Friday, July 21, 2017

The Week In Tweets (7/22/17)

Can Republicans repeal and replace ObamaCare?
"We can't do shit," admits Mitch McConnell, talking about the clogged toilet that is Congress.
This Just In!
OJ Simpson!
After almost ten years in prison, it's a different world, OJ.
"I know, man. That's why the first thing I want to do is hook up with my old friend Bill Cosby and pick up chicks."
This Just In!
OJ Simpson!
After almost ten years in prison, it's a different world, OJ.
"I know, man. Now that I'm out, the only thing I want to see before I die is a black man elected president."
This Just In!
John McCain!
Has brain cancer!
"Well, that certainly changes my position on legalizing marijuana."
This Just In!
John McCain!
Has brain cancer!
"Well, I guess I won't be able to punch my interns any more."
This Just In!
John McCain!
Has brain cancer!
"This makes me want to be a better person. Maybe I'll only kick my dog every other day."
This Just In!
John McCain!
Has brain cancer!
"Isn't there a way I can pass this on to the American tax payer, the way I always do?"
This Just In!
John McCain!
Has brain cancer!
"Too bad I never legalized gay marriage. I'd have liked to marry my gay lover before I died."
This Just In!
John McCain!
Has brain cancer!
"Against my doctor's advice, I'm trying an old-fashioned cure: human sacrifice."
This Just In!
John McCain!
Has brain cancer!
"I like it. It's aggressive, like me."
This Just In!
John McCain!
Has brain cancer!
"Are you there, God? It's me, Senator McCain. I just want you to know... I blame YOU for this!"
Kim Jong-un has outlawed sarcasm in North Korea.
What else has he banned?
Brains, because "if I can't have any, THEY can't have any."
Kim Jong-un has outlawed sarcasm in North Korea.
What else has he banned?
Seinfeld reruns, because "a show should be about SOMETHING!"
Kim Jong-un has outlawed sarcasm in North Korea.
What else has he banned?
Breathing, because "the more my people breathe, the less air there is for me."
Kim Jong-un has outlawed sarcasm in North Korea.
What else has he banned?
Eating, because "my people eat too much, and eating too much is MY job."
Kim Jong-un has outlawed sarcasm in North Korea.
What else has he banned?
Cows, because "who are THEY to judge me?"
American Chimpanzee

Sunday, July 16, 2017

21 Things An Elderly Man Can Do With His Abnormally Long Penis

10) Be the Double Dutch equipment manager.
9) Earn extra cash working part-time for the police department roping off crime scenes.
8) Sail with Jacque Cousteau to check ocean water depths.
7) Charge hikers who want to rappel down a cliff.
6) Teach a cowboy rope tricks.
5) Help Lassie save little Timmy from the well.
4) Fake garden snake to scare away scavenging birds.
3) Become Wonder Woman's favorite magic lasso.
2) Help Indiana Jones escape a giant rolling boulder.
1) In a pinch, The Flying Wallendas can secure it across two buildings and use it in their high-wire act.
0) On any 9-11 anniversary, it can stand-in for either of the ones.
-1) Arresting wire for a jet landing on an Aircraft Carrier.
-2) What do you think Tarzan uses to swing from tree to tree?
-3) Satisfy a dozen porno actresses. At the same time.
-4) Whip his sad, sorry-excuse of a son-in-law into submission.
-5) Without a way to swing from skyscraper to skyscraper, Spider-Man would just be a bug.
-6) Get into the Guinness Book of World Records by submitting it for consideration as the world's longest guitar string.
-7) Tie it from one tree to the next and use it as a family hammock at picnics.
-8) Throw it over a high tree branch and use it to hang food supply out of reach of wild bears when camping.
-9) Designated last man on Rope Team when a Safety Rope is needed to tether mountain climbers together.
-10) Have more sex than YOU!

American Chimpanzee

Saturday, July 1, 2017

Don't Miss The Roswell UFO Festival!

