The Family Plan

So, I have a problem, well it's not really a problem but it's something that has been bugging me for quite a while now. It's my family. Well, not really my family but more the fact that we all share the same nickname. And I don't know how or why it happened that way, but it has and it just, it has to be like, one of life's great mysteries, and I need an answer! Maybe you can help me out.

I guess if you're gonna help me, you need to know a little bit about me and my family. Well, first off, we all share the nickname, 'X'. And there is ten of us in the family, so you can see how's it would get confusing, especially when someone calls over to the house and asks for 'X'. We have to put all ten of us on the phone, in turn, until they figure out which one it is they want to talk to. And I mean, we all have different names and different circles of friends so I don't know how we all ended up with the same nickname.

So, anyway, we all live in a fairly nice trailer park together, just south of Mobile, Alabama. My dad, Malcolm, is a highly successful lawn and garden structural engineer, he specializes in topiaries that bear a striking resemblance to dear old number 3, Dale Earnhardt. Dad is very popular around the trailer parks for that. My mom, Anne, she used to be a cafeteria lady at the elementary school until what we like to refer to as "the incident." See, she was making chili for the lunch meal one day a few years back - y'know, chopping up the hamburger meat and mixing the tomato base and what all. And the night before, we had been down to the Shrimp Shanty, it's a real great place to get some almost fresh seafood on the cheap.

Anyway, we went to the Shrimp Shanty and momma had ordered her like four dozen raw oysters, well they didn't sit too well in her stomach or maybe they had already turned, they did have a sort of pungent stench about 'em. And well, they came at her with a vengeance that you only ever really see in horror movies. So, as she was making the chili, her stomach turnt on her and she couldn't make it to the restroom. And that's how come momma got fired from the school.

And now, my siblings, there really ain't much to tell on them for, exceptin' that momma and dad had a tendency to pick some really odd names for us kids. In order, we have my sister, Carm, she's a stripper to the Spearmint Rhino. My brother, Pan, he's a diesel mechanic's apprentice's gopher, part time, and he works down the Piggly Wiggly most nights, restocking the femineminem hygenical products on aisle 5. My other brother, Tripple, he's a log jammer down the Mississippi when the season's right. My third brother, Mann, well, he's currently out of work due to an unforseen accident involving a forklift, three underage girls, a nail gun, and some vodka. Then there's me, my name is Skrill, and I'm a local DJ on the AM radio station. I have a prime time slot from 3:15AM to 3:37AM where I get to play my one song for the day, provided it's not and electronica, dnb, or dubstep, which sucks cause that's all the music I like to listen to.

And then there's my three kid sisters, they is triplets. Momma and daddy didn't want no more kids, but they figured what the heck, one more won't hurt and then came the three sirens. My kid sisters are, Gen, Tru, and Rain. All three of them are still young enough to be in school, and are part of the reason that our brother, Mann, is currently unemployed. Don't judge.

So anyway, that's my family, and I just can't figure out why all of us are called by the same nickname. It doesn't make much sense to me. I mean, our names don't really seem like they are all that close together so as we should even have to share a nickname. Like, I have a friend and him and his brother use the same nickname but I can understand that one since they used to be conjoined twins. You uh, you wanna know where they were joined at? Oh, man, it's hilarious! They was joined at the butt! And not like they had three butt cheeks and shared the middle, no, no, no. They both have two butt cheeks, but they were fused to each other! They were born back to back with their cracks together. I've seen pictures, it was hilarious. And the best part is, they didn't get to get taken apart until they were four years old! I can't imagine what that was like, trying to take a dump...I wonder if they butts got synchronized like what girls do with their lady times.

Anyway, I better jet, I got things to do. Still wish I knew how come my family all has the same nickname....effin' weird!

The Accidental White Supremacist

Hey, umm, hi. Hi. I guess you're wondering about, well, about these tattoos. Well, I guess to start, I'm Stewart, Stewart T Goldblum. Hi. I am 43 years old, and I'm from Nipsantucks, Indiana. I am, well, I was, yeah, I was an electronic bank engineer at the Nipsantucks National Bank of Nipsantucks, Indiana. By that, I mean I was the guy that, I guess what you'd call it was, I, well, I, I put the money into the ATMs around town so that, so that people could get money out of their account. Gosh, I'm sorry, I'm just, I'm just so nervous. I can't really, or shouldn't really be talk, talking to you right now.

