Nobody gets me. I swear. They’re all too stupid.

It’s not my fault. Having your own abbreviations and slang just makes life way more fun. Like whenever someone tells me they’re a fan of something or other, I like to think that “fan” is short for “fancy vagina.” Then nobody knows why I’m cracking up because that fat guy in the third row just announced that he was a Philadelphia Phillies fancy vagina. What a dork!

Mom is another good one. M.O.M. could just as easily stand for “Musky Otter Meat.” That one has tons of mileage on Mother’s Day. Or “Moldy Old Moose,” that one really gets her going. “Murderer of Mexicans” got me grounded for a week, no lie. Eventually she just started insisting that I call her Carol. Whatever, some people have no senses of humor.

Another funny thing is when somebody else is talking, add “with my penis” to the end of everything they say. If it’s a guy talking it’s pretty funny. Like when my dad told me “I’m going to go mow the lawn (with my penis)” last week, ha ha. Or when the president was on TV talking about how he was going to send assistance to New Orleans with his penis. I’d like to see that! Or the best was when my English teacher Mr. Appleton said “I’d like to touch your naked breasts (with my penis)” the other day! I couldn’t stop giggling.

Most people think you need to have two people to have an inside joke, but I think that’s just stupid. Nothing’s funnier than being the only one who knows why something’s so funny.

Whenever my friend Marcy talks about getting her period, I can’t stop laughing because it would be so funny if she was talking about the punctuation mark, the other kind of period. “Oh no, here comes my period again!” At least it’s not a comma, you dumb bitch! Ha ha. Just the thought of an ampersand flopping out of Marcy’s See You Next Tuesday is enough to get me kicked out of Social Studies for the laughing fits! And no, Mr. Dunlin, this isn’t even about Napoleon Bonerparts, that was SO last year. Doofus!

Everyone has a funny name, when you really think about it. Tim? Come back and talk to me after you’ve done something about those Tiny Implanted Mammaries, you freak! Shawn? Nice try, but we all know your mother named you after masturbashawn. Ha, loser. And Jane? You’re the worst of them all! I can’t even believe you’d go out in public with a name like Just Another Naked Elephant. You could at least go by your less-embarrassing middle name, Sexy Underwear Eater.

And don’t even talk to me about these freaks who don’t even catch on after I’ve been laughing at them for like half an hour. I mean, come on, you should at least stop saying things like “there’s a lot of room” or “I like to play croquet” after it becomes obvious I’ve been adding “inside my mom’s ass” to everything you say in my own mind!

But nope, nobody gets how funny and dumb they really are. It’s a shame really, for everybody except me.



I’m Not that Big a Fan of Talking
I don’t know what the big deal is. It seems like it’s basically impossible to find a girl to date who isn’t constantly nagging you about that. “What do you want to eat? What are you thinking about? Why did you put my dog in that Ziplock bag?” I swear, if I wanted to be interviewed I’d show up at the airport with lit fuses sticking out of my shoes.

For the Last Time Deidrebane, Those Aren’t the Feds
No, my Deidrebane, not The Fuzz either. Not the pigs, the rookers, Johnny Law, The Man, or the Blue Meanies. None of them, Deidrebane. Not one. The flower delivery man yesterday? Just delivering flowers. No secret camera in his oversized belt-buckle, my dear. I think the young man was just from Texas.

A Martini for My Dead Homies
Frankly, I think these negative rappers are just unimaginative. They have nothing good to say about anything, so they stoop to saying the worst things about other rappers. Other rappers, I might add, whom they know are class acts and possess talents superior to their own.

Don’t Be Absurd My Dear, That’s Obviously Not My Shit
Deidrebane, my dear, I tire of your ceaseless accusations. I swear this is all I’ve heard about all week since you found that softball-sized rock of crack cocaine in the sofa cushions. For the googleth time, darling, that’s clearly not my shit. Do you see my initials monogrammed anywhere on the rock? I think not. So let’s put this silly controversy to bed before I miss another moment of the Ultimate Fighting Challenge.