idiotprufs

Illegal in 38 states–frowned upon in the rest.

Archive for the tag “idiocy”

Tales From an American Legion

 

american_legion_logo1

It’s a tradition. This is the third year I’m posting this on Memorial Day weekend for two specific reasons:

  1. I like it.
  2. Unapologetic laziness.

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.

Eskimo

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.

Nutella or Montague: What’s in a Name?

nutella

A delicious snack, but a terrible name for a French child.

According to Ole Bill Shakespeare what you call a thing doesn’t alter its nature; “that which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet,” and all that.

Note: not to give anything away, but regardless of the lovely sentiment, things didn’t end well for Juliet.

It seems a court in Northern France disagrees with the Bard of Avon, and has taken a tough stance toward families who give their children odd names.

When one couple in Valenciennes tried to call their child Nutella, the shocked registrar immediately informed the local prosecutor, who took the case to court in the northern city. (But not before first making himself a quick snack, Nutella really is delicious.)

The judge argued that giving the child the name of a chocolate spread was against the girl’s interests as it might lead to mockery and unpleasant remarks. “Children can be horribly cruel to other children who happen to have odd names,” the Honorable Peanut Butter N. Jelly told the court as he wiped a tear of remembrance from his eye. “Besides, Nutella is clearly a boys name.”

The parents did not turn up at the hearing in November, and in their absence the judge ruled that the girl’s name should be shortened from Nutella to Ella. Her full name is now a much more respectable Ella Phant Butt. “Let’s see school children just try to make fun of that,” the court said.

The same court in Valenciennes made similar arguments in January this year before overturning the decision of another couple to name their child Fraise, the French word for strawberry.

The judge said that in particular the girl might face derision from people using the uncouth expression “ramène ta fraise” – a slang saying that translates as “get your ass over here.”

The parents opted instead for Fraisine, an elegant name popular in the 19th century which roughly translates as “get your non-strawberry ass over here.”

“French parents can choose whatever name they want for their offspring,” a registrar said, “but we will occasionally seek to ban or change a moniker that might be deemed against the child’s interests…or if we’re bored, or someone’s just being a real prick about things.”

“I don’t think it’s very funny,” said known prick Jacques Faucheux, father of court renamed Son-Of-Flaccid-Penis Faucheux.

A family was told in 2009 that they could not name their child after the French cartoon character Titeuf.

titeuf

French cartoon character Titeuf–forget the name, I want my children to have that hairstyle.

Note: I’ve never been more glad to live in the United States; I fully plan to name my first child Magilla Gorilla, and I don’t want the courts messing around with my daughter’s name.

Magilla

The name Magilla Gorilla just oozes class.

But the French courts don’t reserve this right for just human names. A dog owner in eastern France has been forced to change the names of his dogs, Itler and Iva, because they clearly “make people think of Adolf Hitler and Eva Braun.”

The unnamed owner argued that the names, Itler and Iva, had nothing to do with Adolph Hitler and Eva Braun. He grudgingly changed his dogs’ names to Iliso and Isio 4, but admitted he probably shouldn’t have shaved the swastikas into their fur.

And finally, in France you cannot call a pig Napoleon, due to a law aimed at preserving the image of the Emperor which remains on the statute books.

For shame George Orwell. For shame.

Animal Farm

Napoleon from George Orwell’s Animal Farm. For shame George Orwell.

 Addendum:

Jacques Faucheux has petitioned the court to have his son’s name (Son-Of-Flaccid-Penis Faucheux) changed. And he was a real prick about it.

The court granted his petition, and changed his son’s name to My-Fathers-A-Prick Faucheux.

Another petition is pending.

Happy National Limerick Day

limerick

Nantucket: I hear there was once a man from there.

Today is the day we celebrate the limerick, that popular form of poetry with five lines, a predominantly anapestic meter, and a strict (AABBA) rhyme scheme.

Note: I had no idea that ABBA also did limericks! Man, they were some talented Swedes!

The limerick is a fun and whimsical form of poetry that tends to revolve around an odd man with an unusual ability who is from a small island off the coast of Massachusetts.

Within the family of poetry, the limerick is that fun uncle who tends to drink too much at family get-togethers, but whom everybody loves to be around. (Unlike his dull-witted and boring brother the Haiku–Haiku is just so full of himself.)

