Tuesday, June 13, 2017

If I had to pick one person who Donald Trump reminds me of it'd have to be Fred Flintstone. They've got the same kind of confident stupid. Fred would run for president too, mindlessly spouting inanities like "I'm going to hire all the best men, the best people for the job, and everything is gonna be great!"

It's a cartoon so there'd be a miracle: Fred would get elected too. Nobody would really know what happened, but before they'd cut to a commercial we'd see a polling place where one Wooly Mammoth says to another, "I was hoping you could add." "YABBA DABBA DO!" Fred yells. "I'm gonna make Bedrock great again!"

Unfortunately, Fred is no Homo Sapiens. You know he'll go to a ball game or he'll get drunk and fall asleep and at the last minute he'll be like, "Oh shit! I forgot to hire anybody! What am I gonna do? [PAUSE] I know! I'll hire Barney as my Vice President. Betty can be Attorney General. Pebbles can be Secretary of Education, and Bamm-Bamm can be Secretary of Defense. Now that's a great cabinet!"

There's just two flaws with Fred's plan. First, you know, they're not the best people for the job. You're not going to get brilliance out of somebody who wears diapers and goes BAM BAM BAM! all day long, though I'm not here to criticize Jeff Sessions. And second, isn't it a little insulting to Wilma? Everybody Fred ever met is now in a position of power and has moved to Washington -- except for her. Luckily, she doesn't care. She's glad to get rid of the stupid oaf and enjoy spending his money. You know she's home alone trying on all her fancy new clothes, and she's got a sassy talking bird that she asks, "Does this stegosaurus fur make me look fat?"

After a few weeks, though, Fred gets sad. He looks out the window and sees angry people with picket signs that say things like, "GO BACK TO THE BRONZE AGE!", "I THOUGHT DODOS WERE EXTINCT!" and "I WISH YOUR PLEISTO HAD NEVER BEEN CENE!" He gathers his cabinet around the dinner table. "I'm feeling a little down," he says. "I'm feeling like maybe I'm not the best president Bedrock has ever seen. Why don't we go around the table and everybody say a short sentence or two about how I am?"

Betty and Barney say, "Fred, you're the greatest!" Pebbles spouts random baby-talk while Bamm-Bamm hits the ground with his club and the Great Wazoo turns all the protesters into Brontosaurus burgers.

In real life, though -- at Donald Trump's "Let's All Talk About How Great I Am" meeting -- the focus eventually turns to Reince Priebus. He isn't a relative so unlike the other incompetents he can be fired. I feel bad for him: my blood freezes when some omnipotent asshole announces that I have to say something about myself. "My name's Roman. I'm single, I'm a Virgo, and I was born in sunny California!" Eighty percent of the crowd will laugh to themselves and think, "What a fuckhole!" while the other twenty percent go, "I just knew he was a Virgo."

Reince thinks quick. "We're sitting around a table and unexpectedly somebody's making me give a speech. What does that remind me of? [PAUSE] I've got it! GRACE! It's like when I slept over with Dadpappy and Maw-Maw and they made me talk to God before I could eat. I'll say a version of Grace!" He makes a few small changes as it runs through his head:

Bless us, Oh Trump,
and these thy gifts which
we are about to receive from thy bounty,
through Trump, Our President, Amen.

Not bad, he thinks, but a little obvious. He whips up a quick Version Two:

Bless us, Oh Trump,
for the opportunity and the blessing
that you've given us to serve your agenda
-- and the American people --
through Trump, Our President, Amen.

Getting closer! One more try:

On behalf of the entire senior staff around you, Mr. President,
we thank you for the opportunity and the blessing that
you've given us to serve your agenda and the American people.

That's it! And not a minute too soon. It's Reince's turn to talk and he repeats it.

Trump is blown away. He doesn't recognize the source material, as he also won't recognize Reince's next speeches that start with "Who's the leader of the club?", "It's a world of laughter, a world of tears," and "I'm a little teapot." He wipes away tears and yells "YABBA DABBA DO!" In the closet, the bird who's been recording the whole thing grabs his ears and says, "I think it's gonna be a looooong four years."


