Tampa, FL by way of St. Louis, MO

Nathan DeGraaf graduated fucking years ago with a BA in Creative Writing from the University of South Florida, which he still lives near because college chicks are the best. On weekday evenings, Nate can typically be found at any one of a number of North Tampa bars. On weekends, he typically cannot be found. When not drinking, fishing, watching sports, or having sex, Nathan likes to read, play the harmonica, and show up for work. Throughout the course of his life, he has been arrested six times because, as his father has often said, "the kid is fucking stupid."

Comedy Writing

Snipping the Snippets

<a href="http://www.evolvefish.com/fish/media/T-Vasectomy-White.gif"><img style="float:left;width:200px;cursor:hand;margin:0 10px 10px 0;" alt="" src="http://www.evolvefish.com/fish/media/T-Vasectomy-White.gif" border="0" /></a>Amy: Hey, tell them what you got me for Valentine’s Day.<br />Me: Babe, save it.<br />Amy: No, go on, tell them.<br />Melanie: What’d you get her, Nate?<br />Me: Nothing.<br />Amy: In fact, he lost a shirt of mine on the same day.<br />Me: Hey, we’d only been together three weeks.<br />Amy: Six weeks, you fuck.<br />Peek: Nice, Nate. Nice.<br /><br />Doug: Hey, I’m sorry I’ve been in such a bad mood. I just found out that the wife’s pregnant and I scheduled a vasectomy.<br />Me: Congratulations. I mean, that sucks. I mean…<br />Doug: Yeah, that about sums it up.<br /><br />Amy: I was sitting outside your apartment for fifteen minutes. Mosquitoes ate me alive.<br />Me: Well, you should have called.<br />Amy: I told you I was gonna come by when I finished playing video games with Justin.<br />Me: Yeah, that was an hour and a half ago. I finished my column and I went to the bar.<br />Amy: If you go somewhere, you should call and tell me.<br />Me: Fuck that. What do you think this is? You think I’m gonna call and let you know every time I go somewhere? Get a grip.<br />Amy: You’re not very good at this relationship stuff, are you?<br /><br />Me: Hey, you know Hallmark doesn’t make even one Vasectomy related get-well card?<br />Danielle: And you’re surprised by this?<br /><br />Me: Hey Peek, I think those people are in our seats.<br />Peek: Yes! Finally, it happens to someone else.<br /><br />Me: Hey, how’d the vasectomy go?<br />Doug: Oh, it was just peachy. I’m thinking of doing it again. You really ought to consider it.<br />Me: No, my goal is to spread my seed. That’s why I take vacations with an alias.<br />Doug: You wrong.<br /><br />Amy: Wow, you’re beautiful. I’d really like to take you home. How old are you?<br />Random Cheerleader: Fifteen.<br />Amy: Okay, forget about it. I can’t use you.<br />Peek: That’s some girl you got there, Nate.<br />Me: Yeah, I’m proud.<br /><br />Doug: Okay, this is the last time I walk up here and explain shit to you.<br />Me: Well man, this stuff here ain’t easy.<br />Doug: I don’t care. My balls are killing me. If you want my help, you have to respect the balls.<br />Me: Okay, you know I’m totally writing that down.

