Suicide Blowjob was born to a mother who hated her children and loved a good practical joke. Since his classmates’ parents forbade them from having playdates with him until they were eighteen, his only friends growing up were the characters he watched on PG-TV. And so Suicide Blowjob developed a dream: to host his own children’s TV show.

At school, he’d perform his routine during show and tell, and again in detention, where the teacher would send him for introducing himself. He workshopped program titles, like “Suicide Time” and “Blowjob Hour.” Whenever he’d explain that these names referred to a show, people were either extremely relieved or wildly disappointed. He even put on one-man plays at the local theater, entertaining the dozens of teens who’d thought he was a metal band.

Yet despite his talent, Hollywood hesitated. Producers said that if he’d only go by a pseudonym, he’d be the biggest star in kids’ TV. But Suicide Blowjob was too proud to change his name. He had a dream, and he wasn’t going to let some pro-life antisodomites or the FCC stand in his way.

His fortunes turned around when he met R****** ****taster, a grizzled producer who, like Suicide Blowjob, had once yearned to have a children’s TV show of his own, but was forced to give up for reasons he never disclosed. After calling in all his favors, and apologizing to the people who picked up for cursing at them, the old man landed Suicide Blowjob a national spot.

At his debut, an audience of five- to seven-year-olds chanted Suicide Blowjob’s name. But just as his earnest smile appeared on the TVs of unsupervised children across the country, they all flashed to a news anchor. “We interrupt your regularly scheduled programming to bring you breaking news: Osama Bin Laden, architect of the September 11th attacks, has been killed.” When the show switched back on to reveal all the children in tears, because one older kid had whispered to them what “suicide blowjob” actually meant, everyone was too patriotic to care. There was just this sense that anything was possible, that Al Qaeda was gone and Obama was going to win a second term because the USA was back, baby! And I remember I swooped your mother into my arms, and we kissed, long and hard, because that was before all those late nights at the office, before your mother’s handsome Portuguese personal trainer, and before my affair with his really hot sister, Loretta. It was just me and your old lady, and the future was ours for the taking because we were young, goddammit. We were alive. I miss that every day, son.

To make myself look more attractive by comparison, I take an ugly 90-year-old man with me wherever I go.

Me: Hey gorgeous. Mind if I join you in that hot tub?

Woman: Aww, is that your grandfather?

Me: Please, does he look like my grandfather?

Woman: I mean, I don’t know. He smells kind of bad.

Me: I know. I smell way bette—hey, come back.

Me: Are you from Tennessee? Cuz you’re the—ugh, how does it go again?

Old Man: Because you’re the only ten I see.

Me: Okay, thanks. Let’s run it again. Are you fro—ew, no, are you peeing?

Old Man: Sorry. Can we get out of the hot tub now?

Coworker: You look amazing today.

Me: Thanks! Let’s just say I’m keeping the right kind of company.

Coworker: Seriously. You used to be, like, the ugliest guy in the office.

Woman: Hey, I just wanted to say what you’re doing is really sweet.

Me: Finally! Doesn’t he make me look sex—

Woman: It’s refreshing to meet a guy who dedicates his time to the elderly.

Me: Oh—yes. Honestly, I feel like he’s dedicating his time to me.

Old Man: Please, take me home. I just want to see my daughter again.

Priest: You may now kiss the bride.

My Wife: Daniel, does he really need to be up here?

Me: Trust me. It’s best for the photos if he is. [Engages in three-way kiss with wife and the old man]

Hey there. You’re probably wondering why I pulled you over, considering that you were not speeding and I am not a cop. Relax. Driving can be confusing. Now scoot over to the passenger seat. I’m gonna teach you a lesson. About driving. I may also beat the hell out of you.

The first rule of the road is to observe the speed limit, by which I mean that there’s a fixed amount of biker crank you should do before hopping behind the wheel. My speed limit is usually all of it. Now, see that woman over there? She is not a hitchhiker. She is just a really big school bus. If you see a hitchhiker, you need to murder them before they murder you. Otherwise, there’s a hefty chance that no one will get murdered.

