Paul Staller. Genius. 


Moe pre-pilot 

Based on Paul's comic strip "Moe the Turtle."  One night while hanging out with Paul, he started doing this hilarious narrator voice describing Moe just walking around, so I recorded him on my phone and later added this crappy animation to it. You can hear me cracking up in the background, which is what people normally did when hanging out with him. 


"So Many Girlfriends" by Paul and Adam 

paul guitar.jpg

This is a song Paul and I wrote together in 2011 — it's not great, but we liked it. Paul would want me to mention that he did this solo in one take without a single practice.

"Dude, mark it." 


Playing it straight… ish.

By Paul Staller (originally published in Zombie Magazine, March 2010)

They walk among us.  Swishing and snapping and lisping, loudly whispering clichéd insults at anyone walking in front of them.  No, I’m not talking about raging, effeminate homosexuals.  I like homosexuals… almost too much.  I’m talking about men that pretend they’re not homosexual despite being obviously homosexual.  Fooling no one while trying to deceive everyone just makes things awkward, and that’s my only beef, really.  I don’t judge, and will be your friend or enemy or other, whether you are gay or straight.  However, if you want to play the charade, I will play along in spades.  It’s like a game I play with myself where I will talk much raunchier than normal about women and sex with women, almost to induce vomiting on my see-through-closeted quarry.

The best example I can think of, pranced into my life while I was delivering furniture as a teen in South Jersey (Yup.  Furniture delivery.  New Jersey.  Deal with it).

He was my boss, we’ll call him Schaffy, and the owner of an eclectic retail furniture store in the gayest town in South Jersey:  Ocean City.  Trust me, it is.  Schaffy boasted his hetero credibility whenever he could, but his lime green deck shoes, DKNY frames, and purple jeans screamed otherwise.  And occasionally, when drunk, he too would scream things like, “That girl is no good for you!” or “What do you see in that girl, anyway!?” or “Who wants to smoke cigars on my houseboat?!”

Anyway, we were delivering furniture on South Street in Philadelphia, in late August.  I mention this only so you realize that it was incredibly hot, and people were wearing as little clothing as possible.  Women in bikini tops and the shortest shorts just seem sexier on South Street in the summer, as opposed to women with their vaginas hanging out all year round in Los Angeles.  As the navigator, I was terrible, having gotten whiplash while watching women walk by on both sides of the street in droves.  I was like a puppy with way too much stimuli, inevitably going to piss on the floor.

Schaffy, however, never took his eyes off the road, nor his lips off his Swisher Sweet cigar—which he inhaled, by the way, which is gross and possibly a symptom of closeted homosexuality… I haven’t done the research yet.  When he finally looked over with the stink-eye because I had gotten us lost again, I shot back:  “Are you kidding me?  Look at the p*ssy out there!  It’s mind-boggling.  I thought we were just cruising.  We got a van, right?  Look at that ass right there!”

That’s when it happened.  He uttered a phrase that I will never forget.  I will simply write it verbatim and ask that you hear it in your head as if it was uttered by the offspring of Rip Taylor and Richard Simmons, with a Jolly Rancher in his its.   “What?  Oh yeah!  Tell you what I’d do with that right there… I’d put one leg on the East Coast and the other on the West Coast and I’d be smack dab in the middle of the Mississippi, honey.”  

When he said, “Mississippi” my sunglasses shattered.  When he put up the High Five, I could barely contain myself.  Fortunately, his hysterical cackling at his own joke was the perfect cover for my laughter.   Minutes later I wondered how much longer one of her legs would have to be to make his metaphor correct.   Minutes after that, we arrived at our destination, only to be greeted by a bald man with a scarf who kissed Schaffy on the mouth for 9 seconds before introducing himself to me.  When he turned to show us where the furniture was going, Schaffy whispered to me, “What a fag.”

To this day, he maintains that he is a Pussyhound.  Oh, that reminds me, I have to send him a condolence card because his Miniature Fawn Chihuaha, “Miss Chocolate Fudge” just passed away.

More 10 Ten Lists Not Worthy Of Letterman


Top Ten Failed Reality Show Pitches
10. Survivor: El Paso
9. The Racist Mole
8. Rabbis Uncensored
7. Joe Alcoholic
6. Force-Feeding Celebrity Anorexics
5. Restroom Confidential
4. Dancing With The SARS
3. Nanny 411
2. Paris Hilton's Protein Hunt
1. Alter Boys: Beneath The Robes

Top Ten Excuses For Taking The Closest Urinal When Others Are Available
10. I like people.
9. I really, really like people.
8. I have OCD, I swear. It has nothing to do with your gorgeous penis.
7. I'm blind... but you have a really nice penis.
6. I'm blind... now how does my penis look.
5. Sorry, I didn't realize I took the closest stall. Hey, sweet penis, dude.
4. In case I faint I need someone with his penis hanging out to catch me.
3. I'm agoraphobic... and you're adorable.
2. There's nothing good on TV anymore.
1. It was the only clean urinal. Now stop hassling me and whip out your penis.

