Archive for the ‘Humor’ Category


(We’re all  under a lot of stress right now and could use some comic relief; there are many other pieces on line showing exactly how Il Douche, Dumbasso Cheetolini, has royally screwed up America’s response to the coronavirus pandemic (here’s a good one from today), so I’ll be keeping the posts mostly on the light side for at least the next few weeks if not months, and also will be dipping into ones from the past. (We have over 1,500 archived posts, including over 500 in the humor category.) Here’s one from about five years ago that is, unfortunately, all too relatable — or at least will be again soon, I hope.)

MUSICIAN, n. A guy who spends five thousand dollars on instruments so he can drive a thousand-dollar car a hundred miles to make fifty bucks.

–Thanks to Mick Berry (former bandmate, drummer extraordinaire, and co-author of The Drummer’s Bible)

for this one


An Open Letter to the president
from Tommy Lee
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dear Fucking Lunatic,
At your recent press conference – more a word salad that had a stroke and fell down stairs, you were CLEARLY so out of your depth you needed scuba gear. Within minutes of going off air your minions were backpedaling faster than Cirque De Soleil acrobats… In India a week ago, i couldn’t get past the bit about your being the most popular visitor in the history of fucking India — a country of a BILLION human souls that’s only 3000 years old, give or take.!!! Trust me – Gandhi pulled CROWDS.. You pulled a cricket stadium and half WALKED out…

Do you know how fucking insane you sound, you off-brand butt plug? That’s like the geopolitical equivalent of “that stripper really likes me” — only 10,000 times crazier and less self aware.

You are fucking exhausting. Every day is a natural experiment in determining how long 300 million people can resist coring out their own assholes with an ice auger. Every time I hear a snippet of your Queens-tinged banshee larynx farts, I want to scream!
We are fucking tired. As bad as we all thought your presidency would be when Putin got you elected, it’s been inestimably worse.

You called a hostile, nuclear-armed head of state “short and fat.” How the fuck does that help?

You accused a woman — a former friend, no less — of showing up at your resort bleeding from the face and begging to get in. You, you, YOU — the guy who looks like a Christmas haggis inexplicably brought to life by Frosty’s magic hat — yes, you of all people said that.

You attempted — with evident fucking glee — to get 24 million people thrown off their health insurance.

You gave billions away to corporations and the already wealthy while simultaneously telling struggling poor people that you were doing exactly the opposite.

You endorsed a pedophile, praised brutal dictators, and defended LITERAL FUCKING NAZIS!

Ninety-nine percent of everything you say is either false, crazy, incoherent, just plain cruel, or a rancid paella of all four.

Oh, by the way, Puerto Rico is still FUBAR. You got yourself and your family billions in tax breaks for Christmas. What do they get? More paper towels?

Enough, enough, enough, enough! For the love of God and all that is holy, good, and pure, would you please, finally and forever, shut your feculent KFC-hole until you have something valuable — or even marginally civil — to say?

You are a fried dick sandwich with a side of schlongs. If chlamydia and gonorrhea had a son, you’d appoint him HHS secretary. You are a disgraceful, pustulant hot stew full of casuistry, godawful ideas, unintelligible non sequiturs, and malignant rage.

You are the perfect circus orangutan diaper from Plato’s World of Forms.

So fuck you Mr. President. And fuck you forever.

Oh, and Pence, you oleaginous house ferret. Fuck you, too. You’ll be as useful as a chocolate teapot against a medical crisis you Bible thumping cock socket.


A couple of nights ago I was talking with my longtime friend, ex-stand-up comic, and ex-bandmate, drummer extraordinaire Mick Berry. We’ve both been working on our vocals recently, but for very different reasons: me, because I’m sick of dealing with egomaniac vocalists; Micko, because he’s sick of dealing with musicians period, and wants to go out and do solo gigs playing piano and singing.

Anyway, he suggested that I do some singing and let him critique it. I panicked. Over the last year, I’ve sung several times during jobs at bars and thought nothing of it, but this spooked me: Micko actually has ears and I value his opinion; this is in stark contrast to audiences, who (god bless ’em)  tend to be way too forgiving.

Anyway, Micko finally talked me into it, and I reluctantly said, “I’ll do it as a shame-attacking exercise.”

He replied without missing a beat:,”You didn’t realize that all music performance is a shame-attacking exercise?”


Two Trumpists up in Phoenix — the home to all that is foul, all that is atrocious — decided to take Dear Leader’s advice and ingested  chloroquine, an outdated anti-malaria drug with hideous side effects, to ward off coronavirus.

Better, they took it in its most readily available form, not as a pharmaceutical but as a cheap industrial chemical used for cleaning fish tanks.

Predictably, their adventure in self-medication / following Glorious Leader’s advice didn’t end well.

They both fell ill within a half-hour, and the guy died shortly after being admitted to the hospital.

His wife fell seriously ill, but survived, and . . . .

She says she’ll never again believe anything uttered by the Chosen One.

So . . . . Two down, 62,984,826 to go.


FOOTBALL, n. A male religious ritual involving human sacrifice. Like most other American religious observances, the rite of football is normally observed on Sundays, and is, in fact, observed on approximately 24 consecutive Sundays culminating in the holiest day of the year, Super Sunday, a day on which all normal male activities—including, even, lexicography—grind to a halt. Football is distinguished from more mundane religious practices in that its celebrants normally worship a 60-inch screened deity and imbibe a ceremonial liquid known as “Bud,” the symbol of which, perhaps for reasons of taste, color, and odor, is a large horse.

–from the revised and expanded edition of The American Heretic’s Dictionary, the 21st-century successor to Ambrose Bierce’s Devil’s Dictionary

American Heretic's Dictionary revised and expanded by Chaz Bufe, front cover


“There are three rules for writing a novel. Unfortunately, no one knows what they are.”

–W. Somerset Maugham, quoted in Thought Catalog


“Atheism is a religion like abstinence is a sex position.”

–HBO’s Real Time with Bill Maher