Killer Train of Thought

<a href="http://www.skitrain.com/images/default_files/train.jpg"><img style="float:right;width:200px;cursor:hand;margin:0 0 10px 10px;" alt="" src="http://www.skitrain.com/images/default_files/train.jpg" border="0" /></a>Miss Deaf Texas was hit by a train and killed. I’m not making that up. And I think it’s funny. What can I say? I’m a heartless bastard.<br /><br />What percentage of the people who get hit by trains are deaf? I’ll bet more are drunk than deaf. What percentage of people hit by trains are both drunk and deaf? Furthermore, where can I go to find answers to these questions? It’s 2006 and this is the best we can do? Quite frankly, that pisses me off.<br /><br />I’m pretty sure I must be getting dumber everyday. Maybe one of these days, I’ll get dumb enough to get hit by a train. Let me tell you guys something. If I get hit by a train, no matter what anyone says, believe you me, I was drunk.<br /><br />My friend Scotty’s brother was hit by a train when Scotty was only eight years old. It really messed Scotty up. But the funny thing about it: the police called it a suicide, all Scotty’s brother’s friends were pretty sure that the kid just ate too many drugs and got all screwed up, and all Scotty’s brother’s enemies thought he was pushed. Whatever the case, if you made jokes about people getting hit by trains (like that old one about how Helen Keller would know if a train was coming), Scotty would get really mad and try to kick your ass. That really bothered me growing up. I got a ton of killer train jokes.<br /><br />Q: How can you tell if a train’s coming?<br />A: If you don’t know, we really don’t need you on this planet. You’re now free to go.<br /><br />Q: What’s the difference between getting hit by a car and getting hit by a train?<br />A: Smart people occasionally get hit by cars.<br /><br />You see, these are good jokes. And I never got to use them. Fucking Scotty and his fucking brother (I’ll see you both in hell by the way. Jeff, you bring the drugs. Scotty, you got the weapons. I’ll bring the alcohol and porn). Oh well, what can you do? I mean, besides trying to keep the deaf kids away from the train tracks?<br /><br />I don’t understand why trains still operate on oil-based fuel. You would think that such a suffering industry would do its best to reduce costs and innovate a little. Oh wait. I forgot about the government subsidies. Socialist pansies. All they do is hold back innovation and kill deaf beauty queens. Fucking Fabians.<br /><br />How awesome would it be to pull a train on a chick while on a train that actually hit someone from behind? You could be pulling a train on a train that pulls into someone and kills them. I mean, that’s pretty damn ironic right there (why do I feel like I’m stealing a bit from Court Sullivan’s file?).<br /><br />At any rate, let’s all have a moment of silence for Miss Deaf Texas (not that she would have noticed or anything).<br /><br />And I mean, while you’re being all silent and everything, you might as well pray for my soul. I can use all the help I can get.

The Happiest Show on Dirt

<a href="http://www.gborocollege.edu/athletics/sports/Softball/2004/disney.gif"><img style="float:right;width:200px;cursor:hand;margin:0 0 10px 10px;" alt="" src="http://www.gborocollege.edu/athletics/sports/Softball/2004/disney.gif" border="0" /></a>Baseball at Disney World.<br /><br />It just sounds wrong. And believe me, it is. Last Sunday, yours truly, accompanied by Pork Chop, Poop and Amy (sounds like a helluva cast, huh?—sometimes I wonder where I meet these people) decided to attend a Spring Training game between the St. Louis Cardinals and the Atlanta Braves. To do this, we had to drive into the beast of all beasts: Disney World. Now, I hate Disney for many reasons that I won’t get into here, primarily because my reasons aren’t funny. But I still had a good time despite the fact that these bastards made Spring Training feel like a trip to the mall.<br /><br />You see, one of the coolest things about Spring Training facilities is that they feel a little bit like the cities that host them. If you catch a Yankees game in Tampa, you can almost feel the fact that you’re in a real Florida city with a median age below forty and actual working stiffs. It’s evident in the architecture, the traffic screaming by the stadium and the white collars of many of the attendees. If you catch a game in St. Petersburg, you can feel the relaxed nature of the berg, which is defined in part by the sounds of million dollar yachts and the ocean breeze that floats in right off the beach. If you catch a game in Lakeland, Florida, you are easily reminded that these people are country rednecks. You can buy barbecue from five different local restaurants and they jam country music over the loudspeakers. Well, in Orlando, you get to feel the city as well. They’ve got a typical behemoth of a sports bar next door, and the stadium is located in some kind of bizarre shopping plaza/sports complex (that was actually hosting a cheerleading competition on Sunday) and the parking lot stretches for miles. The lines are ridiculously long everywhere and well, you just don’t get that homey, relaxed feel that Spring Training provides. In other words, you feel like you’re at freaking Disney World.<br /><br />You see, this wasn’t Spring Training for the Atlanta Braves. This was (as signs constantly reminded us) Disney’s Spring Training.<br /><br />The bastards.<br /><br />Now, I’m not some kind of baseball purist, but for the love of God, do we have to commercialize everything down to a freaking nub? I mean, can’t they leave the most relaxed games of one of the more relaxed sports the hell alone? Is it that hard to create an environment for real fans, or is selling tickets the main priority here?<br /><br />Sigh. Don’t answer that.<br /><br />If you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna go drink a beer out of my novelty Mickey Mouse ears (only $11.95 per ear—what a steal?).<br /><br />Fucking Orlando.

