In an experiment at MIT mice fed yogurt as compared to junk food developed luxuriantly thicker fur and bigger testicles that they projected outwards, giving them an air of “mouse swagger.” Scientific American It’s Friday night and, like every other mouse in the lab, I’m cruisin’ the scene–TGIF and all that. I reached […]
via TGIF With a Big-Balled Yogurt-Eating Mouse — Gerbil News Network
An artist’s rendition of Bigfoot as he hurries to the restroom after one too many Yuengling Lagers.
North East, PA–It seems the ban of all mythological creatures from Speed’eez Sports Bar and Grill in the town of North East, Pennsylvania has been lifted by new management.
The ban was implemented after a series of disturbing incidents involving Yeti, The Skunk Ape, a unicorn named Sparkles, a bevy of mischievous leprechauns, and local resident, Bigfoot.
The series of events culminated when one the patrons, an individual known as Poe, was found in the parking lot severely beaten and covered with giant footprints.
Todd Luke, the new manager of Speed’eez explained the ban’s reversal, “Sure, Bigfoot is loud, smelly, he tips with tree bark, he plays nothing but Steve Perry solo stuff on the jukebox, his hair gets into everything, and he’s probably responsible for the recent outbreak of Lyme Disease, but Poe’s a dick.”
It was originally believed the assault on Poe was precipitated by Poe’s constant reference to an embarrassing infestation that Bigfoot may or may not have had.
“I don’t have genital chiggers,” Bigfoot responded.
However, it has come to light there may have been another reason for the severe beating: Bigfoot believed Poe was making inappropriate advances toward his wife, Lady Bigfoot.
“It’s a completely ridiculous accusation,” Poe said. “While I will admit I’m attracted to extremely tall, hair covered women and that a pre-historic ape-like creature with rudimentary speech skills seem like the type of woman, some might say the only type of woman, who would date me; absolutely nothing untoward happened.”
“We shared a plate of Buffalo Wings and tree grubs once, that’s all there was to it,” Lady Bigfoot explained. “He’s not my type: he doesn’t smell like pinecones and his forehead doesn’t protrude nearly enough.”
She paused momentarily before adding, “and he’s kind of a dick.”
Despite the past tensions, it seems all is back to normal at Speed’eez Sports Bar and Grill.
“I’m glad we were able to get this all straightened out,” Poe said as he began to scratch his groin. “Hey, what do genital chiggers feel like?”
A photograph of Bigfoot at Speed’eez Sports Bar and Grill. Unfortunately, as always, he ducked just out sight as the picture was taken.
It’s a tradition. This is the fourth year I’m posting this on Memorial Day weekend for two specific reasons:
Years ago I worked at an American Legion post. I met a lot of people during my time there. Some of them were ordinary people, some were interesting, some were bizarre and some were bizarrely interesting.
One of the more interesting people was Jack.
Jack constantly spoke in non sequiturs. At first I thought that he was simply hard of hearing, but I began to realize there was a thread of continuity in the things he was saying. His conversations would go off in seemingly weird and irrelevant tangents, but they generally made it back to their original points.
I’ve often wished that I had written some of them down, unfortunately I’m a moron.
Here are a few of my favorites that haven’t been lost to my faulty memory:
Jack: I remember when I paid only ten dollars a week for rent.
Other patron: We don’t live in the fifties anymore Jack.
Jack: What! (slamming his fist against the bar in indignation) I haven’t ridden a bicycle in years.
Other patron: What?
Jack: I’d rather pay for my truck insurance than ride a bicycle.
Other patron: Again, what?
Jack: I can barely afford to pay my for rent and my truck insurance.
Or this one:
Me: Do you want another beer Jack?
Jack: (giving me a dismissive wave): I don’t know anyone named Dan.
Me: Firstly, I asked you if wanted another beer. Secondly, what about Dan sitting there right next to you?
Jack: (looking at Dan suspiciously) His last name isn’t White.
Me: So?
Jack: Then why would someone named Dan White want to buy me a beer?
Me: Obviously he wouldn’t. I can’t believe I’ve behaved so foolishly.
But this was my favorite:
Me: How are you doing today Jack?
Jack: You’re nuts!
Me: I hesitate to ask, but apart from the obvious, why do say that?
Jack: My wife was never an Eskimo.
Yeah. I still have no idea.
Probably not Jack’s wife.
But of all the interesting people I met, John was the most interesting.
John had a lot of stories to tell and a keen willingness to tell them, under one condition: you had to keep a cold rum and coke in front of him. He needed the proper “lubrication” to keep the vocal chords going.
John was man in his late eighties but still very spry. He had a weird sense of humor, which was probably a good thing because his wife seemed to have none at all. She was constantly reprimanding John for his jokes.
But that didn’t stop John.
John was a rifle bearer for the Honor Guard. One day after performing their duties, the members of the Honor Guard were returning to the post to have a few drinks together, as was their custom.
John walked calmly up to bar in full dress uniform, carrying his rifle, and wearing his eye-patch (John had to occasionally wear an eye-patch because of condition he had. He claimed he wore so he didn’t see double after he’s had a few too many) and stood there with a slight impish grin on his face.
