One of your key resolutions this New Year was to stop wasting your time on social media, reading dreadful posts devoid of intellectual value of any kind.
The type of posts written by a pasty-faced geek with zero social grace.
The kind of drek that burrows into your brain takes root and festers until it has transformed you into a drooling half-wit.
Well–you’ve blown it now, haven’t you?
You might as well crack open that bottle of MadDog 20/20, rip open that pack of Camels, and start eating cookie dough straight from the tube because you’ve just taken the first step into a spiraling abyss.
Jamestown, NY–When Virgil and Beatrice, an unassuming couple from a small city 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.” Beatrice solemnly shook her head before adding, “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, we kept telling ourselves, but it never was,” Beatrice told us. “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.”
“Hitler slurps his soup,” Virgil added.
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.”
The other day, I went to Google in search of a bit of information, as I am an inquisitive individual, and I began my request with the word what. A perfectly normal word with which to begin a search for knowledge. If I had typed in the question, what is a perfectly normal word to begin a question with? The word what could have easily been the answer. However, as I typed in the word what and hit the space bar, Google, without hesitation, auto-filled the remainder of my question with: what mushrooms shouldn’t you eat out of cow poop? What the hell, Google? That’s not even remotely the question I was going to ask, and I’m a little offended that you presumed that was the direction I was heading. In fact, Google, you popped that out so quickly it was as if you were just waiting for me to type the word what so you could shove that remark about the mushrooms in cow poop in my face. If I had typed in the word who, would you have responded with: who likes to eat mushrooms out of cow poop, you maybe? Maybe I was about to inquire about the unified field theory and how it allows all fundamental forces and elementary particles to be written in terms of a single type of field or about the influence of French Baroque architecture on the 17th century. I wasn’t going to ask either of those things; I was going to ask if Dandelion Yellow crayons actually taste like dandelions, but you didn’t know that. I was curious because the Banana Mania-colored crayons tasted absolutely nothing like bananas–I mean, it wasn’t even close. I wrote a strongly worded letter to the Crayola company. It’s not even a question I need answered; you should almost never eat mushrooms out of cow poop. When I say almost never, I mean only do it when nobody is watching. If Crayola had a crayon color named Mushrooms in Cow Poop, I certainly wouldn’t eat that; I’ve had enough disappointment in my life. So, from this point forward, you can keep your opinions to yourself. Let me ask the questions. Questions like: what is the best way to get crayon out of your teeth?
As the new year arrives, the annual acts of introspection, personal assessment, and deep soul-searching are effervescing across the nation, spurring aspirations for self-improvement.
The New Year’s resolutions abound.
Some resolutions are to purge undesirable habits: smoking, picking your nose, being Joy Behar, punching people in the face who press you on what your New Year’s resolutions are.
Some resolutions are to adopt desirable habits: a healthy diet, good hygiene, not being Joy Behar, apologizing profusely after punching the person in the face who pressed you on what your New Year’s resolutions are.
Some people simply resolve to approach life with a more positive attitude toward their fellow man; they feel they can make the world a brighter place.
To all of this, I have one response: Wake Up Fools! Your fellow man sucks.
You’re awesome; it’s everybody else that needs to change.
To that end, here is my 2025 list of resolutions for others:
Don’t walk around on December 31st and say, “See you next year” to everyone you meet and chortle as if you’ve just invented it.
Don’t respond to the “See you next year” guy by sharpening a stick to a fine point and poking him in the eye with it as you say, “Now you won’t,” regardless of how appropriate it may seem.
If somebody says something you find funny, just laugh like a normal human being; don’t say lol out loud.
Don’t ride your skateboard in the middle of the street as if you own it; I will run you over, you smug little bastard.
Don’t run around showing people pictures of a footprint that you think is indisputable proof of Bigfoot. Your wife has hobbit feet and she walks around barefoot entirely too much.
Don’t place your new mooning garden gnome, Willard, facing your neighbor’s kitchen window.
Don’t act all surprised when your new mooning garden gnome, Willard, is mysteriously smashed to bits in the middle of the night.
Don’t accuse your neighbor of things you can’t prove.
Don’t inadvertently set your garage on fire while attempting to rid it of a hornet’s nest with a road flare. As funny as it was, you’re a menace to the neighborhood.
If you’re a mime, don’t be.
