idiotprufs

Illegal in 38 states–frowned upon in the rest.

Dante’s Travel Agency (Inferno Package)

travel agent

Dante Alighieri–proprietor of Dante’s Travel Agengcy.

Westfield, NY–When Virgil and Beatrice, an unassuming couple from a small town in Western New York, booked a vacation package through Dante’s Travel Agency, they were anticipating a needed injection of excitement into their life, a break from the humdrum.

“We purchased the Inferno package,” Beatrice explained, “it seemed like it would be fiery and exhilarating.”

The vacation they got was not what they anticipated.

“Our vacation started at a spot the brochure referred to as The First Circle of Hell, that’s a colorful name I thought to myself, this ought to be fun. I was mistaken.

To the couple’s dismay, they discovered their vacation consisted of nine days of going from one circle of Hell to progressively worse circles of Hell.

“‘Tomorrow will be better’ I kept telling Virgil, but it never was,” Beatrice said. “The brochure promised interaction with famous people,” she continued with a scowl on her face, “but Judas, Hitler, and Ted Bundy are not the best dinner companions.

Beatrice went on to describe how the ninth and final day of the vacation was the most distressing: “We had this big meet and greet with Satan himself,” she said. “He was loud and obnoxious, and he wreaked of burning flesh and sulfur…and he just wouldn’t shut-up about how telemarketing was all his idea.

“We were looking for tropical drinks with umbrellas and seaside barbeques,” Virgil added as he trembled, “not for lost human souls writhing in torment and agony by a lake of fire.”

“This has all been very hard on Virgil,” Beatrice explained. “He’s very sensitive; he has the heart of a poet.”

When asked what they planned to do now, Beatrice replied, “We’re just going to go home and get some sleep; it was impossible to get even a wink with all three of Cerberus’ heads barking incessantly every night.”

dante hell

“None of this was in the brochure.”

The High School Guidance Counselor and Some Disturbing News

“I’ve been reviewing your records.”

Counselor: Well, it’s your senior year, and it’s about time that you started to think about your future, specifically in regards to a career. I’ve reviewed your transcript, gone over your aptitude test scores, and I have spoken with some of your teachers. I seem to be running into a bit of a problem.

You: What exactly is the problem?

Counselor: You’re qualified to do nothing and you’re irretrievably stupid.

You: That seems kind of harsh.

Counselor: I’m sorry. I suppose your entire life, your parents have told you that you’re smart and capable?

You: Of course they have.

Counselor: People lie don’t they? I have never encountered anyone so ill-equipped to enter the workforce in all my years of being a guidance counselor, and this school is full of stupid kids. Sometimes in think there’s lead in the drinking water.

You: You’re exaggerating, I can’t be that hopeless.

Counselor: Am I? In mathematical aptitude, you answered correctly only 25% of the time.

You: One out three isn’t that bad.

Counselor: Exactly my point. In your English essay you seem to have confused Angie Dickinson with Emily Dickinson.

You: No I didn’t.

Counselor: Let’s see what it was that you wrote? Here it is: Emily Dickinson was smoking hot in Big Bad Mama.

You: I don’t remember writing that.

Counselor: You have terrible memory skills.

You: That’s not fair.

Counselor: And a delusional perception of fairness.

You: But…I…

Counselor: You also have trouble completing a thought. Moving on to geography; you couldn’t find Chile on a map.

You: That can’t be that uncommon.

Counselor: It was a map of Chile.

You: I thought it meant the restaurant.

Counselor: You mean Chili’s, I doubt you could find your way through the children’s maze on their placemats.

You: Yes I can, I always use the green crayon.

Counselor: You also seem to have absolutely no grasp of economics or government.

You: I know a little about government.

Counselor: You listed the three branches of government as strawberry, vanilla and chocolate.

You: Neapolitan government.

Counselor: You took a course on New York State history didn’t you?

You: Yes I did.

Counselor: Yes you did. You listed the state capitol as Albania. You claimed that the Erie Canal was named thusly, because it was “really spooky.” And you listed the first mayor of New York City as Babe Ruth.

You: It wasn’t Babe Ruth?

Counselor: No. It was Lou Gehrig.

You: Really?