He looked like pirate.
He then quickly pulled the rifle to his shoulder and discharged it toward the back of the bar.
The crack of the rifle echoed through the hall. If you’ve never heard a rifle discharged in a building, it’s loud. Beer flew into air, drinks were spilled, people scattered, some hit the floor. Even though I knew it was only a blank, it was still jarring to have a weapon discharged in your general direction.
A cloud of smoke hung in air the along with the pungent smell of spent gun powder. For a moment after the echo of the rifle had disappeared there was total silence. Then there chaos. Some people were laughing; some people were not. Some people were cursing, especially John’s wife, who unleashed a stream of foul language that to this day, I am certain has never been matched.
Once I made sure I still a whole person, I laughed, maybe as hard as I ever had in my life.
He later told me he thought it would be funny.
“When isn’t heart failure funny,” I told him.
John was reprimanded by the post, but that didn’t bother him. In fact, I’m not sure I ever saw anything bother him.
John was there that day on June 6th 1944. It’s estimated that 2,500 allied soldiers lost their lives on D-Day… but John didn’t. He had to hang around long enough to nearly scare me to death.
So this Memorial Day weekend, I’m dedicating this blog post to Jack, John and every other veteran who is no longer with us.
Do not let this Vogon read you his poetry.
Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy is quite clear on the point that Vogon poetry is the third worst in the universe:
“Vogon poetry is of course, the third worst in the universe. The second worst is that of the Azgoths of Kria. During a recitation by their poet master Grunthos the Flatulent of his poem “Ode to a Small Lump of Green Putty I Found in My Armpit One Midsummer Morning” four of his audience died of internal haemorrhaging and the president of the Mid-Galactic Arts Nobbling Council survived by gnawing one of his own legs off. Grunthos was reported to have been “disappointed” by the poem’s reception, and was about to embark on a reading of his 12-book epic entitled “My Favourite Bathtime Gurgles” when his own major intestine, in a desperate attempt to save humanity, leapt straight up through his neck and throttled his brain. The very worst poetry of all perished along with its creator, Paula Nancy Millstone Jennings (Paul Neil Milne Johnstone) of Redbridge, in the destruction of the planet Earth. Vogon poetry is mild by comparison.”
It is my endeavor to make it the fourth worst poetry in the universe:
There happened a witch who lived on a hill,
of diminutive size, but enormously shrill.
Unpleasing her countenance: all icky and warts,
when wickedly she cackles, how it twists and contorts.
Her stench so loathsome like eggs and arm pit,
one whiff and you vomit in your mouth just a bit.
Small animals would flee, never again to be seen.
At least they weren’t trampled, as they well could have been.
Her sisters she’d gather, all cellulite and hate.
They would cackle and hiss and brag of the children they ate.
And eat they did much in their murky morass,
they had thick chunky thighs, like a hippo’s fat ass.
“We will taunt, we will curse, as well we see fit,
with toil and trouble and all that Shakespearean shit.”
Their husbands did cower in a deep and dank well,
for their wives weren’t just ugly, they’re mean as hell.
But for these poor ladies, all their efforts did fail.
In the end it’s the hero who will always prevail.
Now the creatures just hide in a dark and dank place,
chugging Coors Light and stuffing their face.
Does this tale have a moral, I don’t know it just might,
but probably not: I’m not very bright.
And now Vogon poetry is the fourth worst in the universe. Thank you.
Have a happy Towel Day and please:
The trip was brief.
The controversy has endured.
Four Big Macs were purchased. Four Big Macs were present in the take-out bag. Four Big Macs were removed from the take-out bag. One person claims to have never gotten a Big Mac. Three others claim to have eaten only one Big Mac apiece.
Accusations have flown. Accusations still fly.
That fateful night:
The names have been changed to…screw it, these are the actual names.
Lance: Give me my Big Mac.
Matt: You ate it.
Lance: No I didn’t.
Matt: Yes you did.
Lance: I think I would remember eating a Big Mac.
Matt: Evidently you don’t.
Lance: Hey Al, you ate my Big Mac didn’t you?
Al: (Al grunts something inaudibly as he consumes his Big Mac, and drools on himself.)
Me: Well I didn’t eat it.
Lance: One of you ate my Big Mac!
An hour later, sitting on Matt’s front porch.
Lance: I can’t believe you guys ate my Big Mac.
Matt: You ate the Big Mac!
Lance: Look at me, I have no sesame seeds on me. If had eaten a Big Mac, I would have sesame seeds all over me.
Me: Maybe the seeds fell off.
Lance: What about the lettuce? What about the secret sauce? There’s not a drop of secret sauce on my face…I can’t believe you guys ate my Big Mac.
Years later:
Lance: Remember that night you guys ate my Big Mac.
Matt: YOU ate the Big Mac!
Still more years later:
Lance: I really wanted that Big Mac that you guys ate that night.
Matt: (Says nothing in an act of silent frustration.)
More recently:
Lance: One of you ate my Big Mac that night.