Note: in my family that uncle gets drunk, crashes his car into a bus full of orphans then pees on the responding police car. Everybody hates him.

Since today is also International Nurse Day and Nutty Fudge Day, I thought I’d write a limerick about Nurses and Nutty Fudge, but every attempt came out so filthy.

So instead I wrote this:

This blog attempts humor without rhyme,

and at that it fails most all of the time.

So I ran and I hid

for offend some I did,

punched in the face I was by an mime.

And now you know why this blog doesn’t do poetry.

Final note: for all those people who live in Limerick, Pennsylvania: this day is not about you.

limerick pa

Limerick, Pennsylvania: there was once man from there also, but nobody cares.

The Miserable Reason This Blog Still Exists

Stupid Deer.

Stupid Deer.

It was a night in early March and western New York was being pounded by a typical lake-effect snowstorm.

As I plowed through the snow that was quickly accumulating, I tried to stay focused on the road to avoid any mishaps. I caught the image of a deer crossing sign out of the corner of my eye. These deer crossing signs are littered all over the countryside, they serve as a warning to motorists to slow down and proceed cautiously. While I’ve seen plenty of deer on country roads in western New York, I have never seen a deer anywhere near a deer crossing sign.

I amused myself with the mental image of lazy county workers driving around and throwing up deer crossing signs wherever they felt like it, swilling Pabst beer from cans, and laughing at the unsuspecting motorists who put false trust in the ill-placed signs.

I was jolted from my daydream by a brown blur in the road.

Holy crap it was a deer.

I slammed the brakes on: the worst thing you can do on slippery roads; I was skidding out of control.

Quick, I thought, steer away from the skid. No wait, that’s wrong you idiot.

Steer into the skid.

Steer into the skid!

It was too late. I had slid off the road and into a ravine. Everything was going black.

Stupid deer.

As I regained consciousness, I found myself in a small country cottage. There was a woman standing over me. She told me that her name was Annie and that she was nurse. Even though it seemed that I only had a bump on the head, she told me that I was badly hurt and that I needed rest. She seemed kindly, not at all unhinged or sinister.

She told me that she read my blog and that she was my number one fan. I let her read something new that I was working on. It was a new passion of mine: Jersey Shore fan fiction.

(Since Jersey Shore had been taken off the air my life had devolved into a drab and listless existence devoid of any meaning.)

As she brought me lunch, she told me that she didn’t like my Jersey Shore fan fiction. “I find it vulgar and disturbing,” she told me. “Especially the parts about Snooki.”

I informed her that I was done with humor and that Jersey Shore fan fiction was now my entire focus. She became enraged and dumped hot soup in my lap.

She quickly apologized and claimed that it was an accident.

“What about the fork you stuck in the side of my head?” I demanded.

“I don’t know how that happened?”

“Why would you even serve soup with a fork–that’s just weird?”

She became flustered and stormed from the room. I knew I had to get out of there.

I pulled the fork from the side of my head and began to gather my things as quickly as possible, hindered by the fact that my scrotum had just been scalded by piping hot split pea soup.

I made it as far as the front door when I heard a chilling voice from behind me.

“Where do you think you’re going?” she growled.

I peed a little bit. Something clanged against the back of my head, and everything went black again.

I awoke again with Annie standing over me. This time I was strapped to the bed and Annie was holding an ax.

“Don’t break my legs,” I pleaded.

“I’m not going to do that,” she said.

“Then don’t chop off my foot and cauterize the wound with a blow torch.”

“What? Where are you getting this?” she seemed confused.

“From Misery. You know, Stephen King.”

“You thought that I was playing the part of some twisted character from a Stephen King novel?”

“No,” I hesitated. “I thought that you were playing the part of a twisted character from a movie based on a Stephen King novel. There were really quite a few differences between the two, and it would really help me out if I knew which one you were going for.”

“I can’t believe that’s what you thought I going to do, that is so hurtful. And after I took the time to clean the split pea soup from your scrotum.”

“I thought you…wait, you did what?”

“You’re using very hurtful words,” she said wiping a tear from her face.