Friday, June 9, 2017

Odds and Ends

Simon Cowell used the Golden Buzzer for a deaf singer named Mandy Harvey on Tuesday’s “America’s Got Talent." [Harvey] explained that when she was 18 years old she lost her hearing due to a connective tissue disorder.

She then said she was going to sing a song she wrote called “Try.” Before performing, Harvey explained that the song was about not giving up.


Wow. That sounds a lot like my song "Swim," which is about not sinking.




Fewer people know proper grammar these days, irritated blogger finds.



The First Draft Of An Article For A German Tourist Magazine

Germans always choose a side dish with tang or bite to counteract the richness of certain foods. The smart tourist, wanting an authentic meal, should always follow suit.

With Wienerschnitzel, for instance, you should opt for sweet lingonberry jam. Bratwurst needs a side of tangy sauerkraut. Rinderroulade (beef wrapped around bacon) finds a friendly companion in a heaping portion of pickles. The pork meatball called Frikadelle begs for a slathering of sharp, acidic mustard or HOW ABOUT YOU JUST STOP EATING FATTY FOOD???



I hate it when you're with somebody at a restaurant and the check comes and they say, "How about you get this and I'll get something else?" It never works out. Fifteen minutes later we're walking by a jewelry store and they don't say, "Hey, how about I buy you a nice watch?" We pass a Circuit City and they don't say, "You know, I can get you an air conditioner!" Instead right before you head to your place they're like, "You feel like Slim Jims and meth?"



Are You As Good A Parent As Salma Hayek?

See if you can choose the right ending to a common parenting problem she faced.

"I'm a very good stepmum," [Salma] Hayek insists. "You have to work very hard to please them all. If you are making pizza, there is one who doesn't like cheese, and another who hates tomato."

(1) "I practice tough love. I make what I want and say, 'Eat it or don't! I just hope you don't starve before breakfast.'"

(2) "I'm a softy. I end up spending all night in the kitchen making sure they get whatever they want."

(3) "Our chef sometimes looks so downhearted. He's always saying, 'Madam, what are we going to do?'"




Suggested Company Motto

1 (800) DENTIST. When closing your eyes and randomly stabbing a finger at a Google page just isn't good enough.



Nine o'clock at night I realize I'm hungry, and there's nothing in the fridge. "I'm going to get a slice of pizza from the corner," I tell my boyfriend.

"Pizza is so overpriced," he says. "It's like twelve cents worth of ingredients they charge $16 for. It's easy to make your own pizza: you can make the sauce from canned tomatoes, grate some fresh cheese, and easily make your own crust from flour and yeast. The result will be much tastier and far cheaper."

"Oh," I say. My stomach growls and I get up off the couch. "I'm going to go plant some wheat."



I'm Not So Good At Pithy Sayings

Give a man a sheep and he'll eat for a week or he'll wear fucking wool pullovers his entire life.


Thursday, June 8, 2017

In Today's News

A group of New Jersey policemen were caught on cell phone video kicking and beating an innocent bystander who had been injured by a car that crashed while trying to flee police.

The officers had been pursuing another man who drove off during a traffic stop. That man got into a minor collision, prompting pursuing officers to fire shots. He then crashed his car into a utility pole and it burst into flames.

A motorist who has not been identified was driving by and his car also caught on fire. As he tried to get free, several officers surrounded him and began kicking him.

Carmine Disbrow, president of the Jersey City Police Officers Benevolent Association, said the officers were simply trying to save the man by putting out the flames.


Wednesday, May 17, 2017


Aside from Princess Diana. Please tell me this is ASIDE FROM PRINCESS DIANA.

Friday, May 12, 2017

People in big cities put up with a lot of shit. The air is filthy, the streets are crowded, the people act like animals. We note these faults and accept them and think, well, it's worth it, because at least I can go see "Hello, Dolly!" whenever I want.

