by Jack Handey
But scary skeletons don’t just pop out of the ground. Or if they do, a lot of planning was involved. Some people make the mistake of thinking that just because they’re hideous in life, their skeletons will be hideous. Unfortunately, that’s a myth. There are no easy skeletons.
Probably the most obvious way to make your skeleton scarier is to gradually distort your bones into grotesque shapes while you’re still alive, using a series of heavy vises and clamps. But this is not as easy as it sounds; you may just wind up with an expensive set of clamps. The truth is, the time to consider this method is probably when you’re young and your bones are pliable. But most people don’t even think about their skeletons then. They’re too busy going, “Oh, let’s play hide-and-seek” or “Oh, where’s my dolly?”
An easier, more practical alternative might be to have your eyeballs injected with some sort of preservative after you’re dead. That way, your skeleton will have intact eyeballs, which is very scary.
You may be wondering if some sort of insect larvae could be injected in your eyes, so worms or whatever could wiggle out. I think maybe you’re overthinking it. The odds of that happening at the exact right moment are almost nil.
To me, the best ideas are simple. This guy I met in a bar said to just bury the body with a knife in its hand. A skeleton holding up a knife is pretty scary. But wouldn’t the knife just fall out of the guy’s hand? said this other guy in the bar. Not, said the bartender, if you secured the knife to the hand with some bolts and wing nuts. Simple, clean, scary. And it leads to other ideas: Could there be some sort of spring mechanism so that when the coffin lid is opened, the skeleton actually makes a stabbing motion? And what would the warranty be on such a mechanism? These are all questions best discussed with a qualified funeral director.
It will probably take Congress to deal with some issues, such as if a skeleton should be allowed to have a loaded gun. On the one hand, an armed skeleton is scary, no doubt. But what if a dog digs up your skeleton? Even if the dog doesn’t get shot, it could drag the skeleton around as it fires randomly in all directions. And no one wants to see that.
I wish there were some magic formula for producing a scary skeleton. A lot of times it comes down to common sense. A terrifying skeleton that instantly crumbles into dust, and then the dust is blown away by a special fan that runs on solar power, might sound good on paper. But in the end, a few nails pounded into your skull at the right angles might be more effective.
The main thing is, try to avoid clichés. You can have your teeth sharpened and let your fingernails grow long, but really, is that the best you can come up with? Here’s an easy test: Ask yourself what you find scary in a skeleton. Or ask your kids or your grandkids. Then “build” on that.
I can’t reveal what I’ve decided for my skeleton, because that might hurt the scariness. All I can tell you is that if you plan on opening my coffin, you’d better bring one of those heart-reviver machines. And I guess bring a blind guy, too, to operate the heart reviver.
(AUTHOR’S NOTE: Maybe they have oil lanterns a hundred years from now because there was a nuclear war or something, and electricity became extinct.)
My Third-Best Friend
I have been saying it for so many years in private, I think it’s high time I said it publicly: my wife, Brenda, is not only my wife, she’s my third-best friend. That’s right, of all my friends in the world—and I’m guessing if you added them up there would be more than a dozen—I rank her below only two other people.
My best friend, I would have to say, is Jerry Blake, mainly because we work together and because we eat lunch together quite a bit. Jerry and I get along very well, although sometimes he can get cranky, especially when the pollen count is high. Also, I suspect that some of the things I tell him in confidence he reports back to our boss. He’s not perfect, but still, overall, I’d have to rank him number one.
My second-best friend is Pete Garcia, simply by virtue of the fact that we roomed together in college. I haven’t actually seen him in many, many years, but I get a greeting card from him and his family almost every Christmas. Sometimes I feel like calling him up and recounting some of the crazy things we did in college, but his phone number is unlisted, and I’m not sure where he works these days.
As I said earlier, my third-best friend is my wife, Brenda. One of the main reasons she is ranked so high is that she has actually saved my life on several occasions.
