Saturday, December 24, 2011

Toy Wars

Well, I did it. I was able to get my little girl the hottest Christmas toy of the season. The stores were all sold out, it wasn't available on-line, but I was able to get my hands on one with only less than 12 hours to spare. I won't tell you how. All I'll tell you is who needs two kidneys. Just ask comedian George Lopez's wife, who was kind enough to give her loving husband one of hers just before he divorced her. I don't blame George for divorcing her. Who wants to be married to a woman with only one kidney? But I digress...
The toy in question is The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo doll. With removable piercings and changable tattoos. Eyebrows are optional. My little girl is five years-old. She'll love it.
And now that the hustle and bustle of the holidays is over, and all that's left is the pretending to love the gifts you were given, I can sit back, drink a little eggnog, and think back to a simpler time when the toys we played with could kill us.
It wasn't that the toys we played with were necessarily dangerous. It was that, as boys, any toy we played with was dangerous. I'm reminded of the Saturday Night Live skit "Bag-O-Glass" with Dan Ackroyd and Jane Curtain. In it, Dan Ackroyd played a sleazy toy manufacturer who sold such toys as Bag-O-Glass, which was a bag full of broken glass, and a Halloween costume called Johnny Human Torch, which was a bag filled with oily rags and a lighter.
My favorite of the toys we played with when we were young and innocent were Lawn Darts. Today, they're made with Nerf, but back then they were heavy, and had a metal spike at the end that could puncture skin and bone (don't ask). We had a lot of fun throwing them at each other. As well as throwing them up high in the air, and hustling to get out of the way when they fell back down to Earth, spike first.
Speaking of Nerf, it seems like a safe enough toy, but if you soak it with water, it makes for a very painful projectile. Nerf was invented so that kids could play ball indoors without breaking anything, but what's the fun of playing indoors if you've eliminated the possiblity of breaking something?
Another fun toy was something we called Clackers. It was two hard glass balls attached to a string. You would flip the balls up and down so that they would "clack" against each other. That was interesting for about five minutes. Then we'd get bored, and start hitting each other with them. They would leave a nasty bruise wherever they made contact. I think we may have even broken a bone or two, but we could never tell our parents, because then they would take them away, and we'd have nothing to play with. When there was no one around, we'd try to get them to clack against each other so hard they would shatter, glass shards flying everywhere.
One year, when I was about ten years-old, my grandmother bought me some Hot Wheel tracks to race my Hot Wheel cars on. Only I didn't have Hot Wheel cars, and she didn't have the foresight to buy me any. What a boring gift, right? Wrong! I used those plastic tracks to torture my friends and younger brother. It happened like this: I was disappointed when I first opened up the box, and saw all that was inside were these long plastic tracks. I picked up one, and kind of wobbled it in the air. It made a cool whipping noise. A light bulb went off over my head. As my little brother made the mistake of walking in front of me, I gave him a nice whack against the back of his thighs. His skin turned red and started to welt almost immediately. He yelled, and started crying. I laughed like the little jerk I was. It was a good thing my parents had left. They went to take my grandmother home, and I was in charge of my little brother.
"You'd better not tell mom and dad I hit you with my Hot Wheel track," I threatened him. "You'll get grandma in trouble 'cause she gave them to me."
My brother swore he wouldn't tell. He was half my age. He trusted me.
As a kid, everything we got our hands on was either destroyed, or used in a way to hurt each other. Those green plastic Army men? We would douse them in lighter fluid, and light them on fire. That was the one good thing about my dad's nasty smoking habit, we had plenty of access to lighter fluid and matches. If we got our sweaty little hands on a magnifying glass we'd use it to burn leaves, ants, and other insects. Soon, we found that the funniest thing to burn was each other. Our moms could never understand why we'd come home with little black holes in our clothes.
When there was a shortage of toys, we found interesting uses for tacks, rubber bands, stickers from crab grass, rocks, snow balls, and snow balls with rocks hidden inside. Those old wooden tops became something all of the neighborhood kids wanted. I know our parents would have never bought us one, if they knew all we wanted them for was to puncture each other's feet. Sometimes we'd do it by surprise, sometimes as a dare, and sometimes as the test you'd have to go through to join the club. What club? Whatever club one of us wanted to start, just so that we could use joining it to bully our friends into standing still while we tried to get the little metal spike on the bottom of the top to land just right.
The reason I know that our parents--or at least my parents--wouldn't buy us a particular toy if they knew what our plans were for it, is because I remember once getting a Wood Burning Set as a birthday gift from an aunt or uncle, it was basically a little sodering iron that was supposed to be used to burn letters or designs in wood or leather. My eyes lit up at the possibility of what I could carve my initials in. My toys. My furniture. My dog.
A hand came down on my shoulder. I looked. It was my dad. He must have seen the evil gleam in my eyes. It was a bit disappointing that I never saw that Wood Burning Set ever again, but I really couldn't blame him. When I got a chemistry set for Christmas one year, the first thing I tried to do was make explosives. However, I never seemed to get the formula just right.
Besides the explosives, another thing I tried to make was a time machine. I took the metal rack from my mom's oven, wrapped it in tin foil, attached an electrical cord to it, and, in theory at least, once someone "went through" the rack, they would appear on the other side in a different time and/or dimension. As luck would have it, I couldn't talk any of my friends into giving it a whirl. Not even any of their younger, stupider brothers or sisters. I was disappointed at the time, but not so disappointed that I considered traveling through time myself. Worse case scenario: death by electrocution. Best case scenario: actual time travel... but with no way to return. Either way, I guess I would have had to mark the results down in the "lose" column.
One of our greatest disappointments as kids, was that we weren't allowed to buy, use, or be anywhere near fireworks. This was because one of our older brothers had purposely distracted a friend of his who was about to throw a lit cherry bomb. I don't know about his parents, but us kids thought the friend looked pretty cool with only three fingers on one hand. After some time had passed, the poor guy began to think so, too, and really grew to like his new nick-name: Freddy Three-Fingers. He thought it was really tough and mafia-sounding.
Every stick in our hands became a gun or a knife or a rifle or a sword in our imaginations. We made rubber-band guns from the wooden clothes-pins our mothers would hang our clothes with on the backyard clotheslines. We had all heard of potato guns, but neither I nor any of my friends knew how to make one. Maybe if we had an Irish kid on the block.
In a related story, I've heard how dope-smokers can make a bong out of an apple. Besides the waste of a perfectly good apple, I just don't see the point. These dopers could grow up to be engineers or inventers, but, chances are, they'll just continue being dopers. To tell the truth, I don't think anybody really knows how to make a bong out of an apple.
Well... maybe Miley Cyrus.

