Liam McEneaney: Comedian, Writer, Producer
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Category: Liam’s Notebook

0 12/05/2016 Jokes I Wrote For Television

  • December 5, 2016
  • by Liam
  • · Blog · Jokes About The News · Liam's Notebook

I write jokes about the news and submit them freelance to television. You can read more about it in an article the Wall Street Journal wrote about me right here. Most of these jokes don’t get accepted and never see the light of day. Until now. Below are my favorites from last week.

According to reports, President Obama is going to finalize regulations making it illegal to ask job applicants if they have a criminal record. And just in time for Trump to finish hiring his cabinet.

California’s bar association is considering new rules that would ban attorneys from having sex with clients. When asked why, the President of the bar explained, “It would be unethical to screw our clients until they get their bill.”

A Syrian social worker who dressed as a clown to help ease children in war-torn Aleppo is presumed dead following a Russian missile attack. And once again, life tragically imitates my ending for a Patch Adams remake.

The Federal Highway Administration has determined that more than five hundred “I (HEART) NY” signs on the state’s highways are a dangerous distraction and has ordered them removed. They also said that they plan to replace them with the more appropriate, “¯\_(ツ)_/¯ WHERE YOU GONNA GO? JERSEY?”

New studies show that hallucinogenic mushrooms might help relieve anxiety and depression in cancer patients. And in related news, a four-year study I conducted in college shows that ‘shrooms also relieve anxiety and depression in me.

A group in Australia has set a new world record for the highest basketball shot when they made a basket off of a 593 foot tall dam. Look, I’m not saying racial stereotypes are necessarily real, and I’m not saying stereotypes ar right. I’m just saying, a group of white guys needed a 600-foot advantage to set a record in basketball.

A record number 154 million people went shopping on Black Friday, but spent an average of 10 dollars less than they did last year. Which means that once again, the only clear winners of the weekend were fans of World Star Hip Hop Fight Videos.

Dictionary.com has selected “xenophobia” as its 2016 Word of the Year. In response, Donald Trump immediately named Dictionary.com Secretary of Liking Foreigners.

A woman on a flight that landed in Texas and had to wait for a gate, opened an emergency exit on the plane and left. Although, in the woman’s defense, the in-flight movie was Suicide Squad.

 Archaeologists in England have discovered a 3000 year-old gold “belt.” While they’re not 100% sure, they think it might date all the way back to Hulk Hogan’s very first Wrestlemania.

Jim Delligatti, a McDonald’s franchise owner who created the Big Mac, died this week at the age of 98. And today, the heart of every McDonald’s customer would be full of grief. I’m sorry, I meant their hearts will be filled with grease. Years and years of Big Mac grease.

A hacker broke into the San Francisco transit system computers and gave people free rides.  Good news for New York commuters, though; the MTA has promised its computer security is as state-of-the-art and likely to work as the rest of the subway system.

Bob Dylan skipped a meeting this week of Nobel Prize winners with President Obama. Although Fred Durst has promised in 2017 he will meet with President Trump and also anyone else who will buy him a hot dinner.

 

 

0 11/07/2016 Jokes I Wrote For Television

  • November 7, 2016
  • by Liam
  • · Blog · Liam's Notebook · Uncategorized

I write jokes about the news and submit them freelance to television. You can read more about it in an article the Wall Street Journal wrote about me right here. Most of these jokes don’t get accepted and never see the light of day. Until now. Below are my favorites from last week.

New Jersey got a gas tax increase for the first time since 1988, raising the price of petroleum products across the board, from gas to oil. Experts say that the most affected by a gas hike will be the state’s commuters, while the most affected by an oil hike will be the state’s hairstyles.

This Thanksgiving, Butterball’s help line will also field turkey cooking questions via text. And while they expect that most of the texts are going to be normal turkey-related questions, they do expect that some creeps will also send them duck pics.

A man was arrested at the Metropolitan Opera in New York after he scattered his mentor’s ashes on the orchestra during a performance. Audience members were reported to be so alarmed by the man’s actions, they could barely get back to sleep.

New research shows that a broccoli, avocado, and cabbage diet has strong anti-aging effect in mice. Or at the very least, makes their lives seem ten times longer.

Scientists have discovered a species of millipede that has over 400 legs and 4 penises. They say they haven’t seen anything like it since the 2016 Russian Women’s Olympic Team.

A new study suggests that a wearable skin patch that delivers small doses of peanut protein may help children who are allergic to peanuts. Which is weird, because that’s what helped me quit.

Glamour magazine has selected Bono as the first Man of the Year. And apparently, that year is 1987.

Sony Music apologized after a popular Japanese all-girl band performed in outfits resembling Nazi uniforms. “Don’t worry about it, in fact we’d like to see a lot more,” responded the entire Internet in unison.

A man on a Halloween flight from Boston to San Francisco took his daughter trick-or-treating on the plane so she wouldn’t miss out. The two were dressed in costume, her as an adorable little donut, and him as That Guy Who is Oblivious to the Fact That People on an Overnight Flight Want to Be Left the Hell Alone.

The FBI background check system for gun sales in October processed more than 2 million checks, setting an all-time record for the month. Of course, the NRA says all of these guns will be used in self-defense. Because you’re going to need to defend yourself against the two million other wackos who also just bought a gun.

A new report estimates that by the year 2040, the population of New York City will grow to over 9 million people. Which means you should start standing in line for brunch around, oh, 2037.

Experts say that this year will see a record number of people traveling by plane for Thanksgiving. Which means, once again, good news for the tiny inflatable vest industry.

