This is a drawing i did that I hope will be printed on a shirt. If you go to the site and (I'm so sorry about this) sign up and vote, it just might happen.



It'll help me in more ways than I can explain if you'd do this please.

Of course, if you don't like the design, then don't vote. The website is a fun one to know about anyways, lots of cool tshirts.

I hope you're well & thank you for being my friend.

Paul

ps: I did another one which should be approved soon, and I'm going to do more. So I apologize for doing this to you again later.

Good news: You only need to register once. OH, SHUT UP!

This is a link to a video my buddies and I made a while back.

I wrote, directed and edited it (with some help).

Either way, please have a look & tell me what you think.

It's very short.
It's very weird.

And I'd appreciate it if you would click "funny" after you watch it.

No need to sign up for anything, I wouldn't do that to you.

http://www.funnyordie.com/videos/e8875c31fb

Thank you for being my friend.

Paul

When I first moved to New York I lived right near Union Square for a little more than a month, and in that time I got used to the type of characters that are drawn to it by a weird gravitational pull. Every time I'd come up out of the subway there was a group of fire dancers, or a guy on a megaphone going on and on about 9/11, or some pudgy Asian dude in hot pants with all the jingly things he could attach to himself, prancing around whispering, "bro job" to people.

So, seeing a guy dancing on the sidewalk at 2:00 in the afternoon was relatively standard. He wasn't off to the side shaking it for money, no, he was in people's way and he was doing for free. But what was most interesting about him was his confidence.

People walking around him would occasionally give him a look, as if to say, "What you're doing is rude and crazy", but without the slightest hesitation, almost reflexively, he would hit them back with an exaggerated version of the same look they had given him. As if to say back, "No, you're the rude, crazy person! What are you doing walking on my dance floor?"

And the way he did it was so quick and believed by him that these grounded people, who'd spent their last 25 steps deciding to defend the order of their reality with a dirty look, got slapped in the brain. And their facial expressions said something their mouths never could, "Whoa, maybe I'm wrong about all of this."

By the time they reached the next corner they'd be back to knowing that a man dancing on the sidewalk is nuts, but for that little moment they didn't. For about ten seconds they were shaken off of their assemblage points, and susceptible to outside suggestion. I mean that in this way; during that brief window of time, had every other person on the sidewalk around them started dancing too, they would've snapped into formation without missing a beat. No questions. No weird looks. Not even a break in the conversation. It would've been happening like it happened every day at that exact time, and they just forgot.

But as it was he kept all his rhythm, and the people who'd tried to correct him walked away with a tiny piece of their minds missing. Not anything noticeable. It's like a bump on your face that's hard to find in the mirror, but feels huge to your fingers. Just the smallest little crack, nothing really, but the the place where a problem might start if it did.

Then they'd drift into Forever 21 to buy shirts they left the apartment really wanting, but make less sense to own now for some reason. And when they'd wear them and look in the dressing room mirror, the normal people they'd seen wearing similar things would bleed through their memories, and they'd feel better.

So they'd step outside, and let the cool air brush their faces, and seeing the faintest wisp of breath leaving their mouths, insanity would sink deep enough that they could talk about the run in with the dancing man. The jokes would be bad and hurried, but the laughs would need to come out so badly that it wouldn't matter. Walking through the square people would say all of the millions of normal things normal people always say. Hot cider for sale. Just like a movie. Just like the most regular thing in the world, and the tension on a familiar anchor could be finally felt again.

But across the open area, through the scattered people, they'd see the man was still dancing, and cold panic would near the surface so closely that its tail would make a ripple. Then they'd turn and nervously smile at each other, and touch their shopping bags to make sure it happened. Remembering how small the crack was, and that everything would be fine.
Because honestly, how much bad could really come from such a tiny crack?

When jingly noises would get louder behind them and the voice would whisper, "bro job" between their heads that question would be answered, a drip would come through the dam, and their pace toward the train would quicken.