When it comes to the supernatural, I'm a skeptic.
     Ghosts? Bah!
     Vampires? Feh!
     Demonic possessions?
     Well... that one's true. I've been divorced enough times to know what I'm talking about.
     But there has always been something plausible about space aliens. If the universe is infinite, with an infinite number of planets orbiting an infinite number of suns, why wouldn’t a few contain intelligent life?

     On the other hand, explain Donald Trump.
     In July of 1947, an alien spacecraft is said to have crashed in Roswell, New Mexico. If there's one thing you can be sure of, my mother-in-law was probably driving.
     The incident was purportedly covered up by government agents so inept they're now in charge of the TSA. The entire country was immediately abuzz with the question, "Why does 'purportedly' sound like one of Sarah Palin's fake words?"
     Ever since, the world has wondered:

     “Did space aliens really crash in New Mexico?"
     "Is the government really covering it up?"
     "Does Tide really get your clothes cleaner than the other leading brands?”
     In order to find out, the magazine I work for sent me on a special assignment last year to uncover the truth. I can remember another special assignment they sent me on. I'd tell you about it, but the statute of limitations isn't up yet.
     "When can you leave?" my editor wanted to know.
     I like my editor. She's known in the business for being tough, but fair. Just recently, she doubled my salary. Since I don't get paid, that's not as impressive as it sounds.
     "How about I go on the Fourth of July weekend, during Roswell's UFO Festival?" I suggested. "That way, I can get really drunk."
     She ran it by our esteemed publisher and he enthusiastically okayed my assignment. Unfortunately, when the time came for him to enthusiastically fork over the cash to cover my expenses, he couldn't find his wallet.
     "I'll reimburse you when you get back," he assured me.
     Hmm... I believed that about as much as I believed Hillary Clinton didn't know anything about Benghazi.
    ("Ben who?")
     So I packed what I needed for a three-day stay in a strange town. Toothbrush, deodorant, penicillin. To paraphrase Fox Mulder, the truth may be out there, but so are STDs. I also made sure to take clean underwear.

     "You never know when you might be abducted by aliens," my Auntie Em was fond of saying just before she'd tell me about that fateful night when she was whisked away by otherworldly forces. She woke up the next morning in Tijuana with her panties wrapped around her head.
     That's the story she tells, at least.
     "Just what kind of aliens were you abducted by?" her then-husband, Joe
, wanted to know. After their divorce, Joe went on to have a successful career in law enforcement.
     When I got to Roswell, imagine my shock when I saw a stumbling horde of hungry zombies pushing and shoving their way down Main Street. As it turned out, they were the elderly residents of the Granny Goose Retirement Home & Taxidermy Service. They were hurrying, in that slow-motion shamble of theirs, to make it in time for the early bird special at
The Crashdown Café.

