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The magazine’s brand new “Pot Mortem” column identifies those strains as:
White Küntz (the umlaut didn’t fool anybody, Skippy);
Bedhead OG (woke and broke);
Pwr Bttm (lost its power when the band did);
Tim Tebow Reserve (associated with knees lock in both sexes);
Biden OG (old, tired, stale, and costly).
“It’s never too late to begin healthy eating,” explained prison dietician Dieter Volk. “A prisoner’s last meal should not constitute cruel and unusual punishment.”
Henceforth, all last meals will be portion controlled, light, and synergistically balanced.
“No one should eat a heavy meal before going to sleep,” added Mr. Volk.
The rooster began crowing to beat hell at 5:00 a.m. It was the first sound that Tom heard.
Half asleep he thought, “If you wake my old man again, you stupid chicken.”
The “stupid chicken” crowed a second time, louder.
The third sound Tom heard came from his father’s shotgun.
The insistence by certain pitiable malcontents that gender is fluid raises an interesting possibility.
Why stop at gender? Why shouldn’t age be fluid, too?
Be creative. Think outside the calendar. Express your age in dog years. Or parrot years. Cat years? Light years? Why not? Age is only a number.
Last night at Them’s Fightin’ Words Lounge, the C-word and the F-word got into an altercation.
“The F-word called the C-word the C-word,” said the A-word.
“No S-word, I thought they wuz gonna throw down,” said the N-word.
“Hamas must be destroyed,” shouted the K-word from across the room.
“I’m tired of saying yes to every stinking loser with his putz in a wringer. So don’t write a check with your behavior that you can’t cash with your prayers,” Christ warned, speaking to reporters through a burning bush outside the Holy Tabernacle of the Flaming Tongues in Opp, Alabama.
Thomas Hobson (1544–1631) owned a livery stable in Cambridge, England. Anyone seeking to rent a horse there had two choices: the horse nearest the stable door or no horse at all.
A Hobson’s choice, therefore, is not really a choice between two unpleasant alternatives. That’s called a Morton’s fork, Skippy.
Jean-Paul Sartre observed that hell is other people. Who can disagree?
Anyone whose dinner conversation was drowned out by louts sitting three tables away?
Anyone stuck in the 15-items-or-fewer supermarket line behind somebody with 24 items in her cart?
Anyone needing to use a port-o-potty at a rock concert?
Anyone?
We darn well love the sound of irregardless. It’s a four-syllable word from the wrong side of the dictionary, we know; but one should never send a three-syllable word to do the work clearly intended for a four-syllable roustabout.
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Flush with anticipation, Vicky opened the door to greet her date, whom a friend had set her up with.
There stood one pitiful, butt-ugly man.
Chiding herself for being disappointed and shallow, Vicky determined to make the most of the evening, only to discover he had a personality to match.