If you’re like me, you were probably excited to hear an ancient sarcophagus had been found in Alexandria, Egypt. I mean, according to all the movies I’ve ever seen on the subject, this should introduce us to an ancient curse or a mummy zombie—hey, there’s a new category of TV shows for you—or maybe something […]
Officials are cautioning that the level of body odor in the air downtown will spike at a record or near record level this Friday. Dr. Meghan Ansell, a biologist at Gannon University, has been providing body odor air quality levels for various zones in Erie for the past five years. “We measure body odor in […]
via Downtown B.O. Levels Expected to Spike on Friday — gooferie
The Fable
Ned was a tree frog who lived in a bush.
All the other tree frogs lived in big trees in the forest, but Ned had a fear of heights.
One day Ned was hopping around the forest floor when he bumped into Patty the tree frog and her boyfriend, Dirk the tree frog.
Ned had long fancied Patty the treefrog; she was especially plump and slimy.
“We’re having a party up in our tree tonight,” Patty told Ned, “why don’t you come?”
“He won’t come to a party in the tree,” Dirk said snidely, “Ned doesn’t like to be in the trees.”
“It’s called acrophobia,” Ned defended himself, “and it’s an officially recognized fear by American Psychiatric Association, Dirk.”
“You really need to grow a pair,” Patty told Ned.
“I’m a tree frog,” Ned told Patty, “that means my genitalia consists of two interior testicles and spermatic canal; I have a pair, you just can’t see them.”
“Let’s just leave this pathetic loser to himself and go have our party,” Dirk told Patty.
Dirk and Patty laughed at Ned as they hopped away to have their party.
That Dirk is a spermatic canal, Ned thought to himself.
That night Ned sat in his bush and listened to the laughter and frivolity happening in the tree above him and he felt very sad and alone.
So he got some gasoline and burned their tree to the ground–the other tree frogs never made fun of Ned again.
Moral
Don’t be a spermatic canal.
What happens when you’re a spermatic canal.
There are more of them everyday.
It is a well known and widely accepted fact that garden gnomes are evil creatures of the night.
They spend their days in an inanimate state, surrounding the homes of the naïve, who have become witless servants to their evil machinations.
They often assume silly poses and sport whimsical names such as Boddywinkle or Fudwick.
This whimsy is a lie.
Do not be fooled by this subterfuge, they are maniacal creatures with evil plans.
This is far more typical behavior.
There are some in the so-called “scientific community” who will try to tell you this is hokum, mere nonsense.
Some are those who are secretly working in concert with the gnomes, helping to propagate their plans for world domination.
Some of these men of science are just quacks; they don’t believe gardens gnomes come to life at night. They don’t believe in ghosts or bigfoot or that the Earth is flat. Quacks!
“Garden gnomes are harmless decorations, and not at all sinister…I’m not a quack.”
Here is a short list of some of nighttime activities in which garden gnomes engage:
See what I mean–pure evil.
There is a singular weapon that is particularly effective in the battle against garden gnomes: a silver plated shovel. (You can also kill them with a regular shovel, but it’s not nearly as cool.)
Gruesome but necessary.
This menace must be dispatched.
Their plans to foment anarchy must be stopped.
Get your shovel today and join me in this call to arms.
Warning: You might have crybaby neighbors who have a proclivity for calling the police, acquiring court orders, or posting videos of you smashing their garden gnomes in your footy pajamas. So be careful.
An instrument of garden gnome death, or if you just need to dig hole, it’s good for that too.
He likes to size up new employees with a long hard stare.
(image source: theitcrowd.wikia.com)
He stares at you with an unwavering gaze as you shift uncomfortably in your seat. The seconds grow into minutes. The minutes grow into slightly more minutes. His unwavering gaze intensifies into a penetrating glare.
Beads of sweat well on your forehead.
The faint buzz of the flourescent lighting above you is the only sound in the room.
He picks up the phone and begins to dial, never averting his steely eyes from yours. He suddenly stops dialing and slams the receiver back into the cradle.
You flinch, beads of sweat break and run down the side of your face.
He sits back and crosses his hands, he seems to relax. You relax a little.
He then suddenly lurches forward and yells at you in a booming voice, “ungulates.”
Your brain frantically searches for the proper response. “What?” Is the best that your brain can do.
“Ungulate, it roughly means hoofed animals or being hoofed,” he explains.
“I know what an ungulate is,” you respond defensively.
“Then why did you seem so perplexed by the word?” He demands.
“I guess I was just startled,” you answer.
“Do many words startle you?”
“Words don’t startle me,” you say with incredulity.
“So you claim. Yet the word ungulate seemed to make you wet yourself. What other words give you a start?”
“I’m not afraid of any words,” you maintain.
“So it’s just ungulates that you hate. That’s a problem.”
“I don’t hate ungulates,” you reply, feeling a sense of desperation although you’re not certain why.
“I love ungulates,” he tells you with conviction. “My father loved ungulates. My father’s father loved ungulates…His father didn’t care for them, something about being kicked in the side of the head.” He then pauses for several moments, staring into the distance in a reflective manner, before continuing with renewed vigor. “But his father really loved ungulates. I don’t think that I could work with a person who didn’t love ungulates.”
“I love ungulates too,” you tell him latching on to his enthusiasm.
“Very well,” he says as he eyes you with suspicion, “what is the best type of ungulate?”
It’s at this point, you realize that you have never once in your life stopped to consider the qualities of ungulates. “The zebra,” you answer apprehensively.
