A description of my blog. http://www.my-site.com 1029497775976453686 Terminator vs. Highlander: The Sarah Connor McLeod Chronicles 2008/02/#1029497775976453686 2008-02-06 Sarah Connor McLeod, proud Highlander woman, is tending her sheep in the Scottish Highlands, when a hulking stranger wearing a kilt approaches.

Terminator: Are you Sarah Connor McLeod?
Sarah: I am. Sarah Connor McLeod of the Clan McCleod. And who might you be, stranger?
Terminator: I am a cyborg sent from the future to kill you. I was reprogrammed by a resistance fighter and sent here to prevent a terrible catastrophe.
Sarah: Kill me? But why? I'm just a poor Scottish peasant type person, living in the Scottish Highlands.
Terminator: You will give birth to a son who will be named Connor McLeod. He will be immortal, as long as nobody chops his head off.
Sarah: Well, that doesn't sound like a bad thing.
Terminator: Yes, but in the 20th century he will father a daughter, who will be called Sarah Connor. And she, in turn, will give birth to John Connor, who is destined to be the leader of the resistance. He will lead humanity to victory against a race of intelligent machines who are trying to eradicate mankind.
Sarah: John Connor? That's odd. My husband's name is John Connor.
Terminator: It was long believed that John Connor died fighting the cyborgs, but we have learned that he dreaded the thought of living a life without purpose after the war was over, so he fled to a more exciting time, long before the cyborgs were ever created.
Sarah: Wait, are you saying...?
Terminator: Ma'am, your husband is not really a cod merchant from Cork. He is John Connor, the leader of the resistance, who was born in the year 1985.
Sarah: No! But that means....
Terminator: That's right, John is his own great-grandfather. We believe that is how this whole immortality thing started. Something about endless recursion in the gene pool.
Sarah: My lands, that's terrible! Now that you mention it, though, it does explain some things. But wait, you still haven't told me why you need to kill me. Sure, John going back in time and marrying his great-grandmother is a little kinky, but....
Terminator: We believe that what he did caused a rift in the space time continuum. All kinds of horrible, unexplainable things are going to start happening.
Sarah: You mean like Egyptians with Spanish names and Scottish accents?
Terminator: Exactly! History itself has become unglued. When you start mucking around with chronological recursion, the principle of cause and effect breaks down. Literally anything could happen, in any order, for no particular reason. Connor could be inexplicably replaced by a younger, better looking cousin, for example. Aliens could start arriving from other planets, trying to kill him.
Sarah: ...Mario Van Peebles could show up, playing a completely unconvincing villain.
Terminator: See, it's happening already. Mario Van Peebles won't be born for 400 years! You shouldn't even know who he is!
Sarah: Remember his breakout performance in Heartbreak Ridge, when everyone was saying what a big deal he was going to be?
Terminator: Stop it! You're only making things worse. I have to kill you so that none of this will ever have happened.
Sarah: Why didn't you just sneak up behind me and kill me? Why did you have to tell me all of this?
Terminator: In my short time here in the Scottish Highlands, I have learned what it means to be human. I am no longer a soulless machine.
Sarah: It's the kilt. Put a kilt on a guy and suddenly he thinks he's no longer a soulless machine. Hark! I think that's my husband on yonder ridge!
Terminator: You think?
Sarah: It's hard to tell sometimes. He can look like at least four different people.

While they watch the man with oddly indeterminate features approach, suddenly another man, slightly less bulky than the Terminator, but also built like a bodybuilder, shimmers into existence before their eyes.

Sarah: Is that...?
Terminator: It's Jean Claude Van Damme. Cheap knockoff of the T100 series. They make 'em in Taiwan.
Van Damme: Hello, folks. I'm agent Max Walker of the Timecop division. I was sent here to investigate a disturbance in the space-time continuum.
Terminator: Everything is under control here, officer.
Sarah: What's with the accent? Is everybody in the future from France or something?
Van Damme: France! I'm from Belgium! You never heard of the "Muscles from Brussels"?
Sarah: Why do you have a Dutch name and a French accent? Who do you think you are, Mario Van Peebles?
Terminator: Belgium is a product of the rift in the space-time continuum. Belgians are a little indecisive as a result.
Sarah: You mean the Belgians waffle?
Terminator: Ha! Good one, Sarah.
Van Damme: You're one to talk, Terminator. Explain to me why you're the only terminator model to sport an Austrian accent again?
Terminator: The terminators were designed to be able to infiltrate groups of humans undetected, but the early models weren't very effective. So they gave us Austrian accents. That way, if we did something really weird, people would just say, "Oh, don't mind Karl. He's Austrian."
Sarah: Good thinking.
Terminator: I've been programmed to kill Sarah Connor McLeod, thereby preventing the rift in the space-time continuum from ever having happened. That should take care of your disturbance, officer.
Van Damme: But if you prevent the rift, then Belgium will cease to exist! I'll never become a movie star!
Terminator: Yes, and it should also prevent any number of other inexplicable events.

John Connor walks up.

John: What's going on here? That's my wife you're getting friendly with.
Terminator: Not to mention your nana.
John: You! So you've come back in time once again to finish me off.
Terminator: Not you. Your wife. And your nana.
John: Who sent you here?
Terminator: You did, John. When the future you realizes the sort of havoc you caused by having sex with your great-grandmother, you sent me back in time to kill her before you give birth to your father, thus preventing yourself from ever being born!
Sarah: But if he's never born, then he can't send you back here to kill me either.
Terminator: True.
Sarah: So by killing me, you're saving my life.
Terminator: I suppose so.
Sarah: Ok, I guess I'm alright with that. As long as I never have to sit through Universal Soldier again.
Terminator: Not a problem. The "Muscles from Brussels" will never have existed.
Van Damme: I don't feel so good.
Terminator: Oh, and this will take care of Dolph Lundgren too.
Sarah: Hmmm. I have to admit, it's tempting.

Suddenly yet another figure shimmers into existence. It is a strange looking humanoid creature, with a long face, eyes on short stalks, and flap-like ears that reach almost to its knees.

Creature: Meesuh Jar Jar Binks!
Sarah: Oh, for f---'s sake. Just kill me already.




Humor-blogs.com is yet another result of the rift in the space-time continuum.

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]]> 7686577994096911401 Sock Drawer 2008/02/#7686577994096911401 2008-02-04 Sometimes I wonder if Hugh Jackman is an alien sent to earth from outer space to spy on humanity. The aliens wanted to give him a totally average sounding name that wouldn't stand out, so they came up with "Jack Human," but then there was a mix-up with the paperwork.

I think broccoli is a freak of evolution. There are two evolutionary paths for plants to go down: Either they taste bad so people (and most animals) don't eat them, or they taste good so that animals will eat them but discard the seeds and more plants grow. Either way the plant wins. But there are a few plants, like broccoli, that couldn't decide which path to take. So they're edible, but just barely. Way to pick the "chock-full-of-vitamins-but-tastes-like-crap package," you stupid vegetable. Oh, and you can drop the act. Nobody really believes you're a tree.

If Cop Rock was in the dictionary, it would be right above coprophilia.

When fog is really thick, people always compare it to pea soup. But when pea soup is really thin, nobody says, "Wow, it's like eating fog."

My mom used to say, "Remember, when you point at someone, there is one finger pointing at you and three fingers pointing back at yourself. Which is why I always point with all of my fingers.

The next time I hear somebody complain about how windy it is, I'm going to say, "Yeah, but on the other hand, we could really use the air."

If I've learned anything from watching movies, it's that nothing good ever happens at the old mill. How many kidnappings and other evil plots have to go down before people get up the nerve to just burn that place down?

I'm concerned about how those bluetooth earpieces for cell phones are affecting the fabric of our society. It's getting harder and harder to tell schizophrenics from assholes.

Never believe a label that says "self-cleaning." Unless it's on a cat.

I want to start smoking, but I'm having trouble getting into the habit. Will nicotine patches help with that?

I don't understand the system we use for deciding what foreigners are supposed to be called. Why do we have Australians, Italians and Brazilians, but not Japanians or Mexiconians? And if Australians are from Australia, why aren't Canadians from Canadia? People from Canada should be called Canadanians. And why aren't people from Germany called Germaniums? I mean, I know it doesn't make any sense, but it would be funny, and I think the Germaniums owe us that much.


Humor-blogs.com is a schizophrenic asshole.

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]]> 5512594922154230294 Tremble Before My Shovel! 2008/01/#5512594922154230294 2008-01-23 Greetings, wormfood!

I apologize for my long absence. Diesel's estate seems to have developed a bit of a hobbit problem, and my lord insists that I deal with them. He won't admit it, but I suspect that he still feels a little bad about accidentally clubbing that troop of boy scouts to death with a shovel.

I have since taught him a handy rhyme to distinguish boy scouts from hobbits:
If it's helpful and nice, you should look twice
But if the feet are hairy, first whack and then bury
Still, my master remains a bit shovel-shy, so I am left to deal with the matter. Filthy creatures, tearing up our garden and keeping my lord awake at night with their homoerotic pledges of loyalty to each other. I shall slay them all!

Not that there's anything wrong with their being gay. I'm totally ok with their gayness. I hate all small mammals equally, regardless of their color or orientation.