What else is there? 10 and 2: these are my favorite numbers, so remember them since I’ll quiz you later. And the signs. NO PARKING, which stands for Now Offroad Please, Awesome Randy (that’s me), Kick It ‘Nto Gear! This is kind of a dumb sign in my opinion because I am always offroad. Tell your kids to quiet down in the back.

That’s an interesting question. No, I don’t have a license. But you should know that it’s not running a red if you’re colorblind. I am colorblind, largely because I am actually blind. This is due to my many, many car accidents.

Check this out. This is a handicap spot, right? (Breaks own kneecaps using crowbar.) Not any more it isn’t! You get what I mean. Anyways, I’m going to need you to drive the rest of the way. We are going to the future, and I am not in the business of giving directions. I am in the business of giving driving lessons. You can pay me whenever, by the way. That’s just the policy.

Stop crying. You should consider yourself lucky to be here. When I was young, my family didn’t have a car. Just a big, metal box with seats and wheels that we used to drive to places in. I guess you and I are kind of like family now, aren’t we? No? Yeah, we are. I love you, man. What the hell—what do you say we crash this thing?

Following the second retirement of Michael Jordan in 1998, the NBA’s Chicago Bulls found themselves at a crossroads. With their star gone, and scant promise of championship contention on the horizon, the team turned to a new strategy: deliberately losing games in order to increase their likelihood of receiving a top draft pick.

Jerry Krause, General Manager, 1985-2003: A lot of people look at the loss of someone like Michael as a problem. I like to look at it like it’s a babe who’s sweet on the eyes, and I might just ask her to dance. As soon as Mike walked out the door, I glanced down at my desk where a printout of our roster was, and I said “yum,” since I was using it as a placemat for the meatball sub I was eating. It was from Rozello’s, right on West Madison. Sadly, the joint closed down a couple years ago. Believe it or not, the health inspector found a stiff in their freezer. Sheesh! Talk about fresh over frozen, am I right? Anyways, like I was saying, once Mike left, I traded basically all of those bums.

Scottie Pippen, Small Forward, 1987-1998 and 2003-2004: It was 2 AM when I got the call from Jerry. I was almost sure I was getting moved. You play in this league long enough, you just sort of know. So, you can imagine my surprise when the first thing he asks me is if my refrigerator is gonna be in the Boston Marathon. I ask him what the hell he’s talking about, but he just doubles down. “Y’know…is your refrigerator gonna be in the Boston Marathon?” he says again. Then he pauses for a second, and adds, “I’m winking.” Now I’m really confused. “Jerry,” I ask him. “Are you trying to tell me you’re trading me to Boston?” Then he starts chuckling. “Oh, my bad,” he says. “I always mess that one up. I meant ‘is your refrigerator running!’ Then you were going to say it was and I was going to tell you to go catch it. It’s a classic that I thought you might like.” And I’m about to get mad at him for calling and waking me up in the middle of the night, along with my wife and our three infant children who sleep in the room with us and who are now bawling their eyes out, but I’m honestly just relieved that I’m not getting traded. So I laugh a bit, too, just to humor him, and he chuckles again. It’s nice. “I told you it was good, didn’t I?” he continues after a little while, still laughing. “I just wanted to let you down easy, since you need to pack your bags for Houston. The Rockets were expecting you yesterday.”

Jim Stack, Assistant Vice President of Basketball Operations, 1996-2000: Sure, Jerry’s management style could be a little harsh at times. But I believed in him all the way. This was the guy who’d built the greatest dynasty basketball has ever seen. You’re telling me you’re going to question him when he orders that we start selling tickets exclusively to opposing teams’ fans? Or when he spends 93% of the team’s revenue bribing referees to have them play keep away with the ball every time one of our players asks for it? Yeah, we might not have been winning, but the way Jerry saw things, Michael had already broken all of the records. Now, it was up to us to fix them.