There's one ridiculous phenomenon that I can't accept, though, that other big-city dwellers have probably noticed. Picture this: you're waiting for a subway train. You've been on your feet for eighteen hours and you're exhausted. It's your lucky day! When the train pulls up, the doors are right in front of you, and through the window you see an empty seat.

The doors slide open and in less than three footsteps your dream dies. Before you get to the seat, a rambunctious little rugrat scurries between your legs and clambers up onto it. They smile. "Look at me!" their face says. "I'm sitting! Wheee!"

You shoot them a glare that would paralyze oysters. "You're sitting, kid," you want to repeat. "You didn't make a hit record with LaToya Jackson."

I blame parents. A kid does fuck-all and they act like he's won the Nobel Prize. You ate a carrot? Hooray! You took your socks off? Whoopee! You stuck three Legos together? OHMIFUCKINGOD! I worry about the damage it's going to do to the kid. Twenty years from now their boss will say, "Hey, what's up with that Farnsworth report?" and they'll say, "I haven't started it yet, but I've been pooping into porcelain!"

As an observant human, this kids-on-the-subway phenomena confuses me. Doesn't a child's life consist of running around aimlessly? While adults are sitting in comfy chairs drinking cappuccinos, kids grab at the opportunity for exercise. "Gosh," they think, "I wonder if I can run in a circle until I carve a groove into marble tile!"

Yet the second they're in a moving metal box with strangers they're like, "Oh, shit. I just gotta get offa these dogs." They play endless sports. They scamper across streets. They march in place in their bedrooms. But they minute they're on a subway car they're staring at everybody seated with tears in their eyes, like "I been chasing a squirrel with a rock for eight hours. How's about helping a six-year-old out?"

They can fuck off. You focus on your smartphone but from the corner of your eye you see the sad face. "Yo, bud, have some sympathy," it says. "These little pink legs are swole!"

Once the kids sit down, though, their demeanor changes. Now the energy is back. Now they can hardly sit still long enough to stare out the window. "What the hell?" they think as they kick everything within eight miles with their dirty feet. "There's a motherfuckin' pigeon out there!"

I don't understand their parents. They know the kids don't deserve or appreciate the seats. Why don't they make the kids stand? It wouldn't be difficult: just say something like, "Teddy, I'll bet you can't jump up and down until Jesus returns." "I'll bet I can!" Teddy yaps. He leaps out of the seat and the 92-year-old lady in front of it smiles for the first time since Rudolph Valentino took off his shirt.

Before she can get to it, though, a little girl is there. "You look just like my great-grandma!" she says. "Holy shit, is that graffiti? Heather Leigh, get your little pink Keds over here!!"

Friday, May 5, 2017

What If Jane Austen, Philip K. Dick or Ernest Hemingway Had Written 'Basic Instinct'?

Jane Austen:

A handsome police inspector who is questioning a lady may often find it is the wrong question that is being answered. So discovered Sir Thomas Bertram, squire of Flittylocks Manor, as he cross-examined accused murderess Fanny Coleripple about a lifeless corpse discovered amidst a copse of quails on the grounds of Lower Smalldimples.

"It is quite easy for a horse to be led astray," lectured Sir Thomas. "The question is how many biscuits are required for him to find his way home."

Miss Coleripple raised her brow and giggled delicately. "Sometimes it is best to save one's biscuits for a more reputable mare," she bespoke.

The fetching owner of eight piglets and a tractor glowered. "It is all fine for you to stare at me out of your countenance, but there was an act of violence over a quarter-dollar ago and I am determined to uncover the truth."

The visage of the resident of Titteridge Place adopted a girlish vexation. "It is often discovered when one tries to hover," she pined, "that they uncover something from which they can't recover." She raised a long limb and delicately lowered it across the other.

"I daresay, Miss Coleripple," said the most skilled dancer of Bigstaples County, "I am quite in the dark. Which is something I can't say for a significant portion of your underoos."

