My Dark Side

Long ago, I was in prison. I did nothing illegal. It was an elective. I like to be frisked.

 

Satan comes to me in my Dream Whip. He commands me to Hell, and then insists I try the shortcake.

 

My life is at its most satisfying when I'm chucking ice cubes at Kate Winslet.

 

For the past 24 years, I've purposely neglected to turn my clocks back at the conclusion of Daylight Saving Time; so that when I die, I can hang around another day and attend my own funeral.

 

Screw the polls! I declare Saving Private Ryan is the worst musical since CATS.

 

In 1969, I was told I was not fully qualified to become "The Man from GLAD." Suffering grave mortification, I traveled overseas, where I served a short stint as "The Boy from SLIGHTLY PLEASED."

 

I deeply love my Donna; yet I fantasize about another woman's parakeets.

 

I once yelled "Huh?" after an Al Jarreau concert.

 

I'm the guy who stole those mittens, long believed lost by The Three Little Kittens. Every winter I look at the minuscule gloves and laugh and laugh! And sometimes, as a reward, I model them on my six favorite toes.

 

Exiting drugstores, it amuses me to leave the suppositories in there, behind.

 

While I remain in my 40s, I must continue compulsive nocturnal farmyard excursions where I flit mystically atwitter, sprinkling Nestle's Quik on moo cows.

After 50, that would be silly.

 

I like to age fine pudding pops until they are grandfathers.

 

I'm plagued by nightmares in which the Mob fits me with a cement overcoat and leaves me to meet a hideous, lingering death as co-host of CNN's Style with Elsa Klensch.

 

I'm apprehensive I might float to the top of a cannibal pandowdy.

 

Whenever my doctor tells me to say "Ah-hhhhh," I'm pretending to be a PEZ dispenser.