Free Marching Bands Are Just Homeless Orchestras by Tim Siedell Page A

mustard.

    Edgar Bergen and Cormac McCarthy. That would be some dark, depressing ventriloquism.



Work your way up to juggling chainsaws by starting with small chainsaws.

    The restaurant across the street has gone out of business. I will miss wondering how it stays open.

    Ugh, writer’s block. My third most dreaded block behind artery block and block party.







At my daughter’s cross country meet. Seeing girls run away from me brings back a flood of middle school memories.

    If a mime performs in the forest, and nobody is there to see him, it’s all for the best.

    If I were a drug dealer, I’d brand mine “No” and explain to kids that their parents told them to ask for it by name.



I didn’t realize my life was the director’s cut. I don’t need all this extra crap.

    The best time to start applying heat and pressure to coal in order to make diamonds is 300 million years ago. The second best time is now.

    Life would be easier if I could just breathe coffee. Except for the astronaut helmet full of scalding hot liquid, I guess.



When you order your Thai food extra spicy you are, in essence, giving someone permission to murder you from the inside out.

    I accidentally saw a little bit of daytime television. The eye wash station is already paying for itself.

    People in movies always seem like they’re having way too much fun when they’re at the movies.



Scientists are close to creating three-parent babies. This is exactly the kind of breakthrough that could save the sitcom.

    The problem with throwing a Hulk tantrum at work is the inevitable walk to the parking garage without a shirt.

    Business idea: Richard Gere lookalikes wearing white, naval uniforms who pick you up and carry you wherever you want to go.



On May 17, 1846, Antoine-Joseph Sax invented the ‘80s soundtrack.

    Misery may love company, but be prepared to take your shoes off before going into the living room. And don’t expect snacks.

    Riverboat Demolition Derby. I can’t be the first to suggest that.



My primary objective in any meeting is to end the meeting.

    I’m hoping for a Paul Simon kind of day. Short and pleasant enough. None of that Garfunkel crap.

    I overheard a co-worker talking about the tranny in his truck. I don’t judge.



Heated flatbed scanners, people. I shouldn’t have to freeze my rear end off every time I email my landlord.

    The scariest movie monster has to be the Invisible Man. Because he’s a naked man. And he might be sitting on your sofa.

    I must have slept like a log last night, because I feel like someone chopped me up and stacked me neatly by the garage.







I’m banned from driving muscle cars because I just tested positive for Yoplait lowfat yogurt.

    I bet the town hall meetings in Germany were full of protesters comparing Hitler to Hitler.

    It’s my way or the highway. Unless your way involves actual highways, in which case this shouldn’t be construed as an expressed endorsement.



I didn’t have to chew my leg off to get out of that boring meeting, but doing so certainly sent a strong message.

    That Indian dinner was so authentic I think I hate Pakistan.

    Screw the Mayan calendar. This Dilbert desk calendar speaks of nothing beyond December 31, 2010.



We need some new mythological creatures. I propose: Scentofawomantaur. Half Al Pacino, half horse. Speaks in hoo-ahs. Nonsequitaur. Half man, half horse, half-grilled cheese sandwich.

    I want to live to see great-grandchildren. But instead of taking care of myself, I’ll just push my kids to get married at 9.

    The monogrammed initials on your cuffs have foiled my plans to kill you and wear your shirt. Well played, sir.



My wife and daughters are sick while I feel fine. It occurs to me that flu immunity might be tied to sports trivia knowledge.

    One thing this bad economy can’t take away from me is the simple joy of eating raw diamonds.

    I’m at that point on a huge writing project where I ponder disguises and fake