Presque Isle Downs and Casino announced today that a blackjack dealer broke his leg during a game and had to be humanely euthanized. The dealer slipped on an errant ice cube and fractured his ankle, necessitating the on-call medical staff to erect a curtain behind which the employee was put down to end his suffering. […]
What I saw.
(image source: wpclipart.com)
Just a little glimpse into my life.
I was out the other night, minding my own business when I was approached by an attractive woman. She sat down next to me and introduced herself.
She talked about her life, her job, and her children, but mostly she talked about the fact that her divorce had just been finalized and she was celebrating that fact.
She told me how eager she was to get on with her life.
She told me how long it had been since she had been out and had a good time.
She told me how much she was enjoying talking to me.
Then something happened: she asked me to guess her age.
“How old do you think I am?” She asked.
“I don’t know,” I told her, “you’re not very old.”
“Well, exactly how old do you think I am,” she urged me.
“I’m not very good at guessing age,” I said, hoping she would drop it.
“Just take a guess,” she urged more forcefully.
“I guess you’re about 34 years old.” I finally relented.
She stared at me blankly; I could sense that things were about to go horribly wrong. “Oh. Is that how old you think I look?” She said with a timbre of irritation in her voice.
“I don’t know…I guess so.” I fumbled.
“I’m only 29 years old,” she snapped.
“I told you I wasn’t good at…”
“Most people say that I look younger than I actually am.” She interrupted.
“Okay,” I said timidly.
“People say, that I look like I’m in my mid-twenties,” she continued, now visibly angry. “What do you have to say to that?”
I want to make it clear, the next thing that came out of my mouth was not me trying to be a smartass. It was not me trying to be dismissive or insulting. It was simply the best thing that my brain could think of to say.
“Sometimes people lie,” I said.
She stormed away.
This story has no point; it’s just a little glimpse into my life.
What she thought I saw.
(image source: wpclipart.com)
If it’s on a sign, you must obey it.
It’s been a while since I first reported, Guilio Cesare Fava, the mayor of a Falciano Del Massico ordered the residents of the small town in southern Italy not to die. He stated that there was no room in the cemetery, therefore all residents were ordered by official edict, to refrain from entering the afterlife until the proper permits could be obtained and provisions made for a new resting place.
He also reportedly said, “death is depressing and icky and we’ll have none of it around here.”
With the combination of red tape, the propensity for governmental committees to move forward with the pace of an Icelandic glacier and the confusion manifested by the fact that nearly every member of Falciano Del Massico’s town council is named Luigi, the situation has shown little improvement. Compounded with the fact that some of the residents of Falciano Del Massico have taken it upon themselves to violate the mayors edict, things have grown even more dire.
“It’s just so frustrating,” Guilio said. “Just the other day I was standing in line at the market and the guy in front of me just dropped dead…the gall of it.”
Violators of the mayors edict have been placed into wooden boxes and buried in the ground. The punishment seems harsh, but law and order must be maintained.
“Edict? I have a job to do.”
“What’s wrong with you?”
I am sick and tired of people who think they are better than me.
People who think they are better than me just because they don’t eat crayons–there’s no law against eating crayons.
Do you know what all serial killers have in common: they don’t eat crayons. They occasionally eat people, but never crayons. Would you prefer I went around murdering people and eating them? I’ll bet you would because you’re all judgmental that way.
I’m sick and tired of people who think they are better than me just because they’ve never slapped a mime in the face–there’s no law against slapping mimes in the face.
Okay, there is a law against slapping mimes in the face–but there shouldn’t be! When did this country become the type of fascist police state where you can’t slap a mime in the face?
I’m fed up with those of you who think you’re so superior just because you’ve never licked a toad and then urinated on a police car. Police cars are inanimate objects: they don’t care if you urinate on them.
The police officer gets a little angry when you urinate on him.
It makes the toad furious.
And so what if I like to spend my evenings skulking in a dimly lit room, chugging bottles of Orange Jubilee Mad Dog 20/20, eating from a 64 pack of Crayola Crayons, with the B-52’s greatest hits blaring at full volume on the stereo as I fingerpaint pictures of giraffes and other even-toed ungulates on the walls.
Sometimes I do it dressed up like a rodeo clown.
There’s nothing weird about any of that…except for listening to the B-52’s–I shouldn’t do that.
