[I will freely admit that this is a little more lowbrow than I like to go, but now that Al Gore has won a Nobel Peace Prize for global climate change, it’s a brave new world out there. So just enjoy it; it’s a Hell of a ride!]
You know what all the recent Nobel Peace Prize winners have in common? You can use them to characterize the eight types of farts. So here’s the list of Nobel Wind Prize winners:
The Mohamed ElBaradei Fart: You know when you feel like you really ought to be farting, but instead end up belching? That’s an MEB fart. See, things ought to work one way, but they come out in a totally different fashion, almost like your body is too incompetent to send gas out the correct orifice, or like your ass has paid off your mouth to shovel shit for it.
The Jimmy Carter Fart: All sound and fury, signifying nothing. Big rip, everybody’s embarrassed (or impressed, depending on your friends), but there’s no smell whatsoever. Unless there are Jews around, and then it smells like a skunk drowned in a cesspool in your pants.
The Kofi Annan: The corrupt fart, when you let it rip, and suddenly you need to change your underwear. You’re dirtier just for having been exposed to it. Typically this kind of thing runs in families, so your son may also have this problem.
The Muhammed Yunis: The micro-fart, where no matter how much pressure builds up inside you all you can squeeze out is a tiny little meep. But it works well, one of the rare success stories of breaking wind.
The Yasser Arafat: Horrifically violent fart, at the worst possible time, in a social situation where you can least afford it. If one of your farts is going to ignite over a dessert of Bombe Alaska and burn your ass to cinders while you’re in a luncheon with the CEO of the company, it’s this one.
The Mikhail Gorbachev: The “something’s missing” fart: either all sound and no smell, or all smell and no sound. Almost as if some critical component has been left out, without which the entire exercise is a sham and a mockery of all that a good fart is supposed to be, simply because your body in its arrogance decided to score a cheap political point against you.
The UN Peacekeeping Force: You ever tried to do “pull my finger” but ended up with a fart without sound? That’s this one: the incompetent fart. Seems like it should be a no-brainer, easily done, with clearly achievable goals, but it just doesn’t work.
The Al Gore: The mistaken fart. This is when you move your chair, and it makes that distinctive brrrp! sound just like passing gas, and everybody looks at you like you’re holding a dead chicken. Suddenly people start freaking out, fanning themselves and opening windows, but nothing really happened. So eventually everything gets back to normal, when your foot scrapes the floor and suddenly everybody’s freaking out again, jumping out of windows and calling you a pig and whatnot. And this repeats, day after day, even if you’ve never once farted in the presence of another human being. You’re a walking fart fraud, getting people all wound up over nothing.
Showing posts with label disgusting. Show all posts
Showing posts with label disgusting. Show all posts
Saturday, October 13, 2007
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Martina Navratilova?
I just glanced at this picture on Yahoo:
On the left we have Elizabeth Hasselbeck, the anti-Rosie. But I couldn't figure out what had happened to Martina Navritilova over on the right. I knew she was old, but jeez! She looks terrible, like she has some kind of disease or something.
Turns out it's not Martina. It's...Barry Manilow. Why did he get his head replaced by a tennis ball?
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
How Hard Can it Be...
To find 535 non-pervert, non-lawbreaking, non-corrupt people to be senators and congressmen? I mean, really, the behavior of our elected representatives is becoming ridiculous.
And it’s hardly a Republican problem, although Foley and Craig make this generation think that gay congressional sex scandals are sole the province of the GOP. I’m old enough to remember the Barney Frank fiasco.
But it’s not just sex scandals, either: we’ve got two assaults, lots and lots and lots of corruption, and a general sleaziness seldom found outside your local adult bookstore.
We need to wash out Congress, from top to bottom. Stop voting for them based on party, and start voting for them based on integrity, for heaven’s sakes. Trust that a collection of 500-odd decent human beings would make the right decision together, instead of blindly pulling the lever because the candidate has an R or a D next to their name.
It’s the only way we’ll get a government not full of creeps, weirdoes, and sleazebags.
And it’s hardly a Republican problem, although Foley and Craig make this generation think that gay congressional sex scandals are sole the province of the GOP. I’m old enough to remember the Barney Frank fiasco.
But it’s not just sex scandals, either: we’ve got two assaults, lots and lots and lots of corruption, and a general sleaziness seldom found outside your local adult bookstore.
We need to wash out Congress, from top to bottom. Stop voting for them based on party, and start voting for them based on integrity, for heaven’s sakes. Trust that a collection of 500-odd decent human beings would make the right decision together, instead of blindly pulling the lever because the candidate has an R or a D next to their name.
