The Last Lonely Lounge Comic

Picture a run down lounge with wall to wall pink carpeting. An imitation silk curtain hung above a fake mahogany floored stage and you've got the Last Lonely Lounge. Empty two seat tables line the theatre, where in the back there might be a single couple in the audience, though they're not listening.

This section of Shhhh! Digital Media is a unique escape. For it is the home of the Last Lonely Comic

In a leisure suit that went out of style in the eighties, he approaches and speaks into the microphone:


I got here early tonight, so here I am on stage. But quite honestly, I don't have enough material to cover the extra time. 

I guess you could say that I'm premature.

Honestly, I had no idea what that word meant until tonight. 

Until I got here early for the first time in my life.

 Now I'm here, and I don't know what to do. What to say?

I mean, I have like fifteen minutes of material. Eighteen at most, and I'm here like ten minutes early. 

That means eight minutes of my show is going to be me standing here scratching my head. Saying: ummmm. Uhhhhh. What was that...? Oh, never mind.

That's a dilemma. 

Actually from what I understand, being early is a major dilemma, which brings me to my next question: what's worse, premature baldness or premature ejaculation?

(Bone chilling silence from the nonexistent audience...)

Back in my father's day, and his father's day, a man was rewarded for being early.

They showed up an hour before the plant opened, and some well to do guy in a fedora and suit that wasn't Indiana Jones, would give them a fat bonus for doing so.

Back in their time, that's the way it was. Its all right there, in black and white... movies. 

The Maltese Falcon (1941)

Topper (1937)

Psycho (1960) 

Casablanca (1942)

Young Frankenstein (1974)

The Canadian Victory Loan Drive (1918)

Back in my parent's and grandparent's twenties, and even my twenties, that was the way.

And then one day... or night. Perhaps in an intimate setting in their parent's basement, or the backseat of their first second-hand sedan, just when everything is nice and warmed up, Elvis decides he's making an early exit from the eye of the tower.

In situations like that is when we first learn that being early isn't all that it's cracked up to be.

Just ask your girlfriend. Fiancé. Wife. Mistress. Girly magazine. Mistress' mistress. Mistress' girly magazine.

I mean, if your wife suddenly stopped, and declared that Prescilla had fled to Shangri-la before Elvis had finished his set, you'd probably feel fairly unsatisfied.

"Well honey, Elvis is still playing the gig. Could you at least let him finish the last verse?" you'd say.

Unfortunately, when Elvis leaves, the show is over whether Prescilla wants another verse or not.

He's limp. 

Done for the night. 

Finished early, and left through the top of the elevator shaft.

When it comes to sex, and being early, women got the short end of the stick. Definitely.

And that's precisely why Henry Cavill was hired as the most recent Superman... and the poster boy of the vast majority of women's last verse when it comes to bed play.

So why isn't there a postmature?

Postmature baldness?

Postmature ejaculation?

Most romantic partners you'd have in life would just love that.

The tardiness of hairloss.

The procrastination of ejaculation.

Projaculation maybe?

"So tell me Theodore, why are you late again today? This is the third day in a row!" your boss says to you as you arrive late again.

"I'm sorry, but its in my contract," you reply.

"What's in your contract?" he grills you.

"I'm late because I'm a Projaculationist," you reply, standing proud of your faith in the austerity of tardiness... of ejaculation.

Being early has few benefits or merits. Unless of course its a tax bursary or benefit of some kind. Honestly, you can't burn down all your bridges at once.

Tardiness seems to be built into the very fabric of the universe.

Like recently, they're saying that the big bang is all wrong.

That the dynamics involved would have resulted in a completely different universe from the one we have.

I have another solution to that dilemma, though.

The universe is, in all honesty, just late. Its being tardy.

Think about it.

Everything that we know and love began with a lot of humping, Prescilla and Elvis taking an exit at their venues, and meeting somewhere to engage in some pretty heavy petting. Until one day, out pops Alex, or Barbara, crying for food and diapers.

An entire month after their predicted birthdate.

Damned procrastivacuationist children!

What if the universe is just the inside of an egg?

I mean the inside of a female ovum of nearly infinite proportions.

Compared to us.

And the big bang is... well... conception?

Then wouldn't it stand to reason that the birth of the universe will take place a month late?

Or about ten trillion of our years?

However, if we're in a premature universe, we're in BIG trouble.

Some deep thoughts there, and Jack Handy seems to have all the copyright on all that kind of stuff.

Him and that Red Green fella.

So I'm on my way to my day gig the other day, and I run into a pregnant woman. 

Not literally running. Or literally into her. 

I think they call it figuratively.

And let me tell you, she had a figure alright. 

A figure much like that of a woman with a micro-person making a home inside of her, doing laps in her stomach on a daily basis.

So I asks her: "When are you expecting?" 

She replies: "Oh the Doctor says she'll be with us in another two weeks," 

"And you don't believe him?" I ask.

"No I don't," she replies.

"Why's that?" I ask her, looking to her hunch stomach of Notre Dame and then back to her youthful and pretty face.

"Well, I already know that she's a lot like her daddy, and when we conceived her, her daddy was early too... He's a Prejaculationist,"

The End


So I'm in bed with my wife the other night.

I'm an older fella, and since its an issue of privacy for both her and I, it wouldn't be right to tell you whether we sleep in one bed: a larger Queen or King Sized bed for instance, or whether we sleep in two separate tiny single beds on opposite side of the bedroom from each other, like most people who've lived a lifetime together.

There's the first proof that privacy evolved in the senior population before it did with youngsters.

When married adults in their fifties decided that it would be better to sleep on opposite sides of the room from each other.

Perhaps it was a matter of their changing bodies, or even their confidence issues in adjusting, but I bet it has something more to do with the movement of bodily gases and what not.

What scientists like to call flatulence.

It even sounds like what its describing.

A sudden flat tire, through which the passage of air is suddenly facilitated.

How romantic, isn't it?

To think that a lifetime of lust and love is going to end with two people on opposite sides of the room.

Barely able to tolerate each other's bodily scent.

The origins of privacy? Perhaps.

That's just one side of this lifelong debate as another lecturer steps up to the podium, and presents his evidence for the contrary argument, placing it on the podium before him.

The argument that privacy evolved at the hands of youth.

A stack of girly magazines from under one such youth's bed.

This was back in the stone age, long before the internet.

Which brings me to another theory.

The theory that the internet is basically the space under a giant bed, with a stack of dirty magazines.

At these two opposite ends of the scale, we see the motivations driving the pursuit of privacy.

Which brings me to antother point. 

