Read by four out of five drunken monkeys, written by the fifth.

Archive for the month “June, 2016”

Punch an Idiot in the Face Day

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:

  • What kind of questions does Jack Elam ask, and why are there so many of them?
  • How badly do your wife’s feet have to smell for it to be enough?
  • How do you know my neighbor, and how do you know he has a happy face?
  • Would I look good in gator boots?
  • Wow, this blog certainly attracts some weirdos (but not you).
  • Punch and idiot in the face day? Is that a real thing?

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:

  • A petition containing signatures equal to 10% of the last local general election vote for governor. (Governor? I thought Pennsylvania had a potentate.)
  • These signatures must be real people and not characters from Warner Brothers cartoons.
  • If your real name happens to be Elmer Fudd, there is an enormous amount of extra paperwork involved.
  • If your real name happens to be Elmer Fudd, your parents are dicks.
  • None of the signatures can be from dead people; this is not Illinois.
  • Petitions must be submitted by the 13th Tuesday before the election. Petitions may be circulated for (at most) 7 weeks, and circulation may not begin before the 20th Tuesday prior to the election. Initiated measures may be submitted at primary, municipal, or general elections…and must be written in yaks blood.
  • You must understand the previous requirement and be able to cite it verbatim while juggling running chain saws.
  • Election officials must submit successful initiatives to voters at the next primary, general, or municipal election occurring not sooner than the 13th Tuesday after the initiative was filed.
  • The successful initiatives mentioned in the previous requirement, must be submitted in triplicate with the third set written entirely in Egyptian hieroglyphics.
  • Every fifth word of every document must be written in a silly font.
  • Pointing out to any official, that the previous two requirements contradict each other, will result in the immediate disqualification of your ballot initiative. You will also be slapped in the face and poked in the eyes, Three Stooges style.
  • The Pennsylvania election code requires you to obtain the following items: holy water, a cross, a wooden stake and a clove of  garlic. (Sorry, that’s the Transylvania election code.)
  • You must be able to find Harrisburg on a map of Pennsylvania.
  • You must be able to find Pennsylvania on a map of the United States.
  • You must be able to find Pennsylvania Avenue on a Monopoly Board.
  • If you roll doubles three times in a row, you have to go to jail.
  • You must purchase a lot of maps and board games.
  • Petition circulators must attest to the validity of petition signatures in a notarized affidavit.
  • You have to know what an affidavit is.
  • In some instances, you may have to sacrifice a small animal under a full moon.
  • You must be able to say name of, Intercourse Pennsylvania, without giggling.
  • You absolutely must be able to deal with bureaucrats without flipping out and stabbing someone in the face with a bayonet.

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.


I will keep you updated.

jack elam at idiotprufs

“Hello, I’m Jack Elam and every day is punch an idiot in the face day for me, idiot.”


I’ll bet you thought I was going to mention Justin Bieber somewhere in this post.

Well you were wrong…apart from this bit.


Does a Bee Sting in the Penis Hurt?

bee sting

“You want me to sting you where now?”

A million dollar National Science Foundation grant was given to Cornell University so a researcher could force bees to sting him on his penis to find out how much it hurts.

Let that sink in.

In a shocking turn of events—being stung in the penis hurts.

The idea was inspired by an unfortunate situation when a honeybee flew up Michael Smith’s shorts and stung him. “I was really surprised that it didn’t hurt as much as I thought it would,” he said. The experience got him thinking: Where is the most painful place on the body to get stung by a bee?

Oddly, it didn’t get him thinking about his choice of shorts when bike riding, or his strange proclivity for rubbing flower pollen on his inner thighs before he goes bike riding.

Note: the bee found the whole experience to be horrifying. “I was just buzzing along, very busy as we’re known to be, when suddenly I was all up in this dudes junk,” the bee said.  

With the financial support from a National Science Foundation (NSF) Graduate Research Fellowship grant to Cornell University, Smith forced honey bees to sting more than 25 locations on his body from the face to the genitals. He then rated the pain caused by each of the stings on a scale of “Ouch” to “Holy Crap, What Have I Done.

To compel a bee to sting, it was grabbed by the wings and pressed against the desired sting location.

Note: the million dollar research grant pales in comparison to the multi-million dollar lawsuit filed by the bees who were “compelled” to sting Michael Smith in the penis.   

bee sting research

One million dollars being spent.

The least painful locations to be stung by a bee for Michael Smith were the skull, middle toe tip, the upper arm, and some guy who happened to walk into the room at the wrong time.

The most painful places for Michael Smith were the nostril, upper lip, the genitals, and the broken nose that resulted when the guy who got stung when he happened to walk into the room, punched him in the face.

Michael had originally had his eye on the list, but was talked out of it by his advisor Tom Seeley.

Note: I think it’s safe to say, despite the advice about the eye, as an advisor, Tom Seeley has failed Michael Smith miserably.  

He concedes this study is limited by its low sample size: one person, the author. “It is possible that if other people were tested, they would not rank the painfulness of the stings in the same way, or perceive pain similarly by location. And a female researcher may rate being stung in her penis or scrotum very differently.”

Failed Him Miserably!  

