, looking back only once at the bloated, lifeless carcass of Gastious who, even in death, could not help himself from bestowing the definitive air of pouffe for all to gag upon.

Blast it all, Peggo cursed to himself. Would've lapped up that frothy cup of ale like a desert dog. Aye, but the levy was too high. Nay, not in this lifetime nor the next..

He remembered the ease with which his sword slid into the belly of Gastious..

..but perhaps the one after that.

Copyright 2010 John Bizarre

01/25/2010

Terminating  Self-Determination

At the end of Nineteen Eighty Four, Winston Smith gives in, accepts his role as a slave, and learns to love his master. He sits in that musty bar, drinking that rancid booze, waiting for that final bullet to the back of his head.

At the beginning of 2010 Americans are staring at TV sets, chewing up antidepressants, and waiting for their corporate masters to decide their fates.

As eternal vigilance remains the price of Liberty, tyranny becomes the penalty for sloth.

Electronic voting machines are easily hacked, politicians are easily corrupted, and the Federal Reserve system is a devious cabal of private bankers who get rich charging interest on money that doesn't exist. 

Correcting these requires active engagement. 

Hollywood loves to kiss America's ass with portrayals of strong resistance to tyranny in movies like Terminator Salvation. But in reality, any group with balls enough to present an armed revolution against our government would be portrayed as anarchists or insurgents or terrorists by our national media machine - a propaganda vehicle wholly owned and operated by the very corporations that have seized our Republic. 

And the average guy would believe it. He would listen to the relentless cycle of rhetoric from corporate mouthpieces like hannity, limbaugh and o'reilly and, because of the repetition, start to believe that the revolution was a threat to HIS own life rather than the life of a quickly emerging authoritarian state. He would even parrot the catch phrases of these corporate mouthpieces, spreading the lie himself, becoming a useful idiot in the conquest of Liberty, enslaving himself and cheering all the way to his cell.

Were they alive today, Washington, Jefferson and Adams would all be on the no-fly list. They would be considered terrorists and, once captured, incarcerated indefinitely as enemy combatants.

The dominating machinery in Terminator Salvation is a fitting metaphor for the corporate takeover of the United States. Machines are not held accountable for their actions. Likewise, a corporation cannot be put in jail. A CEO may be convicted of wrong doing, but the corporation goes on. You can punish a corporation with a heavy fine but what is money to a company operating in collusion with a central bank that has the power to print up as much money as it desires? 

At the end of Terminator Salvation man does not beat the machines; he merely lives to fight another day. And he is only able to do that with the assistance of a machine that has decided to help him. The meaning is clear - man cannot beat the machine, and he can only keep up with it if the machine allows him to do so.

The closest thing we have to John Conner is Ron Paul, but his message is constantly poached by the corporate mouthpieces who twist it into a meaningless left/right argument that further confuses the average guy. And that's how the machine wins - by keeping the average guy confused, with a distinct feeling of powerlessness, convinced that governing his own Liberty is far too difficult for him to understand or achieve. 

The links of the chain that will eventually enslave America are forged with inaction, indifference and ineptitude. 

Kiss the cold, steel knuckle of your master, America. Pity about your bondage but vigilance was not in your nature. 

Copyright 2010 John Bizarre

01/13/2010

Dear Citizen,

Please stop taking your shoes off at the airport. It's stupid and you know it. One jagoff eight years ago tries to light his shoe on fire and now millions of people every day have to take off their shoes at the airport? Bullshit. That's got nothing to do with security. That's all about We're the TSA, we're in charge, and you have to do what we tell you. Fuck that. Stop being a sheep. You're an individual. You're an American. Act like one.

Now some other jagoff tries to light his underwear on fire and suddenly millions of people every day have to walk through a machine that exposes their nude bodies to the TSA? Why? Because the American people got together and voted to have themselves stripped naked and humiliated? No, because the Nazi Brown Shirts at the Department of Homeland Security decided that your unalienable rights are little more than privileges, so they took them away from you.

And what did you have to say about that? 

Nothing. 

But, John, it's a necessary evil. 

No, it's just evil. There's nothing necessary about it. 

You are being told you have to give up your right to privacy in order to be protected from the "terrorists", but if you would only step back and think for a moment you would notice that you are not being treated like an American who is being protected. You are being treated like a terrorist. 

AND YOU SHOULD BE FUCKING OFFENDED BY IT.

You don't have a bomb in your shoe, you don't have a bomb in your underwear, and you don't have a bomb in your toothpaste tube. Stop letting them treat you like you do. 

But, John, how are we supposed to know who the terrorists are? First of all, the answer to that question does not involve you giving up your right to privacy. Second, let's cut the bullshit. We all know what the terrorists look like, we all know what they sound like, and we all know what they act like. 