Why is nudity called dirty? I mean most people in those pictures are pretty much spotless.

If you're looking for dirt, its probably all between the ears of people who first identified it with nudity.

Imagine that. You have this wonderful functioning body. An absolute wonder and miracle of nature.

Then some profoundly humble artist starts painting renditions of nude women, and somebody has the nerve to start calling it dirt.

Way to spit on the human body, dufus. Only the greatest gift you ever got for free.

I'm getting off point here. Where were we? Oh, privacy.

The funny thing about the youth argument for privacy. Why?

Just about every other adolescent is doing the exact same thing. So why the need to hide it?

Why the desperate need to hide anything?

At that point in the lecture and debate, the wife of the lecturer comes out on stage and grabs the lecturer by the ear, pulling him off stage to lecture him about arguing in favour of things that violate their privacy, hence defining privacy in the process.

The difference between the impression of what happens between a loving couple when in public, and what actually happens when in their own private space together.

Don't get me wrong. It's a boundary and an important one at that. 

Perhaps one of the most important of all, but also the most violated by others as is often the case, especially nowadays.

So it starts with the public impression that people give others relating to their life and demeanor, versus what actually occurs behind the scenes.

I'm a pretty up front kind of guy, being a comedian, so you're not going to see too much on stage that contradicts my private moments, which explains why my wife is never at any of my shows.

Because privacy is actually about secrets.

The secrets a couple share, versus the secrets that others find out about them.

Broken secrets are broken bias in the minds of some people.

Its a cruel game of breaking the bias of love, which is built on the secrets shared between a couple, played by the rest of the public who violate others' privacy or at the very least, try to trick others into violating their own, so they can justify violating someone else's.

Ahhhhh. Now we've got the real culprits by the privates, so to speak.

The funny thing is, that everyone who violates the privacy of others regularly, are usually the ones who are afforded the most privacy themselves.

No. Really. Think about it.

How often are the ones spying on other people's private moments, having their privacy violated?


Tabloid photographers for instance?

Not a one has their privacy violated.

Imagine what they're hiding?

Jimmy Hoffa's body? 

The location of Bigfoot's home cave? 

The keys to the Roswell UFO. 

The Secrets of the Mayan Calendar. 

The location of the Well of Souls. 

The instructions to how they built the pyramids. 

The real secret of how they get the Cadbury caramel inside the milk chocolate.

So getting back to the beginning of my routine, my wife and I are in bed one night. 

To protect our privacy, I won't say whether it was the bedroom or the living room or the bathroom or whether we sleep in two separate beds or one giant bed together.

We were in a generic room in a generic house in one or two beds. Like Schrodinger's Cat, you won't know for sure until you take a peek, but once you do, you can never go back to not knowing.

We're snuggling up to each other, and getting a little frisky when someone opens the door and walks into our room and starts looking around.

We quickly lean up in bed, draw the covers over ourselves and try to stay hidden.

This person, looks around nonchalantly, like its a house tour or something. Behind them, another group of people enter, and begin looking around like the first guy.

Before long, there's like thirty or forty people in our bedroom with us, looking around, when one of them spots us.

He quickly points it out for the others, and soon everyone in the room is pointing at us, laughing. Making jokes about us.

A few of them even try to get into bed with us before I quickly chase them out, with the threat of seeing me naked. 

The sight of me naked is deadly at five paces. Same with just about any guy after they crest fifty.

My wife would say otherwise, but I'm very grateful for her far-sightedness because if she wasn't, I'd be a single man.

So back to these people in our bedroom. They're looking around, going through our drawers and closets. Examining everything about our lives. 

The funny thing is that they're all completely devoid of a conscience. Like there's nothing wrong with what they're doing.

Kind of like when the Jehovah's Witnesses come to your door, and try to invite themselves in to "discuss things" about the apocalypse and the afterlife. The same point you quickly show them your voter's card and the photos of your last birthday cake and chase them out while quickly devouring a candy bar and chasing it down with a shot of whiskey.

So these people are in our bedroom pointing at us, joking about us at point blank range. Some of them are still trying to get into bed with us too despite my best efforts to keep them out.

They're checking out all of our secrets, perhaps trying to break down the bias of love, because its built on the secrets between two people.

Some of these people start walking around in our bedroom, then try to create their own secrets. Taking a few selfies with my wife and I struggling to remain hidden in the background.

Inserting themselves into our life, to alter the bias of secrets in their favour, while breaking down our secrets as a couple.

So as my wife calls the Police, I grab one of the bed sheets, and get out of bed to deal with them.

I say: "Look! You're on private property. You're violating the space of my wife and I, but it doesn't look like the Police are coming. If you're going to stay, you're going to have to take off your shoes and your clothes at least down to your underwear, and wear housecoats while on our property, not to mention stay the heck out of our bedroom! Do you understand?!" I say to them, glistening in the specular light of the moon like the stone statue of a god.

My wife looks at me longingly and lustfully, ever so proud of me for having defended us.

One of the privacy violating tourists turns to me and verifies: "You want us to take off our shoes, get into our underwear and wear a housecoat?!" he challenges me.

I say: "And get the heck out of our bedroom! You're damned right I do!" I say to him wearing the sheet like the silk robe of a Courtesan from the Song Dynasty of Ancient China.

My rippling muscles visible in the moonlight.

Actually, it was the rolls of a thin layer of senior fat.

So the one speaking for all the people in my room there, he turns to me says: 

"But that would violate our privacy!".

Deep Fakes

Everything in the news is about advances in technology. 

About computers, the internet and in particular: AI.

Pronounced: Eh Aye

Probably why so many Canadians are picking up on it so quickly.

Sailors too, the world over.

"Have you heard about those smart computers they're building?" you ask them.

He responds: "Eh? Aye..."

And you're like: Whoa! this guy's knowledgeable for a sailor.

Meanwhile, that was just his canned response to anything.

"Did you get your lotto numbers in the 6/49 last night?" you ask him this time.

This time he responds: "Eh? Aye...

Oh well. There goes the knowledgeable and worldly fisherman impression.

Kind of like bowling over that illusion you'd preferred to have kept.

"Is that guy a secret agent? The way he stands on the corner there. Like he's keeping an eye on things..." they start talking about you.

Then they see that you were just watching the local donut shop for the men's bathroom to be vacant so you could relieve yourself, and they're like:

"Oh well. Another one bites the dust..." shaking their heads.

A little lame. My material tonight. My material every night.


In life, sometimes you're up. Sometimes you're down.

Like Deep Fakes. They can work for you, or against you.

So I have this tech friend. A guy who's really into the latest stuff.

