Sam Peeps’ Diary

Greg invited me to see him performing at an open mic comedy night. I should have known this would be a bad idea; you should never mix friendship and art, that’s how Art Garfunkel lost a leg.

It started when the act on before Greg, an Irish gentleman named Brian Fisher, asked me what I did for a living. As though he’d be able to understand any answer I could give him. I lost it.

“I am capable of nothing now, but I used to be a promising young comedian named Brian Fisher. But you would know that. You stole my life, you stole my wife & you stole my trainers. No more!”

I launched myself at the stage and attempt to wrestle his trainers off his feet. I don’t know what happened next but Greg says I was hit in the head with a microphone stand. There’s no food left in my flat; according to Greg, carrying me home was so tiring that he had no choice but to eat it all.

Such persecution is the sign of a truly great man. I wonder when Brian Fisher’s next gig is.

Pascal had it all wrong. My wager is to live a life so dull that even if God does exist he won’t have the slightest bit of interest in me one way or the other.

I wish it could be Christmas every day. The inevitable collapse of major world economies would be a thrill to watch, and might make the Queen’s speech more interesting.

Neither a lender nor a borrower be, they say. It turns out such sage advice is not an acceptable substitute for currency when trying to pay fines on library books.

I am worried that my age and obsession with science are putting me out of touch with the youth of today, so I am attempting to befriend teenagers. So far my offers to let them handle radioactive material and help them not have to have sex with their mothers are falling on deaf ears.

The planet Earth is actually part of a series of experiments to see whether it’s true that any planet capable of supporting life will eventually produce the film “Flatliners” if given long enough to gestate. Curiously, Mars managed to produce its version before even evolving multicellular organisms, though the effort resulted in the destruction of the entire ecosystem.

I offer this as the closest thing you’re going to get to an explanation for the mashed potato sculptures of Kevin Bacon that litter my flat.

What if I’m an internet that dreamed it was a man?

Ask not what your country can do for you; I don’t bloody know. Go down the Citizen’s Advice Bureau or something.

I don’t know what the deal with dry-cleaning is either Seinfeld, but you should probably just ask the people that work in the shop to explain it.

I was fired today. I had temporarily accepted a pizza delivery position, not out of a mundane need for remuneration, but because I needed to do research for my forthcoming play (”The Four Seasons”). Apparently it is not acceptable to give Pizza Hut customers grief counseling, especially when they haven’t asked for it.

My boss, Mr. Christopher, asked me if I thought pizza delivery was some kind of joke. He didn’t look impressed when I told him that was exactly the sort of question I was attempting to address in my play. He shall not be invited to the opening night.