Starbucks has introduced a new “Green Cup” that is meant to symbolize unity ahead of the election. Because all Americans, regardless of race, religion, or political party, are equal when they’re waiting an hour in line while a homeless guy bathes in the bathroom.

According to a new report that company where most job seekers want to work is Amazon, followed by American Airlines and Apple. Which just goes to show; most unemployed people are too lazy to look past the “A” section of the Help Wanted ads.

The AA minor league baseball team the Jacksonville Suns announced that they are changing their names to the Jacksonville Jumbo Shrimp. The change was made partly because ownership wanted a creative name that tied in to the local community, but mostly because they wanted their archrivals, the Tampa Bay Jews, to forfeit every game.

The city of Tupelo, Mississippi, installed twenty-four guitar-shaped statues to commemorate the place where Elvis Presley was born. While Memphis, Tennessee, installed twenty-four guitar-shaped toilets to commemorate the place where he died.

A new bar in Brooklyn is opening called The House of Wax, that will feature celebrity death masks, anatomical horrors, and embalmed freaks of nature. Or as the rest of us call it, “Tinder.”

A New York State lawmaker has launched a new app called ParentPatrol that allows parents to quickly report suspicious behavior at parks and playgrounds. Replacing the old app that used to be popular for the phone: “Calling The Police.”

A high school teacher in New Jersey, who was often described as “cool,” will be forced to forfeit 120 days pay for discussing stripping and prostitution with female students. And that kind of behavior makes him unfit to be a New Jersey high school teacher. And perfect to be a New Jersey high school guidance counselor.

Apple introduced a series of new emojis, including a creepy clown and a gorilla that many say looks like Harambe. Great. Now all my female friends are going to think I’m a creep when I get drunk and attach clowns and gorillas to my “You Up?” texts at three in the morning.

A new survey finds that the number of Americans supporting legalizing marijuana has reached an all time high of 57 percent. While the number of Americans who support legalizing meth has also reached a record high of “WHO GAVE YOU MY PHONE NUMBER? CALL ME BACK LATER I’M BUSY PULLING ALL MY OWN TEETH OUT!DANCE DANCE DANCE DANCE DANCE DANCE DANCE DANCE DANCE DANCE DANCE DANCE DANCE DANCE DANCE DANCE DANCE DANCE DANCE DANCE DANCE DANCE DANCE DANCE DANCE DANCE DANCE DANCE”

0 10/17/2016 Jokes I Wrote For Television

  • October 24, 2016
  • by Liam
  • · Blog · Jokes About The News · Liam's Notebook

I write jokes about the news and submit them freelance to television. You can read more about it in an article the Wall Street Journal wrote about me right here. Most of these jokes don’t get accepted and never see the light of day. Until now. Below are my favorites from last week.

Researchers have scientifically proven that keeping tomatoes in the refrigerator “greatly reduces” their flavor. The biggest surprise of this study is  that this discovery was made in a real study conducted at an actual research lab staffed by adult professional scientists, and not by a lazy high school student in his mom’s car on their way to the science fair.

Russian President Vladimir Putin told members of the press that they are being spied on by American intelligence. He then added: “Except for C-SPAN. Nobody’s watching that.”

A company is working to make laxatives used for colonoscopies in flavors such as lemon, strawberry and vanilla. When asked about a chocolate flavor, a company rep explained that that was handled around the corner where fudge is made.

A New York man, who was arrested for stealing 600 dollars in cash from a 93 year-old woman’s bra, said he did it to buy himself a nice pair of shoes. Which makes sense, since the money was already being used to support a leathery pair

An Oregon man was arrested after he answered an ad on Craigslist for a snow mobile being sold by a state trooper and offered to pay for it with marijuana. Which raises an important question: “How can you place an ad selling a ‘snowmobile’ on Craigslist and be surprised when it turns into a drug deal?”

Researchers believe that extracting milk from Tasmanian devils may help kill drug-resistant bacteria and save lives. While working at a job milking Tasmanian devils will make you pray for the sweet release of death.

Philippine President Rodrigo Duterte announced that his country is “separating” from America as an ally and has found a new, better partnership with China. He then also announced that the Philippines had joined a gym, bought a 2011 Mustang convertible, and wants you to refer to China as “new mommy” when you get home from visiting the Philippines for Christmas.

According to a new report, there were more cases of sexually transmitted diseases than ever before. So congratulations to Brad Pitt for getting back out there so quickly.

A Russian man was arrested in Prague in connection to the theft of 117 million LinkedIn Passwords. Which should serve as a  reminder to all of us that LinkedIn exists.

 

0 25 Things You May Not Know About Me

  • October 12, 2016
  • by Liam
  • · Blog · Liam's Notebook · Uncategorized

25. I had an ancestor who fought in the Revolutionary War. Joe McDonnell McEneaney. He led a valiant attack on Passaic, NJ, and lost 350 men before taking the town. It was an achievement marred only by the fact that the British Army was nowhere near Passaic, and in fact, my uncle was a janitor who liked to get drunk and steal officers’ clothes.

24. I have an IQ of 210. Now, the so-called “experts” want to tell me there’s a decimal in there BUT I AIN’T HAVIN NONE OF DAT

23. I was a professional stuntman for three years. My stage name was “Lawful Good Knievel.”

22. I love blueberry pancakes so much, I have married them.

21. In high school, I was bitten by a radioactive spider, and it gave me the powers and abilities of a guy who has been both poisoned and given cancer.