Counselor: NO YOU MORON, it was Thomas Willett. This next one is especially perplexing: under state bird you put Bigfoot. I find that disturbing for at least fifteen different reasons. I’ve come up with four categories of jobs that I believe you could handle. They are as follows:

  1. Jobs requiring  a shovel: digging ditches, digging graves, digging holes in general, and whomping rats.
  2. Jobs requiring a pitchfork: moving piles of hay, moving piles of straw, and joining angry mobs that are hunting rogue monsters.
  3. Jobs requiring a shovel and a pitchfork: moving horse manure, moving cow manure, moving goat manure, basically moving any type of manure.
  4. Jersey Shore cast member. Sorry that’s been cancelled–you probably couldn’t find New Jersey on a map anyway.

You: I don’t know. I find that shovels and pitchforks are complicated and difficult to use, and sweating gives me a rash.

Counselor: There is one other job. Would you be willing to scale steep cliffs and harvest honey, while angry bees sting you repeatedly?

You: There would be no manure or feces involved?

Counselor: Not unless you’re horribly afraid of heights.

You: I’ll do it.

Counselor: Welcome to the world of Himalayan Bee Keeping.

You: Is it close to home?

Counselor: With your map skills it is.

Another guidance counseling success story.

Beaker vs. Bieber: A Tale of the Tape

Muppet vs. Moppet

I stumbled upon this post from a few years ago and it made me chuckle. So here it is again.

There’s no denying it; it’s the question that we’ve all been asking ourselves.

It’s the question that haunts our dreams and torments our waking hours.

It’s the debate that has fractured marriages, ruined friendships, and spoiled countless family barbeques, when bitter arguments conclude with a meat fork in the side of Uncle Al’s head.

It has catalyzed barroom brawls, riots in the streets, and led to the declaration of martial law in Schenectady, New York.

It has resulted in a flood of 911 calls from people who are dazed, confused and in search of answers (and one guy who couldn’t find his car keys).

It has resulted in a flood of harried 911 operators (and one 911 operator who angrily uttered the phrase, “how should I know where your ****ing car keys are).

What is this debate: who would win in a throw-down between Justin Bieber and Beaker the muppet?

Let’s compare and contrast:

Origin

Beaker: He was created by Jim Henson in 1977.

Bieber: He was born in London, Canada in 1994.

Childhood

Beaker: He was sewn into full adulthood and hasn’t aged a day since.

Bieber: He grew up in Stratford, Canada. (By grew up, I mean he got chronologically older.)

Operation

Beaker: He is operated by puppeteer who has a hand up his butt.

Bieber: Exactly the same.

Communication

Beaker: He speaks a language that seems to consist of only the word “meep” repeated over and over.

Bieber: He sings songs about…frankly I have no idea.

Occupation

Beaker: He works as lab assistant for Dr. Bunsen Honeydew.

Bieber: He sings songs about…I’ve still got nothing.

Appearance

Beaker: He always has a wild bug-eyed stare.

Bieber: He always looks stoned.

Strengths in a fight

Beaker: Working for Dr. Bunsen Honeydew, he’s been blown up, electrocuted, set on fire, shrunk, and deflated. Due to this he has developed an incredible resiliency.

Bieber: His many tussles with the paparazzi, glass doors, and a pissed off Selena Gomez, have toughened him.

Weaknesses in a fight

Beaker: He is primarily made of felt.

Bieber: He is Justin Bieber.

Who would win this battle? Here’s your chance to vote:

Last Erie Radio Shack to Close, Officially Ending the 80’s

Another post from Gooferie.

gooferie

rsstoryErie’s only remaining Radio Shack store in the Kmart Plaza on 26th Street will be closing its doors soon,   marking the end of the 1980’s in the Erie area.

Customers were upset to learn of the closing, including longtime patron Robert Harrison. “Where will I go if I need a new VCR cable?” asked Harrison. “Or size D dry cells?”

“This is where I got my radio controlled General Lee from ‘The Dukes of Hazzard’” said Danny Goffey, who was in the store looking for an adapter for his 8-track player. “Erie just won’t be the same without Radio Shack.”

The remaining inventory is being discounted, and the store will remain open until all supplies are gone. Customers wanting to check out the deals had better hurry, as a bus from Springhill Senior Living was just seen pulling into the parking lot.

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It’s That Troublemaker Sidney Crosby’s Fault

sidney crosby

Pittsburgh Penguins’ captain and general troublemaker Sidney Crosby.

