AXL Trailer Compared to Monster Trucks

First off, let me tell you that I love these kinds of movies. They remind me of moiveds from my childhood like ‘Star Kid.’

That being said, they are usually horrible, paint-by-numbers films. That’s why when I saw the trailer for ‘AXL’ it immediately reminded me of the movie ‘Monster Trucks.’

That made me want to edit the two side by side to see just how similar they are. There are some eerie similarities, even if the comparison doesn’t necessarily work scene by scene. In fact, I showed this video to my girlfriend without telling her what it was, and she thought I was showing her two different trailers for the same movie.

There’s something about the two movies playing together that works. You can freely look up or down while they play and it always makes sense. Or maybe I’m just crazy. You tell me.

The Flash Drive

A guy and his girlfriend had just moved in together, so they were still getting comfortable with each other’s boundaries. One day the girlfriend asked if she could use his computer, nervously adding, “I’m not going to find any porn on it, am I?”

The guy scoffed and said, “Honey, you will ne’re find a pornographic video nor picture anywhere on my computer.”
She nodded and said, “ok.”
“But,” he added, “don’t go looking through my flash drive.”
She nodded and said, “ok.”
“Because on my flash drive,” he continued, “is my pornography.”
She nodded and said, “ok.”

“And not just any pornography. This is real sick, twisted pornography. The kind of pornography that casts a permanent shadow on a man’s soul. The kind of pornography that could only be described as the Devil incarnate. Some of it is so vile, it’ll leave you doubting if you were ever even capable of turning me on at all, or if our love was all just some charade to hide my true sick, demented desires.”

She nodded and said, “ok.”

He kissed her on the forehead, then left for work. When he came home hours later, his stuff was on the lawn. He was completely taken off guard.
“Why?” he asked.
She told him that she has seen what was on his flash drive, and she’d never be able to look at him the same again.

He felt betrayed because she looked through his private stuff, and she felt betrayed by what she saw. Finally, after a heated argument, he discovered the problem.  She had looked in the wrong flash drive. She had looked in the flash drive with pictures of his nephew on it.

Now, he was angry. “How could you even think that I would pleasure myself to pictures of my nephew, my own flesh and blood? You’re sick, lady. Real sick.” he shouted.
Realizing her mistake, she apologized profusely, and after things calmed down, and they regained their senses, they were laughing and smiling together once again.
As they laid together, pillow-talking, she asked, “What was on your flash drive anyway?”

He said, “Pictures of your nephew.”

The Search for the Spiciest Curry

There was this foodie who was utterly obsessed with finding the spiciest curry in all the world. He had traveled to literally every single restaurant and hobby-chef’s kitchen, yet couldn’t find a single curry worthy of his tongue. He had one last hope though. The final restaurant he had yet to try. The one known for a curry of legendary spiciness.

The owner, a small old woman, came out to greet him. Not wanting to waste a minute delaying his goal, he demanded she serve him her spiciest curry, so she did. It was certainly a delicious and spicy curry, but still it didn’t satisfy his desires. Supremely frustrated after years of disappointment, he started to scream and yell at the woman for serving him such a pathetically benign dish. Filled with rage, he laid into the woman, making fun of how she looked, smelled, and most devastatingly, how she cooked.

Her eye twitched with anger, but she remained calm and told him that there was one more dish she could cook for him that might satisfy his craving for spiciness. He asked her why she didn’t serve him this curry on first request, so she explained that she promised herself she would never make it again, because it was simply too hot and dangerous. It was a spicy curry made from the corns on her feet.

Intrigued, he demanded she make it for him, so she did. With the first bite, his eyes instantly watered. Not just from the intense heat, but from tears of sheer happiness. This was truly the spiciest curry in the world. He had found it. Before he could even swallow the first bite, his heart stopped. It had killed him.

The man opened his eyes and he was in hell – the Devil towering over him. You see, the man wasn’t a good man. He deserved his place, doomed to the underworld. The Devil, curious about the details of the man’s demise, asked him how he could have possible died from eating curry. The man explained that this was no ordinary curry. It was a curry spicier than the devil could ever even imagine. The Devil laughed, “it is I who cook the spiciest curry.”

Once again intrigued, the man requested to try the Devil’s curry, so the Devil obliged. Surprisingly, the Devil’s curry didn’t even come close to matching the woman’s corn curry’s deadly spiciness. The Devil tried again and again, but every time he failed at impressing the man. “How is this possible? What kind of curry was this?”

“I can tell you this. She didn’t make it with love. She made it with anger in her heart. If that’s not enough, the main ingredients were the corns on her feet.”

The Devil sighed, understanding immediately.

“Hell hath no curry like a woman’s corn.”