Bah! Enough of this talk of filthy halflings. On to the matter at hand. As you no doubt are aware, I am Grundir the Implacable, Nazgul and meme-wraith. My duties at Diesel's estate, in addition to vermin control, include dealing with any pesky memes that have been inflicted upon this blog. My master's record keeping leaves something to be desired, but as far as I can tell I have three memes to deal with:

First, Red Mojo of Half a Bubble Off has given me the You Make My Day award. This puzzles and enrages me, as I have devoted my existence to destruction and spreading misery. Knowing that I have made your day only increases the torment of my living death. You have made me day as well, Red Mojo. You have made it a LIVING HELL.

An Irrelevant Cheetah has given me a purple lion in a post about baby porcupines. I am predictably confused and enraged by this. Not an animal person.

Zhu from Some Spanish Name asks me what I learned in 2007. What have I learned in 2007? What have I learned? Is it not enough that I am sentenced to an existence of unspeakable torment with no foreseeable end? Now I am expected to learn something every year as well? What is this, high school?

I will tell you what I have learned. I have learned that 2007 is half of 4014. I have learned that it's one fourth of 8028. I have learned that it's one tenth of 20070. I have learned that no matter how many days I suffer, there will always be an endless array of more days waiting for me, each filled with meaninglessness and agony. Oh, and also that cleaning windows with newspaper instead of paper towels prevents streaks. Plus, you're recycling.

For these memes, I tag Gollum, Boromir, Eomer, Theoden and the original lineup of Jefferson Starship. I trust that none of you will disappoint!

That is all for now, mortals. I must go check my hobbit traps. Sometimes when the trap snaps shut, the prongs will miss all of the vital organs and the hobbit will just lie there, screaming for days until it slowly bleeds to death, and I'm afraid that's something I really don't want to miss.

I will see you again when my master next calls upon me. Until then, remember to stand up straight and avoid using words like "elevensies." I bid you farewell.


Humor-blogs.com is littered with dead hobbits.

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]]> 6238867114649004804 Noel, Noel, Noel. What Were You Thinking? 2007/12/#6238867114649004804 2007-12-24 Everybody loves Christmas carols. Christians love Christmas carols. Jews love Christmas carols. Even Satanists secretly love Christmas carols. The only people who don't like Christmas carols are Communists and people named Carol who are going to smack the next person that asks them if they are a Christmas Carol because it's just not funny after the bazillionth time, ok?

One of the most enjoyable Christmas songs to listen to is "The First Noel," the lyrics of which were presumably written as some sort of prank by a guy named Noel. The tune is wonderful, but the lyrics are ridiculous. He works his name into the song like 87 times, for starters.
Noel wrote a song, Noel Noel
Noel Noel Noel Noel
It's my song so suck it, Noel Noel
Sing Noel Noel Noel Noel
Noel Noel Noel Noel
Born is the King of Israel whose name is Noel!
If it weren't for "Hey Jude", old Noel would still be on the hook for Most Needless Repetition of a Name in a Song.

Ok, ok. That's not really how the song goes. In reality, the lyrics are far, far worse. If you don't believe me, you obviously haven't had to try to sing the song lately. Sure, it sounds great piping gently through the speakers at Starbucks, but at my church they actually expect us to sing the song, and let me tell you, it's damn near impossible. That song has the most godawful awkward lyrics I've ever tried to wrap my lips around.

Let's take the first stanza, shall we?
The first noel the angels did say
Was to certain poor shepherds in fields as they lay
In fields where they lay keeping their sheep
On a cold winter's night that was so deep.
Noel, Noel, Noel, Noel
Born is the King of Israel!
First of all, a "noel" is a song. So this is a song about a song. If you were to update the refrain of this song to modern English, it would be:

Song, Song, Song, Song
Born is the King of Israel!

Which, if it weren't redeemed by the second line, would be the worst refrain ever.

Next, you don't "say" a song. You sing it.

Then there's the pointless redundancy: "in fields as they lay/in fields where they lay." That's just lazy. And what the hell are the shepherds doing lying in the fields? Shouldn't at least one of them be awake? And if they're asleep, how are they "keeping their sheep?"

Then there's the little fact that Jesus was most likely not born during the winter. And even if he were, what exactly makes a night "deep"? What the hell is that supposed to mean? I'll tell you what it means. It means somebody couldn't think of a word to rhyme with 'sheep.'

Ok, so we've established that this song is confused, repetitive, factually inaccurate and banal. And we still haven't even touched on the fact that it's virtually impossible to sing. It's like the lyrics were written for a completely different tune.
The-uh fir-irst no-o-el the-uh angels did say
Was to certain poor shepherds in fields as they lay
I-in fie-eelds wheretheylay kee-ee-eeping their sheep
On a cold winter's ni-ight that wa-as so deep.
No-o-el, No-o-el, No-o-el, No-o-e-el
Born is the Ki-ing of I-Isri-el!
Maybe the syllable breaks make sense if you're a world-class stutterer or something. And in case you think, "Well, that's just the way those old songs are," take a look at the first stanza of "Hark the Herald Angels Sing":
Hark the herald angels sing
"Glory to the newborn King!
Peace on earth and mercy mild
God and sinners reconciled"
Joyful, all ye nations rise
Join the triumph of the skies
With th'angelic host proclaim:
"Christ is born in Bethlehem"
Hark! The herald angels sing
"Glory to the newborn King!"
Hey, the syllable breaks actually match the notes of the tune! Other than stretching "sing" and "mild" into two syllables and creating the contraction "th'angelic", you start a new syllable every time you hit a new note. It's a Christmas miracle! "Joy to the World," "Silent Night," "O Come All Ye Faithful" -- they all match their respective tunes almost perfectly.

You would think that once a lyricist has given himself license to depart from historical accuracy and go off on tangents about farm animals, he might have a chance of finding some words that actually go along with the tune, but old Noel had no such luck. In fact, the song actually gets worse in the later stanzas:
They-ey loo-ook-ed up a-and sa-aw a star
Shining i-in the Ea-east beyo-ond them far
And to-o the-uh earth it ga-a-ave great light
And so it continued both da-ay and night.
No-o-el, No-o-el, No-o-el, No-o-e-el
Born is the Ki-ing of I-Isri-el!
Ok, I need to stop trying to figure out where the syllable breaks are before I develop a case of Turrett's. For the record, according to Luke the shepherds saw no star. The shepherds were "nearby," and if they needed a star to find Bethlehem, they were some pretty piss-poor shepherds. Oh, and if they had attempted to follow a star "in the east," they would have found themselves in the Dead Sea.

The next stanza is my favorite.
This star drew nigh to the northwest
O'er Bethlehem it took its rest
And there it did both pause and stay
Right o'er the place where Jesus lay.
Noel, Noel, Noel, Noel
Born is the King of Israel!
Is there a more drawn out way to say "The star stopped over the baby Jesus"? I especially like the fact that the star "did both pause and stay" -- a phrase which is painfully redundant even without dragging it out over 37 syllables.

And now, the moment you've been waiting for: the historically inaccurate and syntactically disastrous inclusion of the three wise men:
Then entered in those wise men three
Full reverently upon their knee
And offered there in His presence
Their gold and myrrh and frankincense.
Noel, Noel, Noel, Noel
Born is the King of Israel!
Ah yes, the famed Wise Men of the Southeast, who arrived on the heels of the shepherds. Historians have, of course, disagreed about the number of wise men. The standard interpretation is that there were three, based on the fact that there were three gifts. Revisionists, however, point to the fact that they all evidently shared a single knee.

Oh well. At least the intrepid vocalist is rewarded for his persistence with a single coherent, semi-singable stanza to close the song.
Then let us all with one accord
Sing praises to our heavenly Lord
That hath made Heaven and earth of naught
And with his blood mankind has bought.
Noel, Noel, Noel, Noel
Born is the King of Israel!
Couldn't have said it better myself. Merry Christmas, everyone.


I'll probably take the next few days off, but I'll try to whip something up for the caption contest on Friday. See you then.

This post did both pause and stay at humor-blogs.com.

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]]> 1578643825124270784 Sock Drawer 2007/12/#1578643825124270784 2007-12-17 Submitted for your approval, some random items from the disorganized sock drawer that is my brain....

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I don't understand why people are freaking out about a little lead in toys. When I was a kid, I used to play with little paintable Dungeons & Dragons figurines. You know what those things were made of? Lead. That's right, the toy company would just pour a little glob of molten lead into a mold shaped like an elf princess and call it a toy. You're worried about a little lead in the paint on your Bratz(TM) Dream Crib*? Please. We used to paint our lead toys with lead-based paint in radon-filled rooms blanketed with asbestos insulation while sitting on furniture made out of cyanide and rattlesnakes.

One time my junior high teacher confiscated my lead orc figurine -- not because it was made entirely of poison, but because he thought it might be satanic. The grownups back then could give a shit about whether you were playing with toxic substances. They'd let you play with anything that wasn't possessed by a demon.


*No Bratz products have been shown to contain any hazardous substances. They will, however, turn your six year old into a whore.

