Zombie Spaceship Wasteland Page 8

  We hope this Chamomile Kitten™ greeting card helps you have a “hoppy” Easter!

  ST. PATRICK’S DAY

  The shamrock etching on this Chamomile Kitten™ greeting card was taken from the preinked outline of a tattoo. The tattoo was worn on the inner thigh of Fyn “Finn” McManus, a legendary brawler in early nineteenth-century New York. His capacity for alcohol, vomiting, and fisticuffs earned him the nickname “the Whiskey Abyss,” and one of his favorite pastimes included “parading.” “Parading” was his own pet name for drinking his age in ounces of whiskey, and then walking down the sidewalks, randomly punching and eructing on passersby. Several attempts by local constables to prohibit this practice proved unsuccessful, until an amiable foot patrolman—his name lost to history—hit upon a novel solution.

  When McManus’s customary pre-parading cry was heard as he left whatever tavern or blind tiger he’d just completed his “age/ounce” ritual in (the cry being a variation of the phrase “A-cummin there ta make soup bowls a’ faces and fill ’em with chowder!”) the local police would spring into action.

  Gently guided to the center of the street, McManus could land blows and launch effluvium at whatever “pedestrians” he perceived to be in his path—invariably, horses and the carriages they pulled.

  McManus met his end on the balmy evening of May 2, 1912, when he mistook the Happy Cat Tooth Powder mascot painted on the front of an onrushing streetcar for a bartender who had recently refused him service. McManus charged and promptly disappeared in a spray of knuckles and vomit.

  We hope this Chamomile Kitten™ greeting card helps you safely and soberly celebrate the “wearin o’ the green”!

  GRADUATION

  The mortarboard-and-tassel flourish on this Chamomile Kitten™ greeting card is a fun optical illusion. While the image appears to, indeed, be the traditional headwear of the successful college graduate, it is actually an inverted and reversed “tunnel mouth” design. Designed by mini-malist painter Skaate Inskviln in 1901, the tunnel mouth was, according to a self-published monograph, a “dream conception” of the entranceway to “a world that is a path.”

  The painting, called The Road of Quench-less Striving, was first shown at a small Swabian university in 1903. More than fifteen students, all on the verge of graduation, began experiencing insomnia, severe gastric distress, and bleeding pupils after viewing it. The painting has never been shown again.

  However, one of the students who suffered eight months of insomnia wrote an opera shortly after being released from a sleep disorder clinic. Titled I Have Spent Eight Years Learning from the Lives of People Who Truly Broke Free from the Strictures of Higher Education and Actually Made Their Lives What They Wanted While I Have Failed to Follow Their Example, Will Continue to Fail, and Will Die Unmourned, Confused, and Fat, it was never performed.

  Skaate Inskviln was bitten by a scorpion and died in a Tempe, Arizona, whorehouse in 1913.

  We hope this Chamomile Kitten™ greeting card sets you off on the right foot on your path of success!

  HALLOWEEN

  The image on this Chamomile Kitten™ greeting card is from the frontispiece of Braeburn Vollrath’s The Howler at the Rim of Eternity, first published by Arkham House in 1921. It is a subdued reproduction of the Aryan Idiot-Cannibal Fetish, carved into the litten arch of the Greblischtenmorgue and presumably destroyed after the building was firebombed at the end of World War II.

  Vollrath, who died in the San Quentin gas chamber (he reportedly strapped himself in), said of the image, “Its gaze unlocked a room in my nightmares which should have remained closed.” Shortly after publication of The Howler, Vollrath was arrested and confessed to the Cambridge Jawbone Murder Spree. Despite overwhelming evidence of a second killer, Vollrath famously repeated, “The face. The face in the stone and me alone.” The late-seventies Finnish death-metal band Hastur used this quote as a refrain in their song “Howler.”

  Few, if any, copies of The Howler exist today.

  On July 5, 1974, a yellowed frontispiece page from The Howler, along with parts from seventeen different bodies, was found in the apartment of sex slayer/occultist Charles Sugar. When asked where he obtained the frontispiece, Sugar said, “Look in a mirror after midnight and ask Vollrath.” In prison, Sugar overdosed on his own antiseizure medication. The frontispiece page disappeared.