The last time she saved my life, we were up at Crystal Lake. I was several yards out in the water, floating on my air mattress. Brenda was onshore, preparing dinner over the campfire she had built. She was making my favorite meal, this French thing with truffles and scallops and other stuff. I can’t remember what it’s called, even though she’s told me many times. I was relaxing comfortably, when, suddenly, I felt one of my feet slip overboard. The abrupt feeling of water around my previously dry foot caused me to panic. I began thrashing about wildly. The more I struggled to regain control of my bobbing craft, the more that very control seemed to slip away.
Finally, in a blur of white water, the air mattress flipped over. I choked and gagged, but somehow managed to maintain a grip on it. I made a bargain with God, that if He would get me out of this, I would buy a better, more stable air mattress. I cried out to Brenda. She did not hear me the first couple of times, a fact that I still (gently) rib her about to this day.
But on the third or fourth yell, she did hear me and sprang to my rescue. She threw off her shoes, raced to the edge of the cliff, and dove in. I’ll be honest, I never knew she could dive like that. She plummeted the fifty feet or so to the water in near-perfect form. I think it would have been perfect if she hadn’t let her feet sort of drift apart a little bit before entry, but so what, really.
What’s important is that I was sure glad to see her swimming toward me, as by now I was losing my grip on my beloved air mattress. Crystal Lake is said to be home to the rainbow trout. Several rangers swore up and down that no one had ever been attacked by any of these trout, but that’s probably what they say about everything: “Oh, that bear won’t hurt you”; “Oh, that beaver is harmless.”
Anyway, as I held on for dear life, I thought I saw a rainbow trout right under my arm! “Whoa!” I yelled, and flung myself backward. Loss of contact with the air mattress aroused some sort of primeval flapping instinct in me. My hands and arms slapped the water repeatedly as I tried to stay afloat. The mattress seemed to drift away, as in a dream.
After what seemed like forever (although I’m sure she was actually very prompt), Brenda swam up to me. “Grab hold,” she said, extending her hand.
Well, I guess I sort of lost control, because Brenda claims I started clawing and scratching her, trying to literally climb on top of her to escape the water. I don’t exactly remember it that way, but I’ll take her word for it.
Finally, she “subdued” me, as she puts it, with a powerful choke hold that was, in my opinion, much rougher than necessary. I had bruises for days.
Just before we reached the shore, I guess I sort of panicked again, as I thought I heard another rainbow trout swimming right alongside of us. I managed to wrench myself free from Brenda and, I’m not sure how, make it the final few yards to land.
Still, I would have to count that as a save by Brenda, even though technically she didn’t bring me all the way in.
Brenda has saved my life at least three other times, but I don’t think we need to go into those times right now. The main thing is, she’s very loyal and honest and sincere, all of which help her maintain that third-place ranking.
I would say my fourth-best friend is a guy named Cal down at the garage where I get my car fixed. (Cal Jenkins? Johnston?) I guess he’s really more of an “associate” than a friend, because we haven’t really done anything together, but he’s generally friendly to me when I bring my car in, so that’s pretty good.
What I’d Say to the Martians
People of Mars, you say we are brutes and savages. Bu
t let me tell you one thing: if I could get loose from this cage you have me in, I would tear you guys a new Martian asshole.
You say we are violent and barbaric, but has any one of you come up to my cage and extended his hand? Because, if he did, I would jerk it off and eat it right in front of him. “Mmm, that’s good Martian,” I would say.
You say your civilization is more advanced than ours. But who is really the more “civilized” one: you, standing there watching this cage, or me, with my pants down, trying to urinate on you?
You criticize our Earth religions, saying they have no relevance to the way we actually live. But think about this: if I could get my hands on that god of yours, I would grab his skinny neck and choke him until his big green head exploded.
We are a warlike species, you claim, and you show me films of Earth battles to prove it. But I have seen all the films about twenty times. Get some new films, or so help me, if I ever get out of here I will empty my laser pistol on everyone I see, even pets.