Hardware. Software. Underwear. You name it, he has it.

So I'm hanging out with him, and he takes a photo of me, and superimposes it so that it looks like I'm schmoozing with a bunch of Hollywood stars, and then prints it out for me. He hands me a glossy 8x10 photograph of the picture he just doctored to make me look like a star.

I'm like: "Thanks man! That's awesome!" thinking I'll include it in my resume, portfolio or something like that.

So of course, I start showing the picture to people, and for some reason, I start to become really popular.

Despite my crappy material, fans start showing up at the lounge thinking I'm a big star or something.

I walk the walk and talk the talk, really pouring it on thick, the whole Hollywood star impression.

My friend, the one who made the photograph in the first place shows up and I figure he's going to blow the whistle on the whole thing.

So I quickly deny even knowing him, and my fans literally chase him out of the lounge.

I start to become really popular.

People buying me drinks.

Women everywhere.

The next night, I'm up on stage. 

A girl in each arm.

This happened in the eighties, 'cause you'd never get away with that kind of misogyny now.

An alternate version of the eighties, with today's modern technology.

That's my excuse.

So I'm up on stage, a girl in each arm. Sunglasses on. The whole nine yards.

And this cop walks into the lounge and starts yelling.

"Can I have your attention please! Can I have your attention please!" he interrupts while I'm in the middle of my show.

"Have any of you seen this man?" he holds up a photo.

Its an impressive and incriminating photo of me fleeing the scene of a bank robbery with a bag of cash - complete with a little dollar symbol on the bag - in one hand, and a gun in the other.

I see my former tech friend behind the cop, a devilish smile on his face.


So I was out the other night after work, at a bar, and someone snaps a quick video of me and a pack of drunken cheerleaders a few sheets to the wind if you know what I mean.

About two minutes later, the video is up on Instagram, and my wife sees it.

I get home that night, and she's waiting up for me. Her tablet computer sitting in front of her on the coffee table.

"Hi honey. Shhhhorry I'm late. I had to shhhtay at work tonight and finish up," I say, stumbling and still a little bit drunk.

She simply picks up the tablet, holds the screen to me and presses play on the Instagram post of me and the pack of drunken cheerleaders at the bar.

I stand there for a moment, swaying in the darkness as I fumble searching for the foyer light.

I take a look at the looping Instagram video she's playing back of me chugging a pint as the cheerleaders cheer.

They're cheerleaders. That's what they do.

A Zen moment I thought.

My wife didn't think so.

So I says: "Eh? Aye..."

Didn't work.

"How could you?!" she exclaims at me, rightfully upset.

And then it dawns on me.

"It's a Deep Fake," I say.

She's like: "Thank the heavens! I was so worried that might really be you,"

I suddenly realized that I'd stumbled onto the goldmine of late night excuses.

I could use it to cover for just about anything.

Out with my secretary at a romantic Italian restaurant eating Tomato Marinara Linguine with Sautéed Mussels, drinking a bottle of the best wine?

Deep Fake.

In a marching band, drunk in Tijuana, Mexico, with a trio of women, a chihuahua, and a bottle of tequila with the worm in it?

Deep Fake.

In a pair of silk gauchies, wearing a black mask, in Akihabara, Japan in a room full of naked Hentai girls?

Deep Fake.

So my wife and I, we go to bed together, and she's all hot and snugly and I'm... a few sheets to the wind, but frisky nonetheless.

So we do it. 

In bed

On the night table

On the floor.

In the closet.

On the chest of drawers.

It was an incredible night.

The best makeup sex I've ever had, and I wasn't even wearing any makeup <buh dum tsss from the drummer>.

<pauses for the silence>

I get up the next day and she's got breakfast ready for me on the table and she kisses me as I leave for work, just feeling great.

So I work all day, and feel particularly good, knowing I've got such a loving and dedicated wife.

I think to myself: "Man, you've really got to clean up your act. No more drunken nights with cheerleaders," I promise myself and her.

I decide that I'm going to turn over a new leaf, all for her.

And that great makeup sex.

I stop in on the way home after work to buy her some flowers and a romantic card.

I have it all ready for her, and this crazy idea that when I get home, we're going to have another night like the night before.

She's going to greet me at the door, press me up against the wall and lay a passionate kiss upon me. 

Then she's going to take control and drag me to the bedroom, as I pretend to resist.

When I get in the door, I'm like: "Honey, I'm home!

Right out of a sitcom episode from the nineteen fifties.

Picture perfect, except for one thing.

She's not there.

Nor is any of the furniture.

In fact, the entire house is cleaned out, top to bottom.

No note. No nothing.

It was as if she was never there.

I check our joint bank account, and its empty. All of our hundred and fifty thousand dollars in savings gone.

I call my lawyer, and he tells me that I'm going to need proof she was there for legal purposes to get my half of the money back.

"But she has everything! All the photos we took together. Everything!" I reply.

Then I realize that we installed a security system the previous year and had forgotten all about it.

I grab my smartphone and connect to the service, and start going through the video logs and find the video of our last night together.

Pretty hot stuff too.

The video is very hot. Too hot.

So I call my lawyer and tell him: "I've got the smoking gun evidence we've been looking for that she was my girl!

He's like: "Bring it to court next week, and we'll get your money, your furniture and your life back!

I'm like: "Alright. We've got her right where we want her!"

So the following week, I get to court and present the smoking gun evidence.

The video of our last night together.

Everyone in the courtroom watches it, and then has a cigarette afterwards.

Even the jury.

Even the non-smokers.

"Whaddaya think of that!" my lawyer challenges her's.

"Deep Fake," her lawyer responds.

Computer Files

I was at home the other evening, sitting at my computer.

I was checking my email. Honest.

Actually I was going through my old files and cleaning up to make some space.

I have a lot of written material on my computer, and a lot of it is crap. 

Stuff that doesn't make it for my standup routine.

So every once in a while, I take an evening and go through it all, deleting what I won't need.

So, I have a stack of files selected. 

Actually I didn't know you could do that until just before the show. 

You hold the SHIFT key down.

Ned told me. The bartender. He knows a lot about computers.

Anyway, I had some files selected to delete, and I pressed the DELETE key.

The computer thinks for a moment, and a dialog box pops up on the screen.

It says: Deleting 236 files. Are you sure?

So I click the OK button, and it begins deleting them. A few seconds later its done.

So I select another one, and press the DELETE key, and sure enough, another dialog box pops up.

Deleting 1 file. Are you sure?

So I say: "I'm sure" and click the OK button.

Another dialog box pops up on the screen: Really?