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The other day I called a radio station to request a song. The D.J. answered, "Sorry, you're caller seven. Call me back." Then she hung up. Apparently I had entered -- and lost -- some sort of contest. That's a real morale builder, right there, losing a game you weren't even playing. I think I'm going to start answering the phone that way. "Sorry, caller seven. Call me back." Should confuse the hell out of my mother-in-law.

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In California there's no smoking inside restaurants, so all the smokers hang out outside the front door. The other day it occurred to me that it would be fun to stand outside there with the smokers and start lighting firecrackers. I'd just light them and then toss them on the ground in front of me. BAM! BAM! BAM! And then when the smokers started yelling at me, I'd be like, "What? The odds of you being seriously harmed by one of my firecrackers are really very low." And then I'd wax nostalgically about how you used to be able to just light firecrackers wherever you wanted and nobody complained.

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I don't get fortune cookies. Don't get me wrong -- I don't have a problem taking advice from a cookie, but aren't there more reputable cookies around? Fortune cookies are pretty much the worst cookie ever. Why would you listen to a cookie that can't even get its own shit together? Focus on being a halfway decent cookie for a while, and when you've got that down, come back and tell me about my hidden talents that will soon become obvious to those around me.

An Oreo -- now there's a cookie I'd listen to. I'd take stock tips from an Oreo. And between you and me, if one of those Girl Scout cookies with the caramel and coconut told me to, I'd kill a man.



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To the people who make "easy-open" packages: Stop it. You're just making me feel like an idiot because I can't get the damn thing open. At least in the old days I could just bitch about how they make packages impossible to open while tearing at a 12-pack of Dr. Pepper like a starving wolverine. Now I have to stick my finger in this spot and pull up, then push push down and then stroke it side to side for a while, and eventually I give up and just ask Mrs. Diesel exactly what she wants me to do. Wait, what was I talking about?

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To the makers of refrigerator magnets: Would it kill you to make them an eighth of an inch thicker? What the hell am I supposed to be sticking to my fridge with these damn things, dryer sheets? Every time I walk past the fridge, I'm attacked by a flurry of Christmas cards and pizza coupons. I understand that your primary purpose is to advertise an appliance repair business or real estate agent, but could you at least pretend that you care about holding my shit to the fridge?

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To the people who print receipt tape with ads on the back: Cut it out. When I'm on the phone and I need to quick find a scrap of paper to write down an important phone number, I don't want to see an ad for carpet cleaning. It's universally understood that the back of a receipt should be left blank so that it can be used as scratch paper. If you make me walk past the fridge to get a notepad, there is going to be trouble.

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Ok folks, that's it for today. Meet me back here for the caption contest results tomorrow.

Humor-blogs.com is hella hard to open.

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]]> 8538116045572696657 Projectile Blogging 2007/11/#8538116045572696657 2007-11-28 Perhaps the least pleasant way to start a week is with a violent attack of Dianetics.* I was under the impression that my near-superhuman immune system had allowed me to sidestep the viral maelstrom that had recently laid waste to my household, but it turns out that I was foolhardy to finish my daughter's serving of pot roast after she had sneezed on it. Hubris, thy name is Diesel.

I thought the worst was over once the Dianetics had cleared my intestinal tract of harmful engrams, but man was I wrong. After the Dianetics came periodic bouts of Voldemort.** Yes, he-who-must-not-be-named treated me to seconds of that pot roast, not to mention everything else I had eaten the previous day. My life may not have flashed before my eyes, but I did get a good look at my recent digestive history. Apparently I eat a lot of purple stuff.

In my semi-delirious haze, my thoughts naturally turned to what is most important in my life: Coming up with a good blog topic. "Eureka!" I would have shouted if I had the energy to make sounds with my vocal cords, "I should do a post of my Top Ten Gastrointestinal Ailments!" The fact that this seemed like a good idea at the time should give you some indication of just how sick I really was. Fortunately I came to my senses and cut the list down to five:

5. The time I came down with a stomach flu the day before my final exams my sophomore year in college. On the plus side, I was able to reschedule 3 of my 4 exams for several days later, garnering some much-needed additional studying time (not to mention that it's easier to borrow the textbooks you never bothered to buy when your classmates don't need them any more). On the minus side, my religion prof wouldn't let me reschedule because he was a big friggin' Scientologist.***

4. The time I drank 2/3 of a 2 liter bottle of raspberry wine cooler and threw up in my garbage can. Wow, is there a phrase that dates someone more than "The first time I got really drunk, I was drinking from a 2-liter bottle of raspberry wine cooler"? Can't you just hear the Lost Boys soundtrack blasting from the tape deck of my friend's dad's car? I was 17 and I thought it was a shame to waste the rest of the bottle even though I weighed about a buck ten and was pretty wasted after drinking half of it. To my credit, this was the last time I ever threw up from drinking too much. Most of the kids in my high school weren't nearly that smart.

3. The time I slept on the bathroom floor after the Better Than Ezra Concert. My wife's birthday a few years back. I took her out to a surprise dinner and concert. The surprise? Salmonella in the clams vongole! This was when I perfected the "porcelain pivot," where the goal is to switch from Voldemort position to Dianetics position as quickly as possible. (Note: The "reverse porcelain pivot" is not recommend for amateurs. Or anyone, really.)

2. The time I ate tainted fast food after a trip to Disneyworld. College spring break trip. Late night stop at McDonald's. Then, six words that I now realize that you should take VERY seriously: "These McNuggets taste a little funny."

1. The time I threw up in my college roommate's brother's sink in Berkeley. This is one of those experiences that was so absurdly horrible that I'm almost glad that it happened so that I can blog about it.

A friend of mine from college, whom I'll call College Friend, was visiting his brother, whom I'll call College Friend's Brother, in a city about an hour and a half from my house, which I'll call Berkeley. The three of us got together for dinner and drinks. I hadn't seen College Friend for years. I had met College Friend's Brother a few times, but we weren't exactly friends. I had to work the next day, so the plan was for me to sleep at Brother's apartment and leave from there in the morning. Brother lived in a tiny apartment, so College Friend and I were to sleep in the living room. College Friend had an inflatable mattress or something and I got the coveted futon.

As I lay there my stomach started to feel a little queasy, but I figured I had just had too much to drink. I spent about an hour lying on the futon with my eyes open, trying to get the room to stop spinning. Eventually I fell asleep.

I was violently awakened by none other than Voldemort himself. I didn't even have a chance to sit up before the Evil One laid waste to the futon and surrounding area. I don't know if it was something in the steak I had eaten or what, but whatever it was, it wanted OUT.

I sprang up from the futon as quickly as I could and ran to the bathroom before he struck again. Unfortunately, I only made it as far as the sink. Pow! Voldemort sprayed the sink with his noxious effluent.

Fortunately, after these two brief eruptions, Voldemort left me alone. I didn't even feel terribly sick, although of course I wasn't feeling exceptionally proud of the type of houseguest I had turned out to be.

I rinsed out the sheet that had covered the futon, mopped up the floor with toilet paper, and cleaned the sink out as best as I could. Amazingly, neither College Friend nor Brother had woken up during my performance.

Sadly, no amount of toilet paper was going to restore my futon's innocence, and the sink was hopelessly clogged. I looked around for a plunger, Liquid Plumr, Dran-O, or any other suitably misspelled plumbing product -- perhaps Sync-Kleer or Barph-B-Gon. Unfortunately I found nothing stronger than Cool Mint Listerine. Now what? Leave a note saying "Thanks for letting me stay at your place... Don't use the sink because it's clogged with chunks of prime rib"?

I got in my car and began driving aimlessly through Berkeley. For all its reputation as a party town, you'd be surprised how difficult to buy a plunger at 3 in the morning. I drove and drove, eventually getting on the highway that would take me back to my house. I wished there was something I could do to rectify the situation, but there was nothing open. I would just have to go home and call College Friend's Brother in the morning to explain what had happened.

Then I saw it: A 24-hour K-Mart, right off the highway. There was even an ATM just inside. I went on a late-night shopping spree, hit the ATM, and then drove back to Brother's apartment.

I attacked the sink with an arsenal of plumbing products and after 20 minutes or so, I finally managed to get it to drain. By this time I was shaky and exhausted. Unbelievably, neither College Friend nor Brother had woken up during this ordeal.

I stood there for a moment, wondering what etiquette demanded of one after one has puked all over a college friend's brother's futon. Should I wake them? Leave a note? Send a "Sorry about your futon" condolence card? Lacking any suitable precedent, I decided that I would have to set the benchmark of appropriate response in such circumstances.

I left a clean sheet and $200 in twenties next to the futon and drove home.


*As this is a family blog, I will be using the pseudo-scientific term "Dianetics" in place of the word normally used to denote a violent, runny discharge from the anus.
**I think you can figure this one out.
***Ok, not really, but if he was a body part he would have been the one that spews Dianetics.

Laugh your guts out at humor-blogs.com.

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]]> 1177403136857072347 Do You Feel Like I Do (About Huey Lewis)? 2007/11/#1177403136857072347 2007-11-19 Update 12/21: If this is your first time here, this is what you need to know:

The avowed purpose of this blog is to bring back the genius that is Huey Lewis. In particular, I want Huey to get the airtime on classic rock radio stations that is being squandered on hacks like BTO and Foghat. If you would like to add your name to my petition, leave a comment on this post.

