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In this hour, we talk about gas explosions, I defend Dane Cook, and we discuss the best weapon to defend against Zombies.
In review of Mr. Cook’s most recent twitter postings, I will have to rescind much of what I said in this hour. I also may have been drunk. Dane is a whore, pure and simple. A funny, witty, charming, talented, rich and sassy whore, but a whore nonetheless. If by whore I mean guy who gets paid to talk. Which I do. Which explains my lack of fulfillment whenst frequenting whores.
Yes. I said whenst. Hush.
My book review centered on Paul Harvey’s The Rest of the Story, and I asked our listeners to come up with a fitting Paul Harvey tombstone epitaph. Epigraph? Polyglyph. Something. Anyway, here are a few made thus far, +15 points to each, for being creative for the sake of being creative.
You now know what the show is about, and in a minute you’re going to read the rest… of the story.
Page 2 – If you are a listener of the show, and want to help us out, please throw up a link on your own website. Points, would follow.
It was a sweltering heat, that spring of ‘53, when Mrs. Stroll realized that the moment was upon her. Long had she borne under the load all women must. Hers had been an especially difficult pregnancy. At times wracked with hunger pains, she had been forced by craving, and women’s intuition, to diet exclusively on enormous martinis and creamed corn. Her midsection grew quickly since that autumn, swelling beyond the hope and use of cloth and fabric.
She was determined to have this child naturally, partly from her upbringing, but also due to the mind boggling poverty within which she and her kin lived. They say that the road ain’t no place to start a family, but Tennessuckey could also join that dubious list.
Her time was spent listening to old comedy shows, reading aloud what few words she could make out from a discarded Sherlock Holmes comic book, or describing a wood-cutting of a hirsute Indian Maid (Woo Woo). The baby within, ever larger, would cease his turns and twists and cuddle down, restful for a spell.
But no such remedy would work this day. She began fretfully pacing the yard, an old wives tale spoken to her once said that the best solution for birthing pain is a brisk pace, and she set one that day, working in the yard, skinning and tanning leathers and filling mason jars with bear grease.
The baby gave an especially fast flip inside her, and she let out a holler, in her holler. She stumbled about aimlessly for hours, rolling in the grass, moaning in pain, even climbing trees. She sat in one such tree and began reciting the alphabet.
She had made it to the third vowel when she sneezed.
The townspeople still talk to this day, of the sight it must have been. From all accounts, what took place was surely extraordinary. The baby flew free from his mother, still perched atop her tree. He sailed through the air, landing smartly upon a stretched leather hide and bouncing once, twice, thrice, before landing head first into an open jar of bear grease.
He would want us to mention his name.
This is SomaCow. Good Day!
Tags: adam and eve, comedy, dane cook, internet, orlando, paul harvey, Podcast, radio, talk, the rest of the story, twitter, zombies
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