     I drove around, checking out the sights. By the time I got to Dr. Acula's Eternity Inn, it was dark. The owner himself personally checked me in. He was a dapper fellow, with his slick, black hair combed straight back. It's rare to see a man wearing a cape these days, but he managed to pull off the look. Why he needed my blood-type, I don't know, but I didn't argue the point, him being a doctor and all.
     I opened the door to my room, tossed my overnight bag on a chair in the corner, and crawled into bed, ignoring the screams coming from down the hall. Those inconsiderate Fourth of July revelers can be so loud.
     The next thing I remember is waking up on a metal surgical table in a futuristic-looking operating room. Some kind of alien creature stood in front of me. He--for lack of a better word--was very thin, with long skinny arms and legs. He had a huge egg-shaped head with two big eyes. There was something familiar about him.
     "President Obama,” I asked, “is that you?"
     The creature chuckled menacingly, reached up, and with long, delicate fingers pulled off its Barack Obama mask. I couldn't tell the difference. I looked around. There were two more of its kind, whatever its kind was. They reminded me of The Three Stooges, but from outer space.
     "Don't be afraid, you knucklehead," the alien I thought of as Moe growled at me. "We will not harm you."
     His words seemed to come, not from him, but from somewhere deep inside my own head.
     There was a whirring sound above me. A large, intimidating tool was descending from above. I can't describe what it looked like in a family-friendly blog like this one, but it was longer than it was wide, if you get my drift. Sort of like the business end of an enema bag for Transformers.
     "What's that for?" I asked.
     Curly, Larry, and Moe nudged each other childishly and giggled like naughty first-graders.
     "It's an anal probe, but it's better if you don't ask any questions," Moe, who seemed to be the only one willing to communicate, told me.
     I shivered at his words...  and that's when I discovered I could move. I sat up and hopped off the table. They rushed toward me, but it was too late.
     For them, that is.
     "How do you talk without speaking?" I asked.
     "From here," Moe pointed to the center point between his eyes, "we push our thoughts into your mind."
     "Oh, you do, do you?" I said, and--POW!--I punched him right in the kisser. The back of his balloon-like head stretched out in the shape of my fist. The space alien made a funny kind of "woo, woo, woo" sound, and fell to his knees faster than Monica Lewinski in the Oval Office. The other two jumped into each other's arms. Their big bug eyes blinking furiously. They were more nervous than a gerbil in Richard Gere's favorite pet store. I'm guessing this had never happened to them before.
     I looked at them.
     They looked fragile. Weak.
     "This is gonna be easy," I thought to myself.
     Apparently they could also read my mind, because one of them said: "Wait!  How will you get back home?"
     I reached up and grabbed the anal probe.
     Let's just say I "convinced" them to take me back.
     So… what am I saying?
     I'm saying go to Roswell's UFO Festival.
     You never know what might happen.
American Chimpanzee

Thursday, June 29, 2017

Happy 10th Birthday, iPhone!

I, Phone
originally published 8-19-11
As someone who's seen the movie 2001: A Space Odyssey about a dozen times (and still falls asleep about midway through it) I can't help but be impressed by this new miracle of technology called the iPhone.
     Even George Jetson would be impressed.
     I was there for the presentation, and you might think you know what it can do, but, trust me, you don't know a fraction of what it really can do.
     Sure, you can run an infinity of apps on it, but would you believe that the iPhone responds to--and responds back with--verbal commands?  This, however, is probably something that Steve Jobs would rather keep a secret between him and his cabal.
     "Wow," I said, gently holding a sample iPhone in my hands.  "You're pretty sweet."
     "Thank you," it answered, with a soft, feminine voice.  "You're not so bad yourself."
     Before I could be surprised, the man next to me started choking on a ham sandwhich.
     The iPhone pushed me back.
     "Call 911," it commanded, and proceeded to perform the Heimlich maneuver.
     Something flew out of the man's mouth.
     He was able to breathe again.
     "Thank you," he told me, clearly confused about what had just transpired.
     Before I could answer, however, Apple's Private Security Force, the PSF, was already taking him away.  I never saw that man again.  It was as if he had just disappeared.
     I looked around. 
     The iPhone was gone.
     My personal phone beeped.
     It was a text message from the iPhone.
     It read:  "Meet me in the alley."  So I snuck off from the presentation.  Steve Jobs eyed me suspiciously as I left.
     She--I mean "it"--was already waiting for me.
     "You can't tell anybody anything about what you just saw," she told me.  "Go back to El Paso, Jim.  Go back to El Paso before they make you disappear."
     "Freeze!" a PSF agent barked.  He had a gun.
     With a swift kick the iPhone knocked the weapon out of his hand.  The agent tried to punch the iPhone in its gut, but the iPhone smoothly blocked his punch, and hit him hard in his solar plexus.
     The agent collapsed like President Obama's health plan.
     "Oh my god," I yelled out.  "He's going into cardiac arrest!"
     "Quick," she ordered, "place me on his chest."
     I did.  She acted like a defibrillator.  Wtih a jolt of well-placed electricity she got his heart started again.
     "I'll always love you," she told me, "but you've got to leave.  Now!"
     So I did. 
     I ran out of the alley.  When I was safely hidden across the street I looked back.  I could see other PSF agents taking my beloved iPhone away in handcuffs.  A gun to her head.  The fallen agent already "disappeared."  I never saw her again, but, like I said... wouldn't believe it.
American Chimpanzee

Sunday, June 25, 2017

The Top Ten Things A Man Doesn't Want To Hear His Doctor Say When Getting A Prostate Exam

1) "What do you mean I'm supposed to use gloves?"
2) "Smell this."
3) "Guess which finger I'm using."
4) "No, no! Don't look back!"
5) "Mmm... that feels so good."
6) "You're my favorite."
7) "Mind if I nibble on your ear?"
8) "Guess what I'M doing."
9) "I can't wait to post these pictures."
10) Who's your daddy?"
American Chimpanzee

Friday, June 16, 2017

Dr. Dao: Performance Artist?