The Aw, Nuts! Humor Blog


Friday, December 23, 2011

A Kwazily Kwanzaa Christmas

As an urban militant straight outta Compton--and who also just happens to be gay--I've gotta shout out loud how incredibly racist I find the white songwriting community to be for ignoring the black holiday of Kwanzaa.  This ancient tradition, which dates back to pre-Tupac times, is due reparations for this blatant slight.  Reparations, that is, in the form of holiday Kwanzaa songs.  You can keep your forty acres and a mule, you racist muthafathas.
     Kwanzaa, or "Kill Whitey," is from the African language of...  um, from the original..., ah, who am I kidding?  "Kwanzaa" is a made-up word that's meant to be African-sounding.  I think we succeeded.  That reminds me of the movie Skin Games, which starred James Garner and Louis Gossett Jr.  It took place pre-Civil War, and Gossett, who played a free black man who kept being sold over and over again as a slave in a money-making scam, made up African-sounding words to communicate with new slaves just brought over from the dark continent. 
     Kwanzaa is constantly ignored or overlooked.  For example, I saw the Michael Buble Christmas special the other night, and that racist honky didn't sing one Kwanzaa song.  Charlie Brown?  Racist!  Rudolph?  Racist!  The Great Pumpkin?  Delicious!
     When I spoke with my old friend Al Sharpton about these deserved reparations, he enthusiastically agreed with me, and told me to "call back when there's a profit to be maded. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to go comb my hair."
     Jesse Jackson was more pragmatic, and saw this Kwanzaa discrimination as a way to "stick it to those Jews well into the future.  For my children, but not for my children's children, because I don't think children should be having unprotected sex."
     "What about your illegitimate children?" I asked him.
     "They're the government's responsibility.  I didn't fight for civil rights in the 60's so I'd have to take care of kids in my 70's.  By the way, have I ever told you how Dr. Martin Luther King died in my arms?"
     "Uh, gotta go!"  I hung up.  He's only tried to tell me that story everytime I've talked to him.  A story, I might add, that's completely untrue.  I happen to know that while Dr. Martin Luther King was busy being assassinated (and dying in my arms) by Mark David Chapman--in an attempt to impress Jodie Foster--Jesse Jackson was busy seeing Miss Rudolph--a juju woman--and trying to persuade her to help a friend who had been cursed with tiny feet.
     So, apparently, I was on my own.  I went to N' Da Hood Records and spoke with the owner, Mr. Morty Lansky.
     "Get out of my office!" he suggested, helpfully.
     Next, I went to Dissin' Dat Publishing, but the President, Mr. Bernie Siegel, was busy taking credit for songs other people had written.
     Last on my list was CEO Abe Rothstein at Whut'Chu Talkin' 'Bout, Willis? Productions.  His secretary led me to his door.
     "Go right in," she flirted.
     I stepped through the doorway...  and found myself back outside in the alley behind the building.  There was an old wino relieving himself behind a dumpster.
     "Can I help you?" he asked me.
     Can he help me?  Can he help me?  Well, why not?  I told him my whole story.  He listened, respectfully.  Occassionally taking a swig from a bottle of Boone's Farm Strawberry Hill.  When I was done talking, he stayed quiet for a few moments.  Thinking.  Finally, he said:
     "Why don't you just write one of your own?"
     "What?" I asked him.
     "Why don't you just write one of your own?"
     That caught me by surprise.  I wasn't used to the concept of doing things for myself.  Doing things for myself is the government's responsibility.  The wino continued:
     "If you're waiting for some cracker to write a Kwanzaa song for you, you're gonna be waiting a long time."
     He made sense.  I thanked him, and left.  He continued talking, for some reason.  I don't know to who, as there was no one else there.
     "If I'm hungry, I eat," he said to someone I couldn't see.  "I don't wait for some peckerwood to serve me no Grey Poupon."
     And so, my brothers and sisters, I offer you the first Kwanzaa song.
     Please don't let it be the last.

          The Kwanza Song

          I'm killin' me a white man fo' Christmas!
          There ain't nuthin' no one can do!
          I'm killin' me a white man fo' Christmas!
          And next I'm gonna kill me a jew!

          Happy Kwanzaa, Everybody!

The Aw, Nuts! Humor Blog


Sunday, December 18, 2011

The Death of Kim Jong-il

It came as no surprise to Kim Jong-il when the Angel of Death came for him.
     "It's your time," the Angel said, holding out one skeletal hand.
     Kim stood up.  As he got out of his bed he no longer felt sick.  In fact, he felt pretty good. 
     "I guess you are were wrong," he laughed, smugly.  "I'm feeling better."
     The Angel laughed, too.  A low, gutteral laugh.
     "Look behind you," the Angel said.  Kim Jong-il did.
     "Hey," he chuckled.  "Who's that goofy-looking guy in my bed?"  He then took a closer look.  "Oh...  it's me."
     Just then his doctor entered the room with a nurse. 
     Kim looked toward the Angel and said:  "I can see their hearts breaking.  We were very close."
     The Angel of Death just nodded its head.
     The nurse turned to the doctor.  "Is he..."
     They both cried out in joy.  They were so happy they began dancing an Irish jig, which was odd since neither of them were Irish.
     Kim was in shock. 
     "I don't believe it.  They both love me.  My whole country loves me."
     His personal bodyguard ran into the room--gun raised--to see what the commotion was about.
     Kim Jong-il nudged the Angel with his elbow.  "Boy, are they in for it now," he laughed, spitefully.
     "Halt!" the guard commanded.  "Why do you celebrate?"
     The doctor looked at the guard in fear.
     "Our glorious leader has died," the doctor said, feeling the sudden need to change his underwear.
     The bodyguard looked at him with steely eyes.  His finger tightening on the trigger of his AK-47.  And then...
     The guard cheered, and then began doing a Russian dance where he squatted and kicked his legs out at the knees.  Which was odd, since he wasn't Russian.
     "This can't be true," Kim whined to the Angel.  "After all I've done for them, how could they do this?  Haven't I provided for them?  Haven't I made sure that they had all the grass and tree-bark soup they could eat?"
     That was the Angel of Death's cue.  He took the recently deceased high above the Earth.
     "Look," the Angel pointed.  As Kim looked he saw the continent of Asia covered in lights, except for one dark spot...  and then he understood.  North Korea was smothered in darkness because he kept his country poor and primitive.  He may have forced his subjects to say they loved him, but the truth was they hated him.  Their hearts were as dark to him as his country was.
     They hated him.  They all hated him.
     Kim Jong-il sadly looked at the Angel of Death, its eye-sockets an empty blackness.
     "Will you let me speak to my son a final time?" he asked, softly.
     The Angel's voice was almost delicate.  "As you wish," it said, and then took Kim to his son, Kim Jong-un.  His chosen successor.  Kim the elder gently woke his son, and when he spoke his voice was filled with a lifetime of regret.
     "Launch the nukes," he said.


