Henry, You Don’t Mean It

And now, this site proudly presents the first of an occassional series of ravings by your crazy uncle Henry, entitled “Henry, You Don’t Mean It”. Henry can be reached at the TV store down by the coffee shop, where he angrily contradicts pre-recorded news broadcasts.

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When I die, I hope to come back as a bird, so I can fly around and shit all over those sons of bitches down at the bus station.

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The kid who works weekdays at the tobacco shop was telling me the other day that he’s sick of having people stare at him like he’s some kind of freak. I told him then maybe he shouldn’t have dyed his hair green and put those metal do-whats in his eyebrows. I think he spit in my pipe tobacco after that.

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How come when someone gets in a horrible accident and loses both legs and an arm and an eye or something, there’s always some asshole who says what a blessing it was the guy wasn’t killed? It’s not a goddamn blessing, for Christ’s fucking sake. The guy doesn’t have any legs and has to crack it with his off hand, and that’s a blessing? Maybe he’s saying what a curse it was he didn’t die, did you ever think of that, churchy?

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Have you ever gotten mad at someone who’s copping your joint? I haven’t, but I guess some people do. Different strokes.

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There’s this wierd sensation I get sometimes when I’m driving. It’s like, all of the sudden, I can’t tell the difference between the brake and the accelerator, and I can’t tell how far away the other cars are, and I swerve a lot when I think my hands are steady on the wheel. Maybe I’m getting Alzheimer’s or something. The only thing I know for sure is that it tends to happen when I’ve been drinking for several hours.

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I don’t know why people are always trying to get out of jury duty. What, you like your freakin’ job that much? Try being sequestered just once. You’ll never want to go back.

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Sometimes you’ll hear about a murder case, and it’s like they’ll go out of their way to be horrified that the victim was shot sixteen times or stabbed forty-seven times or whatever. I don’t understand this. Who gives a shit? It’s not like the guy’s any less dead if you only shoot him once, so why not have a little fun with it? You’re probably not gonna get a chance to do this very often. I know if I stabbed some guy to death, I would really go to town on the body. Enjoy yourself, I say!

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I’m working on a book about which presidents had sex during their terms. Actually, it’s not so much a book as it is a napkin.

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When somebody asks you what you do for a living, what they’re really asking is how much money you make. A good way to get them out of your hair is to tell them you do something where nobody knows how much it pays, like ‘analyst’ or ‘advisor’ or some shit. I mean, hell, I hang out down at the DMV drinking dime chicken soup out of a machine, but that doesn’t mean I’m not a consultant.

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What the hell is wrong with sleeping all day? That’s my favorite thing in the world, and to hear people talk, it’s like I’m worse than Hitler. You don’t see anybody yelling at a cat for sleeping all day.