From Angel’s discard pile

8 Sep

A number of thoughts I’ve had over the past several days that Angel declines to turn into jokes in an effort to convince me to write my own set (and join the dark side–which fails, hahahaha!):

“If your skin is dark enough, you shouldn’t wear torn jeans because then it looks like a hole has opened in the fabric of space-time.” (About a woman who Angel then told me was wearing black tights under her pants, accounting for the inexplicable uniform pitch-blackness I saw. What can I say, my eyesight is shitty.)

“Supermodels are not actually attractive; they look like a mad scientist crossed a human with a coathanger in order to get the perfect display vehicle for clothes. That’s got to be the one time a coathanger has gone up a vagina with benign intent.”

“I love black guys. They’re amazing at locating and sitting next to the empty seats on the subway.”

“Really fat people should always travel with small children, because then they have a justification for taking up two seats.”

And last but not least, Angel’s sister was explaining to us that she was at a club or bar last weekend where there was a huge line to use the bathroom, so she and a friend of hers just figured they’d go into a stall together to save time. The people in charge were like, “No, only one person can go in at a time!” I was wondering if that was to keep people from fucking in the bathroom, but she explained that it probably had more to do with people doing lines. My reaction: “I guess it must be really hard to snort coke off your own tits.”

So yes, I’ve always had a talent for mean (but hopefully funny-mean), which has always disturbed me and which I’ve always suppressed until Angel came along and freed the genie. Blame him.

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One Response to “From Angel’s discard pile”

  1. mom 09/20/2010 at 3:19 pm #

    Sometimes you have to have a twisted sense of humor. A group of us at Gilda’s club is working on a funny show about cancer. HA HA! There are a lot of funny things that happen. Like … to a cancer patient, pole dancing means maneuvering your chemo IV into the bathroom. If you think of anything from your perspective, please send it!

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