Post of Shame

Why, why, oh Lord, am I doing this? Riffing in… what is it…WordSmith? WordPress? Improvising anonymously, away from the prying eyes of my public?

My God. Peace and quiet, that’s why.

So afraid that the hounds of FaceBook, the shrews of Pinterest, the… the somethings of Instagram… and that SnapChat thing… will find me. And Tinder. And Grinder. What was I thinking?

And what are they putting in this weed?? Absurdly strong. Absurdly cheap. My fingers are numb. I’ve got to pull over. Typing one-handed on the freeway like this is nuts. Traffic is light though, for LA. Not counting the 101 closures caused by the mudslides.

Hello, Baby. It’s just you and me here. Alone at last. Better than meeting in that Whole Foods parking lot, surrounded by SUVs with the fully tinted windows.

This will sound crazy I know, but it’s the legal pot talking: when I lecture tomorrow at the studio in Culver City, and I start to work my way through the PowerPoint script deck, I’m going to plant that picture I took of you cooking in nothing but the blue apron, halfway through my spiel.

Don’t hate me. I just got a Like on this site from someone suspicious. That’s one good thing about Whole Foods. Nobody has ever Liked me there.

Time Speeds Up As You Grow Old

“Commitment problems?” I said last night. “I don’t have commitment problems.”

“Yes, you do,” said Gwenn, my date, “as do most men.”

“This is our first date,” I said. “Hyman’s Hoffbrau is my favorite restaurant. What more do you want?”

“We’re in our nineties, Morty. Time’s a-wastin. First date this might be, but we’ve been together for seven years now.”

“Bloody hell,” I said. “It seems like we just met. Outside in the parking lot.”

“The twins are already out of college.”

“Good Lord! I’ve rather lost track… Have we been served?”

“It’s cafeteria-style, Morty. The place has already gone tits up, pardon my French, just since we sat down with these noodles hanging over the edge of our trays.”

“When we were young, we had forever.”

“Our fights took forever.”

“Are we fighting now?”

“Fighting back tears, Honey,” Gwenn said.

Takeaways from the Cemetery Floater Census (2017)

The stats are in for the 2017 Cemetery Floater Census.

Reminder: The Cemetery Floater Census is unrelated to the Cemetery Census.

Several takeaways from the 2017 census:

  • For the 4th consecutive decade, the floaters-per-cemetery ratio remains in the 1.x range, at 1.2.
  • Security footage verification increased in 2017 from 68.4% to 68.5%.
  • Accosted-floater refusal to divulge/discuss individual or group missions remains at 100%.
  • For the 10th consecutive decade, there has been no demonstrated correlation between floaters and grave robberies, or anything else.
  • Floater average score on the Mobley Weird index dipped 12% following the 2016 elections (especially the election).
  • Post-election, Mobley threw up his hands (literally) and registered as a floater.
  • Age/race/gender/religious statistics track to those of a shopper at your typical strip mall.
  • Continuing trends:
    • No floater couples
    • No floater pets
    • No nude floaters
    • No floater piercings, tats, or other body modifications (no floaters have had work done)
    • No floater eyewear.
    • No ad patches on floater garb
    • Sadly, attendance continues to decline at the Kiribati Ball
  • New trends:
    • Increasing LGBTQIA+ floaters
    • Increasing underwater cemeteries (where floaters don’t float)
    • Increased vaping

Note that 2018 will see the first use of cemetery gerrymanders in the census.

In 2018, a new motel chain called Floaters $6 will open.

Man thinks men think he is a turtle

Sir, come out of the box, the officer says.

He’s got himself taped to the box in there, the other officer says.

Go in and cut him free, Mark.


With a knife? With scissors? Use your head.

I’ve got my 96A1. No blades.

You’re the only officer on the force with a Beretta. You’re a God-damn showoff, Mark… Sir, is this box your house?

Not my house. My outhouse.

You got some air-freshener on your belt, Mark?

No blades, no fresheners.

Go back to the 12 and get that little tree hanging from the rear view… Sir, are you homeless?

Only when the tape fails.