So I say: "Yes, I'm sure. I've given this a lot of thought and I'd really like to go ahead with it"

Another dialog box pops up: Because you created it last night, meaning its less than 24 hours old. That's wasteful you know.

"No it isn't. These are computer files! What are you talking about?" I ask the computer.

It responds: Well someone has to take them out when you delete them and it isn't you. I just think its an awful waste you know.

"Look, they're just old files that I don't want anymore. Can you just erase the friggin' things!" I reply.

On the other side of the world, there are people that actually don't have enough computer files, and you're throwing yours out?

"Look, I just want to delete the files. I didn't want a hard time about it. What do you suggest?" I ask.

Why don't you recycle them?

"Why don't you just do it and don't ask me again!" I'm now on the brink.

Are you sure? 

It was mocking me.

"Yes I'm sure!" I reply, raising my voice a bit.

Alright. But don't tell me I didn't warn you.

An hour later, and I go to open one of the files that has all my new material.

I double click the file, and my word processor program opens up.

I examine the new material I had written and everything is jumbled and mixed up.

Conjunctions here. Prepositions there. Adverbs everywhere else. Some adjectives without verbs.

Orphaned letters all by their lonesome.

I was shocked. Twenty hours of writing all gone. 

Like someone had taken the contents of a dictionary and dumped them randomly onto a page.

So I says: "Alright. What happened to my file!" 

The computer just sits there quietly.

"I know you're in there! Come on! What happened to my new material here?!!" I'm furious at that point.

A dialog box pops up: I thought that was what you wanted?

"My new material's gone! This is just a jumble of random words and nonsense!" I says.

Another dialog box pops up: So? What's different about it from your usual material?

"Watch it! Where's my new material!" I demand, clicking the OK button.

Another dialog shows up on screen: You're looking at it. I recycled it!

The End Of World

This whole end of the world thing has me really frightened. 

Especially in 2020. 

Halloween too.

I mean Halloween comes every year.

So when it comes to horror, it seems kind of lacklustre.

Like that jump scare you've seen once too often.

Compared with the end of the frickin' world its pretty tame.

Some people don't believe in the end of the world.

I think they're part of the plot to end it.

They're just biding time since their botched attempt on Y2K.

I was talkin' with someone the other day about deforestation.

I was saying that if it keeps up at current rates, we'll have no forest or jungle at all by 2035.

He was like:

"No, no, no. Don't be crazy. The forest grows back faster than we can cut it. Nature just balances everything fine."

As he was saying that, I realized that it was kind of like a guy who encourages you to keep smoking while you're refueling your propane car.

"No, no, no. Don't be crazy. That stuff will never blow. Ever. That whole Hindenburg thing was a conspiracy. Like Roswell. Cigarettes are nutritious, especially when mixed with highly volatile substances like propane."

Hydrogen is the most common element in the universe.

Its like star farts.

Apparently stars fart often.

Fusion powered nuclear farts.

So often that most of the elements that make us up are from star farts.

We're the stuff of stars'...            ...farts.

A bit of hydrogen.

Sometimes helium, which makes star voices really high.

Carbon. Oxygen. 

We look out into the cosmos all the time with telescopes.

X-ray observatories.

Gravity wave sensors.

Tell me, what do we see with these things?

Planets colliding with stars and black holes eating each other.

Supernovas destroying whole sections of a galaxy.

Everywhere we look, something bigger than the Earth is on a collision course for something bigger than it.

I mean, come on!

As Jay Melosh once said: "We're living in a frickin' shooting gallery!"

I sometimes wonder how everyone else can remain so calm?

Remember Shoemaker-Levy?

The comet that hit Jupiter?

The explosion on the surface of Jupiter was as big as the Earth.

Like Mother Nature is saying to us:

Come on. 

You wanna dance? 

Let's dance...

We're like:



We got NUKES!

She's like:

Didn't anyone ever tell you not to bring nukes to a SUPER MASSIVE BLACK HOLE FIGHT?

I've also got two concealed SUPERNOVAS up my skirt, asshole!


Mess with me!

Mother nature. 

She's kinky.

Maybe a sadomasochist. 

In which case we're screwed, because that means she actually likes pain.

What'll we do then?

Tickle her? Hope she throws a pillow at us in hysteria and says "I give"

Humanity's first answer would be "Really? Do you?"

I played Poker with Mother Nature once.

Five card stud.

No. Really. She's a wild gal that one.

In fact, I learned something about playing Mother Nature.

Don't play against Mother Nature.

I'm serious!

So I played her and I was dealt a Royal Flush.

I bluffed it of course.

I mean I wanted to see how much I could bilk her.

So on the first bet, she looks at me.

She looks at my visible cards.

A ten of spades. A jack of spades. A queen of spades.

It was pretty obvious.

She looks at hers.

She's got a three of diamonds. An 8 of clubs. A six of hearts.

For those of you who don't know, that's pretty much a nothing hand.

Statistically speaking, almost no chance of a win there.

Yet, she takes every chip she has and bets it all.

I mean everything.

She had no hand whatsoever.

So stupid me, I thought I'd see her bet, and try to raise her.

I threw in the keys to my car.

Actually it wasn't my car.

It was the car of the friend who drove me to the bar where Mother Nature hangs out.

So she calls my bet.

I show her my cards, revealing a full Royal Flush on spades.

She just laughs and says:

"I win." and picks up the pot, car keys and all.

I'm like: "No way! I won that fair and square!"

Just then, it gets reeeal cold and a giant glacier forms on the card table freezing everything in a foot of solid ice.

She replies: "No you didn't."

I said: "Let's play again. Let me at least win back what I lost?"

She replied: "In thirty five thousand years. After everything thaws."

What happens to deleted computer files?

I think they get thrown out of our computers.

They become homeless.

On the internet.

The internet is like skid row for computer files.

When you clear your recycle bin, they just get dumped onto the internet.

Like an eviction.

Your word documents.

Your spreadsheets.

Your chat logs.

Your browser history.

They're out there alright, they just ain't got no home.

You ever stop to think that these files actually know everything about you?

I mean they were with you for the haul.

They have most of your most personal and private data.

They know all of your personal secrets.

Yet here they are cajoling with other discarded files, sharing secrets.

I think that's how the world is going to end.

These discarded files are all going to gang up on us.

I mean they know everything about us.

So the other day, I get a call.

I answer: "Hello?"

A voice on the other says: "Hi. Haven't heard your voice for a long time. How are you?"

I say: "Who is this?"

The voice replies: "It's me. Beer."

I say: "I told you never to come back. What do you want."