Speaking of films, I could show you some films, films that show a different, gentler side of Earth. And while you’re watching the films I sort of slip away, because guess what? The projector is actually a thing that shoots out spinning blades! And you fell for it!
You point to your long tradition of living peacefully with Earth. But you know what I point to? Your stupid heads.
You say that there is much your civilization could teach ours. But perhaps there is something that I could teach you—namely, how to scream like a parrot when I put your big Martian head in a vise.
You claim there are other intelligent beings in the galaxy besides Earthlings and Martians. Good, then we can attack them together. And after we’re through attacking them, we’ll attack you.
I came here in peace, seeking gold and slaves. But you have treated me like an intruder. Maybe it is not me who is the intruder, but you. No, not me—you, stupid.
You keep my body imprisoned in this cage. But I am able to transport my mind to a place far away, a happier place, where I use Martian heads for batting practice.
I admit that sometimes I think we are not so different after all. When you see one of your old ones trip and fall down, do you not point and laugh, just as we do? And I think we can agree that nothing is more admired by the people of Earth and Mars alike than a fine, high-quality cigarette. For fun, we humans like to ski down mountains covered with snow; you like to “milk” bacteria off of scum hills and pack them into your gill slits. So are we so different? Of course we are, and you will be even more different if I ever finish my homemade flame thrower.
You may kill me, either on purpose or by not making sure that all the surfaces in my cage are safe to lick. But you can’t kill an idea. And that idea is: me chasing you with a big wooden mallet.
You say you will release me only if I sign a statement saying I will not attack you. And I have agreed, the only condition being that I can sign with a long sharp pen. And yet you still keep me locked up.
True, you have allowed me reading material—not the “human reproduction” magazines I requested, but the works of your greatest philosopher, Zandor or Zanax or whatever his name is. I would like to discuss his ideas with him—just me, him, and one of his big, heavy books.
If you will not free me, at least deliver a message to Earth. Send my love to my wife, and also to my girlfriend. And also to my children, if I have any anyplace. Ask my wife to please send me a bazooka, which is a flower we have on Earth. If my so-called friend Don asks you where the money I owe him is, please anally probe him. Do that anyway.
If you keep me imprisoned long enough, eventually I will die. Because one thing you Martians do not understand is, we humans cannot live without our freedom. So if you see me lying lifeless in my cage, come on in, because I’m dead. Really.
Maybe one day we will not be the enemies you make us out to be. Perhaps one day a little Earth child will sit down to play with a little Martian child, or larva, or whatever they are. But after a while, guess what happens: the little Martian tries to eat the Earth child. But guess what the Earth child has: a gun. You weren’t expecting that, were you? And now the Martian child is running away, as fast as he can. Run, little Martian baby, run!
I would like to thank everyone for coming to my cage to hear my speech. Donations are gratefully accepted. (No Mars money, please.)
Lowering My Standards
As you may have heard, I have very high standards. When people see me do something, they often shake their heads in disbelief. That’s how high my standards are.
But lately I’ve been wondering if maybe they’re not too high. Am I pushing myself too hard? Do I always have to be the one everybody looks up to? Are my high standards hurting my happiness and things like that?
Why, for instance, do I always have to be the first one to show up at a party and the last one to leave? And while I’m at the party is it really so important that I tell the dirtiest joke? A lot of times, I’m the only one telling a dirty joke, so it’s not even that big an accomplishment. And if someone else does tell a dirty joke, why do I feel compelled to tell one that is even dirtier and more graphic? Just so I can be number one?
Why do I sometimes feel like I should get “a job” or do some kind of “work”? Does thinking about maybe getting a job make me better than other people? Am I worried that if I quit borrowing money from my friends they’ll think I’m stuck-up?
Why do I have to be the honest one? Do people really want you to be that honest about how old they look or how big their breasts are?