Think about this: if I didn’t do weird and unspeakable things this blog wouldn’t even exist.
I should probably stop.
Perfectly paired with Crayola brand dandelion crayons.
This conversation actually happened at a place where I worked, involving myself, a female supervisor, and a coworker named Bill who makes very questionable decisions.
Supervisor: I think I should go on a diet and shed a few pounds before summer.
Bill: You don’t need to lose weight; you’re pleasantly plump.
(Several moments of painfully awkward silence.)
Supervisor: I’m what?
Bill: you’re pleasantly plump.
Supervisor: I’m plump am I? Plump is what I am? I’m plump?
Bill: no, you’re pleasantly plump.
Me: (whispering discretely in Bill’s direction) stop saying the word plump, dude.
Supervisor: so my plumpness is pleasant to you?
Bill: I like a girl with meat on her bones.
(Another long and horrifying awkward silence.)
Me: wow, I can’t believe you thought the word meat would be helpful.
Supervisor: so I’m plump and meaty. (turning to address me) Do I look pleasantly plump to you?
Me: (frightened): pleasant is certainly not a word I would employ at the moment.
Supervisor: (growling) but am I plump?
Me: NO!
Bill: There’s nothing wrong with having some junk in your trunk.
(She literally became so angry she couldn’t speak.)
Me: you really need to stop all of the words that are coming out of your mouth, Bill.
Bill: (holding his hands wide apart) but I like women who have…
Me: STOP!
I can only guess at how Bill was going to finish that sentence; I am certain it would have resulted in his homicide.
The supervisor tortured Bill for weeks, screaming “watch out, there’s fat coming through,” every time she walked past him.
It was funny–for me.
The moral of this story: don’t be a dumbass.
Remember: plump and meaty is fine when describing your Christmas Turkey, but not when describing your boss.
Dear Disgusting Swine,
In a previous post, you detailed your disappointment in relation to the Crayola company’s decision to discontinue the Dandelion crayon in their 24-pack of crayons. It seemed your distress stemmed from the fact that you find Dandelion crayons to be the tastiest of the colors available in the Crayola 24 pack.
You disgusting swine.
Your assertion is absolutely ridiculous and the height of irresponsibility. But being a fair-minded person, I decided to eat a 24-pack of Crayola crayons before composing this letter.
It was disgusting, you pig-swine.
But just to ensure absolute certainty in my position, I ate a second 24-pack of Crayola crayons: it wasn’t as disgusting as the first 24-pack, but it wasn’t good.
As I began to write this response, I snacked on a third pack of 24 Crayola crayons. Admittedly some of the colors are growing on me: Yellow-Orange, in particular, has a refreshing citrusy tang, but Dandelion is still awful.
You filthy disgusting pig-swine.
After several days of consuming crayons, I have come to an unswayable conclusion: Dandelion is the most offensive of the colors available in the Crayola 24-pack of crayons. In fact, the only thing I’ve ever tasted worse than the Dandelion Crayola crayon is my aunt’s potato salad, and that tastes like a diseased monkey peed into a vat of battery acid and death.
In conclusion: you are ignorant filthy disgusting pig-swine. (And you probably smell like moldy pinecones.)
Best regards,
Ron Smith, Director of Erie County Health Department.
Dandelion has been retired by Crayola and is now living in Boca Raton, Florida.
How can drinking lead to good health? That’s a question that Peter Tompkins, MD, has an answer for. “Most drinkers are deficient in Vitamin D, which comes from sunlight,” says Dr. Tompkins. “That’s why the city of Erie’s Block Parties are good. Instead of drinking in a dark bar, you can have your booze and […]
via Thursday Block Parties a Great Way for Alcoholics to Get Sunshine, says Doctor — gooferie
I think I just ate something that broods.
You’re enjoying a delicious cup of pudding; savoring it’s smooth, creamy, crunchy goodness.
Wait a minute–crunchy?
Crunchy is not an adjective that’s generally associated with pudding. What did you just bite into? What did you just swallow? You feel a subtle unease in the pit of your stomach. Your mind begins to race, pondering the crunch causing possibilities.
Was it a clump of dirt? That would be bad, but it could be worse; it could be much worse.
The pain in your stomach grows a little.