After you've done that, make sure that you vote in the Huey-pocalypse -- the final showdown between Huey Lewis and the forces of evil.

Help spread the News! Together, we can bring Huey Back to the Future!


And now, in case you're interested, here's the story of how all this started....

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An interesting discussion broke out recently over at the Ominous Comma about something that I said in my book, Antisocial Commentary.*

The discussion centered on this item from the introduction to the book:
For me the kiss of death for a humor piece is to start off trying to convince someone of a particular point of view…I don’t mean that humor is an effective way of making a point; I mean that humor is the point.
Brent, the proprietor of the O.C., notes:
To be honest, I don’t know if I agree with the Fossil-Fueled One on this point. For as much as I enjoy entertaining people as a Basically Agenda-less Humorist** I have to wonder if I couldn’t be doing something more beneficial. If I couldn’t somehow improve the world, or make some small difference by bringing some of my personal causes more fully into this, my pubic platform.
Actually, he said "public," but it's funnier without the "l."

In any case, the more I reflect on this statement, the more I realize that Brent is right. I should be doing more than just making people laugh. I have a pretty good-sized readership with this blog now, and as that modern day Augustine, Peter Parker, once said, “With great power comes great responsibility.”

So today is a historic day. Today I am embarking on a crusade of sorts, to use my blog power for a greater good. I’ve thought long and hard about what cause to take on, and I’ve settled on something that I think is a noble, but still realistic, goal. And that goal – my “holy grail,” if you will – is this:

I’m going to convince classic rock stations to start playing Huey Lewis and the News.

It’s long been known by me that Huey Lewis is an under-appreciated and misunderstood genius. Ballads like "Do You Believe in Love" and "The Power of Love" are classics of the earworm genre. "Workin’ for a Livin’" spoke timelessly*** of the working man’s plight, and the songs "Walkin' on a Thin Line" and "Back in Time" addressed the serious issues of the struggles facing Vietnam veterans and time travelers, respectively.

And yet, classic rock stations across the U.S. stubbornly refuse to acknowledge the genius that is Huey Lewis -- not to mention legendary bassist Mario Cipollina, guitar virtuoso Chris Hayes, and presumably someone playing the keyboard.

This, then, is my petition to the powers that be to add some numbers from the Huey Lewis catalog to the classic rock radio playlist:

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To the National Organization of Deciding Who Gets to Be Considered 'Classic Rock'****:

For shame! Since the birth of the Classic Rock format around the time that somebody decided that Jane's Addition and The James Gang were perhaps two different kinds of music -- 1989, I think -- I have watched the Classic Rock genre slowly expand to include such offerings as Guns 'n' Roses, Metallica and Styx, but thus far you have refused to admit a true legend of rock & roll, Huey Lewis, not to mention his stalwart companions, the News.

How can you justify playing execrable songs like Bob Seger's "Old Time Rock and Roll" or Rick Springfield's "Jesse's Girl," while neglecting crowd-pleasers like "I Wanna New Drug" or "Heart and Soul?" "Hip2BSquare" was the anthem of my generation*****, and yet you spurn it in favor of crap like BTO and Foghat. Look, I'll admit that "Stuck With You" can be a little grating after 30 or 40 listens, but it's hardly fair to hold a grudge because of that one song. Have you forgotten about Rod Stewart's "Forever Young" or the Van Halen album with Gary Cherone?

Please, I beg you: add "Workin’ for a Livin’" or "Heart of Rock & Roll" to your playlist. Come on, those are solid pop/rock songs. Certainly no worse than anything by John (nee Cougar) Mellencamp or 38 Special.

You wouldn't even have to eliminate anything from your current playlist. For example, I know for a FACT that no one has ever listened to Peter Frampton's "Do You Feel Like I Do"****** all the way through, at least not since he awed that group of easily amused stoners with his talking guitar back in 1975. Seriously, throw that CD in the player some time and just try to listen to the whole song while completely sober. It's impossible. So here's what you do: After the 68th time that Peter Frampton says "Do you feel like I do," right when you feel like screaming at the CD player, "That depends. Do you feel like jamming a meat thermometer in your ear?!", you mute it and crank the entire first side of Sports. And then you switch back to the Frampton song for the last 38 seconds. No harm, no foul.

You can do the same thing with the interminable interludes in "Riders on the Storm" and "Oye Como Va." The trick is to wait until the listener is thinking, "Holy crap, the entire run of Viva Laughlin didn't last this long. I'd rather hear two possums fighting over an accordion than listen to one more second of this." Then you pop in the Huey, and they think, "Hey, this is such an improvement that I don't mind that I'm going to have this song stuck in my head until I get my first postcard from my great-grandchildren on Venus."

I urge you to take action quickly. I have attached the signatures of [fantastically large number] people who do, in point of fact, feel like I do.

Respectfully submitted,
Diesel

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If you would like your name to appear on the petition, please submit a comment, and maybe add a few words in support of Huey. I will mail the petition and comments to the NODWGTBCCR, or Clear Channel, or whoever's in charge these days.

And if you would like to offer some additional support for the cause, please write your own impassioned plea in support of Huey on your blog, link to this post, and encourage your fellow bloggers to do the same. Yes, this is a meme, and you know how I feel about memes. But this time it's for a good cause. Let's let the world know how we feel about Huey. Even Grundir the Implacable has a soft spot for "Doing it All For My Baby."

Look, I even made a neat little banner you can use. See how sad he is because his music isn't considered Classic Rock?

Huey needs your help!

The code for using the image to link to this post is here:



I should be able to enlist Renal Failure, who has made no secret of his affinity for Huey. And Logophile just gave me a Def Leppard shout-out, so I think I can count on her support. I'll drag Central Snark along too. And maybe Brent, Bossy, the Frogster, Sinister Dan and some of the other Humor-Blogs.com members.

Man, I'm really excited about my blog's newfound purpose. Come on, folks, let's show those radio people that the heart of rock & roll is still beatin'!


* That’s right, people are actually talking about my book. Don’t you feel left out? It’s like that time when everybody in your class had seen The Empire Strikes Back but your mom wouldn’t let you go on opening weekend because it was Aunt Cecilia’s birthday and the next Monday everybody made fun of you because you didn’t get the joke when somebody said that you smelled like the inside of a tauntaun and then you hid in the supply closet and cried after recess and found the janitor’s special magazines that made you feel funny inside.
** The acronym for which, Grundir the Implacable has just pointed out to me, is BAH!
*** If you set aside the non-inflation-adjusted "two hundred rent."
****It's possible that the NODWGTBCCR doesn't exist, in which case I will deliver this petition to the nearest approximation I can find. Perhaps Interpol or Unicef.
*****Although if I were two years younger, it would have been "Smells Like Teen Spirit."
******According to Wikipedia, the title of this song is actually "Do You Feel Like We Do," which doesn't make any sense. And anyway, halfway into the article they change their minds, so obviously Wikipedia is written by monkeys.


Humor-blogs.com is stronger and harder than a bad girl's dream.

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]]> 6118856561306075164 My name's Diesel. I'm a cop. 2007/10/#6118856561306075164 2007-10-29 The first thing you should know about me is that I don't play be the rules. I never have. In fact, I'm not even sure what the rules are. I mean, I have a vague idea, enough to be certain that I don't play by them, but I have no in-depth knowledge regarding the rules.

I should add that when I say I don't play by the rules, I don't mean that my behavior never coincides with that which the rules prescribe; I mean that there is no intentional effort on my part to follow the rules -- although, of course, my lack of familiarity with the rules precludes any effort to intentionally flout them. My relationship with the rules can perhaps best be characterized as a combination of calculated disregard and apathy.

Also, although I stated that the fact that I don't follow the rules is the "first thing you should know about me," it is actually the third thing, which is why I first informed you that my name is Diesel and that I am a cop. In my defense, I provided these two facts merely as essential background information for my main point, which is that I don't play by the rules. If I had started off by telling you that I don't play by the rules without letting you know that I'm a cop, you might have gotten the idea that I was a dentist who pulls perfectly good teeth or something. And that's not my style.

I suppose I didn't really need to tell you my name, but I like people to know who they're dealing with, at least when they're dealing with me. When they're dealing with other people, it really isn't any of my business, although generally speaking, I think people should, whenever possible, let other people know who they are dealing with. It's only fair.

And I don't want you to get the idea that I'm unwilling to pull a healthy tooth, if it comes down to it. There's no reason that it would come down to that, but when you've been in this job as long as I have, you know that it's often very hard to tell what it's going to come down to, especially when you don't know who you're dealing with. Now in this case, you are dealing with me, Diesel. I've given you that much. But who am I dealing with? There's the rub.

In any case, I only mentioned the bit about the dentist because it seems like a dentist who doesn't follow the rules is a lawsuit waiting to happen. Nobody wants a dentist who doesn't follow the rules. It's not a selling point for a dentist. But for a cop... well, then it depends, doesn't it? It depends, for starters, on what the rules are exactly, and as I've mentioned, I'm not likely to be of much help there. I'd love to be able to give you chapter and verse from the rules, but frankly that's not my job. Or maybe it is. Still, I'm not going to.

