The Real Deal

When I was 26.5 years old Chinese dentists performed unspeakable acts of community theater unto me and my person. Me? Chucky Berry. My person? King Elf the Invaluable.

It all started when Me and my man King Elf the Invaluable bumped into each other at the local ice cream soda parlour fountain drugstore operation. I said, "Yo!" And he said "Yo!" and we pulled each other's pants up. (or "Pance" depending on which side of the swamp you like to barbecue on. )

Then all of a sudden out of nowhere Chinese dentists came out from under the pentagram in the assfault and berated and verbally castrated nosotros dos amigos. "Who flung poo!?" was a particularly loaded question pointed in MY direction.

For the record, I've never flung poo. Off the record, sure I have. But please don't print that in your college newspaper. If you do I'll do something crazy in your classroom like toss a backpack full of loose change across the floor or dress up like a baby.

And THAT'S the real deal.

- Chucky Berry

Chucky Berry is a part time editor for Reader's Digest's Digest.

Bar Stool Follies

My munchkin got let out the bag. Everybody gathered. He danced on the table as the band played "whistleman's dixie"

and I drank a full ton of beer by pouring it over my head and licking the trickle downs. 

The bartender's name is Boit (spelled Bert) and he keeps a samurai sword displayed above his vodka bottles. 

The barflies all agreed, "he'd use it if he had to." I highly doubt it but I'll nod and smile and lift my glass and say "Thar she blows, ladies" or some other such English sea shanty slogan of yesteryear. 

When the music stops at midnight and the lost and found raffle starts, Boit rings the ding dong and turns on the green light. 

"first up, we have a black sweatshirt that says 'Who Ate My Burgers?'"

$5

$4. 

$3

1 cent.

- 1 cent

- $20

SOLD for negative twenty dollars to the gentleman in the black sweatshirt  that asks, "Who Ate my Nuggets?"

The bar is a place where a man can find a sweatshirt much like the one he's wearing.

Chucky  P.Bunson Berry

In Good Time

The concept of time is subjective according to culture and nationality. For instance, 3 o'clock is Irish. 3 McClock is Scottish.

And if it's 7:00 here in North America, it's 00:L in South America.

Einstein knew what time it was: Time 2 Party 4 Real

"I will sell you my Big Ben for a nibble off your crumpet, my Lady." is how English people speak.
And I think we should speak more like that if we want to be taken seriously.

Oh, almost forgot: Today is the first day of the rest of your life. So better pack a toothbrush, some edible underwear, and a stop watch so you can see how long it takes to get from Shitsville to Cacadoodooland.
I made it in under 3 seconds.

All in good time.

-Chucky Berry

20 questions, by Chucky Berry

I'm 20 feet tall, my head looks like broccoli and chipmunks live in my holes. What am I?
A tree!

I'm a jack-o-lantern's best friend, I wear suspenders, I carry candy corn at all times. What am I?
Giblette The Pumpkin King!

I own 5 computers. I learned Siamese from an authentic Siamese cat-man. My smartphone is made of 100% recycled toilet paper. I'm the proud owner of not 4, but 5 computers. What am I?
Luther Le'Computer

One time I jumped so high a bird flew into my mouth. What am I?
tlamp-o-mlean aulgh go boinga boinga hoy up in da sky

I knew Forrest Gump personally. I'm famous. Who am I?
Forrest Gumper

I'm Chucky Berry and this has been 20 Questions.

Cat Burglary

The precious gem chunklett of Marie L'escargot  was sitting there in the jewel museum like a sitting duck, waiting  for pluckings. Cat burglary is my forte. And I ain't talking about burgers.
I'm talking about Jewel heists.

The plan was audacious and hopeful.

Once I'd have the chucklett in my hands I'd be rich beyond my wildest dreams. I could finally buy a table saw. And once I have a table saw, I can make handmade crafts and sell them at flea markets for hundreds of dollars, thereby making me a millionaire.

I could practically taste the money in my mouth. And I ain't talking about burgers.

So then what is a cat burgler? He who stealthily steals gems and jewels and golden treasures under the cloak of night. Dressed like his favorite cat. Mine's Garfield. Who's yours? If you say Heathcliff you really shouldn't. No one should.

So there I was on the roof of the museum, cutting a hole in the skylight with my laser knife when all of a sudden a flood light shone from above. Copper chopper!

"FREEZE! WITH YOUR HANDS UP! LET US SEE YOUR HANDS! LETTUCE CHEESE YOUR HAMS. AND WE AIN'T TALKIN' BOUT BURGERS!"

To be continued...

EXCERPT from The Chucky Berry Book, Chapter Zero: Prologue

When I decided to title my first book, I Farted And Flew Out The Window, I knew I had gold because it is an instant question asker: Who farted? What window? When did this happen to you? Where did you end up? Why did you do it (assuming you had agency in the matter)? How'd you get a book deal?
All perfectly illegitimate questions.

The answer is agency. As in, our capacity to "make things happen" is our agency. As in, I have agency to publish my own book. I don't need a publishing agency. As in, go ask my fucking agent, Drunk Dan, why he didn't make it happen earlier. As in, " agentleman never tells" (So says Drunk Dan. But I know where he was last night.)

Agency is not to be confused with "Asian tea" which can sound like "Agency" if you're drunk at the all-you-can eat sushi buffet like Drunk Dan was last night while he should have been proof reading my book for things  like spelling mistakes, grammatical errors, repeating things, redundancy, and other stuff, etc.