“It just seemed liked the direction that things were heading. You stabbed in the head with a fork. You hit on me the back of the head with what felt like a bedpan. I’m strapped to this bed. Now you’re standing over me holding an ax, and I seem to being wearing adult diapers…and then there’s the thing about my scrotum.”

“Of course you’re wearing adult diapers–who has to wash those sheets, me or you?” she demanded.

“You I guess,” I said meekly.

“That’s right. And I’m holding this ax because I was chopping firewood so that I can build a fire to keep you warm. You don’t appreciate anything I do for you.” She threw the ax to the floor, grunted in indignation and stormed from the room again.

I didn’t see her for hours.

When she returned she was very calm and she had an emotionless look on her face that frightened me.

“I’ve made a decision,” she said coldly. “I have decided that you will write another humor post, and its subject will be your precious Jersey Shore.”

I refused. I would never sully the purity of Jersey Shore by mocking it.

“I anticipated that would be your reaction,” she said as her lips curled like burnt paper into a sinister grin. “I’d like you to meet someone.”

“Hello, I’m Doctor Phil, and I’m here to talk about your feelings.” Dr. Phil entered the room like a giant bald horror.

“I don’t want to talk about my feelings,” I blurted out as fear gripped me.

“Then we’ll talk about how your feelings effect the feelings of others, and how effecting the feelings of others effects how you feel.” His voice was a relentless monotone.

“But I don’t…how do the two of you even know each other?”

“Annie has had some issues in the past, I’ve helped her with them.”

“Bang up job on that one Dr. Phil, have you seen my adult diapers?”

He just shook his head at me as if he were scolding a child. “How does it make you feel to know that your critical statements hurt the feelings of others?”

“Stop using the word feel or words derived from the word feel–it’s really creeping me out.”

“I felt that you might feel that way.” His head was shiny and his voice was hypnotic.

“Break both my legs; I only use them when I walk,” I pleaded, but Annie had left the room. “I LOVED YOU IN FRIED GREEN TOMATOES!” I screamed through the wall.

“Now let’s listen to the song Feelings, the Engelbert Humperdinck version.”

I broke almost immediately.

I wrote the post that she wanted. It was about how CNN’s The Situation Room would be different if it were actually hosted by The Situation, instead of that pasty-faced, abless dullard, Wolf Blitzer.

Pasty-faced dullard.

Pasty-faced dullard.

He thinks Janet Reno is a dude.

The Situation thinks NAFTA is where you get auto parts.

It was brilliant political and social commentary. If Dave Barry had read it, he would have thrown roses at my feet…or rocks at my head.

When Annie read it, she wept tears of joy.

I convinced her to undo my constraints so that we could celebrate properly.

“There’s one problem with this post,” I told her as she poured the champagne, “nobody’s ever going to read it.” I grabbed the laptop and hurled it into the fireplace. It shattered into pieces and began to burn.

As Annie fell to her knees screaming, I made my escape.

I’ve tried to write Jersey Shore fan fiction since then, but the pain is too great. So I am stuck writing this pathetic little humor blog.

I’ve started wearing adult diapers all the time; I like the freedom they give me.

Stupid Deer.

Seriously. You can't spell out the word cross? Stupid deer.

Seriously. You can’t spell out the word cross?
Stupid deer.

Bigfoot and Buffalo Wings

speedeez sports bar

Location of recent Bigfoot sightings.

North East, Pa. — In what is being described as indisputable proof of the existence of Bigfoot, there have been repeated sightings in the small town of North East, Pennsylvania, but it’s not in a way you would suspect.

The reclusive creature hasn’t been spotted in one of the many wooded areas in the region. Nor has he been seen in a fog shrouded field, or even lumbering across a quiet country road.

It seems Bigfoot has been spotted frequenting Speed’eez Sports Bar and Grill, a local establishment in the small town.

Jen, a bartender at Speedeez Sports Bar and Grill, who has reportedly spotted Bigfoot...and served him several beers.

Jen, a bartender at Speed’eez Sports Bar and Grill, who has reportedly spotted Bigfoot…and served him Yuengling.

When asked to describe the incredible encounters, Jen reported the following: “Well, he isn’t much different most of the people who come in here: he’s hairy, smells a bit, a little uncouth, and he drinks a lot. Yeah, he fits in here. Also, he has really big feet…but surprisingly dainty hands.”

