Category: humor

The Mysterious Old Place

MRI of an old fogey’s brain. Mysterious looking old place, ain’t it?

When I was young my grandparents did many strange things. But they were much older than me. Their minds lived in a mysterious old place, packed with esoteric wisdom gathered from decades of experience.

To be old was a mystery that I could not question. I would see them engage in unusual behavior and conclude, “They must know things that I cannot know, because I am so young.”

I remember asking my grandfather why he put his pants on backward. He looked down, then sputtered a bit as if at a loss for words. He began by explaining all the things arthritis does to you, and tried to convince me that wearing backward pants was therapeutic to the hip joints. But when he noticed my creased forehead he gave up and blurted, “Wait’ll you get to my age, then you’ll understand!”

That was all he needed to say. I was convinced he wore his pants that way for a very good reason that one day, many many years down the road, would become clear to me.

And now, here I am, many many years down that road. I now live in the mysterious old place my grandparents once occupied. And I notice how often young people defer to me. They seem to regard me as an oracle of occult knowledge. A possessor of gnosis and ancient arcana. A black box aerated by wafting unseeable winds of wisdom.

And I have come to the same ageless realization that I’m sure my forebears came to. And that is, my grandparents were full of bullshit. And more importantly, I realized that my youth made me blind to the ignorance of my elders.

“Wait‘ll you get to my age,” is a magic bullet explanation that has stood the test of time for countless generations.

Are your grandkids harassing you because you voted for Donald Trump? Just wink at them, give them a wise look, and say something like, “You know, when you’re my age you’ve learned some things that just can’t be explained to young folks like you. But you’ll understand one day, and be glad I voted for him.”

Maybe some youngsters in your family are getting on your case for gambling away your pension at the casino. It won’t work to tell them that you want to win a big pile of money so that just once in your life you can act like a bigshot and do lots of bigshot things before you up and croak. They’ll just tell you that you’re old and going to die soon, and you don’t need anything more than that pension check to carry you creaking along until it’s time for that final ride in the coffin.

Instead you have to play the mystery card. You have to give them a whiff of your black box. Your bullshit box. So just say something like, “I’ve been going to casinos all my life. I don’t make the kind of gambling mistakes that young people make. At my age I’ve learned the right way to gamble. Just wait and see. I’m going to win a big jackpot one day, and you’ll inherit it.”

That should suffice. Young folks are in constant awe of our mysterious old place. We can parlay it into excuses for all kinds of outrageous and foolish behavior. But we do have to be careful. We do have our kryptonite. We have one weakness that can get us into a world of trouble.

And that is when young people suspect us of being senile. Be on the alert when they ask you questions like, “Hi Grandpa, do you remember me?” Or, “Grandpa, what year is it?” Or, “Grandpa, why do you wear velcro shoes?”

They’re trying to gauge your memory skills. So carry crib notes on you at all times. Learn how to fake it. There might even be a book for sale on Amazon on how to cover up dementia. Hell, if there isn’t, write one. If you can remember how to write.

The last thing you need is to be dragged away from the comfort of your own house, to spend the rest of your life in some pissy, stinky nursing home. There’s too many old people at those places, and you might even have to share a room with one of them.

Never forget: It’s far better to live in the mysterious old place, than the crappy old place. So be wise, and keep the mystery alive!

“Girls Don’t Fart”

“It must have been the dog. Girls don’t fart,” she stated as a matter of fact.

I scowled at the dog. He lowered his head and ears and wagged his tail at me. He suspected that for some reason he was in trouble.

“I don’t even like to say the word ‘fart’,” she added. “Farting is what boys do, and I’m not a boy. Don’t ever accuse me of farting, again!”

I averted my eyes from her outraged glare. I kicked the dog out and hung my head. I felt ashamed and embarrassed that I would have the nerve to accuse a girl of farting.

Girls are delicate little things who would never do something like that.

Of course girls don’t fart. Girls are like delicate flowers. They’re too dainty and feminine to do something as crude as that.

But a few minutes later I smelled it again. And the dog was outside. And I knew it wasn’t me.

That was the first secret I ever figured out about girls.

Funny Signs

When you want someone to take you seriously, put up a sign. Signs have all the authority of a deadpan official with zero sense of humor. So I always enjoy the irony when I find a sign that cracks me up. The following are a few such discoveries my camera and I have made over the years:

That’s okay, I’ve got some new clothes and shoes. Look out below!

It creates a safety hazard, you see. Makes the floors slippery.

