Man forced to have enemas gets $1.6M

[CNN headline]

I got the $1.6 million, so I guess I can say a word or two on the subject.

What is the main point here? What have we learned?

Have you ever received an award of  $1.6 million? No? Then shut your pizza-hole!

What we have learned here is, and forget the taxes, that’s a whole different conversation, what we have learned here is, what can you get for $1.6 million?

I know what you can get for  $1.6 million. Not much. In Silicon Valley, you can’t buy a  doghouse for $1.6 million. $1.6 million isn’t squat. You spend it and it’s gone and you’re no happier than you were before the enemas.

What I mean is, an enema, you’re outraged, you’re uncomfortable, they tell you to hold it, hold it, hold it, until you’re like, really? More? What are we waiting for here? What is this, a contest? Book of world records? Just let me sit on the pot for chrissakes! I’m a grown man!

Then you get your $1.6 million and go out and look at the big houses. The mansions in town. It’s expected. You’re holding  $1.6 million, what are you going to do? Open a savings account at .002% interest? No, you’re supposed to buy a damn mansion.

But around here with the young techies, you can whistle for a mansion,  all the chance you’re going to get one. Go find six bedrooms with separate baths, a nice pool, servant quarters. For your piddling  $1.6 million, maybe you get the quarters.What I mean is, an enema, you’re outraged, you’re uncomfortable, they tell you to hold it, hold it, hold it, until you’re like, really? More? What are we waiting for here? What is this, a contest? Book of world records? Just let me sit on the pot for chrissakes! I’m a grown man!

Then you get your $1.6 million and go out and look at the big houses. The mansions in town. It’s expected. You’re holding  $1.6 million, what are you going to do? Open a savings account at .002% interest? No, you’re supposed to buy a damn mansion.

But around here with the young techies, you can whistle for a mansion,  all the chance you’re going to get one. Go find six bedrooms with separate baths, a nice pool, servant quarters. For your piddling  $1.6 million, maybe you get the quarters.

Now I’m back in, going for another $1.6 million. I’m getting better at holding it.

 

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Mummy’s Erect Penis Explained At Last

[headline, Huffington Post]

This immediately raises the question: if the Rapture happens at this moment and your penis is erect, will you automatically be left behind? Must you be flaccid to enter into Heaven? And what if St. Peter is a really good-looking dude?

Second-class sort of additional question: if you’re handling an erect penis (not your own) at Rapture time, does this disqualify you as well?

Unless, in either case, procreation is your goal?

But even then, should you be handling the thing like that?

And why must it always be about the male member? What about that female mummy found wearing a thong? Or the one with the humongous ta-tas? I’ve got penis fatigue.

The mummy wasn’t headed for heaven anyway. Several thousand years worth of Egyptians when they died were vectored right up to Aaru, the Egyptian reed fields, where Osiris reigned after displacing Anubis.

Yes, Anubis. Say it slowly. Ahhh NUBE    isss. No worries about erect penises with that dude. He doted on them. This is why the ancient Egyptian taxidermists were sometimes paid by the family of the deceased to stuff his male member to its fullest, and sometimes beyond, before doing the mummy wrap.

My uncle, who owned a funeral home, used to do the same thing, but in his case, just for laughs.

Ex-employee Slams Measles Church

Oh, the itch!

Jesus had chicken pox but he never had measles. You can confirm this in the Epistle to the Walmites in the Apocrypha.

Who did have measles? Search the holy writ. Google “measles god jesus the holy trinity a host of angels and saints true republicans” and see what you get. Nada.

And yet, as far as we can determine, by prayer and introspection, neither God nor Jesus was ever vaccinated!  Measles are caused not by invisible “germs,” but by sin, QED.

I was hired by the One True Megachurch as a greeter. My job was to watch for vaccination marks. Or “Satan’s Mark,” as Reverend Amoebes referred to it. Those with the mark were drawn into the church, placed in positions of power, and then blackmailed. The Reverend also had a thing for those marks, so there was some physical monkey business going on as well. I had no problem with the blackmail, as the receipts were used by the Reverend to  further the ends of the church. I wasn’t provided with the details.

It’s surprising how many different types of mark a measles vaccination can cause. Reverend Amoebes never tired of the variety.

Once the Reverend was through with them, the marked church members were banished.