Speed’eez owner, George Mcdannel, had the following response after being asked if the recent Bigfoot sightings in his establishment surprised him: “Of course I’m not surprised, we have a wide range of quality craft beers and a selection of delicious chicken wings; why wouldn’t Bigfoot come in here?”

While Bigfoot’s sudden appearances have caused quite a stir in the small community, not all of the patrons of Speed’eez are thrilled with the creature’s presence.

“I laughed a bit too loudly at one of those Jack Links Messin’ With Sasquatch commercials and he got his fur all up in a bunch,” a patron who is known as ‘Poe’ had to say. “Also, he keeps kicking my ass at bar trivia. Seriously, how does a bipedal hominid that lives in the woods know so damn much about 19th century Russian literature? Plus, I’m pretty sure he has chiggers.”

Another patron, Bob, had the following complaint: “He pours money into the jukebox, and plays nothing but Journey songs; it’s really pissing me off.”

I was able to track down the big guy and get this brief interview:

Idiotprufs: This isn’t the type of setting people would expect to spot Bigfoot.

Bigfoot: Yeah. Normally I like to stay a little more hidden: in a grove of trees or behind a big rock.

Idiotprufs: So what brings you out?

Bigfoot: Sometimes you just have to get out of the wilderness. It’s cold and wet out there and that’s where the family is.

Idiotprufs: You need a little time away from the family?

Bigfoot: Are you kidding? Bigfoot kids are hairy, messy, smelly, screaming little bastards. For the life of me I don’t know why those Bigfoot hunters can’t find me because there’s always a racket going on.

Idiotprufs: That sounds terrible.

Bigfoot: And there are bears out there.

Idiotprufs: You don’t like bears?

Bigfoot: Heavens no, they’re slow dimwitted creatures. You’ve heard the old saying about what bears do in the woods? It’s true, they do it all over the place, it’s disgusting. Ironically every time I try to take a leak, some idiot with a camera pops up out of nowhere.

Idiotprufs: So you come here to relax?

Bigfoot: Absolutely. And do you have any idea how hard it is to get food delivered to your home when your address is: Next To The Big Rock In The Woods.

Idiotprufs: And the people here leave you alone?

Bigfoot: Mostly they leave me alone. The people here are respectful, except for that idiot Poe… I don’t have chiggers!

After the interview, I asked Bigfoot to pose for a few photos, to which he graciously agreed. Unfortunately they all turned out inexplicably blurred and out of frame.

Artist's rendition of Bigfoot running from an idiot with a camera.

Artist’s rendition of Bigfoot running from an idiot with a camera.

An Unfortunate Turn of Events

conversation

This is an actual conversation I had with someone.

Her: I am so bummed out today.

There’s a long pause as she waits for me to ask her why she so bummed out. I don’t want to her why she’s so bummed out because experience has taught me that I won’t care. Entering this conversation would be like willfully jumping into quicksand. But the weight of her stare wears me down.

Me: why are you so bummed?

Her: I totaled my car last night.

Another long pause.

Me: I’m sorry, is there more.

Her: I was driving home from work last night and I was hammered.

Me: so you totaled your car because you were drunk?

Her: No. I didn’t total my car because I was drunk. (she snaps at me.)

Me: sorry.

Her: so I was texting…

Me: you totaled your car because you drunk and texting.

Her: would you let me finish?

Me: go ahead.

Her: so then I dropped my phone and it fell on the passenger side floor. I bent over to reach it, but it had bounced under the seat and I couldn’t quite reach it and hang on to the steering wheel. So I did the only thing I could: I let go of steering wheel so I could reach it. I went off the road and smashed into a guard rail.

Me: that is an unfortunate turn of events…and completely unavoidable.

Her: I know.

Me: what did you say to the police?

Her: there weren’t any police, I just drove home.

Me: but you said your car was totaled.

Her: It is–the muffler what completely ripped off the car.

Me: what do you think totaled means?

Her: I don’t know.

Me: obviously. Here’s what I want you to do: contact your insurance company and tell them exactly what you told me, they’ll get a kick out of it.

Her: I don’t have insurance.

Me: why would you?

For all the people out there who don’t have to travel the roads of western Pennsylvania, be thankful.

car accident

Totaled…maybe?

