For those of you that I don’t know, how did you find out about this site?
a) Fascinated with 1words.com through 1000words.com. Decided to take a chance.
b) Saw URL on tattoo (or “tat”).
c) Guy with spiked tail and pitchfork told me. Said his name was Jesus. He talked the talk.
d) Mistyped “mancakecity.com”. I want my man cake!
e) Looking for hot “aimal sex“. Decided lukewarm comedy okay substitute.
f) (None of the above) ________________
Why isn’t there a brand of corn called “Children of the Corn”? This is just the type of nutritional shortsightedness caused by a lack of vitamins that makes me angry. Drug czars and pine green giants lament that kids don’t eat more vegetables, yet there isn’t not one corn company brave enough to draw little faces possessed by an evil force on all the kernels.
Of course, if you are a super-intelligent German, perhaps created by Nazi scientists in the 1930s and recently awaken from your cryogenic chamber, the solution is obvious: Herr Grosse Dollars, bilden diese produkte!
Peas in a Rod—A white rod with this on it: “Hey kids! Sugar inside!” The rod is stuffed with peas. That’ll teach those muthafuckers.
BroccoDoReMi—Move over Snap, Crackle, and Pop. Broccoli stems and singing sensations Do, Re, and Mi are going to Vitamin K-ick it old school.
Mixed Vegetballs—Chunks of carrots, squash, cauliflower, and tomatoes, joining forces for the first time in a duct-taped ball. Dunk it in the hoop, then in your mouth.
Mystery Bag: This bag is covered in colorful question marks. It has no name, no logo, no nutrition facts, and no UPC code. Sometimes it appears in the freezer section. Other times in seafood, or inside a box of Cocoa Puffs. What wild surprise could it be? There’s only one way to find out! And that way is to read this next sentence: the bag always contains brussel sprouts.
A young Iraqi recently started a blog called Badghad Burning. Whatever your ideology, it’s worth reading. What she says is much more illuminating about the Iraqis perception of the fallout after the war than the scattered one-sentence quotes from Iraqis that have made their way in newspaper stories or the nightly news.
I loved playing this adventure game . It takes about 15-30 minutes to complete. Sure, you may be at work, but it’s Friday. Everybody plays adventure games on Friday.
When you ask someone, “Do you come here often?” aren’t you really asking that person, “Are you a drunkard?” There has to be a better way to introduce yourself. Like, “Hey. A/S/L? Or, “I want to pop you like a zit on a teenage delivery boy.” As long as you don’t use a cliche, you’re bound to do okay. Here are some examples on what not to do:
“My name is [insert name]. Remember it, because you’ll be screaming it all night. Oh, crap. I forgot to insert my name.”
“i’ve had my eye on you ever since I saw you from the bushes outside your apartment.”
YOU: “Did it hurt when you fell from heaven?”
PERSON: [face and body charred] “SFJXEERARR!”
“I don’t have a phone, because I hate technology, and I write manifestos and send them to newspapers, but if I get one, and I lose my number, can I borrow yours?”
“Psst. Cover me. I just farted.”
“You’re so hot that you melt the elastic in my Underoos. My Superman Underoos.”
YOU: “Can I borrow a quarter?”
PERSON: “Sure.”
YOU: “Can I borrow another quarter?”
PERSON: “Okay.”
YOU: “Can I have another one?”
PERSON: “Why?”
YOU: “Because I’m going to call my Mom and tell her I just met the most beautiful person in the world. But then I remembered pay phones are now 50 cents. And then I thought, “What if she isn’t home?” You see, the answering machine is set to pick up at two rings, and…”
YOU: “Can I take your picture?”
PERSON: “Why? So Santa can know exactly what you want for Chirstmas?”
YOU: “Actually, I’m just perverted.”
I just called someone who responded to a personal ad a friend of mine put in the City Paper. He wasn’t there. BEEEEP. I was about to leave a message when I realized I couldn’t remember my phone number. ME: “Ummmmm….[click]“
I’m going to call back in a few minutes in a different voice.
