Top Twelve Racist Jokes

White people...worst people ever?

When I tried to move my hands I couldn’t. When I tried to lift my head I couldn’t. I wasn’t tied down. Figuratively, I guess you could say I was. When I got to the room, it was bare and empty as usual. I enjoyed these little rooms. There was room all over the walls for my clippings. There was a lot of wood on the floor. The floor was made of wood, so obviously, there was a good amount of wood within my eyesight. I worked off of the floor with different index cards. I had things written on the index cards. Directions, recipes, live concert set lists, different meals I’d eaten on the road, ex-girlfriends, cars I’d owned. My whole life, a series of index cards. I moved from city to city, and rented these cheap rooms and would stay up for three or four days sorting them out on the wood floor. Days of coffee and cookies, cigarettes and bourbon. Long nights of alphabetizing, putting in chronological order. There were all different patterns I could follow. “Let’s put 1992 in order tonight” “Do I put my Ford Tempo before Jennifer Daynes from Cleveland?” I got into a rigorous schedule with the cards after a month. Nobody knew where I was. “Just sorting my life out” I would tell them. Literally, with index cards. My obsessions had ballooned to this. Becoming some sort of freak trying to find himself in a foreign town somewhere. This particular night I could not hold on though. I lost it and the sounds of Charlie Mingus filled the room on repeat for a whole evening. I was done. My life could not get sorted out in Memphis. Here I sat, the ceiling looked wonderful as I rolled over finally and looked at the alarm clock. It was time to move along.




Frank was the one who wanted to do it, not me. He used scissors to do it, and we were now the proud owners of not only a wedding band but the lightly freckled finger of a dead woman.



“really, who is he?”
“Just some guy”
“just some guy huh?”
“yup, just some guy. Are you going to listen this time?”
“I doubt it”



I can’t even waste time talking about ghosts and goblins in lower places than I have been to I come out and try to listen for a few minutes maybe finally finally they will have something good to say the cocksuckers though I mean these motherfucking cocksuckers they call for gifts and messages I bet you don’t know which I speak of the people you know come on the people who even bring you down the motherfuckers you know these motherfuckers I fucking know you do the whores of the streets that shake their asses in your face these fucking motherfuckers need to be destroyed these motherfuckers I swear I swear that if I see one of these motherfuckers on the street and I have the flame thrower on I will burn you and the motherfuckers to the fucking ground I really really really have no time for this

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So we were in some fucking strange ass town on the ocean somewhere, a whole bunch of friends, I have no clue who they were. Faceless friends, hmmm, that’s kind of funny now that I think back to it. We walked through covered bridges, and up dirt roads lined with colorless cottages and oak trees as old as Bob Hope (is he dead yet?). At one point, one of my cohorts attacked a visibly stunned James Garner. They ended up knocking James Garner over in this covered bridge, and he was down for the count. I eventually ended up in one of the cottages somehow, with a midget. The midget was short, and had long hair and glasses. He was trying to tickle me for some reason. I kicked him, and then realized I was kicking in my sleep, so it did no good. The air at 6AM this morning was amazing, it looked like it would be a good day for a long drive, and a head full of flattery.



We had an aunt that made this meatloaf that had chocolate chips in it. Now, when I was a little kid. Now, when I think back to this. I make myself try to make sense of all of it. When I was a little kid. We had an aunt that lived upstairs, she made this meatloaf with chocolate chips and garlic. We had this awful aunt that made us watch PBS and eat meatloaf with garlic and chocolate chips. We had this goddamn fucking aunt.



You can't really count on any of them. They ignore and push and ask too many questions and then never answer yours. Long letters sent over thousands of miles and a few feet down the highway sitting there collecting dust, at least that's how I see them. Like the sound of a phone ringing infinitely. Other ones though, they receive adoration and whatever else you will never know about, yeah they see that all day every day.