Headline: “Meet The World’s Most Cunning Con Artists”

Me: Nah.

If you think a little lead is going to keep me from these salted seaweed stems…

ASK MEG LALLY

Dear Meg,

The other day my neighbor was working shirtless in his yard, and I commented on one of his tattoos. Big mistake. Turns out he’s a member of the Reynosa drug cartel, and he threatened to kill me and my pets if I “rat him out.”

— Can’t Sleep

Dear Can’t Sleep,

The “soldiers” of drug cartels often make such threats, but they seldom come to anything. I’ve been told that the Reynosa cartel is particularly wimpy. When you push back even a little, they fold like a tea towel.

Snitch, don’t snitch… I think you’re fine either way.

It’s too bad Dr. Oliver Sacks is gone, because everyone else is mystified by my peculiar brain.

My symptoms are truly baffling:

1) Bizarre decisions. Sleeping with someone who’s totally wrong for me, just to get some sex.

2) Inability to concentrate for more than a few hours. For me, reading “Middlemarch” would be a huge challenge.

3) Magical thinking. At work, they had a raffle for Seahawks tickets, and I actually thought, “Hey, maybe I’ll win.” Then? Humiliation.

Don’t tell me to see a neurologist. I’ve been to a dozen, and they all say the same thing: “Your check bounced.”

Uh, yeah! I have a syndrome!

To reach the top in music, you want a name that spells success. Billy Idol. John Legend. Ringo Starr. Moneybagg Yo.

Next you need velvet trousers.

Finally, you need the Academy of Fame and Lambos in Galveston, Texas. We’ve helped over four million people become international megastars.

We got a call last night that a college student was having a bad acid trip. We thought the poor guy might freak out if he saw a bunch of cops, so we sent in a couple of those robotic dogs with cameras for heads.

Turns out the kid was in worse shape than anyone knew.

2021: You take your problem to H.R.

1971: You take your problem to H.R. Pufnstuf

When you play weekend rugger, you take the odd elbow to the face. The latest conk set off a blizzard of floating squiggles in my left eye.

“I’m afraid you’ll just have to get used to it,” the eye doctor said. “Nah nah,” I shot back. “I’ll tell you what you do, Doc. You get a little sterile tube. You slide it into the eyeball, through the tear duct…”

The doctor frowned. “The tear duct does not connect to—”

“…Then, quick as wings, you vacuum all the crap outta there. Ease out the tube, and bang!” I clapped hard for emphasis.

The doctor shook his head. “A few have tried to aspirate floaters from the vitreous. But I’d be afraid of infection, bleeding, retinal tears…”

“Oh, I get it. You’re chicken!” I taunted. “Buk-buk-buk-bukKAW!”

He looked startled, so I kept up the chicken sounds and strutting for quite a while. Anyway, long story short, I go in tomorrow to have BOTH eyes removed! Sucks, right?

A WEEK LATER — One thing they don’t tell you about getting your eyes removed: You cannot see SHIT! Am I glad I watched all the Matrix movies!

According to Vanity Fair, America’s slowest-growing home amenity is the bat grotto. Also out of fashion: leprosariums, “anything with glory holes,” despair rooms, and “more than one” stinkhouse.

If I ever have to return to porn — ha ha, IF! — my stage name will be Dag Nabbit. My hook will be that I’m always complaining.

An Important Message from the Society of Audio Engineers

Many musical performances today, especially in the field of “rap” or “hip-hop,” conclude with the so-called “mic drop.” We at the SAE deplore this practice. Dropping any microphone onto a hard surface can damage the diaphragm, coil, and even the magnetic core (and invalidate the warranty).

In some cases, the mic is not merely “dropped,” but violently hurled to the ground!

We suggest these safe and sane substitutes for the mic drop:

• Yelling “THUNK!” (but not into the mic; it could overheat)

• “And that’s a RAP WRAP!”

• (for rock and country) “And that’s a WRAP-A-ROONIE!”

• (if there’s applause) “Howwww SWEET it IS!”