“Are you currently high on crystal-meth?” The interviewer demands.
“Why. Is that the wrong answer?”
“No. Zebra is the proper answer, but you’re very skittish and sweaty.”
“I just didn’t think there’d be so many questions about ungulates for this type of job?” You tell him.
“You are absolutely correct. Let’s get on with a proper interview shall we.” You nod in agreement, glad to be getting on with it. “So, why do want to be a proctologist; do you enjoy sticking your finger up other men’s butts?”
“What? No. I don’t want to be a proctologist.”
“Well then why are you here?” He asks you accusingly.
“Isn’t this an accounting firm,” you ask confusedly.
He shuffles through some of the papers on his desk, reads through a few of them thoroughly, shuffles through a few more, then looks up at you. “You’re right, this is an accounting firm. How silly of me. We almost never have cause to stick our fingers up other men’s butts. Except on Thursdays, there’s quite a lot of it on Thursdays, but other than that, almost never.”
“Okay?” you say with a total lack of conviction.
“I suppose you’re well equipped at adding and subtracting numbers, because that’s the type of thing we’re looking for in a proctol…I mean accountant.”
“Yes. I’m very good at math,” you assure him.
“Quickly. What does 6+5-2 equal?” He snaps at you.
“That would of course be nine,” you reply confidently.
He stares at you for a moment. He then pulls a small calculator from his desk drawer and punches several buttons. “Amazing. That is absolutely correct, and you didn’t need an adding machine, an abacus, or even your fingers. You just did it right in your head.”
“It was really just a child’s question,” you tell him modestly.
“Nonsense. You are brilliant. When can you start?”
“I can start immediately.”
“There’s just one little thing: what is your opinion on diseased chimpanzees?” The interviewer asks.
“I don’t think I have an opinion on diseased chimpanzees,” you tell him with uncertainty.
“Don’t be silly, everyone has an opinion on diseased chimpanzees.”
“Really?” You seem doubtful. “What’s your opinion on diseased chimpanzees?”
“I think they’re smug,” he tells you with a tinge of contempt in his voice.
“Why is it relevant?”
“All of our employees share a desk with a diseased chimpanzee.”
“Why in the world is that?”
“It seems we were doing a job for a research lab and misplaced a few million dollars of theirs. Now we have to house some of their less than successful projects.”
“You misplaced a few million dollars,” you ask in total disbelief.
“Look,” he replies angrily, “not everyone is as brilliant at math as you are. Listen, getting along with a diseased chimpanzee as a desk-mate is really very simple: don’t make eye contact, don’t make any sudden movements, don’t ever use his stapler, don’t let him use his stapler to staple documents to your forehead; they will do that, and if he hurls his feces at you, don’t hurl yours back.”
“Do you honestly think, I need to be told not to hurl my feces in the workplace?”
“There have been incidents.”
“This is crazy. I don’t want to work here. I don’t want to work for you, and certainly don’t want to work with a diseased chimpanzee. I’m out of here.” You storm out in a huff.
“And he wanted to be a proctologist; he doesn’t possess the temperament,” the interviewer mumbles to himself, “and I would never allow him near my ungulates.”
“You got a problem with me?”
Smith’s Provisions, longtime purveyor of meat products for the Erie area, has announced that it is adding organic tofu to their list of products available for purchase. The tofu made its debut at the new Erie County Farms last week, prompting long time Smith’s customer Neil Osbourne to declare, “What the hell is THAT?” as […]
Things you should not wear to a job interview:
It’s hysterical, but don’t.
Things not to do on a job interview:
Things not to put on your resume:
Under other interests:
Note: hunting mimes and shrinking their heads is acceptable, and if you should happen to scrapbook about it…whatever.
Under accomplishments:
Final and key piece of advice:
Don’t do this.
| jack elam you sure ask a lot of questions | |
| happy face idiot | |
| wifes feet dont smell enough | |
| cartoon scientists pictures | |
| punch an idiot in the face day | |
| bug eyed cartoon characters | |
| job interview with gator boots | |
| school counselors dumb | |
| my idiot neighbor |
Several random thoughts immediately leapt into my brain after this cluster of search terms appeared on my stats page.
Note: there’s a lot of room in my brain for random thoughts to leap, stretch out, or do an entire gymnastic floor routine; it’s pretty vacant up there.
Thoughts such as:
After doing an extensive amount of research (Google) I discovered “punch an idiot in the face day” isn’t a real thing.
Bitter disappointment.
Then I had another thought: just because something isn’t a real thing, doesn’t mean it can’t be.
So after once again doing an extensive amount of research (Wikipedia) into the process of initiating a ballot measure in the great Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, I came to a conclusion: it’s a lot more work than I am willing to do.
Just a few of the things required:
See what I mean, and this is just the first page.
Then I had another thought (I’ve been on fire with thoughts lately) I need to think like a politician: I just need to convince a bunch of willing dupes to pursue my vision, let them do all the work, then take all the credit when the initiative passes.
Brilliant.
I will keep you updated.
“Hello, I’m Jack Elam, and every day is punch an idiot in the face day for me, idiot.”
Memes save lives. 17-year-old Nate Masterson can attest to that. Though he stood outside death’s door for a while, he found the will to live all because of a meme. “I was lying in a coma. Not feeling anything. You know, comatose. And then, I just sensed something… wonderful. Something exquisite. Something GLORIOUS! All of […]