Riz Raru in… The Case of the Sticky Fingers


So many exciting things are happening right now with Scrote One, my Star Wars Parody, and my compilation of short stories (free on Amazon right now!), but I’m sick of promoting. It’s time I give an excerpt from something I’m working on.

It’s about a female private investigator named Riz Raru. It’s based off of a teleplay I wrote, but I think it works better like this because I was able to add a ton of more jokes. Let me know what you think!

It had been my first case in a long time where a civilian hadn’t ended up dead, and the first case in an even longer time where I hadn’t been the one to kill the civilian. Even that might not be true, since I tend to conveniently forget those types of details. It works really well for plausible deniability, but mostly I’m just forgetful.

My name’s Riz Raru. I’m a special cases private investigator, which means people all over the world hire me to help them investigate the cases no one else will take. Like cases about aliens, conspiracy theories, or ones that expose beloved celebrities as rapists. I’m just your typical gumshoe, and sometimes gumsandal in the Summer.

I can also see ghosts, so there’s that… but they can’t see me, and I can’t interact with them or anything, so some would say it’s not very important at all, or that it’s just a marketing tactic to make the cover look more interesting. I’m always told that if I didn’t lie so much about other things that they might actually believe me about the ghosts, but I tell them how much I like lying, which is often one of the only true things I say in the conversation.

I’ve always had a bit of a sixth sense… for justice. People may call me a little crazy, reckless, or a danger to society, but I’m just a normal girl who solves the unsolvable.

And sees ghosts.

And I’m also searching for the man who killed my parents.

RIZ RARU in…. The Case of the Sticky Fingers

It all started when I was born… but there’s a lot of boring stuff in between that and the interesting stuff, so I’ll just cut ahead.

The interesting stuff all started when I was tailing one John Drexel just outside the Japanese restaurant on 9th street, or it might have been 3rd street. Let’s split the difference and say… 3rd street. The restaurant was called Sushi Go, which isn’t important unless you want to order from there. I suggest the orange chicken.

Drexel delicately picked up his Shih-Tzu, cradling it in his arms, and then entered the restaurant. The dog must have felt like a baby does when it’s picked up like a dog.

I glared at him through my car window as he walked in, looking like the cockiest prick I’d ever seen. He looked so damn cocky I spent extra time glaring at him and ended up getting a parking ticket. After a couple minutes of trying to convince the parking attendant to take back the ticket, which resulted in a shouting match lasting several more tickets, I got out of my car and followed Drexel inside.

The restaurant smelled like a restaurant, so everything checked out there, but there was still the Drexel matter to take care of. I tiptoed through the lobby and shushed the hostess before she could speak. I shushed her again as she was trying to keep quiet, just because. I flashed her my badge and my gun. I thought about flashing her my boobs too, but it would have just muddled the message.

I told her to call the cops, then put in an order of orange chicken. I continued into the restaurant, palms sweaty, nervous about not ordering anything for me and the cops. It felt rude.

In a private room, Drexel ate his bowl of rice one grain at a time, like a real asshole, as I barged in with my gun pointed right between his eyes. If my investigative work was half as good as I thought it was, that’s where his brain would be, just like mine.

“Stop right there. I know what you did,” I said, fearless and brave, since I was the one with the gun and all.

He patted his lips with a napkin and smiled. “And you would be?”

I threw him my badge. He inspected it and smiled. “This is a toy.”

“You damn right it is,” I said, “I’m Riz Raru. Special cases investigator.”

“Ah, yes. I’ve heard of you, Ms. Private Investigator. You solve the unsolvable cases, don’t you? And here you’ve solved mine. Bravo. So, you’ve figured it all out, have you? How I’ve been diverting power from the city center to operate my secret underground factoring, manufacturing my own polysynthetic weapons, and selling them to the Russians for vast amounts of money. Good work- “

I cut him off and told him that what I was referring to was that he didn’t clean up after his dog. He questioned why I would pull my gun on him for that. I told him I’ve pulled it out on someone for a lot less.

His face turned as red as a baboon’s ass after a spanking, and before it too. He stood up quickly, “hah! Well, it doesn’t matter why you came here. Since I revealed my plan to you, you won’t be leaving with your life!”

He drew his gun on me and I was suddenly regretting not checking him for a gun, or not bringing a bigger gun, but it wasn’t long before he learned that you can’t pull a fast one on old Riz Raru. The cops burst in with their guns drawn, leaving Drexel wishing he would have pulled a slow one on me.

The chief of police asked what the hell was going on. I asked him who the hell he was. He said he was the chief of police. I told him that I thought the chief of police wore some sort of head dress. He said that was an Indian chief, and I told him “oh, right.” While this was happening, Drexel almost got away, but the other police officers (who were wearing head dresses) caught him.