That crunch had an exoskeleton feel to it. You may have just eaten an insect. What kind of insect could it have been? Your mind immediately leaps to most disgusting insect possible: the Egyptian dung beetle. Beetles that use rolled balls of dung for food or brooding; it definitely had the feel of something that broods.
The sick feeling in your stomach intensifies.
Stop it. Dung beetles are far too large to fit in your cup of pudding; it’s almost certainly a smaller insect.
You think it could have been a bedbug, but it was too large to be a bedbug. Unless it was a cluster of bedbugs, or worse: an abnormally large mutant bedbug…that probably just fed on someone with hepatitis.
You begin to feel a little dizzy
Then it hits you, the worst case scenario: what if it was a piece of rat feces? What’s the acceptable amount of rat feces in pudding? You hope it’s not measured in chunks. What if the rat had Bubonic Plague? You may have just become ground zero for an outbreak of the Black Death.
And you thought Bill Cosby couldn’t get creepier.
You vomit.
As you try to catch your breath, you notice absolutely nothing offensive in your vomit.
You inspect it very carefully (which in itself is a little weird) and still you find nothing. It was probably just your imagination.
You feel silly, regulations involving food production are far to strict for it to have been anything else.
Meanwhile, in a pudding factory on the edge of small village in a remote part of Bolivia:
First worker: Hey, I think something just fell into the vat of pudding.
Second worker: What was it?
First worker: It looked like something with an exoskeleton, something that broods, possibly an Egyptian dung beetle.
Second worker: Why would there be an Egyptian dung beetle here in Bolivia?
First worker: I don’t know. Why are we speaking English in Bolivia?
Second worker: Stop asking stupid questions and stir the pudding.
First worker: Maybe it was a chunk of rat feces. I wonder what the acceptable amount of rat feces in pudding is.
Second worker: Is there an unacceptable amount of rat feces in pudding?
They both laugh hysterically.
“Where do you want to brood?”
“How about the nearest Bolivian pudding factory?”
“Perfect.”
A pilot of a Dubai to Amsterdam flight was forced to make an emergency landing after a fight broke-out when a passenger refused to stop farting in the packed flight.
Chaos erupted when two Dutchman who were sitting next to the flatulent man told him to stop and complained to Transavia Airlines crew.
Yet despite repeated requests and even a direct request from the pilot the man continued to fart and a fight broke-out.
The pilot of the Dutch low-cost airline (it’s so low cost the pilot frequently doubles as a fart monitor) then decided to make an emergency landing at Vienna International Airport in Austria.
“It’s so stupid,” remarked one passenger, “the man can’t stop farting so we land in the city that invented the Vienna sausages.”
The two Dutchman, the flatulent man and two sisters sitting in the same row as the men were also escorted off the plane – but the sisters told local media they hadn’t done anything wrong.
“We’re innocent!”
“It was crazy that we were included, we had no idea who these boys were, we just had the bad luck to be in the same row and we didn’t do anything,” one the sisters stated.
A Transavia spokesman insisted that the ladies were also guilty of misbehavior and verbal abuse… he then snapped that New York Minute was an hour and a half of his life that he’ll never get back.
An hour and a half!
The spokesman went on to say the parties involved have been banned from Transavia flights and in the future they will probably stop serving five bean casserole as the inflight meal.
“I could have stopped farting any time I wanted to,” the man said with a chuckle, “but I could see from their shirts that those two Dutch guys worked for Ikea and it was time for revenge–I’ll give you something to insert into slot B.”
Also banned from Transavia Airlines.
A few weeks ago I implored the fans of the Philadelphia Eagles to stop celebrating Eagles’ victories by punching police horses.
Good news: The Eagles won the Super Bowl and nobody punched a police horse!
However, one exuberant Eagles fan celebrated by eating horse excrement.
Stop and let that sink in for a moment.
Randall Cunningham must be so proud his jersey is being worn by such a stalwart of humanity.
I apologize heartily for the next photograph.
Look how happy everyone is.
This made me consider the manner in which I might celebrate a joyous occasion. So I made a list; eating horse excrement off the ground ranked 11,987,344th out of 11,987,345.
Using a nail gun to attach my testicles to a telephone pole was the only thing that ranked below it.
Hey Philadelphia: this is why you can’t have nice things.
idiotpruf 