I sat there on a bench watching that man dance for twenty minutes. Eventually, I understood that the reason he'd chosen the spot he did was because that was where he could best see his reflection in the store windows across the street. No grand scheme. Nothing more than a confident lunatic enjoying the look and feel of sunshine on his dancing body on a cold day. Then without the climactic event I'd hoped for, he suddenly stopped. He picked up his bag full of god-knows-what and melted into the crowd.

But for almost a half an hour he was a rock in a river that split the surface. He was the best example of what I've been unable to express for so long, and that is that truth and sanity aren't fixed things, they're just a majority opinion. And with a strong enough belief and behavior, tributaries of what is established as true and sane can very easily be formed and fed.

David Koresh knew that just as well as Karl Rove and the guy who owns American Apparel do now.

I'd say it's something worth remembering, but we're all just in living in Bob Newhart's dream anyway.

I am proud​ to say that my frien​d (and proba​bly yours​)​ Mike MacRa​e has been signe​d as a cast membe​r on Frank​ TV.


The deal is for 10 episo​des.​


I don'​t care what you think​ of Frank​ Calie​ndo,​ or his show,​ that is not the point​ AT ALL!​!​

The point​ is somet​hing aweso​me happe​ned to an aweso​me guy and that'​s fucki​ng aweso​me.​ That'​s all.


This is huge for Mike,​ and for the show too, he'​ll only impro​ve the progr​am,​ and displ​ay his skill​s to an audie​nce that will appre​ciate​ them.​


Rejoi​ce in the knowl​edge that hard worki​ng,​ talen​ted peopl​e get the rewar​ds they so very much deser​ve.​


This is where​ you can find Mike:​
http:​/​/​www.​ myspa​ce.​ com/​mikem​acrae​

It's Thurs​day,​ the 23rd of April​.​

He's drivi​ng to L.A. now.


Send him some love.​


And I don'​t want to hear even the RUMOR​ of a fucki​ng bitte​r word,​ or any other​ kind of thinl​y veile​d jealo​us grumb​ling,​ unles​s it comes​ from Bob Bigge​rstaf​f,​ who makes​ it an art.


Raise​ your glass​es with me peopl​e.​


Here'​s to Mike.​


That'​s how you do it.


-​Paul

I was just informed that the place I'm telling my jokes tonight -


Lucky Cheng's (Downstairs)
24 1st ave (btwn 1st &2nd st)
NYC , NY
@ 7:30

- is a well known transvestite bar!

I still don't know if or what the cover charge is, but at this point,

does it really matter?

Paul

I stepped into the freight elevator of my building to go upstairs and change my laundry. The door closed and as I stood there a voice from the speaker on the button panel said,

"Hello?"

I said, "Hello."

The voice asked, "Did some one call from this number?"

I said, "This is an elevator."

The voice said, "An elevator?"

I said, "I find it unusual as well."

The voice asked, "Where are you?"

I said, "The third floor."

The voice said, "No, where like. . ."

I interrupted, "You mean like, on Earth?"

The voice said, "...yeah."

I said, "Brooklyn."

The voice said, "hmm."

And I got out.

Today is Saturday, December 8th, in the year of our lord - 2007.

This evening, at the prestigious Houston Laff Stop, I will be performing stand-up comedy.

There will be two shows, one at 8:00 and then another at 10:30 after which I might never be seen on stage again. Well, there's always a chance of that, but tonight in particular because of a bachelor party/rabbit hole I may not emerge from.

So if you would like to come I'd be happy to have you, so happy in fact that I will give you and as many people as you'd like to bring with you free tickets. Just contact me through here or call or send a pigeon you trust to find me.

It should be fun, and possibly historically important. Again, always a chance.

Hope to see you,
XOXO
Paul

I know it's dangerous, but check your bulk email every so often. Sometimes you find a real gem.

-----and i quote-----

Have you ever heard this,

"Gush! Your penis is so small!"?

Didn't you feel like a loser?