Top Ten Worst Halloween Costumes
10. Saddam Hussein's Mustache
9. A Red-Assed Baboon In Heat
8. John Kennedy... not the former president, but a guy I know named John Kennedy.
7. Oprah's Eye Bags
6. Prostitute Willing To Earn Her Candy
5. A Giant Oily Rat
4. A Four-Legged Priest
3. Marilyn Manson's Genitalia
2. Special Olympic Bronze Medalist
1. Mother Theresa's Corpse

Top Ten Least Appropriate Babysitting Activities
10. Making Urinecicles
9. Shower Wrestling
8. Whippets
7. Body Shots
6. Hot Oil Massages
5. Checking The Drawer In Daddy's Nightstand
4. Comparing Tattoos
3. Erotic Lego Playland
2. CPR... Unless the kid really needs CPR.
1. Cuddling

My Grandmother's Top Ten Comparative Metaphors
10. Happier than puppy with two peters
9. Nuttier than squirrel turds
8. Better than a kick in the whoozits
7. Crazier than a shit-house rat
6. Sweatier than a fat whore in church
5. Cuter than a baby Chink
4. Uglier than a gator-armed mongoloid
3. Crazier than a Shine on payday
2. Easier than a drunk Indian
1. Dumber than a sack of Pollocks

Ellen, Please Don't Stop Dancin' 

By Paul Staller, November 17, 2005


I couldn't believe it. I'm watching Letterman the other night, and Ellen Degeneres was on. They introduce her to the song "Dancin' Machine"--(Right on, Paul Schaeffer!)--but she didn't dance a single step of her walk to Dave's couch. She only walked, the whole time. It was the perfect song for her; there's no way she didn't feel like dancing. Yet still, she wouldn't dance.

Dave said, "Ladies and gentlemen, Ellen Degeneres!" and the band kicked in with "Dancin' Machine", the curtain opens, I'm so totally ready for her, and that fucking bitch just steps out and walks... like fucking Woody Allen or something. What an incredible disappointment it was. I'm sure the band felt pretty stupid. Maybe there's some tension between Ellen and the Late Night Band? That's just speculation, of course.

At first I was frustrated, but then I started to think about Ellen, and what she must be going through. Clearly she wanted to dance, but she wouldn't. After all, nobody who likes dancing as much as Ellen Degeneres likes dancing could ever tire of dancing. Maybe she'd just gotten some really bad news, or maybe she was in some sort of intense pain... like piercing diarrhea cramps? That would totally suck, right? Imagine getting hit with that shit while walking out to be interviewed on television? That's a legitimate reason not to dance. Or, maybe she doesn't want to become known for being a one-trick pony. It'd be ashame if people only thought of her as the lesbian comedienne whose controversial relationship with Ann Hecht was bigger than her career until she started dancing on television as much as possible. 

Whatever the reason for her non-dance routine, I felt bad for her and settled in to watch the actual interview.

Then, she talked about maybe being a lesbian parent with her lesbian girlfriend.

Say Hello To My Little… Jesus Christ

By Paul Staller (originally published in Zombie Magazine, March 2010)

A few months into my stint as a homeless refugee from my savage soon-to-be ex-wife—a story for another time—I found myself hanging with a bunch of sad lonely men, getting wasted and killing time.  Just before the stupor set it, I started pondering all the women I’d passed up because I was married, and scrolled through my phonebook.  At the top of my wish-list was Gabriella, the sexiest thing ever to be so interested in me.  Previous circumstances had kept us apart; I was married, and she was living with a guy who would’ve cut my nuts off if he ever caught us flirting as we had.  I decided to ring her up to see if her situation had changed but the number was no long in service, so I returned to the stupor.  A few minutes later, I got a call from a number I didn’t recognize.  Incredibly, it was Gabriella, inviting me to a party at her girlfriend’s house.  She wanted to see me “so hard” and I felt the same.  It was fate—or a wildly romantic coincidence—and I was on board, leaving those losers behind for pinker pastures.