But how else can anyone have fun riding in an elevator?

You may have guessed that I did not discover this sign in Utah.

So even if you’re too short to deface this sign, you must report your injuries.

I always get a little laugh out of this sign.

This sign appeals to rebels like me. Why, I could stare at it all day long.

Retirement For Kids

“A Boy and a Girl With a Cat and an Eel,” by Judith Leyster, circa 1635.

You’re 12 years old. Puberty has just begun, or it’s just around the corner. Now is the time to start planning your retirement.

Kids, if you plan well you may retire by age 30 or 40. And then you won’t have to work all your life, like your poor dumb parents.

Here are some things you can do right now to plan your retirement:


That’s right, get a vasectomy, or get your tubes tied, just as early in life as possible. Children can cost more than new cars or houses, and this can make it difficult or impossible to save for your retirement.

Besides, these days children are a luxury, unlike a few hundred years ago. Back then they were an effective retirement plan for parents. Parents put them to work on their farms and used their labor for support so that they could kick back in their old age and take it easy.

But nowadays we have Social Security. Parents must rely upon that because it’s very rare for a child to support their aging parents, in these modern times. Hell, it’s almost as rare for their ungrateful offspring to make a phone call, or send them a card.

Children also contribute to global warming. Every human being tramples the earth with a large carbon footprint over the course of their lifetime. So there is no more effective way to reduce your carbon footprint than to refrain from producing human beings. So if not for your retirement, then at least for the purpose of saving the Earth, get yourself sterilized.


School’s a drag anyway, so why do you keep attending? You’ll be better off if you stay at home and educate yourself. You can get about six years of public education in one year of self-study, as long as you stay away from video games, smartphones, and the opposite sex.

If you study hard, you’ll be able to test out and get your high school diploma or GED by the time you’re 13. Then you can get a job and begin making some real money. This will give you a big head start on your retirement as you’ll be working while you’re still young and strong, and can easily handle lots of overtime.


Pick up some good books on financial management and investing, and spend a few hours studying them. None of the many hours of hard work you do from age 13 and beyond will amount to a hill of beans if you don’t know how to save and invest the money you make. A tiny investment in self-study time will save you from fribbling away many thousands of hours of your future labor.


At least 90% of the population likes to spend, spend, spend money. So if you get married there’s a very good chance you’ll end up with a spendthrift for a spouse. Stay single, or at least get a pre-nup, so that you can enjoy the financial security that comes from spending sensibly.


You’ll never change the world, in spite of what you hear all the time in school. But after you retire and have plenty of money, you can always try.

Until then, be your own cause and charity. Avoid controversy. Get all the free stuff you can. Work hard and save harder. And take every opportunity the world offers, for making and saving more and more money.

And then, maybe then, you will be able to retire before the first gray hair appears upon your head.

A Spontaneous Chemical Reaction in the Midst of a Desert

It was high noon at the High Moon Pizza Cafe. The desert sun outside desiccated the rocks, cacti, and Joshua trees. But inside a swamp cooler purred away, refreshing each new customer who staggered through the front door.

It was 98 outside and 88 inside. The swamp cooler only took about 10 degrees off the heat. But it felt like the Antarctic for those seeking refuge from the flaming overhead sun.

This refuge was her place of employ. While El Sol baked brains outside, she baked pizza pies inside. And she waited on zombies. The zombies were her customers. They were the desert rats who staggered through the front door in a state of brain-baked dyscrasia, and as delusional as the heat haze on the horizon.

She was practically a zombie herself, from the effect of the pizza ovens. This heat on the brain plays tricks on people. It boils the cerebral hemispheres, fries the neurons, and sizzles the synapses. And it makes possible a phenomenon between two encephalons that is known as a spontaneous chemical reaction.

Her 22-year-old face and figure were not beautiful, just pretty. Plainly pretty. And then only under cooler circumstances. But today all shreds of prettiness washed away from her.

Her face was enwreathed with sweat. It dripped in beads down her forehead and stung her eyes, burning them red. It formed droplets under her nose, lips, and chin. And it ran rivers down her bare neck, shoulders and meaty arms.

She wore a thin, green, cotton tank top, soaked in moisture. The decolletage of this bodice exposed a hint of sweaty cleavage. Below this beaded valley rolled sweat-stained green hills, and below each of these hills, trapped heat unleashed runnels of perspiration that streaked the fabric of her top from her bosoms to her waistline.