• “And AWAAAAY we GO-GO!”

• “It’s DRINK TIME!” (check local laws first)

Story that will break the morning after I buy Bitcoin:

HACKERS STEAL BITCOIN

“It’s All Gone”

None Is Left

Siri: “What Did You Expect?”

RIGHT: “The sailboat knifed through the water.”

WRONG: “The knife sailboated through the turkey.”

Advantages of Living in a Caveman Diorama:

• Excellent Lighting

• Everybody’s Naked

• Dire Wolf Can’t Move

• Handprints = Art

• Strong Musty Odor

THE TOMB OF THE UNKNOWN SOLDIER

Presented by Pixy Stix

And look for new Pixy Stix RammerZ — “When Gravity’s Too Slow!”™

OVERHEARD AT THE WEED STORE:

“What’s a good strain for someone who’s been ill-treated by the entertainment industry?”

A DAYLIGHT ROBBERY

I once read about a guy who opened his mailbox to find a rattlesnake. Today, my mailbox contained an even nastier horror: “Birds of the Pacific Northwest.”

When you collaborate like a goddamned demon on a birding book, and the cover lists your name third, rather than second, the only response is to vomit with rage.

No one is saying that Penelope Fayette did not do the bulk of the work. No one disputes that. And she richly deserves her primary credit. More power to her. But to put Hal Grumman in the second spot? When he only covered the Brown-Headed Cowbird, Western Wood-Pewee, Rufous Hummingbird, House Sparrow, and other “trash birds”? Hey, great, Hal, you spotted an American Crow! With those Swarovski binocs you’re so proud of! Everybody drop to your knees — We’ve found the next Phoebe Snetsinger!

I just need to calm down.

But it’s hard, when proper credit is just CARJACKED out of your hands.`

Even the sky is crying.

The last New Yorker to call Thirty-Third Street “Toidy-Toid Street” has died. While shrugging cynically, he apparently choked on an egg cream.

“Unquenchable” is the story of Lemlem Abdo, a long distance runner. The movie climaxes in a career-defining race.

Lemlem gets a fast start, but after a few laps he begins to tire. His archrival Anton Birk overtakes him and steadily pulls away. Just then, Lemlem spots his cheering girlfriend in the crowd. Inspired, he surges ahead. Then he sees the scowling teacher who never believed in him, and his stride slackens.

He then sees his little brother who wears leg braces; he accelerates and regains the lead.

Next, Lemlem spots his good-for-nothing stepfather. At first he slows down, but then he remembers that his stepfather was raised by an impoverished aunt who beat him, and he speeds up. Moments later, he sees his dry cleaner. He shrugs and keeps the same pace.

In the final lap, Lemlem sees his girlfriend again. This time, she holds up the newborn she secretly gave birth to the night before. An emotional Lemlem charges to the lead, only to falter in the homestretch, as he ponders his new responsibilities. Then he notices that his baby is clutching a tiny Ethiopian flag. At first Lemlem slows even more, as he is Eritrean, not Ethiopian. But then he feels a rush of regional pride for the entire Horn of Africa — and wins the race.

I was waiting to get on a plane when I heard, “All active-duty military personnel are welcome to board at this time.” Warm applause broke out as these valiant folks moved to the front. “Now, all First Class passengers may board the aircraft.” I tried to get people to clap — “C’mon, let’s hear it for the winners!” — and some did join in. But it felt half-hearted.

My daughter said it: “Okay, first of all, who would get married in OHIO?”

City serving as the seat of government: CAPITAL. U.S. Congress building: CAPITOL. Advisor to a caterpillar: CAPITIL. Hat-based phone service: CAPITEL. Device for reattaching heads: CAPITOOL.

In 1876, Saltines made their debut at the Philadelphia World’s Fair, electrifying millions. “A cracker with SALT? Now, this is living!” one man exulted. “It’s like a fireworks show in my mouth!” a nun yelled.