It’s the only way we’ll get a government not full of creeps, weirdoes, and sleazebags.
Saturday, August 11, 2007
BUY NOW!!
Some time ago I posted about a disturbing piece of spam that I'd received. I thought that I'd not get another one to top it any time soon, but a new challenger got caught by my filter this week that I just have to share with you. I repeat it in its entirety to shock and disturb you:
I have two comments about their creepy testimonials:
First, how does Masturbator Max just know that his sperm volume has tripled? Is he standing over a beaker in a white lab coat, jerking for all he's worth, then checking the "before" and "after" results? If so, does he wear eye protection to protect his vision from super-spurting? With all this extra man-jam firing from his retrofitted artillery, I think that personal safety begins to become a concern, don't you?
Secondly, in response to sleazy Jimmy, I've been married for almost 15 years, and I can honestly say that this is one subject that has just never ever come up (ever) as a reason for marital contentment or discontentment. Your wife actually cares that the volume of your leavings is increased? What, does she go flying across the room when you shoot now or something?
Am I unusual in this regard? Is there some huge group of married men filling up bathtubs of jizz for their wives? Oh, sure, I understand the draw of "erections like steel" and "more staying power", but the name isn't "Steel-Hard All Night Penis Pill" but rather "WonderCum."
And one final thought: am I the only one whose first thought is that triple the volume = triple the mess?
HugeCumshot (increase SPERM)I took the links after this out as a public service. All misspellings and poor grammar are from the original.
Wondercum allows you to have Multiple0rgasms!
used by pornstars since 2001!
*Longer0rgasms - Squirt for longer
*Erections like steel - Also increased size
*Increaase Sexual desire - Enhanced libido
*More Staying Power - Last all night
*Multiple0rgasms - Cum 4 times in a row
*5x more sperm - Cover your lover in it
*Sweeter taste - It improves the flavor
Men agree:
WonderCum Doubles, Triples, Quadruples and MORE! ... not just volume ofEjaculate, but intensity and power ofOrgasms. "IT WILL ABSOLUTELY BLOW YOUR MIND"
After taking WonderCum for just 1 week my sperm volume has tripled" Max, 47, UK
"You guys are amazing with your delivery and customer service and your product actually DOES work. I have been married for the last 23 years and never in our marriage could we achieve the pleasure we can today. All because I amEjaculating the way I never have. My wife loves it and I love it more. Thanks for this great product." Jimmy, 59, US Order Now!
I have two comments about their creepy testimonials:
First, how does Masturbator Max just know that his sperm volume has tripled? Is he standing over a beaker in a white lab coat, jerking for all he's worth, then checking the "before" and "after" results? If so, does he wear eye protection to protect his vision from super-spurting? With all this extra man-jam firing from his retrofitted artillery, I think that personal safety begins to become a concern, don't you?
Secondly, in response to sleazy Jimmy, I've been married for almost 15 years, and I can honestly say that this is one subject that has just never ever come up (ever) as a reason for marital contentment or discontentment. Your wife actually cares that the volume of your leavings is increased? What, does she go flying across the room when you shoot now or something?
Am I unusual in this regard? Is there some huge group of married men filling up bathtubs of jizz for their wives? Oh, sure, I understand the draw of "erections like steel" and "more staying power", but the name isn't "Steel-Hard All Night Penis Pill" but rather "WonderCum."
And one final thought: am I the only one whose first thought is that triple the volume = triple the mess?
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
The Raccoon Funeral
I had the honor of presiding at a raccoon funeral over my vacation. Since it was a moving experience that I’m not sure any of you have ever had the chance to experience, I thought I’d share it with you.
One beautiful Sunday after church during our vacation, my wife and I loaded up the car with our children and headed off to her grandmother’s house. We were accompanied by her sister (Sis-In-Law), who lives several hours away but had come into town to visit us.
When we got to Granny’s, the first thing we noticed was the horrid reek of death hanging in the air and a cloud of flies searching for this fabulous buffet of putrescence. Granny met us and quickly ushered us inside, saying that she thought something must have died under the porch but couldn’t find anything.
Inside we met Aunt P, Granny’s younger daughter (at a youthful 60), who was in the midst of nicotine withdrawal because she couldn’t stand the stink outside to go smoke a cigarette. After some polite conversation, Aunt P finally broke down and announced that, come hell or high water, she had to smoke a ciggie. So she went outside to brave the heat, flies, and stench to get her fix.
Some time later she came back and announced, “I found the smell. There’s a dead raccoon on the steps leading down into the crawlspace.”
Immediately, my two children announced “Can we see it?”
