McSweeneys - Mountain Man Dance Moves: The McSweeneys Book of Lists

Contents
MOUNTAIN MAN DANCE MOVESWith Advice for the Tourist in GermanyTHINGS KOALA BEARS WOULD SAYby Timothy Weinmann Yay! Love me! Climbing trees is fun! Lets volunteer at a soup kitchen this Christmas. My tongue is funny! Eating leaves is fun! Will you help me think of something nice we can do for Grandma? Look, a pouch! Lets prevent a forest fire! No, youre the cutest ever. Camus is boring. I find Karl Jasperss philosophy much more enlightening. Wheeee! Lets make cider! I bet Ill live forever! FORMER JOBS HELD BY THE GUY YOU ONCE SAW WEARING THAT PUSSY PATROL T-SHIRTby Mike Sacks Vagina cop Titty detective Part-time perineum security guard Anus temp Nipple bureaucrat Executive vice president of technology and worldwide operations for Merrill Lynch EXACTLY WHAT I MEAN WHEN I SAY MY EX-GIRLFRIEND KRISTIN AND I WANTED DIFFERENT THINGS FROM LIFEby Dan Kennedy Something I didnt want from life was for us to stay together after she slept with another man in exchange for cocaine. 7 HABITS OF HIGHLY SUCCESSFUL PEOPLEby Brendon Lloyd 1. Skiing 2. Skiing 2.

Yachting 3. Snorkeling 4. Golf 5. Polo 6. Dinner parties 7. Shopping TOURISM SLOGANS THAT FAILED TO SEAL THE DEALby Michelle Orange Kyrgyzstan: Kazakhstans Mexico Germany: Let It Go Venezuela: We Dare You Cambodia: Nikes Best Kept Secret Its Worse in Western Samoa Canada: Turn Left at Greenland Syria: Come for the Ruins, Stay Because We Confiscated Your Passport ANECDOTAL LEADS FOR NEWS STORIES REPORTING THE END OF THE WORLDby Hart Seely Nine-year-old Joshua Harding didnt plan to miss classes Tuesday at West Monroe Elementary School.

Nobody did. But dismissed were his classesfor good. After carefully parking his red Toyota Matrix in the lot outside Dicks Sporting Goods, John P. Boyce strode briskly into the West Burlington store. He was looking for rain gear on a day when rain gear would not be enough. The prices are outrageous, said Boyce, fifty-eight, of West Street, as he sifted through brightly colored slickers and tall rubber boots.

Then again, I guess you could say its a sellers market. An hour later, it was a nobodys market. Tamika Carter had dieted all spring to lose twenty-eight pounds in time for the Independence Day weekend. She skipped lunches and jogged each night after returning home from her job at the Pancake Circus. I always try to lose weight before summer, the twenty-seven-year-old Sacramento waitress said. You want to look good on the beach.

But this summer, looking good on the beach would turn out to be far less important than Carter could have imagined. Mo Bushnell was not happy. Not happy at all. With a wheezing gust from his eighty-four-year-old lungs, the opinionated former Ashtabula steelworker had managed to blow out all the candles on his large chocolate layer cake. But it was abundantly clear that Bushnells birthday wish would not be coming true. Not ever. Not ever.

Though the sign outside Desis Show Lounge shouted CLOSED FOR GOOD, Andrew Kramer kept pounding on the front door, as if trying to rouse what spirits of romance might still reside within the abandoned South Side disco. As his knuckles rapped against the empty building, Kramer found himself humming the classic disco oldie Last Dance by Donna Summer. Last dance, he sang. Its the last chance. For lo-ove. Claude D. Claude D.

LaMont grinned as he stepped from the yellow taxi, then turned to hand the driver a crisp $50 bill. LaMont was returning from the Oneida Indian Casino, where he had just lost every last penny in his bank account. Not only that, he had gambled away his house, his car, and all his earthly possessions. Who the heck cares? LaMont said, flicking his cigarette butt to the curb. In a matter of hours, were all dead. And he was right.

With a broad smile emerging from his salt-and-pepper beard, gas station attendant Earl Talbot hailed the little man in the shiny red Porsche that had pulled up to pump no. 3 and demanded, Fill er up! Without skipping a beat, Talbot unveiled the sawed-off shotgun he kept behind his back and blasted four bullets into the unidentified drivers skull. Then, with a tortured howl directed at the sky, Talbot placed the muzzle of the gun in his wide mouth and pulled the trigger. For the Exit 41 Kwik Fill, the final exit had come. GOOD LAST LINE TO A SYNDICATED PRISON HUMOR COLUMNby Mike Sacks Anyway, I guess thats why they call it prison. REJECTED BOND GIRLSby Rebecca Waits Chlamydia Johnson Pussy Notsomuch Gloria Abortion Incestua Plenty OHep Jenny Arthritis Sphyllis Star Jones SIGNS YOUR UNICORN IS CHEATING ON YOUby Christopher Monks Seems emotionally distant and uninterested Wears fancier tail ribbons Starts working out at the gym Quickly closes its laptop when you walk into its enchanted den Credit card bill full of charges to area elf lodges The three Cs:
confrontation, criticism, and complaints Every time you say the word magic it sighs forlornly Is making a movie with Angelina Jolie BARTLETTS FAMILIAR QUOTATIONSby Martin Bell Hi there.

John Bartlett. John Bartlett Reservation should be under Bartlett. Thats two Ts. Yes. Bart-let-et. John Bartlett Yep, that was me.

Im that Bartlett.John Bartlett Yes, Id like another one. John Bartlett and I said, Yeah, and you can quote me on it! Ha, ha!John Bartlett Ah, yes, wheres your restroom?John Bartlett Hey there, my littlemy little cowgirl. Im Jack Bartlett. Want credit for a quotation? I dont think anyones laid claim to your phone number yet. Nice. Justjust one second, let me get a pen.John Bartlett Thats not funny.

Its not funny. Dont ask me what, you know what. The little quote fingers. All the goddamn time. Everything I say. Justjust stop.

Okay?John Bartlett No, how about you please leave the premises? Huh? How about you dont make a scene? How abouthow about that? Well, fine. Fuckingfine. Dont touch me! Dont you dare touch me! Fuck you, you fucking piece ofof fuck. Hows that for a bloody quotation?John Bartlett Oh, nice one, honey. Yes. Clever.

Thats becoming quite a familiar quotation in its own right, isnt it? Maybe I should just add it to the next edition. Mother was right. Author: Mrs. Bartlett, world-renowned nag. Year: 1859. Attribution: A short play entitled Every Goddamn Weekend.John Bartlett Right.

Well, you call him and talk about it. Hey, and when you bring it up, ask him about the Bartletts on the cover. Singular possessive, mind you. Note where the apostrophe is. Ask him if he thinks youre entitled to half the royalties. Just ask him.

I have my hunch, but Im sure his legal opinion counts for a lot more. Go on, call Stanley. If you need me, Ill be in bed.John Bartlett PUNCH LINES THAT WOULD ONLY SEEM FUNNY TO YOU AND THE GUY YOU JUST SPENT THE LAST TEN YEARS WITH IN A PITby Mike Sacks When the buzzard came down and ate that dead rats eye. The month we couldnt move because we were so weak with hunger. The insects. The sun that time.

When the kid peeked over the lip of the hole and then ran off and never came back, he almost slipped and fell in also. The look in his eyes, oh man! Hallucinating for the entirety of 1999 that we were characters in a classic Beach Boys song. Lets get serious now. The past ten years have been a hell of a ride, bro. Good times.