Saturday, December 17, 2011

The Problem With Rudolph

I got home from work the other night, and saw my little girl was watching the holiday classic Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer.
     I grimaced.
     I'm not saying that holiday special is bad (which it is), I'm just saying the only thing worse would be listening to Miley Cyrus sing Nirvana's Smells Like Teen Spirit.  (And the only thing worse than that is watching her dance to it.)  I sat down anyway, and watched it with her.  Once again, I was reminded of that time, not so long ago, when I met a brave little pig.
     I drove down to a farm in the lower valley of El Paso, because I had heard farmers tended to have attractive daughters with liberal ideas about hospitality, but, instead of a daughter, this farmer had a pig.  The pig was missing three of it slegs, one of its two eyes, both ears, its tail, and part of its snout.
     "What happened to your pig, Farmer Brown?" I asked.
     "Well," Farmer Brown says to me, "one night the pig wakes me and the missus up, 'cause there was a gas leak.  We barely got out of the house when all that gas exploded, creatin' a fire. 'Oh my god!  The baby!' I yell, and the pig runs into the burning house and saves the baby.  From all the excitement, my missus falls to the ground.  Heart attack.  I don't know what to do, but the pig does.  He jumps up high and lands square on her chest.  Her poor ole ticker starts right back up again, good as new.  That little pig saved all our lives that night."
     "And his injuries were caused by the explosion and fire?" I asked.
     "Nah, that weren't it," Farmer Brown explained.  "You see, with a pig that brave...  you don't want to eat him all at once."
     I think about that pig every time I hear the Christmas song Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer.  The song starts out happily enough.  There's Rudolph.  He has a shiney nose.  Big deal, right?  It's not like he wants to serve in the military.  Well, it is a big deal, and not just to Rick Perry.  Apparently, it's a big deal to all the other reindeers.  They laugh at poor Rudolph.  They call him names.  They shun him.  And all Rudolph wants most in the world is to be accepted by his pack, and play their stupid reindeer games with them.  That, and gay marriage. 
     And what about all the adult reindeers?  The ones who should know better?  Did they step in and stop the bullying, or stand up against late-term abortions?  No, they didn't.  They weren't part of the solution, they were part of the problem.  They must have been Democrats.
     Even Santa Claus, who, as the fat guy in charge of the whole North Pole operations, decided to ignore the problem.  If he didn't acknowledge the bullying by the reindeers--both adult and young--then it didn't exist.  Like God.
     Finally, a greater power interceded.  A blizzard so big that it could barely hide behind Kim Kardashian's, ahem, talent.  Christmas, it would seem, might have to be cancelled.  Santa--in probably the first kind words he ever spoke to Rudolph--finally acknowledges his red-nosed reindeer, and asks him to guide his sleigh that night for what is essencially a suicide mission.
     Like a Japanese pilot from World War Two, Rudolph agrees, and Christmas is saved.  Then, and only then, do all the reindeer love him.  You know what I think about that?  Too little, too late.
     In the first place, Santa lives in the North Pole.  He's been doing his thing for hundreds of years.  You would think he'd have a Plan B for what happens when the weather turns bad.  Secondly, well, there is no secondly.  I just wanted to use the phrase In the first place... to make my point seem more important than what it was.
     If I were Rudolph, and Santa Claus came groveling up to me after years of neglect and abuse...  POW!  Right in the kisser!  I would have punched him like the punching-bag he's shaped like.  You can take your sleigh and your toys and all your non-glowing-nosed reindeer, fat man, and stick them where the skin turns pink!
     The song is bad enough.  Watching the TV claymation version of it makes it even worse.  An elf is brow-beaten just because his true calling is dentistry?  Those elves would rather walk around with rotten teeth and bad breath?  And Santa, apparently, values production on the assembly-line over the health and welfare of his workers?  Where are the Teamsters when you need them?  Plus, I was always bothered by the Island of Misfit Toys.  An island filled with irregular, but otherwise perfectly fine, toys.  Santa couldn't have given them out in the minority neighborhoods?
     No, I've never cared for the song Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer, and I care for the TV special even less.  My little girl loves it, though.
     Go figure.

The Aw, Nuts! Humor Blog


Friday, December 9, 2011

Decision Putz

I was honored, to say the least, when former president and WWE champion George W. Bush called me personally and asked me to help him write his book, Decision Points.  I'd be in charge of the writing, and he'd be in charge of the cartoons.  Bush and I go a long way back.  He even gave me my nickname:  Jimmy the Saint.
     We first met during Spring Break in Pensacola, Florida.  I was a sophomore at the University of South Alabama in Mobile, and he was, ahem, on leave from the National Guard.  I beat him in a tequila-drinking contest, and a life-long friendship was formed.
     "Be honest, be funny, just make sure it eats up a lot of pages," he instructed, "and whatever you do, don't write about that guy we killed down in Biloxi."
     It was a more innocent time.  I was chowing down on a plate of beer-boiled shrimp in some dive-bar by the beach.  It sold for 25 cents on a Monday night.  Living close to the Gulf had its advantages. 
     Bush strutted up to me, BMOC.  He had a cute girl on his arm.  She was wearing a yellow bikini.  A librarian, he later told me.
     "You're sitting at my table, buddy," he told me, as cocky then as he is now. 
     I looked at him.  He was taller than I was, but one nice thing about tall guys is that they count on their size to do the fighting for them.
     POW!  I punched him right in the kisser.  He stumbled backward, but didn't fall.  He was on me faster than a White House denial.  The fight itself was a draw, so when he challenged me to a tequila-drinking contest, I couldn't resist.
     "Loser pays, rich boy?" I trash-talked him.
     "Loser pays," he answered, slurring a bit from a swollen jaw.  "Now, get ready to lose."
     Two and a half bottles of Jose Cuervo later he was on the floor, and I was leading his pretty little librarian back to my room at the Motel 6.
     The last time I saw Bush was during Hurricane Frederick.  It was then I decided to move back to my hometown of El Paso, because I discovered that the one thing I require from weather is that it doesn't kill me.  Bush, on the other hand, was heading to the beach for some bodacious surfing.
     We kept in touch off and on throughout the years, but getting together never seemed to materialize.  His mother had warned him to stay away from me.  She thought I was a bad influence.  So when he flew me out to his ranch I was more excited than Rosie O'Donnell at an All-You-Can-Eat buffet. 
     When I got there he was sitting behind the cherry-wood desk in his office.  Just as cocky as I remembered.
     "Hey, Duchene..."
     "Yes, Mr. President?"
     He pulled out a bottle of Jose Cuervo. 
     "...get ready to lose."
Fifty Shades of Parody


Friday, December 2, 2011

Headlines (Part One)

Man's Head, Body Found Separately
That man is now the Republican front runner.

Indian Girls Shed "Unwanted" Names
Take a hint, African-Americans.

Young Protesters Jailed On Assault, Other Charges
29 Demonstators were arrested in Juarez, Mexico as they marched to remember the more than 8,500 people who have been killed by the drug cartels since 2008.  Why didn't the Mexican police arrest the violent drug cartel members who have been doing all of the kidnapping and raping and murdering?
"Are you kidding?" Adrian Sanchez, a spokesman for the Juarez Police Dept., said.  "Those guys are dangerous!"

Women Struggle To Run For Office In Tunisia
"We could use some help," the Tunisian Association of Democratic Women said before Tunisia's first free elections.
"Call us when you're fighting for abortion rights," said Ms. Terry O'Neill, president of the National Organization of Women.

Obama Pardons 5, Orders 1 Set Free
The crimes of the criminals pardoned included the distribution of cocaine, conspiracy to transport stolen property, conspiracy to possess and distribute in excess of 1,000 pounds of marijuana, and conducting and directing an illegal gambling business.
Also on his list, Jeffrey Dahmer.
"What do you mean he's dead?" asks an honestly perplexed Obama.  "Why isn't that on my tele-prompter?"
Fatals Ahead Of 2010
The thing that immediately struck me when I read this headline is they used the word "fatals," instead of the proper "fatalities."  I'm not even sure there is such a word as "fatals." 
Where was their editor?  On Obama's pardoning list?

