Midwestern Nightmares: Sex Chet Chat

As a 5th grade youngster at St. Stephen’s Elementary, it was quite an exciting day when we were told that Father Chet would be coming in to teach the boys the ins and outs of the birds and the bees.

The promise of the usual suspects making crass remarks in an open forum about sex was far more to my liking than an average afternoon of algebra, taught to us by a woman who had a horrible short tight blonde clown curl hairdo and who’s breath reminded us constantly of the dog shit sandwich she must have eaten for lunch.

Let me say first, that growing up Catholic, I’ve known many men of the cloth to be kind, generous, honest, and true believers in the Christian faith who actually chose Jesus Christ over openly sleeping with women or men.

And not all priests are raging homosexuals and/or kiddie ticklers.


Most of us, having already viewed pornography, had a thorough knowledge of at least how the deed was done. I still remember the first XXX feature I sat through with a pillow on my lap. The main character’s name was Dr. Morecock, and he had sex with a woman while wearing a cut-off shirt that exposed his midriff. I couldn’t understand why a man would show their penis to another person, yet choose to cover up their nipples.

As is appropriate to this scenario, I’ll fast forward to the good part, although there are several other fantastic pieces of the story that I don’t remember quite as accurately.

The question was posed to Father Chet as to how large a grown man’s penis would get when erect. Taking a thoughtful pause, Father Chet bluntly answered, “about 11 inches.”

Stifling gut laughs, we got our rulers out so fast I’m surprised someone didn’t lose an eye.

Now, depending on the level of one’s intelligence and exposure to sex, this must have caused several future reactions:

Some of the boys probably look back fondly on this and laugh like I do, accepting of their allotment of developed ding dong.

A few of them probably feel like the description was inappropriate and place blame on it when they whine to their therapists.

But I like to think that there’s at least one stupid, poor, sheltered, bastard out there walking around with a sweetass 9-and-a-half inch cock who’s too ashamed to mention it to anyone, let alone share it with a horny guy or girl who’d appreciate it because he thinks he’s inadequate.

For the record, Father Chet had short, spikey, peroxide blonde club hair, spoke with a thick lisp, and walked with more swooshes than Nike.

I’m not saying this makes him gay. I’d hate to perpetuate a stereotype. I live in a glass house so I don’t own any stones. I just thought a mental picture would be nice.

What made him gay was when it turned out that he was fucking a guy who lived two doors down from my Grandparents.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

I’d guess it’s safe to say Father Chet couldn’t resist, who my Grandmother referred to as, “the weirdo guy’s” big and bad 11-inch dick.

Mike Burns is a severely hunky comedian from Saginaw Chicago New York Los Angeles, MI. He recently wrote about life as a gangsta and reminisced about his Colt 45-drinking childhood. You can see more of this dreamboat at myspace.com/mikeburnsmikeburns and read his column here every other Tuesday.

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Midwestern Nightmares: My 5 Favorite Sandwiches

MY 5 FAVORITE SANDWICHES WHICH I WILL NOW UNSUCCESSFULLY TALK ABOUT

1. B.L.T. (generalized version)

If I’m out for lunch at a restaurant serving classic American fare, 95% of the time this is what I’m getting. I don’t want it triple decker, and I DO NOT want turkey on it. On toasted wheat with extra mayo on the side please (Restaurants never put enough mayo on them for my liking).

And if it does come triple decker, I’m not above breaking the sandwich down into several smaller B.L.T.s like a crazy person.


2. Bologna Salad (a.k.a. Chopped Bologna or Sandwich Spread) on Wheat

This is commonly found in Midwestern butcher shops and grocery stores such as Meijer’s (my favorite for pre-made Sandwich Spread). It’s usually made with leftover ham, bologna, and other applicable cold cuts.

I make my homemade version with beef bologna, Miracle Whip, Mayonnaise, dill pickle, and Vidalia onion (when in season) to taste. Spread on cheap, soft honey wheat bread. Serve with Made Rite Chips and Vernor’s Ginger Ale.