Naturally, quite a bit of measles and mumps was to be found in the congregation, especially among the children, whereas in the rest of the city the diseases were practically nonexistent. The church was being tested by God. Once it passed the test, measles and mumps would break out all over the metropolitan area and everyone in the church would become immune. In the meantime, we were the Job of congregations, questioning not our suffering, everyone looking like spotted chipmunks with cheeks full of nuts.

Everyone but the Reverend, that is. Miraculously, he remained healthy.

So matters would have remained if I had not surprised the Reverend in his  study late one Sunday evening. Later he claimed that I was sneaking in to get at the chest containing his “slush fund.” I could have sworn he was in the vestry with Pearl Price at the time. She was moaning in there for sure. Was it just the itch?

In his study, the Reverend was changing out of his vestments. He liked to go downtown after midnight wearing black. When I walked in on him, he was between shirts and there on his arm was a vaccination mark.  No way I could miss it.

Now, I’m out on the street, unemployed. Obviously didn’t reach the slush fund. No market in town for my job specialty, not until the city comes to its senses and learns to detest vaccinations like I do.

Cop Compares Breastfeeding Mom To A Terrorist

[Headline in the Huffington Post]

I’m here to protect and serve. That’s my job. That’s my duty.

Actually, I was off duty on the day in question. I was in civilian clothes, but armed, sitting in our local Starbucks with my girlfriend Kristin. Kristin was drinking a Shaken Iced Peach Green Tea Lemonade and I had an Orange Spiced Iced Coffee in front of me, fortified with some special sauce from my pocket flask . Note that unlike another person in the shop, I wasn’t drinking milk from its source, which in my case would have been my girlfriend.

This is America. We have laws. For example, you can’t run around naked in public, unless you happen to live in San Francisco or a place like that. I would never be a cop in San Francisco. Where would I pin my badge ha ha. But seriously, you’ve got the inmates running the city up there. How would I know who to arrest? Or is it “whom”?

Anyway, we’ve got laws, such as if you are a woman, keep yourself decent in public. If you want to feed your baby at home, go right ahead. But you don’t go to the bathroom in public, and certainly not sitting in a Starbucks, so why would you expose yourself in front of the rest of us in terms of your bosoms? (Which by the way have got nothing on Kristin’s!)

Some perps break the law to get money. They steal and so forth. Others commit violence in the name of revenge or due to anger-management problems, or because they are a bully or a malcontent.

Love and money. The roots of crime. They teach us that at the academy.

But then there are the political criminals – the communists and anarchists and civil-rights crazies. They break the law to further their own twisted ends. These are those who would commit acts of violence solely to instigate terror and civil discord. These are those who have no good reason for breaking the law – no reason we can understand – such as love or money.

This woman in Starbucks, who oh-so-innocently draped a baby blanket over her baby’s head, to “hide” the fact that under that blanket she was unbuttoning her shirt, dropping the flap on her nursing bra, and suckling the child – or the child was suckling her, I forget how you say that – this woman wasn’t doing this for love or money – not the kind of love where you shoot somebody, I mean. She was just doing it to spread unrest among the other customers, including me and Kristin. Or me, at least. Kristin had her back to the woman. So, yeah, I’d call that terrorism, sort of.

Did I draw my weapon and escort the woman from the store? Yes. I did it to reassure the other customers that there is still law and order in America.

Did I get a round of applause? No. Evidently, most of those present knew that the woman was Mary Kelly, our district’s representative on the Board of Supervisors. They had the sense to keep their heads down.

Ms Kelly, continuing her terrorist activities, has me walking a beat – for the next ten years, according to her – around the county sewage plant.

Dog’s Butt Looks Like Jesus (Huffington Post)

Many thanks to The Huffington Post for the publicity. Praise Jesus.

If you find yourself passing through Backtoe, Georgia, do stop by our Jesus Museum. Bring this article with you for 10% off your ticket price. Glory to God.

When you enter the museum, you will find the mongrel Bubba chained to a post next to the front door. If he’s sleeping, press the button on the wall next to him to activate the air horn. At the blat, Bubba will jump up and run in circles around the post, yapping in fear. We’ve docked his tail so you can get a great view of our Savior every time Bubba runs past. Hallelujah.

Other museum highlights:

– A devil’s root in the shape of the male member.

– A set of Farmer’s Chew Jesus collectible cards (missing #18, Spear in the Side,  and #24, Vinegar Sponge to the Mouth).

