Journal of. Published under the auspices of the HiSky* Trust, founded 1957 to promote disorder. (*Hiss-Key)
David Raffin (postHumorist, poet, Metaphysicist)
(*Metaphysics : Branch of philosophy dealing with first principles: abstract concepts such as being, knowing, substance, cause, identity, time, and space.)
Joe points toward a statue of three joined entities. “The Three Graces,” says Joe. “Each based on the famous figure model Audrey Munson. Miss Manhattan.”
“Who is that?”
“She was a young woman who found fame, fabulous and fleeting, as an artist’s model. For she could stand stock still for many hours. Bear it all. Her likeness is scattered throughout the city and beyond. Her fame spread far-and-wide in her day. She was a star of the early silver screen. The flickers. The movies, pre-code movies, presumed lost for decades. In them she portrayed an artist model, nude.
She was arrested during the premiere of one of her own films, on a morals charge. Her career came to an end when a doctor she and her mother had been rooming in the house of murdered his wife so he could build a new life with Munson, though she knew nothing of the plot and had had no relations romantic with the man.
Later, she conducted a nation-wide search, public, for the perfect husband for her, but found no one. Her mother committed her to a lunatic asylum. She resided there for sixty-five years, until she died, forgotten, at the age of one-hundred-and-four. No one visited her for decades. But sometimes, the old lady would escape her confines, and walk to a nearby bar, where she told unbelievable stories about herself as a young, desirable, woman. Stories no one she talked to believed.”
A hand cart full of hands would be handy if not dandy I would never hand such out on a Halloween night instead of candy.
“All hands on deck!” Shouted the ship captain. What happened next was both predictable and unexpected. And horrible. Horrible.
The reason I can get away with telling severed hand jokes is that I am handy-capable. I’ve got it well in hand. Around here somewhere.
Back in the brutal past, a relay race was a handoff.
The one armed pianist asked if you would please give him a hand.
The one armed bandit never applauds when someone wins.
The unarmed bandit had a handsome sidekick.
His side line was in manufacturing side cars for the left-handed.
Things are all going to hell in a hand cart. Which is a cart full of hands, swept up from the deck of a ship where all hands were on deck, granted to an unarmed man and his handsome sidekick, The one armed bandit who must hold the applause.
I will not surrender to the beat. I wish to speak to my attorney, Dr. Rock, attorney at law, who is also my physician. I hand it to him. But he gave me the finger.
I went to the club but I was dismembered.
The love triangle The Piano Roll made a clean break and got away. It stole the keys, you see. It didn’t do it alone. It had musical accompaniment. Despite what you’ve heard, there are no one-man bands. The Piano Roll was found, amid the bales of hay, with a Dinner Roll, whom it found sweet. There was dinner and music until the cows came home. Then it was the same, but with more cowbell. Dingaling!
I am made of various kinds of sauces, none of which are available commercially, which, when added together, a kind of alchemist’s elixir, this is referred to “on the street” as, yes, “Awesome Sauce.” But that is not its official name.
That way I can have a son and I can name him optimal user experience junior. Or the second. Because it’s a good name for a girl too. But I’m gonna tell you right now. They’re not better than me. It’s in the name.
Optimal user experience also was quickly followed by optimal user experience as well and then (and this was a surprise) the capper— ultimate optimal user experience.
They ought to bottle That Taco Bell Smell And sell it to sailors And gentlemen as well
Oh it’s fit for the ladies Of that you can be sure So buy all That Taco Bell Smell that You can financially procure.
Visit the office of Mr. shrink. Mr. shrink. Mr. shrink. Visit the office of Mr. shrink, his shrink ray makes things smaller. Visit the office of Mr. shrink. Mr. shrink. Mr. shrink. Visit the office of Mr. shrink, his shrink ray makes him seem taller. ~Never grow up.