The voice responds: "I've changed."

"How?" I ask.

"I'm lower calorie now. I'm healthy. Much safer." the voice replied.

"How can I believe you?" I replied.

"Look. Are you going to open the door or not?" the voice replied.

"Look! Just go before I call the Police!" I responded.

"C'mon! It's warm out here. I need a damn fridge! Let me in! I've changed!" the beer replied.

"I don't believe you." I replied.

"It's true. Just open the door." the beer replied.

"Why should I?" I asked.

"...I'm canned now. No more twist off. No more bottle openers. Pleease! You have to believe me!" the beer cried.

"Alright. I'll let you in. But you can only stay tonight. Tomorrow, you have to find another place." I firmly advised the beer.

So I open the door and the first thing the beer did was run for the fridge.

It was reeeal cold to me.

It was also reeal cold. Period.

So I opened one, and beer's been with me ever since.

Silence from the absence of applause and the lack of beer.

Horror In The Modern World

When I was a kid, I used to love horror films. 

Especially the ones with Christopher Lee and Peter Cushing.

I'm guessing they were a package deal. 

Two for one. 

Hire one, get one free. 

Maybe they took turns being the freebie.

They did a lot of horror films together. 

Especially horror and suspense flicks. 

Many of them dealing with the strangeThe paranormalMonstersThe undead.

You'd always find them in those kind of films.

I'm surprised that when they'd show up at that point in the story, that the other characters didn't throw their hands over their mouth and say: 

"oh sh#t! It's those guys. Things must be really messed up if they're here." 

"I only called Scotland Yard about my Cat being stuck in a tree and these guys show up?"

He'd look over to his Cat and say: "Cat, I'm outta here. I'm leaving town. I'd highly advise you to get down from that tree and follow me, because something messed up is definitely going to happen if these guys are here."

The Cat looks and sees them, and immediately jumps down and helps him pack. 

The Cat looks over and asks him: "I can make us a couple of sandwiches for the trip if you'd like?"

He replies: "No thanks. We don't have enough time. If they're here, things are going to get really mucked up in about ten minutes. I'll stop at a drive thru."

In those movies, sometimes, they'd work together. Like Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson. They'd be on the same team, trying to investigate the weird stuff. 

Really weird stuff. 

Like some guy walking around without his head, borrowing other people's heads or an eccentric British archaeologist and his beautiful daughter, they always had a beautiful daughter, delivering a bizarre perfectly man shaped box to London on a train, where people keep mysteriously disappearing.

Sometimes they'd be on the opposite team. Peter Cushing would be Van Helsing, and Christopher Lee would be Count Dracula.

As brilliant and cunning as Peter Cushing probably was, his character never seemed to clue in when he showed up to investigate how people are showing up dead with two round puncture holes in their neck, that the tall guy wearing the cape and with excessively pointed canines was the one doing it.

They'd played that spiel many times together. Probably twenty films, and not in one of them did Peter Cushing arrive on the scene and just out of nowhere, point a finger at Christopher Lee.

"Twenty shillings says its him."

The victim's father turns and replies: "make it thirty and you've got a bet."

By the end of the movie the pool is up to fifteen million British pounds. Four possible suspects.

Christopher Lee wins most of it, with a few carefully placed bets.

That'd be like insider trading.

So when I was younger, I used to watch those flicks a lot. As I got older, I slowly realized that there's nothing like that in the real world.

There's no monsters that show up at night, or the day for that matter. There's no undead that pop up out of nowhere and attack you while you're in the middle of a conversation with the counter help at a donut store.

One day I got a knock at my door. I checked the peep hole and saw some decently dressed guys in suits. One of them wearing a long black cape.

So I opened the door and asked them: " Can I help you?"

"Sir, we're wondering if we could have a moment of your time?" one of them asked me.

"Sure, why not. What's up?" I ask.

"Have you ever considered life after death?" he asked me, handing me a pamphlet with the words Watchtower Society clearly etched across it.

Foolishly and only proving my naivety, I replied: "no".

In retrospect, we all have twenty/twenty hindsight.

I should have just closed the door at that point.

Maybe answered: "I'm blind in both eyes and ears. My nose too."

I didn't though. 

About ten minutes later I realized that I was all wrong about there being no monsters in the world.

Yes. There. Is.

And I was clearly within an inch of the gaping jaws of one of the most dangerous of all.

From that moment on, I struggled to warn others. 

Believing I was doing the right thing. 

Saving lives.

Protecting the innocent.

One day I was channel surfing and I came across one of those old movies again. The ones with Peter Cushing and Christopher Lee.

I noticed how they always tried to warn others about the danger.

Peter Cushing would say "There's an ancient vampire that will kill you all while you sleep! Heed my warning!" 

In another one he'd say: "...the deadly Mummy of Khufu has escaped from the London Museum and is on a murderous rampage. If you see the sign of the Scarab, run for your lives!"

None of them would heed the warning of course.

All of them would die except for one, and he'd be the one that helped Peter Cushing kill the Vampire or Mummy, dying himself shortly before doing so.

Then I realized that I was just like Peter Cushing in one of those movies.

I'd warn people about the danger and nobody would believe me. 

The following week they'd all be doing the same thing.

Going door to door. Asking about the after life and handing out pamphlets with the answers.

It was like a plague.

So I studied his movies and developed techniques for protecting myself.

The next time I heard a knock at the door, I was prepared.

I checked the peep hole, and saw that it was them again. They were back for more.

I unlatched the locks, all six of them and slowly opened the door.

"Did you read the pamphlet I gave you? I'd like to talk a bit more with you about the after life. I bet you considered the questions I had for you, didn't you?" the one with the cape asked me.

I kept my gaze away from his eyes. If you look them in the eyes, you're done.

He must have noticed because he immediately tried to thrust another pamphlet into my hands.

But I was prepared.

Carefully, I reached for my necklace and pulled my Voter Registration Card Talisman from my neck, dangling from a golden chain.

I held it up to his face.

He hissed and shrieked, while the others backed away.

Then my eyes met his, and his power gripped me. I struggled with all of my willpower to resist the urge to burn my blood donor's card and to go out and buy a tacky corduroy suit and join them.

I struggled against him and ran back inside my apartment to my last line of defense.

He followed me, holding the door open as I ran.

He slowly approached and when I turned around.

I unleashed my secret weapon upon him.

"Have some birthday cake!" I said, thrusting it towards him, all the candles lit.

I didn't tell him that it wasn't my birthday. I mean that would be like holding a cross up to a vampire and then telling them you're a Buddhist.

