I've Discovered Such a Love for Pistol-Whipping That I Don't Even Bother Buying Bullets Anymore.

I decided to become a policeman later in life than most, at 34 years old.

I came to the beat an already whether-beaten rookie that shared with my peers neither their military backgrounds nor their desire to recapture the lost sports-related glory of their youths.

I enjoy doughnuts and the unwarranted mistreatment of racial minorities, but I loathe stereotypes and informal black shoes.

I have been on one stakeout. It lasted just under 48 hours and I spent the entire time hoping that the suspect's contact would never show up and that my partner would offer me just one of his Twizzlers. He offered me one at the beginning, but I said no out of shyness and then desperately wanted one the entire rest of the time but was too embarrassed to ask, even though he kept telling me stories about inappropriate kisses he'd shared with his sister in their childhood.

I grew my first moustache just after graduating from the academy, but shaved it off because it looked ridiculous. My second is on its way in now, for I realize that the main purpose of any moustache is specifically to look ridiculous. On a policeman, it is a dare. On an adult film actor, it is a badge, which is ironic.

I took a photography class in junior college. They let me take the mug shots once, and I brought my own camera and lighting kit. I used Photoshop to replace the booking I.D. on their slate cards with the words "Happy Birthday Mom!" I printed copies for them to take home after they made bail, because I think I take a flattering picture and they may have wanted to use them as a card. I haven't been allowed to take mug shots since then, but they tell me that's because of scheduling conflicts.

If I ever have the need to pat someone down during a traffic stop, I like to pat the same place on the side of their knee for an unusually long time, so long that it has the vibe of sexual harrassment even though it's on such an innocuous place.

I've finally come to terms with the fact that no amount of coaching will ever give my partner the ability to harmonize with me.

If I can get just one more signature on the requisition form, I'll be allowed to replace my retractable baton with a broadsword.

On a similar note, I have a costume designer I know from collge working on an attachment to my utility belt that will allow me to carry around a very small kitten. The next time I have the opportunity to cuff somone, I'll put my cuffs in one hand and the kitten in the other and say "So what'll it be, pal? The cuffs or the kitten?" Can you imagine what would go through your head if a cop with a broadsword said that to you?

Miranda rights are no longer legally required for many types of arrests, but I always still give them, though with a few modifications of m own. They include the words "buttonhook," "carbonation," and "ring around the rosey."

When you love what you do, you never work a day in your life.

Finally, Something Worth Posting About

I'm flying to New York at the end of the month to shoot a national commercial for a sexual lubricant whose name is the same as the abbreviation for the state of Kentucky.

The Strike is Over!

And had nothing to do with the fact that I don't post anymore.

That's All the Hilarious

It seems as good a time as any, what with the year ending and all.

There is nothing else that is funny left to be written.

Read The Onion, read McSweeney's, go see a Judd Apatow movie. Just don't count on any of those things being funny.

Here's what I did, in chronological order:
I monopolized the funny,
I killed the funny.

I just got done with a month-long inventory of this site in order to confirm what I have long suspected, and I can now state without reservation that it is true:
Everything funny that can be said, has been said.
Here, on this site.

There isn't anymore.

There's sadness, there's music, and there's apathy abounding, but there just isn't anymore funny. The coming of this site was like the coming of the industrial age. I've burned all the fossil fuels of comedy up and released them into the atmosphere. It's all gone. Kaput.

Comedy on Planet Earth: 15 Billion years to create, 3 years of EgoCock to use up and dry out.

The truly sad part is that not only can no more comedy be created, but even the comedy that already exists will no longer be funny. That's how completely I've exhausted the well.

The other truly sad part, even sadder that the first truly sad part, is that only about ten people have ever seen this site and were able to appreciate, through tears and gut-busting laughter, the demise of humor for humankind. That's really for reals truly sad.

From this point forward for the rest of sentient life on earth, the sound of laughter will be the sound of lying. Because whatever it is, no matter how funny you think it may be, isn't funny at all. That's over now.

Thank you and Happy New Year.



Hand job.

Legacy

Dear Sophie-
No pressure, but it just occurred to me that I will most assuredly leave this world not having contributed anything meaningful to it except for you.
Do great things, so that my life will not have been lived in vain. No pressure.

Love,
Daddy