Don't let women prefer vibrator to you! MEGADIK will bring you to your sexual dreams! You just have to trust this wonderful preparation!

"Oh! Your penis is unique!" Isn't that what you dream to hear every day?

Soon you'll be the only one girls will want! MEGADIK is your real cure!

Here is the necessary link.

------------

For those of you who would like a "unique" penis & to be transported to your sexual dreams just contact me and I'll forward you the info/cure.

Love,
Paul Oddo,
A.K.A: Target customer of Nigerian penile doubt scam-paign.
A.K.A: Douche Bag

The crowd had been building around John Keisling's house since the first police cars showed up, but the anticipation had begun much earlier. The town was small and the whole neighborhood was as familiar with each other as they were with the strange goings on around the Keisling home in the past month.

Everyone stood outside the once simple picket fence which John had fortified several weeks ago with barbed wire and trip lines attached to homemade noise makers. "Crazy sounds" and "gun shots" was the general murmuring amongst the crowd. John's 5th grade teacher Mildred Struhaul, who lived right across the street had heard them herself and confirmed the rumors as they passed along. She stood next to her husband Tom, both in their robes holding steaming cups of coffee.

Tom owned and managed the diner on main street where many of the people in the crowd around them had witnessed John cause a much talked about scene. His wife Linda had left him and taken the kids after John erected the enormous crosses now standing in each corner of his yard. The next morning when he walked into the diner looking sleep deprived and insane, with a two-day beard and a curiously bent nine-iron, everyone expected the worst.

His visit was almost uneventful, and might have simply ended with him standing at the counter drinking six cups of coffee and eye-balling everyone, but when Carl Smith came in with a large bandage on the side of his head John erupted. He hurled insults, a coffee mug and half a grapefruit from Bee Jackson's plate across the diner at Carl. Two delivery men from the city tried to tackle John so the Sheriff could come down the street and take him away, but he slipped out of their grip and ran out the back door. Carl left during the commotion too, and since then everyone had suspected they might be having an affair. Those suspicions were all but confirmed twenty minutes ago when Officer Brent Springs, the Sheriff's son and a former classmate of both John and Carl, came out of the Keisling home and nodded when people asked if Carl was involved.

Linda's car pulled into the driveway, and her headlights reflected off of shards of glass left in the frame of the single window of her house not boarded up with wooden planks. Inside the home Officer Easterbrook inspected the tattered curtains while carefully avoiding a sheet of plywood fastened deliberately at the base of the window, which was driven through with more than a hundred upturned nails. The booby trap was the beginning of a trail of blood which ended in a larger pool around the naked body of Carl Smith in the middle of the living room floor.

Sheriff Springs was the former D.A.R.E instructor for his son and John, as well as the currently dead and naked Carl. He stood silently in the room for a length of time. John Keisling wore an entire camouflage outfit with matching face paint and sat in the middle of his couch. He hadn't bathed in several days, his beard was filling out and considering that he himself had called the police they allowed his hands to be cuffed in front so that he could smoke a cigarette; a habit he had recently taken up with enthusiasm.

The Sheriff finally took off his hat and wiped his brow. He hated the sides of humanity that his job had shown him over the years. Sometimes it seemed that as soon as he accepted the depths of perversion he'd stumble upon another crevasse. Looking now at the man he'd known as a child, and knowing that he had no choice but to charge him with murder, he knelt down between him and the body. Holding one of the unused rounds from the pistol he'd killed Carl with, the silver of its tip shimmered in the light.

The Sheriff asked, "Son, are these bullets custom made?"

To which John angrily replied, "I told you, he was a fucking werewolf when I shot him."

(Craig's List Ad)

$600 Kick-ass Roommate Wanted

Available October 1st: 2 rooms for rent, one block from G train, McCarren Park nearby. First and last months' rent is required. I'm easy-going, respectful, and clean. Please be so as well.

------------------
(My reply email)

What a coincidence . . .

I'm totally kick ass & I need a room at that exact
date.

Paul Oddo
713-817-3015