A Pittsburgh man stabbed in the head with a screwdriver during the Penguins’ playoff opener against the Columbus Blue Jackets on Wednesday night refused medical attention until the game was over, police said.

While the playoff beard–the tradition of not shaving until a team’s playoff run is over–is common among the players, certain fans in Western Pennsylvania employ the practice of not seeking medical attention for life threatening wounds until the Penguins have either been eliminated or won the Stanley Cup.

“It’s that troublemaker Sidney Crosby’s fault,” an official stated. “During the Mario Lemieux/Jaromir Jagr years there were a lot of casualities in the greater Pittsburgh area. Then the penguins sucked for a while and things calmed down. But since the Sidney Crosby era began things have gotten hairy again.”

Authorities said the victim, who was unidentified by police (but who they repeatedly referred to as Dumbass) was said to be the owner of the shop, was in the rear of the building when he became engaged in a verbal altercation with a 25-year-old male, whose name is also being withheld. (Dumbass with a screwdriver.)

The conflict escalated until the younger man struck the victim in the head with a screwdriver, the officers said.

“He was being a dick and I was holding a screwdriver,” the unidentified male said.

Police said the victim refused treatment for the laceration from paramedics on the scene, stating he would drive himself to UPMC Mercy hospital the second the playoffs were over.

The victim’s family have begun planning his funeral, as the Penguins are expected to make another deep playoff run this year.

People are just #%*&ing stupid a UPMC official stated.

screwdriver

Recently removed from Dumbass’s face.

I Am not Seasick!

dnager sign

I was recently reminded of an event from my past; an event that was buried deeply in the recesses of my mind.

Dredging things from the deep recesses of my mind is not an easy task. It’s dark and scary in there and it smells like rotting pinecones…and there are spiders.

The process requires permits to be obtained. There’s heavy machinery involved. Sometimes if it’s a particularly painful memory, explosives are necessary. (OSHA gets heavily involved.)

Anyway, the memory (recovered at great cost of life) was of an event that occurred during my senior class trip to Toronto, Canada.

On our way to Toronto we stopped at Niagara Falls to ride the Maid of the Mist.

If you’re not familiar with the Maid of the Mist, it’s a boat-ride that departs near the Rainbow Bridge, passes the American and Bridal Veil falls, and proceeds into the curve of the Horseshoe Falls. It’s fun…normally.

maid of the mist

It’s fun–normally.

We took the tram down to the area where you board the boats, which at the time was basically just a big cement slab. There was nothing down there, including restrooms.

We waited there. Then waited some more. Then we waited a little more.

It’s important to note: during the ninety minute bus ride from our little village of Westfield, NY to Niagara Falls, I had availed myself of the free cans of pop placed about the bus in coolers. I drank multiple cans of pop.

“I kind of have to pee,” I remarked innocently as we stood waiting.

We finally boarded one of the boats, donned our rain coats and departed for the falls.

I believe I can write without fear of contradiction: the base of Niagara Falls is without question, the worst place to be on the face of the Earth if you need to pee.

My state of kind of having to pee, rapidly escalated into having to pee worse than I ever had in my life.

If you’ve never been on the Maid of the Mist allow me to relate a brief description: as you head into the base of the Horseshoe Falls the water begins to seeth and writhe. The boat lurches up and down and you are constantly blasted in the face by dense mist.

And because the Horseshoe Falls are a curve, literally half of your horizon is a 180ft wall of water crashing down at a rate of over 75,000 gallons per second.

niagra falls

I was in agony–it felt like my bladder was filled with tiny wolverines trying to claw their way out.

I genuinely considered peeing off the side of the boat.

But it was not my desire to be forever known as the guy who got sent home two hours into the senior trip for peeing off the Maid of the Mist and causing an international incident.

I was not the favorite person of our class advisor. I may have been the least favorite person of our class advisor; she definitely could have done without my presence.

As I was bent over the railing in misery, classmates Matt and Cliff, who were privy to my predicament, taunted me mercilessly. They poked me and laughed and told others I was seasick.

I won’t divulge Matt’s surname; I think it’s for the Best.

And I won’t divulge Cliff’s surname; he’s fond of the color Brown.

(Was that too subtle?)

It was at this point another classmate approached and asked with genuine concern: you don’t look good, are you seasick?