I told the chief that Drexel had a secret underground factory for photosynthesis with Russians and weapons or something. I asked Drexel what it was again, since he was so good as explaining it, but he was too busy fuming. I told them that it would just be easier if they checked under the city center for the photocopiers, or whatever.

After a while they thanked me and told me that, “no, for the second time, you can’t shoot the dog.” I reminded them that the dog was technically a bad guy. They told me that just because someone’s a bad guy doesn’t mean you can execute them. I told them I knew a few bad guys who wished I would have known that a couple weeks ago.

The cops were starting to ask questions so I figured it was time to go. Since I didn’t get any money off the case, I was in desperate need for a new gig. Or just a big bag of money. I would have preferred that. I headed back to the office hoping there’d be a gig waiting for me, but not before I took one important stop.

The Kresnik Files is FREE for the next couple of days. Check it out and give it a review.


And you can get a copy of Scrote One over at Goodreads!

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Scrote One by Joe Cabello

Scrote One

by Joe Cabello

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Hi, I was the guy at the party with the flesh colored dildo peeking out of my breast pocket


You probably remember me from Josiah’s party last Saturday at Round Table. I was the guy who put down four slices of supreme and about a dozen garlic knots in under five minutes.

Though you may remember me better as the guy who had the flesh colored dildo peeking out of his breast pocket.

Just to clear things up, it was more of a “I’d rather have it and not need it than need it than not have it” type of situation, and I do realize now that the chances of needing a flesh colored dildo at a 3rd grader’s pizza party (that I wasn’t invited to) were pretty slim, but I never thought that bringing it would lead to me being known as “the guy at the party with the flesh colored dildo peeking out of his breast pocket.”

“The guy who could really put down the pizza,” absolutely.

“The last guy to leave the restroom before it was discovered that the sink had been inexplicably ripped from the wall,” maybe.

But “the guy at the party with the flesh colored dildo peeking out of his breast pocket?” No way. That was such a small part of who I am and who I was at the party. In fact, after Craig told me that I shouldn’t have come because it was a kid’s party, and because he doesn’t know me that well outside of work, I was fully ready to be “the guy who shouldn’t have been there.” What I’ve been relegated to is simply unfair.

Please stop referring to me as “the guy at the party with the flesh colored dildo peeking out of his breast pocket” or I’ll kill Josiah.

I didn’t mean that. But I think you get the point.

Meet Sam. The guy who thinks “intern” means “hooker”

Meet Sam. Sam is like every other 30 year old white male in America except for one thing. Due to an adolescent misunderstanding of the Clinton trial, he thinks that “intern” means “hooker.”

Sam sits down with a laptop. He’s frustrated and overworked. His wife, Julia, notices.

Do you need a snack, honey?

No. I can’t eat right now. I have so much to do for the business.

You’re so overworked. You need an intern.

Very funny.

I’m serious. I think it would be really good for you.

Wait. What?

Yeah. Having someone help you out would be good for you.

You wouldn’t want to do that stuff?

Oh, god no. Are you kidding?

Wow, that kind of makes me really sad, but as long you’re letting me do this, that’s cool.

What’s to be sad about? I’m your wife, not your slave.

When you put it like that, yeah. I mean, this is awesome. It’s just crazy.

It’s not that crazy. I just want you to be less stressed.

I don’t even know where to start to find one.

Look online.

Online? That makes sense. I was kind of worried we’d need to cruise around the streets and pick one off the street.

Hah! What were you thinking? We’d go pick up one of those guys in front of Home Depot?

Jesus. No. A woman. Definitely a woman.

A woman? She better not be pretty. I’ll get jealous.

I think we’re well past that.

You know who you could ask? Our neighbor Stan’s daughter.

Oh, my god. Are you serious? She’s not even out of high school.

I think she’d like the experience before she goes off to college.

That just doesn’t seem like the best way to get experience.

Why? She interned for her father for a little while last Summer.

Jesus, I’m going to be sick.

You’re such a drama queen.

Julia looks on the computer.

Here’s a good one. Do you want to check out her resume? She’s been around. A lot of experience.

Not exactly a high selling point for me, but that’s to be expected. I guess let’s try her.

Ok. I’ll tell her to come in for an interview.

You think I need to interview her?

Yeah. You need to make sure you two get along. So what kind of things are you looking for them to do anyway? Scheduling? Filing?

Suck my dick.

Julia gets straight faced.

I don’t think that’s very funny. I think it’s disrespectful.

We’re already talking about a dirty intern.

Dirty intern? You know I was an intern at my work before I got hired.