Toni Kukoč, Small Forward, 1993-2000: I was one of the few members of the ‘98 championship-winning squad that Jerry left on the roster. I’ve always wondered whether he did that on purpose, or if he’d meant to trade me, but then took a nap and missed the deadline. Either way, things were rough. For a couple months, Jerry scheduled practices for the same time as games, and he forced the coaching staff to bench us if we missed practice. So, I spent most of that season on the sideline, watching the other teams pummel us, five on zero. Even his “improvements” made things worse. He bought a brand new projector for the film room, but he refused to let us watch anything on it other than episodes of that old detective show, Dragnet. Dragnet doesn’t even have any basketball in it. Plus, whenever a new shipment of balls would come in, he’d have the whole team sign them, and then he’d tell us we couldn’t shoot around with them, since they were signed, which meant they might be valuable someday. And, on top of all that, I had some serious doubts about a lot of the new guys he was bringing in.

Chuckles the Clown, Point Guard, 1998-2003: I remember, I was doing a birthday gig for some kid who was friends with Jerry Krause’s son. At least, that’s what he said to me at the time. I’ve asked around since then, and folks have told me that Jerry didn’t even have a kid—friend of the birthday boy or not. I don’t why he would make something like that up. Now that I think about it, I’m not even sure if he knew anybody at that birthday party. All I know is I was doing my juggling act, when I messed up and dropped one of the tennis balls. Jerry basically hurled himself over the kids sitting on the floor to get to me, knocking over their lemonade and stepping on their cake and stuff. Kind of out of breath, he asked me, “You ever played the point?” to which I told him I hadn’t. “Bingo,” he said, and handed me his business card. Then one of the kids whose cake Jerry had smushed brought his mom into the room, and he had to run away.

Tim Floyd, Head Coach, 1998-2001: Our starting lineup that year was Chuckles at the one, with the team doctor and the retired team doctor on the wings. Power forward was the mascot, Benny the Bull—but just the costume, no guy in it—and then we always kept the five spot open for a random fan in the crowd who Jerry would select off the jumbotron. I still don’t know how he managed to find one with no arms every goddamned time. Now, he did put Derrick Rose on our roster, who went on to win the league MVP in 2011. But back in ‘98, he was only nine years old, and Jerry also made me play him out of position, so he wasn’t much help. Things were getting so bad, I reached out to Phil, who’d managed to win six rings under Jerry, to see if he could give me any tips on dealing with the guy.

Phil Jackson, Head Coach, 1989-1998: Now (*puff*) the first thing you need to know about Jerry (*puff*) is that he (*puff*)...he gave me a boatload of pot to get me to agree to (*puff*) step away from the Bulls (*puff*)(*cough*)(*puff*). I mean a boatload. Like, two boats worth. So when (*puff*) Tim called me for advice about Jerry, I (*puff*) just told him, “Go get your ganja, my son. Go get your ganja.” Ahh. Hmm. (*puff*) Hey, you ever think that birds get scared of clouds?

Jerry Reinsdorf, Owner, 1985-Present: When Jerry first pitched his plan to tank, I thought it was a winner. I mean, I love tanks as much as the next guy. And even after he explained that his idea didn’t involve any actual military tanks, but instead consisted of trying to lose games on purpose, it still sounded pretty solid. Besides, who was to say that a tank couldn’t still slip its way in there? But when April rolled around, and we were at zero wins and zero tanks, I started to lose patience. At the end of the day, I had only bought the team to make money, as well as to safeguard and serve the franchise I had supported since childhood, and these losses were really hurting our bottom line. After a 20-0 blowout loss to Dallas (which was, in hindsight, an insanely rough shooting night for the Mavericks, but an even rougher one for us), I called Jerry into my office for one of our special “Jerry chats.” There, I sat him down, looked him deep in the eyes, and asked him if all this losing was worth it just for one number one draft pick. He looked surprised. “What? Number one draft pick?” he asked. “I traded all of our draft picks months ago.” I was furious. “Then what the hell is the point of all this?” I screamed at him. “Are you insane? What did you even trade our draft picks for?” But Jerry smiled in that way of his, where you can tell exactly what he’s thinking, but you also have no clue at all. “Take a look at your parking spot,” he said wryly, nodding his head toward the window. And there it was. Parked where my Cadillac usually sits was my very own, giant, beige tank. I couldn’t believe it. I shook both of Jerry’s hands, thanked him for his work, and told him he could do whatever he pleased with my organization for as long as he lived. Today, I’ve bought several additional tanks that I can look at whenever I like.