– A small piece of the True Cross (Georgia white pine).

– Your future, as forecast by the suspected witch Mabelly Roosevelt Lincoln ($5.00)

Our most precious item is located at the back of the museum just before you exit. Stop to meditate upon the embalmed remains of my Aunt Flora. She was a mannish woman and I always thought she looked like Jesus.

Ya’ll come back, hear?

Why British Women Are Insecure About Their Nipples

First, a salute to the Oxford team that has performed this valuable study. I have been interested in nipples for years. It’s more than a hobby for me. Some might say I’m obsessed.

Whatever the case, at last we have some fresh, new, hard-won data.

The research team investigated the nipples of ten thousand women, with a few cross-dressers thrown in. This was not some casual study. There were metrics.

Each set of nipples was measured and graded according to four separate attributes: size, three-dimensional shape, colour, and aspect. A scale from one to ten was used to supply a value for each attribute. No specific meaning was assigned to any particular nipple code, although on my visit to the university, I did hear 3-1-2-10 referred to as “angelic” once or twice, and 8-6-9-2 as “befitting a chimp.” Just normal, casual, ongoing theorizing.

The researchers did not want the women to catch any vagrant expressions on their faces as they took the measurements. For this reason they all wore identical rubber pullover masks in the shape of the current Prime Minister.

With a  woman’s nipples coded, the researcher would remove the mask and ask the woman to please make herself decent.

“I’ve seen your nipples,” the researcher would say.

“Oh, yes?” was the typical response.

“You may say that I’ve graded them,” the researcher would say.

“Have you then?” the woman would say.

“I have indeed. Do you know what I think?”

“Why, no. I haven’t a clue.”

“You haven’t a clue? You know your own nipples, I suppose?”

“Of course I do. I’ve had four children and two husbands.”

“How would you describe them, in so many words?”

“Well, my youngest has red hair…”

“Your nipples, I mean. How would you describe your nipples? I’ve coded them here in my notebook,  you know, but now I want to know what you think of them. Are you proud of your nipples? Have you named them? Do they reflect your personality? Do they have a mind of their own?”

“My word!”

“You seem unsure of yourself. Are you insecure when the conversation turns to your nipples?”

“What’s that?”

“Just my phone. Would you unbutton again for a moment, please.”

“It has a camera, your phone?”

“It does indeed. If you don’t mind, I’d like to get a quick shot of your breasts. Just for our clinical debriefing in the pub tonight… Hey! Don’t do that. Insecure, that’s what you are, all right. What a pity.”

Man put acid in coworker’s shoe

Whatever happened to itching powder? We had some real laughs with that stuff. We didn’t put it in shoes. We put it in a fellow’s drawers.

You don’t see the good old pranks these days. Acid in a shoe? How about the hot foot? I’d tell a guy a joke while my buddy snuck up behind him and slipped a couple of kitchen matches between the sole and last of his shoe and lit another match with his thumbnail and touched off the matches in the shoe. I’d try to time my punch line with the moment the flames reached the shoe and set the guy to hopping. What a hoot.

We never lit shoelaces. That would be stupid.

Acid has a place in the world of pranks, but not in some  guy’s loafer. We would put a little hydrochloric or sulfuric acid, I don’t recall which, in an atomizer and sneak into the girl’s locker room and spray squirts of it over the front of a blouse in two spots. Later in the day, the cloth would crumble away and the girl’s two bra cups would poke out. You could split your sides laughing at that.

Where have all the pranks gone? It’s sad. You used to could walk into a classroom and there would be old spitwads stuck to the walls all over. How can kids go through their youth without shooting spitballs at each other. It don’t make sense.

Our classroom was next to a field with sheep in it. The flies through the open windows were awful. We’d spend hours during boring grammar and economics and arithmetic lessons, killing flies with rubber bands. That’s not a prank, but it’s something I miss just as much.

We had so much energy when we got to school. There was nothing better than running around like maniacs pulling down a guy’s pants and underpants to his ankles in front of some girls. We did that with one wimpy kid and by the end of the day he had made three dates.

You know what’s crazy? Not only is it impossible to find an exploding cigar, you’re lucky these days to smoke a regular one.

I’m  going to burn a bag of  dog poop on my neighbor’s porch tonight, just for old time’s sake.