Alcohol Factor In More Than 60% Of Traffic Deaths
I hate to sound like an old geezer, but there were less alcohol related fatalities in my day.  This was because there wasn't such a concerted effort to rid the roads of drunk drivers.  Once towns and cities discovered that drunk drivers were a good source of revenue, then they decided that it was in their financial interest to keep them alive as a continuing source of income.
In my day, drunk drivers would crash, die, and then there would be one less drunk driver on the road.  That made for safer roads.  Now, with AA or rehab, we try to save the lives of every drunk who wants to get behind the wheel of his car, and, as a result, there are more drunk drivers on the road than ever before.

Call Renewed For Tougher DWI Laws
I remember once, back in the 70's, my buddy and I were driving home from a party at George W. Bush's dorm room.  Behind us were the flashing red lights of a police car.  The police officer told my buddy that he was too drunk to drive, and then he turned to me.
"Do you mind taking over for your friend?" he asked me.  I was just as drunk.
"Of course not, officer."
I swapped places with my buddy, and we got on the road and made it back to our apartment, safe and sound.  When we woke up the next day, still sitting in the car, we were happy to remember that the officer didn't even give us a ticket.
Now that's law enforcement at its finest!

Mayor Says Occupy L.A. Must Leave Camp Monday
Or what?  He'll hit them with his purse?

Juarez Officers Held After Crossing Border
"We just needed a hug," they explained.

Marine:  Fears Over Ending Gay Ban Prove Unfounded
In a related story, non-gay marines are upset that they aren't found attractive enough to be hit on by their gay counterparts.

Lubbock Man Gets Stuck In Chimney
I could try to find the joke, but, trust me, it wouldn't be as funny.

Grammy Nods Full Of Musical Surprises
The biggest surprise was when everybody discovered that all of the songs nominated sounded exactly alike.
Democrats To Pursue Protections For Voters
Condoms for everybody!

Kourtney Kardashian Expecting 2nd Child With Boyfriend
Says an ecstatic Kourney Kardashian:  "I am so incredibly happy.  My boyfriend's the sweetest, kindest, most loving man in the world!"
Says her boyfriend:  "I'm still not marrying her."

U.N.:  Syrian Forces Killed, Tortured 256 Children
Do you know what former Penn State coach Jerry Sandusky calls Syrians?

Fifty Shades of Funny

Headlines (Part Two)

Obama Pardons 2 Gobblers
President Obama continued a White House Thanksgiving tradition by pardoning two gobblers.  Though grateful, both Monica Lewinski and former Penn State coach Jerry Sandusky had no further comment.

Tent Fire Kills 13 At Eunuch Gathering
This is a really sad story, but the fact that they were eunuchs makes it funny.  The only thing that would have made it funnier is if the eunuchs were midgets.  The approximately 5,000 eunuchs gathered in India for a prayer ceremony.
Who says God doesn't have a sense of humor.
(Interesting sidebar:  Eunuchs use only one name.  Like Cher.)

Police:  Man Viewed Child Porn On Flight
Once again, Jerry Sandusky had no comment.

Nearly 400,000 Deported In Fiscal Year
Do you know what President Obama calls over 400,000 illegal aliens deported back to Mexico?
A good start.

Justice Dept. Lawyers Say They'll Quit If Offices Close
The career antitrust lawyers later retracted their threat when they realized nobody cared.

Truck With Obama Gear Stolen In VA
And these are the guys we're supposed to trust with our health care?

American Duo Wins Nobel In Economics
Christopher Sims and Thomas Sargeant, both 68, devised tools to analyze how changes in interest rates and taxes affect growth and inflation.
"We've found that the less money a person has, the less money that person will spend," said one.
Their work doesn't provide answers to solve today's economic problems.
"Yeah, I guess you can say it's a scam," said the other.

Anyone Can Run For U.S. President
And, apparently, anyone can win.

Please Don't Touch The Baby, Signs Ask Politely
"Why's everybody looking at me?" asks a non-commenting Jerry Sandusky.

How To Keep Courts Running After Attack On Several Justices
A new report by Norman Ornstein & John Fortier of the American Enterprise Institute and Thomas Mann of the Brookings Institution came to the conclusion that "You can make a ton of cash writing reports for the government.  Ka-ching!"

Woman, 62, Hurt When Car Hits Her
"Don't worry, I'm okay," said the car.

Police:  Fake Doc Injected Cement In Woman's Rear
"I should have been suspicious," said the woman, "when the doctor said 'I'm going to inject cement into your ass.'"

Muffins Weren't $16 Apiece After All
The $16 muffin that became a reviled symbol of government waste didn't cost $16, after all.  That's the new conclusion of Justice Dept. auditors in an audit that cost the taxpayers $14,000,000. 
"They were actually $15.99," they admitted, and immediately apologized to the Justice Dept.'s Executive Office for Immigration Review, which sponsored the 2009 conference.
"It didn't seem like such a big deal once we realized it wasn't our money we were spending," they clarified.

High School Teacher With Porn Web Sites Put On Leave
In a related story, she was voted favorite teacher by the male Student Body and Faculty.

School Principal Resigns After Sexting Student, 22
If there's one thing this principal should have learned from disgraced former Congressman Anthony Weiner it's that no young girl is interested in a picture of your dork.

Testing Anthrax Vaccine On Kids Draws Fire
"What's the big deal?" Jerry Sandusky finally comments.
Fifty Shades of Funny


Thursday, November 24, 2011

Herman Cain Can (Part One)

Herman Cain can take criticism.  He just takes it to the next level, which is death.

Herman Cain can turn back time simply by focusing his intense eyes and staring it down.

Herman Cain can fill out his tax forms with just his name and not have to pay his taxes.

Herman Cain can stare at you until you explode.

Herman Cain can tell you what happened to the unicorns.  They were delicious.

Herman Cain can end his relationships by honestly saying "It's not me, it's you."

Herman Cain can drink gasoline and get 78 miles per gallon.

Herman Cain can punch you so hard you'll fly into the future and land at the feet of President Palin.

Herman Cain can swallow an Occupy Wall Street protester whole, and the end result will be a Navy Seal.
 Herman Cain can finally take credit for killing Osama bin Laden.  Seal Team Six?  They're a bunch of liars.
Herman Cain can can make sweet love to your mom, while your dad enjoys the pizza Herman Cain brought him.

Herman Cain can get jiggy with Miss Piggy, leaving Kermit the Frog green with envy.

Herman Cain can deny ever having sex with your woman, and, if you don't believe him, he can also repeatedly punch you in the face until you do.

Herman Cain can take your virginity.  If you're not a virgin, he can still do it.  It'll just take him a little longer.

Herman Cain can have anyone he wants.  Yes, even you.

Herman Cain can only achieve orgasm by crushing his enemies, seeing them driven before him, and hearing the lamentations of their women.
Herman Cain can do things three ways:  the right way, the wrong way, and the Herman Cain way.  The Herman Cain way makes the other two unnecessary.

Herman Cain can strangle you with one hand, and satisfy your woman with the other.