 

Frisked and Manhandled in Amarillo Texas

 

I'm afraid you must be searched. We believe you may have explosives in your anus.

Place:

The curbside of an empty street in Amarillo, Texas.

Time:

Sometime shortly after midnight on a bitterly cold January morning many years ago.

Participants:

Alan: Primary driver of the car, completely lacking in the nuances of Texas traffic laws, and alarmingly stupid.

Lance: Front seat passenger, map reader and navigator, purveyor of navigational pearls of wisdom such as:

  • “That’s the exit we want…way back there.”
  • “Last chance gas? I can find cheaper gas somewhere in the vast empty desert in between Las Vegas and Arizona.”
  • “Don’t worry, we can drive for miles on empty; long before we run out of gas and are cannibalized by a family of desert dwelling inbreds.”

Matt: Backseat passenger, frustrated driver with serious blood pressure issues (issues exacerbated by questionable passenger-side navigation).

Me: Backseat passenger, provider of sarcasm, semi-blind (evidently thirty miles is “way too far to go back” to retrieve a pair of glasses from a motel room in Flagstaff Arizona).

Four big imposing Texas cops: Big, imposing, lacking couth, rough hands, no perceivable sense of humor.

The Events:

We were on a two week road trip from New York State to Las Vegas and back. We were passing through Amarillo in the early morning in search of somewhere to eat. Alan made a left turn out of the wrong lane and we were swiftly pulled over by the Amarillo police.

We sat there on the side of for several minutes as the police made no movements. Suddenly another squad car came flying in from the other direction with its lights flashing. It came to a screeching halt and within moments there were four police officers surrounding our car, with their hands on their guns. “Get your hands where we can see them,” one of them screamed.

“Holy crap. What the hell did you do?” one of us said to Alan.

They removed Alan from the car and began to frisk him. They swiftly found the case of darts in his jacket pocket and presumed them to be some form of ninja weapon. Evidently people in Texas don’t play a lot of darts, because I could hear Alan trying to explain the concept to the officers, “you throw them at a board,” I heard him say repeatedly.

They moved Alan to the first squad car and removed Lance for his frisking. As the officer manhandled Lance, Matt and I sat in the car and discussed how seriously they take their traffic laws in Texas, and whether or not speeding might result in the death penalty.  As we talked we evidently lowered our hands because one of the officers screamed at us to get our hands back up.

“But with our hands up, we can’t reach our weapons,” I said. (No I didn’t–I’m not that stupid.)

Then it was Matt’s turn and I was sitting alone the car with my hands in the air. I had never been frisked before, it was going to be my first time, I was a little excited–it was weird.

Then it was my turn. Alan was still in the squad car. Lance and Matt were standing on the side of the street shivering and laughing as they watched me being frisked. They offered the police officer some friendly advice as he manhandled me:

  • He’s resisting; rough him up.
  • Use your nightstick on him.
  • What good is a taser if you don’t use it?
  • Do a cavity search; it’s the only way to be sure.

Each bit of advice punctuated with cackles of laughter.

“Do you have any guns?”

“No.”

“Do you have any knives?”

“No.”

“Weapons of any kind?”

“No.”

“Are you carrying any drugs?”

“No.”

“Do you have any explosives?”

“Why would I have explosives?”

“Do you have any explosives or not!”

“No explosives.”

“Do you have any contraband?”

“I’m not really certain what contraband is.”

“It is what I say it is,” he bellowed.

“That doesn’t make it more clear… I’m going with no.”

“Where do you live?”

“New York State.”

“Do you live in the city?”

“Do you mean New York City?”

“What do you think? What other city is there in New York?”

“Well, there’s Buffalo, Syracuse, Rochester, Binghamton, White Plains…” I didn’t even to get to Yonkers or Albany before he rudely interrupted me.

“Are you trying to be a smart mouth?”

“I’m not really trying.” It was really no effort at all.

“Where are you from exactly?”

“I’m from a small town called Westfield.”

“What? What’s the nearest city?”

“The nearest city is Erie, Pennsylvania.”

“I thought you just said you from New York.” His voice was a combination of anger and confusion.

“I am. Westfield’s in New York, but the nearest city is Erie Pennsylvania.”