Anyway, while I was working as an electronic bank engineer, I was approached by a gentleman that looked a lot like, umm, he, well, he was like Professor X from The X-Men. And he asked me, no that's not right, he, umm, he told me that he had been watch-, watching me for a long time. He asked me a bunch of different questions about my personal belief systems, which I thought was a little weird, to say the least. At the end, he, well, gosh, he told me that I was going to be needed to do some "things" for him. I swore to myself, a long time ago, that all that stuff was behind me. I mean, those kind of things were what got me kicked out of the Nipsantucks Community College for Technology and Trades. Luckily, he just wanted me to steal money from my job, so that was a blessing.

The only thing was, he said, I was going to have to be initiated to his group. He said he was, he was part of the new KKK, and that since I was going to do this, I had to be part of it. I was ok with it, sort of, but I knew I would have to be persuasive cause, well, cause I'm, I'm very, ummm, Jewish.

So, I, well, I went and got initiated, nervously. And then I started working for the man who recruited me. I started small, taking five dollars here and there from my cash bag, but soon, I was, oh God, I was taking over 500 dollars. That was after only a couple of days. The power was exhilarating. After I got a good amount of cash for my man, I was told that I needed to get tattooed. I wasn't particularly happy about the idea, but I needed to go through with the farce. So, I got these tattoos on my, on my face and neck cause I figured that would help my cred. And I got vegan cause, well, cause I'm, I'm a vegan. My new friends thought I was weird but they totally accepted me for who I am. They even gave me a party! Well, a boot party, but still it was a party just for me.

Anyway, so I kept on making money for my new friends and getting random tattoos to show I was really a part of the gang. By the end of my first month, I was bringing in almost 4500 dollars a week. Then I got fired. My employers found out what I was doing and they said I was going to be lucky that they weren't going to file charges. Once I got fired, my new friends, they, well, they, had no more use for me. I had no viable skills for their drug operations or their prostitution rings or the political corruption campaigns. They said I needed to go. So I left but they, they followed me around. I thought once I left that was the end of it but they meant they needed to kill me.

So, here I am. Shaking, scared, and vegan. All Jewish, no filler. And I'm scared, man. I need to get out of the country, or something. I just, I just want to be my good, Jewish self again. My whole life has been such a mistake!

The Rabbi Gone Wild

Shalom, I am Rabbi Haim Sheckleostein, well I used to be a rabbi. I was asked to step out of my role as a rabbi at the Hezbollah Orthodox Jewish Temple when it was discovered that I was embezzling temple funds to pay for my moonshine business. See I'm only half-Jewish, on my mother's side and my daddy was a good ol' country boy from up in the Shenandoah Valley, and them roots run deep. When I was growing up, poor and barefoot in the hills, my mother and father were always having the same old fight. Mother wanted me to attend temple and get involved with the Jewish boys my age while daddy was always trying to pull me into the shiner nation, make me watch Nascar, and learn to snare rabbits for good cookin'.

Early life was a blur of mother and dad fighting, always pulling me in two different directions. And I mean that both figuratively and literally. One time, we were on the sidewalk outside the Mott's 5/10 and they got into a fight about my trying out for youth league baseball. Mother wanted to keep me safe and she thought that anyone who would willingly throw balls at me was mean and needed to be kept as far away from me as possible. Dad, on the other hand, was trying to explain to mother that baseball was a fine sport and was something that every boy, even himself, grew up doing. Mother then pointed out that baseball must be why my dad was such a blockheaded ninnywillows and began to pull me by the wrist toward temple. Dad said there was no way I was no gonna be allowed to play baseball, telling mother that she was a sniveling, uppity, no bacon eating, un-American slagathor, and he grabbed my other arm, trying to jerk me away and take me to the YMCA to sign up for baseball. As he and my mother opposed each other and pulled on me, dad started to get the upper hand, as it were, and my mother lost her grip. Dad ended up flinging me off the sidewalk and down into the street where I got hit by an oncoming bicyclist.

The bicycle slammed into my ribs and flipped over the top of me, and the handlebars came crashing down on my neck. I was pretty much fine, but the girl that was riding the bike got thrown completely off and went flying headlong toward an oncoming truck. Luckily for her, the truck driver saw the accident, and the girl, and swerved to miss her to spare her life. Sadly, when he did that, the truck driver didn't see that there was a fruit cart vendor on the sidewalk that he was headed straight toward. When the truck hit the curb of the street and popped up on to the sidewalk, it slammed right into the fruit cart, sending the vendor and the cart flying. The vendor went slamming backward through the plate glass storefront of the Jenkins Hardware supply store, which was harmless enough, but he landed on a rack of aluminum rakes and punctured his lungs.