In case you’re wondering, these methods do not conflict with the Helsinki Declaration, which is a set of ethical principles for research involving human subjects developed by the World Medical Association.

In a “unrelated” experiment, researchers from Brown University have set out to see if they could convince some moron from Cornell to compel bees to repeatedly sting him in the penis. (Helsinki is looking into it.)


The assertion that Michael Smith rubs flower pollen on his inner thighs before he goes bike riding is purely speculation on my part…but he probably does.

bee sting penis

I think I see where Michael Smith went wrong.

Me and the Map Idiot

This shouldn't be hard to read.

This shouldn’t be hard to read.

It happened many years ago on the mean streets of Buffalo, NY.

We were on our way to the Federal Building, mired in rush hour traffic, to pick-up my roommate Al. He had enlisted in the Army Reserves, but at the last minute, decided that he didn’t want to go. He came up with a “brilliant plan” to get out of it. The plan must have worked because the day he was scheduled to ship out for basic training, I received a phone call to retrieve him.

I took my friend Joe with me to navigate. Not my best move.

Me: Do you see where we are on the the map?

Joe: Yeah, I’ve got it.

Me: Do you see where the Federal Building is on the map?

Joe: I’ve got my finger on it.

Me: Okay, how do I get here from there?

Joe: I don’t know.

Me: What? Why not?

Joe: Just give me a minute to figure it out.

Me: What is there to figure out? You just follow the little lines from one spot to the other.

Joe: It’s not that easy; it’s like a ninety degree angle.

Me: So?

Joe: Wait, now I can’t find the Federal Building. It disappeared.

Me: Pick your finger up.

Joe: Oh yeah, there it is.

Me: (waiting impatiently) You need to give me some form of instruction.

Joe: Take the next right.

Me: Right here?

Joe: Right here.

Me: Are you sure, this doesn’t look like a proper street.

Joe: Yes. Turn before we miss it!

I turned onto the weird little street per Joe’s instruction. It wasn’t a proper street.

Me: What kind of street is this? It’s barely wide enough for one car.

Joe: I don’t know. It’s just a really narrow street, with big weird curbs and a bunch of wires overhead.

Me: What are those wires for… holy crap, we’re on the Metro Rail line! We have to get off this.

I immediately hit the brakes and threw the car into reverse. As I turned the wheel attempting to back around, the rear wheels bumped up against the curb. Then I pulled forward and the front wheels bumped up against the other curb. I repeated this process several times until I had successfully wedged the car between the curbs on either side of the pathway. We couldn’t go forward. We couldn’t go backward. We were stuck.

Me: You’re gonna have to get out and push.

Joe: I don’t want to do that, there’s a bunch of people watching.

Me: Of course they’re watching; they’re waiting for the Metro Rail to come around the corner and smash the idiots into tiny pieces.

Conveniante mass transit to most. Impending doom to us.

Convenient mass transit to most. Impending doom to us.

Joe grudgingly got out and pushed. People watched.

As we attempted to extricate ourselves from the path of the Metro Rail, that was certain to come barreling around the corner at any moment and annihilate us, people were pointing and laughing at idiocy they were witnessing. After several attempts, we freed ourselves, bounding up over the curb with a thud. I pulled back onto the pathway heading in the opposite direction. Joe got back into the car and sat sheepishly. It was all very humiliating.

Joe: A homeless guy laughed at me.

Me: That’s rough for you.

Joe: He asked me if I was born this stupid.

Me: Perhaps he’s seen you read a map.

Joe: We were at a ninety degree angle.

Me: Okay Pythagoras.

Joe: Are we going to tell Al we got his car stuck on the Metro Rail track?

Me: We are not.

We pulled out of the Metro Rail pathway and back into normal traffic, and all was well…except for Buffalo PD patrol car that happened to be passing by at that moment. The officer did a double-take that would have made James Finlayson* proud, brought his vehicle to a screeching halt and poked his muscle-bound head out the patrol car window. And yes, he had a muscle-bound head.

*What? You don't know James Finklayson. He was an old-timey actor famous for his double takes.

*What? You don’t know James Finlayson. He was an old-timey actor famous for his double-takes.

Police Officer: Pull over.

We pulled over. He stormed up to our car with a scowl, and a definite sense of purpose. I began to explain to him what had happened, but before I could get the first word out, he interrupted me.

Police Officer: Do you even have a driver’s license?

Me: Yes sir, I have all my information right here.

He snatched the information from my hand as he glared at me. I could see myself cowering beneath him in his mirrored sunglasses.

Police Officer: That’s not a street.

Me: I know.

Police Officer: You know? The fact that you were driving on it would suggest otherwise. Why would you be doing that?

Me: (nodding toward Joe) Well, he was reading the map and giving me directions, and he said to turn there.

Police Officer: Did he really? You over there, Map Idiot, did you tell him to drive down the Metro Rail track?

Joe: We’re just trying to get to the Federal Building.

Police Officer (refocusing on me): Do you just go wherever Map Idiot tells you to go? If Map Idiot tells you to drive head-on into the Metro Rail, is that what you do? You’re not going to make it to the Federal Building if you’re dead.