Herman Cain can charge any electrical device just by rubbing it on the top of his head.

Herman Cain can tell you where babies come from.  If you're a woman, he'll show you.

Herman Cain can power a small city with the static electricity in his hair.

Herman Cain can create a rainbow by sheer force of will.

Herman Cain can give an angel its wings by ringing a bell.  Your woman's bell.

Herman Cain can put pepperoni on your pizza.  Or onions.  Or the heads of your enemies.

Herman Cain can smile using only 17 muscles in his face.  He can make your woman smile using only one.

Herman Cain can pass gas, and everybody will swear they smell freshly baked bread.

Herman Cain can have any woman as many times as he wants, but, for Herman Cain, once is enough.

Herman Cain can swallow a Rubik's Cube, and the end result will come out solved.

Herman Cain can sue TV producer Dick Wolf, because "Law" & "Order" are the trademarked names of his left and right fists.

Herman Cain can win a hot dog eating contest, and, later that night, so can your woman.

Herman Cain can make an onion cry.

Herman Cain can impregnate anybody.  If you're thinking "well, he can't impregnate me.  I'm a guy" you'd be sadly mistaken.

Herman Cain can eat coal, and the end result will be a diamond.

Herman Cain can eat the entire cake at a bachelor party, including the stripper.

Herman Cain can impregnate your woman, but don't try to abort the fetus.  That only makes it stronger.

Herman Cain can train his dog to pick up its own poop.  That's because Herman Cain doesn't take crap from anyone.

Herman Cain can always see you, but you can't always see Herman Cain.  Warning!  You may be only seconds away from death!

Herman Cain can proudly tell you about his two grown children.  It's the other seventeen he doesn't like to talk about.

Herman Cain can put his pants on one leg at a time, just like you or me.  He just takes them off more often is all.

Herman Cain can bend light and warp time.  If you don't believe me, just take a look at what he did to Stephen Hawkins.

Herman Cain can remember that fateful day when he leaned against an old tower in Pisa, Italy, and...

Herman Cain can replace the entire cast of Modern Family and no one would notice.  He's that good.

Herman Cain can shoot a plane out of the sky simply by pointing his finger and going "Bang!" 
  Sadly, he discovered this talent duing the Challenger launch.

Herman Cain can stop time just by sticking out the palm of his hand like a traffic cop.

Herman Cain can, when angry, radiates the heat of a thousand suns.

Herman Cain can train a dinosaur.  Too bad they're extinct, or else he would show you.

Herman Cain can fit six billiard balls in his mouth.  But, to tell the truth, so can any other politician.

Herman Cain can swallow art supplies and the end result would be the Mona Lisa.

Herman Cain can punch through steel...  but he's sticking to his story that he had nothing to do with the sinking of the Titanic.

Herman Cain can go on Jeopardy! and beat IBM's unbeatable Watson computing system in the first category.  How?  By beating it to death with Alex Trebek.
Fifty Shades of Funny


*with a wink and a nod to Ian Spector, who not only talks in the third person, he sees in the third person
**send me your Herman Cain Cans

Friday, November 18, 2011

Herman Cain Can (Part Two)

Herman Cain can shatter a mirror just by looking at it.  Not even a mirror is stupid enough to look Herman Cain in the eyes.

Herman Cain can creep out a clown.

Herman Cain can give you heartburn.  With one punch to the chest, your heart will catch fire.

Herman Cain can make Death wish it was dead.

Herman Cain can use the phrase "eat my heart out," but you can't, because Herman Cain will literally eat your heart.

Herman Cain can punch you in the face.  From the inside out.

Herman Cain can break a mirror, and it's the seven years that will have the bad luck.

Herman Cain can donate a testicle to Lance Armstrong and still be twice the man you are.

Herman Cain can be bitten by a rattlesnake, and, after days of suffering, the rattler will finally die.

Herman Cain can always win a game of paper-rock-scissors.  How?  With a punch to your face.

Herman Cain can kill you in more ways than there are to die.

Herman Cain can eat a box of Alpha-Bits, and the end result will be a love letter to his beautiful wife of 43 years.

Herman Cain can have his cake and eat it, too.  And then he'll eat yours.

Herman Cain can run for the Senate in any state, and win both seats.

Herman Cain can take a driver license picture and look better than you on your best day.

Herman Cain can bring a man back to life if that man has the nerve to die before Herman Cain is done killing him.

Herman Cain can visit the Lincoln Memorial, and Honest Abe will get up just so Herman Cain can have a place to sit.

Herman Cain can look in his car's rear-view mirror, and objects will appear to him at their proper distances.

Herman Cain can beat IBM's Deep Blue computer at chess with only one move.  That move is a punch to its hard-drive.

Herman Cain can go to a zoo, and all the animals will thank God they're in cages and safe from Herman Cain.

Herman Cain can break wind, and it will stay broken.

Herman Cain can legally wear pants only by first obtaining a concealed weapon license.

Herman Cain can classify women into two types:  Those that want to sleep with him, and those that want to sleep with him again.

Herman Cain can have a heart attack, and his heart will learn the hard way not to do that again.

Herman Cain can honestly say that the only thing he's ever lost was his virginity.

Herman Cain can order a Big Mac at Burger King...  and he'll get one.

Herman Cain can turn off the bedroom light-switch and be in bed satisfying your woman before the lights go out.

Herman Cain can be the next face on Mount Rushmore, but, unfortunately, granite is not a hard enough substance to capture the hardness in Herman Cain's eyes.

Herman Cain can clog the toilet just by urinating.

Herman Cain can tell a woman "yes, that does make you look fat," and that woman will thank him for his honesty.

Herman Cain can go to bed at night and sleep like a baby.  The Boogeyman, however, stays up all night worrying about Herman Cain.

Herman Cain can find a rock too heavy for him to lift, and then he'll lift it just to show you that there's nothing that Herman Cain can't do.

Herman Cain can take criticism...  he just doesn't take it very well.

Herman Cain can communicate by thinking words into his fist, and then punching them into your head.

Herman Cain can open up a can of Whoop-Ass, and, when he looks inside, he'll just see more Herman Cain.

Herman Cain can pass any test simply by writing his name at the top of the sheet and turning it in.

Herman Cain can give Freddy Krueger nightmares.

Herman Cain can go as Herman Cain for Halloween, and he'll get twice as much candy as anyone else.

Herman Cain can bring a dead man back to life, and then immediately kill him again, just to show that what Herman Cain giveth, Herman Cain can taketh away. 

Herman Cain can explain why there are no longer any dinosaurs.  "See that dent in its skull?  It's the exact shape and size of my fist."