There are a million acceptable options for a proper lady's wardrobe but just one truly ghastly choice. Reader, I'm talking about knickers. Because when she returned to the third-smallest thatched-roof ivy-covered cottage in Upper Dashboard Valley for the final time, the prettiest woman to have played a half-round of croquet at Woodcheeks Manor would discover the hand-tatted lace panties she thought she was wearing crumpled upon the settee. Her team of horses raced to meet the last train to Warsaw and, as one can scarcely listen to a thing which does not speak, she was never ever heard from again.


Philip K. Dick:

I piloted my red Hydro Booster X711 down Inter-Steller 405 and stopped at the Police Station that hovered just off the border of Sector A-14. There, a wealthy man's housekeeper was being held, suspected of his murder. I peered through the nano-glass of her extruded cryo-cell. She was beautiful all right -- but she was also a replicant. She might have been well-programmed but even Windows 4763-X(b) had bugs.

I had her trans-portaled to the plasticine Interrogation Capsule and when I entered she was floating in a pool of crocheted neon. I took my seat behind a flickering hologram of a desk.

I couldn't take my eyes off her. I'd rarely seen such excellent work. "It's not looking good for you," I said. "You never should have impaled him with those weaponized titanium geese."

A tear rolled down her cheek. "I -- I didn't do it," she choked.

I tried to give her the benefit of the doubt. I looked into her eyes: a matched pair of Bernlicht R-2000s, fashioned from the finest vinyloid harvested from cloned Japanese cattle and pure latex rubies. Was it possible? Had some sort of virus corrupted her operating system, or did she honestly think she wasn't guilty?

She crossed her legs and exposed her nether regions to me. I looked up her skirt and saw it all: the sleek hair, the sultry lips, the little man in his red space ship. Obviously this was a P386x, a part instantly recognizable to all synth-human developers. This little work of art all by itself cost more than the residents in this quadrant made in their lifetimes. It was the finest vagina money could buy.

She was hoping to unnerve me, but her little trick wasn't going to work. See, I've always been able to control myself. Completely. Every muscle, every fiber, every cell in my body. In fact, ever since I was a little boy, I could --

Oh shit. I AM A REPLICANT TOO!


Ernest Hemingway:

I was asking her about a murder. A murder she probably committed. Her fingerprints were all over the joint, and five miles from the murder site I found a blood-covered lace serape that was exactly her size.

I had to question her but I couldn't. I was the blotchy, bone-shaking, wine-addled son of an itinerant highwayman, and she had flaxen hair, a delicate manner, and porcelain skin that would make everyone in Germany smash their Lladro and scream, "WHAT KIND OF USELESS SHIT IS THIS?"

It was difficult keeping myself together. I tried to confine my wandering thoughts to matadors but the horns of the snorting black beasts kept growing foreskin. Here I was, a big tough guy at the mercy of this unwrinkled wench who couldn't have weighed eighty pounds if she was holding a wheel of cheese and my testicles.

I was at her mercy.

I was starting to say a prayer for myself when she threw one skinny leg over the over and whaddaya know?

Pussy.

Thursday, May 4, 2017

8 Reasons People Keep Clicking On Articles Like "11 Foods That Fight Cancer -- Number 2 Will SHOCK You!" Number 7 Will SHOCK You!

1. I don't know. Maybe they think GoGurt will replace kale this time around?

2. They actually want to go for a jog but they're too fat to get off the couch.

3. They know that one day the world is going to recognize RHUBARB!

4. They just finished eating thirteen cans of baked beans and they've got their fingers crossed.

5. Actual hospital studies aren't shit compared to Buzzfeed's medical breakthroughs.

6. It's the only link they haven't clicked other than, "This Father And Daughter Took The Same Photo Every Year. DON'T CRY WHEN YOU SEE THE LAST ONE!"

7. They thought it said, "8 Foods That Fight Canaries."

8. They are the last living souls on earth not saying to themselves, "Oh, Holy God -- would you please SHUT THE FUCK UP ABOUT BROCCOLI?"

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