Honing My Craft

Today was a day of triumph. Not only did I get a legitimate chance to wear the outlandish straw hat I got in Mexico, but I did it while endangering all of central Texas. My bosses at work are both members of this shooting club where you shoot these old timey cowboy guns at all these complicated targets. I went along with them today, and a conclusion was reached: if terrorists ever invade the USA in the form of stationary metal targets, area code 512 is safe in the hands of Cody Powell. If there's movement involved, it could get a little more complicated. In that case, I'd probably just throw Octopussy at them and barricade myself in my apartment. In any event, I consider myself the first and last line of defense, and I expect all of you to pay tribute accordingly.

Lately, I've been trying to create jokes. I'm talking about traditional jokes here, with a set up and a punchline, as opposed to neo-comedy, which Goulash is. What is neo-comedy? Well, the jokes don't make any sense, they aren't funny, and they're all about mastadons. As you can see, I'm the undisputed master of this form. But anyway, here are the jokes I've created so far. In the event you hear someone repeating them and then taking all the credit for their genius, grab them by the shirt collar, take a big sniff, and then declare, "Smells like death is in the air!"

Joke #1
What did the cashew tell the 911 operator?
Help, I've been assaulted.

The beauty of this joke is that it works for all nuts, pretzels, and margaritas.

Joke #2
What did the philosopher sweet potato declare?
I think, therefore I yam.

The beauty of this joke is that I confront the taboo subject of vegetable philosophy. We'll never get past this issue unless we can discuss it in hilarious fashion.

The next time you go on a date, make frequent use of these and then prepare for outrageous amounts of fornication. Then find the best thing in your house and send it to me, because jokes don't pay for themselves.