Wait, Madam! There is comedy in your purse

Spread the word! Rich wears women's underwear (No, not THAT word!) What I meant was, spread the word that this BLOG makes polio string cheese come out all of your orafices. And if it doesn't, lie to your friends and say it does. Rich is tired of sucking scrotum to get ahead, and he wants a real job, one that pays. So come on in! I have Hot Pockets in the fridge

Monday, July 10, 2006

There’s not enough cowbell in our nation’s supply of mineral water

Though Will Ferrell is not funny and deserves to be pushed head first out of a runaway mine cart, I think he made a good point with his overly referenced SNL skit when he mentioned that there wasn’t enough cowbell in this solar system.

While drinking a refreshingly warm bottle of Poland Spring that I left on the floor of my car in the sweltering heat, I realized that the one thing it was missing, besides ice, was cowbell. Oh, and Gummy Bears at the bottom. That would have been nice, too.

And that’s the thing; cowbell really DOES make everything better, including tantric sex, watching kung fu movies, synchronized swimming, and, of course, hobo sled riding. I first heard its offbeat clanging back in grade school. Back then, a mullet dreaming Rich Knight used to take a taxi to school because the bus driver was far too cheap to drive two more blocks to my house, and I was far too fat to walk the two extra blocks to actually catch up to him.

So my dad wound up forking up cash for a taxi almost every morning. I always had the same driver, and his name was Chuck, but he told me to call him Menthol Slim. I said, “Menthol Skim? Like Milk?” And he yelled at me behind Bret Hart sunglasses, “No, bitch, I said, Slim! SLIM! Like what you ain’t, fatty!”

So I learned that talking to Chuck was not going to be a part of my future.

But one morning, he had the radio on and Blu Oyster Cult’s “Don’t Fear the Reaper,” notably, the only real song with the sand to actually include cowbell in its harmony, made the small hairs on my chest stand on end and my penis do a little Russian dance (You know the one, the one where it gets real close to the ground and kicks out its legs. That’s what my penis was doing; it made me feel proud to be a member of the Super Mario Super Club).

“Can you turn this up?” I requested.

“Hell no, bitch!” Chuck responded before he turned the station to something else that neither he nor I could ever enjoy (It was 14th Century style chamber music. He just put it on that station so I would shut up and stop looking at his tattoos.)

So…yeah! The cowbell is a really special gal, and we need more of her in our mineral water.

Why, you ask?

Why do I say anything that I say?

That’s a question for the ages…

Or maybe the funny pages, I’m not sure which.

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