by Tony Palermo
I cannot be 100% certain of this…but I swear that I heard some fellow say the following to a buddy of his the other night:
“I like my women like I like my moonwalks…”
I didn’t hear the specifics that followed but it left me wondering what EXACTLY he may have meant.
I like my women:
Bouncy?
Inflatable?
Full of kids?
Multicolored and shaped like a cartoon character and/or clown’s head?
I may need to summon a carnie to get to the bottom of this.
by Tony Palermo
Jim Henson and Sammy Davis, Jr. both died on May 16, 1990. Said events inspired the following exchange between me and a Cow-Orker (CO):
Me: Today’s a sad day in history. Both Jim Henson and Sammy Davis, Jr. died 18 years ago on May 16th.
CO: That is sad. They were both tremendous entertainers in their respective fields.
Me: Yes. Indeed. Did you know that they shared a bit of a connection?
CO: Um…I’d guess that Sammy appeared on Sesame Street or The Muppet Show or one of the muppet movies?
Me: Could be…but that’s not the connection I’m thinking of.
CO: I have no idea.
Me: Well, as it turns out, the googly eyes that Jim Henson designed for a lot of his Muppets were inspired by the glass eye of Sammy Davis, Jr. No shit. Think about it. Cookie Monster, as an example, might have looked completely different if not for Sammy’s infamous 1954 car accident.
CO (dumbfounded pause): Bullshit.
Me: Look it up.
I left before my lil’ prevarication was found out.
by Tony Palermo
“The earliest I ever referenced John Merrick was at a 10 a.m. board meeting. Arthur in accounting INSISTED it was a tam, but I was of the mind that he was wearing a pillowcase.”
“Pfft. I catch the 8 a.m. bus to work and just this morning told the driver that the part in his hair was almost identical to that of Fred Rogers AND that his choice in pomade was Most—not Moist—MOST Shemp-esque.”
“Heh. Every other week at 7 a.m. sharp I’ve got an appointment with the shoeshine dude in our lobby. By 7:15 a.m., I’ve already told him that his shammy looks to be comprised of the same material as Johnny Weissmuller’s loincloth, that his buffing reminds me of the ninja moves of Lee Van Cleef, and that his saliva appears to have the same consistency of a blendered Gremlin. The shoeshine dude calls me the Steve McQueen of sitting to boot (pun intended).”
“My coffee shop is right on my bus line; so I’m there every morning ’round 6:45 a.m. I’ve told the barista there that her whipped cream applications to my daily mocha are akin to the eye of the cyclops from Krull, that her swaying chest is reminiscent to the migratory hunchback of Marty Feldman in Young Frankenstein, and that the aroma of their fan favorite dark roast ‘Frozen in an Igloo Seal Plops’ would make Nanook himself hock his parka for a cup.”
“Closing time at the bar last night I noted that the olive floating in my fifth martini looked a lot like a decapitated Boba Fett. Thus inspired (and already olived out), I hooped that bastard in the ass crack of a fellow patron; in essence, turning his upper crena analis into a Mobile Sarlacc Pit.”
“Man…fuck you.”
“Heh.”
Tags: Boba Fett, Fred Rogers, Gremlins, John Merrick, Johnny Weissmuller, Krull, Lee Van Cleef, Shemp, Steve McQueen, Work, Young Frankenstein
TipTone Presents | Permalink | 
August 1, 2008 12:54 am | 
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by Tony Palermo
An exchange from work earlier during the holiday season:
CW: Do you drink egg nog?
Me: No. I went to school with a kid named Egg Nog.
CW: Really?
Me (shit): Yes.
CW: Where was he from?
Me (shitfuckshit): Er, Cambodia.
CW: Really?
Me (aw, c’mon!): Yes. He…escaped the Killing Fields.
CW: The movie?
Me (er): Well…kinda…but mostly Pol Pot.
by Tony Palermo
Chapter Two:
Run through with an errant Oscar Mayer package of so-called luncheon meat delights, I’m of the mind that if the Blorg Lord of the Pungent Swipe Rags of Toddly of Irkham’s got a taste for hot turds served steaming over a platter of my own gelatinized tears…welll…well, indeed…he can eat unprocessed raisins from the downspout of my own yelpling’s gutter prayers.
Then Theodore opened fire.
Chapter Three:
Or I will…steeped in my own rendered knee slatherings. The taters take note and flinch when the downpour of Ouchy Nourishing Sluice spatters hither and non ’bout their potentially edible sploochiness.
Ed tips back a thermos full of fermented sock waste and ponders Idaho.
Chapter Four:
Like opposing walls of a gulch, Sheriff Loink and Arch-Duke Fluppity train steely eyes ‘pon one another.
A vulture emitted a high-pitched ass squelch of three-day old carcass batter.
It.
Was.
On.
Meanwhile in Tempest Rolo’s Travelling Poodler of Delight, the grunts overheard by the hired hand were mistakenly identifed as foul beasts working the maples for the Sap of the Most Vile.
Chapter Five:
Spent…the Lords of Cinematic Ogling scrummed into a ball of myriad limbs and, eventually, a prismatic spray of Ooomph that startled the Elder Pants.
Chapter Sick:
The wrenchings in my lower portion were clearly (after adjusting my rakish monocle) the result of a lumbering anthropomorphic toss rag—with a two-fer-one deal at the prosthetics factory warehouse—getting a sound ladle-turned-clinch ‘pon the areas most of us in the Toot Huffing Sweat Lodge Community ref’d as Patella Town…or Bendy Square.
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