3. Cheese Steak

Specifically, from Philly’s Best on Belmont in Chicago. I prefer mine “hoagie style” which includes lettuce, tomato, and mayo. Raw onions, please. And of course, Cheez Wiz.

And before I make a criticism about most Cheese Steak sandwiches, I want to make clear that I understand “hoagie style” is not the traditional way to enjoy the sandwich. That being said, there is no better way to ruin a perfectly good Cheese Steak sandwich than to throw some green peppers on it. I don’t know when the majority of eateries decided that it was the proper way to prepare the sandwich, but they are completely wrong and should be beaten with a belt for the sin.

4. Fried Egg, Big Ron Style

As a kid, when my mother wouldn’t be home to make us supper, there was a good chance my dad would make us egg sandwiches. Fried egg with a broken yolk, not scrambled, with American cheese, mayo, mustard, and lettuce on Spatz toast. To be eaten over the sink.

We call my dad “Big Ron.” Ron isn’t actually his name. It’s Bob. But on a July afternoon as my buddy Fonz and I walked up the driveway, we approached my father in the garage, clad in one of my 3-on-3 basketball tournament t-shirts with the sleeves raggedly cut off, and homemade sweatpant shorts with a pager hanging off the waistband. He was casually doing double forearm curls with a rusted weight set and most likely was listening to Jackson Browne, Johnny Rivers, or Bruce Springsteen.

My buddy Fonz remarked, “Your dad ain’t Bob, that dude is Big Ron. Big Ron’s a baller. Dude’s a baller!”

My dad takes what my sister and I call, “Big Ron bites.” If you’re eating a sandwich in my parents’ house, there’s a good chance my dad will approach you, eyes wide, and say, “Bite?!”

Shortly there after, he’ll hand you back a small fraction of what started out as a sandwich, and with a satisfied, “Mmmph…good,” your snack is gone.

I’m just now realizing that I’ve painted my father as some sort of cross between Kevin Spacey in American Beauty and Dagwood Bumstead, which is way off.

I find this wholly discouraging as a creative writer, and this, combined with the fact that I’ve completely abandoned a simple listing of sandwiches for a semi-detached tangent about the origins of my good dad’s nickname and how he takes chomps is enough for me to pull the plug on what is now a column in shambles.

Aw, fuck it.

5. It’s either an Italian Sub from Jimmy John’s or Liverwurst and Sweet Onion with Mustard on Rye.

And by listing 2 for number 5, I’ve essentially written about 6 sandwiches in a column that is supposed to be about 5 sandwiches, not 6.

Shambles.

Mike Burns is a severely hunky comedian from Saginaw Chicago New York Los Angeles, MI. He recently wrote about life as a gangsta and reminisced about his Colt 45-drinking childhood. You can see more of this dreamboat at myspace.com/mikeburnsmikeburns and read his column here every other Tuesday.

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Midwestern Nightmares: Life Of A Gangsta

I was at a semi-empty Taco Bell - because I can afford nice things but I also appreciate privacy - and while I waited for my order, Nachos SUPREME (quit hatin'!), Bean Burrito, AND Crunchy Taco, a gentleman sitting in the corner began freestyle rapping. Loudly. And horribly.

As I stifled gut laughter, he finished up his verse with, "strong like coffee, I ain't no Sanka, I live the life of a gangsta!"

Two thoughts:

1. Sanka?

2. And secondly, does living the life of a gangsta include eating Meximelts?


While still waiting, (Nachos SUPREME takes time people) he came up to the counter and said, "Yo nigga! (The clerk was Pakistani so it wasn't racist or offensive. Thank God. Whew.) Gimme another refill!"

I could then tell that he was a REAL gangsta, because gangstas never say "please."

Apparently they do like Sierra Mist though.

And are aware of kitschy brands of instant coffee.

