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