Herman Cain can look at you, and, if he even thinks about Jesus, you'll be saved.
Fifty Shades of Funny


*with a wink and a nod to Chuck Norris, who has never used a question mark in his entire life

Same Old Politicians, Same Old Problems

I was driving on the freeway making my way to one of the many early voting sites located around El Paso.  I was on the passing lane going 50 mph.  It wasn't my idea to go that slow on the fast lane.  It was the idea of the driver in the car ahead of me.  I flashed my high-beams at him in the international signal to scoot over.  He flashed me back with the longest finger on his right hand, and punctuated that gesture by hitting his brakes.  It could have been worse. 
     He could have been from New Mexico driving 40. 
     But I wasn't about to let him get me down.  It was a great day, and a great day to vote.  Besides, I thought, when we vote the same elected officials back into office again I bet you they'll finally do something about those crazy drivers.
     There's a lot that we can complain about in this town.  In fact, a lot of people do nothing but complain.  Some even move elsewhere thinking that somewhere just over the next rainbow there's a land where bluebirds are singing, and milk and honey are flowing.  Myself, I know better.  I know that taxes are high and money's scarce.  If we just keep voting in the same people over and over again I'm sure that someday our taxes will be fair.
     Growth and prosperity?  Redistribution of wealth?  Childhood obesity?  Ex-wives?  If we can just vote in the usual suspects often enough, I'm sure they'll eventually do something about it.
     I don't live in District 76, but, like many of you, it's caught my attention like a bad episode of Jerry Springer.  It's a good example of how people in El Paso don't run on the issues.  They run on whether or not their opponent knows that the quickest way to a man's heart is with her fist.
     I was listening to Paul Strelzen's radio program quite a few months back, and a caller by the a.k.a. of The Patriot insisted that it's not the Democrats who are responsible for our high property taxes, but the Republicans.  That may be true--I can't prove otherwise--but I couldn't help but think:  What Republican has that kind of juice in this town?  And then I thought:  This pointing of fingers has got to stop.  The only fingers I want pointing are the fingers of voters voting in the candidate who has the best interest of El Paso at heart.
     Yes, our city does have its share of problems, but when it comes to solving them...  I think it's up to us.
Fifty Shades of Funny


Friday, November 11, 2011

Herman Cain Can (Part Three)

Herman Cain can proudly tell you all about his 2 grown children.  It's the other 17 he doesn't like to talk about.

Herman Cain can take criticism...  that is, if you can take Herman Cain's fist repeatedly slamming against your skull.

Herman Cain can tell you who's buried in the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.

Herman Cain can watch 60 Minutes in just half an hour.

Herman Cain can hit a man so hard that that man's future children will be born with a fist-shaped dent in their heads.

Herman Cain can give a woman an orgasm via a third party, like UPS.

Herman Cain can go trick-or-treating, and he'll come back with a Halloween bag filled with women's virginity's.

Herman Cain can make Bill Clinton look like an amateur.

Herman Cain can leave a woman feeling satisfied with just a wink and a nod.

Herman Cain's eyes can take the place of those airport x-ray body scanners.

Herman Cain can savagely punch a man in the chest and pull out his still-beating heart.  But he would never do that, because Herman Cain is not that kind of man.

Herman Cain can make Minute Rice in seconds.

Herman Cain can hit a man so hard that the shock-waves can knock a plane out of the sky.  Now you know what happened to Amelia Earhart.

Herman Cain can have your woman, if he wants her.  In fact, while you were reading this, he did.

Herman Cain can blow out the Eternal Flame on President John F. Kennedy's grave.  But he won't.  Herman Cain respects JFK too much.

Herman Cain can count to infinity and back, and still have time to pick up that hot White House receptionist.

Herman Cain can eat just one Lay's potato chip.

Herman Cain can find out who's been naughty or nice, but he'd never give that information to Santa. Herman Cain is no snitch.
Herman Cain can pick the winner of any sporting event, and be correct 100% of the time.  Has Herman Cain ever gambled?  That's none of you damn business!

Herman Cain can get a woman pregnant just by sitting where she once sat.

Herman Cain can let you have some of his testosterone.  He has more than enough.

Herman Cain can die, go to Heaven, and if he's offered 72 virgins he'll just say:  "No, thanks.  I've already had my share."

Herman Cain can walk down any casino in Las Vegas, and the slot machines will give up their jackpots to him out of respect.

Herman Cain can go back and forth in time, but sees no point.  He's happy where he is.
Herman Cain can honestly say he's been happily married to the same woman for 45 years.  Now you know why your woman has been crying herself to sleep every night for the last 45 years.

Herman Cain can visit every house around the world on Christmas Eve, just like Santa.  Only he wouldn't leave presents.  He'd leave your woman satisfied.

Herman Cain can come back with a full candy bag on Halloween just by trick-or-treating at one house.

Herman Cain can go around the world in 80 days.  Why does it take him so long?  The women, my man.  The women.

Herman Cain can fight Ali, Frazier, and Tyson to a standstill.  But why would Herman Cain want to humiliate them?

Herman Cain can beat President Obama.  In the 2016 presidential elections?  Oh, sure.  That, too.

Herman Cain can fix the economy, bring peace to the Middle East, and make sweet love to your woman all at the same time.

Herman Cain can visit The Virgin Islands, and when he leaves they'll just be called The Islands.

Herman Cain can take criticism.  He just takes it deep in the forest, and shoots it in the head, Miller's Crossing-style.

Herman Cain can go to France, and the French will immediately surrender.  Just in case.

Herman Cain can always win a game of paper-rock-scissors.  How?  While you're busy playing games, Herman Cain is busy getting busy at your house.

Herman Cain can trace his nine-nine-nine tax plan back to that hot young female consierge from Germany who kept telling him "nein-nein-nein."

Herman Cain can be the next President of the United Sates of America if he wants to.  He just doesn't want to.
Can Herman Cain eat at Kentucky Fried Chicken? Of course he can, but he doesn't. He refuses to lick anybody's fingers. Even his own.

Fifty Shades of Funny

*With a wink and a nod to Ian Spector & Chuck Norris, who aren't one of the 1%.  They ARE the 1%!

Why El Paso?

I learned an interesting fact the other day as I was surfing that Devil's Playground known as the internet, and, as we all know, if it's on the internet it must be true.  The fact was this:  men are good at following orders.  Women, however, seem to need an exceptional amount of discussion before they decide to do something they're not supposed to do.  Any man who's received a gift from a woman knows this to be true.  They'll give you what they think you want, rather than what you actually want.
     I remember once receiving a Teddy Ruxpin talking bear as a gift from my 2nd wife.  Why she thought I would like this children's toy is beyond me, since I had never shown a desire for a stuffed animal before, much less one that talks.
     "I thought you would like it," she told me.
     "Why would you think that?"  I asked her, honestly perplexed.
     "Well, you like robots," she answered, and immediately started crying, thus ending any potential argument.
     I have no idea why she thought I liked robots, either.  Maybe I once said in passing that I liked a particular movie that happened to have a robot in it, but, to tell the truth, I like talking stuffed animals even less than I like robots, and that's pretty low on my scale of likes and dislikes. 
     Personally, I think she bought me the darn thing for two reasons:  First, she bought it because she knew it would irritate me.  Second, she wanted it for herself.  Later, when we divorced, she took the bear and left the kids.  Go figure.
     The reason I found this internet factoid so interesting was because I saw it as a great way to sell El Paso to tourists and businesses.  I called my friends at the Sterling Cooper Advertising Agency, and they thought it was a great idea, too.  Don't try to convince or beg anyone to come here...  TELL THEM!  And if they're men, they'll obey, because obeying orders is what men do best, just ask the Nazis.  As for women... just have to tell them that they'll get a great tan here.