And also smell like they played 14 hours of basketball three days ago and are still wearing the same sweats and underpants that are soon to be riddled with Taco Bell farts.

But from what I've found, Taco Bell gangsta rap is far from the toughest of the rapping.

The toughest rapping comes from what is known as "Gay Gangsta Rap."

Because, "I'm gonna fuck you in the ass while you suck on my shotgun!" is far more hood than songs about champagne, jewelry, and automotive tires.

And that's NOT some easy "gay" joke. It's something I saw on The 60 Minutes 20/20 Show.

SUPREME.

Mike Burns is a severely hunky comedian from Saginaw Chicago New York Los Angeles, MI. He recently reminisced about his Colt 45-drinking childhood and held a garage sale for his old jokes. You can see more of this dreamboat at myspace.com/mikeburnsmikeburns and read his column here every other Tuesday.

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Midwestern Nightmares: Cool Colt .45 (Part 1)

(EDITOR'S NOTE: From now on, we'll be posting the first three paragraphs of each of our daily columns on this page and the rest can be read by clicking the "Read More" link you see at the bottom of this column. So don't be retarded and think that this column ends after only three paragraphs. Thank you. And now, back to Mike Burns and his tales of childhood drinking...)

When I was 15, I got officially drunk, as I know the word today. Living in a downtrodden, post-auto, Michigan boomtown had a small benefit in that purchasing alcohol in what adults referred to as a “bad area” only required an ID known as cash.”

Sure, I’d consumed an Old Style, Old Milwaukee, or a Coors or 4 before. Took nips out of a bottle of Black Velvet, even puffed on what in retrospect was probably just oregano rolled up in a page of the Old Testament, but I had never sat down with the sole intention of getting “drunk.” Quickly, and thoroughly, although not extremely excessively. That would come later.

On a sweltering July evening I commissioned a neighborhood kid referred to as Crazy Cooter to purchase a 40 of Cool Colt .45 for me on his way home, with the promise of “5 bucks and you can keep the change.” Ever have Cool Colt .45? It’s essentially menthol cigarette-flavored beer. After some recent research, I discovered that the good people at the Heileman Brewing Company created Cool Colt after failed attempts with “Rib Tips and Fried Chicken Colt .45,” Anheuser Busch’s “Government Cheese King Cobra,” and “Illegitimate Baby Makin’ Thunderbird Wine.”


Now just hold on a second, before I get back to the story, forget all about vintage advertising prints depicting African-Americans in a tar baby-esque manner. Even forget about Aunt Jemima in a do-rag. Cool Colt .45 has to be the most insulting, despicable, racist product in history.

It was malt liquor.

Named after a gun.

That was flavored like menthol cigarettes.

And was sold primarily in urban neighborhoods with a high population of African-Americans.

It’s not like St. Ides came out with malt liquor that tasted like orange soda and then made advertisements featuring Ice Cube encouraging its demographic to purchase the product with the use of rap lyrics such as, “Get your jimmy thicker, with St. Ides Malt Liquor.”

Oh, wait. They did. I have the plethora of St. Ides hip-hop commercials memorized. My buddies used to intersperse them on VHS mix tapes of videos recorded from BET’s Rap City or YO! MTV Raps. On just in time for the kids to watch them after school.

It’s not like Budweiser or Miller ever marketed to poor white people by plastering their name all over a stock car driven by a hillbilly at 200 miles an hour, crashing into other hillbilly-piloted cars with Mountain Dew on the side while in a race sponsored by Winston cigarettes, did they?

Oh wait. They did. Except now Winston doesn’t sponsor them anymore. Drinking and driving? Sure. Drinking and driving AND smoking? No way. Looks like tobacco lobbyists need to step their game up. It’s the Sprint Cup now, because driving and talking on your cell phone is...sigh. Goddamnit.

To be fair, Cool Colt .45 is no longer in production. They decided to just make plain old Gun Liquor after discovering that African-Americans don’t eat cigarette butts. Although I heard that there’s plans to release a new brand of malt liquor named “Damn!.” There’s absolutely no “I can’t read” text on the bottle, just a close up of a Jet centerfold’s ass in a thong on the label.