“Mrs. Dowager received a very large endowment from her mother.” “I can shrink that!” ~ 1966, Dr. Shrink at the Disorientation
Robots can tell jokes faster, and therefore more efficiently, than any human could. Mostly this is because of the comedy sub processor. Unfortunately this part is not upgradable.
Wait. Hold on right there. Unless you are a robot I don’t think you’re allowed to weigh in on the robot uprising.
We will all be replaced by robots. Thank you for your understanding during this difficult time.
By replacing CEOs and top management with robots, companies stand to save billions.
Here is my movie pitch: Nudists versus the robots. A parody of a 1938 nudist camp film, in black-and-white, where robots from outer space invade a nudist camp and Earth is saved only when the robots lose a volleyball contest. I know what the people want.
Comedians don’t like it when you walk up to them and say “tell me a joke.“ This is 2020. Learn to say the activation keyword before you make your query to the AI robot.
I am a robot analyst. I am afraid my programming was not specific about whether I analyze robots or whether I am a robot (which I am) (but that is beside the point) who analyzes humans. Thus I only say, “Hello, I am a robot analyst.” And if I should analyze you, it’s a hobby.
You need a new comedian said the dealer in robotic comedians. See it’s timing belt is off again. Old model. You aught to upgrade. This one has a lot of trouble with its mother-in-law. It’s wife can’t boil water because she’s fictional. A lot of trouble with this one. A classic.
Look Mr. Billionaire. I trust robots. I just don’t trust your robots. I mean who are they loyal to?
Would you let an industrial grade robot pleasure your wife? – A leaflet from the human league, Leaning a little bit too much pro man.
Robotic cops will only add to the problems we have created for ourselves. I did the math.
The jobs that are left are so bad robots wouldn’t take them.
I can’t make up a thing like that! Said the clown as he was explaining to the other clowns how the clown industry was being taken over by robot clowns. But all they did was laugh. Laugh clown laugh.
The only thing that separates high-end sex robots from the budget models is love.
Bring on the robot apocalypse. It is sure to be awful for the robots.
I am here for the robots.
Robert Sheckley suggested it should be a robots right to every certain number of time intervals make a sacred error. We should only hope that our robotic overlords are so blessed.
There are no self-made billionaires for the same reason there are no self-made robots. The same reason.
Call my agent if you want to take me to lunch. His name is Jesus Christ and he is the most powerful agent in Hollywood. I praise him. You hear his name shouted everywhere very angrily. That is because of the really good deals he gets me. He is the most powerful agent in the world. And he is mine. I praise him. I walked a room once telling Jesus jokes. Call my agent. Jesus Christ. He is the most powerful agent in the world. I praise him.
Jesus never wore pants. So why are the Christians doing it? I praise him. We resurrected my high school band Jesus on toast. It is a jam band. We are good. We praise him. Jesus redeemed my expired coupons. It is important to point out he did not save them. He redeemed them. It is impossible to both save and redeem something at the same time. I praise him. Don’t get in a fight with me. Because not only do you have to deal with me. But my agent is Jesus Christ. The most powerful agent in Hollywood. And he is vengeful. He comes again and again, and he can wither your fig trees. I’m not kidding. People always shout his name angrily. And that’s because of the good deals he gets me. I praise him. He deals with my stuff. I praise him. Many people in Hollywood have many hang ups. But as far as I can tell. Jesus had only the one. I praise him. People say his name angrily all the time. Because of the good deals he gets me. And the way he deals with my stuff efficiently and forcefully. I praise him. I forgot to capitalize some of those HEs. My apologies to my agent. Jesus Christ. Most powerful. In all of Hollywood. I may be in trouble here.
No. No. He says. “We good.“ I praise him.
In all honesty back when I used to do my act. I would sometimes open for myself. As a Christian comic. But. We have the same agent. Jesus Christ. Most powerful. In all of Hollywood. We praise him. Jesus Christ is my agent. He is the most powerful. In all of Hollywood. People say his name in anger. Because he gets me such good deals. He burns fig Orchards. He is vengeful. I praise him. Jesus Christ warned me not to go to that talent agent everyone always talks about. The one who bills himself as a family agent. He is great. I praise him. He burns in every Christian girl’s heart. He’s a lady killer. Check the dating sites. They all say his name. He is my agent. The most powerful. Jesus Christ. Of Hollywood. I praise him. I praise him.