20. If you tell women you’re a doctor, they will take their shirt off and then get an insurance company to pay you. If you then say, “Actually, I’m a doctor of Philosophy, and I’m in this examination room also waiting to get seen” they will start yelling and punching you.

19. My work in the field of mathematics involved splitting the check at restaurants until I not only didn’t put in money but always managed to get five dollars back. This earned me a Nobel Prize in the field of Creative and Possibly Illegal Sciences.

18. My eyes are so open and innocent with wonder, I try to have a stranger teach me one new thing every day. For instance, yesterday a New York State circuit judge taught me the difference between “freelance adoption” and “kidnapping.”

17. I’m a much better fighter than most people think. The last time I got into a fight, it resulted in a black eye, a bloody nose, and a broken arm. The other guy was unhurt, but my point is I was in there.

16. I have the ability to talk to animals. However, I do not have the ability to have them understand what I say or understand what they are talking about. That’s because i have the ability to talk English to animals who only speak Chinese.

15. I love gambling. Which is a fancy way of saying I eat chicken from those street carts.

14. I answer every single email I get, especially the spam. You may laugh, but last week I went on a date with a beautiful woman name Mandarin J. Respectfully who is going to help me refinance a mortgage on my penis.

13. I wouldn’t say I love coffee, but I have had sex with it.

12. I wish I had time to watch more truly great movies, but for some reason pornhub.com doesn’t have “Citizen Kane.”

11. I taught 50 Cent everything he knows. Unfortunately, I taught him everything he knows about algebra.

10. I’ve always found the best part of hanging out with a really tight-knit group of close friends, is when one of them doesn’t show up and then you all have someone to make fun of.

09. I’ve found the secret to happiness is waking up every day and seeing a beautiful face. And yet, some people think it’s creepy that my bedroom is just wall-to-ceiling mirrors.

08. I was sick the day we learned counting in school, and have trouble with numbers.

07. This is where I was going to omit number 7 in what is the punch line to what is surely the oldest “nerd joke” on record. This is because as a writer, I am prolific, but sometimes very lazy.

06. Sure, when you’re young it’s always hilarious when someone says, “What has two thumbs and loves blow jobs” and then point their thumbs at themselves and says, “This guy.” Or they say “Have you ever seen an elephant?” and then unzips their pants and pulls their pants pockets out. Then it’s all fun and games.

But then some people get older become parents, and then it’s all like, “Liam, we hired you to be a clown at our three year-olds’ party” and there’s nothing but screaming and crying as you realize that they’re not going to pay you. This I’ve learned from bitter experience.

This is a joke I tried doing onstage many many many times when I was young, despite the unanimously terrible reaction from every audience who heard it. I hope you enjoyed it, although experience tells me you didn’t!

05. There’s a fine line between “laughing with someone” and “laughing at someone.” But there’s absolutely no line between “angrily glaring with your arms crossed” and telling your girlfriend her new haircut isn’t all that great. And I am a man who knows.

04. I own a hamster. I hate hamsters. But I love taking him to the zoo and holding him up at the snake cage and watching the snakes slam their heads against the glass enclosures over and over.

03. I absolutely cannot even stand horseradish sauce. But I’ll have sex with it anyway because I like to drink.

02. I took myself out on a date last night, and it was so awkward at dinner, when the check came, and I sat there for twenty minutes before I realized I had no intention of paying. Especially since I’d already split the check so I didn’t owe anything.

01. I don’t like to tell people my age, but let’s just say I’m finally old enough to date college girls.

Buy my latest album, Working Class Fancy, from Comedy Dynamics.

0 I’ve got one item on my bucket list…

  • March 18, 2016
  • by Liam
  • · Blog · Liam's Notebook · Uncategorized

… Continue Reading

0 10 GREAT NAMES FOR YOUR IMPROV GROUP

  • January 21, 2016
  • by Liam
  • · Blog · Liam's Notebook

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Unsolicited advice is the sweetest advice of all, because it’s the kind that feels better to the person giving it than the person receiving it. That being said, after a lifetime performing and watching improvisational comedy, I feel like I’ve gotten really good at naming improv groups. That being said, here’s some suggestions for your group you’re welcome:

Three Years Before We All Start Pursuing An MBA

Breaking Up Onstage Tonight!

Six Characters In Search of a Casting Agent

That One Guy Whose “Character” Keeps Trying To Make Out With Every Woman On Stage, And They Have To Yes-And It

Community Theater Minus A Script

Instagramming Themselves Onstage

NYU Students Whose Parents Are Paying Six Figures For Them To Be Doing This Shit

4 People With Ideas + 1 Guy Who’s In Every Scene

An Hour of Their Lives Your Friends Will Never Get Back

0 JOHN HUGHES FANFICTION

  • January 19, 2016
  • by Liam
  • · Blog · Liam's Notebook · Uncategorized

Two years ago, my buddy Joe Garden put together an evening of John Hughes fan-fiction at Union Hall in Brooklyn, with the theme of “What Would the Lives of John Hughes’ Characters Be Like Today?”

I wrote and read the following. I posted it on my old blog, where it received thousands of views. A few months ago, a musician used A VERY SIMILAR IDEA for his web series. I hope that you enjoy it:

A legend had built up around Laren’s, how it came to be named. It was agreed that she was a woman, some said she was the wife of a famous blues musician, some said she was the girlfriend of a former Senator. All agreed that she’d died under mysterious circumstances, stabbed to death maybe in a jealous fit, or she had jumped off the Michigan Avenue Bridge only she hadn’t really jumped so much as been pushed by hired muscle, and the winds of Chicago winters still carried her scream, still haunted that Senator who had retired from politics and opened this bar before living memory and named it after the only woman he loved. Some said Frank behind the bar was that old blues singer, mourning his lost lady.

