Part I
Be sure to wear a condom when you Fuck the Man
as in Eddie Condon?
oh
I don’t know, can you wear him?
Joe walked in, wearing a Condon. Eddie Condon was as unamused as a mummified corpse could be.
Eddie harumphed indignantly and began strumming his 1912 Gibson Tenor Guitar with fervor, only noticing that his fingers were flaking away when his index bone broke his g string.
"My thong!" he yelled
“Thing, thong
, de witch is thead!” cried an aging Hervé Villechaize.
oh shit, the poor guy committed suicide
never knew
, said Joe to Eddie.
“Eh? Who committed suicide?” said a confused, and still aging Hervé.
“Uh... you?” replied Joe.
"Ah..." said Hervé. Then he keeled right on over! Joe looked at Eddie.
"Got any mustard?" said Ed.
“De plain! De plain!” cried Joe.
...that was a *horrible* pun.
Eddie shook his head. An ear fell off.
"Dijon,"he uttered, stooping down to pluck the ear from the dirt.
"Welcome to Condiment Island!!" hollered Joe.
"It's Condon-ment." Eddie grunted, stuffing his ear into his valise.
The Anti-Tinkerbell fluttered into the smoky bar through a window. “Welcome to Nixyland!” she crooned.
Out of nowhere came a novelty giant flyswatter and smashed her into a post. At the other end stood Dustin Hoffman, dressed as Captain Hook.
"Vermin!" he announced.
The actual Tinkerbell was close behind. She flew to attack him, but clumsily missed and flew into the Anti-Tinkerbell. They exploded in a burst of fairy radiation.
The resulting injuries to the patrons of the bar would not become apparent for fifteen years, when all would die within weeks of each other from cancerous ulcers in the nose, throat, and ears.
But until then, they would wander the world, possessed with an urge to do good. One of those patrons had a cocker spaniel.
That cocker spaniel ended up outliving them all, and is now 132 in dog years. His name is Clarence Harris, and he now lives with his family in Tehran.
He has but one mission: to send a love letter to Taylor Swift. Not a letter of carnal love, or brotherly love, but the purest of platonic affection, the kind that only comes from a mutant dog with just a touch of fairy radiation.
It took him two years to complete, including months of painstaking editing. He contacted Taylor Swift's publicist, who gladly parted with knowledge of her mailing address once Clarence informed him of his identity. How he understood dog language must also have something to do with fairy guts/radiation.
It must have, and it did. For the publicist had been there on the day of that great explosion, and he too, contrary to our previous statements, was still alive to this day, and he too was 132 in dog years. For he was secretly a dog!
I guess, like, fairy radiation does not cause premature death in dogs, maaaaan. Hey, don’t Bogart that!
Hey, man. Bowzer's got the keg.
I sure hope Mom and Frank don't get home.
Part II
Suddenly, everybody died.
All that remained alive in the universe was one hand, clapping.
and half of one anus, crapping
and half of one bitch, slapping
and half of one kitten with a saucer of milk, lapping
and a lone D & D geek, fervently mapping
and a Kanye West CD, vapidly rapping
as of someone gently tapping tapping t my chamber door
The one hand had a lot to clap about.
The End
The curtain rose, and all 232,238,492,203 actors in The Epic of Joe came out onto the stage, causing it to collapse into a black hole.
The black hole, who was named Clare, went on to have a successful film career, with a cameo in 2001: A Space Odyssey, and a Disney film called, yep, The Black Hole.
Claude Debussy thought she was from the moon and dedicated to her “Claire de lune,” the third movement of his Suite bergamasque.
Then Claude got tired of waiting on de bussy and decided to hail de taxi. Inside the taxi the driver was listening to the book on tape of The Epic Of John, as read by Leonard Nimoy.
“Johhhhhn, Johhhhhn, leeeeet’s hoooooope for peeeeeeace,” Nimoy wailed in a stirring duet with Yoko Ono.
(out of character - this is very reminiscent of the old Joe stories and their chaoticness :D)
Nimoy and Yoko melded into one misshapen being and started howling "Don't worry, Shatnerrrrr!!!!"
They were joined by Eddie the Cocker Spaniel, who wasn’t a person so he didn’t die when everybody died. Also, he was now 10^234 dog years old. “Hoooome, hooome on the raaaaange,” he howled adorably in human-speak.
Then, he died.
The ghost of Alanis Morrisette raged at the irony of it all.
Part III
Joe?
No, this is Bob. Erik?
No, this is Frank. George_
?
Yes.
George, can you tell Bob that Joe called Sally “Marge”?
Part IVa
PIECES OF NOT CHALK
, said the sad little pebble.
The knot chalk misunderstood and became hurt. Hey Erik, what if I did a Sharpie drawing for Eoj?
PEACE IS OF KNOT CHALK
Drawings fit on a blog just as well as text, have at it, I say!
Once there was a boy named Joe The Imperious. He was pretty sure he'd been referred to in a previous story, but couldn't remember which. So...he got drunk. Then his wife asked him why he'd been drinking so much lately.
“I drink to forget!” he raved.
“Forget what?” asked a Russian blues guitarist.
“I forget!” Joe shouted, and smashed a beer bottle against a passerby’s forehead.
The passerby, Alfred E. Neuman, mumbled, "What, me Forget?"
"Isn't it actually 'What Me Worry?" asked the Russian blues guitarist.
Alfred held out his hands like a beggar.
"I forget?" he postulated.
Then and there, Alfred and Josif Duma, the guitarist, decided to found Postulism Records, “your source for incomprehensible sounds recorded on wax cylinders.” Hipsters the world over rejoiced and began buying Postulism’s wax-cylinder recordings of washing-machine noises en masse.
When Postulism released Provol's Magic Birds, as well as a series of canary training cylinders, said same ran out and bought out the local pet stores bird population.
Little did they know that was actually MR. PCP!
, the talking manatee.
, disguised as a bird. Somehow.
The talking manatee would record your outgoing answering machine message if you answer a riddlle
The manatee escaped his cylinder and floated in the sky, magically visible to and understandable for everyone in every city and village worldwide, posing his great riddle: “Why do I drink??”
Both Joe and Mr. PCP answered at once, "To kill the pain of longing and heartbreak, and out of frustration, boredom, self spite and general malaise?
GENERAL MALAISE entered in his finest dress uniform, farted, and puked two pints of whiskey onto the floor.
"The Answer!" shouted the manatee.
“Whuk wheezh... needs. Is da sellllf... reinforshing. Problem!” slurred General Malaise. “Thash whatz we need. Thas whatz we... NEEDS,” he insisted to nobody in particular. “Itsh... our... specialty! And I am yerrrr... General Malaise! And whash we need iz a self reinforshing problem! I tellz ya!”
He stumbled into a space-age plastic chair, waving his whiskey bottle pointedly at someone only-imagined.
"The problem intensifies when you drink half a fifth of bourbon and feel as if you've only consumed half that amount." chipped in Jack Nicholson dryly.
"This leads to escalated bingeing as one struggles to attain Te desired effect," he continued.
The desired effect , rather.
"and this problem is called tolerance. What we need is more intolerance!"
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