Michael Jordan, Shooting Guard, 1984-1993 and 1995-1998: Fans always tell me that my second retirement from the game of basketball made them cry twice. First, when I announced it. And second, months later, when the Bulls finished with the first and only negative winning percentage in NBA history. Many of them ask me if I know why Jerry Krause did what he did to the city of Chicago, if he was just going to throw all the team’s draft picks away. They call him crazy, a madman, as well as many other unsavory words that I have to ask them to stop saying because my children are with me. Some even call him Mr. Reinsdorf, if they’re confusing him with the team’s owner. But I tell those fans that I don’t think Jerry Krause was crazy. I think he was a visionary. Because even though he replaced the team jet with a giant tandem bicycle, even though he signed a deal with Crocs to make them the sole provider of the players’ game shoes, even though he forced the players and the coaches to communicate solely in Esperanto as a diversity initiative, even though the NBA briefly considered publicly cutting ties with the Bulls so as not to suffer any collateral embarrassment, and even though he strangled one of our forwards with his bare hands in the middle of a game because the guy had made a free throw, what Jerry created was a spectacle. It was the exact same thing that I had done when I was a Bull. By losing as much as I had won, Jerry Krause carried on my legacy. In many ways, he was more Michael Jordan than I was. But by the time I’m done telling them this, people have usually left because they mainly just wanted a selfie with me.

Dennis Rodman, Power Forward, 1995-1998: Visit North Korea. Pyongyang is the shit.

Me: (waking up violently) Ahh! The horror! The horror!

My Wife: Honey! What’s wrong? What happened?

Me: I have no fucking clue, but it’s gonna be super awful.

Post-Pre-Traumatic Stress Disorder

Me: (waking up violently) Ahh! The horror! The horror!

My Wife: Honey! What’s wrong? What happened?

Me: I have no fucking clue, but it’s gonna be super awful. (waking up violently, for real this time) Ahh! The horror! The horror!

My Wife: Shut the fuck up, Derek! I’m trying to sleep.

Me: I forgot how mean you are.

Pre-Post-Pre-Traumatic Stress Disorder

Me: (waking up violently) Ahh! The horror! The horror!

My Wife: Honey! What’s wrong? What happened?

Me: I have no fucking clue, but it’s gonna be super awful. (waking up violently, for real this time) Ahh! The horror! The horror!

My Wife: Shut the fuck up, Derek! I’m trying to sleep.

Me: I forgot how mean you are. (waking up violently, for real this time, actually) Ahh! The horror! The horror!

My Mistress: Babe! What’s wrong? What happened?

Me: I have no fucking clue, but I know that it’s gonna be super awful after I have no fucking clue what will happen but I know that it’s gonna be super awful. It’s a whole thing. Anyways, you’re so much nicer than my wife.

Pre-Post-Pre-Traumatic Stress Disorder Trauma

Me: (waking up violently) Ahh! The horror! The horror!

My Wife: Honey! What’s wrong? What happened?

Me: I have no fucking clue, but it’s gonna be super awful. (waking up violently, for real this time) Ahh! The horror! The horror!

My Wife: Shut the fuck up, Derek! I’m trying to sleep.

Me: I forgot how mean you are. (waking up violently, for real this time, actually) Ahh! The horror! The horror!

My Mistress: Babe! What’s wrong? What happened?

Me: I have no fucking clue, but I know that it’s gonna be super awful after I have no fucking clue what will happen but I know that it’s gonna be super awful. It’s a whole thing. Anyways, you’re so much nicer than my wife.

My Wife: (barging in) I knew you were cheating on me! I’m gonna kill you!

Me: (dodging my wife’s ax throw) No! This is gonna cause some really complicated psychological problems for me down the road!

JULIET: Dearest Romeo, upon what will we feast this romantic eve?

ROMEO: Our love shall content us, sweet Juliet. Our love, and dinosaur chicken nuggets.

JULIET: But, pray, assure me that you have not procured some unsatisfactory brand of nugget.