I raced over with a bottle of Vodka in my hand and stars in my eyes.  She ran into my arms on the sidewalk and we held each other until the Hostess of the party came out and interrupted.  I knew her, as well, from the old days.  As it turns out, the Hostess had a secret crush on me and had encouraged Gabriella to call me that evening.  This became clear when Gabriella was asked to leave soon after making out with me in the kitchen.  I went to the John, and my lost love was gone before I flushed the toilet.

Although I was furious when I figured out what had happened, I stuck around to bang the Hostess merely out of principle—she should pay for such cockblockery, I thought.  Minutes after the 2nd to last guest left, we ended up in bed panting and shedding clothes.  When I made a move downstairs, she stopped me and asked what I was doing.  I said something that felt smooth but was probably just gross, like, “I’m just gonna say hi to your pussy for a minute, baby.”  She balked through a smile and responded, “Wait… that’s second date stuff, honey.”

I cocked my head, looked at her and spat back, “This isn’t a fuckin’ date!” before realizing I’d even spoken.  She laughed but didn’t change her stance on instant oral sex.  “Before this goes any further, I think you should meet my little friend,” she said, and reached under the bed.  When she sat back up with a shoebox in her hand, I was ready to molest her with whatever she pulled out of it, or at least watch her molest herself… that is, until she removed the lid.  The crazy dildo I was hoping for turned out to be a Crucifix, complete with an incredibly detailed Jesus Christ, writhing in pain, as per usual.

“He’s my man.  I hope you two will be friends.”  It took me a moment to understand that she did NOT want me to put the Crucifix in her vagina.  That was a huge relief, and actually a bit of a disappointment as well.  Perhaps she sensed my need for a moment to regroup and excused herself to the restroom.  I took that time to gather my shit—physically, not mentally—and bolt out the front door.  

Although it probably doesn’t count as a religious experience, it’s as close to Church as I’ve been in years.  

Needless to say, there was no second “date.”

Feeling Haikuish


Hollywood Chit Chat
Impressive name-drop
You are so totally hot
Wanna do more blow?

Mexican Food
Big pile of earth tones
Did we get the right order?
It all tastes the same

Too Big For L.A.
Cute face, flabby tits
Monster Nell Carter neck meat
Come back in 10 beers

Young Love
Awkward, smooth and sweet
I used to hate homework, too
Puberty is hot

Moviegoing Douchebags
"Vibrate" is not "Off"
Text messaging cocksucker
Please go die somewhere

Fake Tits
You went way too big
They do not look natural
I still love them though

One more cop drama
Which one is this anyway?
Worst theme song(s) ever

Premature Ejaculation
This never happens
I probably should feel bad
But just not right now

Female Comedian
Such a dirty mouth
Your vibrator is awesome
Men really do suck

Caught Masturbating
No living room door
MTV gets pretty hot
I am not sorry

Heat Rash
My inner thighs burn
But not because I am fat
It hurts when I fart


The Time I Was Raped After a Thanksgiving Break Keg Party

By Paul Staller (originally published in Zombie Magazine, April 2010)

What else do we need to know about this story other than the title?  Hmm.  Okay, I was 18, and home from college drinking heavily at one of those Welcome Back parties we all love(d) so much.  They’re usually just a few handfuls of college freshman and a bunch of high schoolers reliving the glory days of just a few months ago when everyone was drinking and trying to have sex with each other.  This was exactly like that.  I was more into the socializing and drinking than the sex because I had already fallen in love with a girl at Syracuse and she felt the same [it would be the greatest 2 and ½ months in the history of first semester love affairs].  As a college man, I was obligated to show off my new drinking skills to the high school fans I’d acquired during my years at ACHS.  Without sex—and the acquisition thereof—as a distraction, I drank myself to an almost embarrassing state.  Everyone kept egging me on, and I kept pounding shots and beers until I could barely stand.  Eventually, I had to sneak off to a neighbor’s porch to catch my breath and possibly piss my pants.

After one mighty sigh, I leaned back on a wall I must have imagined and fell flat on my back.  Seconds before passing out, a girl from the party (we’ll call her “Rapist”) appeared above me and helped me up to a sitting position.  She encouraged me to lean on her and cooed and snuggled as if we were on our honeymoon.  Rapist leaned in for a kiss, and I fell over again.  She got on top of me and attempted kiss #2, at which point I informed her that I had a girlfriend.  Her response was the old standard:  “Well, she isn’t here now…”

My rebuttal to attempted kiss #3 was a simple, but usually effective, “I’m gonna throw up… a lot.”  Finally, I had gotten through to her, it seemed, and she yielded a rational, “Okay, let’s get you home.”  I have no recollection of walking to a car, driving or being driven, or entering my home but I do have some flashes of what happened after that:

*I wake up on my parent’s couch, Rapist fondling my junk and kissing my neck.  I pull away, ask her to stop and remind her that I have a girlfriend, and pass out again.  