  We hope this Chamomile Kitten™ greeting card has helped “scare” up some fun for you this Halloween!

  THANKSGIVING

  The woven farm scene on this Chamomile Kitten™ greeting card comes from a traditional Wampanoag Indian blanket motif, which depicts Indians growing corn, squash, and beans under a warm sun. It is a scene of peacefulness and contentment, showing the whole village working together for the betterment of everyone. During the “first Thanksgiving” at Plymouth, Wampanoag Indians—including a Patuxet Indian named Squanto—helped teach the Pilgrims how to farm, fish, and hunt and shared the bounty of that first feast. A TRADITION THAT CONTINUES TODAY AND JESUS AND 9/11.

  We hope this Chamomile Kitten™ greeting card helped you “gobble” up some Thanksgiving cheer!

  CHRISTMAS

  The three wise men bearing gifts on this Chamomile Kitten™ greeting card tells the beloved story of the birth of Jesus—a savior who would bring peace to the world, lift up the poor and outcast, and foster goodwill toward all men, great and small. His gospel of peace is preached today by the heads of wealthy, powerful churches and government leaders.

  The gifts of gold, myrrh, and frankincense helped Joseph and Mary flee with the baby Jesus, since King Herod wanted to cut his head off, because of the whole “bringing peace to the world” thing.

  We hope this Chamomile Kitten™ greeting card ensures “yule” have a merry Christmas!

  CONDOLENCES

  The “three lilies on the gravestone” etching on this Chamomile Kitten™ greeting card was taken from a sixteenth-century booklet, A Gentleman’s Amiable Conversement on the Diggeing Up of Freshe Boddies for Experiments Scientifical and Eldritch.

  Throughout England, during the reign of Elizabeth I, dramatic strides were made in the science of diagnostic medicine and the study of the advancement of diseases.

  One of the surest ways for a young medical student to view the intricacies and wonders of the human body was to dissect freshly exhumed corpses. By placing three lilies on the gravestone of a recently deceased loved one, a family could signal a “resurrection man” that they were willing to allow the corpse to be stolen, often for a few shillings, which were usually wedged between the earth and the edge of the gravestone, to be collected later.

  Of course, with today’s modern science, computer simulation technology, and genetic manipulation, the practice of grave robbing for the advancement of medical science is a thing of the past. Today, three lilies placed on a grave is a signal to no one except a wealthy necrophile, many of whom are willing to exchange a fresh corpse for, say, ten thousand dollars in nonsequential traveler’s checks, sealed in an airtight bag and wedged between the earth and gravestone.

  Ten thousand. Maybe more for a dead teen athlete.

  We hope this Chamomile Kitten™ greeting card helps to chase away those “graveyard blues”!

  Once I started doing stand-up comedy, I couldn’t get enough.

  The idea of writing a book, becoming a journalist and then, hopefully, a novelist, couldn’t withstand my sudden ambition to craft a perfect dick joke. Five thousand words a day seemed silly when I could bring a room full of drunks together with fifteen perfectly chosen words.

  I loved getting to hang out with comedians. After years of record store and movie theater retail, and then temping in offices, it seemed otherworldly that I was suddenly surrounded by a peer group that was clever, quick, and discerning.

  I also loved the hacks. Mainly because they helped throw off the public perceptions of stand-up comedy. The average person’s view of stand-up comedy was degraded and dismissive. The stuff that was being broadcast on T
V—endless brick-background cable shows and watered-down “urban” neon mini-auditoriums with a Lethal Weapon saxophone sting—was truly awful. People— especially dipshit pseudointellectuals who ate up one-man theater shows that were, essentially, reworked hack standup premises—avoided comedy clubs. Maybe they couldn’t stand the fact that comedy clubs simply announced what they were—booze-ups with jokes as lubricant.

  It reminded me of how literati avoid genre fiction or film snobs sniff at big-budget Hollywood movies or exploitation trash. It was how a lot of musicians treated rap and hip-hop when they first appeared.