Don’t bring the express lane at the supermarket to a screeching halt by getting into a protracted conversation about your nephew Josh with the cashier. We’re all upset that he’s back in jail, but if you’re on probation, you shouldn’t be smoking crack.
If you’re on probation, don’t smoke crack.
If you are on probation and you are smoking crack, don’t do it in your car.
If you are on probation and you are smoking crack in your car, don’t do it while driving over the speed limit…or on the sidewalk.
Don’t post proof of your probationary violations on Facebook with the description: look what I did.
Don’t tweet about your incriminating Facebook post just to ensure everyone sees it.
Don’t assure someone that you have beer in your fridge and then hand them a Natural Light.
Put all the baby pictures away; your first three children were ugly, and I’m sure this one will be, too.
Everything your child does is not precious unless, by precious, you mean annoying beyond the ability to be described with words.
It’s never good to start a story with the phrase: my child did the most precious thing in juvenile court today.
Don’t get all pissy when you see something on a list that you think may pertain to you; it absolutely does pertain to you. Learn from it.
Finally and simply: don’t pretend you’re not a moron if you are a moron (you know who you are).
Addendum: I saw the picture of your baby; he looks like a potato.
It’s Christmastime again: the perfect opportunity to brighten the spirits of a loved one with the gift of the rutabaga.
What’s so special about the rutabaga, you may ponder–what isn’t so special about the rutabaga is my response.
They can be roasted.
They can be baked.
They can be boiled as a flavor enhancer in soups.
They can be boiled as a flavour enhancer in soups in Great Britain. (You wouldn’t believe how much tastier the soup is with that extra U in the word flavour.)
They can be thinly julienned as a side dish, in a salad, or as a garnish.
They can be thinly julienned and used to clean up oil spills in the driveway.
They can be mashed into a paste and used to degrease engines.
They can be mashed into a paste and used as a beautifying face cream. (It won’t make you more attractive, but it will cover your face–which, if you’re being honest, is the problem.)
You can make rutabaga ice cream.
You can make a rudimentary boiled rutabaga stew that was a staple of famine-ridden Europe during the war and pretend you’re living in famine-ridden Europe during the war…because pretending is fun.
You can chuck them at the heads of people you don’t like.
You can chuck them at the heads of people you’re ambivalent about.
You can chuck them at the heads of people you do like. (The thunk of a rutabaga bouncing off a human skull is surprisingly satisfying regardless of the target.)
You can fill your child’s stocking with them. (But ensure they’re fresh; they can attract flies.)
You can use them to attract flies.
You can carve them into lanterns, as was the old Irish tradition.
You can carve them into lanterns and chuck them at people’s heads. (Hopefully the beginnings of a new tradition.)
And finally, you can make the traditional Finnish Christmas dish Lanttulaatikko.
Lanttulaatikko is a delicious Finnish Christmas dish–you can also chuck it at people’s heads.
I’ve recently encountered some individuals who said they hate Christmas or they can’t wait for the Christmas season to be over.
What is the matter with you people, don’t you know it’s the most wonderful time of the year? Andy Williams told us so in song form. Are you going to contradict Andy Williams? Andy Williams was a national treasure you heartless goons.
I had a friend (not the one with genital chiggers) tell me he couldn’t wait for Christmas to be over: the obligations, the expense, the forced family get-togethers with people he really didn’t care for.
It’s a crying shame.
But I had another friend (the one with the genital chiggers) tell me how much he loved Christmas: the decorations, the songs, the eggnog (the best of all nogs), the gifts, and the general spirit of giving.
I would have shook his hand, but he had been doing a crazy amount of groin itching due to the chiggers. I told him there was a powder he could get, but he said he had used the powder and the chiggers thought it was Christmas, formed a big circle, and sang Christmas carols like the Whos in Whoville.
Speaking of the Whos in Whoville: don’t you Christmas haters remember when the Grinch’s heart grew three sizes when he finally understood the true meaning of Christmas?
Note:if your heart grows three sizes, you have a pretty severe medical condition–you’re probably going to die. You should definitely seek medical help as quickly as possible.
But that’s not the point.
Don’t you Christmas haters remember when Scrooge McDuck awoke on Christmas morning to discover the spirits had done it all in one night and he hadn’t missed Christmas. He took a bag of toys and a turkey to the Cratchit’s home.