Matt via email: There’s no dispute, Lance wolfed it down in two bites.
Lance: That’s not how it went down.
Like Amelia Earhart’s strange disappearance into the Bermuda Triangle; the years have offered no answers, only more questions.
So if you’re ever traveling on that mysterious stretch of road, and you have take-out, be wary.
Being held for public indecency.
Traffic at the intersection of routes 28 and 85 in Rayburn Township, Pennsylvania, was shut down by a pair of cows having amorous relations. According to Trooper John Corna, troopers “kept trying to shoo them off the highway, but that just got the bull mad and it started to escalate.”
Of course, it made him mad, wouldn’t it make you mad if you were trying to have an intimate moment with your lady friend, and some dude started shooing you?
Well, it really ticks off bulls.
In a previous post about bull-riders, I detailed a few things that bulls hate. I may have left that list a tad incomplete. So in the interest of completion, (pun intended) more things that make bulls angry:
If I have left anything off the list, I apologize.
It’s really irritating when you want to finish something, but can’t; just ask the bull.
“Say shoo to me one more time.”
So I recently stumbled across a news story that detailed how a man in Holland Township, Michigan, accidentally set fire to his apartment. The fire spread and destroyed eight other apartments in his building and damaged two dozen other units.
When he set fire to his apartment, he was doing something that some might describe as ill-advised. Others would say it was foolish. But to most of us, it was an act of downright stupidity.
What was it that he was doing when he set fire to his apartment?
The following is a list of possible things the man in Michigan was doing when he started the fire.
Which one do you think is the real story?
“Stand closer–what could possibly go wrong?”
“I can’t believe that didn’t work.”
So what do you think?
If you don’t feel like guessing, here’s the story: nbcnews.com.
The delightful aroma of feet.
There is one salient fact about Limburger cheese: it is just awful. The only time I would need Limburger cheese, would be if I needed something that smelled like death and the smell from my giant pile of opossum crap just wasn’t enough.
Did you know the bacterium used to ferment Limburger cheese is the same bacterium that is responsible for body odor, and in particular, foot odor?
If you’ve ever smelled Limberger cheese, you had your suspicions.
Limburger cheese was first created in the Duchy of Limburg in the 19th century by a man who had just come home from a hard day of cheese making. He had unbuckled and removed his boots and was attempting to enjoy a meal with his wife when he and his wife got into an argument that changed the history of cheese making forever.
Wife: What is that horrendous smell?
Cheesemaker: Ooh, we’re having stoofvlees, I love stoofvlees.
Wife: It’s the most putrid smell I have ever encountered.
Cheesemaker: I don’t smell anything. Pass the ale.
Wife: I think it’s your feet.
Cheesemaker: Seriously. Pass the ale.
Wife: It’s rancorous.
Cheesemaker: It’s not that bad.
Wife: It is that bad. There are people retching on the other side of the Demer River.
Cheesemaker: Do you know what this conversation isn’t doing? It isn’t remedying the fact that I have no ale.
Wife: Your feet smell worse than that giant pile of opossum crap you have behind the house.
Cheesemaker: I’ll get my own ale.
Wife: Why do you even have a giant pile of opossum crap?
Cheesemaker: I’ll tell you why, (he pauses to take a slug of ale) because someday you’ll be in desperate need of copious amounts of opossum crap, and you’ll be glad it’s there.
Wife: I’ve thought the same thing about you, but it still hasn’t happened. Besides, it’s the worst smell in the world.
Cheesemaker: Nonsense. It’s not the worst smell in the world. In fact, I’ll bet that I could make a cheese that smells worse.
Wife: I doubt it.
Cheesemaker: You’ll see; it will become my mission.
Wife: Shut up and drink your ale.
And drink his ale he did.
And succeed he did–beyond his wildest ale-fueled dreams.
Of course, his wife left him and his giant pile of opossum crap.
The Duchy of Limburg is now divided by modern-day Germany, the Netherlands, and Belgium. None of the three countries wanted it: it reeked of Limburger cheese and developed a huge opossum problem.
Addendum: there are historians who will tell you certain items in this story aren’t factual–historians suck.
The aroma of their crap is delightful.
Cry Wolf Satirical News (COVINGTON, La.) The four block, 90-minute class schedule St. Paul’s operates under has given students a very unique relationship with the clock. A St. Paul’s student was reportedly devastated to realize there was still 50 minutes left of class yesterday (May 9). Sources say sophomore Tyrone Peters was horrified after looking […]
Man: Is there someone here that I can talk to about a job?
Me: The plant manager does the hiring, but he isn’t here today.
Man: So I can’t talk to anyone today?
Me: Sorry.
Man: (visibly upset) But I made sure not to smoke crack today.
Me: That’s very conscientious of you; I’ll add a note to your resume specifying that you made sure not to smoke crack today.
Man: (pointing an accusatory finger at me) You better not be lying to me.
Me: Trust me, writing that note will be a genuine pleasure.
Man: Just make sure you do it.
Unfortunately, we’d already filled our quota of habitual drug users.
idiotpruf 