(Movie maker link from little. yellow. different.)
Don’t bother visiting Heineken’s web site if you are under 21. You’ll never make it through their impenetrable security procedure.
The Gender Genie says it can guess your gender based on a sample of your writing. I entered a passage from my blog. The program said I was a girl. I tried a few more entries. Female, female, female. Time to rig the result. I wrote, fifty times: “I have a nutsack. It is large and hairy.” Female.
Passages from several other blogs? All female. Washington Post article? Female. Passage from Maxim’s web site? Female. Comedy Central’s description of “The Man Show”? Female.
Frustrated in my failure to find a selection of writing this algorithm finds manly, I decided to pull out both of my NRA-sponsored shotguns and write this:
Mmmm. Steak. I like football. And shooting things. Like deer. I can crush a beer can on my forehead. But it hurts. Long sentences suck. You know what else sucks? Your mamma. Ha ha ha. Alpha Phi rules!
So, what do you think? Female or male?
This entry is only loosely based on real events.
My therapist dumped me today. He said our relationship was going nowhere and he wanted to see other people. I reacted desperately, which, I suppose, being my therapist, he expected. “It’s the constant napping, isn’t it? I’ll stop, I swear. I’ll get a job. A real job, not an imaginary lemonade stand. I’m through selling imagination. Really. Trust me.”
Of course, he couldn’t trust me. I have less follow-through than a Gary Coleman uppercut. (Look, give me a break. It’s 1:45 A.M.) This is the conversation we had 15 minutes before:
THERAPIST: “You said you would apply to three temp agencies last week. How did you do?”
ME: “Temp agencies?”
THERAPIST: “Yup.”
ME: “Hmmm. That’s a good idea.”
THERAPIST: “You said that last week.”
ME: “Oh, yeah.”
THERAPIST: “And the week before that.”
ME “Has anyone ever told you that you have an excellent memory?”
THERAPIST: “What stopped you from applying to any temp agencies?”
ME: “God?”
THERAPIST: “God stopped you from applying to any temp agencies?”
ME: “You said it, not me.”
THERAPIST: “Look, I don’t want to be the bad guy–”
ME: “Thanks! So, how about that sport team? Man, they look really, uh, sporty this year.”
So it’s over. I feel as depressed as I did two years ago when my hair stylist threw down her scissors and yelled, “You give me nothing to work with!” before storming out the door, crying. As the door squealed shut, a gust of wind swept over my hair, waving the few remaining follicles on my forehead back and forth. Goodbye, goodbye.
I trimmed my body hair today, quashing Sasquatch, Deconstructing Harry, and giving my two albino nipples the gift of light. I also shaved my back hair using the beard trimmer on my electric razor. Do you know where those spots on your back are that you can’t scratch? I do. For $5 I’ll take a photo and send you the road map. For $7 I won’t send the photo. (Bada-bing!)
The benefits were immediate. No more towel burns from drying off. I now run faster than the lowly cheetah. And I finally found that tattoo I got one very blurry night in Ocean City when I was a freshman in college. It’s a good thing monkeys wearing diapers that say “Bad Boy” on them never go out of style.
Guess what step 1 is for this Federal government writer-editor position I am applying for? I’ll give you a hint: it invloves answering 156 FRIGGIN’ QUESTIONS. I haven’t check what step 2 is because THESE INANE QUESTIONS HAVE CRUSHED MY DESIRE TO LIVE. Who the hell remembers what grade they got in their high school oral communication class? “Have you owned and successfully managed your own profit-making business?” Yes, yes I have. It’s called Suck My Nutsack, Gov’mint (Inc). We’re open for business 24 hours a day.
…when a stripper sues a tabloid for saying she had sex with you.
If I worked for a frozen food company, I would write really dumb instructions for the boxes, just to see if people would follow them.
“Wrap burrito in tin foil. Put into microwave for five minutes. Come on, do it. Don’t be a pussy.”