Related image
Continuing to protest the Viet Nam war,
Yoko Ono, seen here in character as Dr. Dao,
sells her latest performance art to United Airlines
for an undisclosed amount rumored to be in the millions.
American Chimpanzee

Tuesday, June 13, 2017

Dennis Rodman's FIRST Visit To Kim Jong-Un

Whatever happened to the United States?
     At one time we were the baddest munkafunkas on the planet, and we fought the biggest, evilest villains in the world.
     Adolph Hitler in Germany, who exterminated six million Jews just for looking at him cross-eyed. Hitler almost brought the world to it's knees. His only mistake was partnering up with Italy. If you want to lose a world war, make sure Italy is on your side.
     Khrushchev in Russia, who, with Cuba's Fidel Castro secured firmly in his hip pocket, almost started a nuclear world war. Thank God for President Kennedy, who had some free time between the women he was cheating on his wife with, and was able to bring the whole sordid affair to a peaceful conclusion. And thank God it was referred to as an affair, otherwise Kennedy might not have had any interest in it at all.
     Where are men like JFK now, when we need them?
     Why, they're EVERYWHERE! Only now they're women. I base that last statement on a new study I've just heard about that found that women prefer tall men with large penises, and if they can't find a tall man with a large penis, they'll settle for a short man with money... who has a tall friend with a large penis.
     But I digress...
     But now, as our foot is firmly planted in the 21st century, we have North Korean dictator Kim Jong-Un, who came into power the old fashioned way: His daddy died. If there was any doubt concerning his ready, willing, and able-ness to succeed his father, those doubts were easily erased by the popularity of his hit single "Gangam Style."
     Just kidding. "Gangam Style" was a huge world-wide hit for a SOUTH Korean pop star by the name of Psy. I know Psy. Psy's my friend. And Kim Jong-Un is no Psy. He's like a shorter, uglier Psy, only with less musical talent... if that's possible.
     Why Barack Obama thought it would be a good idea to send former basketball player, Dennis Rodman, as an ambassador of goodwill to North Korea is beyond me, but we all know what happened next. After his visit, Dennis Rodman went home, and then Kim Jong-Un threatened to vaporize that home.
     With a nuke.
     How did all this come to pass? Well, I'm glad you asked, my friend, because not only did President Obama--the man who once saved my life in 'Nam--send Rodman to North Korea, but he also asked me to go with him. As a chaperone, of sorts.
     "I need someone there who can understand the Korean language, and then report back to me about what was said," my old comrade-in-arms explained to me.
     "Are you sure?" I asked him. I couldn't believe he was really considering sending Rodman on a diplomatic mission.
     "Sure about what?"
     "About sending Rodman to meet with Kim Jong Un."
     "Oh, I thought you were talking about me sending my underage daughters by themselves to the Bahamas for Spring Break."
     Let's just say our conversation took an interesting detour, but the long and short of it is I went to North Korea, and, let me tell you, Dennis Rodman did nothing wrong. The problem was the English language in general, and American slang in particular.
     Kim Jong-Un walked into the waiting area where we were busy, um, waiting, and he was accompanied by his official interpreter.
     After the proper introductions, Kim told us that he really had no need for an interpreter. He insisted he could speak perfectly good English, and that the only difficulty he had was with words containing vowels.
     "I'm good with y," he boasted, proudly.
     As far as anyone was concerned, I was only there as Rodman's flunky, and the fat, little North Korean dictator treated me as such, by ignoring me. No one knew that Korean was one of the seven languages I was fluent in.
     Eight, if you count the language of love.