Of course, the truth is boring, while a legend is wild and strong and lives past it. Once upon a time it had been a cop bar called McLaren’s when the precinct house was still across the street, and them mick boys needed a place to drink after an eight hour shift of beating up on little black boys on the South Side. But the Irish always move on, and Frank had bought the place and had scratched out the Mc on the name of the bar, on every sign and every surface, saying, “This ain’t no mick bar no more.”

That had been a long time ago, and for years this had been our place. Where men could go and have a few after a long day working, sit in the dark and turn on the jukebox and swap lies for lies until one by one, we went home, those of us who had a home of quality to go to. Ernestine had been around then, God bless her, and I’d grumble that if I didn’t get home to choke down her poison she’d beat the black off me, but the truth was she was a damn good cook and had the prettiest goddamn eyes and she was a pretty righteous dancer, which is how we met when I come home from… but that’s not the story I wanted to tell you.

The Northwestern University kids had discovered Laren’s. An article in a magazine called it the classic Chicago dive bar, and now on weekends it was theirs. Most of the old crowd doesn’t go, but I’m retired, and I like to flirt with the pretty little blond girls, and the Japanese kids who come play jazz on Frank’s little stage are goddamn good besides. It’s crowded, and the little white kids are so polite when they come to order a drink, saying “Sir” and “Excuse me,” and Frank smiles and fetches their beer and overcharges ‘em two dollars on the beer and they don’t seem to know.

Sometimes a kid will be trouble, rude, drunk, high. And Frank smiles and overcharges them four, five dollars on the drink and watches ‘em to make sure they use his bathroom one at a time. And it was a Saturday night, when I’d bought a little girl who danced nice a drink, right in front of her boyfriend, who didn’t seem to notice or to mind, and ain’t that a benefit of being an old man. And the blond kid came to the bar. And he was strung out alright. And Frank served him his beer and watched him drift into the crowd, watched him whisper in an ear, a nod, a furtive glance around.

Frank is a big man gone to fat in the belly, with grey on the hair remaining. But he’s fat the way a bull is fat, all muscle and angry strength underneath. and he caught my eye and he knocked his fist on the bar, 1-2. And then he headed from behind the bar to turn some blond kid’s night around, and I knew what he’d meant. 1-2. And I smiled to myself. Knock 1-2.

There weren’t many blond boys hanging out in the bar at Laren’s back then, and we’d had a long argument one night about his age, some saying he was in his 40s and looking younger, some saying he was in his 20s and had walked a hard road. He was skinny, with bone and vein fighting for space on his arms, and I’d seen that scar, but hadn’t paid it no mind. I’m sure his legs were the same way. and his hair tended to drift every which way, and his eyes were old. Ancient. If you’d told me he was a ghost I’d have believed you, and if you’d told me he was possessed those eyes wouldn’t have said otherwise.

No one could say when he’d started coming around, but I can tell you that this skinny old scarecrow was better than a TV show for providing entertainment to a bar full of drunks. It always happened the same way. Random night, he’d walk in. Never no regular habit to it. Might be a Thursday, might be a Sunday, might disappear for months on end and then be there every night for weeks in a row. He’d sit on the farthest stool, and drink and listen, and drink, and listen. If he had money which was rarely, he’d drink a whiskey, a Wild Turkey maybe, or a Jameson, and if he was broke which was always, you’d buy him a Schlitz or a Pabst, and another, and another, and wait.

Because always, when he’d reached that magical amount of alcohol inside his brain, he’d interrupt the conversation, no matter what we was talking about. And he’d say, “Hey man, did I ever tell you about the Christmas where…?” And he’d launch into the crazy lie about the two men who haunted him.

Don’t get me wrong, the boy was haunted alright, and that’s no lie. But the stories he would tell, he was clearly pulling them from somewhere. And they was always the same, maybe a different detail here and there, but mostly the same. Not that we minded, not really. After a while, it turned into a call-and-response, a comedy choir with the blond kid with the ancient eyes playing lead.

“Did I ever tell you about the Christmas I was left home alone?” he’d say, and we’d leave off arguing about the Cubs versus the Sox, say, and someone would always say, “Shit, Kevin”–that was his name, Kevin–”tell us all about it.” And we’d put down our beers and we’d listen. It always started the same. He was the youngest of 5, or 7, or 9. Country Ed would nod gravely. “Sounds like your daddy got the job done.” And we’d toast to that. And Kevin would look at him and hear, but not hear you know? And keep talking.

And this Christmas, his parents took the entire family on vacation, and forgot to take him with. I mean, hell, I grew up the youngest of four, and sometimes my parents forgot to feed us, but you can bet they knew where I was at all times. But this white boy would then spin us the damndest yarn. Big house, nice furniture. Crazy old man roaming the streets. But it wasn’t until the second time through the story that Ed the Plumber really got to the heart of what had been bothering all of us.

The white boy was going through it again. Ed the Cop hadn’t heard the story yet, and we wanted to hear what he had to say. He had taken us through the part where he’d tried aftershave for the first time, and was eating junk food and watching gangster movies, and we were at the church and hearing them two boys planning to break into his house. “Ah,” said Ed the Plumber, “and now the two brothers enter the story.”

White boy looked at him confused. “They weren’t brothers,” he said, “I don’t think. They just worked together. They wanted to call themselves the Wet Bandits – “ And the look in Ed’s eye, I think the entire bar, which was hanging on this story all got the same idea at the same time. “No,” said Ed, putting his hand on Kevin’s shoulder to physically stop him telling this story. “They was brothers, right? You know… brothers. Your African American criminal types.”