  But avoiding the trash makes you miss truly astonishing moments of truth, genius, and invention. If you shut your mind to science fiction, you’re never going to read The Martian Chronicles or The Left Hand of Darkness. If you think murder mysteries are airport garbage, then you’re denying yourself The Horizontal Man or The Daughter of Time. If movies begin at Ozu and end at Roemer for you, then the subversive brilliance of Deathdream and Rat Pfink a Boo Boo will leave you in the dust. Die-hard rock-and-rollers will never discover Biz Markie’s The Biz Never Sleeps. Indie music hard-liners rarely venture into country music territory. Too bad—Dolly Parton’s Jolene and Waylon Jennings’s Honky Tonk Heroes are as essential as Last Splash and Yankee Hotel Foxtrot.

  And it’s the same with stand-up. Yes, I sifted through a lot of garbage in the late eighties and early nineties. But there were always unexpected moments of transcendence and originality. And knowing they were hidden in strip malls made me feel like I was a member of one of the last mystery cults on Earth. Like when the Fat Doctor said, one night’s at Garvin’s, “I used to work on the suicide hotline but I got fired. People would call up and I kept seeing their point.” Then there was Mark Fineman, who said, half to himself, “I don’t need to curse to do comedy. But I need to curse to live.” Hell, Lord Carrett’s non sequitur “You know they won’t let you buy a gun if you’re crying?” inspired a Holly Golightly song.

  A History of America

  from 1988 to 1996

  As Recounted by the Three Types of Comedians

  I Opened for While working Clubs on the Road

  I started my stand-up career in the summer of 1988 at a Washington, DC, comedy club called Garvin’s. It’s now a gay nightclub called the Green Lantern.

  The older, mainstream comedians I worked with laid it out clear and simple for me—you wrote and honed a clean five minutes, went on The Tonight Show, got called over to the couch by Johnny, got a sitcom, became a star. There was no other way to do it. That was the endpoint and the reward.

  Or you could get a gimmick—magic tricks, juggling, song parodies—and make a fortune at colleges and corporate gigs.

  And then there were the misguided, passionate rebels. I don’t mean the ones who went on to success and relevance. I mean the forgotten ones, the ones for whom things were way too personal and their defiance against the “clean five/Carson/sitcom/success” cattle chute made them sputtering, angry shamans of nonconformity. Of course, their fate was stranger and more comfortable than they could have imagined.

  I worked with variations of these three comedians until I started headlining full-time in 1996. Then I was lucky enough to get to pick my openers.

  I never got to pick my headliners. We had nothing in common, and I truly miss them.

  1988

  Me: And thank you, folks, all of you, for coming out. Let’s welcome to the stage Blazer Hacksworth!

  Blazer: Hey, how’re you doing? That’s great. Sooooo . . . 1988, huh? You see how Sonny Bono got elected mayor of Palm Springs? He got votes, babe! He should do okay in government. He already knows enough Gypsies, tramps, and thieves, huh? That song, you remember?

  Okay . . .

  And what’s with this “perestroika” that Gorbachev’s going on about? Sounds like something I got from that hooker on New Year’s Eve! Hey, Gorby, use a little Windex and wipe that grape juice stain off your head, then we’ll talk, hah?

  Oh, and you saw how C. Everett “Kook” said nicotine was as addictive as cocaine and heroin? That’s right, ’cause whenever I want a cigarette, I have to tie off a vein! “Hey, man, you want to do some rails?” “Of what, Colombian?” “No, Marlboros!” Yeah, right.

  Sooo, Quayle’s an idiot . . .

  [Four dick jokes and a Jim-from-Taxi impression later,

  Blazer leaves the stage to wild applause.]

  Me: All right, now let’s give a big welcome to “Wild” Willy Strumston and his Twisted Tunes!

  “Wild” Willy [tuning guitar]: Anybody celebrating anything? A birthday? What’s this here in the front row, date? First date? Computer-date fuckup?

  Okay, here we go . . .