Point is, if you keep your eyes on the ball, and you stick to your guns, however small, and if you have any kind of work ethic at all, you can make you're dreams come true. Just make sure your dreams aren't too fancy. whence self publishing I Farted And Flew Out the Window.

Which brings us to the title of the book: I Farted And Flew Out the Window: A demonstration in the art of imaginative thinking and question answering. But be forewarned, what you read may shock you. It might even turn your world upside down. And it just might make you fly out the window.

So here's to thinking outside of the B.O.X. (banal office xerox)

Sincerely,

Chucky P. Bunson Berry

A Nonchalant Little Miss Muffit Man, by Drunk Dan

This is Drunk Dan with a public service announcement. FREE DRUNK DAN!
The coppers nabbed the Dan this afternoon while I was chasing an enemy chipmunk through the park. Little piece of Alvin shit stole my last walnut. I know what yer saying. You're saying, "Drunk Dan, now what the hell are you doing running around the park chasing chipmunks and sparrows and the like in the middle of the afternoon? Don't you have a J-O-B?" Well fella, just so happens my J-O-B stands for Jogging Over Bushes. so, uh, yeah.

That's my problem with the millionaire crowd. They think just cuz you're not pulling in fat stacks of greenbacks that you're automatically a menace 2 society. They'll look at someone like Drunk Dan and roll their eyes way back into their top hats. They don't see Drunk Dan the classic rock guitarist, the generous sexual partner, the Schenectady Little Bowlers Champion of 1982, or the proud veteran. That's right, I fought in the War On Drugs for 14 long, harrowing, hazy, fun years.

But I don't do drugs any more. Matter of fact, I don't even smoke them. I just drink my beers and try to feel as good as possible with as little regrets as someone like me can make.

And when I get out of county lockup this weekend you're all gonna see someone a little taller, a little slimmer, and a little braver, because that's what the cocaine in county jail does to you. So I'm told. And who knows, maybe I'll find that little chipmunk digging out my walnut from beside a clover patch in the park. Only this time, instead of stripping naked and running while knocking people's sodas out their hands, I'll just waltz on over like a nonchalant little miss muffit man and say, "Excuse me, pal. But I believe you have something that belongs to me." And like a gentleman I'll tip my hat, and quickly show him my gun.

Who the fuck knows, ya know?

- Drunk Dan

Nature's Candy, by T.D.

We here at Nature's Candy believe in wholesome food for kidz. But we also know that kidz like junk food. So that's why we make snacks that kidz love, in the shapes and colors of healthy food in order to fool their parents and other concerned adults.

Hungry on the go? Grab a handful of Carrot-Crunchumz! 100% real fucking candy corn in every bite. In the shape of carrots.

That's our only product so far. If you have any more ideas* please send them to:

THE DEVIL
666 Hellhound Lane
Suite 13A
New York, NY

Hell

*Other ideas previously sent in and subsequently rejected by Nature's Candy include human shit in candy bar form, a candy bar in human shit form, a "banana" made of butter,  Mike's Hard Lemonade, candy cigarettes that are actually real cigarettes, and vodka sold in water bottles, which sounds like a great idea except PLASTIC BOTTLES ARE BAD FOR THE ENVIRONMENT, PEOPLE.


- The Devil

Two simple questions

What if rap singer/actor/producer Ice Cube had a mushroom haircut and out of that "mushroom" grew another mushroom? A real mushroom like the kind you find in fantasy land. Would a bee take his siesta on top?

And what about Climate Change? I for one believe in the theory of Rain Rain Go Away.

Perhaps the two issues are related. Ice Cube could do a Hip Hop Hooray and make it rain another day.
Just an idea. If anyone reading this happens to have intimate relations with Mr.Cube, please have him step into my office and we'll do lunch. Right here at my computer desk next to the stack of blank paper and the cool snow globe. (And while we're at it, maybe "Ice Cube" can tell me how they keep the snow in the snow globe from melting!) Doubt it.

CHUCKY BERRY

The Big House

The Devil made me do it. The Devil and the dog. The Devil, the dog, and Colonel Mustard in the dressing room. I got caught peeking and they blackmailed me. The Devil said, "If you don't steal that pie from Missus Pumpkin for us, we're going to...we're going to...We'll put a bomb in your shoe!"

Like I would fall for that! I'm not a fucking idiot. I haven't worn shoes since. Only boots and sneakers THANK YOU VERY MUCHO MR. ROBUTO.

So that's the way el cookie crumples, am I right friends? One day you're minding your own shitty business, peeping through all the secret rooms in a scary mansion, and the next day you're defending your actions in front of 40 Internet nazis such as yourselves (no offense.) but I just want to make this point extremely clear: I is not do what bad guy be. ME EQUALS ALWAYS NOT THAT.

Further more, moving forward, at the end of the day, when all is said and done, at this juncture, at this junction, not for nothing,  you gotta ask yourself: "What is it exactly that I'm trying to say here?"

The answer may surprise you. It may even give you a reverse wedgie.

I know it did for me. ; )

C.C.B.P.Berry

P.S. I just want to give a shout out to my homies, The Mouse That Ran the Clock, John the Elder Jr., Don  DeMafiarelli, and I can't forget my heart, my number one homie through thick and thin, Rufus Toothless. We'll miss you, girl.