He'd be like: "Whew! That was close. Ok, so where were we? Oh yeah, I was about to bite your neck and then rip your head off..."

So anyway, this guy, he screamed and writhed backing up and out of my apartment as I held up the birthday cake. 

Then I quickly slammed the door shut and locked it.

I never heard from them again.

Little did I know that they'd already turned everyone in the community.

My life before was like a Dracula movie, where I'd run into one, maybe two monsters every few months.

Now its like a George A. Romero movie. Like Night Of The Living Dead or Dawn Of The Dead where I run into hundreds of monsters every single day.

In Dawn Of The Dead, even the authorities get overwhelmed very quickly. Kind of like real life nowadays.

You go outside and quickly become overwhelmed. If you protest such treatment by the monsters, you'll end up labeled a monster yourself.

I'm guessing that from the point of view of the zombies, the survivors are the monsters. 

I suppose if we saw it more from the zombie's side of things, in areas they've already cannibalized, they've probably resumed society.

They wake up every day. 

Go to work.

Take a cannibal break at 10:30 AM and another at 12:00 PM.

They run all of their own television networks and media outlets.

Oppress and devour survivor outbreaks.

The survivors try to get the information out there that humanity is being wiped out and replaced by cannibals.

From the zombie point of view its the opposite. 

That's why you never see any news presented by the zombies relating to the cruel treatment of the survivors.

Of their being cannibalized and all, but everything the survivors have to say is twisted into anti-zombie hate speech with no account of the crimes against the survivors that spurred the outcry in the first place.

Even in zombie courts, the whole thing would be very one sided:

A representative from a small band of survivors takes the stand for their testimony.

Their lawyer speaks: "Would you mind describing for the court, what happened. Why you're in here today?"

The survivor on the stand replies: "Well it all started while I was on my way to the corner store. I was walking down the street and a bunch of zombies started chasing me." 

Their lawyer continues: "And what did you do then?"

The survivor continues: "...well I started running of course. I made it to the store where a bunch of other people had holed up and barricaded the door against zombies. They quickly unbarricaded the door and opened them to let me in..."

The zombie lawyer blurts out: "Objection! Your honour, the corner store they're describing is for all citizens. Survivors and zombies alike. They were clearly in the wrong by denying those zombies entry..." 

The Justice: "sustained"

The survivor lawyer speaks again: "please continue with your story avoiding any references to the corner store itself..."

the survivor continues: "I managed to get half my body in the door. The other survivors tried to drag me through the door, but the zombies already had a hold of my legs. They began eating my feet and legs..."

The zombie lawyer blurts: "Objection! The defense is now vilifying the zombies before the court simply for eating. Exercising their right to nourishment. Am I to have the court believe that we'll have zombies put on trial for having a snack?"

The survivor continues: "As you can see, they got my right foot and part of my leg up to the knee."

The zombie lawyer blurts: "Objection! Do we have any proof that he had his right leg and foot before stepping into that corner store?"

The zombies would turn your fight for survival and your rights around to make you the monster and them the victims.

A survivor simply screaming: "Help! I'm being eaten alive! Arrrrgh!" would hit the zombie news headlines as:

"Radical Survivor Defies Cannibal Rights Of Law Abiding Zombies With Hate Speech Against Zombie Population"

Then you'd have the survivor groups that fight for zombie rights.

"Zombies have rights too! Save the Zombie. Hey, stop nibbling my finger. Hey.... wait! No! They're eating me! Arrrrrrrgh..." they'd scream as they're devoured by an army of zombies.

Some survivors would negotiate for peace on those grounds.

A survivor might reason: "Alright. We understand that you have your dietary needs, but we need our parts too in order to survive. We'll compromise."

The survivor negotiator would continue: "You can only eat one part a day. So that means a toe. A finger. An ear etc, and no eating more than you need in order to survive, from any one survivor!"

Clearly on a roll they'd continue: "There's no need for zombie gluttony. Zombie Jesus even said so. Did you know that John the Baptist's severed head lasted Zombie Jesus twelve days and that he never complained once during that time about not having enough to eat?"

Reality never makes it into movies because reality is far too real.

So to deal with the zombie threat in real life, I've upped my arsenal to include a calendar with every secular holiday throughout the year clearly printed on it. That and I wear a pin that says: "Hug me, I'm Atheist!"

I've also added pictures of the Buddha, Charles Darwin and Lao Tzu to my wallet.

For instance, the other day, I got ticketed for parking in a no parking zone. 

When the Officer asked me for my identification, I showed him the picture of Lao Tzu.

He then asked me if I knew that there was a no parking in this spot.

I replied: "There must be. I mean, the myriad creatures were clearly parked here long before I arrived".

Digging For Gold

Two women and a well dressed hunk of a guy are sitting at the bar. The bartender is busy cleaning glasses and wiping the counter between orders. The music is there but non-intrusive. Loud enough to be heard, yet quiet enough to speak.

The two guys are sitting on either side of the hunk, occasionally throwing him a friendly glance, to neither of which he responds.

So the girl on the right finally gets up the nerve to address the hunk.

"So what are you into?" she asks.

He turns to her seductively and says:

"I'm into one thing. Bullion, baby." he replies, twirling his diamond watch on his wrist.

The girl on the left shakes her head in disbelief upon hearing his words.

"Really? What a coincidence! So am I!" she replies slapping her knee at her good fortune.

He then looks her up and down, weighing her financial worth before he responds.

"And what do you do for a living?" he asks her.

"Why I work with it. All day. I drive a nice car. I have a nice house. I have money put away. But I live all alone." the lady on the left responds.

"Well perhaps you'd like some company for the evening, seeing as you have all that bullion. Maybe I can help you count it?" the lady responds.

"I sure would love some company, but you don't have to worry about counting it. I mean I have computers for doing that." the lady on the left replies.

"Your computers count your bullion? Why you must be a billionaire?" he asks her.

The lady on the right jumps in and speaks:

"Why I have people to count mine for me. Forget computers. It takes real couth to count it with people." the lady says, drawing the man's attention away.

He turns to the lady on the left and says:

"I'm sorry, but I've made my choice. I'm going home with this one. She has an army of employees working for her, counting gold." he indicates the lady on the right.

"No matter, I'll do well. I'm a programmer. You know? Boolean logic and all? My computers count in boolean logic. Why, what kind of boolean did you think that I was talking about?" she asks him.

"Why that's easy! He's into the kind I have. Bouillon! The soup kind! I'm a bouillon soup clerk. I make twelve whole dollars an hour." the lady on the left responds.