Unfortunately, though, the fruit cart and all its' wares were hurled up and forward from the impact, and oranges, lemons, and apples went sailing all over the place. The cart itself was thrown over the tops of the buildings that lined the street and flew, in all its glory, right into the base of the ancient, much beloved, fragile ash tree that the town was founded around. The cart crashed speedily into the bottom third of the ash and splintered the trunk. Of course that caused the ash to fall over, and because it was such a majestic and ancient tree, it was well over one hundred feet tall and very heavy. All that weight crashed to the earth and unfortunately landed on the mayor's 1968 Corvette, right on the trunk.

The Corvette flipped up into the air on impact like it was being thrown from a catapult, or more accurately a trebuchet, and it sailed in a beautiful arc over the Ashtown Savings and Bank, coming to a stop as it careened into the massive stone and iron steeple of the First Episcopal Church of Ashtown. The spire fractured most perfectly and was flung down from its' perch where it slammed into a fire hydrant below. The hydrant, free of its' concrete home, shot off like a rocket from the pressure of the water in the lines under the city streets, and lazered its' way toward the sky. The flight was short lived, and the fire hydrant came crashing down right on top of my mother. She was killed almost instantly, though her legs flew out from under her with the impact and she gave my father one last, good kick in the groin. My father was immediately stricken with pain and grief, but once he regained his composure from the kick he took me to sign up for baseball. While I was doing my tryout to see what team I would be placed on, my dad went to the house to grab a bite to eat. Six hours later, I left the YMCA and struck out for home on foot. I had guessed my dad was home drunk and had forgotten about me. When I got home, though, I found a very different scene. My dad had decided, I guess, that since my mother was no longer with us that he would become a playboy. There were clothes and women everywhere when I got home. I was in shock, not because my dad had decided to sleep with a bunch of women but because there were definitely more women at our house than there were teeth. Dad yelled at me to get out and so I ran away, never to see him again.

I got picked up by the police an hour later, and when they asked me where I lived I told them that I was an orphan and that I had been living at the Heckle & Shmeckle Jewish Home for Displaced and Abandoned Boys. I lived at the home until I was eighteen and was trained in the ways of Rabbi-ery. I felt like this was a good way to honor my tragically killed mother, so it seemed like I would have a good life. Unfortunately for me, you can't always escape your genetic pool - sometimes you just float around and end up drowning in it.

When I was twenty six, I was moved from the temple which I was rabbi over to another temple that was much less fortunate money-wise than where I came from. I started taking small amounts of petty cash - a dollar here, a dollar there just so I could make ends meet. Soon though, I was taking handfuls of cash from the donations boxes and collection plates. I didn't really need much more than a few dollars a week but I was taking nearly a thousand. I didn't know what to do with the extra money so I started trying to honor my father, whom I presumed to be dead by this point, by making some moonshine on the side. It went well at first, I was making just enough for me to have a drink every day and little else. But soon I got the idea to start mass production and sales. I hired a small Jewish boy, Kenneth, and he helped me out by tending the stills when I was teaching classes or was just too drunk to move.

It was Kenneth that got me busted. That little rat fink discovered my stash of excess cash, and because he was good at math figured out that I wasn't selling near enough moonshine to have that kind of money laying around. He turned me in for fraud and lying. And now I get to do the next ten years in a small cell, probably with some sketchy guy named Bo or something equally trashy.....thanks, Kenneth.

The Confused Veteran

Huh?! What did you say?! No, they WANT you to take the rolls!

What?! Oh, oh, sorry. My apologies, young lady. What's that? You're a man?! Certainly not with THAT hair, or those clothes. You look an awful lot like my late wife's macaw. That's a bird, sonny, real colorful like with the feathers sticking up of its' head. Why you wanna dress up like some hussied up streetwalker? Errghhh, whatever, I don't need to hear none o' yer explaining.

The name's Billingsley, Sergeant L. Orville Billingsley, Army Rangers, 9th Airborne Batallion, Charlie Company. And that's how introduce yourself, sonny. None of that, "Sup, doggie doggie, homely G-money" crap! What is wrong with your generation, boy? All of you running around dressing like your women, acting like women, and you ain't even ATTRACTED to women. What is this nonsense? Back in my day, if you were a man, you were a man! You dressed like a man, you loved women like a man, and you WORKED like a man. All you young'uns now want to be paid for doing nothing but being alive, and you walk around listening to that hippity hoppity music all day. It's shameful!

I can't believe I nearly died for this country back in WW2 and now this is what has happened to my beloved country. Boys act like girls, girls act like boys, and all of you think that I'm a problem because I tell you the truth! You got no respect, sonny! If'n you was mine, I'd have left you in the cold Michigan winter naked and seen if you could survive it. That would make you appreciate your life!