The line to taste the astonishing salt-kissed cracker circled the fairgrounds eight times. Many fainted, or convulsed, when they saw its groundbreaking shape (square). Still more went mad in their own homes, yowling for the savory wafers, and had to have holes drilled in their skulls, often by their own children.

Each day, the frenzy blazed more fiercely. When members of the Harvard Lampoon, in an ill-conceived prank, tried to swipe the fair’s Saltines and replace them with unsalted soda crackers, an enraged mob fell upon the lads, pulling their bodies to pieces.

Only the outbreak of World War I, nearly forty years later, could distract America from its Saltine fixation. And even today, “the crackers with thirteen holes” are forbidden by all major religions. “Man was not meant to experience so much flavor,” said one cleric, “for the Lord thy God is a jealous God!”

My dog comes up with the worst business ideas.

Researchers at Hawaiian Secret have discovered that sunscreen chemicals like avobenzone, homosalate, and octinoxate are absorbed into the bloodstream. “We don’t know what the chemicals do after that — probably help the body’s cells, and comfort them when they are weak.”

The kids in my kindergarten were tough. They used pipe cleaners to clean their pipes.

Scene from “The Ballad of Ted Bundy”

BIKE SHOP OWNER: Well, Mr. Bundy, you seem like a hardworking fellow. Think you can sell bicycles?

TED BUNDY: Oh yes, sir! I know I can.

MECHANIC: Whoa, Boss. Don’t you know this guy is a murderer?

BIKE SHOP OWNER: A murderer? Is that true, Ted?

TED BUNDY: (evenly) Yes, it is. I didn’t put it on the application, ‘cause I knew you wouldn’t take a chance on me.

BIKE SHOP OWNER: Who’d you murder?

TED BUNDY: A bunch of coeds. But that was a long time ago. I’ve done a lot of thinking since then — hard thinking.

BIKE SHOP OWNER: I’m sorry, Ted, but I just can’t hire a multiple murderer. People would talk. You understand.

TED BUNDY: Oh, I understand all right. I’m beginning to understand a whole lot of things!

(BLINDED BY TEARS, HE RUSHES OUT THE DOOR.)(SFX: JINGLE.)

BIKE SHOP OWNER: Ted! Ted, wait!

If a folk singer’s work is influenced by Janis Ian, is it Ianian?

Dear Homebuyer,

There has been a great deal of misinformation surrounding BLUEBERRY COVE, and BLUEBERRY COVE LLC would like to dispel any unfortunate misconceptions. BLUEBERRY COVE is a master-planned community for adults who aspire to a BLUEBERRY COVE lifestyle.

Folks who do not enjoy sex, or only enjoy it in an antiseptic, germ-free environment, should steer far away from BLUEBERRY COVE. At BLUEBERRY COVE, sex is loud, outdoors, frenzied, and messy. At BLUEBERRY COVE, you WILL get wet! AND sticky. AND pregnant.

Quincy Jones, the legendary musician and producer, once said that his friend Marlon Brando “would fuck a mailbox.” If you’re like Marlon Brando, and would not turn up your nose at a heaving pile of stinky bodies, BLUEBERRY COVE is for you.

ABC To Open “Jar”

“The Jar,” a prime-time game show from BiStar Entertainment, launches next Wednesday on ABC. Contestants are lowered into an oversized Mason jar with a knife-wielding O.J. Simpson, and must fend off his thrusts using only a garbage can lid.

Simpson is repped by Mitzi Clutcher at Reacharound.

Do NOT hire Johnny Barkdale to redo your kitchen. He built me a slapdash black ash backsplash!

When a mountain stands in my way, I don’t see an obstacle. I see an enraged rock-ogre named Popobawa.

Every time there’s a commercial with a giant tomato or carrot or eggplant, it has a human face sticking out of it.

This has to stop. Commit to the vegetable!

Q: Why is a hand cart called a “dolly”?

A: It just is, all right? I’m sick of you people!

The Beatles’ “Revolver” was a transformational record, “the first psychedelic masterpiece,” and the foursome had ambitious plans for it.