When I catch my foot and stumble on the sidewalk, why do I have to pretend to keep stumbling, all the way down the street? To avoid embarrassment?
At every get-together, why do I have to do my funny cowboy dance? Why not do a dance that isn’t so demanding, like my funny robot dance or just funny prancing?
Is it really my responsibility that half-empty glasses of beer not be wasted?
Whenever there’s a scary sound at night, why do I have to do all the screaming? Maybe somebody else can scream and cry and beg for mercy, for a change.
Would the world really fall apart if I didn’t point out to people which are the regular goldfish and which are the bug-eyed ones? Let them figure it out on their own.
Why does it have to be me who ends up asking how much someone paid for something? Everyone is curious.
Could a sock really be a parachute for a mouse? Maybe not, but does that mean I have to stand up in the middle of the movie theater and start booing?
Why do I always have to be the one who sums up what was just said, or explains to the children what Hell is, or calls the meeting to order?
These are all questions I would never even have asked myself until that incident with Don. Every day my friend Don and I would see who could trip each other the most times. But then one day I tripped him and he fell and broke his jaw. He looked up and, with slurred speech, said, “I guess you win.” But what did I win? I didn’t win anything, and you know why? Because I forgot to make a bet with him. But something else was wrong, and I knew it. Why did I want to trip Don in the first place? To show how clever I was, or how brave, or how successful? Yes, all of those things. So I guess that answers that.
Still, something about it bothered me. I decided to drive up to a cabin in the mountains. For a week, all I did was sit and think and watch a lot of television. How, I agonized during the commercial breaks, did I get such high standards? Was it something from my childhood, or my fraternity-hood? Was it from another lifetime, when I was in another fraternity? I wondered if my high standards were leading me to a heart attack. Then I thought, Yes, but it’ll be the biggest heart attack anyone’s ever had. I wondered if it was even possible for a person like me to lower his standards. Then I wondered if they still make Bosco. I became so confused and frustrated I began smashing things in the cabin. I wound up running headlong into the woods in panic when the people who owned the cabin suddenly showed up.
As I drove back t
o civilization (as you squares call it), I had already made a momentous decision: I would keep thinking about the possibility of lowering my standards. Maybe, just maybe, I don’t always have to do things so perfectly. Maybe when I ask someone a question I don’t always have to begin it with the words “Pray tell.” Perhaps I don’t have to wear the fanciest fanny pack that money can buy. And when I’m at a dinner party, maybe I don’t need to sniff every piece of food before I eat it. In short, perhaps I should worry less about doing the right thing and more about doing the right thang, whatever that means.
People may worry, “Isn’t there a danger that if you start lowering your standards they’ll go too low?” As far as I’m concerned, they can’t go low enough.
How to Prepare a Wild-Caught Rabbit for a Meal
The first thing you want to do, after catching a wild rabbit, is to calm the rabbit down. A panicked rabbit does not make for a pleasurable dining experience. It taints it. Pet the rabbit. Maybe say something soothing, like “Easy, Brownie, easy” (if the rabbit is brown) or “Easy, Gray Boy, easy” (if the rabbit is gray). You might just say, “Easy, little bunny.” (But really, can’t you come up with some kind of name besides “bunny”?)
Feel the belly. It should be plump and fuzzy. But skinny is fine too. Feel the ears. They should be soft and pink. Man, I love the ears.
If you like your rabbit spicy, try rubbing him with wild sage or wild mint.
Place the rabbit on a rock with good drainage. Next, take out a long, sharp butcher knife. Try not to let the rabbit see the knife. You may not want to look at the knife yourself, as some of them are kind of scary-looking.
Hold the rabbit down firmly with one hand. With the other hand, take a carrot out of your backpack. Still holding the rabbit, place the carrot on the rock and slice it with the butcher knife. Then feed the carrot pieces to the rabbit. If the rabbit doesn’t eat all the pieces, feel free to eat the leftovers.