So, really, tell me boy, what is it about all this hippity hoppity music, the fru-fru coffee drinks, and them apple macintosh gadgets that make you think you are being a man? I just can't get my head around it. And where do you come off voting Democrat?!! You, your parents, and your illegitimate children that you have on welfare ought to be ashamed of yourselves! Don't you know that all them democrats want is to make you a slave to their government machine?! It's saddens me, but you gonna do what you gonna do I guess.

Well, I guess I wasted enough o' yer time, seein' as you won't listen to reason anyway. Sorry to bother you, girl...uh, boy.

The Misguided Mayoral Candidate

Huh? Who dat? Where am I? Oh, oh, right. Sorry, forgot we was doing a camera thing.

My name is Hendry S. Tacklebottom, and I am running for the office of mayor of Detroit. Now, I know many of you don't know me too well, so let me tell you a little bit about myself. I'm a lifetime resident here, been through the good times and the bad times - from the days when our city's revenue was in the several millions and then the not-so-good, recent history of our having an overwhelming deficit. When I was born here in the mid-1950's, I remember things being pretty decent and those are the times I would like to return to if elected to the mayorshipness of this fair city.

My personal politics are as follows - I don't like big government, but I know we need to have some sort of controls and measures in place for the safety of our people. My first priority would be to help get all these hooligans and thugs under control with a project I call The Hendry S. Tacklebottom Hooligan Displacement Act.

What this act would do, in effect, would be to round up all the thugs and hooligans that are muckin' up our city streets. How would I do this, you might be asking. Well, I'll tell you. What we gotta do is first get their attention in a big way. My plan includes options for things such as advertising a Nicki Minaj concert downtown and tell them all that at the concert there will be free hot wings and Old English. Now, I know this won't appeal to a vast majority of the thugs we got running around here so, in addition to that, we will also send out the message that Pitbull will also be appearing that same night, and that there will be all the tacos, quesadillas, and Patron you can stomach. And before you go thinking I forgot that we got some other thugs that bother our fine men and women in uniform, we also have plans to announce that ICP and Luke Bryan will be performing a mash-up concert and giving away all the Faygo and Copenhagen you can handle.

Now, once the word spreads of these concerts and our idiotic thugs all cram their way into the downtown area, how are we to get rid of them? It's simple. We will have an elite force of specially trained zoo and animal control workers stationed on the rooftops of the neighboring buildings that will be laying in wait until the signal is given. That signal will be the opening line of the theme song to "Family Ties", since that is the most wholesome show ever to be put on television. As the signal is given, the special animal task force will release hundreds of animal nets from the rooftops and ensnare all the thugs down below. They will fight, of course, but the more they fight the more trapped they will become. Once they all settle down and accept their fate, we will have dump trucks ready to be loaded with the nets full of our pestilential, problematic thug population. The dump trucks will then drive the captive thugs to the riverbank and dump them in the water to be washed away with the tides.

After our thug problem is completely eradicated, our city will once again be able to thrive and I hope to be the one to take us there. I have several ideas to boost the economy, such as new educational techniques for children who struggle with learning. I also would like to stimulate the economic growth through funding many start up businesses that this city desperately needs. I can't get into many specifics there, but in addition to new business, I aim to lower the tax rates citywide. I would like to state that I would seek to impose one new, small tax but that would only affect our streetwalker population. I know many before me have tried to get rid of the streetwalker problem but I seek to embrace them as a viable avenue for tax revenue and would impose a new small business tax on the streetwalker population as I would try to unionize and regulate the whole industry to generate new revenue for the city to improve the working conditions for those folks, like my wife, I mean ummm, the streetwalkers.

Oh, yes, and I also would like to decentralize our police force and offer up a self-trained militia to patrol our streets so that our fine men and women in blue can be better protected from violent crimes.

Thank you, and don't forget to vote for me, Hendry S. Tacklebottom, as your next mayor.

The Tragic Cougar

*hic* Hey *hic* hey, big boy. Why don't you come over here and give Mona a *hic* kiss.

Actua-*hic* actually, my name is Shar-*hic*, Sharleen but I got a feeling that you can *hic* sure enough make me Mona. HAHAHAHHAHAHAHH*hic*HAHAHA! What's that, sug? You wanna know about *hic* about me*hic*? Ok.

