The Chalk Show with Craig Staggs Episode 3 featuring Brendon Walsh (brendonwalsh.com). This weekend in Austin: Le Sexy, Doug Mellard, and Bryan Gutman. Directed by Jessica Gardner.

Bette says, "Die, mother-fucker!" Too bad she just shot her cat with a catnip gun

Great in the sack, but she's about to shoot the guy bringing her check

Back when I was an insurance salesman, I met a lot of hot dames who were interested in knocking off their old men and collecting on life insurance policies. Even though I eventually got mixed up in a lot of these schemes, I was always against it from the start. Their plans were always half-baked, preposterous schemes that wouldn’t work in a Golan-Globus film. And the women were always drunk or on pills or both and hadn’t a chance in the world to get away with it.

This shit totally works

I think men are better at planning this kind of murder than women—or at least that was my experience in the insurance industry. Consider a song like “Murder By Numbers” by the Police (three dudes)—full of sound advice for this kind of endeavor, compared to “Down In The Willow Garden”, which was probably written by a chick since it is a chick that gets murdered. The scheme in “Willow Garden” is pretty fucking lame: push her in the river. That’s all. Nice plan, blondie. It’s 2009; she probably knows how to swim.

Push that hag in the river!

Anyway, I learned a few things from all these murder trials and insurance fraud investigations, and thought I would pass a few of these nuggets on to you—whoever the fuck you are reading this weirdo blog.

The exceptions that prove the rule

1)      Do it in color. Nobody ever gets away with murder in black and white, unless it is a Russ Meyers-type vixen, and women like that are not in real life.

2)      Don’t carry a purse. Every woman who ever carried a purse got sent to the chair .

3)      Try to be unattractive. At least you won’t get yourself caught because you were slutting around.

On her way to the gas chamber with 1000 packs of gum

4)      Maybe try using a knife.

5)      Don’t get Brendon Walsh to help you bury the bodies. He’s a fucking tattle-tale.

Walsh--"My mom says we should turn ourselves in"

Well, that’s it. I really didn’t work there very long. I was really more a murderer than a salesman.

Brendon Walsh used to come to our “meetings” and hog up all the chocolate milk. These days, he’s living with Guil in LA and probably writing for Everybody Loves Raymond or that show about the fat guy with the hot wife.

He loves to talk and write about boners. This is from his MySpace blog.

28 WAYS YOU CAN TELL YOU HAVE A BONER

1) your penis is erect
2) You are a gay
3) you just wrote “wash me” in the dirt on somebody’s dirty truck window
4) a bumblebee flew into your shorts and stung you on the butthole
5) you are looking at a poster of Pamela Anderson
6) your brother just farted into your mouth
7) you live in Boner City
you are a German Shepherd
9) your mailman just gave you a Blumpkin
10) you have your own Hanna Montana
11) you just got shot with a laser beam right in the wang
12) you have digital cable
13) there is macaroni and cheese smeared all over your balls
14) you just applied Head On directly to your asscrack
15) there are slices of bologna stuck to your tits and butt cheeks

If you are still unsure, there are also “More Ways to Tell If You Have  Boner”.

My landlord, wearing "Golden Shower" from designer Ralph Lauren

When I interviewed Russell Crowe for Rolling Stone in December of 1999, I had just moved into Farrah Fawcett’s poolhouse for the summer. Farrah would come out to the poolhouse and smear paint all over the walls and me, using her naked body as a brush. She wouldn’t have intercourse with me, but she would rub her paint-covered breasts and ass on my dick until I ejaculated. Still, she wouldn’t even kiss me until Russell Crowe insisted on a more intimate setting for our interview.

Lemmon, in a rare moment of levity

A surly Russell Crowe knocked on my poolhouse door at two o’clock in the afternoon. He had already been drinking heavily over lunch at Cisco’s with Jack Lemmon and Brendon Walsh. He was irritated because he had heard from his friend Randy–who had heard from his little sister’s best’s friend’s uncle–that I did not care for him. And that was all I had said. I was asked by a colleague if I was excited about meeting Russell, and I said, “I don’t care for him.” So he was pissed about that. What a baby.

Walsh, in a rare moment of sobriety

Meanwhile, Farrah was at Home Depot stocking up on paint from the Ralph Lauren collection for what she had been calling “Fucking Russell Crowe Day”.

In the poolhouse, I’m asking  Russell about his movies and what’s it like to beat up strangers. He’s answering me, but he’s all pissy and giving bullshit answers. So, I started getting more confrontational with him, trying to get his aggro tendencies to flare up. I was asking him questions like, “Yes or no: does your mom know you’re gay?” and “Have you ever had Prince Albert in the can?”

Farrah's poolhouse-papasan not shown

Russell finally boiled over. He lept from his beanbag and pushed my papasan over backwards, then kicked me several times before he shouted, “This answering your question, cockfern?”

I answered, “Hell no, bitch! Get me out of this bamboo deathtrap so we can fight like men instead of this pussy ambush and sissy kicking bullshit.” He pulled me up and was apologizing just as Farrah and the Home Depot guy arrived with about a thousand gallons of paint and the Domino’s guy rang the doorbell.

Chad enjoys videogames and fingering his girlfriend

We stripped down to our boxer briefs and fought three rounds of regulation boxing in my  living room. Steve the Home Depot guy refereed and kept things fair. Farrah cheered for Russell and walked around with those big numbers to announce what round was coming up–stark naked, except for a fresh coat of “Seductive Scarlet”. The kid from  Domino’s kept ringing the doorbell once per minute, so we kept time with it and boxed until I knocked Russell out in the third round.

No rabbit punches!

As Steve grabbed my arm and declared me the winner, Farrah started rubbing her paint-slathered tits on Russell’s face, trying to revive him, while she blew me. Seeing the direction things were headed, Steve politely excused himself with the old “I think I left the refrigerator running” line. I gave him twenty bucks to pay the Domino’s guy. He left the change on my kitchen table and the pizza in the oven–on “Warm”. Nice guy.