Snipers are about as funny as asparagus right now. I told a joke in the dining hall yesterday that started off like this:
A rabbi, a goat and a sniper walked into a bar
But before I could even get to the part about Pauly Shore, someone threw a bonsai-sized head of broccoli at my left man boob.
It was a good thing I was wearing a magician's top hat at the time though, because I promptly counteracted any other kamikaze vegetation with a little Houdini one-and-two that I like to call, "Plan: When-all-else-fails-pull something-out-of-your-hat."
Too bad no one was impressed with the average-sized broccoli that I pulled forth from my Lincoln-esque accessory because, first of all, everyone already seemed to have broccoli. And second of all, their broccoli/heckle hail was so much bigger than mine anyway. Size does matter, but not in the Kelly King scandal column type way -- just in the far less sweaty, but perhaps equivocally sticky (when mashed!) produce type way. Besides, I think they wanted a turtledove.
Unfortunately, turtledoves are for times far less somber than these -- and for songs with FIVE GOLDEN RINGS. Sometimes, though, when tragedy strikes, you just have to do what I do and make fun of your mom.
I live about 15 minutes north of the Fredericksburg area, so when I heard about the demento Lee Harvey: 2002 deathbot with a trigger-happy twitch finger and a penchant for Michaels craft store parking lot hits, my thoughts jumped toward my craft-y mom, who has been known to make colored macaroni noodle frames. She goes to Michaels and buys sparkly tissue paper and fake plants! AHHHHH!
After seeing an Exxon station that I had frequented flash across every single television station this side of the Food Network, my He-Man protector instincts went BAM! and I leapt toward the phone to call my ma and make sure everything was sausage-free and kosher.
Apparently, my momsies and I were riding the same AT&T wavelength because the Nokia rang just as I fumble-handedly powered it on. The following conversation ensued:
Me: Hello?
Mom (she never thinks she's coming in loud enough, so she shrieks every word on the phone -- I feel like my ear is right next to a loud speaker at a rock concert when I speak to her): JACOB, IT'S ME, YOUR MOTHER!
Me (no duh): I know, Ma. I was just about to call you. Are you all right?
Mom (exasperated, pained, shrill, no doubt teary-eyed): NO!
Me (my brow furrowing with worry): What? Mom, what's wrong?
Mom: TRAFFIC SUCKS! WE'RE NOT MOVING AT ALL AND I HAVE TO PEEEEEEE!
Alright, Ma. thank you kindly for the call. Nice to know you and your bladder are still alive and kicking on I-95 there. Yeah, but now I realize that the maternal one's urination proclivity was a coping mechanism used to sidestep Tylenol Extra Strength issues like mortality and continental drift. My ma is so transparent.
My pops, on the other hand, scheduled a physical drill for me at a local Citgo when I told him that I had to roadtrip to Fredericksburg this past weekend with my girlfriend. As I attempted to fuel, he bombarded me with torpedo broccoli until I had a weepy breakdown and screamed, "Will people please stop throwing salad fixins at me!"
I told my dad that I would maintain a constant state of motion by dancing the tango with my gas pump, that I would "maniac" my way to and fro in parking lots like a stunt double in "Flashdance," and that I would place my Target promotional T-shirt in storage and weed it out of my wardrobe rotation. All of this, however, depended upon him dropping the last of his veggie arsenal and giving me his credit card because I'm poor and I'm in college and I want stuff.
Alas, my pleas for mercy and money fell upon deaf ears. I had to push Helen Keller out of the way. I asked again, and my pops agreed -- but threw a bulletproof vest clause into the negotiations. I accepted, smirking cockily to myself as I shook his hand. See, I already wear a bulletproof vest because the mob has a hit out on me because I once told a joke that started like this:
A rabbi, a goat and the Mafia walked into a bar
Fuhgeddabout the punch line, see, all you need to know is that the Mafia doesn't have a sense of humor and none of them are fans of Pauly Shore.
I would just like to close my column by saying that you shouldn't let fear rule your life. Let me do it. I can be your ruler. Just because I push Helen Keller doesn't mean I'm not benevolent. I shall barter with you. Two turtledoves for three French hens. Take it or leave it, I have to PEEEEEEEE!
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