It does seem strange: a duck eating a turkey. Some kind of weird fowl cannibalism going on there. Still, Scrooge kept Christmas from that point forward and he kept it well.
Note:if you’re a young couple about to have twins, I implore you to name them Ignorance and Wont. They’ll hate you for it, but it’ll be a great conversation starter every Christmas.
Don’t you Christmas haters remember when Jimmy Stewart’s character thought he had killed Lee Marvin’s character, but it was in fact, John Wayne’s character who had killed Lee Marvin’s character and…
Sorry, that’s the wrong Jimmy Stewart movie. That’s from The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance, a great movie, but not very Christmassy.
Don’t you Christmas haters remember when George Bailey realized he was the richest man in Bedford Falls because he had friends and family and had made a difference in so many lives? Do you not remember that! It was so freaking heartwarming!
Look at how happy Jimmy Stewart is. It’s as if he’s just shot Lee Marvin.
And don’t all you Christmas haters remember when Charlie Brown asks, “Isn’t there anyone who knows what Christmas is all about.”
Linus replies, “Sure, Charlie Brown, I can tell you what Christmas is all about.”
Linus then moves to center stage and says this:
And there were in the same country shepherds abiding
in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night.
And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them,
and the glory of the Lord shone round about them:
and they were sore afraid.
And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold,
I bring you good tidings of great joy,
which shall be to all people.
For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour,
which is Christ the Lord.
It’s only one of the most iconic moments in television history.
I hope all you Christmas haters shoot your eyes out.
You told me you were going to kill two birds with one stone.
Why are you throwing stones at birds? And you’re not just throwing stones at these birds–you’re trying to kill them.
What did these birds ever do to you?
I’d have thought you learned your lesson about throwing stones back when you lived in that glass house.
Besides, throwing stones at birds has never worked out well for you in the past; do you remember the time at the family picnic when that crow crapped on your hotdog, and you threw a stone at it. You missed the crow and hit your Aunt Petunia in the forehead.
I’m sure she deserved to be hit in the forehead with a stone; she’s kind of a nightmare, and her potato salad is disgusting, but your family was still pretty angry with you.
If you can’t kill one bird with one stone, how in the world do you think you’ll kill two birds with one stone?
Physical coordination is not your strong suit. In fact, you don’t really have a strong suit; what you have are varying degrees of weaknesses.
Three of your biggest weaknesses are a terrible temper, poor decision-making, and really bad aim; that’s how your Aunt Petunia would end up with ten stitches in her forehead.
Now, your Aunt Petunia has a scar on her forehead, and your family will never let you live that down; the fact that the scar came out in the shape of a swastika was just bad luck.
Now people refer to her as Charlene Manson–I can’t express how angry your family is at you about that.
You’re clearly not a multitasker; you’re barely even a tasker. If I were you (thankfully, I’m not), I would stick to trying to accomplish one thing at a time.
Seriously, the next time a crow craps on your hotdog, just go get another hotdog. Hotdogs aren’t expensive; they’re way cheaper than the plastic surgery your Aunt Petunia needs to get that swastica off her forehead.
Addendum: On a positive note, the blow to your Aunt Petunia’s head made her forget the recipe for her potato salad; you should get some credit for that.
Fairytale Land–The wolf community has united in protest against what they perceive as the negative portrayal they receive in fables and fairytales. We have interviewed Mr. Bartholomew Wolf, spokeswolf for The Equity For Wolves In Storytelling, about the situation.
Mr. Wolf: Just look at the end of The Three Little Pigs. The three little pigs boil the wolf in oil, and nobody sheds a tear. In fact, everybody cheers. Just think about how that story begins, they label him as ‘the big bad wolf,’ it’s highly prejudicial. That wolf’s name was Poindexter; he was one of a litter of six, and he had to overcome a stuttering problem as a child–they didn’t tell you that in the fable!
Idiotpruf: When he was boiled in oil, Poindexter was climbing down the chimney to eat the pigs.
Mr. Wolf: What? You’ve never had bacon? You probably had a nice ham dinner last Sunday; I’ll bet no one tried to boil you in oil.
Idiotpruf: Actually, I had vegan tacos.
Mr. Wolf: Really?