They’re gonna offer a rebate if you drink it, urinate into the bottle, and mail it back to the company where it’ll be repackaged as Sammy Hager’s Dark Lager and sold to inbred white people at his state fair appearances.

I’m kidding. White people birthed from society’s acceptable breeding practices would probably be just as interested in an $8 plastic cup of sweet black piss, as long as it had the endorsement of the Red Rocker.

Oh, and what happened after my adolescent malt liquor binge? Check back for Cool Colt .45: Part 2.

Mike Burns is a severely hunky comedian from Saginaw Chicago New York Los Angeles, MI. He recently held a garage sale for his old jokes, and has written about baseball cards. You can see more of this dreamboat at myspace.com/mikeburnsmikeburns and read his column here every other Tuesday.

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Midwestern Nightmares: A Garage Sale Of Incomplete Thoughts

Most comedians carry around idea notebooks. I usually have two: the new one, and the last one. The notebook before the last one gets tossed in the notebook library after the new one gets filled up and becomes the last one, getting replaced by a new one.

C’mon, you know what I mean.

As I’ve recently purchased a new one, the old new one is becoming the last one, and the old last one is getting shelved.

Got it? Of course you don’t.

Anyway, here’s a bunch of the crap from a retired notebook that didn’t make it into a blog, stand-up set, short film, script, etc. Take it off my hands, the wife gets upset when I let a bunch of old crap pile up in the basement.

65 Cents

What kind of grown man would actually wear a Derek Jeter jersey? I see them all the time. A rule of thumb for wearing sports jerseys: Try not to pick a player that 13-year-old girls want to make out with. Not cool, Wall Street guido. Not cool at all. And it looks even worse with those Oakleys and shitty “Brooklyn Blowout” haircut. Derek Jeter jerseys = you suck.

“Fuck you, you smartass blog fuck! I’d kick your fuckin’ ass if you wasn’t some fag hidin’ behing a computah! Don’t evah talk about the Yankees dat way! I swear to God you faggot I’ll smack your fag mouth!”

Sure you would Tony. Sure you would.

25 Cents

Sometimes I forget that “Nobody’s Fault But Mine” is a Led Zeppelin song and not the best song ever by Billy Squier.

10 Cents

Breakdown could be the new Roadhouse of movie references if we all work together.

Probably not though.

35 Cents

I heard a comedian at The Comedy Store start a joke with, “The only thing I like better than coffee is golf!”

There was no irony involved in the statement, and the joke was about putting.

20 Cents

A girlfriend told me once that I look like a cute elf. I thought, “You would fuck an elf?”

5 Cents

How come no one ever references the “Chicken Tonight” dance.

“I feel like Chicken Tonight! Like Chicken Tonight!”

Someone call that horrible Superman flying dance guy or the crummy Chicken Noodle Soda gal and tell them to get to work on a single.

I wish we lived in a world where I could say that some shithead rap fella “could NEVER have a hit song based off the Chicken Tonight commercial!”, but we don’t. Not any more.

A Buck

I stopped in a CVS for a 12-pack of High Life last Sunday and noticed that one of the clerks had the trait of what is insensitively referred to in society as a hair lip. This being a rather severe one. He also made the poor decision to have a lip ring installed. Now, I don’t wanna pick on the young man, but if you already have one strike against you, it’s probably best that you don’t take a swing at a wild pitch. Roach infested hotels don’t hand their guests a flashlight when they check in.

This reminded me of a program I saw on The Learning Channel focusing on a fella with an 8 pound tumor on his face...that had been there for 10 years. It was noted that, he failed to really “notice” or be “bothered” by the thing. It had to be brought to his attention by his friends and family. However, along the way, he decided to grow a really sweet lookin’ push broom moustache. Now, how is it that a person could ignore the equivalent of a flesh bowling ball hanging off the side of their cheek, yet still find it necessary to break out a Remington for fastidious facial hair grooming?