Observations Like Another Beer

<a href="https://www.pointsincase.com/nathan/uploaded_images/barrymelrosemedium-768303.jpg"><img style="float:right;cursor:hand;margin:0 0 10px 10px;" alt="" src="https://www.pointsincase.com/nathan/uploaded_images/barrymelrosemedium-766663.jpg" border="0" /></a>I just saw Barry Melrose analyze some hockey trades on ESPN News. It was the first time I had seen him since the hockey strike.

I’m Sick

<a href="https://www.pointsincase.com/nathan/uploaded_images/sick-770669.jpg"><img style="float:right;cursor:hand;margin:0 0 10px 10px;" alt="" src="https://www.pointsincase.com/nathan/uploaded_images/sick-768437.jpg" border="0" /></a>There is no truth to the rumor that I have no life. But lately, I’ve been sick. And it hurts to leave the house. Now, I don’t want to get all whiny and bitchy about how my life sucks right now because I’ve gone and caught a flu sniffle, but I am offering my current illness as an excuse for why this post isn’t gonna make a hell of a lot of sense.<br /><br />I keep thinking about the homestead (don’t laugh, that’s what it is). Twenty degrees, twentyseven cousins, six aunts and uncles, all on my mother’s side. I keep thinking about cold weather, wind that cuts like a knife, and people saying, “sure is nice out.” I keep thinking about my grandma, and how, though you could definitely argue that her passing was somewhat of a blessing, I’ll never see her again. I think of all this while I sweat through the sheets.<br /><br />I keep thinking about the plot to Grisham’s latest spy novel and how, in the Afterthought, he apologized for not being a professional spy writer. What the hell is that about? I mean, that’s not humility because he already wrote and published the book. So what the hell is he trying to say? This is the stuff I think about when I’m sick.<br /><br />When I’m sick, I eat a lot of strawberries.<br /><br />I keep thinking about how I’m adapting to the pounding in my head, and how maybe that pounding and me could possibly coexist forever. Maybe it’s like living in a house near an airport. Maybe I’ll get used to it.<br /><br />I like it when I hear cars driving outside my window when I sleep. I have no idea why this is or why I feel you need to know this. Have I mentioned that I’m not feeling very well today?<br /><br />When I’m sick, every room feels like a doctors office.<br /><br />I keep thinking about Barry Bonds and the steroids, and how everyone is all freaked out about something that a) they already knew and b) wasn’t illegal when Bonds did it. Am I the only person who just doesn’t give a damn?<br /><br />I keep thinking about March Madness, baseball’s opening day, and chicks in bikinis.<br /><br />I keep thinking about the World Baseball Classic (which is classic despite the fact that it’s in its first year) and how I really don’t like watching it all that much.<br /><br />When I’m sick my writing gets kind of jumbled.<br /><br />I keep thinking about ways to apologize for this post, but you know what?<br /><br />When I’m sick, I just don’t give a damn.

