How to Get Out of Trouble with Your Mom Using Nothing but Lines from Point Break

By: Eric Feezell

Ernie Loomis, a junior in high school, has just been released from jail after having been arrested for driving under the influence of drugs and alcohol. His mother, who just paid bail to secure his release, launches into him as soon as they get to the parking lot. She is livid, ready to lay down the law.

But Ernie has an unspeakable advantage, as he has seen Point Break over seventy times…

MOM: Damn it, Ernie! I can’t believe you would be so stupid as to drink and drive! Don’t you know you could have gotten yourself killed?!

ERNIE: If you want the ultimate, you’ve got to be willing to pay the ultimate price. It’s not tragic to die doing what you love.

MOM: You’re SIXTEEN! How can you LOVE drinking and driving? What are you, a moron?

ERNIE: Life sure has a sick sense of humor, doesn’t it?

MOM: Oh, sure, whatever, Socrates. You think you’re so smart, Ernie? Huh? Who the hell do you think you are?


MOM: Oh, I knew it! The officer said you were high, too! High on marijuana cigarettes! It’s that Jenkins boy you’ve been palling around with, isn’t it? I’ve always had a bad feeling about that kid.

ERNIE: Last time you had a feeling I had to kill a guy, and I hate that…it looks bad on my report.

MOM: What? What report? What kind of drugs are you on, son?!

ERNIE: One hundred percent pure adrenaline!

MOM: Oh, B.S.! You wanna play games? Okay, fine! How about this? You’re one hundred percent GROUNDED for the next YEAR!

ERNIE: And you’re about to jump out of a perfectly good airplane. How do you feel about that?

MOM: What?

ERNIE: You gonna jump, or jerk off?

MOM: Oh, that’s it, munchie-man! You are in for a world of trouble when your dad gets back from Cincinnati, mister!

ERNIE: He’s not coming back.

MOM: What?

ERNIE: It’s basic dog psychology: If you scare them and get them peeing down their leg, they submit. But if you project weakness, that promotes violence, and that’s how people get hurt.

MOM: Where is my son?! What happened to you? Oh, now you’re talking crazy-talk. You’re a junkie, aren’t you? Oh, God, where did I go wrong?

ERNIE: This is stimulating, but we’re out of here.

MOM: What did you say to me, young man? You get back here and into this car right now!

ERNIE: Vaya con dios, brah.


More Than Hot Air: A Hand Dryer in the Penn Station Men’s Room Shares His Wisdom

By: Matt Summers-Sparks

Life is complicated.

Drying your hands is simple: Lather up. Rinse. Place hands beneath my nozzle to initiate hot air flow. Rub hands vigorously. Nice.

Once, right in front of me, a real gentle fellow, about 15, mistook another guy for his long-lost brother. But he, the latter, ridiculed the gentle fellow right here in the bathroom in front of me, the paper towels and everyone. I hated that. But I assisted that gentle fellow. That’s right — position my nozzle properly and I evaporate tears.

I dry hair, too.

That might be important someday.

I’ve never trusted paper towels.

A hand dryer exterminates any germs on your hands that feed on processed paper, while a paper towel tends to nourish those germs.

I once overheard a scientist explain to a lawyer that paper towels contain miniature barf particles and no one has proven that they don’t.

You blow your nose with paper towels. Why dry your hands with the same thing?

I’ve overheard people say a paper towel can be a breeding ground for airborne disease molecules or it may promote a pus-sac rash, but I wouldn’t say that.

All I can say is I pity the damned landfill that houses the vast supply of Hitler’s soiled paper towels.

The most discouraging part of my day is when I’m drying someone’s hands and he walks away before they’re dry. He disgraces himself and me.

Loneliness is the hardest part of my life. People come, dry their hands, then disappear. I once overheard some guy say that fatherhood is the art of letting go. He got it half right: Fatherhood and drying hands are the arts of letting go.