*I wake up again, with Rapist performing oral sex on me.  Unfortunately, Whiskey Dick has no effect on the teenage male sex organ; she mistakes my hard-on as an invitation for sex… but ignores my snoring.  I beg her to stop but am semi-conscious and do a poor job of pushing her off before blacking out again.

*I wake up again and she’s riding me.  I say, “Please stop” and “I don’t want to do this” and many other versions of “No” before I passed out for the final time.

The next time I opened my eyes, the sun was shining, my pants were around my ankles, and my mother was standing in the hallway with her arms folded and head shaking.  “Nice,” was all she sneered before exiting the house.  It took me a second to get my bearings; the flashbacks turned my head like a confused dog.  “No shit…” I whispered to myself, “Did I get raped?”  I immediately called my friend Brian to tell him what happened.  “Yeah, bro, you got raped,” he agreed, “But it might’ve been more of a date rape.”

When I asked him why, he said, “I don’t know.  Wanna hit the mall?”  I said, “Yup” and that was that.

There you have it.  I look forward to the onslaught of sympathetic reader comments heading my way.  

I'm A Bad Person

By Paul Staller (originally published in Zombie Magazine, April 2010)

I grew up a few blocks from the beach in South Jersey; recently, MTV has made that fact a source of great embarrassment but it was actually pretty cool.  Before we were old enough to sneak into bars, if we had no place to party, we would just pick a beach block and spread the word.  The local police were pretty cool, but these impromptu beach parties would never last all that long and we’d have to disperse and relocate until all the beer was gone or our curfews had expired.

One Friday night early in my first semester as a Freshman at ACHS, my friend Antoinette and I found ourselves with nothing to do so we walked down to a potential beach bash next to the Margate Pier, which provided shade and defilade from cops.  Along the bottom of the Pier ran a pipeline that got closer to the sand as the beach rose to meet the bulkheads that lined the street.  This fact comes into play in just a few paragraphs.

My neighbor, Lynn, was kind of a loner in middle school—for lack of a meaner, more accurate description—but had reinvented herself for high school as a cool, hippy chick hoping to find a new click.  It must have worked a bit, because she managed to find out about the party.  A year prior, Lynn would’ve been elated to mingle with anyone at any party, but her new incarnation was too cool for this soiree or so she wanted it to seem.  She kept complaining that there wasn’t any hard liquor and drugs and was throwing the word “lame” around like she’d just invented it.  Finally, out of boredom, I decided to call her bluff.  I grabbed one of Antoinette’s Capri cigarettes, tore off the filter and twisted the ends like a joint.

I told Lynn that this “weed” was a new strain designed to fool cops because it tasted and smelled just like regular tobacco.  As a matter of fact, I told her, “It even looks like tobacco… they call it The Brown Bud.”  A few people, clued in by Antoinette, gathered to participate in the smoking circle to see how far this experiment would go.  They were not disappointed.  Within minutes, Lynn was acting stoned out of her mind.  She laughed and stuttered and made strange observations, pretty much making an asshole out of herself without realizing it.  “Woah, everybody check out Paul’s hat,” she blurted, “It’s moving… it’s gonna fly away!”  The ensuing laughter encouraged her to continue with her stoned banter, which only led to more laughter and a snowball effect that I was starting to regret.

It was getting sad and the pseudo stoner circle began to break up, prompting Lynn to extend a handshake to me.  “Paul, I just wanted to thank you,” she drooled, “from the bottom of my… hand!”  She erupted with laughter, causing about a dozen eyes to roll behind her back.  Just then, the cops showed up, shining lights and telling us to break it up and go home.  I was glad it was over… but it wasn’t.

My friend, Josh, turned to Lynn and warned her sternly, “You’d better run—you’re stoned as fuck.  You don’t want to go to jail, do you?!”  Lynn panicked and ran like a crazy person, through a meandering crowd, toward the shadows of the Margate Pier.  Evidently, she was too close to the bulkhead—where the pipeline was about 5 feet off the ground—and the sound of her forehead hitting the aforementioned pipeline rang out like a Church bell.  Those of us that weren’t laughing were a bit concerned, but not concerned enough to stick around to see if she was okay.  We split in accordance with police instruction and hoped for the best.

The next day, Lynn called me to tell me that she had only suffered a minor concussion and asked me to score her some of that Brown Bud.  I was shocked, but saw an opportunity to sell her a bag of tobacco for $25.  The following Monday, on the bus to school, Lynn approached me to buy a crushed up pack of cigarettes in a sandwich bag.  Her forehead was gruesome, yellow and purple and still swollen, and everyone was making fun of her—she didn’t care, however, because she was about to smoke her troubles away in the alley across the street from school.