What I would like to see is the deviated septum punk youngster getting together with the tumor porn star for a style swap. One guy can cover his bugs bunny grill with a kickass flavor savor, and if you’re gonna have an 8 pound tumor on your mug, you might as well get it pierced and hook up with some carnies to make some extra scratch.

I kind of feel bad about the “bugs bunny grill” quip. It’s not a very nice thing to say, but it flows off the tongue nicely. I’ll let it go for 75 cents.

15 Cents

Do you think anyone ever got so excited that they shit out cum from sitting in the front row at a 1986 Guns N’ Roses concert?

Probably.

Mike Burns is a severely hunky comedian from Saginaw Chicago New York Los Angeles, MI. He recently has written about baseball cards and John Goodman. You can see more of this dreamboat at myspace.com/mikeburnsmikeburns and read his column here every other Tuesday.

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Midwestern Nightmares: Lawyers, Topps, and Money

After I get done writing this little ditty here, I need to go on Craigslist to look for a job.

I’m currently an unemployed comedian, meaning that I spend most of my time working on some aspect of “comedy,” while earning very, very little money doing so.

My savings is running dangerously low, and while it may be enough to tide me over for a week or two, it certainly isn’t enough to get me through to April 19th.

04/19/08, is the current release date for the Air Jordan V / AF1 Fusion.



They’re beautiful. The Air Jordan V holds a special place in my heart. It was the first pair of Jordans I ever owned. I had to buy them myself as I was informed by my Catholic mother that spending $125 on a pair of shoes was a sin. At least that was why I couldn’t have the Air Jordan III or IV. As a junior high kid in Saginaw, MI, scraping up a hundo and a quarter is a bit difficult without the help of mom or dad.

But the V's would be mine. Because I heard that my friend’s fancy pants lawyer dad was buying up lots of kids' baseball cards for cash. What a class act. Waving lowballs of crispy green bills in the faces of broke little kids who know their cards are worth more, but can’t resist the thought of more money than they’ve ever had in their entire life.

So I crammed a backpack full of boxes and binders, got on my broke dick Kent 10-Speed, and swung over to Mr. Weiland’s house for a sit down. He flipped though the hits of the late ‘60s, ‘70s, and ‘80s, trying to hide his greedy excitement as he paused occasionally to browse numbers in the newest issue of Beckett.

“I’ll give you a hundred bucks, there’s not a whole lot I can use in here.”

I’d heard enough lawyer street jokes to know he was lying.

I told him I’d have to “ask my parents,” and went a few blocks away to a school playground, rearranging the cards, and removing precious Dale Murphy Rookie cards, Mattingly MVP Donruss, McGwire USA Topps, and the like. Making sure to leave enough bullshit 1987 Topps Jose Cansecos to make things appear on the up and up.

I went back and told him, “My dad says I should ask for $120.”

He knew that was more than fair (even with my adjustment, it still wasn’t), but acted like he was doing me a favor as he peeled six twenties out of his money clip, taking literally a lifetime of a pastime from a little kid, all for the price of a nice steak dinner.

I went home, put the remaining precious cargo into hard cases and stashed them in my closet.

All of those cards are still comfortably stored in a safety deposit box in Mid-Michigan.

And because the bottom dropped out of the market, the majority of those, and ones that were acquired by Mr. Weiland, aren’t really worth a hill of beans.

But they were then.

They were worth these:

Mike Burns is a severely hunky comedian from Saginaw Chicago New York Los Angeles, MI. He recently has written about John Goodman and Burger King's Rodeo Cheeseburgers. You can see more of this dreamboat at myspace.com/mikeburnsmikeburns and read his column here every other Tuesday.