Being a good father, I took them around back to view the corpse, because nothing says ‘vacation’ like a dead raccoon viewing. Because of the prevailing winds the smell wasn’t as bad back there, so we were able to creep fairly close and see a very dead, very large raccoon laying under a blanket of flies.
At this point I took some issue with Aunt P, because what she describes as “steps” I would more accurately call a three-foot plunge onto cement, but I suppose if you were eighteen feet tall that’d count as a step. Nevertheless, the very dead raccoon was laying at the bottom of that fall.
My daughter asked “Can we touch it?”
“No!” I said, “Raccoons have diseases like rabies when they’re alive, and I can only imagine howl foul they must be when dead.”
“Can we poke it with a stick?” My son asked, holding up an example stick that was all of two inches long. An image like the scene from The Thing where the corpse grew a mouth and bit off the guy’s hands came into my head, and I couldn’t deny him fast enough.
I finally ushered them inside, much to their disappointment, and I found Aunt P waiting for me at the door. “So, which job do you want: haul the body up out of the crawlspace, or digging the grave?”
I opted for neither job. “What’s a raccoon need a grave for? Doesn’t Granny have a neighbor she doesn’t get along with? I saw a swimming pool down the street; can’t we toss it in there and let them deal with it?”
Aunt P just gave me a look, and Sis-in-Law chimed in: “You’ve gotta bury it, or some animal might just drag it back here.”
Outvoted, it was clear that the raccoon needed a grave. Having investigated the fallspace, full of creepy critters and a raccoon corpse of unknown decomposition, I decided to dig the hole. How hard could it be, anyway?
So at this point, still dressed for church, I took a sixty-year-old shovel and went into the backyard to dig a grave for a big, dead raccoon. Aunt P went to get a sheet of plastic to put the corpse on. My wife comforted Granny. My children ran back and forth between me digging and Aunt P fishing out the corpse with a hoe.
What did Sis-in-Law, who seconded the motion for a grave, decide to do? She fled at high speed back to her home state, mumbling some kind of apology about how she had work tomorrow and it was a long drive. Cowardly cur! Did I mention she reads my blog?
One thing you need to know about Granny’s yard: it’s three inches of soil on top of hard, red clay. Needless to say, I broke the ancient shovel on the third try. So I borrowed a much sturdier pick, dating from the Eisenhower administration, from one of the neighbors (all the while hearing the theme song from Deliverance as I stumbled through his weed-choked yard to get it) and, using that and a garden spade, spent two hours digging a suitable grave for a Labrador raccoon.
As I dug, my children peppered me with appropriate questions like “Can we touch the raccoon now?” and “When can we touch the raccoon?” and “Is this stick long enough to poke the raccoon?” and “How long does it take to dig a hole, anyways?” The last was from my wife, who told me she would love to help me dig but didn’t have the shoes on for it.
But the one that got me was this: “Shouldn’t we have a funeral for it?”
“Well, I would,” I said, “But I don’t know what religion raccoons are.”
“They’re Jewish,” my daughter said. She sounded certain, so I asked her how she knew that. “Because they don’t go to church, and there aren’t any churches for Raccoons. So they must be Jewish.”
Rather than argue theology, I just agreed. Finally, when the hole was ready, I dumped the raccoon in, poured lime on it (why Granny has lime but no shovels is a matter for the cosmos), and then filled the dirt in over it. Then I put some cinder blocks on it, because they only thing worse than burying a raccoon is burying a raccoon twice. Finally, my son laid some flowers on it.
“Now we need to have a service.” My daughter said. She wouldn’t accept that I didn’t know how to give a Jewish raccoon funeral service.
So we sang Swing Low, Sweet Chariot. Then we prayed: “Dear Lord, whatever it is you do with dead raccoons, please do that with this one. Amen.”
Finally, the funeral service completed, we said a final shalom to our raccoon friend and went on our way.
So I learned three things that Sunday at Granny’s:
1) Raccoons are Jewish
2) It’s better to retrieve the corpse than dig the grave
3) Next time ride with Sis-in-Law
One beautiful Sunday after church during our vacation, my wife and I loaded up the car with our children and headed off to her grandmother’s house. We were accompanied by her sister (Sis-In-Law), who lives several hours away but had come into town to visit us.
When we got to Granny’s, the first thing we noticed was the horrid reek of death hanging in the air and a cloud of flies searching for this fabulous buffet of putrescence. Granny met us and quickly ushered us inside, saying that she thought something must have died under the porch but couldn’t find anything.
Inside we met Aunt P, Granny’s younger daughter (at a youthful 60), who was in the midst of nicotine withdrawal because she couldn’t stand the stink outside to go smoke a cigarette. After some polite conversation, Aunt P finally broke down and announced that, come hell or high water, she had to smoke a ciggie. So she went outside to brave the heat, flies, and stench to get her fix.