Bye Kirby

<a href="https://www.pointsincase.com/nathan/uploaded_images/kirby-704203.jpg"><img style="float:right;cursor:hand;margin:0 0 10px 10px;" alt="" src="https://www.pointsincase.com/nathan/uploaded_images/kirby-701515.jpg" border="0" /></a>Today, former Minnesota Twins outfielder Kirby Puckett, a ten time All Star and shining beacon of hope for fat little leaguers everywhere, passed away. Kirby suffered from glaucoma, which ended his career early. The glaucoma was just beginning an illustrious career that unfortunately would end prematurely due to the death of Puckett via heart failure. Puckett’s career lasted one year longer than the glaucoma’s. Furthermore, the glaucoma had no World Series rings or All Star appearances, and as such, the glaucoma has no shot at the Hall of Fame. So Puckett, dead at 45, though he lost his life, still kicked that glaucoma’s ass. I know Puckett’s chowing down some deep fried ice cream in heaven, while that glaucoma is reported to be searching for another pair of eyes. There is no confirmation to the rumors that St. Peter has recommended the eyes of Barry Bonds for the glaucoma’s next gig.<br /><br />Despite the glaucoma and other health problems, Kirby Puckett refused to lose weight—choosing instead to work harder and harder at gaining the fat that would eventually lead to his stroke and death. Kirby was no quitter, and he was not gonna let something like a little health issue get in the way of his dream of becoming more and more of a person every year. Kirby was as dedicated to his post-career eating as he was to his career as a hitter.<br /><br />Tony Gwynn and John Kruk, two surviving chubby ex-major leaguers, when asked for their thoughts on Kirby’s stroke and subsequent death, were overheard to have said, “I thought there’d be food here. I mean, er, we’re all gonna miss Kirby. He was the best.”<br /><br />When I asked my friend Andrea how she felt about the death of Kirby Puckett, she responded, “Was that like a nickname or something?” After further review, it turns out that Kirby was actually his given name. This means that, somewhere around the day he was born, his parents had some variation of the following conversation:<br /><br />Mrs. Puckett: We should name him Kirby.<br />Mr. Puckett: You want to name our boy after a vacuum cleaner?<br />Mrs. Puckett: Not just a vacuum cleaner. The best vacuum cleaner in the world.<br />Mr. Puckett: Well, I guess that’s better than Hoover.<br /><br />Throughout his career, Kirby was one of the best right handed hitters in baseball. His lifetime batting average of .318 is the best career average for any right handed hitter in a long time. The last right handed guy to hit that well was white, so I won’t bother mentioning his name here (out of respect to the aforementioned vacuum cleaner company, which, rumor has it, just recently stopped using slave labor). The following quote is not funny.<br /><br />“Baseball doesn't owe me a thing. I owe my whole life to baseball.” – Kirby Puckett<br /><br />The world’ll miss you big guy. As the man says: that’s the ball game. Thanks for coming out.

Observations Like a Nosy Clerk

<a href="https://www.pointsincase.com/nathan/uploaded_images/pregotesy-733138.jpg"><img style="float:right;cursor:hand;margin:0 0 10px 10px;" alt="" src="https://www.pointsincase.com/nathan/uploaded_images/pregotesy-727825.jpg" border="0" /></a>Few things in life are more annoying than purchasing a home pregnancy kit (while sweating bullets and chewing fingernails) and hearing the woman behind the c

Where’s the Remote?