Then, just as the swap was about to take place, Tom Rudolph shouted out, “Jesus Christ, Lynn.  You’re such a moron.  Everybody knows it was just a cigarette except you,” or something like that.  And, with that, my new source of income had been extinguished like… a cigarette, perhaps?  Man, that Tom Rudolph was a real asshole, don’t you think?   

Seriously, I'm A Bad Person

By Paul Staller (originally published in Zombie Magazine, July 2010)

As a boy trying to get his rocks off, I’m sure I did terrible things to achieve my goals.  We all do it growing up, men and women alike, so I don’t feel too bad.  But, there was a time that my antics blew it for me with a freshman girl because I almost suffocated her dog in an effort to keep it from interrupting “private time”.  She was a rich girl, with a dog named Gucci that she would kiss on the mouth like Magda and Puffy in “There’s Something About Mary”, while baby-talking this toy poodle fluff ball piece of shit for minutes at a time.  She would do so whenever the little attention-whore mongrel jumped into her lap, which seemed to be every time I had a hard-on.  It drove me nuts, for obvious reasons.

So, preemptively, I would close the door or shut the dog in closets but it would bark and whine, and this girl always responded with open arms.  It sucked.  One day, out of frustration, I lured the dog onto the bed in the guest room and folded it up in the comforter before shutting the door en route to my mid-afternoon felatio.  The comforter was thick and the dog was small so I figured it’d take a while to get free, and the layers of cover would muffle any potentially distracting whiney bullshit.  It totally worked.  

The session lasted a while, and the dog was a bigger pussy than I’d imagined, so we ended up watching some TV for a while after I was finished.  After a few hours, I’d forgotten all about it, until I heard the question:  “Wait!  Where’s Gucci?”  

I hadn’t really thought about an exit strategy; I was just a kid with an erection and not thinking clearly.  When she finally found Gucci, I pretended I had no idea how the dog had gotten wrapped up so neatly in the blankets.  Further, I acted amazed at how the pillows had fallen so perfectly on top of the package.  However, I couldn’t—with a straight face—explain how the dog had managed to shut the door after entombing itself in the bedroll.  She didn’t buy it.  The dog was practically catatonic.  It had howled itself sore and was clearly traumatized by the ordeal.  I realized I looked like a creepy motherfucker for doing what I did and I’ll never forget it.

Now, fast-forward a decade or so later, and I find myself in a similar situation with a single-mom and her infant son.  Same kind of thing, except with a child instead of a dog… hmm.  We would get close to completion of my favorite act (see above) and the Baby Monitor would relay a cough or cry from the 4 month-old supposedly sleeping upstairs, and that would be that.  I’d sit there like a moron for 5 or 10 minutes, listening via the Monitor as she quieted or rocked the kid back to sleep.  Then, she’d return with a “Where were we?” and we’d start up again.

After a few rounds of this, I started trying to cough over the baby’s coughs or talk over any sounds that would send my felatrix back up the stairs prematurely.  I realized I was dancing on a thin line here, so I eventually stopped and she scurried back up the steps.  When she returned, I tried to explain that I was really only about a minute or two away from finishing, so maybe the baby could wait a bit longer.  She responded with a stink-eye, and then moved the Monitor even closer to us on the coffee table in front of the couch.  That was her mistake, as far as I’m concerned.

She’d left it close enough for me to contemplate reaching for the off switch.  Don’t worry; I fully intended to turn the thing back on after I was done.  Damn, that still sounds bad.  But, not as bad as this…

I reached over her shoulder to at least turn the volume down for a second, and she pushed me back into full recline, too far to reach the dial—with my hands, anyway.  As she neared the finish line, however, I managed to slide down far enough to reach it with my foot.  Yes, I did.  I reached out with my big toe and turned the volume down completely.  It worked.  

We lay on the couch for a minute or so before the baby’s cries grew loud enough to hear without the Monitor.  “Is that Aiden?” she spouted.  I shrugged—I guess the baby’s name was Aiden.  She turned and reached for the Monitor but I grabbed it before she could.  “Don’t worry, I’ll figure out what’s wrong with this thing,” I improvised, “You go check on the baby.  Go!”  And she did.  

The kid was fine.  Babies cry all the time.  I am glad that I was able to escape guilt-free, unlike the poodle-smothering incident… unless, of course, this woman decides to read Zombie any time soon.  Man, this column might not be worth it.