Idiotpruf: No. I was joking; vegan tacos are disgusting. But Poindexter wasn’t just trying to eat the three little pigs, he also destroyed the homes of the first two little pigs with his breath.
Mr. Wolf: That’s the most ridiculous part of the story; most wolves smoke two packs a day and couldn’t blow the seeds off a dandelion, let alone destroy a house with their breath.
Idiotpruf: Why do you think there are so many stories where the villain is a wolf: The Three Little Pigs, The Wolf and the Fox, The Wolf and the Seven Young Kids, and Little Red Riding Hood, just to name a few?
Mr. Wolf: I don’t know. Wolves are just like every other woodland creature; we have hopes, dreams, and fears like any denizen of the forest.
Idiotpruf: You do, on occasion, devour your fellow denizens of the forest.
Mr. Wolf: We’re very upfront about that. Besides, if you focus on one negative thing, you can make anything seem bad. Most of the animals in the forest have annoying traits: rabbits are noisy chewers, squirrels smell horrible when they’re wet, and tree frogs are horribly smug.
Idiotpruf: I wouldn’t have guessed that about tree frogs.
Mr. Wolf: That’s because tree frogs have no reason to be smug–they just are.
Idiotpruf: In Little Red Riding Hood, the wolf eats the poor girl’s grandmother.
Mr. Wolf: Little Red Riding Hood is a prime example of how these stories get it wrong about wolves; any self-respecting wolf would never eat the grandmother first; grandmothers are all sinewy and gristle, and they taste like linament.”
Idiotpruf: The story suggests that the wolf ate the grandmother first so he could take her place and fool Little Red Riding Hood so that he could then, in turn, eat her.
Mr. Wolf: What does it say about Little Red Riding Hood that she couldn’t readily tell the difference between her grandmother and a wolf–quite frankly, it’s insulting to the wolf.
Idiotpruf: So you’d beokaywith the story if the wolf ate Little Red Riding Hood First?
Mr. Wolf: At least it would make more sense.
Idiotpruf: Just for clarification, as a wolf, you’re okay with the eating of the little girl?
Mr. Wolf: Of course, we’d eat the little girl, I mean, we’re freakin’ wolves.
The interview ended abruptly after that, and Mr. Bartholomew Wolf was stripped of his title as the spokesperson for The Equity For Wolves In Storytelling.
Have you ever noticed how an object can have more than one use? Take, for instance, a standard shovel. You could use a shovel to dig a hole; you could also use it to smash an ugly porcelain frog into a thousand tiny pieces. Two completely different uses. You could then use your shovel to bury the thousand tiny pieces of the porcelain frog in the hole that you have already dug, preferably before your neighbor discovers what you’ve done to his porcelain frog. Let’s be honest: if your neighbor didn’t want his frog smashed into a thousand tiny pieces, he shouldn’t have bought a frog that was so ridiculously ugly and made of fragile material like porcelain; he might as well have put a sign next to it that read: please smash me, I’m ugly and fragile, and I don’t deserve to exist. On second thought, there could be confusion if your neighbor happened to be standing next to the sign; that sign could be readily misinterpreted; your neighbor is also ugly and fragile. Also, your neighbor’s personality is such that it wouldn’t take much of a nudge to push a person from the mere impulse of violence to a case of full-blown assault.You, of course, limited your aggression to the porcelain frog–for now. As luck would have it when you dug the hole earlier in the day, you had no plans for it; you just dug the hole out of the sheer enjoyment of digging a hole. Then you saw the porcelain frog, and the whole thing just came together. When your neighbor accuses you of smashing his porcelain frog and burying it in your backyard, you can tell him to go ahead and see for himself because you have the perfect hole-digging implement for such a task. Of course, you had the foresight to bury an active landmine next to the dispatched porcelain frog; you were on a hole-digging spree. “Go dig it up,” you’ll urge him. “You have a 50/50 chance of not being blown to hell.” Then, you will laugh manically as he angrily trudges back into his house in an act of total defeat. Unless he’s going inside to call the authorities, the second of those two possibilities is probably more likely. Ugly, fragile people have the tendency to tattle. You could use the shovel to bolt your door before the ATF arrives in preparation for the inevitable stand-off; you are getting a ton of positive use out of your shovel today.
Do you see all the different uses there are for a common shovel?
idiotpruf 