“Is that near New York City?”

“Compared to Amarillo, Texas: yes. Compared to any other place in New York State: no.”

After a thorough groping, he sent me to side of the street to stand with Lance and Matt as the other officers searched the car. We stood there shivering, cracking jokes, laughing and offering tips on where we’d search if we were them. They ignored us.

It seems they saw our New York license plates and presumed that we were drug runners, transporting a shipment a drugs from Mexico to New York City.

Once they realized we were just a bunch of kids from a small town in Western New York, they became cordial and even friendly. They gave us some instructions on where to find something to eat, and sent us on our way.

As we pulled away, Alan made a turn out of the wrong lane, but this time they let it go, after all, you can only take so much manhandling in one night.

Note: unbeknownst to the officers, Alan always keeps ten to fourteen sticks of a dynamite hidden in his anus. We don’t know why, he just does.

Learn service through knowledge at the Amarillo Police Academy (groping optional).

Learn service through knowledge at the Amarillo Police Academy (groping optional).

The High School Guidance Counselor and Some Disturbing News

“I’ve been reviewing your records.”

Counselor: Well, it’s your senior year, and it’s about time that you started to think about your future, specifically in regards to a career. I’ve reviewed your transcript, gone over your aptitude test scores, and I have spoken with some of your teachers. I seem to be running into a bit of a problem.

You: What exactly is the problem?

Counselor: You’re qualified to do nothing and you’re irretrievably stupid.

You: That seems kind of harsh.

Counselor: I’m sorry. I suppose your entire life, your parents have told you that you’re smart and capable?

You: Of course they have.

Counselor: People lie don’t they? I have never encountered anyone so ill-equipped to enter the workforce in all my years of being a guidance counselor, and this school is full of stupid kids. Sometimes in think there’s lead in the drinking water.

You: You’re exaggerating, I can’t be that hopeless.

Counselor: Am I? In mathematical aptitude, you answered correctly only 25% of the time.

You: One out three isn’t that bad.

Counselor: Exactly my point. In your English essay you seem to have confused Angie Dickinson with Emily Dickinson.

You: No I didn’t.

Counselor: Let’s see what it was that you wrote? Here it is: Emily Dickinson was smoking hot in Big Bad Mama.

You: I don’t remember writing that.

Counselor: You have terrible memory skills.

You: That’s not fair.

Counselor: And a delusional perception of fairness.

You: But…I…

Counselor: You also have trouble completing a thought. Moving on to geography; you couldn’t find Chile on a map.

You: That can’t be that uncommon.

Counselor: It was a map of Chile.

You: I thought it meant the restaurant.

Counselor: You mean Chili’s, I doubt you could find your way through the children’s maze on their placemats.

You: Yes I can, I always use the green crayon.

Counselor: You also seem to have absolutely no grasp of economics or government.

You: I know a little about government.

Counselor: You listed the three branches of government as strawberry, vanilla and chocolate.

You: Neapolitan government.

Counselor: You took a course on New York State history didn’t you?

You: Yes I did.

Counselor: Yes you did. You listed the state capitol as Albania. You claimed that the Erie Canal was named thusly, because it was “really spooky.” And you listed the first mayor of New York City as Babe Ruth.

You: It wasn’t Babe Ruth?

Counselor: No. It was Lou Gehrig.

You: Really?

Counselor: NO YOU MORON, it was Thomas Willett. This next one is especially perplexing: under state bird you put Bigfoot. I find that disturbing for at least fifteen different reasons. I’ve come up with four categories of jobs that I believe you could handle. They are as follows:

  1. Jobs requiring  a shovel: digging ditches, digging graves, digging holes in general, and whomping rats.
  2. Jobs requiring a pitchfork: moving piles of hay, moving piles of straw, and joining angry mobs that are hunting rogue monsters.
  3. Jobs requiring a shovel and a pitchfork: moving horse manure, moving cow manure, moving goat manure, basically moving any type of manure.
  4. Jersey Shore cast member. Sorry that’s been cancelled–you probably couldn’t find New Jersey on a map anyway.

You: I don’t know. I find that shovels and pitchforks are complicated and difficult to use, and sweating gives me a rash.

