Brain Farts Brain Fart brain farts brain fart brain-fart brain-farts brainfart brainfarts LEO Louisville Eccentric Observer parody lampoon satire Louisville Kentucky Kevin Gibson kgramone@aol.com  kgramone humor

Brain Farts was a weekly humor column that ran in the Louisville Eccentric Observer (LEO) from mid-2000 until the summer of 2002. It was, well, eccentric. And occasionally satirical. And sardonic. Some liked it, some hated it; some just didn't get it, and that's OK. There were times when I didn't get it either. I've compiled here some of the archives from Brain Farts for the enjoyment of friends, family and anyone else who happens by. I also have written some new Brain Farts, and added some links and other trivialities that you shouldn't be too concerned with.

Unless you're as bored as I am.

Brain Farts: 2:43 a.m. pizza dream
	By Kevin Gibson November 8, 2000

It was an orange day in my world. Cars buzzed by overhead as I counted my knees. Karen Carpenter’s skeleton walked by and flipped me the bird.

It was about the time my spleen arrived that I realized I was standing naked on a pork rind with Ross Perot. His ears flapped in the warm winter wind. “It’s a bad thing, Muhammad,” he told me, then frowned.

“My name is Kevin,” I said. He ignored me and explained that Al Gore is actually an alien hybrid and George W. Bush is in fact a librarian from Morganfield, Ky., who happened to look so much like his “dad” that he was kidnapped and forced into politics. I yawned.

“Now, see here,” he said. “If you don’t care about the future of this country, then fine, but don’t come crying to me when aliens raise your mortgage payments and library cards become currency.” I told him I rent.

“Muhammad,” he said, “I won’t take no money from the renters of this fine planet to fund my 2004 campaign for Omnipotent Master of the Opaque Little Ones. Or maybe I will. Say, how many knees do you have?”

With that, the pork rind broke, and I realized it was a metaphor for my sanity. Ross shrank to the size of a gnome and scampered off after a gecko that had been sunning itself on a nearby conscientious objector. In the distance, a frog howled.

“Is this a dream?” I wondered aloud. That’s when I heard a knock at the door. I had wondered why that door had been standing there, especially since I was not indoors.

I answered it, and to my surprise, Ed McMahon, John Lennon and Jeffrey Dahmer stood there in tuxedos. “You may already have won $437,000!” McMahon bellowed. “Ask us each one question, and if we get it right, you have already won!”

“OK,” I said. “Jeffrey, what does human flesh really taste like?” He tugged at his plaid tie, shuffled his feet and looked down at his knees (as if counting). “Tastes like pizza.”

Ed nodded, so I continued. “Ed, did you ever sleep with Johnny Carson?” “Yes!” he roared, then chortled. “One more, and you win!”

“OK, John,” I said, “did Yoko have you killed?” He smiled wanly, eyes cloaked by his traditional round sunglasses. “No,” he said, “it was the bloody Carpenters.”

I’ll get you for this, Karen Carpenter, I thought. Then Ed threw up his hands in triumph (what a mess) and said, “You have already won, Muhammad! How do you feel?” I sighed: “My name is not Muhammad — it’s Kevin.”

All three looked at me in shock, then a voice inside my head said, “Sorry, but you must phrase your answer in the form of a question.” It was Alex Trebec. I awoke in a sweat.

E-mail the writer at kgramone@aol.com But do it quietly; he may be sleeping.