Why don't we put an end to this fucking charade? The terrorists are Muslim fundamentalists whose efforts are, and always have been, financed by government intelligence operatives to create fear and conformity for the purposes of exterminating individual freedoms while strengthening the Military Industrial Complex that now runs this country in collusion with the Federal Reserve and Goldman Sachs.

That's who your goddamn terrorists are.

Ah, go back to sleep, Citizen. Go back to your Blackberry and your texting and your Twitter. Go back to pissing your life away in front of a TV set while the most evil motherfuckers on Earth reach their stinking, greedy fingers down your throat, scrape out any remaining crumbs of dignity left in your gut, and then tell you they're protecting you from the very monsters that they are responsible for creating. 

Copyright 2010 John Bizarre    

01/05/2010

Transcript of The Last Supper translated from Aramaic by the Ecumenical Brotherhood on Christian Authenticity at The First Council of Nicaea

Jesus: "Assuredly, I say to you, one of you will betray me."

Peter: "Lord, is it I?"

Jesus: "I can't say. All I can say is one of you will betray me."

Andrew: "Well, that's not fair. Why won't you tell us who the rat is?"

Jesus: "I...I just can't. Now, let's get back to eating."

Philip: "Wait, you can't do that. You can't just drop a bomb like one of you is a traitor and then not tell us who."

James the Lesser: "Hey, leave Jesus alone, Phil."

Philip: "Shut up, James the Lesser. Nobody wants to hear from you. If we want to hear from a James we'll talk to James the Greater over here."

James the Greater: "Yeah."

Philip: "You shut up too, James the Greater. And that reminds me. Where the hell is James the Greatest?"

Simon: "He said he was sick but I think he went bowling with James the Very Least."

Philip: "Pricks."

Jesus: "Hey folks, let's uh..pull it together here, huh? I'm gonna be tortured and murdered tomorrow and I thought we might have a nice quiet dinner, OK?"

Andrew: "I still want to know who the rat is."

Jesus: "Look, forget about the rat. I never should have brought it up. Listen, everybody take a piece of bread, OK? Yeah, there you go, pass it around..OK.."

Bartholomew: "Hey, this ain't fair. I got a small one."

Jesus: "It doesn't matter how big.."

Bartholomew: "Thaddeus! You took too big a piece!"

Thaddeus: "I did not. You just took a small one. It's your own fault."

Bartholomew: "No fair! I want a another tug at the bread!"

Jesus: "Fellas, the size of your piece is irrelevant. What's import..."

Bartholomew: "Thomas, pass that bread back. I want another tug."

Thomas: "You can't have two tugs. It's one tug per disciple."

Bartholomew: "But I didn't know how big a tug everybody was going to take! I WANT ANOTHER TUG!!"

Jesus: "Everybody shut the fuck up! It doesn't matter how big your piece is! It's just symbolic!" 

John: "Wow, Jesus said fuck. Should we include that in the Gospels?"

Thomas: "I wouldn't."

Jesus: "Now, listen. Take this bread and eat it. It is my body."

Philip: "What did he just say?"

Simon: "Uh..I think he said the bread is his body."

Philip: "What the hell does that mean?"

Simon: "I don't know. Hey, Jesus! What does that mean?"

Jesus: "I'm saying that this bread represents my body and I want you to eat it."

Simon: "So...um, you're saying eat me?"

Jesus: "No no, that's not...I mean.."

Andrew: "Well, that's kinda rude."

Thaddeus: "Really."

Andrew: "Where's he get off with that stuff?"

Thaddeus: "When did cannibalism become part of this religion?"

Philip: "Screw this. I'm going back to being a Jew. At least we got to wear those cool beanies."

Jesus: "Alright alright, never mind that, let's move on. Everybody raise your glasses. Yeah, there you go. Good. Now, listen. Drink this, for it is my blood.."

John: "OK, this is getting weird."

Andrew: "What, are we vampires now?"

James the Greater: "Maybe we should have worn costumes."

James the Lesser: "I wanna be Hello Kitty!"

Jesus: "Alright, you know what? Fuck all y'all. Just eat your meals and drink up and forget the whole thing. I'll just go get killed and you guys can sleep in tomorrow."

Peter: "Easy, Jesus. They don't mean nothin' by it."

Jesus: "Ah, whatever."

Peter: "No, really, man. I'm listening. What else?"

Jesus: "Well, for instance, you will deny me three times before the cock crows."

Peter: "Why would I do that?"

Jesus: "How should I know? Boy, this soup is bland. Pass the salt, wouldja, Pete?"

Peter: "Um...you know, you're not supposed to be eating a lot of salt, Jesus."

