John Bear / Colorado Daily
If you’re looking to share a hot buttered rum with a chipper ski bum after a day on the slopes … keep looking. John Bear may not fit neatly into your apres-ski fantasies, but he’s the guy you’ll want to know next decade when you need to take the underground railroad down to the Free Republic of Sonora to escape the Thought Police.
Approach him carefully, and preferably with a tamal as tribute.
Oh no! You’re missing a finger. How did that happen?
I’d rather not say. The statute of limitations is not up on that one yet.
That astronomer friend who owes you $100 has just discovered the large “Planet X” just beyond Pluto’s orbit. She offers you naming rights to get out of debt. What’s the name that’ll go in future textbooks?
Fuck you. Pay me.
After a successful interview, the Gods of Small Annoyances have hired you as an entry-level deity. How will your worshipers praise your name?
They won’t. I get absolutely no respect from those people.
You have died and become a ghost. (My condolences.) What place or object do you haunt, and how do you express your otherworldly frustration?
I’d just stay home and make complaint phone calls to my mom.
The U.S. Treasury announces it will begin issuing 7-dollar bills. Whose face will be on it?
Abraham Lincoln and Thomas Jefferson fist fighting over tickets to “Hamilton.”
You have 24 hours to experience life as the opposite sex. What’s your first move?
I would say play with my breasts, but Human Resources has already warned me about these kind of jokes.
You wake up to a string of epithets shouted in a familiar voice. Gordon Ramsay is pacing in your bedroom, and he won’t go away until you cook something worth his time. What dish can you make to appease him?
Nothing. I don’t negotiate with terrorists.
Wake up, sheeple! It’s a conspiracy! They’ve got everyone fooled, but you know the truth. What are They covering up?
Donald Trump is actually the world’s greatest performance artist.
What new musical genre will take over the charts in 2018?
Nuclear Holocaust Pop. Turns out I was wrong about the performance art thing.
After years of research and maniacal laughter, you’ve finally created a terrifying hybrid of plant and animal. It’s alive! Dear god, what have you done?
It’s a cat/ficus. Basically a lazier ficus with a worse attitude.
You’ve managed to slip a subliminal message into every iPhone on the planet. How will you know when it’s working?
Everyone stops using iPhones. Peace. And. Quiet. At. Last.
Centuries from now, only five words remain legible on your grave. What are they?
“Meh, His Brother was Worse.”