I looked up at her and growled the words: I am not seasick!

(My apologies.)

We finally made it back to shore, but the only way back up the street was by the tram and there were a lot of people in line ahead of us. A lot!

It was then I did something I wasn’t proud of; I shoved my way to the front of the line.

I shoved my way past the elderly and small children.

I literally shoved my way past the elderly and small children.

After reaching the top of the hill, I ran (which is ridiculously hard to do when you really have to pee) and made it to the restroom with no time to spare. I peed for what felt like fifteen minutes–it was glorious.

I made it through the entire senior trip without causing a single international incident. Collectively as a group, we were all a little surprised.

homer pee

Homer and I have a lot in common–I am also a cartoon and quite jaundiced.

I Had an Odd Dream

dream sign

I had an odd dream.

I was back in high school and the entire school had been assembled in the auditorium for an important announcement. The principal took the stage and announced that it was his great honor to announce that a student from our school had been chosen to participate in the Olympics for the USA swim team.

Then he announced that I was that person.

Everyone applauded as praise and adulation was poured over me.

I told the principal how proud and honored I felt, although it seemed a little strange considering I wasn’t even on the high school swim team and I’m a terrible swimmer. In fact, what I do in the water could be more closely described as a labored attempt to avoid drowning than as actual swimming.

The principal assured me that it was I who had been chosen.

I told him that almost anybody would be a better choice than me. Literally almost anybody in the country would be a better choice than me. I would likely need to be rescued before I reached the other end of the pool.

He told me it was great honor for the community and my being on the Olympic swim team would generate a butt-load of money for the school, enough money to allow the school to install a swimming pool.

I questioned how it was we had swim team without a swimming pool.

He told me it wasn’t easy and I should just shut up about being a bad swimmer because the T-shirts with my face on them were already being printed.

As I made my way through the halls to my next class, fellow students stopped me to shake my hand congratulate me.

I thanked them but expressed to them how much they should temper their expectations because I was going to lose catastrophically.

Then the class president stopped me and gushed about how proud everyone was. I was starting to get annoyed because I suddenly realized I had to pee urgently and she just wouldn’t stop talking.

I sought out a restroom but they were all closed for maintenance.

out of order sign

Intolerable for an Olympic hero.

I searched the entire school until I found myself in the basement where I stumbled upon a small café.

It seemed odd to me: a small café being in the school basement.

The waitress congratulated me for making USA swim team and offered a free cup of coffee.

I thanked her but declined the coffee since I already had to pee quite badly and because my performance would likely be a national embarrassment.

But the café had a restroom.

Unfortunately there was some random middle-aged fat guy standing in front of the urinals and he wouldn’t let me pass.

I told him it seemed creepy: a middle-aged fat guy hanging out in front of the urinals in the restroom of small café in the basement of a school. There’s probably laws against it.

There were threats made. Threats concerning who may or may not urinate on whom–it got tense.

Sadly, (maybe thankfully) I will never know how it turned out because I woke up.

The point of all this?

This dream dredged a memory from the deep recesses of my mind. A memory that will be the subject of my next post.

Next Post: I’m Not Sea Sick!

Michael Phelps

Michael Phelps just pees in the pool when he has to go.

The Disturbing Part of My Conversation With Bill

baby

“Please stop talking now.”

In my previous post I detailed my first conversation with Bill, a coworker with one testicle.

Bill had described to me an unfortunate turn of events involving alcohol, a nail gun, a regrettable ricochet, and the subsequent loss of one of his testicles.

He described it with a level of detail that seemed completely unnecessary–it was disturbing.

Following the nail gun discussion, we navigated through several comparatively mundane topics of conversation, most of which had nothing to do with anybody’s testicles, damaged or otherwise.

Eventually he began to tell me about his ex-girlfriend. He described to me how much he adored her. He described to me how much she reciprocated his feelings. He told me with regret that they were forced to break-up.

“How is it that you were forced to break-up?” I asked him.

“Well, it turned out that she’s ‘kind of’ my sister,” he replied casually.

Then he stood there silently. For the first time all day–he stood there silently. He had jabbered on about his guns, his dog, his truck, and his testicles–the one he still had and one he didn’t. But now he stood there silently.

“Please explain,” I said.

“Explain what?” He replied innocently.