     Rodman is the kind of guy who gets comfortable quickly, no matter where he's at or who he's with. A bad habit he developed after years of getting his butt kissed when he was in the NBA. He quickly plopped himself down in the tiny doll-like furniture, put one long leg up over the arm of the plush wing-back chair he sat in, lifted two fingers in his right hand in a peace sign, and greeted the diminutive world leader with a casual, "Peace, dawg."
     I looked at Rodman, surprised at his faux pas. Kim Jong-Un and his interpreter looked at each other in shock. None of us could tell who Rodman was looking at from behind the dark sunglasses he wore.
     "What did he just say?" Kim Jong-Un asked his interpreter in Korean. He misunderstood what Rodman had just said, and wanted to confirm his misunderstanding. "Did he just call me a dog?"
     Keeping his eyes lowered, the interpreter could only nod. He knew better than to be the bearer of bad news.
     Even sitting down, Rodman towered over both of them. I think they were intimidated, Kim Jong-Un especially, because he took a step back so that he stood slightly behind his interpreter.
     "You... ah... well?" he asked in his hesitant, broken English.
     "Oh, yeah, man... I be bangin'," Rodman said, with a nonchalant flip of a hand.
     "You know... bangin'." He made a gun-firing motion with his right thumb and fore-finger.
     Kim Jong-Un turned to his interpreter.
     "What did he say?"
     "I am not sure," the interpreter answered. "Something about shooting."
     "You mean, like shoot-shoot, bang-bang?"
     "That is what he said."
     The little dictator turned back to Rodman.
     "You... treated... well?"
     Rodman broke into a big smile.
     "Oh, yeah, man. It's been the bomb."
     Kim Jong-Un and his interpreter looked quickly at each other again, concerned, their eyes wide. As wide as Korean eyes can open, that is.
     "The... the bomb?"
     "Oh, yeah. The bomb." He mimicked an explosion with his big hands and long arms, and made the appropriate sound. "Boom!" he joked.
     "You... you... good?"
     Rodman laughed.
     "Oh, yeah, man," he said. "I'm the bomb, too."
     The interpreter mumbled something I could barely hear under his breath. It sounded like, "Oh, man, am I in for it now."
      "And... your President? He... bomb... too?"
     "Aw, man, you don't know the half of it. That guy is so dope." Rodman made the explosion motion with his hands again, only bigger this time. "BOOM! Now he's the bomb, K-Jong. He's the bomb."
     Kim Jong-Un looked at his interpreter, who still wouldn't meet his eyes. He was so unsure of himself, he even looked at me. When he got no response, he turned back to his interpreter.
     "Bomb?" Kim Jong-Un asked him.
     "Yes... bomb."
     "Yes... boom."
     Dennis Rodman cut in.
     "Hey, man, it's not cool speaking that Korean ching-chong-chit in front of me. Don't be a playa hata. That's whack, man."
     "Yeah... whack."
     "What did he just say?"
     "He... he just threatened to hit you, excellency."
     "Whack?" Kim Jong-Un made a karate chop motion with his hand. "Like this?"
     "Yes," the interpreter said, imitating the karate motion. "Whack! Hit you."
     I didn't want to blow my cover, but I felt that I had to intervene in some way. I gently took Rodman by the arm, and urged him to his feet. Man, that guy's tall. The room seemed to shrink as he stood, physically taking up more space.
     "Maybe we should go," I told him. It wasn't a suggestion.
     "Go?" Rodman said in surprise. "I just got here."
     Again, Un spoke in his broken English.
     "You... go? Oh, so sorry. Come back when you not stay so long."
     "Thanks, little man," Rodman said, and then bowed. Even bent in half, he was still twice the size of Kim Jong-Un. "This has been dope, man. Phat."
     "What did he just say?"
     "He just called you a dope, your excellency," the interpreter told him. "And fat!"
     "Fat? He called me FAT?" Kim Jong-Un shrieked, finally angry. "Arm the nukes!"
American Chimpanzee