Jesus: "I know, I know, but this soup is like water. Pass it over."

Peter: "I'm serious, Jesus, you should be watching your blood pressure."

Jesus: "Peter, I'm the son of God, for fuck's sake. I can watch my own blood pressure. Now, pass me that goddamn salt!"

Peter: "Jesus, I really think it's a bad idea. It's not good for your heart."

Jesus: "See? Did you all see that? He denied me three times! And the cock hasn't crowed yet!"

Andrew: "Who's he calling a cock?"

Bartholomew: "Somebody pass him the salt already before he gets any more goofy."

Jesus: "Look, I'm really disappointed with you guys. You're supposed to be my disciples. You're supposed to be spreading my teachings."

James the Lesser: "You mean about eating people and drinking blood and stuff?"

Jesus: "No, goddamn it, you're not listening! OK, I'm going to make it really simple for you. Here's the message - Do unto others as you would have them do unto you."

Thaddeus: "Hmm. I'm not sure I get that. You mean, if I want people to give me free pizza, I should give other people free pizza?"

Jesus: "Well, that's not exactly.."

Thaddeus: "Because that doesn't make any sense. If I start giving out free pizza, people are going to assume that I've got plenty of pizza, so nobody's going to give me any. Why would anyone give pizza to somebody who is already giving it away for free?"

Jesus: "Alright, you people are hopeless. Forget it. You can all go to hell."

Peter: "Jesus, come back!"

Philip: "Wait a minute. Did he really just tell us to do unto others, and then walk out before the bill arrives?"

John: "That sneaky bastard."

Simon: "How are we going to pay for all this?"

Judas: "Don't worry about it."

Philip: "What do you mean?"

Judas: "I lifted his wallet while you guys were drinking his blood."

Andrew: "Way to go, Judas."

Copyright 2010 John Bizarre

December 17, 2009

It's who ya know. It's always who ya know.

My lovely and talented wife, Nancy Ryan, is good friends with Rich Voss. He and I are old friends, but they're much closer. Rich and his wife Bonnie McFarlane are producing a documentary about women in comedy and they need a cinematographer. Nancy gives them a copy of We Love You, Mrs. Bevins and they hire me to shoot their film. Two days later I'm in Rita Rudner's dressing room here in Vegas shooting an interview with her. Two weeks after that I'm shooting interviews with Maria Bamford, Sarah Silverman and Wanda Sykes. By the end of that week I was on the CBS lot in L.A. laughing my ass off with Colin Quinn. 

How the fuck did I get back in show business so fast? 

A few quick notes: Colin Quinn is one of the funniest guys I've ever met. I couldn't believe how much he was making me laugh. And he's working on a project right now (I can't go into detail) that is probably the bravest and most original idea I've ever heard. When people find out what he's about to do they're going to be blown away.

Another note: Wanda Sykes is absolutely fucking hilarious. We shot the interview with her backstage, after the filming of her TV show. Time was limited so I thought, "Forget the tripod, I'm doing this one hand-held." That turned out to be not such a hot idea because even though I had the stabilizer switch on, I couldn't stop shaking the camera, I was laughing so hard.

Oh, one more note: Maria Bamford and Sarah Silverman invited us into their homes for their interviews and both of them were funny, gracious, and more than helpful when it came to getting what we needed for the film. When I'm in cameraman mode I can be pretty single-minded in setting up the shot I want. In Maria's house especially, I was pushing chairs around, rearranging furniture, unplugging shit without asking and, to her credit, she just smiled and said, "Whatever you have to do, go ahead." 

Bonnie and Rich's film is going to be great. It asks a very provocative question and answers it in a very funny way.

This whole plunge back into show business has been surreal. What the hell am I anyway? Comic, author, filmmaker, DJ, posthole digger, pastry chef, rickshaw driver...

I guess I'm just me. Life is too short and I can't seem to squeeze enough into it before it ends. I always feel like I'm running through life at full speed and Death is right on my heels swinging his scythe at me, the fuckin' prick.

Have a wonderful holiday, my friend, and may the new year bring us both Liberty.

Copyright 2009 John Bizarre 

November 12, 2009

Day 1

I started working at a food bank that provides meals for underprivileged children. It's a wonderful project and I'm really happy to be a part of it. The main things we focused on today were the enchiladas. These are made with shredded chicken mixed with cheese, wrapped in a corn tortilla, and placed in trays in rows of 10. Three of us made 590 enchiladas. Occasionally I was in charge of oiling up the tortillas. I wasn't wild about this job. It's hard not to burn your fingers when doing it. But it's all for the kids so I sucked it up and took the pain.

