Monday, July 11, 2011

Don't Punch A Gift Horse In The Mouth (Indian Burns ok)

This entry is far from the dilapidated humor usually displayed in this blog. Instead the snippet takes you into a world of hilarity a prisoner on death row left with nothing but a pail of grass growing would avoid reading.

If anyone reading is offended by any of the content in this post, I hope you understand that most of it is the result of me opening a door that wasn’t locked when I was nine. (pictured left)


I don’t pretend to know anything about being a meteorologist, but one thing I think I could do is pinpoint the temperature within - say at least twenty degrees, so my viewers can at least determine whether or not they need 110 SPF or should befriend an Eskimo to teach them how to construct a snow cave.

Weather report for my Mill Valley hike last Saturday: 76 degrees, partly cloudy

Actual temperature: 48 degrees, fog thicker than whale blubber

On a side note, if they have to make SPF that high, probably a good sign the ozone layer is now the same thickness as dental floss.

Sorry Ipiktok, all that was for nothing, sun is out, gosh darn weather man


There are a plethora of companies now coming out stating they are making their products with real sugar. That’s awesome! Real sugar! Wait a second-what the f was I eating before?


Is it too much of a strain on public parks’ budgets to put a door on their bathroom stalls? I know we are in a down economy but sheesh! I still can’t figure out what is more embarrassing; having someone walk in on you doing your business, or walking in on some unsuspecting random chap. Listening to someone in the next stall is one thing, but being having an open view of the fortuitous debacle is another.

“Oh hey there, I was just uh washing my hands. I uh…”

(guy straining on pot, vein on forehead visibly protruding)

“So, going anywhere nice on your holiday? You know what I’m just going to use a tree…”


When my Microsoft Word goes “not responding” and a pop up comes up and says “do you want to send the error report?” Where does that go? Bill Gates himself, or does the computer just take me for an idiot as I sit there and wait for no return?

Ok, Bill I’ll leave the line open for you, give me a ring to discuss.

RAM: Oh shit Johnson, we didn’t know he’d actually click “Send Report.”

ROM: I know me neither. What the kilobyte do we do now?

RAM: Just completely stop responding, and keep that hourglass in full cycle until he gives up. Eventually he’ll just assume it is because of all the porn he’s been downloading

ROM: Good call RAM. You always know what to do

Ok Bill, I’ll give you another few minutes to call, but that's it.


1 Let me just finish up this shot of Absinthe, and then we’ll get started

2 Oh wow, there’s my stethoscope; I was looking for that

3 Nice Vulva!

4 I’ve never seen one of these close up before

5 Don’t mind the intern in the closet, he likes to watch

6 What are you doing after this? I have a few more vaginas to take a close look at but I’m pretty much free after that

7 Ok looks like we are all finished up here yeah? Cigarette?

8 A Zipper

Sorry I had to do that but I can’t think of a more awkward situation than a woman going to a male gynecologist


This sign posted on the door of my local market seems a bit gratuitius. “We are open,” “Back Door," and “Ur Anus” should never been used in the same sentence unless you are at Gay Pride, passed out next to "Moby Dick" bar. And even then it comes across as a bit desperate. Maybe it is just me, but wouldn’t back door and Uranus essentially mean the same thing, or would you have to be more specific? Wait, I've got it - its got to be your back door perhaps. Use the back door on my anus? Wait a second, that's the same friggin' thing... C'mon you're messing with me right guy?

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