     Why El Paso?  Because I Said So!  See?  Didn't you immediately want to get up and go to El Paso, only to remember that you were already here?

     Come To El Paso!  And I Mean NOW!  "Come to El Paso" is an order in itself, and as for the "I mean now," well, it always worked for my dad.

     El Paso!  Don't Make Me Come And Get You!  I think that's self-explanatory.

     If our city council doesn't adopt this tough-love advertising proposal, I don't know what they'll do.
     Besides raising our taxes again, that is.
Fifty Shades of Funny


Saturday, November 5, 2011

Politics. Go Figure.

The mayor of Sunland Park, New Mexico has been ridiculed and criticized for signing a million dollar contract while he was drunk, but I can sympathize with him.  If it wasn't for being drunk I wouldn't have gotten married three out of my five times.  No, what should be ridiculed is that State Rep. Mary Helen Garcia has taken steps toward the state takeover of the city.
     She contacted both the New Mexico Attorney General's office and the Department of Finance and Administration to begin the process, and told them:  "These people are so dumb it takes them an hour and a half to watch 60 Minutes."
     The reason the State Rep. was so upset was the conduct of the Sunland Park city council during one of their recent meetings.  City Councilor Carmen Rodriguez was especially on a roll, and went down the row of fellow councilors airing her grievances.
     "You're so fat," she told one, "when you go to a restaurant you don't get a menu, you get an estimate."
     It was only when she got to Christian Lira that she stopped.
     "You're so ugly..." she began.
     "No!"  Lira interjected.  "You're so ugly you don't have to worry about birth control.  Your face does just fine."
     Mayor Martin Resendiz laughed loudly.  That diverted Lira's anger into another direction.  Mainly, toward the mayor.
     "Are you drunk?" Lira asked the mayor, angrily.
     "Of course not," the mayor retorted.  "Can't you see?  Of course you can't, you're so cross-eyed every time you go to the movies you think you're watching a double-feature."
     "Oh, yeah?" Lira answered back.  "Well, you smell so bad you need to use both Right and Left Guard."
     City Councilor Carmen Rodriguez was anxious to get back in the fray.
     "Mr. Mayor," she said, "your breath is so bad people on the phone hang up."
     There's an old saying.  The enemy of my enemy is my friend.  Lira and the mayor turned on Carmen Rodriguez faster than the ending of Kim Kardashian's fake marriage.
     "Councilor Rodriguez, your arms are so hairy when you walk down the street they look like you've got Buckwheat in a headlock," said one.
     "And you wear clothes from two famous designers:  Poly and Ester," said the other.
     "Oh, yeah?" she answered.  "Well, I can pull enough wax out of both your ears to make candles."
     "Oh, yeah?  Well, there are so many roaches in your house, you should make them sign a lease."
     "Oh, yeah?  Well, your teeth are so yellow you brushed with Aim and missed."
     "Oh, yeah?  Well, you stink so bad when you break wind, it stays broken."
     "Oh, yeah?  Well, you're so old when the police ask for your ID you hand them a rock."
     And, speaking of the police, that's when on-duty Sunland Park officers had to step in to keep the mayor and Mayor Pro-Tem Daniel Salinas from stepping outside to settle their differences with fisticuffs.
     "I'm gonna hit you so hard your next baby's gonna be born with two black eyes!'"
     "Oh, yeah?  Well, there's only gonna be two hits:  me hitting you, and you hitting the moon!"
     I'd go on, but it never ends in Sunland Park, New Mexico.  It never ends.

     This Was A True Story.
     Sort Of.
Fifty Shades of Funny


Yes, But Where Will We Park?

I was at the El Paso Central Business Association luncheon at the DoubleTree hotel when I heard Mayor Cook mention that the city is close to buying the old El Paso Saddleblanket Co. building from River Oaks Properties for $1.26 million as part of efforts to revitalize Downtown and help reduce blight in the central area.
     I sat next to Mike Breitinger, executive director of the Central Business Association, and asked him:  "Won't it take a long time to revitalize Downtown?"
     "Rome," he answered, "wasn't bulit in a day."
     "Do you think a revitalized Downtown can attract enough people to make it worthwhile?"
     "Hope springs eternal."
     "Are you going to keep answering me in nothing but cliches?"
     "Time will tell."
     That's when I saw Mayor Cook.  He was sneaking out the back through the kitchen.  He was wearing a waiter's jacket and carrying a tray of dirty dishes.  I ran to catch him.
     "Mayor Cook, may I ask you a few questions before you leave?"
     "No hablo ingles."
     "Of course you speak english," I told him.  "Mayor Cook, I know it's you."
     "Oh, all right."  He peeled off his Steve Crosno wig.  "I'm always happy to talk with my constituents.  Wait!  What's that?"
     I turned to see what he was pointing at, and saw nothing.  When I turned back Mayor Cook was gone.  I looked around and saw him hiding behind the dishwasher.  I walked over.  He pretended to be inspecting a fork.
     "Mayor Cook, about my questions?"
     "No hablo ingles."
     I raised one eyebrow.  He shrugged his shoulders in resignation.
     "Oh, all right," he said, taking off his fake black glasses with the big nose and the bushy eyebrows.  "I'm always happy to...  what's that?"
     I raised my other eyebrow.
     "Fool me once, Mr. Mayor, shame on you.  Fool me twice, and...  uh...  won't get fooled again.  Now, about the parking situation Downtown, what's the point in revitalizing Downtown if people can't find a parking space, or, if they do, have to pay for it?  Who wants to pay for parking?  It's easier to go to the mall where the parking is plentiful and free."
     The Mayor grew agitated.
     "Parking?  We don't need no stinkin' parking.  I was in the Mesilla Valley Corn Maze when I heard a voice.  It said:  'If you build it, they will come.'"
     "What does that even mean?"
     "It means:  if you build it, that is, revitalize Downtown, they, that is, the shoppers, will come."
     "Maybe the voice was saying if you build free parking spaces Downtown the shoppers will come."
     Mayor Cook grew quiet.  Thinking.  The minutes passed.
     "Mayor Cook?"
     "No hablo ingles."