Oh, sure, a cop who doesn't play by the rules gets into his share of tight spots too. The difference is that dentists can't shoot their mistakes and plant evidence on them to make it look like a mugging gone bad. Well, I imagine they could, but it's not really their area of expertise. Anyway, you get the point.

Hey, I didn't say it was fair. You may not like it, but that's the way things are.

I don't make the rules.


Listed on humor-blogs.com.

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]]> 7343340706639381368 Well, Sure, They're Not Fighting Now 2007/10/#7343340706639381368 2007-10-22

Did you hear that Al Gore won the Nobel Peace Prize? This surprised me, as the odds seemed to be stacked against him. After all, if a guy named "Gore" can win the Nobel Peace Prize, what's to keep a guy named Horrific Slaughter, Guts von Carnage, or even Yasser Arafat from winning?

To be honest, I didn't even know that the argument over global warming had escalated into a full-fledged armed conflict. As I wrote in my book when Gore was nominated, "Al Gore doesn't deserve all the credit for preventing the Great Global Warming War. I mean, shouldn't some of the credit go to the millions of individuals on both sides who aren't fighting?"

On second thought, though, I suppose the lack of violence is a evidence of Gore's tireless efforts. Imagine how many people might have died if Gore hadn't kept a lid on the fighting. It is only right that we should recognize Al Gore for his role in forestalling global warming-related violence, just as George W. Bush was universally lauded for keeping Iraq free of WMDs.

And let's not forget that most of the world's hot spots are, well, hot spots. Iraq, Rwanda, Burma, Compton -- they're all located in hot climates. It stands to reason that the more hot climates there are in the world, the more terrorists, insurgents and dictators we will have. The only guaranteed way to cool down these hot spots is to reverse the trend toward global warming. Once these places have a more reasonable climate, their people will realize that there is more to life than lashing out with car bombs and box cutters just because they're a little edgy about the weather. As long as the Middle East routinely experiences temperatures over 120 degrees Fahrenheit, it will be filled with people who are ready to snap the next time somebody tells them that at least it's a "dry heat."

The true scale of the global warming threat has only recently been discovered. In fact, a mere generation ago the biggest threat seemed to be from countries in cold climates. We even called it a "cold war" because the Communists seemed intent on moving from their frozen potato fields into more hospitable climates like those of Southeast Asia and Latin America. But the Soviet expansion was doomed by America's secret weapon: Star Wars.

No, not the anti-ballistic missile program. The movies. Yes, just as the battle for galactic supremacy moved from the ice planet of Hoth to the desert world of Tatooine, the struggle for global domination moved from the frozen wastes of Eastern Europe to the sunny climes of the Middle East. Coincidence? Maybe, but what about the portentious thawing of carbonite-encased Han Solo and Leia's use of a "thermite grenade" in her plot to save him? All of these events clearly add up to one undeniable conclusion: I'm a HUGE geek.



The point is, people in moderate climates tend to not be much of a threat to us. When was the last time we really had to worry about Italy, Spain, France or Mexico? I know, Canada isn't really very dangerous either, but that's just because we've never really pissed them off. If Canada ever really gets upset, you're going to see a side of them that... ok, I can't keep this up. I had you going there, though, didn't I? Look at them up there, with their cute money with birds on it and policemen on horsies.

Anyway, Canada's harmlessness notwithstanding, extreme climates are, generally speaking, the source of most of the belligerence in the world. This is why our polar ice caps are so vital. We need that ice so that we can export it from really cold areas to really hot areas like the Middle East and Sub-Saharan Africa. By evening out global ice distribution, we will make both extremely hot areas and extremely cold areas more hospitable to human life, so that eventually they are both marginally habitable, like Buffalo. And we'll finally be able to pull our troops out of Iraq, so that we can deploy them to more important places, like the North Pole, where they can help ensure the global dominance of Big Ice.

Oh, you may argue that my suggestions are not "politically feasible." You may contend that I'm "grandstanding," or "employing scare tactics." You might even argue that none of my ideas make sense "economically" or "scientifically." And you know what? You're right. And that's exactly why I'm not going to win a Nobel Prize in economics or chemistry any time soon.

If I play my cards right, though, I might just win me one of them Peace Prizes.


Humor-blogs.com is so cool it's on fire.

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]]> 634891215667909940 Straight Man 2007/10/#634891215667909940 2007-10-17 Whew, I feel better. Don't you? I thought I'd post something a little more light-hearted today.

As you might guess, Mrs. Diesel and I have some odd conversations. Usually they start with me asking some bizarre question, apropos of nothing, and then her humoring me until I get bored and move on to something else. Or she tells me to stop annoying her.

On the way to church last Sunday...

Diesel: You know that frog on the commercials, the one that tells kids not to swim in the canals?
Mrs. Diesel: Splasher?
Diesel: Yeah, Splasher. Isn't that kind of unfair? I mean, he's a frog, so he gets to swim in the canals, but he's like, "Hey you, kids, get out of my canal!"
Mrs. Diesel: What would you suggest then, if not a frog?
Diesel: How about a cat? The cat would be like, "Man, you do NOT want to go in that canal."
Mrs. Diesel: But people would just think the cat was biased, because cats hate water.
Diesel: Yeah, but he'd be like, "Trust me, do NOT go in the canal."
Mrs. Diesel: I think you need a more objective animal.
Diesel: How about a dog? The dog would be like, "Sure, I like water, but I don't swim in canals, and neither should you." They could use MacGruff the Crime Dog. He'd be like, "Take a bite out of crime. And stay out of canals."

...

At Del Taco, where Mrs. Diesel has just pointed out the "Toddler's Only" (sic) sign at the play area to our children...

Diesel: What is a 'toddler'?
Mrs. Diesel: One who toddles.
Diesel: What does it mean to 'toddle'?
Mrs. Diesel: To walk, sort of unsteadily.
Diesel: But nobody ever says that. Why do we call them toddlers if we don't ever talk about anyone toddling?
Mrs. Diesel: British people do.
Diesel: Ok, but we don't. We use the word 'toddler', but not the word 'toddle.'
Mrs. Diesel: True, we don't.
Diesel: Do you have to toddle to be a toddler?
Mrs. Diesel: Yes.
Diesel: So what about a three year old who is paralyzed from the waist down? Is he a toddler?
Mrs. Diesel: No.
Diesel: So he goes from being a baby to being a child without ever being a toddler?
Mrs. Diesel: Right.
Diesel: What if his legs start to work when he's 40, so he can walk, but not very well, because he hasn't had any practice. Then is he a toddler?
Mrs. Diesel: No.
Diesel: That seems unfair.

...

Two weeks ago I seeded our lawn. For several days thereafter I was giving Mrs. Diesel daily reports on the germination status of the seeds. One day the seed really started to be taking off, so I walked into the living room where Mrs. Diesel was paying bills to give her an update.

Diesel: It looks like about half of the seed has made a decision to germinate.
Mrs. Diesel: (Distracted) That's great.
Diesel: You know, they've put in a lot of hard work.
Mrs. Diesel: Uh huh.
Diesel: I think they would appreciate it if you would come out and say a few words.
Mrs. Diesel: (Impatiently) Paying bills.
Diesel: They've been working really hard, and it would really mean a lot to them.
Mrs. Diesel: (Glaring)
Diesel: And I, uh, kind of already told them you would be coming out.
Mrs. Diesel: Get out.
Diesel: It doesn't have to be a big long speech or anything, but I think they would really appreciate it...
Mrs. Diesel: Get on the other side of that door NOW.

About an hour later I noticed Mrs. Diesel walking out to our driveway to survey the sprouting lawn. I hurried over to stand next to her.

Mrs. Diesel: (Clears her throat and raises her right hand to greet the seedlings.) You've all, uh, done a great job here, and I just wanted to say how much we, uh, appreciate all of your, um, hard work. I know it, uh, hasn't always been easy, and I want you to know that you've, uh, exceeded all of our expectations and, well, you've just done a great job. So, uh, carry on.
Diesel: (Looks quizzically at Mrs. Diesel) You know they're asleep, right?

At this point I had to run for my life.



Did you enjoy this post? There's plenty more like it in my book, Antisocial Commentary. Order your copy and help me to not have to get a real job, so I can keep writing this crap. Thanks!

Humor-blogs.com has never toddled.

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]]> 4362086910123974939 Ahmadinejad Kills in New York, Launches North American Comedy Tour 2007/09/#4362086910123974939 2007-09-26 Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad was an unexpected hit at Columbia University on Monday. "He's like the Iranian Yakov Smirnoff," said one attendee. "Except funny."

At first it looked like Ahmadinejad was going to bomb. "Let me tell a joke here," Ahmadinejad began. "I think the politicians who are after atomic bombs, or testing them, making them, politically they are backward, retarded."

The audience could only shrug and assume that the joke was funnier in Farsi.

Soon, however, the ruler of the repressive, theocratic police state hit his stride, pretending to be angry at Israel for "persecuting" Palestinians. His explanation of Iran's nuclear program was also a hit. "Our nuclear program is for energy, not weapons," he deadpanned.