Day 2

More enchiladas today. Kinda getting tired of enchiladas already. Burned my fingers again on those blasted tortillas. You have to stick them in the oil for a second, then flip them around and stick the other sides in the oil, but when you do that the part that was just in the oil burns your fingers. And we can't use tongs because we have to stick them in at 10 tortillas a clip and if you use tongs one of the tortillas will invariably slip out and into the oil and then you've wasted one and Chef Wolftheiser throws a hissy fit. It's all very frustrating. But I have to remember it's for the kids. Underprivileged Kids. Kids with fewer privileges. Whatever. 

Day 3

AGAIN with the enchiladas! How many enchiladas can these kids eat? They can't be THAT good can they? Hundreds and hundreds of enchiladas. I mean, at some point they would probably want a peanut butter and jelly sandwich or a goddamn moon pie, right? And who knows if they're even eating them? Maybe they're just throwing them at each other. Maybe I'm an unwitting weapons manufacturer for food-slinging brats. I mean, how can I be sure that I'm busting my hump for good kids who actually deserve an enchilada? Maybe they're not good kids at all. Maybe they're mean little shits who don't listen to their parents and don't do their homework and look forward to pushing the fat kid down a flight of stairs after recess. Evil bastards.

Day 4

OK, I'm getting sick and tired of making these stupid fucking enchiladas. This doesn't make any sense. Nobody eats this many enchiladas. I think Chef Douchebag is barking out orders for more enchiladas and then laughing his ass off while he feeds them to his dog. I can't take it anymore. A giant bubble is forming under my skin just over my right eyeball. I think I'm having an aneurysm. I've been dreaming about my grandfather mowing the lawn naked. He keeps telling me to pull the cord but the engine just won't start. That's probably normal, right? I mean, there's nothing weird about that, is there? I had an enormous bowel movement last night, and it stuck its head out of the toilet to sing "Smokin' In The Boys Room" by Brownsville Station until I fell asleep in the bath tub.

Day 5

I've taken hostages. Nobody gets hurt as long as all the ingredients for enchiladas are removed from the building. I'm not fuckin' around here. If I see even one enchilada, Chef Douchebag gets a fat one in the cerebral cortex. I want a helicopter, $10,000 in cash and a Mariachi hat, the kind with the little cloth balls hanging off the rim that festively swing to and fro when you yell "I yi yi yi!" in the middle of a song for no reason. I also want some yogurt..no, fuck that, I want Gogurt, the Portable Lowfat Yogurt in a tube, perfect for a guy on the go, like me, suckin' down tube after tube of fermenting milk bacteria in fun flavors like Strawberry Splash, Cool Cotton Candy and Deer Musk. Oh, and I want wedgie-proof undies with a snap-on log pouch..

Day 6

My cell is very small but at least I have this cool hat.

"I yi yi yi!" 

Copyright 2009 John Bizarre

  

October 28, 2009

Years ago I had a dream that my mother told me my aunt Kay had just died. That was pretty much the whole dream and it made me very sad. Then I woke up. It was a little after 5 in the morning and I still had that awful feeling from the dream. I walked into the kitchen, got myself a glass of water, and then went back to bed.

A few minutes later my mother called me on the phone and told me my Aunt Kay had just died.

When something like that happens I suggest not giving it a name because once you name it god or angels or ghosts or something like that, then that's all it is. The other doors of possibility have been slammed shut. You have limited the beauty and magnitude of it by giving it a popular label and saying, "This is what that was," even though you don't really know what it was at all. You've simply assumed the event can be easily explained by one of the many pandering belief systems that have been programed into you since birth.

It seems more likely that we are all individual parts of the same human organism, that human consciousness is a single entity and each of us is an essential element that makes up the whole. But from very early childhood we are taught the exact opposite, that we should focus on how we are different from each other. Religion, government and banking are all forms of institutionalized alienation that strengthen the few by weakening the many.

There is an argument to be made that everything we experience as reality is an illusion, a dream. Think about the most realistic dream you've ever had, and how at that moment, while the dream was in progress, you were completely convinced that everything in that dream was actually happening. Then you woke up and realized that none of it was happening. It is quite possible that life is the same way, that your entire life is just a test to see what kind of human being you would become if given the chance.

You can wake up any time you want.

Or you can stay here a little longer and work at becoming the best person you can be - thoughtful, helpful, useful, caring. You already are that person. You just need to get out of your own way.   

Bill Hicks described this event we call life as simply a ride, and that ultimately there is nothing to worry about, that all it comes down to is a choice between fear and love. 

I believe the collective consciousness has begun to turn away from fear and move toward love.

Turn off your TV, get to know your neighbors and be the change you wish to see. 

Copyright 2009 John Bizarre