<a href="https://www.pointsincase.com/nathan/uploaded_images/remotecontrol-753838.jpg"><img style="float:right;cursor:hand;margin:0 0 10px 10px;" alt="" src="https://www.pointsincase.com/nathan/uploaded_images/remotecontrol-747650.jpg" border="0" /></a><em>Nate’s note: Due to a death in the family, The Nate Way will be on hiatus until March 6. The following is a six page story I wrote my sophomore year of college. Read it slowly, and I'll see you soon.<br /></em><br />There aren’t many people in this country who don’t have a television. Most of those tubeless people are also homeless people, which is why the home of three wealthy students named Bill, Ed and Ethan was such an unusual example of American living—unusual that is, until their television arrived.<br /><br />Bill, Ed and Ethan had lived in their house for three years without the benefit, or curse of the television. Their house consisted of three upstairs bedrooms, two upstairs bathrooms, one downstairs bathroom, a dining room, a rumpus room (complete with pool table and mini-bar) and a television room: the highlight of the house as far as guests were concerned—and guests were concerned.<br /><br />Against the wall opposite the couches and coffee table stood an eight foot statue of Jesus Christ (stolen from the lawn of a Christian fundamentalist). The Christ statue had been home to the household for two years, and throughout those years, Jesus had been the benefactor a fashion overhaul. His crown of thorns had been replaced with an Oakland Raider’s cap, the bill of which extended past Jesus’ cheap, black sunglasses. Christ had three earrings, and one of the nails in his palm kept a tight hold on an empty can of Choors Light. The statue’s body, wrapped in a Budweiser beach towel and endowed with Mardi Gras beads, stood atop a mountain of offerings—mostly unwanted candy, maxed-out credit cards and pictures of ex-girlfriends. Behind the holy son’s likeness, a huge tie-dyed tapestry bore the words: you are all going to hell. The statue was a big hit at parties, but some people took it too seriously and even refused to enter the house.<br /><br />After years of being protested and misunderstood, the threesome finally broke down and removed the statue, placing their shrine on the lawn, where it sat for four days until the neighborhood committee petitioned the sanitation department to haul his holy hunk of polyurethane to the city dump, where he sits today.<br /><br />Three days later, Ethan Lee awoke from a drunken stupor and signed for a rather expensive and cumbersome delivery: a Sony Trinitron with picture in picture, built in DVD player and forty inch screen.<br /><br />After the box had been placed neatly against the wall where the likeness of the famed son of God once stood, Ethan returned to his bed. Fifteen minutes later the young man arose to the knocking of the cable guy, signed some more papers, and went back to bed. As he slept to the soothing sounds of installation, he dreamt that Christ himself (not the statue) warned him about the television with the words, “Think nothing of false idols.”<br /><br />He did not sleep well.<br /><br />Four hours later, just after one in the afternoon, Ethan shook off a blanket of sleep and shuffled to the bathroom. After rinsing his thin body of grime, washing his long, blond hair, shaving his flat face and brushing his caramel colored teeth, the young man put on his robe, then went downstairs for coffee.<br /><br />After finishing a few cups, reading the paper and smoking a joint, Ethan walked into the television room and stared at the huge television. Atop the beast of an appliance, he saw a movie-theatre candy-bar-sized remote control. Ethan, stoned and conscious of his recent dream, stared at the remote sullenly.<br /><br />The lock on the front door clicked, and Ed and Bill returned from class (a place Ethan often avoided).<br /><br />“Cool, it arrived,” said Bill.<br /><br />Ed grabbed the remote then plopped his body on the couch while shedding his book bag. The threesome sat and stared at the television for eleven straight hours. Movies, baseball games, news, cartoons, game shows and wild life shows all flickered in front of their vacant faces. Ethan and Bill smoked three joints in the darkness. No one spoke except to suggest a channel change or mock a program. When bedtime came, Ethan and Bill fell asleep on the couches.<br /><br />On the couch, Ethan dreamt that he’d been taken prisoner by robots which constantly saturated him with Naziesque propaganda in an attempt to rid his brain of any memory of his prior self or any semblance of free thinking.<br /><br />Again, he did not sleep well.<br /><br /><br /><br />“Where’s the remote?” Ed asked Ethan after waking him up.<br /><br />“How should I know?” Ethan replied groggily.<br /><br />“You and Bill were using it.”<br /><br />“Ask Bill.”