Counselor: There is one other job. Would you be willing to scale steep cliffs and harvest honey, while angry bees sting you repeatedly?

You: There would be no manure or feces involved?

Counselor: Not unless you’re horribly afraid of heights.

You: I’ll do it.

Counselor: Welcome to the world of Himalayan Bee Keeping.

You: Is it close to home?

Counselor: With your map skills it is.

Another guidance counseling success story.

Beaker vs. Bieber: A Tale of the Tape

Muppet vs. Moppet

I stumbled upon this post from a few years ago and it made me chuckle. So here it is again.

There’s no denying it; it’s the question that we’ve all been asking ourselves.

It’s the question that haunts our dreams and torments our waking hours.

It’s the debate that has fractured marriages, ruined friendships, and spoiled countless family barbeques, when bitter arguments conclude with a meat fork in the side of Uncle Al’s head.

It has catalyzed barroom brawls, riots in the streets, and led to the declaration of martial law in Schenectady, New York.

It has resulted in a flood of 911 calls from people who are dazed, confused and in search of answers (and one guy who couldn’t find his car keys).

It has resulted in a flood of harried 911 operators (and one 911 operator who angrily uttered the phrase, “how should I know where your ****ing car keys are).

What is this debate: who would win in a throw-down between Justin Bieber and Beaker the muppet?

Let’s compare and contrast:

Origin

Beaker: He was created by Jim Henson in 1977.

Bieber: He was born in London, Canada in 1994.

Childhood

Beaker: He was sewn into full adulthood and hasn’t aged a day since.

Bieber: He grew up in Stratford, Canada. (By grew up, I mean he got chronologically older.)

Operation

Beaker: He is operated by puppeteer who has a hand up his butt.

Bieber: Exactly the same.

Communication

Beaker: He speaks a language that seems to consist of only the word “meep” repeated over and over.

Bieber: He sings songs about…frankly I have no idea.

Occupation

Beaker: He works as lab assistant for Dr. Bunsen Honeydew.

Bieber: He sings songs about…I’ve still got nothing.

Appearance

Beaker: He always has a wild bug-eyed stare.

Bieber: He always looks stoned.

Strengths in a fight

Beaker: Working for Dr. Bunsen Honeydew, he’s been blown up, electrocuted, set on fire, shrunk, and deflated. Due to this he has developed an incredible resiliency.

Bieber: His many tussles with the paparazzi, glass doors, and a pissed off Selena Gomez, have toughened him.

Weaknesses in a fight

Beaker: He is primarily made of felt.

Bieber: He is Justin Bieber.

Who would win this battle? Here’s your chance to vote:

It’s That Troublemaker Sidney Crosby’s Fault

sidney crosby

Pittsburgh Penguins’ captain and general troublemaker Sidney Crosby.

A Pittsburgh man stabbed in the head with a screwdriver during the Penguins’ playoff opener against the Columbus Blue Jackets on Wednesday night refused medical attention until the game was over, police said.

While the playoff beard–the tradition of not shaving until a team’s playoff run is over–is common among the players, certain fans in Western Pennsylvania employ the practice of not seeking medical attention for life threatening wounds until the Penguins have either been eliminated or won the Stanley Cup.

“It’s that troublemaker Sidney Crosby’s fault,” an official stated. “During the Mario Lemieux/Jaromir Jagr years there were a lot of casualities in the greater Pittsburgh area. Then the penguins sucked for a while and things calmed down. But since the Sidney Crosby era began things have gotten hairy again.”

Authorities said the victim, who was unidentified by police (but who they repeatedly referred to as Dumbass) was said to be the owner of the shop, was in the rear of the building when he became engaged in a verbal altercation with a 25-year-old male, whose name is also being withheld. (Dumbass with a screwdriver.)

The conflict escalated until the younger man struck the victim in the head with a screwdriver, the officers said.

“He was being a dick and I was holding a screwdriver,” the unidentified male said.

Police said the victim refused treatment for the laceration from paramedics on the scene, stating he would drive himself to UPMC Mercy hospital the second the playoffs were over.

The victim’s family have begun planning his funeral, as the Penguins are expected to make another deep playoff run this year.

People are just #%*&ing stupid a UPMC official stated.

screwdriver

Recently removed from Dumbass’s face.

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