How many writers does it take to screw in a lightbulb?
About 100 million writers to discuss the best method of screwing in the lightbulb, what they’ll title the lightbulb, what genre is best for the lightbulb, what publicity tactics they might use when the lightbulb is screwed in, if the lightbulb has enough of a character arc, if the lightbulb has enough at stake, if lightbulb-screwing is best done with an outline, how other people have screwed in lightbulbs, whether the lightbulb would be better with vampires or in Swedish, what to do about lightbulb-screwer’s block, if this lightbulb could be the Great American Lightbulb, whether or not they should support e-lightbulbs, whether they should ask their agents what they think about how the lightbulb-screwing is going, how lightbulb-screwers should support each other more, how they could totally do this if they could get into that one lightbulb-screwers colony, and how if they ate healthier and had more coffee they’d probably have screwed in the lightbulb by now. And then one writer to just get his ass up there and screw in the fucking lightbulb.
Bill ate some lima beans.*
*Well, this is surprisingly hard to say if you’re drunk. Or not living.
Did you hear about this? “Eat Pray Love” is a big hit at the box office. It’s about a self-important woman who runs around the world complaining about things. How did they know my wife looks just like Julia Roberts?
Ha. I didn’t write that joke at all. But in the film, and this is true, this woman learns about life from eating too much in Italy. That’s how she learns about life. How about, let’s see, fighting a WAR in Italy? How about driving an ambulance through a bombed-out hellhole while being shelled by Germans, silly lady? How about being inside a building that blows up while you are in it? Christ, you could fall off a Vespa on a Milanese piazza and scrape part of your elbow and learn more about life than you would from eating goddam pizza, moronic woman.
I’m supposed to say something about “Snooki” here but I’d rather have each one of my arm hairs pulled out at the roots by tiny, tiny beetles. Something that also, by the way, happened to me in ITALY.
We have a great show for you tonight. Stick around.
There once was a man from Nantucket. Hey, how’s the fishing up there in Nantucket? I hear you get a lot of albacore. And whales. I once met a young man, Geoff, in the basement of that milliner’s shop in Havana and he went on about the albacore you get in Massachusetts. And some bluefish, I think. Bluefish? I don’t know. It was a long time ago. His pretty wife made excellent albóndigas and boy he had a long penis.
I’m all for the humor but let me say this. If you even think of adding zombies, vampires, dinosaurs, robots, clowns, rabid toddlers, mad clams, or whatever else is the mash-up freak du jour to my excellent works I will personally come back from the dead not as a zombie but as a REALLY FUCKING SCARY GHOST PAPA and rip your heads off.
Also, “Hey, but you’ve already got a great zombie title! ‘A Farewell to Arms’ Hahahahahahahahaha.” Not funny. Assholes.
A man walks into a bar and says “¡Claro que sí! ¿Dónde están mis abrazos? Next time I’m in Guatemala I’ll look him up!” And nobody has any idea what he’s talking about.
A man walks into a bar and says, “Crap, has anyone seen my schooner?”
A man walks into a bar. Fourteen hours later he walks out, kicks a streetlamp and yells, “WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME, SHITHEAD?”
Ernest Hemingway, John Dos Passos and a French poodle walk into a bar. The bartender says, “Get that dog outta here!” And ol’ Dos hunches his shoulders and pretends to be shamed and starts walking out and then we all laugh for a long time and then I say, “Whose poodle is this anyway?” And then we are quiet. And then the dog pees on T.S. Eliot.
Knock, knock.
Who’s there.
Husk of a man, amassed in emptiness.
Husk of a man, amassed in emptiness, who.
Exactly.
Knock, knock.
Who’s there.
It’s raining out here, please let me in.
It’s raining out here, please let me in, who.
What?
Knock, knock.
Who’s there.
If by “who,” you mean a person, as in the famous sketch by Abbott and Costello, that’s a totally different kind of humor from a knock-knock joke.
If by “who,” you mean a person, as in the famous sketch by Abbott and Costello, that’s a totally different kind of humor from a knock-knock joke, who.
Now you’re just mocking me.
Knock, knock.
Who’s there.
Abbott and Costello. Lord, they were stupid.
Who??
Stop it.
Knock, knock.
Who’s there.
“Who’s there” is really a question. If it’s a question you should use a question mark. I am so tired of this generation and the way they abuse punctuation.
Who’s there!
Fuck you.
Knock, knock.
Who’s there.
You know in Spanish, they announce a question before the question even begins.
¿Qué hora es?
Why would you ask that question to a person knocking on your door?
Why would you ask that question to a person knocking on your door, who?
—-
¿Why would you ask that question to a person knocking on your door, who?
For God’s sake, let’s just start over.
Knock, knock.
Who’s there?
Banana.
Knock, knock.
Who’s there?
Banana.
Knock, knock.
Who’s there?
Foghorn.
Foghorn who?
This is a lot harder than it looks.