<br /><br />Ethan tried to sleep as Ed searched the television room thoroughly. Ed attempted to check underneath the couch cushions Ethan slept on, which required more movement than the newly christened couch potato could muster. Ethan watched his friend, who usually kept his cool at all times, as he ran about the house cursing the remote control. Edward Lukowski, a Management Information Systems major from Chicago, who dressed in nothing but collared shirts, combed his short, brown hair neatly to the side before strapping it to his scalp with hairspray, never missed a class, never got in trouble and never seemed without self control, screamed at the top of his lungs in a voice thick with rage, “Where is that mother fucker!?!”<br /><br />Ethan broke out laughing.<br /><br />“You think this is funny?” Ed yelled as his face reddened and a fat vein divided the middle of his large forehead.<br /><br />“Man, loosen up. We’ll find the thing.”<br /><br />“Don’t tell me what to do you dumbass, lazy bitch!”<br /><br />Ethan bowed out from the argument by simply rolling over and attempting once again to rest in the land of sleep, but Edward circumvented that attempt by pushing the lazy longhair from the couch. He fell to the floor with an angry yelp.<br /><br />“Where is it?” Ed asked as he tore apart the cushions Ethan previously occupied.<br /><br />Ethan, seeing that any attempts for a normal Tuesday morning (technically, afternoon) were ruined, sat on a different cushion and rolled a joint on the coffee table.<br /><br />“I can’t believe this,” Ed rambled on. “We just got this damn TV and we lose the remote on the first day.”<br /><br />On the television, Ethan stared at the flickering image of a sharply dressed woman, revealing that the American Medical Association had approved ‘Prozac for dogs.’<br /><br />He felt sick, ran to the bathroom and vomited in the toilet.<br /><br />An announcer’s voice pounded from the television: “THIS IS CNN.”<br /><br />“Where is it?” Edward screamed.<br /><br />Ethan stared at his vomit in the toilet bowl. He missed the statue of Jesus more than ever.<br /><br />A little later, Ethan and Bill sat on the couch, listening to CNN reveal that the president will most likely react to recent terrorist attacks by invading Iraq. Many old people in suits had comments. Soldiers marched. Buildings collapsed.<br /><br />Ethan drank his coffee in silence, mouth agape. Was this the world he’d been ignoring for years? Was this the world which his years of rampant apathy blocked out? He tried to recollect headlines from around the globe but the reality of it was just too overwhelming. He was choking on too much food for thought.<br /><br />The announcer went on to say that UN Peace troops would soon be deployed in Kosovo, as riots and rebel attacks destroyed the former Checkoslavakian city. Meanwhile, in Bosnia, an attempt at foreign aid by UN relations had failed. The supplies were cut off, captured by rebel troops.<br /><br />Ethan sat in stoned awe as he learned about the world around him. Right there, on that beast of a television, the world was being brought to him. There was almost nothing he could do but sit and stare and start to care. The world was being revealed to him. And it was a fucked up place.<br /><br />Bill opened the door and discarded his book bag.<br /><br />“What’s up,” he said.<br /><br />“Have you seen the remote?”<br /><br />“Ah,” Bill, also stoned, paused his speech and appeared deeply contemplative of the very recent past. It was about three minutes before the bearded, longhaired surfer spoke.<br /><br />“It was on the coffee table, when I went upstairs to bed, at like four in the morning.”<br /><br />Ed frantically searched around the coffee table area.<br /><br />“What do you think, Ed? It’s hiding behind one of the molecules?”<br /><br />“Fuck you, Ethan.” Ed pointed at his roommate. “You’ve been laughing about this all day. I think you took it. You probably hid it before you crashed so that I’d freak out. Well, you’ve had your damn laugh so give me the remote.”<br /><br />“First off,” Ethan retorted. “I did not know that losing the remote would cause such un-Edward behavior. Second, I didn’t hide the damn thing. So just get over it, order another one, and leave me the hell alone.”<br /><br />Edward responded to Ethan’s retort by jumping across the coffee table and lunging at him. Ethan moved quickly to one side, letting Ed land softly on the couch. Then he jumped on Ed in an effort to restrain him.<br /><br />“Look you crazy mother, I did not do this. Calm the hell down.” Ethan held Edward in a choke hold.<br /><br />Bill went over to pull Ethan off of Ed. When he did, Ethan’s elbow hit Bill in the face, causing his nose and upper gums to bleed.<br /><br />“Damn, Ethan!” Bill yelled.<br /><br />Edward took advantage of Ethan’s apology to Bill and shot a sucker punch right to Ethan’s jaw.