Christmas time is a wonderful time. Then Christmas ends and you’re stuck with half-a-ton of Christmas decorations lying around your house, not to mention an entire tree you’ve cut down and mounted in your living room. When January finally rolls around and you gin up the courage to chuck that fir-tree cluster bomb out onto the curb — don’t. Fashion it into a weapon instead! It’s no doubt what Santa would have wanted.
It’s old friend Joerg Sprave. He’s jolly. He’s the Saint Nick of destruction. He’s the Mister Rogers of ruination. He’s the Captain Kangaroo of crushing. He’s the Alan Alda of annihilation. He’s the Tom Brokaw of breaking stuff. I could listen to him all day. I’m ambivalent about the mayhem. I’m only here for the chuckling.
I need this guy to be my plumber. No more Lo-Flo toilets for me. Get him on the job for a couple days, and you’d have to call the Sewer Department and tell them to evacuate (no pun intended) before you flushed the toilet. The sink would have three knobs: Hot, Cold, and some sort of OMG. Every room would have hot and cold running potato chips. The dishwasher would process uranium. It would be glorious.
And when he was finished, I’d double his pay if he’d read Hop On Pop to me.
The Love Child Of Uncle Fester And Friedrich Krupp Is Back With The Mother Of All Slingshots
I’ve never heard anyone chuckle that way that wasn’t up to no good. But I”m sure old friend Joerg Sprave wouldn’t hurt you, unless you were a zombie or something. Then he’d chuckle and let you have it.
(Thanks to reader Sam Dunkin in Oregon for sending that one along)