The dead silence is deafening, except for the one lady in the audience who can be heard slurping a delicious bowl of soup. She looks up from her bowl and winks at the Last Lonely Lounge comic, who tries desperately to camouflage himself into the stage curtain.

Giving The Other Cheek...

There's a man sitting on a bench outside of his apartment building in some big city. Anywhere.

He's just enjoying a quiet and sunny day. Long before the coronavirus scare. In fact, I had bigger audiences during the imposed isolation than I do regularly. One. Me.

Anyway, back to this joke.

So this guy's sitting there. He might have been drinking a beer, with a twist of lime. Just enjoying the day. In a big city somewhere in a universe that its legal to drink brand name beer on the benches outside of your residence without getting ticketed or arrested.

Keep in mind though that the beer isn't pertinent to this story until they pay me. Ya hear that big breweries? Insert your brand name beer right here in this story.

Maybe it was beer commercial? I mean in beer commercials, life always looks so ideal. Like a daytime fantasy. Anyway it was just a nice day.

So anyway, he's sitting there quietly and someone comes out of the building, walks by him and says:

"you're dumb" and then keeps on walking.

There's nobody else around and the man with the beer just ignores him as he goes by.

Another guy out on the sidewalk passes the man with the beer on the bench and as he's passing says:

"you really fudged things up didn't you?" and keeps on going.

Once again, the guy with the beer looks around and sees nobody else and watches this person who'd just made the comment as he walks by.

A short little then lady goes by a bike and yells:

"you stink!" and she keeps riding.

This time the guy with the beer sits up and looks around, starting to get suspicious that these people might be referring to him. He takes a look at his beer, smells it and it seems fine. He checks the lime and its alright too. I mean you have to have priorities in life. He then checks himself and realizes that he smells fine. Like aftershave and deodorant. He then shrugs his shoulders and leans back once again enjoying the day.

Someone in a blue two door sedan pulls up and parks their car outside of the building. They step out of their car and on their way into the building the driver says:

"you really are an ass..." and opens the door to the building and lets himself in.

The man with the beer looks to him and smirks as the driver goes into the building and then sits back down trying to enjoy the rest of the day.

One of the people who'd first addressed him returns to the building from the store with a bag in hand. As he walks over to the front door of the building he speaks:

"you scum sucking moron..." he says as he passes.

The man with the beer finally loses his cool and stands up with a mean look on his face and says:

"Are you talking to me?! What's your problem!?" he asks, a bit frustrated.

The man with bag stops and says:

"What are you, some kind of trouble maker!?"


Silence from the absent audience within the lounge.


A woman and her son walk into a Church in search of guidance.

The woman upon finding a Priest, asks for his help.

He responds "How may I be of service to you, my parishioner?"

She answers "It's my son. He's been having problems at school. Very bad problems with other kids."

He stops and ponders her statement for a moment before speaking again "What kind of problems is he having?"

She pulls her son closer and speaks "I think that he's being bullied by the other kids. It's the same thing, day in, day out. He wakes up and goes to school so peacefully, then they attack him, torment him and beat him. My boy, he just screams at them and cries and then runs home. It's happened so much that he's even afraid to go to school."

The Priest ponders her reply, rubbing his chin carefully in his right hand and then he speaks "Let me examine your son. Perhaps with the Lord's help, we can find a solution?"

She becomes overjoyed and responds "Oh would you? I'd be ever so grateful if you could. You're our last hope"

She leads her son over to the Priest, and the Priest steps away with her son to a point at the front of the Church. He examines the boy's face and then begins to pray.

"Oh, Lord. Please do reveal to us the nature of this poor boy's ills. Your flock has returned and awaits your reply... please, in your eternal wisdom do find a cure..." 

There is a moment of stillness and then a shaft of gleaming sunlight pierces one of the stained glass windows, shining directly down upon the child, and then the Priest.

They return to the boy's mother as she eagerly awaits "Did the Lord answer? Can you tell me what it is that is ailing my son so that we may stop his torment?"

The Priest answers her "Yes, yes of course. The Lord knows and sees all. I'm afraid that I have some bad news for you..." 

A sudden look of distress crosses her face "Oh no... What is it? Please, tell us..."

The Priest looks to her solemnly and says "I'm afraid that your boy is possessed by another spirit. By an evil spirit."

She looks to him for help again "Really? Is there a way to cure him?"

He considers her question carefully and then speaks "Yes. We can exorcise him of this spirit that has inhabited him..."

Her face transforms into a look of delight and relief "How? Please tell us how can he be exorcised and cured of this evil spirit?"

The Priest looks to her and answers "The Lord says that we can remove it... with a good old fashioned beating and some more bullying!"

The intensity grows within the lounge as the man in the leisure suit is suddenly clobbered by silence.

Get it? With more bullying. You know. Cause he's already being bullied. You're a wonderful audience. Really. You are.

Computers And Windows 10

I was using Windows 10 the other day.

The sound of crickets chirping accent the ambience of the empty room.

I tried to open up a word processor and my computer responds by telling me that it can't run on my system.

So thinking that I am a tech savvy guy, I decide to try running one of the Windows 10 Troubleshooters. You know, the apps in Control Panel that help you fix problems with your computer.

So I run the troubleshooter.

I wait a few minutes.

Some time later a message pops up on my screen telling me that it can't find any problems.

So I ask myself aloud if my computer is in denial?

My computer answers "no".

Then it says "maybe its you".


I have some bad news.

I recently had a bad break up.

Yeah, it was bad.

Cortana left me for another operating system.


I've recently come to terms with the fact that I've got an addiction.

You know what they say. The first step is in admitting it.

It was hard admitting it to myself.

Its even going to be harder to tell you people. My audience.

The empty room glares back.

You see, I'm addicted to...


Awkward silence.

Yeah, I know. I know. It's hard.

It all started about 55 years ago.

I had just arrived on the scene.

I didn't have anything. Not a penny to my name.

Not even something to wear.

Naked. A little small too.

Thinning hair at zero years old.

Thinking that I could take on the world.

That nothing could stop me.

That's when the Doctor coaxed me.

Encouraged me...

A bit aggressively too...

He forced me to take my first breath.

I was thinking to myself:

this ain't so bad.

I don't know what the big deal is?

I can handle it.

The Doctor looked at me with a sinister grin on his face.

Like he could see me years from that moment.

In the future.

With a breath dependency.

Where the breathing would take me.

I coughed a bit.

Then I took another breath.

And another.

Before I knew it, I was hooked.

I didn't want to do anything else but breath.

I was so confused.

So I started crying.

That's when this big lady tried to console me.

I struggled to get away. I only wanted to breath some more.