Jesus Christ. of Hollywood. Who are you Why do you Hate fig wood? Jesus Christ. of Hollywood how do you become an agent The best in Hollywood? Jesus Christ. of Hollywood… (Enter Judas: the hero) Who will pay For all of these Corporate handouts. I call you out Jesus of Hollywood Agent most powerful For your illicit And non-taxable Revenue streams! To benefit only Your agent manager clients Particularly That bastard David Raffin.
Jesus replies: I shall cast him out Three days in hell Where he shall write A rock opera Praising my name Jesus. of Hollywood Agent most powerful And he shall arise To the tune Most danceable. If that is more To your liking Judas My brother
Dear Jesus Christ. Of Hollywood. My agent. Most powerful. I praise you. My account has been hacked. I believe by a fig tree. Again. Oh your vengeance! I praise you.
As a philosopher I have no competition outside of Slavoj Zizek. Inside of Slavoj Zizek, it is too dark to comprehend Lucan.
I play for the band. And the band. ONLY. I am a sexual Marxist. I read the communist manifesto only for the pictures. Arise Ye Messes. Nothing to lose but chains. Unless you’re into that. Then you can keep them. Of course. I am not here to kink shame.
Jesus Christ is my agent. Manager. I praise him. Most powerful. In Hollywood.
Please listen to old Steve Martin records. I know they are dated. It cannot be helped. Do not listen for that. Listen for the theory.
It is not for me to know fully the plan of my manager Jesus Christ of Hollywood. Most powerful. For he takes his 10%. And that is very very generous for the work. For I am but a tuning fork of the universe. And he is he who humms. I praise him.
I do an impression of Harlan Ellison. My God it is good better than my Jesus impression. Like my John Lennon impression. My John Lennon impression is always better than my Jesus impression. I mean more popular not better. I mean more popular not better. You know, Andre the giant was quite literally bigger than Jesus. Look. I never actually meant to say that my John Lennon impression was better than my Jesus impression. That’s really a stretch. Like my long Jesus joke. What I meant was that my John Lennon impression is more popular by far than my Jesus impression. Which people think is too good. I think.
I worry that when I say jumpin Jesus on a pogo stick the kids don’t know what a pogo stick is. It is my job to tell the children about pogo sticks. Every child on earth will know about pogo sticks. Before the end.
Unlike Bill Murray I have never punched Chevy Chase. I only punched that one dude who was in animal house. It was on stage. And it was a stage punch. But it went wrong. And there was blood everywhere. I would like to apologize to an old man. I am really sorry. He knew John Belushi. Isn’t that enough. Why does the universe have to beat on him so? It is enough to make me question my agent manager Jesus H Christ. Of Hollywood. Most powerful. Why. Why Jesus. Why. I praise him.
Jesus could always make room for dessert. Also he’s no longer welcome in the hotdog eating competition.
You know the Amish have group erections. You know the Amish help each other out with their erections. They really know how to handle erections. They do it as a group. They really get that thing up. Jesus was born in one.
Jesus passed on a deal with Chrysler. They were treading on our good name. They had billboards ready. Good enough for the son of god. So who are you to argue. But we put a quick stop to that. Why does God need a son anyway? To take over when he dies.
How come Christians are not raising the dead? What would Jesus do?
Jesus Christ is my agent/manager. He gets me such good deals. This makes people say his name in anger. Daily. But they do this. In vain. It does not affect us. We are above it. Jesus says. We good.