The boy looked more confused, and shrank in himself, “No, they were white.” This stopped Frank. He was wiping a beer glass clean and I will never forget until my dying day the way he stopped and looked at Kevin. Frank is, as I say, a big man, and he was a lot leaner in them days, and a sight to stop a knife fight when he was in a mood, and this boy did not know, like a kitten watching the lights of an approaching train. I seen a surgery done on his pool table in the back in ‘82 and I seen him take a pair of bolt cutters to cut the hospital band off double-D’s wrist in ‘97 so’s he could go back to drinking after crashing his car, but the look on Frank’s face at that moment said, “This is the craziest shit that’s ever walked through these doors.”

He looked this Kevin in the eye and he said, “You’re telling me your neighbors was white.” “Yessir,” this kevin said. “And your neighborhood crazy was white.” “Yessir.” “And the two gentlemen who attempted to break and enter into your home with attempt to commit grand larceny were both white?” Kevin nodded, then stopped himself. “I believe one was Italian.”

Well, you had to laugh. “That must be the most expensive neighborhood in all of Chicago,” Frank whooped and he rang the bell over the bar which meant the next round was on him. When blondy stumbled out that night, we took to dissecting this story, and Ed the Cop said, “I don’t remember hearing about Wet Bandits, but there’s something about this story.” And Ed the Plumber said, “I don’t remember hearing about anyone big enough asshole to break into someone’s home to clog their toilets, but if you meet them, give me a call. Might be I can work them on commission.”

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Well, as I said, the boy didn’t come in regular, but when he did, the story got crazier and Richard Pryor himself could not have asked for a better audience. In his story, he tortured them wet bandits, who got the names Harry and Marv. Marv was a tall, whiny, Jewish boy and Harry was a short, angry, Italian, and the kid would tell us about dropping shit on their heads, irons and paint cans, about setting them on fire, about shooting them in the nuts. One cold night he came in, dirty, skinny, smelling like he’d slept in the same clothes a few days, and missing a tooth in the back. That night, in his storytelling, he’d knocked out one of the Wet Bandits’ teeth, and I didn’t say nothing but I noticed, see.

And of course, there was the night when the boy said, “And of course, when they followed me to New York,” and we all stopped what we were doing and said, “What?” and he got this innocent look in his cracked blue eyes and said, “Well I told you about the Christmas my family forgot me and I ended up lost in New York City,” and of course we made him tell the story, and of course, it ain’t none of it made more sense than anything he’d said before. Tall Paul the Bus Driver caught it this time. It was around the time Kevin, I told you his name was Kevin, started talking about the Pigeon Lady, and Country Ed said, “You mean she was half-pigeon?” And the boy Kevin says, “No, she was homeless and she was always surrounded by pigeons,” and Country Ed said, “Well shit, I wish my wife was the chicken lady so I’d stop spending so much money on groceries.”

And Tall Paul looked at the boy Kevin and said, “And you’re going to tell me she was white, too.” And kevin nodded at him and said, “Yes! Why?” And Tall Paul put down his beer and looked at kevin and said, “You’re going to tell me you went to New York City and you stayed in a hotel and all of the staff was white, and you went to different stores and all the staff was white, and not once in New York City did you meet a single black person?” And Kevin nodded.

“I got a brother and four nephews in the Bronx and I know they live there because I got to buy Christmas presents and birthday presents for ‘em.” And that boy Kevin just stared. Tall Paul looked at me and said, “Well, shit, maybe I’m crazy. Am I white?” And we laughed and Frank rang the bell and somewhere in there, the New York story became the Chicago story and Kevin put them Wet Bandits through hell and back.

After a while, he stopped coming around, and it was around this time that Ed the cop retired and Tall Paul got religion and Ed the plumber had a heart attack and didn’t drink no more, and life has a habit of slowing and changing, and suddenly you’re standing in the same spot but facing in the other direction, and the boy Kevin was forgotten except among the old-timers as a “Do you remember,” kind of story to pass the time. I did see him one more time.

It was Christmas, and it was raining, and Chicago in December is no joke. Most everybody was home, but Ernestine had passed and our daughter was in London, and I was sitting in Laren’s with nowhere else to be, keeping Frank company. Some bars do big business on the holidays, and I guess Laren’s does now, with the college kids who can’t leave town, but back then it was me and Frank and a couple other people who were minding their own business and I was minding mine. The door opened and before I saw the blue eyes or the blond hair I knew who it was. Five foot seven, skinnier than he’d been in a while. If he’d once looked old for a young man, he now looked young for an immortal. His eyes were no longer haunted, they were ‘most empty now. He took the stool next to me, and normally in an empty bar I take that as an intrusion, but I could tell the boy needed to be near breathing human company, so I let it slide.

“Let me buy you a drink,” I said, and he just shook his head, “I got money,” and then he looked at Frank and said, “Wild turkey neat, double,” and then he sat, blankly, in communion with his reflection in the barroom mirror. Well, a few more of those and an hour later, I was finishing my beer, about to settle my tab, when the boy Kevin looked at me, and he said, “I told you about the time my family left me home alone on Christmas.”

I suppose I could have said No and gotten a full show. But something about the boy’s eyes that night, I knew that he knew what he was saying. So I nodded and said yes. Then he ordered another. I suppose I wanted to leave then, and I suppose I could say I was scared, because the boy had the energy that night of a man who could do anything at any time. But instead I ordered another beer, too, and halfway through his double, when he’d worked it back down to a single, the boy Kevin looked at me and said, “I got a job. I haven’t come around here lately because I got a job.” I nodded, and allowed as how that was nice.