What?! The whole company?!

Yeah. Duh.

I just can’t process this.

Why do you have to make this hard? I’m just trying to help you. If you don’t want an intern, don’t get a damn intern-

I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. (blurting out) I’ll take Stan’s daughter.

Ok, great. I’ll call Stan and tell him to send her over tomorrow.

Julia leaves.

Holy shit. I’m getting an intern.

Here’s Why You Should Never Wear Shoes Inside

Wearing your shoes inside the house can be a hard habit to break. After all, if you leave your shoes outside they might get stolen by a relative/enemy, or once you’re inside there might be a masked gunman waiting for you, leaving you without a shoe to throw at him.

The alternative isn’t any better. If you leave your shoes in a pile inside your home, people might start calling you “Shoe pile Joe,” or “Shoe pile [whatever your name is]” or even worse, “Shoe pile whatever your name is.”

But the statistic I’m about to tell you will shock you to where you will never wear your shoes inside your house again, or maybe even outside (if you live surrounded by grass or very soft dirt). Here it is:

100% of the people who have worn their shoes inside their house have died, or will die in the future.

Take a moment to let that sink in. 100% of the people. That means that if you’ve worn your shoes inside the house, you’re statistically already dead. If you are in a home right now, and you or anyone around you has their shoes on, you are all as good as ghosts.

It’s a terrifying reminder that we need to watch what we do at every step. Like Kermit the Frog always said, “the only way we’ll ever be truly is safe is when we’re dead.”

Honest text to send at 11:40pm to the girl you’ve been seeing for a week

Honest text to send at 11:40pm to the girl you’ve been seeing for a week:

“hey, just wanted some kind of validation that you like me that I can only get if you text me back instantly because I have nothing else going on in my life other than this, and anything other than you texting back within five seconds will be taken as some sort of concrete evidence, admissible in court, that you don’t like me, until tomorrow when you text me back something sweet and put me at ease until the next 24 hour period when I fall apart again. Also, it must include a smiley, or else that means you hate me.”

Crack isn’t Off the Table for Me Yet

There are some things you just know are off the table after a certain age. Like for me, I know I’m never going to ride a motorcycle. You won’t catch me dead on one of those things, especially after having a near-death experience on an ATV, and those things aren’t even as fast or dangerous as motorcycles. Put it this way, they have twice as many wheels, are half as slow and I still crashed one. What’s going to happen if I get on a motorcycle? I could spontaneously combust for all I know.

One thing that isn’t off the table at this point in my life is crack.

I’m not saying I’m going to do crack, or that I even want to do crack. It’s just something that isn’t completely off the table yet. Like if I were at a Hollywood party and Tom Cruise came up to me and said, “want to do some crack?” I’d do some crack.

Hell, if I was on a date with even a marginally attractive girl and she said, “want to do some crack and fuck around?” I’d do some crack.

Motorcycle? Hell no.

Crack? Where’s Tom at?

That’s not to say my body is a magnet for any and all drugs. I definitely wouldn’t do heroine. The whole needle things freaks me out. I hate needles so much I’d rather get AIDS than take an AIDS test.

That needle or some AIDS? Hook it up with a little bit of AIDS.

Obviously this isn’t the recipe for everyone, or even good life choices, but at least I know myself.

God Issues Product Recall For All Mankind

This was a prompt for a writing gig I didn’t get. Enjoy!


After 6,000 years of production, God has issued a mass product recall for all of mankind, citing issues such as mass violence, destruction of the Earth, Kanye West, and mankind “just generally acting crazy.” According to God’s representatives, the lack of space on Earth was also a small factor, though they do admit the recall is mostly due to a faulty product design.

“After Boko Haram and ISIS, it was pretty apparent that there was something wrong,” said head of God’s public relations, Christopher. “Problems like these just kept popping up, so we had to face that things like slavery, the Holocaust, and gluten allergies weren’t freak occurrences. The product was flawed.”

This isn’t the first time God has considered a recall. Going as far back as 2348 BC developers could foresee trouble. “We had an inkling that there were some problems with the product, but we were hoping they’d work themselves out after the flood,” said longtime developer, John, who is responsible for rainbows. Issues with the product did not end with the flood. Violence, infighting, and now, EDM music, continued to increase with time as the product continued to be released.

According to a Press Release earlier today, God is already planning a new model to replace the recalled humanity. “We’ve been playing around a little bit with down syndrome and Aspergers to avoid some of the older issues of violence and emotional outbursts, but we were just waiting for the tech to catch up. It has, so now we are nearly ready for launch.”

The date of the full product recall can be found on the sign of the dirty homeless man on 3rd and Main St.

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