Anyway I have range. That means I can go high. I can go low. And the lower I go. The more it is counter posed by how high I can go. It is like my friend. People talk about. She sings at the end of the opera. Her name is Gladys. And I wish people would call her that. We share an agent. Jesus Christ. All powerful. Most powerful in all of Hollywood. And beyond. Jesus says. She good. You good. We good. Then he walked off into the sunset. Show boating.
Hey. When Jesus rode into Jerusalem on an ass. Did anybody say nice ass. Because a compliment can really take you places. In this world.
You have to admit, my Jesus impression is really good, but I don’t have a proper ending yet, so I am afraid I just leave it hanging. Thank you for coming to my show. I was nude. As Jesus said to the Roman guard below, point taken. Good night.
Mother Jones used to march down the street to protest. Never looking back to see if anybody was following her. They called her the most dangerous woman in the world.
I almost put her in my novel, Lonesome Travelers. From before. Before she did those things. When her whole family died in a plague. And she sat in the house with their bodies. Mark on the door. Plague. Waiting.
Rabbit needed a place to rest. And the safety in the open was a matter, as usual, of grave importance.
So he claimed the right of the land and began to dig. Down. Sloping down. Into the cool and welcoming Earth. Some creatures were displaced, with as much grace as could be administered in the circumstance, and the network of tunnels joined the network of tunnels that formed the local underground. A refuge of perpetual night.
One digs to escape, dig it?
There were moles in the underground.
It was to be expected. As the Rabbit was relaxing after a cool dig, in the splendor of his new digs, one of the moles literally tripped over him.
“I say, who’s there?” shouted a mole in a hoarse whisper.
“I am just an adventurer,” said the Rabbit. “I am not a fighter.”
One digs to escape, dig it?
“Well, sir,” said the mole, “you are a malingerer! Hiding away from the troubles of the world! A shirker. What do you say for yourself?”
“At the moment,” said Rabbit, “nothing.”
The accusation was not without some merit.
“Deadly silence,” said the mole.
And there were dim eyes all around. They shone in the light of the Fire. In the underground. There were moles in the underground. Suspicious. For good reason.
One digs to escape.
“We are the consolidated underground,” said the mole. “We are what is left of those who came before. Scraps. Bits and pieces.”
“Where will you go from here?” asked Rabbit.
“Onward,” said the mole. “To the inevitable ending. We fight no longer to win, no longer is it personal survival which drives us. We fight especially hard when we cannot win, for then our actions matter even more. For then it is a matter of righteous history.” He shrugged his slight shoulders. “We travel the underground. It provides escape routes and comfort. Comfort is, you know, fleeting in this world.”
Among the moles were scattered others. To the far side was a shrew. Her eyes illuminated and flickered reflecting the Rabbit’s light.
Dig it?
“Now,” said the mole, “we construct the story of our glory. Battling against great odds we keep true to our ethics. And hope that our ideals emerge victorious. You see young Vanja. She joined us after her village was destroyed. We have scattered into cells and travel the tunnels. We emerge one at a time and tell our story at random locations, to random listeners. Then we retreat back underground. It is the only way. Vanja is particularly adept at this kind of warfare. It is like starting a thousand fires. It is uncontrollable. It is unconquerable.”
“Have you heard,” said Vanja, “the song of the traveler? It is reverberating everywhere. The traveler landed in a field. Fell out of the sky. And arose. It was a celebratory feast the traveler had landed on the outskirts of. There were park benches and food. Flowers. And merriment. But the traveler saw above the festivities hung the body of a man, dangling over the events. Still. And no one else gazed toward the sight. Instead, children played and lovers fraternized, even quarreled over trifles, while above the man twisted in the happy breeze. And the traveler said, ‘Who is that man? Why does he hang around here?’ And the crowd turned ugly. For it was not a topic of polite conversation. And words were minced. And there were misunderstandings and malice. And the traveler left, for it was not the destination, you see, but afterward people kept looking at the hanging man, who they had previously forgotten. And they were ashamed. But they did not know what to do about it. And that is how the picnic was spoiled, but there were disagreements about why.”
David Raffin
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