“It was nice. It was a favor. A favor job. My social worker has a friend at the Lakeshore Nursing Home, janitor job. Nothing wrong with an honest job mopping floors.” I allowed as how that was nice, and he spit on the floor. Frank, he didn’t say nothing, he just watched that boy spit on the floor, but the look in Kevin’s eyes, I knew that Frank knew that he was letting that slide.

“It is nice,” he said. “Thought it would be old people but it’s not that kind of nursing home. Quiet. Lot of crazy people there. Not crazy. Damaged. Like a halfway home for the mentally incapacitated. Rich people send their damaged kids…” and he trailed off and he looked at his glass and whatever it said to him must have made him sad because he drained it in one swallow and a sigh. Frank refilled it without being asked.

“When they came for me,” he said, “When they broke into my home, on Christmas Eve, I brained ‘em. I brained ‘em good. In the cartoons I watched.” He drank. “In them Looney tunes, you knock a man out dropping an iron on his head, he gets up with cartoon birds chirping and he gets back to work. But the one guy, I knocked him on the head with the iron, 1-2… 1-2, and he was down and the other one, he saw what I done, and he got out a big nasty buck knife, and he looks at me with murder in his eyes. Murder. I don’t remember getting up, I just remember running, up the stairs. Locking myself in the bathroom. He screamed… I can’t believe none of the neighbors didn’t hear the screams. Or the knocking down the door. He cut me…” and here he rolled back the sleeve of his shirt and showed us a scar ran along the length of his arm, from wrist to elbow. “And he cut me.” And the boy lifted his shirt, showed us a snow-white belly with a scar, it ran all the way down under his belt.

“And the third cut I grabbed the knife. He was a grown man but I was scared, like scared strong, you know? I grabbed it, and I… and I tried to flush the knife after. The cops came and said I’d done nothing wrong, it was self-defense. The other one, he lived, if you call that living. His parents had money, I guess. Enough to hire a lawyer and they sued my parents and they got the house. Everything changed,” he said.

Just then, there was a burst of laughter from the group in the back, and it was a jolt back into the world, and it felt profane, like swearing in a church on Sunday. But the boy Kevin, he didn’t hear. He was buried a thousand miles deep in the dirt.

“I was in the nursing home today, and I was sent to bring a bedpan to a room on the long-term care floor. Most of my work was short-term, because that’s where you get guys pissing the bed, the floor, themselves. But I brought this bedpan into this room. Brain damage, I could see that. Permanent brain damage. Struck on the head with a blunt object and left incapacitated, unable to fend for himself, without the wits to ties his shoes. Drooling in bed, an idiot grin on his face, and the worst part was, when he looked at f c, for a split second I swear he knew who I was. And it ‘most knocked me down, 1-2. 1-2.”

And he drained his glass, and he put on his coat, and he walked out into the night. And Frank waited a second, and in the quiet of that moment he said, “Shit, he didn’t pay his tab.” And I said, “Well, might be I can cover him. How much did he owe?” And Frank said, “Forty-seven dollars,” and I said, “Forty-seven dollars? You better go catch him then.” And Frank laughed and he rang the bell and he said, “The last ten rounds were on me.”

0 #12DAYSOFLIAM

  • December 15, 2015
  • by Liam
  • · Blog · Liam's Notebook

Hey Groovy Ghoulies. I just wanted to let you know that over at my Instagram feed, I’m updating a new joke every day until Christmas Day. Each joke is presented in a beautiful, collectible mint edition meme form, suitable for either sharing online, or framing and hanging over your mantel (just push those ugly family photos out of the way to make room).

You can find these wonderful comedy keepsakes at the hashtags #12DaysofLiam and #ComedyAdvent. God bless us one and all.

Here are the first three days:

COMEDYADVENT FIRST TIMECOMEDYADVENT JEWISH IRISH PASSIVE AGGRESSIVECOMEDYADVENTSEXOLYMPIC

0 THREE DIFFERENT MEMOS TO THREE DIFFERENT NEIGHBORS

  • April 21, 2015
  • by Liam
  • · Blog · Liam's Notebook

Liam WSJ writing

MEMO #1 – TO: The Neighbor Who Stole My Doormat

RE: What the Fuck?

I have to ask, I really have to ask; come on guy, you really needed to steal my doormat? My doormat?

And we’re not even talking about a fancy ornamental, expensive doormat – the kind embroidered by a young child in a dark factory in the heart of Taiwan; the kind with the word “WELCOME” woven in over an irresistibly crude caricature of puppies playfully squirming under a doormat of their own, their big eyes staring straight through your soul; the kind that you can only find in an elegant, out-of-the-way specialty store like K-Mart or Target. And I understand that not everyone has the rare combination of both ten minutes and six dollars that it takes to go out and buy a doormat of their own. And if I had owned this kind of extravagantly decorative doormat, I would understand a working man’s need to steal it, to give his family a small taste of the same lavish, luxurious lifestyle that Doukhobors like myself enjoy in our rent-controlled apartments in the heart of Queens.

But that’s not the kind of doormat we’re talking about, is it? The kind of doormat we’re talking about, the kind that you stole under the dark cover of night, is dirty and beige; it’s the kind of doormat that I got not from Wal-Mart, nor even from Kiki’s 99-Cent Emporium, but rather from the relatives of an elderly neighbor who had recently died, shuffling off this mortal coil in housedress and slippers, plastic bags clutched in her hand, a faded babushka on her head and a complaint about the heat left unspoken on her tongue. That’s right; you stole a free, dead woman’s doormat that I, myself, did not even want in the first place.