On the winter solstice after release, they wanted every album to “quietly liquify, and hurry to the center of the earth,” subtly altering the planet’s orbit, and ushering in a new age of freedom.

In the end, they settled for a sticker that smelled like sandalwood.

You never see James Bond wrapping a present. Maybe something for Q, to say, “Thanks for that exploding candy dish.”

If Bond did wrap a gift, I know he would cut the wrapping paper the cool way, where you don’t even work the scissors, but just kind of shove the blades down the paper. It’s called style.

Desperate to compete with Tesla, Ford will equip its latest EVs with enormous cowcatchers. The wedge-like devices are designed to “gently deflect” road debris, livestock, and jaywalkers. Says Ford rep Skip Justice, “Cowcatchers are Job One.”

We think we’re iridescent hummingbirds sipping fragrant nectar, when we’re really grimy pigeons fighting over a hot dog bun.

I’m a sex therapist. I’ll often run into someone at the market, and they’ll ask me, “How can I make sex with my spouse more exciting?” And I always tell them, “Stop trying to get therapy for free, Cheapie.”

Smoke detectors should really be called SLEEP DETECTORS!

When I tell people I’m a graverobber, they’re usually horrified. Which is fine. Then they want to know if I work at night. Uh, YES! Then they ask if I dig with a shovel. No, I just roar up in a Bobcat! ‘Cause people love it so much when you unearth their relatives!

Once in a great while, they ask about soils. I tell them rocky soils are the toughest, followed by loamy, then clayey. Clay-ey? Clay-y? I gotta say, they all look wrong!

Not The Scariest Warning Sticker…

OVERRATED

EXERCISE - What’s THAT about?

LITTLE RED BANANAS - Is it just me?

ANCIENT MANUSCRIPTS - BO-ring!

ANKLE PROBLEMS - I’m impressed WHY?

KEY LIME PIE - Key LAME Pie!

THE BIG DIPPER - Seen it!

FIREFIGHTERS - Ego much?

OXCARTS - Am I missing something?

SIMPLE HUMAN DECENCY - Let’s not and say we did!

FLYING FISH - Okay, they can fly! Get OVER it!

As you may have read in the trades, I’m writing the Scrubbing Bubbles Movie. And yes, I AM having second act problems. The last writer on the project had the Scrubbing Bubbles going to Paris, and the whole second act is them zipping around cleaning the Pont Neuf and Père Lachaise, yelling “Sparkle Power!” And the Parisians love it and can’t stop cheering! Wonderful, let’s just drop the Bubbles’ turf battle with Blinky, Pinky, Inky and Clyde! And Roz, the treacherous toilet brush! Who needs THAT?

WHISTLEBLOWER: “HONEY IS BEE BARF!”

If, while on a pogo stick, you jump on a trampoline, you will soon hit the moon. It happened to a kid at my school. Either that or he moved.

This morning, it was discovered that every possible band name has been used, except one — and it’s not very good. “PRAGGY.”

What’s a suitable wrap party gift for the fluffer on your porn film? Not a chic cowhide day planner, apparently!

When I hit my head, I see the flag of Maryland!

Every few days I call up Gold Hill Mining Corp. and yell, “DO YOU REALIZE YOU’RE SITTING ON A GOLD MINE?”

HARDASS POETRY AGENT

AGENT: Amy? Listen to me. You’re gonna blow up this deal. You’re dying, and your body is gonna fall over and hit the detonator.

PUBLISHER: Don’t get nasty. You know I can’t pay what you’re asking.

AGENT: Whoa-whoa-whoa. This is not some ABAB shit I’m bringing you. Okay? This shit is spare. It’s elegiac. Not a rhyme in a carload.

PUBLISHER: I read the poems.

AGENT: So you know they’re coruscating, and you know they’re plangent. God, you’re a bitch!

PUBLISHER: Hey! I told you—

AGENT: Fine, we’ll go to Stone’s Throw Press. We’ll go to Drizzle. We’ll go to Broken Budgie. And you’ll be sitting at home eating Quiznos, with your thumb up your ass, when we walk away with a Milkweed Prize.

