I woke up in a cornfield. It’s quiet there. The crows tend to peck at my chest as opposed to my eyes and feet, which is nice for a change. Cool dirt and a nice hiding spot is a free gift from the Lord Almighty. I feel like that kid in that Into the Wild flick, only I’m not young. And I would’ve kept the money. And at least sold the car, or lived in it. What a dumb kid. Them Japs didn’t make a fine automobile for you to set fire to, you rotten little punk. No wonder they found him dead – God hates vandalists!
Like it or not, I’m your Uncle. Your Uncle Wheat! You see, that’s short for Whitney, my real name. I used to have a dog named Jesse. I ended up eating him one night in a gin stupor. I puked on his skeleton. I’m currently wearing his coat as a butt shield to keep Charlie from stealing my farts and stools to genetically create clones of me. It’s working – No clones of me yet!
Your Uncle loves eating eggs! And snake meat! And Cracker Barrel leftovers! I’m officially banned from Cracker Barrel in eight states – both Dakotas! – because I don’t want people wasting all that good country fried steak and applesauce. I COULD SUE YOU BASTARDS FOR STABBING ME WITH A MEAT FORK! I DON’T REMEMBER IT GOING DOWN BECAUSE YOU PROBABLY PUT NERVE AGENTS IN THE COOKED CABBAGE….BUT I GOT THE GODDAMN SCARS!
I’ll shine anything you got – cars, shoes, dishes, couches, your hair – and did I mention I took these lovely flowers for you? Give them to your mother. Never mind that the alarm at the supermarket entrance just went off, just take the goddamn flowers. Do they make mattresses for public picnic tables?
I used to manufacture robots until President Jones was attacked by one of them. You were probably too young to remember that. Ask your parents about that otherwise unhorrific ordeal. And while you’re at it, do they have any vanilla extract they could spare? Like, the whole bottle? It’s 70 proof, you know. I’ve been drinking that for the last 2 years. I’ve grown so accustomed to liquor store owners pointing a .38 at my face, the grocery store people won’t do that. They do say they pray for me that I find God, or get kidnapped by a rich person. Neither has happened…yet.
Can I use your bathroom? I’ll be done, forty minutes, tops. The YMCA complained that there was a 2 inch thick slick of dirt on the shower floor. I didn’t get the nickname “Dirt Magnet” for nothing! (I also break into college dormatories and steal pornography). You can hose me off at a local car wash first too! I won’t show you my pecker or try to put the frisky moves on you (I sold my penis to a lesbian couple in Daytona Beach in exchange for some peppermint wine, so I pretend that there’s a penis there, the pee just runs unexpectedly down my balls, which I’ve painted lime green for Go! but I still haven’t thought of a good ice breaker to tell the female gas station employees when I trick them into seeing my green balls).
Well, at least I thought I could try to sway you to help an old veteran out. I can’t even spray the outside of your house for five dollars? Sigh. Oh well, I’m going to go take a cornfield nap and perform George Bernard Shaw’s Pygmalion with the ears of corn of my choice (I’m a tough, picky casting director!) Barrrrfffff!!!
Hyperchuckle.com will be posting as regularly as possible soon! Due to the fact that this site STILL generates traffic on a daily basis (Crazy!), I will be trying to post as much funny garbage as possible. I hope you have enough room on your cafeteria tray for my funny (at times) output.
Here’s Sly Stone all fucked up on some shit:
Now I have to go wash my genitals. I will see YOU soon!