The man who thought it necessary to guide me through a graphically detailed journey of the loss of his testicle now had nothing say.

“Explain how she’s ‘kind of’ your sister.”

“We have the same father,” he again replied innocently.

I puzzled for a moment as I absorbed what I had just heard.

“That would make her less ‘kind of’ your sister and more ‘exactly’ your sister…it’s pretty much the text book definition of a sister.”

“Half-sister,” he corrected me. “We have different mothers.”

It seems the poor girl’s mother had never told her who her real father was until the circumstance of her dating her half-brother had forced the situation.

“It was really too bad we had to break-up,” he said with regret. “We had a lot in common.”

“Of course you had a lot in common,” I told him, “DNA for starters.”

Then he said something horrible.

Note: I know what you’re thinking: more horrible than the story about a nail piercing his testicle? Yes!

“We had great sex,” he proclaimed with an amount of pride that seemed wholly inappropriate.

“Stop it,” I yelled in a panic.

I didn’t need the mental image of a man with one testicle having sex with his sister. (Correction: half-sister.)

“I’d be more comfortable if we went back to talking about your lost testicle,” I said emphatically.

Just saying the words made me queasy; no man should ever have to utter that phrase.

The state of Bill’s family tree.

Why Did You Tell Me That?

surprised cat

Exactly.

His name was Bill, and I had just met him five minutes ago. It was my first day on the job, and I was helping him. We worked in silence for a few minutes before he turned to me and said with stunning nonchalance, “Yeah. I’ve only got one testicle.”

I gaped stupidly.

I prefer to know a person at least one full day before I work my testicles into a conversation.

He looked at me expectantly, as if he was waiting for me to say, “great, tell me more about your testicles, or lack of them. I’m keen to hear.”

As I gaped stupidly, several possible responses flipped through my mind:

  • I guess were getting to know each other aren’t we?
  • Left one or right one?
  • Does it make you walk in circles?
  • Fantastic. Straight to the weirdest thing possible.
  • I think I’ll work on the other side of the room.
  • Oh. That’s why the guy called you One-balled Bill.
  • My whole life: that’s how long I could have gone without knowing that.

I said none of those things. I replied by saying the stupidest thing my brain could conjure: “I have two of them?”

And yes, I said it as a question. I’m still not certain why I felt confused.

Perhaps I just didn’t want to appear as though I was bragging. If I had confidently told him, “I have two testicles–the proper amount,” that would have seemed grandiose.

He looked at me like I was an idiot. I felt like an idiot. There was that inevitable awkward silence that occurs when two men discuss their testicles for the first time.

Undeterred by my idiocy, he launched into the story “I was out in my garage having a few beers when I thought to myself: this would be a good time to try out my new nail gun.”

The next several minutes were horrifying. I will spare you details because…well…ick.

I did learn some things from Bill:

  • Shockingly, alcohol and power tools don’t mix.
  • Nail guns are designed to drive a nail through wood or plaster. The fact that a nail gun will readily penetrate a layer of denim and your scrotum just goes without saying.
  • A nail in your testicle really hurts.
  • A nail in your testicle will bleed a lot.
  • It’s difficult to drive yourself to the hospital with a nail in your testicle.
  • It’s difficult to walk with a nail in your testicle.
  • It’s difficult to breathe with a nail in your testicle.
  • It’s difficult to do virtually anything with a nail in your testicle, the exception being whimpering; whimpering is practically a requirement when you have a  nail in your testicle.
  • Did I mention that it really hurts?
  • There was never a more appropriate use of the phrase: unfortunate ricochet.

I can write one thing with relative certitude: it was not a good time to try out his new nail gun.

I spent the remainder of the night with one overriding thought in my mind: please don’t offer to show me a scar.

Bill has only one.

 

Erie Zoo to Rent out Rhino for Birthday Parties

gooferie

partyrhinoFacing a budget shortfall, the Erie Zoo has announced that they will rent out their rhinoceros for special events such as birthday parties for children.

“It’s been very successful so far,” said a zoo spokesperson. “The children love the rhino and the danger is very minimal. We’ve only had a few minor gorings; nothing that required more than first aid.”

Parents who are interested in renting the rhino must provide insurance waivers for all children in attendance, as well as adequate water and 200 pounds of cabbage.

If you are interested in renting the rhino, call the Erie Zoo and ask for Mr. Lyon.

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