I’m not footloose — I can’t do anything I want. I can’t have a TV show. I can’t star in a movie with Maggie Gyllenhaal. But so long as I’m mounted on this men’s room wall, no one can tell me how to dry hands.



By: Chris Bucholz

“Veronica! Wait!” I’d spotted her near the bandshell, still as lovely as the last time I’d seen her, and I ran to catch up. “It’s me, Ted!”

“Ted?…Ted!? I…thought you left me.”

“Oh Veronica! I would never leave you like that. I’ve just been…hiding.”


“From predators.” I gestured vaguely toward the sky: “Large birds, dogs, shadows cast by airplanes…”

“But, Ted…” Veronica stammered, “how…how come you’re a squirrel?” She made a show of rubbing her eyes, smudging her mascara in the process. There was nothing wrong with her eyes. I was, in fact, a squirrel.

“It’s a long story.”

“It’d have to be.”

I scampered up onto a nearby park bench, and made a gesture I hoped was the squirrel equivalent of “please sit down and join me.” She hesitated for a second, then sat down, taking care not to squash my tail.

“Go on, Ted.”

I paused. I’d played out this conversation hundreds of times in my head over the last seven months. But rehearsing it alone, in the privacy of the park garbage bins, was one thing; to actually be face to face with Veronica again…


I swallowed. I knew what I had to do.

“I…Veronica, do you remember the last time we were together?”

“Of course I remember, Ted. The fair last summer! How could I forget?”

“Right. The rides, the cotton candy. I tried to win you a stuffed animal at the ring toss.”

“Is that why you left, Ted? Because you couldn’t do the damned ring toss? It happens to every guy, I told you that!”

I sighed. This was going to be harder than I’d thought; she still wasn’t ready to focus on what really mattered.

“No, that wasn’t it. You remember, as it was getting dark and we were starting to leave, that fortune teller called out to us? To tell our fortune?”


I sighed again. “And I called her a…”

“…A…stupid, ugly gypsy.”

“A stupid ugly gypsy,” I confirmed, sighing again.

“Ted, did that fortune teller turn you into a squirrel?”


“I didn’t think so!”

“She had a friend do it.”

Veronica nodded slowly, digesting this. I was digesting most of a hamburger bun, myself, so I knew she needed time.

“So what now, Ted?” she said at last. “Do you want…to get back together?”

I had been afraid of this. I knew I owed her an honest reply, but that didn’t make it easy.

“Veronica, I’d be lying to you if I said I hadn’t had sex with nine other squirrels in the last 37 days.”

She looked heartbroken, like the little girl who’d tried to pet me just the day before. That girl didn’t like it when I scratched her hand, and Veronica certainly wasn’t enjoying this.

“Girl squirrels, of course,” I added.

“…of course…” she seemed close to tears. I tried to be gentle as I pressed on.

“No, what I want to ask you is…I’m pretty sure I left a bag of peanuts in your purse when we were leaving the fair that time. Do you still have them?”

“The nuts? No…no, they’re gone.”

“Damn. I thought that might be the case.” My nose twitched in disappointment. “Okay, well, I should probably get going. You know what this time of year is like. It’s all bitches in heat, bitches in heat…”

“I…did not know that.”

“Well, now you do.” I hopped down from the bench. “Anyways, you take care.”

I waved my tail and scampered away. I was going to miss Veronica. We had had some good times together; particularly when she was in heat. But things were different now. She no longer had any nuts.

And her hindquarters were all wrong.


Why I Like Illegal Aliens

By: Michael Fowler

It isn’t just that illegal aliens will do jobs Americans won’t do. But of course they will. They will pick fruit, wash cars, wait tables, perform colonoscopies, design computers and test weapons systems, sometimes for hours on end in the brutal heat of a hospital examination room or the hurtling, pressurized cockpit of a jet fighter. You and I couldn’t do that, my friend. Don’t even say you could.

