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It’s No Econo-Lodge, That’s for Sure

Olympic Village

Speaking of the Olympics, it would seem as though things are worse than the media would lead you to believe in Brazil. Take the Olympic Village for example. Granted, one doesn’t come to expect five-star accommodations in a third-world country, but the lack of reliable Wi-Fi (and en-suite plumbing… and a roof), but you really begin to see how bringing in Venezuelan decorators may have been a mistake.

On the bright side, however, it’s nice to see Motel 6 upping their game on the international stage, and hiring what appears to be at least one part-time maid for the duration of the event.

The Inner-Spring Workings of a Killer

Conversation Gone Awry: Dinner With the Youngest/Vocabulary Skills Edition:

“So how was school today?
“OK. We talked about a lot of stuff in Technology.”
“Like what?”
“Do you know what ‘patricide’ is?”
“I’m not certain that I like where this is headed.”
“It’s when you kill your Dad.”
“You want dessert? Maybe a car?”
“…and there’s matricide.”
“Or mattress-cide. But that takes a lot of planning and upper body strength. I mean you can’t be too covert carrying around a California King… or better, a QUEEN-SIZE, and then snuffing someone with it, and running away. That would really confuse the cops, though. ‘Detective, we’re stumped. All of these victims appear to have been suffocated by something heavy, but soft.'”
“OOH! ‘But they look comfortable. No pressure points.'”
“Yes! We need an ’80’s cop one-liner… ‘I guess his sleep-number came up.'”
“‘The best AND worst night’s sleep EVER.'”
“BETTER: There’s a copy-cat murderer who is dragging around an old Craftmatic Adjustable bed. He gets caught quickly, though. Those are heavy, I’d imagine.”
“Why not just use a pillow?”
“This guy is too crafty for that. He tailors the mattress to the victim. ‘This bastard here… He’s getting futon-ed.’ Maybe his grand finale is dropping a sleeper sofa from a roof…”
“You’re weird, Dad.”

Answering the Really Tough Questions

Comedy Club Manager: “Can you do three minutes?”
Me: “Some nights I’m done before the underwear comes off.”
Comedy Club Manager: “So then… Three minutes?”
Me: “Let me slip out of these undies, and I’ll be good for six or seven later on.”
*Blank stare*

Thank you. I’m here all week. Remember to tip your servers…

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