  [to the tune of Janet Jackson’s “Nasty Boys”]

  Nazi

  Nazi boys

  Did you see the way Kurt Waldheim moo-ooves?

  Oh you Nazi boys!

  (It’s “Kurt,” “Herr Waldheim” if you’re Nazi)

  [to the tune of Don Ho’s “Tiny Bubbles”]

  Tiny fractures

  In the roof of the plane

  Makes the ceiling fly off

  Makes me shit my pants again

  [Breaks the tune to ask the audience,

  “Aloha Flight 243? You heard about this, right?”]

  Me: Ladies and gentlemen, here he comes, “Topical” Tommy Tantrum!

  “Topical” Tommy: Oliver North. John Poindexter. I mean, seriously. I’m too pissed off to write any jokes about this. You should be too pissed off to hear any.

  Did you guys read about how the First Republic Bank of Texas has entered FDIC receivership? First off, this is the largest assisted bank failure in history. I guess when they say “federally insured” they mean . . .

  . . . Okay, are you people serious? Are you fucking serious? You didn’t read about this? What, was Marmaduke particularly deep today? This is a primary, load-bearing beam of the coming kleptocracy being laid in front of our fucking eyes and you want to hear about airline food? Okay, fine, you want to hear about airline food. Fine. Here we go. Happy, family entertainment for everyone . . .

  [After several pouty, halfhearted airline food jokes

  and then a longish piece about the August 8 Myanmar

  “8888” incident, Tommy stomps off the stage.]

  1989

  Blazer: Whew, what’s that smell? Did they fry Ted Bundy again? Or is that the mozzarella sticks? You’re a sick crowd, I love that.

  Yikes, you see that Clint Malarchuk get his throat cut? This guy knows what I’m talking about, and this woman’s all, “Tee-hee—what’s a Malarchuk?” He’s this hockey player, got his throat cut open by another player’s skate. Yeah, I know. Gross. Quick, get some ice!

  How ’bout that crazy Khomeini funeral? The body falling into the crowd like that? I felt like I was watching a dude crowd-surf at a punk rock and roll show, huh?

  So, the Fox network is showing cartoons in prime time now. Simpsons or something? I guess they ran out of people to arrest on Cops.

  Have you seen these Post-it notes?

  “Wild” Willy [to the tune of Sam and Dave’s “Soul Man”]:

  Drive my dad’s car

  In the driveway

  Time for Wapner

  Each and every day

  Eight pieces

  of fish sticks

  Counting all

  of those toothpicks

  I’m a Rain Man!

  I’m a Rain Man!

  [to the tune of Lynn Anderson’s “Rose Garden”]

  I beg your pardon

  But Pete Rose has got a gamblin’ problem . . .

  “Topical” Tommy: If you don’t want to hear about the Keating Five or the Velvet Revolution, now’s a good time to take a bathroom break.

  So . . .

  1990

  Blazer: Man, you hear Jim Henson died? Yeah, Kermit was speechless. But seriously, folks, Jim Henson was a genius and he’ll truly be missed. There we go—yes, ma’am. A rou
nd of applause for Jim Henson.

  So, the first McDonald’s restaurant opened in Moscow. You want a McBorscht with that, comrade? Two all-beef patties special sauce lettuce cheese pickles onions on a bottle of vodka, huh, Boris? Hey, these people wait in line three days to get toilet paper. I’d hate to see the lines for French fries!

  Oh, and you see how Bush raised taxes? Guess I read his lips wrong! Think he’s trying to help Imelda Marcos buy some shoes for her trial? If we need money so bad, why don’t we get Mayor Marion Barry to sell some crack?

  “Wild” Willy [to the tune of the Fine Young Cannibals’

  “She Drives Me Crazy”]:

  He drives Miss Daisy . . .

  “Topical” Tommy: Well, I guess you all missed only the biggest merging of media companies in U.S. History with the merging of Time and Warner Communications. I’m telling you, people, we’re going to end up under one media umbrella and pretty soon the news and the government will all be brought to you by fucking Frosted Flakes.