Fifty Shades of Funny

Tuesday, November 1, 2011

Obama's Campaign Song

President Obama--the man who once saved my life in 'Nam--has an ace in the hole in the upcoming presidential elections, and I'm not talking about who the Republicans picked for their candidate (I'm not saying their choice was poor, but it used to go to Kentucky Fried Chicken to lick other people's fingers.).  That ace, my fellow 98%, is Darrin Stevens from the McMann & Tate Advertising Agency.  Mr. Stevens has been in the advertising business since the 60's, and was the creative force behind such successful advertising campaigns as Baby Bye-Bye, the happily aborted fetus.
     "Thank you, mommy," Baby Bye-Bye's tagline was.  "I'm with Jesus now."
     And Jesus, standing beside her, would take a deep drag from the cigarette He'd be enjoying.
     "Smoke what you are," He'd say.  "Kool."
     The ad was brilliant on so many different levels, but the most obvious was how Mr. Stevens originated the selling of two products in the same ad.  He received advertising's highest honor, the Barnum, and it was presented to him by none other than Gloria Steinem.
     "Darrin Stevens," she declared from behind the podium, "has liberated all women, and given us the freedom to murder our unborn babies, and the permission to pick up the bad habits of the men we hate."
     So, yes, Darrin Stevens is President Obama's ace in the hole, but what is Mr. Stevens' ace in the hole?
     Motown.  Yes, Motown.
     "It's genius," Darrin's boss, Larry Tate, told me.  "You know those songs that get stuck in your head and you carry them with you all day long?  How can you not help but vote for the candidate whose campaign song you find yourself humming in the voting booth?  And do you know which songs stay with you the longest?  Motown.  Yes, Motown.  It's been documented."
     "Is that so?" I asked.  "By whom?"
     "By those same researchers who studied SpongeBob SquarePants."
     Right now Larry Tate and Darrin Stevens are hard at work trying to pick out the song.  Their first choice was Give Me Just A Little More Time by The Chairmen of the Board, but, besides it not being a Motown hit, they decided it sounded a little too much like begging.
     "He does enough of that with Michelle," Mr. Tate told me, confidentially.  "Off the record, of course, right?"  He winked.
     "Off the record," I winked back.
     They've narrowed it down to the following choices:
     Never Can Say Goodbye by The Jackson Five.  Unfortunately, this whole Michael Jackson/Dr. Conrad Murray trial thing has a stench attached to it worse than the 200 pounds of human feces left behind at ground zero of Occupy Wall Street's Zuccotti Park infestation.
     Neither One Of Us (Wants To Be The First To Say Goodbye) by Gladys Knight & the Pips.  Here, the song title was too long and wordy.  Voters, as we all know, aren't smart enough to remember the whole thing.
     Ain't Too Proud To Beg by The Temptations.  While that might be true in negotiations with his wife, it wasn't considered to be very presidential.
     (I Know) I'm Losing You, also by The Temptations, was a consideration, but the Obama administration is still hopeful the economy will improve.
     I'm Gonna Make You Love Me by Diana Ross & the Supremes and The Temptations, but President Obama personally nixed this one because there was that one night in Chicago, that he hasn't told the First Lady about, when he was still a Neighborhood Watch Organizer, and Diana Ross came to town for a concert, and they...  and she...  nevermind.
     Signed, Sealed, Delivered (I'm Yours) by Stevie Wonder.  This was a strong contender, but various lobbyists and contributors to Obama's campaign consider it a conflict of interest.
     Don't Leave Me This Way by Thelma Houston.  Okay, I admit it.  It's not really being considered.  This song just reminds me of the great time I had in the disco 70's.
     War by Edwin Starr.  Nobody does it better than Obama.  Nobody.
     Sexual Healing by Marvin Gaye, because, as any pundit from Rush Limbo to Bill O'Really will tell you, America is broken, and it needs to heal.  And finally...
     If I Were Your Woman by Gladys Knight & the Pips.  Um...  maybe we'd better not go there, but it would explain the repeal of Don't Ask/Don't Tell.
     The final decision will be made after the Republicans have chosen their campaign song.  With Mitt Romney as their candidate, they might very well decide to go with:
The Tears Of A Clown by Smokey Robinson & the Miracles.

Fifty Shades of Funny

Saturday, October 22, 2011

Zombie Gaddafi

When Hell is full,
the dead shall walk the earth.
When President Obama calls, I jump.
     It's the least I can do for the man who once saved my life in 'Nam.  But this particular favor caught me by surprise.
     "I want you to go to Libya," he told me, smoothly.  "You're the only one I can trust to verify that Gaddafi is dead."
     "Of course he's dead," I answered.  "We've both seen the pictures."  I paused...  and then we both broke up laughing at the same time.  Pictures.  What a joke.
     "Don't worry," he assured me.  "Your little problem's been smoothed over." 
     That's Obama, for you.  Mr. Smooth.  And that's how I found myself in Libya, taking a freight elevator down to the basement where Libya's "liberators" kept Gaddafi's murdered body. 
     The elevator stopped.  There were three guards.  All of them big.  The one in the middle was the approximate size of a truck.  He stood in front of me.  Not moving.
     "He wants a gratuity to let you in," my interpreter explained, business as usual.
     The Incredible Bulk took an aggressive step forward.  He was trying to use his size to intimidate me.  His mistake.  I gave his kneecap a swift kick.  It shattered, and down he went.  He fell in slow motion, like a giant oak in the forest, screaming all the way down.  I like fat men.  When they fall they make more noise.
     I knelt over him, and relieved him of his weapons.  An old AK-47 that had been hung casually over his shoulder, a worn hunting knife strapped to his ankle, and... a .45.  The .45 was brand new.  He must have collected a lot of "gratuities" to pay for for it.  I secured the gun in the waistband of my jeans, and then I stepped over him.  The two guards got out of my way.
     In the middle of the room was a wooden table so old Jesus probably used it at the Last Supper.  On top of that table was the lifeless body of Colonel Gaddafi.  The real one.  Not the decoy they were preparing to display.  I stepped closer.  They hadn't even bothered to clean him up.  I took out a pair of scissors, and clipped a lock of his hair.  It was filthy.  I put it into a small plastic baggie and sealed it.
     "Did he have any last words?"  I asked my interpreter conversationally, but I didn't really care.  With a cardiac syringe I took a sample of his blood directly from the source.
     "He vowed to come back.  To revenge himself on his enemies.  You know, the usual camel dung."
     "Is that a fact?"  My mind was a million miles away.  I put away the blood and hair samples.  Just one more thing to do.  I forced open his jaw.  It opened easier than I expected.  In fact, it took no force at all.  Using several sterile cotton tipped applicators--Q-tips-- I swabbed the inside of his cheek.  I couldn't help but see his teeth.  They all had gold fillings.  Every one.  I laughed.
     "Only the living are rich," I said in Arabic.
     "It's a shame to let all that gold go to waste," my interpreter said, sticking a finger in Gaddafi's mouth to take a look for himself.  The guards both agreed.
     Gaddafi's eyes opened suddenly.  They were a milky color.  He bit down viciously, like a starving jackel.  My interpreter screamed.  Blood sprayed everywhere.  The two guards rushed to help.  I don't know why they bothered.
     Me?  I headed for the freight elevator.  As I stepped inside I could see Gaddafi grab one guard by the head, gouging out the man's eyes with his thumbs.  Then he brought the screaming guard closer and took a nasty bite out of his neck.  More blood.  Everywhere.
  Gaddafi was standing, off the table now, and began lumbering toward me.  Every step he took an effort.  I looked down.  The guard with the broken kneecap was trying to crawl inside the elevator with me.
     "Mercy," he cried.  "Mercy."
     Using his own gun I shot him in the head, and then I rolled his body back, out of the elevator.  A quick death is mercy of a sort.
     I pushed the "up" button, and the freight elevator began to move.  The elevator was slow.  It barely moved.  I could hear screams all the way up.  Finally, the screaming stopped. 
     No sooner did I exit the elevator, than it began to descend back down.  It stopped.  A few seconds after that it began its way back up again.  I stepped back and waited.  The .45 in my hand.  Whoever got off that elevator... 
     I would be ready.
Fifty Shades of Funny