Ahmadinejad, whose dry, absurdist wit has provoked comparisons to Steven Wright and Norm MacDonald, clearly is not afraid to take risks with his material. The nuclear energy joke, for example, relies on the audience's understanding that Iran sits on top of literally billions of barrels of oil. "I have faith in my audience," said Ahmadinejad after the show. "It's true that not everyone will understand how absurd it is for a country that is essentially one gigantic oil field to be pursuing a nuclear energy program, but I think the hardcore fans get it."

Ahmadinejad got the biggest laughs with a joke about homosexuality. "In Iran we don't have homosexuals like in your country," Ahmadinejad said. The crowd burst into raucous laughter at the remark.

"In Iran we do not have this phenomenon," he continued, going in for the kill. "I do not know who has told you we have it."

Many of the audience members were literally in tears at this point. Sandy Morrison, a 19 year old Columbia undergraduate, was doubled up in laughter. "Stop it, I can't take any more!" squealed Morrison.

Tim Corman, a 21 year old prelaw student, said he appreciates the dry sophistication of Ahmadinejad's humor. "I like how he doesn't just come out and say that homosexuals are routinely executed in Iran. He just acts like, 'What? Homosexuals? Where?' Like he really has no idea. It's priceless."

Ahmadinejad segued seamlessly into his well-polished holocaust denial routine. "Holo-what?" he quipped. "Isn't that a Gwen Stefani song?"

Clearly pleased with his performance, Ahmadinejad announced that he would be embarking on a six week North American comedy tour, appearing with Larry the Cable Guy and openly gay comic Ant. "They tell me someone named 'Ant' will be there,"Ahmadinejad joked, "but so far I haven't seen him."

Ahmadinejad hopes the tour will help sales of his new book, Stuff We Don't Have in Iran. The book is a collection of one-liners that has been compared to Jeff Foxworthy's You Might Be A Redneck If.... The jokes all start with "In Iran..." and end with a humorous observation about how life in Iran differs from the rest of the world. Some examples:
  • In Iran, Michael Jackson is still black.
  • In Iran, Starship is still "Jefferson Starship." In the more conservative areas, it is still "Jefferson Airplane." ("None of our cities were built on rock and roll," Ahmadinejad notes wryly.)
  • In Iran, Britney Spears is still a perky 17-year old with that innocent schoolgirl thing going on.
  • In Iran, there are only three Star Wars movies, and the third one ends with an Ewok slaughter.
  • In Iran, Kurt Cobain is still alive but Courtney Love is dead.
  • In Iran, Woody Allen is still funny.

Ahmadinejad is currently working on a second volume of "In Iran..." one-liners. Feel free to post your suggestions in the comments.


In Iran, the one-eyed humor-blogs.com is king.

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]]> 8995586509847578488 You Shall Tremble Before the Meme-Wraith! 2007/09/#8995586509847578488 2007-09-19 Greetings, denizens of cyberspace! I am Grundir the Implacable. You may know me as one of the nine Nazgûl who once served the Dark Lord. You have probably heard by now that things are not going so well for my former master lately. Long story short: The Dark Lord is a twisted, murderous entity who scoffs at the laws of men. Many years ago, he narrowly escaped destruction at the end of a great battle, and he slinked off into the shadows to regain his strength. Recently he returned to wreak his vengeance, but was stopped before his plan came to fruition.



By the Pelenor Fields, here is a likeness of the Dark Lord now! See how he bears the smirk of the wrongfully accused!


Humblest apologies! That is actually former NFL great O.J. Simpson. This is the Dark Lord:


I hardly think that I am to blame for the error. Is the similarity not striking?

As I have attested, Sauron has hit a bit of a rough patch, so I am exploring career options beyond being a minion of the Dark Lord. Ah, I suppose you fools imagined that upon Sauron's fall, all of the evil minions disappeared and Mordor became an idyllic wonderland. Ha! Unfortunately we belatedly learned that the iron rule of Sauron was the only thing that was holding Mordor together. The coalition led by the Army of Gondor has endeavored to put together a unity government consisting of all of Mordor's races, but now Uruk-Hai are pouring over the border to cause untold trouble and troll extremists are cart-bouldering orcs in the street... But I digress. Suffice it to say only that Mordor is really not a place you want to be right now.


After fleeing that accursed land, I accepted a position at the Mattress Police as a Meme-Wraith. In this capacity, I intercept any memes that are troubling my lord Diesel. This is my first day in that capacity, and it is my gravest hope that I do not disappoint.

First up is the "ROCKIN' GIRL BLOGGER" that I have received from Speedcat Hollydale. I shall not respond to this award other than to say that SpeedcatHollydale will taste my steel. And if you knew where my steel has been and how often I clean it, you would verily shudder.

Second, there is the Reflective Blogger Award, granted by Sage. As I am an entity with no corporeal form and therefore no reflection, this award enrages me. Sage, you should consider yourself flicked in the forehead with an iron-gauntleted finger.

And finally, Zhu's Ten Priceless Experiences meme, which requires that I tell of ten wondrous experiences one might enjoy in my homeland. Sadly, Mordor is no longer the joyful place that it was in the giddy early days of my Nazgulship, so this meme causes me to howl in bone-shattering sadness. Once I could have told you of the great machinations of Minas Morgul, where orcs were worked to death building vast siege towers, but now the infernal factories are silent. Once I could have told you of forlorn travelers sinking to their deaths in the Dead Marshes, but now those marshes have been drained and the foul, unnatural beasts displaced. Why, o sons of Gondor? Why have you drained my beloved marshes? There once were marshes as far as the eye could see. Marshes to the north, marshes to the south, marshes to the west. Marshes, marshes, marshes!

A great sorrow has now befallen me, the sorrow known only by those cursed to an eternal living death and those who watched Britney's performance at the VMAs. I mean, is it just me, or was she not even trying?

Bah! I am Grundir the Implacable. That is all for now.


Did you enjoy this post? Then I command you to buy Diesel's book, Antisocial Commentary!

Humor-blogs.com shall taste my steel.

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]]> 1971163074037732294 Ugly is as Ugly Does 2007/09/#1971163074037732294 2007-09-05 I spent some time a few weeks ago pondering the notion, often propounded by the media, that American women have unhealthy self-images.

I was sitting on a rock on the shore of Pinecrest Lake in the Sierra Nevada mountains, surrounded by the beauty of nature -- and the ugliness of several hundred fellow vacationers -- when it occurred to me that "unhealthy" was a generous adjective. In some cases I was actually nauseated.

I don't understand how this happened. You'd think, after 30 years of magazine covers designed to make women feel ashamed of their bodies, that homely, outsized women would be at least a little reluctant to loll about on the beach with six square inches of sheer fabric stretched across their girth so tightly that they look like the captives of a particularly unmotivated brigade of Lilliputians.

Where is the shame, people? The puritans get a bad rap for their repressive views on sexuality, but at least they didn't have to see three inches of ass crack waddling down Main Street on a regular basis. I have it on good authority, in fact, that the Salem witch trials were merely a slightly overzealous attempt to stamp out muffin-topping.

Somehow, in the campaign to convince people that major surgery, botulism injections and a rigorous schedule of vomiting are essential to a young woman's physical and psychological well-being, something went horribly wrong. On one hand, we've produced a bumper crop of plasticized anorexics with poison in their eyebrows -- and we can certainly be proud of that. On the other hand, a considerable number of women seemed to have learned precisely the wrong lesson from this media barrage. Apparently a lot of them think those magazines work sort of like a mirror. They pick up a magazine with Jessica Biel on the cover and think, "Oh, so THAT's what I look like. I really need to expose more of my abdomen."



I hate to tell you this, but NOBODY looks like that. Jessica Biel doesn't even look like that. Jessica Biel could pick up six magazines with her picture on the cover at the checkout stand, tell the clerk that she is buying them because a lot of people tell her she looks like Jessica Biel, and pay for them with her Jessica Biel branded Visa card with the name Jessica Biel embossed on it, and the clerk would still snicker and whisper under her breath, "In your dreams, honey."



--Interlude--

While I was thinking these deep and important thoughts, dangling my feet in Pinecrest Lake, a boy who looked to be about 8 years old was chucking rocks the size of his head into the water for no apparent reason. After about ten minutes of this, he walked over me, carrying a particularly smooth, round rock and said, "Do you think this is the flattest rock there is?"

I told him in no uncertain terms, "Nope."

He tried to skip the rock, and it sank.

--End interlude--

Look, I don't have anything against ugly people. I'm glad you're comfortable with your body. The problem is, the rest of us are extremely uncomfortable with your body, and we outnumber you like six billion to one. We go to the beach to enjoy ourselves, not to see the world's largest open air cottage cheese buffet.

Don't get me wrong; I think we should treat ugly people the same as everybody else. What galls me is that ugly people don't seem to appreciate how much effort this takes. If you're ugly, keep in mind that the people around you are doing everything they can just to maintain eye contact with you. If you insist on having a crappy personality as well, they have no reason to keep you around any more. Unless they're also ugly people with crappy personalities, in which case they're only hanging around with you because they have nowhere else to go. And that's just sad.