Me: I’m sorry officer, normally I’m an excellent driver, (I had just seen Rain Man) but I’m from a small town, and I’m not used to driving in the big city.

I wish I could tell you that’s not what I said, but it’s exactly what I said. That’s right, I’m a rube. But it worked, the officer chuckled a little and immediately softened. He gave us instructions to the Federal building, told us to be careful, and sent us on our way. We safely reached the Federal Building where we found Al waiting for us.

Me: So you got out of it?

Al: Yes.

Me: What did you tell them?

Al: Something.

Me: Like what?

Al: Just something. I don’t want to talk about it.

Me: Okay.

Al: So, did you have any trouble getting here?

Me: Nope.

Joe: The police officer didn’t even give us a ticket.

Al: Why would you get a ticket?

Me: No reason. I don’t want to talk about it.

It was a quiet ride home.

What the map of Buffalo evidently looked like to the Map Idiot.

What the map of Buffalo evidently looked like to the Map Idiot.

Gerald the Neighbor Kid

You're stupid and you don't know anything.

You’re stupid and you don’t know anything.

“Hey Neighbor.” The voice penetrates your eardrum like a knitting needle. “Watcha doin’?”

It’s a voice that sends chills down your spine. Chills that reach the bottom of your spine, make a quick U-turn and travel back up your spine, then back down again, just to ensure that they’ve done the job properly.

“Gerald…you’re here.” You stop what you’re doing and stand motionless. “Are you here to pee on my garden some more?”

“I’ve told you I’m not the one doing that,” he claims.

You turn slowly to find Gerald standing before you, soaking wet, finger in his ear trying to remove some stubborn water.

“I don’t know who you thought that moat was going to keep out,” he says to you.

“I don’t know, Gerald. I had a few thoughts,” you say in exasperation. “So, learned how to swim did you?”

“I’ve been taking lessons.”

“That’s great.”

“And those piranha you put in the moat: they don’t do any good either,” he informs you.

“Obviously not, I don’t see a single tooth mark.”

“All you have to do is throw some steaks into the other side of the moat, it completely distracts them.”

“I should have gone with the electric eels.”

“You see,” Gerald continues, ignoring your electric eel comment as he works the water from his other ear. “piranha are really more scavengers than hunters. I guess that you didn’t know that.”

“I guess I didn’t,” you agree.

“You don’t know lots of things,” he tells you. “Would you like to know something else that you don’t know?”

You feel compelled to hear what Gerald has to say next, even though you know that it will make you want to knock the freckles from his ruddy little cheeks.

Note: under no circumstance would you ever strike or do harm to child in any way–that’s what the piranha were for.  You’re just kidding–mostly.

“Just what is it that I don’t know, Gerald?”

“Well,” he says, wiping his nose on his sleeve, “that cement barrier you built around your house is useless too.”

“Well that’s apparent.”

“All I needed to get past that, was a ladder and a blanket to throw over the razor-wire.”

“It was that easy for you was it?”

“Yeah. I don’t know where you’re getting your ideas on how to keep people out, but you’re not being very smart about it,” he admonishes you.

“What would you suggest I do, Gerald.”

“An electrified fence would be far more effective, I suppose.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” A tiny flame of hope flickers in your mind.

“But there are ways around that too,” he tells you, quickly dousing your tiny flame. “And that Beware of Bigfoot sign that you put up, wasn’t fooling anyone.”

“Do you mean, apart from the twenty or so Bigfoot hunters that camped out on your fathers front lawn, convinced that they had found irrefutable proof that Bigfoot exists?” You challenge Gerald’s assessment.

“That really ticked off my dad.”

You chuckle to yourself. “I know it did.”

“He says you’re a bad neighbor,” Gerald informs you.

“Does he?”

“And he uses bad words when he says it.”

“Does he really?” You feel a weird sense of satisfaction.

“Did you know that one of those Bigfoot hunters smashed my dad’s mooning garden gnome with a shovel?”

“Yes.” Your spine stiffens slightly. “It was definitely the Bigfoot hunters that did that.”

“Anyway, do have anything to eat; all of that swimming and climbing made me hungry.” Gerald was hungry most of the time.

“I could make you a peanut butter and jelly sandwich,” you offer.

“How many times do I have to tell you this: I’m allergic to peanuts?”

“I can’t image how I could have forgotten that.”

“You can’t remember anything,” he scolds, “you’re always offering things that have peanuts in them.”

“Forgetfulness is my curse…among other things.”

“You should write this down so you don’t forget.” Gerald instructs. “I’m allergic to peanuts, shellfish, cats, pomegranites, bees…”

“Gerald!” Gerald’s list is interrupted by the sound of his father screaming over your barriers. “What did you do with my steaks?!”

“Uh oh. I think I have to go now. I’ll be back later to tell you some more things that you don’t know,” he assures you as he turns to leave.

“I’ll be eagerly waiting,” you tell him as he leaves.

You stand there for a moment in silent contemplation.

“Allergic to bees are you?” You say to yourself in what could be described as an ominous and sinister tone.

You should be ashamed of yourself.

Not nearly as effective as one might hope.

Not nearly as effective as you might hope.

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