<br /><br />Ethan landed on the coffee table, breaking its legs and destroying its function in the process. He then stood up and head butted Ed right in the nose. As Ed ran to the bathroom, bleeding, Ethan watched Bill grab his book bag and get out of the house.<br /><br />Ethan went to the upstairs bathroom, tended his bruised shoulder, loosened teeth, and stinging face.<br /><br />“Fucking TV,” he said to an empty bathroom.<br /><br />That night was the quietest night that house had never heard. Bill spent the night at his girlfriend’s place. Edward spent the night in his bedroom, locked onto the internet, trying to order a replacement remote control. Ethan sat in the backyard, smoking joints and writing poetry by candle light. No lights could be seen from the outside of the house except for the flickering of Ed’s computer screen seen from the side yard. A few guests stopped by, but they were welcomed by a locked door.<br /><br />No one had turned on the television since Ethan shut it off (after three hours of news).<br /><br />Ethan couldn’t believe how much stuff he had to write about. He was a flurry of creativity on a quiet, cool night. Poems, stories and general observations escaped from his stoned skull like blood from a roommate’s nose. The news had provided him with a creative center—real life drama—that he never felt the television could provide him with. He was beginning to understand how fast paced the world really is and how that pace must be maintained by anyone who dreams of calling himself a freelance writer.<br /><br />“What strange circumstances for an epiphany,” he thought.<br /><br />As Ethan slept later that night, he dreamt that his roommates both tried to poison his breakfast, but he caught them in the act, pulled the remote control from thin air, and beat them repeatedly to death with the missing hunk of plastic.<br /><br />He slept surprisingly well.<br /><br />Ethan awoke the next afternoon with a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach. He went downstairs and discovered an empty house.<br /><br />“Probably at class,” he thought as he rolled a joint on the kitchen table. Atop the table was a note that said, “Ethan, you should pay for the next coffee table.” He balled up the note and threw it away. In the process, he felt the pain in his right shoulder and remembered his swollen jaw. He took four aspirins with his coffee.<br /><br />A friend of Ethan’s, Gerald, stopped by to smoke dope, play pool and drink beer, which the two did until eleven o’clock at night. After Gerald left, Ethan wondered where his roommates were as he walked into the living room and turned the television to CNN. He marveled at the television’s lack of manual controls. Only on and off—no volume, no channels.<br /><br />“This world is remote control,” he said to an empty house.<br /><br />A pretty voice, attached to a pretty female face chimed, “And now for local news.” Ethan watched as they talked about the Henry Lyons case (a Reverend indicted for embezzlement after his wife set fire to the man’s mistress’s home—what material) and about three missing college students.<br /><br />Ethan paid close attention as the news anchor with bullet proof hair and painted teeth reported that one Bill Simmons had been surfing during a small storm on the East Coast of Florida. His friends saw him paddle out with two others, but no one came back. Some other surfers found Bill’s surf board three hours after noting he was missing. The other two college students were friends of Bill, of whom no trace had been found in the ocean or ashore.<br /><br />The door opened and Ed, soaking wet, walked in.<br /><br />“Did you hear about Bill?”<br /><br />“No, what happened?”<br /><br />“He was surfing in that storm this morning and now he’s missing.”<br /><br />“We didn’t have a storm this morning.”<br /><br />“He was at Cocoa Beach.”<br /><br />“Holy shit.”<br /><br />Just then there was a knock on the door. Ethan went to answer it, but no one was there. He peered right and left but their was no sign of anyone. He looked at his feet and there, wrapped with a bow and attached to a single card, was the remote control.<br /><br />“Damn.”<br /><br />Ethan showed the remote to Edward, who read the card out loud.<br /><br />“I hope you boys are happy. Sincerely, Jesus.”<br /><br />Ethan cried, then howled like a wounded wolf. Ed stared numbly at the television wherein CNN featured a story on the world’s largest Alligator Petting Zoo.<br /><br />Ethan stopped crying only after Edward stuck his oversized foot into the television tube causing sparks to fly. Ed’s foot stuck—the tube had actually pulled him into itself.<br /><br />After Ethan helped Ed pull his bloody foot and mangled shin from within the confines of the nicest television in the neighborhood, he asked Ed for a favor.<br /><br />“Want to go buy me a few drinks, please?”<br /><br />“Sure thing, Stoner.”<br /><br />The statue of Jesus sat solemnly in a scrap pile. A huge Sony Trinitron with a busted tube would join it soon.