If you're an ugly person with a great personality, at least you have the option of hanging around with other ugly people with great personalities or, if you prefer, attractive people with crappy personalities. But if you're ugly on the inside as well, you're just screwed. You can tell yourself that you're ugly on the outside with creamy nougat on the inside, but if everyone around you has the personality of Rosie O'Donell and the looks of, uh, Rosie O'Donell, then the odds are pretty good that you're just a big onion of ugly with layer after layer of ugly under a thin papery membrane of ugly. It's also a bad sign when people burst into tears everywhere you go.



My wife and I were once standing in line behind a group of ugly women who were engaging in the favorite pastime of ugly women: talking smack about still uglier women. It was during this exchange that I developed the First Rule of Ugliness. As the conversation went from catty to caustic, I turned to my wife and said, "You know, ugly people really shouldn't be superficial."

She gave me a long, hard look and said, "Yeah, I think you have something there." It's great to have a wife who is so supportive.

Also, she's hot.



One clarification regarding yesterday's post: You do NOT have to have a "humor" blog to participate in the Humor-Blogs.com Revenue Referral Program. It can be any kind of blog or website. So what do you say? Help me out and make some money and the same time. Read more here.

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]]> 2447295235792268368 Rock Me Amadeus! 2007/08/#2447295235792268368 2007-08-29 A common response to my blog reviews on humor-blogs.com is that "humor is subjective." As the whole point of writing a review of something is to provide an objective appraisal, I take this as a nice way of saying, "What you're trying to do here is stupid."

I'm not sure why people who have a philosophical difference with the concept of reviews bother to read the reviews in the first place. I suspect that if the review were more in line with their own opinion, the commenter wouldn't be so quick to resort to the "humor is subjective" line. My favorite comments are the ones where the reader tells me that humor is subjective, and then goes on to tell me why the negative review of a blog is full of crap. It's like, "Nobody's opinion is better than anyone else's, and besides, you're wrong and here's why."

Obviously there is a large subjective element to humor. But it's simply not true that humor is completely subjective. Original is better than unoriginal. Pithy is better than wordy. Unpredictable is better than predictable. Topical is better than dated. John Belushi is better than Jim Belushi. You get the idea.

I think the same is true of TV shows, movies, music, etc. You might like dramas and I might like comedies, but we can all agree that wooden acting and cliched dialog are to be avoided. You might like classical and I might like rock, but we can all agree that Billy Ray Cyrus is a black spot in the history of music.


Best. Song. Ever.

All this thinking about subjectivity and objectivity got started when Mrs. Diesel and I were waiting for a movie to start the other day. A countrified version of a Kelly Clarkson song was wafting through the theater speakers. My wife said, "Man, they can make a country song out of anything, can't they?"

And I realized that the answer to that was, "Pretty much, yeah."

To me, this is an objective indication of how much country music sucks. They make rock songs into country songs all the time, but you can't make a country song into a rock song. Why not? I'll tell you why not: Because it's easy to slow down a song and add some twangy guitars and overpronounced R's to the vocals, but if you speed up a country song and take out the twang, you don't end up with rock. You probably end up with something that sounds like Gin Blossoms B-sides, and not even people who knew the Gin Blossoms in high school want to hear that.

Rap music is even worse. Most rap songs are just a beat and some sound samples stolen from a rock song. And I'm no expert on music, but I know that you're supposed to have a melody, and you can't have one if you speak the lyrics in a monotone. You understand that's what "rap" means, right? It means "talking." You're talking over a background of drum machine beat and some looped bits of a Van Halen song. I don't think that even technically qualifies as music. Think of it this way: How many rock songs can you name that sample rap songs?

The answer is none, because they don't. Sampling a rap song would be like stealing food that a homeless person stole from another homeless person who picked it out of the dumpster behind Arby's. Sure, it might still be edible, but nobody wants a Big Beef and Cheddar that a wino has licked the cheese off.

As far as I can tell, the music hierarchy goes like this:
  • Classical
  • Rock
  • Pop
  • Country
  • That surprisingly pleasant squeaking noise that the paper towel makes when you clean the windows
  • Rap
Now just so you don't think that I'm a snob, I'll fully admit that I'm not sophisticated enough to "get" classical music. Classical music is just way too subtle for me to appreciate it. I need a thumping beat in my music so that I know what to do with my head. I need the occasional squealing guitar so that I can air guitar and pretend I'm onstage with Gun's 'n' Roses back before Axl got fat. And most of all, I need a clear auditory queue to indicate when I should commence lip-biting.

When I hear classical music, I don't know what I'm supposed to be doing or feeling. And I don't even know how to do air violin. When I'm listening to classical music, I feel like a precocious ten year old watching a Bergman film, who just knows he's missing something but can't put his finger on what it is. Maybe when I'm older I'll get it, I think.



That's why classical music is great for movies. When I see choppers hurtling over the jungle in Apocalypse Now, I think, "Oh, so THAT's what this song is about." And then there are classics like The John MacClaine Symphony, Thus Spake the Giant Black Monolith, and the Lone Ranger Overture. Once I'm instructed by a movie that I'm supposed to be feeling awe or excitement or boredom, I can react accordingly.

Now take a song like Tears for Fears' "Sowing the Seeds of Love", in contrast. There's a ton of crazy stuff going on in that song, and I can listen to it over and over and keep noticing new stuff that I hadn't noticed before. And yet, it's also catchy enough that the first time I heard it I thought, "Wow, that's a pretty cool song," and not, "Wow, I wonder if I would be happier listening to myself chewing?"

But at the extreme of simplicity, you have crap like The Black Eyed Peas' song "My Humps." Now I can imagine that if I were at the apex of an absinthe bender, I might enjoy listening to that song one time. But after a single listening in a highly impaired state, I would have absorbed all the complexity that song has to offer. It's like reading a Dr. Seuss book. Everybody loves Dr. Seuss, but trust me, if you've had to read Horton Hears a Hoo every night for three weeks, you know why old Ted Geisel had to change his name. He was afraid of being hunted down and having his Thing One and Thing Two shoved down his throat.

So I know that I should like classical music more than I do, and I should like rap even less than I do, but I'm a simple man and I can listen to just about anything with a decent beat.



And like everyone, I have to admit to having some guilty pleasures. There are some songs that I know suck, and yet I get a ridiculous amount of enjoyment out of them. Why do I own a copy of Asia's greatest hits? The songs are, without exception, overwrought and insipid. Yet I get an inexplicable thrill when they pop up in my iTunes playlist. Huey Lewis, Damn Yankees, Phil Collins.... I can't explain or defend it, but I love them all. I once had A-Ha's "Take on Me" as a ringtone, because it made getting phone calls fun. Try getting THAT song out of your head when you hear it every time the phone rings.

So what's my point? Hell if I know. I guess it's that there is something to be said for trying to objectively evaluate music, or movies, or blogs, or whatever else. But occasionally you just have to give yourself license to say, "Screw it. I don't know why I like it, but I do. Now CRANK IT!"


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]]> 7559706763766418946 Diesel's Campaign Running out of Gas 2007/08/#7559706763766418946 2007-08-17 Barely three weeks into a 13 year campaign, insiders report that the Diesel for President organization is struggling to regain the momentum of its heady early days. Having blown most of its budget on Mentos and bubblewrap, the group is having trouble keeping its focus. Rancorous infighting has broken out between staffers, who haven't been paid since the campaign's inception, and volunteers, who have accidentally been paid every day and twice on Tuesdays.

Meanwhile, there is confusion at the highest levels regarding how many levels there are, and how one can know what level one is on when the the elevator buttons have been replaced with Mentos. Rumors of nude thumb wrestling among the female staffers are rampant, and have not been nearly as helpful as expected in raising morale.

Senior campaign officials admit to having underestimated the difficulty of explaining to voters that Diesel is not in fact running for the current presidential election, nor the next one, nor the one after that, but rather the one after that. Some of the difficulty is blamed on the misguided strategy of targeting future voters who are currently between the ages of five and seven. The campaign's Tomorrow's Voters Today program apparently consists mostly of bribing grade schoolers with bubble wrap. A transcript of one of these exchanges was obtained by reporters when it was mistakenly mailed by overworked staffers to the cable company.
Staffer: Hey kid, you want some of this?
Kid: I'm not supposed to talk to strangers.
Staffer: I'm not a stranger, I work for Diesel. You know, the Mattress Police?
Kid: So you're a policeman?
Staffer: Why not? So do you want some?
Kid: What is it?
Staffer: It's bubble wrap.
Kid: Why the crap would I want that?
Staffer: It's fun. Watch.
[Popping noises]
Kid: What's that in your other hand?
Staffer: Nothing. Isn't the bubble wrap cool? I bet your friends don't have bubble wrap.
Kid: Is that candy?
Staffer: Let's focus on the bubble wrap. I give you the bubble wrap, and you promise to vote for Diesel in 2020.
Kid: Gimme some candy and I won't scream that you touched my bottom.
Staffer: Ok, ok. Here. Take the friggin' candy. Just vote for Diesel in 2020, alright?
Kid: Yeah, whatever. What the -- These are MENTOS.
Staffer: What's wrong with Mentos? They're the Freshmaker.
Kid: (Yelling) Miss Jordan, this man touched my bottom!
[Tires squealing]
The campaign's slogan, "Diesel: Time for a Change is Coming," was unfamiliar to 68% of the respondents in a recent survey, despite the fact that the survey was conducted inside the campaign's headquarters. The campaign has bandied about several other possible slogans, such as "Diesel: Past Imperfect, Future Tense!" and "Diesel: Something something something," which was inadvertently printed on 70,000 bumper stickers and 50 yards of bubble wrap.