ROMEO: For my love, only the best shall suffice. These are Nelson Brand™.

JULIET kisses ROMEO passionately, then begins eating nuggets, more passionately.

ROMEO: Lo! I hear trouble approaching.

TYBALT entersthe Nelson Brand™ Dinosaur Chicken Nugget Castle, incensed.

TYBALT: Surely, Romeo, you did not think you could escape sharing your nuggets with me!

ROMEO: But of course, Tybalt. Nelson Brand™ dinosaur chicken nuggets are the perfect party snack.

TYBALT: Many thanks. Could you do me the honor of passing me a triceratops?

ROMEO: Here, friend. Mine is a T-Rex.

ROMEO and TYBALT pretend to make their nuggets fight. EVERYONE wins, as there is nothing better than good food and fun times. This is the Nelson™ way.

JULIET: Hast thou heard the legend of all-new Nelson Brand™ Ranch-Up?

ROMEO: Do not tempt me! Dost thou refer to ketchup and ranch, all in one bottle?

TYBALT: Aye! ‘Tis a delicacy now abundant in most grocery stores in the tri-state area.

JIM NELSON, CEO of Nelson Brand™ enters, distributing Ranch-Up coupons to the audience

JIM NELSON: That’s right, Tybalt. It’s just one of many new Nelson Brand™ products we’re excited to showcase here at the Nelson™ Center for the Arts and Poultry Processing Facility.

TYBALT: Ay. But, alas, Romeo, the real reason I am here is because your time has come—

JIM NELSON: To enjoy a delicious Nelson™ meal with the people that Nelson™ matter. Because, as we like to say…

ALL: Nelson™ families eat together!

ROMEO murders TYBALT, then drinks a vial of lethal poison. JULIET stabs herself and dies. JIM NELSON stands center stage, savoring Nelson Brand™’s mouth-watering and nutritious signature dinosaur chicken nugget recipe. Cue applause.

Though people say that healthcare in America is too expensive, you just have to know where to look. I like to go to my guy Frankie Pete under the bridge, where appointments are always free and never not at nighttime. Today, I’m seeing him for my annual checkup, which happens weekly since Frankie Pete doesn’t do dictionaries and has a loose grasp of linear time.

Frankie Pete begins our appointment by rubbing my chest with the wetter of his two hands. “Stethoscopes are a hoax,” he grumbles. He then takes a quick glance at the outside of my jeans. Turns out I’ve got AIDS. Frankie Pete breaks the news to me gently, though, with a lip kiss, which is safe because he also has it.

Worried about malpractice? Frankie Pete’s got you covered. Every appointment’s videotaped by his trusty assistant, Nurse Earl. “My name’s just Earl,” says Nurse Earl. He films me during the physical endurance part of the checkup, where Frankie Pete has me clean his tent and stroke his shoulders a little. “Cleanliness is next to godliness, and the government owns all the diseases,” muses the doc while scrubbing dog poop off his pants with gutter water.

Since Frankie Pete has no medical specialty, he has every medical specialty. As my gastroenterologist, he gives me a colonoscopy, but as my therapist, he asks me how the colonoscopy makes me feel. No matter how I answer, Frankie Pete always tells me that the colonoscopy makes him feel great.

But Frankie Pete is more than my doctor—he’s also my pharmacist. After scratching around for a while, Frankie Pete removes his hand from his underwear, holding a packet of powder. He tells me it’s the stuff LeBron James takes, if LeBron took a lot of suspect street drugs. Perfect. I’m the LeBron James of saving on healthcare. I inhale the whole bag as F.P. watches with a smile.

As the sun rises and Frankie Pete drags his tent back into the sewer, I can’t help but wonder why more Americans don’t take advantage of the valuable public service he provides. You’re paying an arm and a leg for a hospital bed, while I’m paying nothing to lie in an underpass, paralyzed by Frankie Pete’s medicine, as my arms and legs turn blue. Now tell me that deal doesn’t sound too good to be legal.

• That looks like an iceberg, Captain.

• Oh! Steer around it.

• Okay.

• Say, are those penguins over there?

• Yeah.

• Awesome.

• Crashes into other iceberg