Some time later she came back and announced, “I found the smell. There’s a dead raccoon on the steps leading down into the crawlspace.”
Immediately, my two children announced “Can we see it?”
Being a good father, I took them around back to view the corpse, because nothing says ‘vacation’ like a dead raccoon viewing. Because of the prevailing winds the smell wasn’t as bad back there, so we were able to creep fairly close and see a very dead, very large raccoon laying under a blanket of flies.
At this point I took some issue with Aunt P, because what she describes as “steps” I would more accurately call a three-foot plunge onto cement, but I suppose if you were eighteen feet tall that’d count as a step. Nevertheless, the very dead raccoon was laying at the bottom of that fall.
My daughter asked “Can we touch it?”
“No!” I said, “Raccoons have diseases like rabies when they’re alive, and I can only imagine howl foul they must be when dead.”
“Can we poke it with a stick?” My son asked, holding up an example stick that was all of two inches long. An image like the scene from The Thing where the corpse grew a mouth and bit off the guy’s hands came into my head, and I couldn’t deny him fast enough.
I finally ushered them inside, much to their disappointment, and I found Aunt P waiting for me at the door. “So, which job do you want: haul the body up out of the crawlspace, or digging the grave?”
I opted for neither job. “What’s a raccoon need a grave for? Doesn’t Granny have a neighbor she doesn’t get along with? I saw a swimming pool down the street; can’t we toss it in there and let them deal with it?”
Aunt P just gave me a look, and Sis-in-Law chimed in: “You’ve gotta bury it, or some animal might just drag it back here.”
Outvoted, it was clear that the raccoon needed a grave. Having investigated the fallspace, full of creepy critters and a raccoon corpse of unknown decomposition, I decided to dig the hole. How hard could it be, anyway?
So at this point, still dressed for church, I took a sixty-year-old shovel and went into the backyard to dig a grave for a big, dead raccoon. Aunt P went to get a sheet of plastic to put the corpse on. My wife comforted Granny. My children ran back and forth between me digging and Aunt P fishing out the corpse with a hoe.
What did Sis-in-Law, who seconded the motion for a grave, decide to do? She fled at high speed back to her home state, mumbling some kind of apology about how she had work tomorrow and it was a long drive. Cowardly cur! Did I mention she reads my blog?
One thing you need to know about Granny’s yard: it’s three inches of soil on top of hard, red clay. Needless to say, I broke the ancient shovel on the third try. So I borrowed a much sturdier pick, dating from the Eisenhower administration, from one of the neighbors (all the while hearing the theme song from Deliverance as I stumbled through his weed-choked yard to get it) and, using that and a garden spade, spent two hours digging a suitable grave for a Labrador raccoon.
As I dug, my children peppered me with appropriate questions like “Can we touch the raccoon now?” and “When can we touch the raccoon?” and “Is this stick long enough to poke the raccoon?” and “How long does it take to dig a hole, anyways?” The last was from my wife, who told me she would love to help me dig but didn’t have the shoes on for it.
But the one that got me was this: “Shouldn’t we have a funeral for it?”
“Well, I would,” I said, “But I don’t know what religion raccoons are.”
“They’re Jewish,” my daughter said. She sounded certain, so I asked her how she knew that. “Because they don’t go to church, and there aren’t any churches for Raccoons. So they must be Jewish.”
Rather than argue theology, I just agreed. Finally, when the hole was ready, I dumped the raccoon in, poured lime on it (why Granny has lime but no shovels is a matter for the cosmos), and then filled the dirt in over it. Then I put some cinder blocks on it, because they only thing worse than burying a raccoon is burying a raccoon twice. Finally, my son laid some flowers on it.
“Now we need to have a service.” My daughter said. She wouldn’t accept that I didn’t know how to give a Jewish raccoon funeral service.
So we sang Swing Low, Sweet Chariot. Then we prayed: “Dear Lord, whatever it is you do with dead raccoons, please do that with this one. Amen.”
Finally, the funeral service completed, we said a final shalom to our raccoon friend and went on our way.
So I learned three things that Sunday at Granny’s:
1) Raccoons are Jewish
2) It’s better to retrieve the corpse than dig the grave
3) Next time ride with Sis-in-Law
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Painful Math
Bull + Woman = Minotaur
Horse + Man = Death by Ruptured Colon
Excuse me while I convulse on the floor for a little while...
(H/T The Anchoress)
Horse + Man = Death by Ruptured Colon
Excuse me while I convulse on the floor for a little while...
(H/T The Anchoress)
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