To make matters worse, the organization's tax exempt status has recently come under fire from the I.R.S. Highly-placed sources indicate that the government is leaning toward classifying "Diesel in 2020" as either an illegal money laundering operation or a "dangerous cult." Diesel could not be reached for comment, but he is reported to be hoping for the latter.

At this point, the only hope for Diesel's campaign would seem to be a major shakeup, such as an embezzlement scandal or the selection of a new candidate. Senior campaign officials, vacationing in the Cayman Islands, have denied seriously considering either of these options. "We're 100% committed to Dennis," said one official. "We believe in the mission of the Apple Police."

Perhaps it was too much to hope for, that a regular guy like Diesel could some day become president. Perhaps it was too little to hope for. Perhaps, on the other hand, it was the exact right amount to hope for. Those would seem to be the options.

Diesel, for his part, isn't giving up. Not until he gets those federal matching funds anyway.




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]]> 2667655103439009321 Too Much to Bear 2007/08/#2667655103439009321 2007-08-15 I came across two alarming statistics recently. I read one of them in our local newspaper and the other one on the side of a Happy Meal container, so I'm pretty sure at least the second one is true.

Statistic 1: The world's population is likely to peak at 9 billion in 2070 and then begin to decline.
Statistic 2: Over 50 million Build-a-Bears have been sold since 1997.

It doesn't take someone competent in mathematics to see that, projecting from these trends, custom-designed teddy bears will outnumber people by the end of this century. If this weren't the case, would I have been able to generate this convincing chart in Excel? Hardly.



Numbers don't lie. Neither do pictures. And when numbers and pictures agree on something, you know it's serious.

The socioeconomic ramifications of this are staggering. It's a known fact that teddy bears who aren't loved as if they were a real live bear go bad faster than shows starring John Stamos. By the end of this century, we simply won't have enough misplaced treacly affection to go around. And thanks to our aging population, we'll be more dependent than ever on creepy middle-aged spinsters to love our bears for us. But there is a limit to the number of tea parties that even the creepiest of these women can have. What happens when we reach that threshold?

I'll tell you what: Build-a-Bears standing pathetically on every corner holding signs that simply read "Hug?" Marauding bands of Build-a-Bears wandering the streets, looking for hugs in all the wrong places. Build-a-Bears trolling chat rooms looking for a quick hug from an unsuspecting minor. Eventually bears desperate for affection will be breaking into our homes and smothering us to death with their fuzzy, cuddly love.

We need to take a stand before this situation gets out of control. First, every Build-a-Bear should be fitted with a shock collar that can be used to control the bear if it starts getting overly affectionate. Second, the bears need to be treated with Hug Aversion Therapy (HAT), a process of conditioning in which they are subjected to bear hugs while being forced to watch a three day marathon of According to Jim. Finally, the Build-a-Bears need to be trained in some sort of trade -- probably something that is too dangerous for humans to do, like coal mining or transporting six pounds of heroin in their bellies.

In this way we can create a servile caste of Build-a-Bears who cater to our every whim while they secretly plot to someday cast off their bonds. Except it won't be a secret, because we'll know they're doing it. Because if there's one thing I learned from watching sci-fi films, it's that the servile caste of apes/robots/Morlocks/whatever is always plotting to some day cast off the bonds of servitude. That's why everyone once in a while we'll grab a bear randomly off the street and torture him until he admits that he was plotting to cast off the bonds of servitude. Then we'll execute him and scatter his stuffing as a warning to the other bears.

It is also very important that we avoid saying things like "A world ruled by Build-a-Bears? That's absurd!" Because someone always says something like that right before the servile caste finally overthrows the bonds of servitude. Then it will be the humans' turn to be the servile caste, and we'll have to wait until the Build-a-Bears get cocky and say something like, "It is the natural order for Bears to rule Humans. Humans will never be anything but SLAVES! Mwuhahahahahahaha!"

It could take hundreds of years to achieve that level of ironic hubris, however, so our best bet is to stay on our guard and rip the stuffing out of anybody who looks like he might need a hug.



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]]> 496184809688478788 Let's Support Our Sagging Space Program 2007/08/#496184809688478788 2007-08-05 It's been a while since I did a post inspired by Parade magazine, and as I am now a candidate for the presidency I thought I should give the much respected Sunday newspaper insert a gander to see what is happening in this crazy world of ours. I was shocked at what I found. Howard Huge, get out of that kiddie pool! You're a dog, silly!

Howard, you see, is comically rolling around in the children's pool, whilst the lady of the house notes wryly, "And he's the one who hates to take a bath."

In case you're not familiar with the hilarious Howard Huge comic strip, this is from Howard's Wikipedia entry:
The comics star Howard, an enormous but lovable dog (a gentle giant, perhaps) and his family and neighborhood kids, and include such classic scenarios as Howard getting leaves all over the carpet or wagging his tail, thus negating his great poker face. Generally speaking, Howard's being large causes him to encounter inconveniences not normally faced by average-sized dogs. He is known to have been called a "maroon," as in "That Howard Huge.... what a maroon!"
I admire the ability of the wikipedist to almost completely conceal his disdain.

I tried to find a sample Howard Huge comic strip, but a Google image search for "Howard Huge" yielded this photo of model Sophie Howard and I completely forgot what I was looking for.



Once I had finished reading the entire (aptly titled) "Laugh Parade," I moved on to the magazine's more substantial features. I found particularly fascinating an article that purported to explain "Why America's Future Depends on Space." In it, noted astronomer and poultry expert Neil deGrasse Tyson argues that China is overtaking us in space.

At first I thought, well, they need it more than we do, right? They have like 8 billion people, and that's a lot, even if they are half the size of normal people. But then I realized that noted astronomer and heavyweight champ Neil deGrasse Tyson was talking about outer space. The article notes:
"During a recent trip to Beijing, I expected to see wide boulevards dense with bicycles as a primary means of transportation. Instead, I was surprised to see those boulevards filled with top-end luxury cars, while cranes knit a new skyline of high-rise buildings."
Can you believe that? Not only do the Chinese now have automobiles, they have cranes capable of knitting a skyline. Here in America we can't even get the pigeons to stop shitting on our top-end luxury cars, while over in China they've trained waterfowl to fabricate buildings out of yarn. I imagine these buildings are more impressive from a distance than close up, but still.

Evidently the knitting cranes were a fortuitous by-product of China's space program. The history of space exploration is littered with such happy accidents. For example:
"When the Hubble Space Telescope was launched in 1990, a blunder in the design of its optics generated hopelessly blurred images.... Eager astrophysicists [Is there another kind? -- Diesel] wrote suites of advanced image-processing software to help identify and isolate stars in otherwise crowed, unfocused fields... Meanwhile, medical researchers recognized that the challenge faced by astrophysicists was similar to that faced by doctors in their visual search for tumors in mammograms.... The medical community adopted the new techniques being used for the Hubble to assist their early detection of breast cancer. Countless women are alive today because of ideas stimulated by a design flaw in the Hubble Space Telescope."
To demonstrate just how vital this research is, here is a photo of a healthy adult woman's cleavage.



As if the threat to our nation's cleavage weren't enough, there are lots of other benefits associated with space exploration. Like, for example, it makes us feel really good about ourselves.

Noted astronomer and French navy admiral Neil deGrasse Tyson relates:
"The most popular museum in the world over the past decade is the National Air and Space Museum in Washington, D.C. It's an American legacy to the world. But, more important, it represents the urge to dream and the will to enable it. These traits are fundamental to being humans and have coincided with what it is to be American. When you you go to countries without such ambitions working within their culture, you feel the absence of hope. Due to all manner of politics, economics and geography, people are reduced to worrying only about that day's shelter or about the next meal. It's a shame, even a tragedy, how many people don't get to think about the future."
That's right, it's our duty as Americans to dream big dreams and do the cool stuff that less fortunate cultures don't get to do. As Jesus once said, "The poor you will always have with you, but you should build some kickass museums." I believe, from the bottom of my heart, that this attitude truly coincides with what it means to be an American.

Noted astronomer and Toronto middle school superintendent Neil deGrasse Tyson states that only 7/10 of one percent of American tax dollars goes to space exploration. That's a scant $15 billion, barely enough to pay for $15 billion worth of ridiculously expensive space crap.

"Couldn't that money be better spent on education or research to cure all manner of cleavage-related illnesses?" you ask. Nay, I say. Nay. For then we would know exactly which problems we were solving with our money. It's much more exciting to throw money at an incredibly impractical project in the hopes that we'll make a colossal error eventually resulting in a small -- but very real -- positive effect in some unknown area.

I'm still trying to decide what massive impractical project to undertake while I'm president. Perhaps I'll build the first intercontinental vacuum tube messaging system, or democratize Iraq. Whatever it is, it's going to be big. I mean, really, really big. If only there was some way to illustrate the truly unprecedented scale of this project.





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