Ten Signs Your Job Sucks

<p><a href="/nathan/uploaded_images/citisucks-796648.jpg"><img src="/nathan/uploaded_images/citisucks-794775.jpg" align="right" hspace="5" vspace="5" /></a><em>Nate’s note: This exact list got me fired from Citimortgage after I emailed it to one person.</em><br /><br />10. You’re the only one in your department completely unrelated to your boss.<br />

Five Letter Word for Snippet

<a href="http://www.crosswordpuzzles.com/usaf/crossword-usaf.jpeg"><img style="float:right;width:200px;cursor:hand;margin:0 0 10px 10px;" alt="" src="http://www.crosswordpuzzles.com/usaf/crossword-usaf.jpeg" border="0" /></a>Jesse: Man, I’m glad they tore down all these trees and put up all these houses. I was getting real sick of all that beautiful country and fresh air.<br />Brian: Yeah. With any luck, they’ll throw another McDonalds or two on this street.<br />Jesse: We can only hope.<br /><br />Carl: So, Dan probably won’t be talking to me for a spell.<br />Me: What’d you do?<br />Carl: Well, he passed out—<br />Me: And you shamed him.<br />Carl: Kind of.<br />Me: What’d you do?<br />Carl: I put a bunch of KY jelly between his butt cheeks, and then, the next morning, I asked him why he had some random guy passed out in his room last night.<br />Me: No fucking way.<br />Carl: He spent the better part of today at work wondering if he was gay or not.<br />Me: Man, you are one sick bastard.<br />Carl: No, if I was such a sick bastard, then why would I have sent him those flowers from an anonymous admirer today at work? I’m a nice guy.<br />Me: Remind me not to get on your bad side.<br /><br />Me: So, did you tell him that it was all a joke?<br />Carl: Yeah, after I told his girl and all his coworkers about the joke—you know, so they could get in on it and all.<br />Me: Sick fucker.<br /><br />Jim: What’s a five letter word for “release?”<br />Tom: Booze.<br /><br />Mark: Hey man, what’s your name again?<br />Me: Very funny, Mark.<br />Mark: Seriously. I mean, you look familiar, but I forgot your name.<br />Me: I’ve known you for a year, Mark.<br />Mark: You sure?<br />Me: Of course I’m sure. Your name is Mark. You sell life insurance for Mutual of Omaha. Your girlfriend needs to shed about twenty pounds.<br />Mark: Oh yeah. That rude fucker, Nate.<br /><br />Jim: What’s a four letter word for “frustrating?”<br />Tom: Cunt.<br /><br />Lloyd: Man, I thought you died.<br />Me: No such luck.<br />Lloyd: Where you been?<br />Me: Ain’t gone anywhere.<br />Lloyd: I see. You sobered up for a little bit.<br />Me: No. Had a girl and a TV so I didn’t need your bar.<br />Lloyd: Man, that’s fucked up. Every one of these guys has a girl and a TV. They still come to my bar.<br />Steve: Lloyd, you know none of us have girlfriends.<br />Lloyd: None of you? Damn, you all some losers.<br />Me: Ouch, that’s cold.<br />Lloyd: Anyway, bring the bitch in here. Let these losers all talk to her, and then you can drink in peace and she’ll think you’re doing something with her.<br />Me: Man, you should teach a class.<br /><br />Jim: What’s an eight letter word for “pestering behavior”?<br />Me: Will someone take that fucking thing away from him? Man, is he annoying.<br />Jim: Wait a minute. I think that’s it. Annoying. Yeah, it fits.<br />Tom: Wow. That’s fucked up right there.

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