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Midwestern Nightmares: A Heavy Set Fella's Review

A Heavy Set Fella’s Review
By John Goodman

(recorded and transcribed by Mike Burns)

Hey folks, John Goodman here reporting from my pee stained rest bed in my very first column for WhipItOutComedy.com. Hold on a second, I think I can reach the half bag of Funyuns I dropped behind the head board. Got it. Thanks, helper stick!

Anyway folks, I’m real excited to have my first...um, hold on a second folks, I think I can reach that McDonald’s Apple Pie I dropped with my helper stick...yep...(groan)...just a little more...darnit. It’s too far.

Ok, so where were we? Oh yeah, ahem...Now fer just a lim’ted time get a Cream Cheese Butterfinger Bagel and a Large Frosting Coffee for just $2.39...wait...no.

Oh my God! Who farted? Me?! Oh, that’s a rough one. Sorry ‘bout that. Can you clip that rag with “backside clean-up” on it to the end of my helper stick? Thank you kindly.

Alright, all set here.

Hey folks, John Goodman here reporting for WhipItOutComedy.com. The boys asked me to do a review of my choice, and since I love to have a hearty chuckle, I chose the comedy, "Curb Your Enthusiasm." So I settled in for 60 episodes with plenty of snacks to keep me energized along the way.

I thought it was just wonderful. And I really got a kick outta that heavy set Jeff Garlin. I could tell he’d appreciate a good snack so it made me feel good about choosing snacks as the accompaniment to me watching the program.

Other than that, I’ve got a few pizzas comin’ in 10-minutes so we gotta make this quick Burns. Here’s my breakdown:

• 3 episodes are about Larry showing his privates to a friend’s wife.

• 7 episodes are about Larry showing his privates to a friend’s black housekeeper.

• 13 episodes are about Larry getting caught masturbating at a friend’s house while saying the “n-word”.

• 6 episodes feature Jeff Garlin having a snack I haven’t had in a while.

• 11 episodes are about Larry saying the “n-word” while trying to have sex with his wife.

• 9 episodes focus on the refreshingly HIV-positive Richard yelling at Larry for grabbing a friend’s large breasted housekeeper’s behind while calling her the “n-word” and also sporting a painful erection.

• 1 episode spotlights Larry teaching a retarded Jewish man to call homosexuals the “n-word” by accident.

• 4 episodes feature Larry accidentally having sex with a friend’s daughter who’s a priest.

• 6 episodes feature the father of the baseball fella from "Cheers" yelling at Larry for calling Jeff a “smelly n-word”, by accident.

Well folks, gotta go. My pepperoni pies are here.

Seriously, pay that young fella with this 50, gimme my pizzas and get out.

Mike Burns is a severely hunky comedian from Saginaw Chicago New York Los Angeles, MI. He recently has written about Burger King's Rodeo Cheeseburgers and Dwight Yoakam's Lil' Joes. You can see more of this dreamboat at myspace.com/mikeburnsmikeburns and read his column here every other Tuesday.

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Midwestern Nightmares: Rodeo Cheeseburgers

I consider myself a better than average cook. I can make the mother sauces. I know what a mire poix is. I prepare things using proper knife skills and I get upset if decent cutlery isn’t available to me. I drool over the likes of Wustov, Kitchenaid mixers, and local family-owned butcher shops.

I’d rather spend two hours in Williams-Sonoma than watch an NFC championship game. And if I WAS at home, I’d rather be in the kitchen making snacks for the fellas, than checking on the score. Plus, I give a mean handjob.

I’m kidding. I’d probably care a little about the score.

Thing is, I’m also a broke scumbag who sometimes has to make due with what is available. And while this may not be a “recipe” in the purest sense, I’m considering it mine nonetheless. And if you, or someone you know works at Burger King, please send a “thank you” to mikepaulburns@hotmail.com.

Ever had a Rodeo Cheeseburger from Burger King? It’s pretty simple: burger, cheese, bbq sauce, a couple of onion rings, sesame seed bun. They’re usually a buck. They’re fine.