To be honest, I’m not even angry so much as I am completely baffled; what, exactly, did you think you were going to do? Just put it down outside of your apartment, the only place you could logically use it, and hope that I wouldn’t go door-to-door through the building hallway looking for it?

In the annals of crime, stealing a neighbor’s doormat falls somewhere between mugging your boss in the elevator on the way up to the office and bursting into a police precinct, waving your shotgun in the air, and declaring “The next person who moves gets it.” Which is to say that it falls exactly halfway between being “poorly thought out” and “fucking moronic.”

And if you can’t use a doormat for its intended purpose, what exactly would you do with it? Sell it? Not that I would put it past you; after all, the person who would steal a used dime-store doormat is the exact same person who has undoubtedly, at several points in their life, had a small, swarthy man named Chico calmly inform them that “you ain’t can’t have the weed if you ain’t don’t got the cash.”

And so I scoured Craig’s List, searching for the tell-tale ad: “FOR SALE,” I imagined it would say, “Doormat, gently used – NO QUESTIONS ASKED! Serial numbers have been filed off. Am looking for best reasonable offer – cash, food, or even MetroCard swipe into subway.”

Or perhaps this doormat was of some value to you, a value that I myself did not ascertain and could only truly appreciate once it was gone from my life. In my mind’s eye I can see you running through the building, clad in an Indiana Jones-style leather jacket and fedora, clutching your bleeding, gunshot arm as dark-suited thugs from the Russian mob close in fast. Trapped in a corner, desperate, you wheel around, revealing a Luger held to the head of a dirty beige doormat trembling in the crook of your arm.

“Don’t do anything we’ll both regret,” says a large man who steps from the shadows, a deep scar running down the side of his face, a gloved hand removing a pair of $500 Ray Bans, revealing one eye made of milky-white glass, the other filled with a mixture of hatred and respect.

You shake your head once: “No.” You pant for breath, swallow, then add, “Tell your men to step back and give us safe conduct, Vladimir. Now. Or the only place this doormat lies is inside the entrance of a mausoleum.”

He gives you the once-over; he knows that after what went down in Morocco, where he watched a small, frayed bathroom rug die in his arms, that you’d be just crazy enough to do it. He signals to his men, and they step back, warily placing their guns halfway into their holsters.

“You’ve won this round,” he says. “But I’ll return. Even you can’t watch forever. One day you’ll be napping, or drunk, or out of your house for ten minutes to get some milk from the store. And you’ll leave that doormat alone and unguarded. And when you do, I’ll be there. And I can tell you now, I won’t have to steal it away; it will come with me, and willingly.”

And you know in your heart that he’s right. You may have that doormat for now; hell, you may even love it as much as once I did, but you’ll never own it. The tread-worn beauty that makes it a treasure is also its biggest curse. This doormat was born to roam free, my friend, and no matter what kind of care you take of it, there’s going to be a morning when you awake to find it gone, and with only the memories to sustain you.

*

MEMO #2 TO: The Neighbor Whose WiFi Signal I’ve Been  Sharing

RE: Constant Service Outages

Hey “Linksys_AP_Underscore 77,” if that is even your real name.  Just what the hell is going on here? As a comedian and writer with a home office, the bulk of my work day is spent online; checking my Fantasy Baseball team, then my Facebook page to see if anyone’s responded to my hilarious status updates, then my blog’s statcounter to see who’s been Googling me, then my Twitter account to see if anyone new is following me, then my email, then my Facebook, then my Twitter account, then my email, and so on and so forth. Between that and all the music I download from my 37 most-favorite MP3 blogs, your Internet connection is one of the most important tools of my business.

 

Look, I didn’t want to have to be the one to tell you this; after all, I’m not your mother!  But I really think it’s high time that you grow up a little and learn how to pay your bills on time.  When you can’t behave like a responsible adult, that doesn’t just affect you, it affects everyone within three floors of your wireless server.

As an adult I’ve learned to accept that we all have a job in this world; mine happens to be nagging other people to fulfill their responsibilities to me, unknown to them though they are. If you don’t have the money for your high-speed Internet bill, perhaps you should get a second job. Or do what I do – call my parents and ask if you can borrow it. Don’t worry; experience shows that my parents are very lenient lenders, and won’t expect you to pay them back any time soon.

Thanks for reading this memo; I was going to e-mail you, but I don’t know your address.   And even if I did, well, our Internet’s down.

*

MEMO #3 TO: The Guy in The Apartment Whose Window Faces Mine

RE: Your Strict Daily Regimen of Blasting The Same Five Metallica Songs Over and Over and Singing Along at the Top of Your Lungs, Interspersed With The Most Disturbing Deep-Throated Hacking Cough Heard Outside of a 1920s TB Ward

Hey buddy, I understand that you need a job. I know, it’s hard finding work that matches your unique skill-set. After all, I’ve been on more than one job interview in my life, by which I mean I’ve been on three job interviews in my life.  And the question, “Where do you see yourself in five years?” has never been immediately followed with, “Now, can you do an impression of Lars Ulrich as if he were about to lose a lung?”

Luckily, despite from my heavy work schedule, I seem to be blessed with a little spare time. So I thought I’d do the neighborly thing and help you come up with some career options.