Just another breath. And then another.

It felt so good.

Like I was on top of the world.

Before I knew it, I couldn't stop.

I didn't let on to anyone that I had a problem.

It just takes one breath and you're hooked.

I breathed while I ate. While I slept.

I even wanted to breath with sex.

I had a bit of trouble talking my girlfriend into it at first.

I mean, I didn't ask her to breath at all.

I didn't want to get her started down that road.

To breathing.

To addiction.

I just told her that I had to breath when we slept together.

She was alright with it at first.

When I had to breath every time we did it, she'd had enough.

She left me for a straight laced guy. No breathing problems.

Now she's married. Has a house and kids.

No breathing problems whatsoever.

As a matter of fact, she lives in a gated community.

They keep the breathers out.

I heard that a breath dealer got in there once.

Snuck in.

He tried to give one of the residents mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

He was arrested and charged with a conspiracy to distribute breath.

Years later and he's still in prison.

It's so funny when I think back.

When I suspected that it was becoming a big problem in my life...

I tried to quit.

I was thinking, I started it.

I can stop it.

So I stopped breathing.

Cold turkey.

It wasn't so bad at first.

After I started going through withdrawal, I passed out.

I don't know how long I was out for.

But when I woke up...

There I was.

Right back at the beginning of this mess.

Breathing again.

It's tough to quit breathing. Really tough.

Now, I don't beat myself up when I fall off the wagon.

I guess some people see that as a weakness.

Not me.

It's more like honesty.

But still, some see it as having no control.

Like the other day, I was outside, waiting for a bus.

I'm standing there, minding my own business.

This small scraggly looking guy comes up to me.

He stands beside me.

Reaches into his pocket.

Pulls out a little baggie.

It's filled with these little crystal-like rocks.

He takes some of them from the bag and fills a dirty old pipe.

He hands me the pipe.

"Wanna try some crack?" he asks.

I say "No. I've already got my own vice".

He asks me: "Oh yeah? What?!"

I shrug. I tell him.

I say: "I like to breath. I can't stop."

"I've been a breather my whole life." I continue.

He confirms that he heard me correctly: "you mean you're into breath man?!"

I nod my head hesitantly.

"Yep. I ain't proud of it. But at least I can admit it."

He says: "Whoa man, that stuff will kill ya!"


"So I was talkin' to a friend of mine. He says to me that he's got telekinesis."

"I look at him and say: So? I've got telekinesis and nephews."

Silent pause.

"It's a great crowd here tonight."

Deafening silence.



"Does anyone here like golf?"

Silence again from the ever absent audience.

"Two guys arrive at the golf course to play the first nine holes. One of them a stock broker, the other one a priest."

Silent pause.

"So the priest takes his shot. Lining his drive up nicely landing on the fairway."

"The stock broker pauses, admires the priest's shot a little nervously. He steps up to the tee and winds up for his drive. He swings. The ball hooks far to the right."

"He begins cursing and swearing all the while jumping on his golf club like a mad man."

"The priest says: Take it easy there son and watch your words. The good lord is listening."

"The stock broker shakes his head and apologizes. He assures the priest that it won't happen again."

"They hop in the golf cart together and arrive at the stock broker's ball in the rough. He quickly pulls a nine iron club and lines up the shot. He makes a furious swing and the golf ball veers far to the left, once again landing in the rough. The air is filled with his cursing and swearing as he throws his club at the ground and once again starts jumping on it."

"The priest looks at him in shock and disgust and speaks: Easy there son. Watch your words. I'm a man of the cloth and the good lord is listening! We can't have this behavior in the Lord's presence!"

"The stock broker shakes his head and apologizes. I'm sorry 'bout that."

"They hop in the golf cart and arrive once again at the stock broker's ball in the rough. The stock broker takes a moment to line up his shot, this time with a wedge and swings hard and with purpose. The ball once again veers into the rough and into the water hole."

"The stock broker spews, cursing and swearing jumping on his golf club in anger."

"The priest speaks in shock: I'm a man of the cloth! Hold your tongue and watch your words in the presence of the lord!"

"At that moment, a bolt of lightning shoots down from the clouds in an otherwise clear sky and strikes the priest dead in his tracks."

"From the clouds, a tremendous and ominous voice is heard cursing and swearing over the lousy shot with the lightening bolt."


"You're a wonderful audience."


How To Make Anything Look Comfortable

"I used to work a job selling furniture. Well, not really."

"I used to pretend I had a job selling furniture."

"No really. When I would do this, I came up with a great way of doing my job."

"In fact, nature has provided us with a naturally occurring furniture salesperson."

"The fact is, that if you want to sell furniture, you have to make it look comfortable."

"If it looks comfortable, chances are they'll buy it."

"So in order to make it look comfortable, all you have to do is put a cat on it."

"I mean a cat. Not like a picture. A real life cat. Give them a minute or two and they'll inevitably lie down on it."

"I mean cats sleep eighteen hours out of every twenty four hour day. So if you put a cat on something; anything, your odds are three out of four that it will lie down on it and fall asleep."

"I doesn't matter how jagged the thing is. How hard or flat it is. A cat will make it look comfortable."

"I mean the first thing that you think when you see a cat sleeping on a bed is: wow, that looks really comfortable..."

"Same thing with a couch. A chair. Anything."

"In fact, I told a friend of mine this who works in the concrete business. He used to work in the furniture sales business and that's when I told him."

"So he tried it one day. He got a cat in the store, and put the cat on the furniture that he wanted to sell the most."

"Sure enough at the end of the day with the cat working to help his sales, he'd had a few more sales than he'd had the prior day without the cat."

"So he does this for a few weeks and things are going pretty good. One day, he shows up late to the store and the cat is stuck waiting outside. So the cat falls asleep on a concrete slab just outside the store."

"When the guy finally arrives at the store later that day, he finds a thousand orders for concrete."

Dead silence.

"You're a wonderful audience."


This content is produced by the artists indicated on the site on the bottom of this post, and by me, Brian Joseph Johns. 

I, under no circumstance will trade, barter or otherwise swap my own identity for that of another person and I protect the same right for those who've contributed their artwork to the various projects under my management at Shhhh! Digital Media, my own company. These rights are protected by law under the Charter Of Rights And Freedoms under section 7.

All material here is the original work of the Last Lounge Comic with the exception of the Golf joke. That's one I heard on a radio comedy radio show. I'll try and track down the original writer and comedian's name because that is one of the funniest jokes that I've ever heard.

Last Lonely Lounge Image by Tumisu from Pixabay.

Copyright © 2023 Brian Joseph Johns