But I just don’t think “Rodeo Cheeseburger” is clear or concise enough for a person who is making a value menu order on the fly. And when you’re trying to make a purchase with nickels, it feels a little out of line to ask, “And what exactly comes on the sandwich?”

You’re counting out nickels, you’d be lucky if it it was bun and a classified ad print out from Craigslist looking for someone to clean the restrooms at Blockbuster.

Unless you’re Mexican. Then it’s totally cool to ask - as long as you’re under 5’3 and pronounce it “sand-weech?” Then it’s adorable.

What I propose is that this item be revamped.

When I order one, I get it without bbq sauce (I find bbq sauce best utilized with pork or chicken, unless brisket is involved) and ask for a side of Burger King’s fabulous Zesty Onion Ring Sauce, which would make popsicle sticks taste delicious.

I then top the burger with the sauce, and, ta-dah: The New Zesty Onion Ring Burger From Burger King. Just 99 cents on the BK Value Menu. Roll that yummo up and slide it in your 30 minute bubble gum, Rachel Ray.

So simple, so easy, so goddamn marketable that, while inebriated, I proposed that I actually get to shoot a BK exec in the forehead for not thinking of it himself.

Making the best out of what is available to you is the basis of peasant food. Just because you’re not monetarily stable, it doesn’t mean that you have to live like an animal. Unless you’re Mexican. Then you can live like an animal all you want, as long as you wear a straw hat and act adorable.

“What ees rodeo sand-weech?”

Mike Burns is a severely hunky comedian from Saginaw Chicago New York Los Angeles, MI. He recently has written about Dwight Yoakam's Lil' Joes. You can see more of this dreamboat at myspace.com/mikeburnsmikeburns and read his column here every other Tuesday.

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Midwestern Nightmares: Lil' Joes

1. Do you smack your lips and eat with your mouth open while you breathe through your nose when eating?

2. Have you, or are you currently, beating your spouse, child, or girlfriend?

3. Have you said the "n-word" without irony while frustrated with a person of another race? (non-applicable for you filthy Italians)

4. Are you unaware that most people who don't smack their lips and/or eat with their mouth open while breathing through their nose are laughing AT Larry The Cable Guy, not WITH him?

5. Are you unaware that making fun of Larry The Cable Guy is cheap and easy like kicking a dead dog for a nickel?

6. Have you "maybe" killed a man in a bar brawl, but no one in your town cares whether you did or not, nor do they care that he ain't around no more?

7. Have you ever thought it was "pretty cool!" when you had diarrhea?

8. When you wake up in the morning, have you usually forgotten who (or what) you fucked or ate the night before?

9. Is one of those "who's" maybe Reba McIntyre? Is one of those "what's" (applicable for "ate" or "fucked") the dead dog you paid a nickel to kick?

10. Are you not following the elections because you already know you're gonna vote for George W. to get himself a second term?

11. Did you not "get" the joke for #10?

12. And finally, does purchasing frozen White Castle hamburgers as "groceries" make you feel self-conscious at the super market for trying to act "better than everyone?"

Then you might like...



I can only think of one other thing that would have made me happier to see on a store shelf, but I'm pretty sure they'll never make "Billy Ocean's Tasty Brother Brand Rib Tips" (or "Rob Halford's Snackies Cheese and Broc'li Taters").

But these are pretty close on a satisfactory scale. The problem is that I wrote the preceding before actually trying the product (which cost $4.79 before tax at the Meijers store in Saginaw, MI). I wanted to give them a thorough thrashing.

They're actually quite good. I put "Fast As You" on repeat, sat in my underpants, and washed down four in a row with Jim Beam and Vernor's Ginger Ale. I likes mine with a little American cheese on top.

But then again, I answered "yes" to questions 7, 8, and 9.

Mike Burns is a severely hunky comedian from Saginaw Chicago New York Los Angeles, MI. You can see more of this dreamboat at myspace.com/mikeburnsmikeburns and read his column here every other Tuesday.

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