At first I thought, “Join The Army.” But then I realized that, were you to become a member of the Armed Forces, you would undoubtedly be the guy who gets fragged by his own unit, probably around the second time you sing Enter Sandman. Also, America tends to send her best and brightest sons into battle against her foes, and let’s be honest – the only opposing army that might be intimidated by an aging, phlegmatic metalhead would be the KISS Army.

Then it hit me – you could be a Wedding DJ! You’ve got the experience; by throwing your windows wide and sharing your love of mainstream speed metal, you’re already acting as a DJ for the entire neighborhood.

On the other hand, there’s only so many times that the happy couple will be able to listen to Master of Puppets before requesting that you play something a little more upbeat and danceable, like The Funky Chicken, or The Beer-Barrel Polka, or the sound of little children crying.. And when they do, you’re going to have to look them in the eye and say slowly and steadily, so they know that you’re completely serious, “The first time ever I heard The Black Album, I knew I was put here on this planet for one purpose and one purpose only; to share with this wicked world the pure and simple the beauty of the music of Lars, James, Cliff, and Kirk, whether it wants me to or not. And I know that the doctors are wrong, that this lower respiratory tract infection isn’t the Black Lung, but rather a punishment from the Demon God of Rock n’ Roll Himself for ignoring my Mission, for not playing these same five Metallica songs over and over.”

Then the groom will regroup, take a breath, and say, and say in the same gentle, patient tone of voice he would use were he placating a small child holding a loaded gun, that he completely understands where you’re coming from, but perhaps at the very least you would be so kind as to not scream along with the song, screaming long and loud like you were trying to awaken the departed souls of all the brain cells you killed smoking weed as a teenager glorying in the profoundly adult freedoms of the Meadowland’s parking lot pre-concert bakefest.

And then you will have no choice but to slowly and dramatically take the wad of cash you were paid for the wedding DJ gig – and you will insist on being paid in cash, as you don’t believe in so-called banks and their “rules” about minimum balances or excessively writing so-called “bad checks” – and then you will take that cash out of your pocket and then you will throw it in the bride’s face and then you will shriek the lyrics of Master of Puppets as loud as you can, interspersed with the juiciest lung-deep hacking coughs possible. You will shriek like The Devil unleashed from a pneumonia clinic in the deepest bowels of Metal Hell. Because no one can put a price on your art, man.

And then you should take the money back, because let’s be honest; if a couple hires a DJ for their wedding based solely on the fact that he’s five hundred dollars cheaper than the competition, and they pay him in cash in advance without asking for references or even a playlist of the kinds of records he plans to spin, said couple doesn’t deserve that fifty bucks plus carfare. And you will take that fifty bucks, and – this being the most important part – you will go out and buy both a pair of headphones and a fucking album by anyone other than Metallica.

And if there’s any money left over, and if you find it in your heart, in return for my graciousness, and my compassion and my care, and my taking the time to help a stranger in need, perhaps you would be so kind as to buy me a new doormat.

0 NEW EMPLOYEE MANUAL

  • February 16, 2015
  • by Liam
  • · Blog · Liam's Notebook

Liam notebook WSJ

Many years ago, when I was but a wee babe in the woods, I wrote full time for a dot-com called The Humor Network; a series of “joke of the day” sites that sent out daily e-mails with street jokes and Internet jokes and funny lists and all the junk your parents forward you in a desperate attempt to keep you remembering they exist. The e-mails would have ads on the tops and bottoms, and the idea was that since all these jokes were great, they would get forwarded and “go viral” and so every subscriber you paid to reach, you would also be reaching all their friends.

Our only advertiser was 2-4-1 Inkjets.

The company went the way of most of these companies, which was too bad. We had a suite of offices off of Times Square, and my job was so simple that I would generally be done within the first half-hour of working there. And while I wouldn’t say it was my best work, this stuff still, all these years later, continues to pop up in my Google Alerts. The following is something I wrote my first week there that is still getting passed around:

Welcome aboard! You are one of our most valued new employees. Enclosed please find some helpful guidelines to company policy.

OVERTIME: The Company has an optional overtime policy — you have the option of working forty hours of overtime or eighty hours of overtime.

PROMOTION: The Company rewards hard work and devotion. We like to think that if you work hard and devote enough time and energy to the company, you will be rewarded by being allowed to train the CEO’s son when he is promoted to Vice President over you.

STOCK OPTIONS: You may buy shares in the company when it goes public. So named because you’ll be working in the stock room at Wal-Mart when the company goes belly-up due to your incompetence.

401K: This is how much money you’ll lose under your “Stock Option” plan.

HELLTH PLAN: No, that isn’t a misprint; you now belong to an H.M.O. That stands for “Hell’s Medical Organization.” It was organized by some of Hell’s finest minds; Hitler, Genghis Khan, and Josef Stalin worked night and day to create a 162-page manual documenting the exact terms of your coverage, but it all boils down to three points:

1) You belong to the HMO. We mean that literally — as of now, the HMO owns you. To insure that you don’t forget your subscriber number, we will tattoo it to your forehead.

2) You have been assigned a primary care physician. You will not be told your physician’s name. You may never see your physician. Your physician is imaginary. If you see any doctor without express written permission of your imaginary primary care physician, you will be forced to pay full price, plus eat your weight in lard.

3) You are not covered under this plan.

TERMINATION: All employees will be given two weeks notice upon being fired. We like to feel that this gives an employee a “grace period” to steal all of the office supplies that he or she may have forgotten to take during his or her period of employment.

COMPLAINTS: May be made anonymously in the box marked “Complaints” in the employee break room. All complaints will be reviewed, processed, and fed to an angry Rottweiler named Frankie.

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