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If ever you hear someone make this claim, change the subject fast; otherwise you’ll be sorry to learn that “spiritual” folks believe in some batshit notions–crystals, astrology, sweat lodges, yoga, Ouija boards, Tarot cards, the I Ching–that make the notion of Jesus walking on water seem downright plausible. Amen.
“Bless me father for I have sinned.”
“And who hasn’t?”
“It’s been four months since my last confession.”
“Did you break a leg?”
“Uh, no father …”
“Is this going to take long?”
“Well …”
“Look, whatever you’ve done, I’ve heard it all. Your sins are forgiven. Now get lost.”
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.
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.
Rob meets Angela for lunch. Each is secretely planning to confess to recent infidelities. When Rob begins to speak, Angela interrupts him.
“Robbie, there’s something I’ve got to tell you.”
“You’re pregnant,” he says nervously.
“No,” she laughs, beginning to lose her nerve. “What did you want to tell me.”