Interview: Man thinks he’s a cat

Ms. Nijole Jakeš: Sir, what is your name please?

Mr. Gavril Ganjić: Meow.

Ms. Nijole Jakeš: You are believing you are cat?

Mr. Gavril Ganjić: Meow.

Ms. Nijole Jakeš: You say only meow?

Mr. Gavril Ganjić: Purrr.

Ms. Nijole Jakeš: He say only meow, this guy, and now he makes the purr. You see how he licks? I am still paid if he say only meow?… You, Ganjić! Do not rub against. I will give you pain!

Mr. Gavril Ganjić: Meow.

Mr. Aubrey Atwater: Madame, you are being paid to draw the fellow out. Use honey, not vinegar, please. He’s testing you. And stop looking over at us.

Ms. Nijole Jakeš: Ok. Now you will see… Ganjić! Meow!

Mr. Gavril Ganjić: Meow.

Ms. Nijole Jakeš: Dvesto hudičev! I am not cat. I talk to cat like I talk to person. Please pay me now!

Mr. Aubrey Atwater: Meow! HaHa… Ow!

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.


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.

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.

4 Red Flags You Shouldn’t Ignore

Lead a busy life? It’s a mad whirl out there for so many of us. I forgot my pants this morning. Just kidding.

Please, take the time to look both ways before stepping off the curb. Check for bones in that forkful of haddock. Confirm that the seat is down before sitting on the toilet.

These are common-sense precautions. It takes a little luck to get through life.

Having said that, trusting to luck WILL NOT HELP YOU in certain situations. Learn to recognize the warning signs!

#1 You boss tries to kill you.

This is a warning sign. Your prospects for future advancement in the company may be compromised. Having failed to murder you, will your boss be able to give you a fair and balanced performance report during the next employee review cycle? Will killing him help or hinder your progress up the corporate ladder? Should you continue shtupping his wife, or move on?

#2 Your wife tries to kill you.

There is nothing more important in life than good, basic nutrition. When you get up in the morning, you need a good breakfast. When you get home from work at night, you need a good dinner. Anything that gets in the way of these essential meals must be eradicated without mercy. Remember, you can’t hire a wife, but you can hire a cook.

#3 Your children try to kill you.

Kids. What can you do? You give them everything. It’s why you go to work in the morning instead of turning into a homeless bum. You work your fingers to the bone and then work your wrists to the bone and then… you get the idea. Then they tear out your heart and skateboard over it. That’s not a warning sign. That’s just normal life.

#4 Your dog tries to kill you.

If you cat tries to kill you, you probably deserve it, you sorry piece of dirt. In the case of dog mayhem, you’ve got to look into breed. Your breed, I mean. What color is your skin? What is your religion? What is your orientation vis a vis LGBT. Are you conservative or liberal? Libertarian? What is your position on the right to bear arms?

Dogs care about these things, especially in the southern United States and Irish bogs. Given half a chance, they will thin the human herd.

Chicken Lays Giant Egg With A Surprise Inside

I don’t like surprises, which is why I don’t eat eggs.

I don’t open things. When I shop, I take a string bag, so I can see its contents at all times.

I take my mail next door and let my neighbor open it. FedEx delivered a box and I left it on the porch. My neighbor finally opened it because of the smell; it contained perishables.

I was considered strange in high school because on a hot date, I wouldn’t unbutton the girl’s blouse.

Later in life, when my older brother was killed in the line of work, I was the only one to attend his funeral because I insisted on an open casket. He was on the bomb squad.

I gave up my plans to become a surgeon because of this habit.

Once when I was feeling wild and crazy, I closed my eyes; naturally, I didn’t want to open them again. My neighbor had to thumb up the lids. I won’t close them again. I use eye drops and at night, eye props. I’m often accused of staring at people in a creepy way.

My marriage failed because I wouldn’t comply when my wife begged me to open up with her.

The bottom line: I live a quiet, solitary life, working at a low-paying job at a dry cleaners. Ironically, my boss makes me put out the Open sign every morning.


Sofia Vergara Reveals Bra Size

My husband has been trying to discover my bra size for years.

“Sofia has revealed hers,” he says to me. “Why can’t you do the same?”

Ha. No way. When I buy a bra, the first thing I do is remove the tag from it that divulges its size.

I find my husband hanging around our washer/dryer combo, hoping to lay hands on one of my bras. He figures that if he can obtain just one of them, he can measure it and deduce my bra size from that. Unfortunately for him, I hand-wash my bras and dry them on a rack in the attic, where he never goes.

He swears that he’ll figure it all out and then, just out of spite, that he’ll also figure out my cup size. Let him try. As long as I don’t let him grope me, he’s going to remain in the dark.

My girlfriends tell me that he asks them for their bra sizes. He wants to triangulate. Clever!

I didn’t marry a fool, just a Nosy Norbert.

Once, in a weak moment, he told me that after he got over the bra hump, he was going to start on my panties. This just demonstrates the difference between a wily woman and a dumb man. I’ve known that he wears jockey shorts in a 34 for ages.