Well like I said, my name is Sharleen, Sharleen Shablanksi. I'm 52 years young, sweet thing, and I'm a tigress in bed. Get me between the sheets, I'll be the subject of all your tweets. That's a catchphrase, sweetie, trademark pending. I like to drink, clearly, and I'm always up for a party. I have seven kids from, oh God, like nine different guys but they don't really talk to me anymore - the kids, not the guys. The guys still come after me pretty regularly cause, well, I know you know why, you're looking at me. *rawr*

Huh? Why am I like this? What do you mean, "like this"? I'm white, sugar, ain't no "like this" for me to be, I'm just a privileged alcoholic, so if you don't like it, you can suck it...please! Please suck it. I like my tits to be played with, honeybear. But I guess it really started when I was about 19 years old. See, I moved out of my parents house then because they were trying to make me go to school and get my degree as a doctor. They just wouldn't leave me alone about it and it wasn't what I wanted to do. I wanted to be a dancer. Not like a stripper or anything, but a real dancer - like on Broadway. So I moved out of my house and up to New York to try and train with a good studio so I could become famous.

When I got to New York, though, I didn't have a place to live or a job so it was rough going. I would wander the streets all night and all day, trying to get some work so I could make enough to find a place to rent. The upside to that was that I got to know my city very well by walking around all over the place. The downside was that several times a night I was approached by men, sometimes women as well, but mostly men, and asked if I was dtf and what the price would be. This went on for several months and it was flattering but I never really bought into it.

One cold night in November, though, I hastily changed my mind. It was well below freezing and there was a major snow storm going on. I was walking through lower Manhattan and a limo pulled up next to me. I didn't even wait for the man to finish talking, I just jumped right in and we sped away. He was saying something, I don't know what it sounded like Russian or German to me, and I just understood what I was supposed to be doing in that situation so I nervously undid his pants and started getting to work.

He pushed me off and the limo driver rolled down the glass and explained that he just wanted to talk to me at his hotel, not have his way with me. But I just couldn't come to grips with it so once we got to the hotel, he explained that I was going to be his salt-wife. That I was to stay in the hotel, never leave, and always be naked and ready for him when he came home. The first night was awkward but after that, I guess you could say I had my "awakening". I pleased him up and down, left, right, center, nothing was off limits. And he treated me like royalty. Always bought me the best and newest trinkets and things, took me to fancy restaurants, plays, the ballet. It was wonderful. He even put me in his will after a while.

Then, he died. It was tragic. He was on safari in Africa and hunting big game, probably lion or rhino - something exotic, he loved that. Well, I don't know exactly what happened but somehow he had gotten chased up a tree by something and fell. When he landed, he hit his head and was unconscious. As he came to, he didn't know where he was but he heard the crunching of his bones and saw a lion eating his legs. He scrambled for his rifle and picked it up to fire. Unfortunately, in his confused state he didn't realize the rifle was the wrong way around and he shot himself through the stomach with an elephant rifle.

I cried until I couldn't breathe anymore. The next day I stopped crying because he had left me with more money than I ever dreamed of - 289 million dollars. I was so happy! I went out and began to find men that would sleep with me because I just missed the feeling of being important. I would buy them dinner and anything they desired so long as they would just sleep with me once. And I've been doing that ever since. I can't explain why but I know I like it, and I only sleep with men who are 26. They have to be 26 because that's how old he was when he died, it's like my own little connection to him.

So.....how about it? You want a car or an airplane?

Overly Nerdy D&D Guy

Hi, nice to meet you. My name is Brandon Manager, but my friend's call me Tymmek, son of Greygorn the Highland Warlock of Sh'erotth, High Priest of the Orders of Light and the Breylans, Third-born of the Line of Krymstekk the Doom-Bringer, and Mage of the Karstarshi Plains. And yes, they all call me that, all the time. It took me many years to earn my title and they will respect that! Or I'll burn their houses down with my lightning bolts of fury and pain!!

Sorry, I get carried away sometimes. I'm just very particular about my character and I need the respect that I have earned through my many years of playing D&D.

Growing up in east Philadelphia, born and raised, in the basement was where I spent most of my days. Chillin' out, hiding, relaxin' all cool. Rollin' D-20's all day after school. Me and a couple of guys down in the D&D lair, started to role our new characters down there. I got in my first fight with a goblin or two, and said, "I know my holy missiles can take care of you." I yelled for backup and when they got there, the paladin was frail and the ranger just disappeared. If anything, I said, the fight was ours to be had but an orc horde gave chase and everything turned out bad. We pulled back from the fight, went a different path, and I yelled for my ranger, "Hey Skrymjakk, in the mineshaft!" Looking through the darkness, we were finally free. And we rolled a perception to know what we would see.