The Delicate Mechanics of a Skillful Pie Hole

William Toblerone, Contributor

If you are like most people, you like to go around saying stuff. You spray human noise and hope that something clever or useful comes out of your mouth. Finding the right combination of words can be an elusive mission.

I like to think I can do the clever talk sometimes. But it often comes out like a 14-beer turd. Just the other night I was drunk-soaking in my hot tub with my girlfriend when we started drunk-daring each other to streak around the block. Out the back gate I ran, shivering into the alley, naked as a peeled kumquat. I ran back in the front door, which really added up to half of a block. I have to finish a dare, because my brain still thinks I am 12. On the next run, a guy on a bicycle crossed my path and asked me what I was doing. Uncovered and unprepared for improv, the only thing I could think of to say was, “Just running”.
A famous comedian like me rarely gets such great opportunities. And I went with “Just running!?” Seriously? If I could only get that moment back, I would answer with “Run! Run for your life! The Buttfuck Monster is buttfucking everybody!” Or I might have landed on, “Which way to the auditions for Schindler’s List 2?” Or perhaps, “There’s something powerful in the pudding pops!”

When you have a chance, you have to nail it. I saw 10 raccoons battling to the death over a bowl of cat food on a neighbor’s porch one night. They twisted and screamed and made the most incredible noise I’ve ever heard. Like a robot army being boiled. The neighbor came out to clear them away as I stood in awe. “That was the most… that was… dude, that was the totally…” I struggled. He interrupted with “THAT’S 10 raccoons fightin’.” He tipped his hat and retreated back inside. It was delivered like Charlton Heston, as though the time had come for him to present the defining words he had waited for all of his life. Genius.
Another time I was eating at a nice restaurant with a friend and her 9-year-old boy. He had just been down a waterslide, lost his mat, and had to go the length of the rickety tube on his stomach. It looked painful. He was still stuck in a bit of a grimace when the waiter came to take his order. “What’s wrong, little man?” he asked. “My front hurts,” he answered. “Awww, which part?” The boy looked up and said in a loud, commanding tone, “The wiener part.” Genius.


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