But illegals also read the books Americans won’t read: Orwell’s 1984, Locke’s Second Treatise of Government, Beckett’s Trilogy, even the works of snarky French postmodern novelist Robert Pinget. You won’t find any Americans willing to put up the endless effort involved in wading through these fiendishly difficult tomes from cover-to-cover. Real Americans read Grisham and Steele and other page-turning lightweights. Only our Hispanic brethren are willing to submerge themselves in the murky, Rio Grande-like depths of governmental theory and experimental fiction, and come up smiling. And they do it, for the most part, with less than a high school education and no fluency in English, and often right after scaling fences in Texas and Arizona and running from border guards and vigilante groups. That’s determination, paisano. You don’t have that fund of determination, and neither do I.

And illegals from across our southern border also watch the TV reruns Americans won’t watch. Reruns of Leave It to Beaver, reruns of Ozzie and Harriet, reruns also of Fury, the Story of a Horse, and of The Phil Silvers Show, and musty old footage of Mr. Peepers, The Danny Kaye Show, and Chico and the Man. No American will watch tripe like that. No American is that desperate for a good time, or that hard and tough. I know personally a Mexican immigrant of questionable legal status who watched bad American TV shows all day long without complaint: Sky King, Sergeant Preston of the Yukon, even My Little Margie, in black and white no less. Never did he once change the channel until he found out he could. After that he tuned in Everybody Loves Raymond right away, just like an American, but I still give him unlimited credit for viewing an entire season of Burke’s Law without once griping or becoming ill. And a man who can watch Burke’s Law can also watch Mod Squad without breaking his back or bleeding to death. What’s more, he’ll get up the next day and do it all over again, and then write his family in Guatemala about it. I’ve seen it done, citizen, but not by you or me.

I could go on and on about the unpleasant things that illegals do for you and me in America, and for which we should be truly grateful: illegals drive the cars that Americans will not drive, wear the shoes that Americans will not wear, vote for the politicians that Americans will not vote for, obey the laws that Americans will not obey, and inhale the marijuana that Americans will not inhale. Illegals speak the languages Americans will not speak, attend the schools that Americans will not attend, join the armed forces that Americans will not join, drop the nukes that Americans will not drop, drink the water that American citizens will not touch a drop of, and use the public restrooms that the American public will not go near. And for this they deserve our thanks. We really could use millions more of them.

But perhaps nothing is more praiseworthy than the undocumented impressionists in our comedy clubs who do impressions of ancient Aztecs and Old World Spanish explorers that American impressionists will not even begin to impersonate. They’ll do archaic Mayans too, on request. I’ve seen aliens right here at the Go Bananas nightclub in Cincinnati, Ohio, smack dab in the American Midwest, take the stage at night and do a flawless Montezuma. In practically the same breath, they’ll turn right around and do a perfect Cortez. If the applause is right, they’ll throw in a passable King Quetzalcoatl from Chichen Itza. These are guys whose day job is picking apples in an orchard or teaching calculus at a two-year college, my friend. I couldn’t do it, and neither could you. Not even if we were comedians. I wouldn’t even try. I get torn ligaments and a sore throat just thinking about it.

For these reasons I propose the following immigration measure: after they have lived in our country and used our worst products and done our most unpopular jobs for 75 years, all the illegal aliens, most of whom I have met and like, must return home to touch base. They must then turn around and come right back, if they’re not too old. Anything more is xenophobia, anything less is amnesty.


Zombie Outbreak in Small-Town Ontario as Chronicled in the Diary of a Teenaged Girl with a Hopeless Crush

By: Mike Richardson-Bryan

Dear diary,

God, nothing EVER happens around here. What does it say about my life when the highlight of my weekend is helping mom clean out the camper? Yeccchhh!

Dear diary,

Big news! Jason sat next to me at assembly today. I was so excited, I accidentally inhaled my gum and blacked out. STUPID! By the time I came to, Jason was gone, lured away by Jasmine AGAIN. Grrr!!! One of these days, she’s gonna get what’s coming to her.

