Week of August 28

Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans.

John Lennon


Week of August 21

It's a small world - but I'd hate to have to paint it.

Stephen Wright


Week of August 14

The only problem
with haiku is that you just
get started and then



Week of August 7

Doctor: You have a brain cloud.
Joe: Brain cloud?
Doctor: There... a black fog of tissue running right down the center of your brain. It's very rare. It'll spread at a regular rate. It's very destructive.
Joe: And it's incurable...
Doctor: Yes.
Joe: How long?
Doctor: Six months. You can pretty much count that being about that. It's not painful. Your brain will simply fail, followed abruptly by your body.

Joe: I don't feel good.
Mr. Waturi: So what! You think I feel good? Nobody feels good. After childhood it's a fact of life. I feel rotten. So what! I don't let it bother me. I don't let it interfere with my job.

Joe: You look terrible Mr. Waturi. You look like a bag of shit stuffed in a cheap suit. Not that anybody could look good under these zombie lights. I can feel them sucking the juice out of my eyeballs. Suck suck suck suck suck -- [slurp] -- Three hundred bucks a week, that's the news, for three hundred bucks a week I lived in this sink, this used rubber.
Mr. Waturi: Watch it mister, there's a woman here.
Joe: Don't you think I know that Frank? Don't you think I'm aware that there is a woman here. I can smell her, like, like a flower. I can taste her like sugar on my tongue. When I'm twenty feet away I can hear the fabric of her dress when she moves in her chair. Not that I've done anything about it. I've gone all day, every day, not doing, not saying, not taking the chance, for three hundred dollars a week. And Frank, the coffee, it stinks. It tastes like arsenic. These lights give me a headache. If they don't give you a headache you must be dead. So let's arrange the funeral.
Mr. Waturi: You better get out of here. I'm telling you.
Joe: You're not telling me nothing.
Mr. Waturi: I'm telling you!
Joe: Why? I ask myself why have I put up with you. I can't imagine. But I know it's fear. Yellow freakin' fear. I've been too chicken shit afraid to live my life so I sold it to you for three hundred freakin' dollars a week. You are lucky I don't kill you! You're lucky I don't rip your freakin' throat out! But I'm not going to! Maybe you're not so lucky at that. 'Cause I'm going to leave you here, Mr. Wahu Watusi. What could be worse than that.

Joe vs. the Volcano


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