PUBLISHER: I hope you do.

AGENT: And Amy? You can forget the chapbook too.

PUBLISHER: Howie…

AGENT: The 32-page, saddle-stitched chapbook? Inspired by the poet’s struggles at Bowdoin? That li’l darlin’ is sailing into the sunset.

PUBLISHER: I will not respond to threats.

AGENT: Bye-bye, chapbook! Bye-bye! Bye-bye, chapbook!

PUBLISHER: OKAY. Give me a figure. A REAL figure. For the collection and the chapbook.

AGENT: I did. Fifteen hundred.

PUBLISHER: No. That is insane. (LONG PAUSE) I could — maybe — go four hundred.

AGENT: SOLD! If you throw in some bookmarks.

PUBLISHER: Yeah, all right.

AGENT: NICE bookmarks. I’m not fucking around here!

Stock Photo Shooting Schedule:

• Mug full of pencils.

• Fraying rope that’s down to one strand and about to break.

• Closeup of bee.

• Stunning woman sitting at the end of her bed, distraught, because Adonis-like man can’t satisfy her.

  — LUNCH —

• Different-colored hands stacked in solidarity.

• Frisky yearling frolicking amidst wildflowers.

• Sleek gay couple looking in opposite directions, because even though the sex is volcanic, where’s the intimacy?

• Strawberry splashing through sheet of water.

• Pensioner panicked by bill.

QUEER-IES

People say they love money, but do they really love money, or do they love the things it can BUY?
Hmmm?

How could a respected historian, in a recent book, refer to the Manson Family as “rascals,” “scamps,” and even “scallywags?" These were not “mischief-makers” or “moppets.” They were VICIOUS MURDERERS.
Hmmm?

“I can’t wear BURLAP — It’s itchy and rough.” Whoa, there! Burlap is NOT itchy, and it’s NOT rough. Maybe your RELATIONSHIP is itchy and rough, and, “I know! I’ll blame BURLAP!”
Hmmm?

Ever notice how folks will gladly donate blood to the Red Cross, but the minute a vampire bat lands on their neck, here come the screams!
Hmmm?

Why did I start drinking again?

Because I didn’t want the sawed-off end of a log to be having more fun than I was.

Check out my new art installation. Through March 30.

Ever see a badger cupping its paws under a waterfall to get a drink? That would make a charming photo!

The Harmonica Man, the local philanthropist who gave a free harmonica to every first grader in the county, has been stomped to death by teachers. Asked why the slaying took so long, one teacher replied, “We didn’t know where he lived.”

My higher power is AAA.

This morning, I was talking to my mom, and I noticed she had little swirling demons on her face. The mailman did too — and his were jabbering and swearing at me. C’mon, people, get it together!

Scene from “Lorenzo’s Oil”

MOM: Those stupid doctors! Why can’t they cure our son’s disease?
DAD: (breaking down) I don’t know, I don’t know!
MOM: If only there were some kind of drug… or oil… that could heal him!
DAD: (snorts) Even if there were such a drug… or oil… the big drug companies… or oil companies... would’ve suppressed it. Bet that!

New Yorkers are proud of their straight-talking style. “You always know where you stand with a New Yorker,” they say.

I don’t want to know where I stand. Feel free to bottle up your impressions of me, New York!

You know what’d be cool? A horse running around with a Barbie in the saddle. She could be wearing a beekeeping outfit to really screw with people.

A guy I know got hit by a foul ball and it killed him. The baseball team felt horrible about it, so they gave his widow a season ticket for that seat.

“We are not alone.” How could we be?

My vote for the least pretentious fish name? The carp. Try to make the word “carp” sound fancy.

Four Places That Never Seem To Get Haunted:

Jiffy Lubes
Lemonade Stands
The University of Phoenix
Boogie Boards

What kind of maniac came up with ALLSPICE?

Why do we have bouncers in our bars, but not in our homes?