Dear diary,

Went to another lame Battle of the Bands last night. One of the bands featured three original members of Loverboy, and they were barely halfway through their first song when their drummer went off his nut and attacked the judges (I think he actually bit one of them, too). They still won, though, which tells you something about the music scene in Ontario these days.

Dear diary,

There’s some kind of bug going around and it’s wicked bad. I sure hope it’s not that chicken flu that’s supposed to destroy mankind, unless of course it spares me and Jason and afterwards we get married and set out to repopulate the earth. In that case, bring it on!

Dear diary,

There was a big fight at the ringette game last night. It must’ve been ugly, ’cause apparently a lot of people got bitten and a few of them are still missing (including Mrs. Petty, my old home economics teacher, who I actually liked, although she wasn’t much of a teacher). The game was called, which is too bad for the ringette girls, who are having their winningest season ever. Go, Fightin’ Barn Owls!

Dear diary,

It seems like everybody’s got that bug that’s going around. On the bright side, so many kids are home sick that history class is down to just me and Jason (oh, and Mitchell, that geek with the lazy eye, but he doesn’t count), so we’re practically study buddies now. He even asked to borrow a pencil today! Unfortunately, I accidentally inhaled my gum and blacked out again. STUPID!

Dear diary,

Things are getting weird around here. People are going missing all over the place and a bunch of torsos turned up outside of town. The cops say it’s rowdy teenagers, but that’s what they say every time a window is broken or a car is rolled and set on fire or a family is attacked in their own home and eaten alive. Okay, so we did roll and burn that car that time, but it was Halloween, and besides it was only a Geo, so what’s the biggie? Stupid Nazis.

Dear diary,

My prom dress is finally done. It’s an explosion of plum satin with the biggest, puffiest sleeves you’ve ever seen and a TON of lace. And I made it myself! I guess I learned something in Mrs. Petty’s class after all. I sure hope they find the rest of her someday. Now all I need is a date. Fingers crossed!

Dear diary,

I have a date for the prom. No, it’s not Jason (big surprise). It’s Mitchell. I know, I know, but time was running out, and a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do, right? I just have to remember to dance real close so I don’t end up staring at that wonky eye all night.

Dear diary,

The prom was awesome! The music was good, the gym looked great (SO MUCH BUNTING), and as for the dancing…HOLY CRAP, THAT LAZY-EYED GEEK CAN DANCE! We tore up the floor like it was Dance Dance Revolution on bathtub meth! Before I knew it, my shiny new dress was soaked with sweat and my hair and make-up were such a mess that I looked like Tammy Faye Bakker after a mop beating, but I didn’t care. In fact, I was having so much fun that when Mitch leaned in to plant a wet one on me, I just cocked my head and let come what may.

But then the zombies attacked. Yes, dear diary, actual zombies, a shambling horde of them, intent on gnawing the flesh from our bones. What a buzz killer.

Everybody ran for their lives. Me and Mitch ended up barricaded in the nurse’s office with Jason and Jasmine. We thought we were safe, but then Jasmine went all zombie on us (the selfish skank got bit back in the gym and didn’t tell anyone) and we had to finish her. Jason tried to do it, but he chickened out. In fact, HE SOBBED LIKE A LITTLE GIRL. I had to do it myself, and believe me, I killed the stuffing out of her. It didn’t feel as good as I thought it would, to tell you the truth, but I sure wasn’t complaining, either.

We were finally saved by the ringette girls. Just before dawn, they swooped in with nail-studded ringette sticks in hand and cleaned house, busting zombies left, right, and centre. I swear, if they don’t win at least their division this year, then there is no God.

Afterwards, me and Mitch slipped away and did it in the janitor’s closet. Yes, DID IT. And take it from me, dancing isn’t the only thing he does with gusto.

So much for high school. I can’t exactly say these were the best days of my life, but the idea that they’re over forever definitely leaves me a little sad. I guess that’s what growing up feels like.

Now look out, community college, ’cause here I come!