He poked his head through the cafe door, attracted by the 20% discount he’d heard about, for first responders. Then he wiped the sweat off his brow with the palm of his hand, and staggered inside to join the zombies waiting in the queue. He stood behind two other customers and slowly shook his head a bit, trying to clear and orient his heat-hazed mind.

She glanced over their heads and caught sight of the face of this man who was last in line. It struck her like a shot of adrenalin. Her heart flip-flopped. A mysterious, volatile element surged through her internal chemistry.

One millisecond later: Flashpoint!

Then: Explosion!

And suddenly she knew she had glimpsed the face of her future husband.

He was 24 years old, of towering stature, and in peak physical condition. He sported upside-down sunglasses perched atop sweat-soaked auburn hair, which was neatly trimmed around salty wet ears.

He was an EMT, dressed in a close-fitting blue shirt, mottled with blotches of moisture. A black web belt cinctured the narrow waistline of his pants, which stunk of perspiration. A 2-way radio clipped to this belt could quickly drag him back outside into the smoldering heat, to assist at the next car wreck, heat stroke, or other emergency. He prayed to all the gods that this wouldn’t happen until he’d had at least 30 minutes of respite in this cool refuge.

He was a handsome man, at other times, when his sudoriferous skin did not pour waterfalls all over his body. He was for sure much better looking than she. And his income as an EMT was far higher than her fast-food slave wage.

He was cool, magnetic, and possessed of savoir-faire in other seasons. But not so much during the withering heat of the desert summer. However during the fall, winter, and spring, this young man had much more going for him than that young woman.

His zombie eyes were transfixed on the hot pizzas in a glass display, and failed to notice the overheated young lady standing behind them. She finished with a customer. He moved up a step in line, and as he stepped he directed his bleary eyes over the head of the zombie before him, and focused on her perspiration-pocked face.

An electric frisson traveled up his back. He suddenly felt a little queasy and faint. His knees buckled, and the upside-down sunglasses dropped off of his head. He caught them with clammy hands, and fumbled nervously with them, almost jabbing out an eye, until he finally gave up and stuffed the shades in his pocket.

He was plunging into love. He knew it. But he couldn’t explain why. And he couldn’t stop it. His heart practically pounded out of his chest. He couldn’t pry his eyes off of this woman swimming in the product of her own sweat glands.

EMTs are expected to be calm and unflappable in the face of any situation. He wondered what was happening to him. How could such a plain-looking, sweat-drenched woman unhinge such a powerful response in him? Was it the heat?

Of course it was the heat. Heat that induces spontaneous chemical reactions.

He’d managed to remain single up until now, but this happened too quickly to put up any defenses. Besides he felt too weak from the heat to resist. Nature, in her enigmatic, ruthless ways for ensuring reproduction of the human animal, was winning.

She finished with the customer then caught his eye. She smiled with a twinkle of excitement, as beads of moisture dripped from her chin.

“Sir, may I take your order?”

The Once-Forbidden Fruit

I recently visited the state of Colorado, which is one of the first states to legalize the recreational use of marijuana. During my peradventure at the high altitudes, I noticed a profusion of advertisements for this leafy product.

This service station in Colorado offers an unusual mix of products.

The ads left me curious. I wanted to try the substance myself. I’ve never smoked marijuana, but there was that one time many years ago when I got a buzz from second-hand fumes. In other words, I’m the opposite of Bill Clinton. I’ve never smoked it, but I have inhaled.

The stuffy relatives I visited were all against grass, and did not like their new, libertine laws, so I decided not to wear out my welcome by experimenting. But in less than six months, recreational marijuana will be available for purchase right here in my great home state of California.

California, you usually lead the way in liberal social trends. What the hell has happened to you? Why have you been lagging so far behind?

But better late than never. In six months I’ll be able to sashay down to a local pot shop and pick up a dose of cannabis, and all in the name of recreation rather than some fake medical excuse.

I suppose if they ever legalize prostitution in Colorado, their service stations can offer gas, grass, and ass.

So now I’m debating internally as to whether or not I should actually try it. Shall I pluck the once-forbidden fruit and consume it? Will it open my eyes? Or will it destroy my personal Eden?

I decided to do some research, and see what the experts have to say about the dangers and benefits from marijuana use. Here’s what I have discovered:

A 3% increase in collision claims has occurred in states that have legalized recreational marijuana. ~ Highway Loss Data Institute.

No significant increase in vehicle accident fatalities. ~ American Journal of Public Health.

Highway fatalities in Colorado are at near historic lows. ~ The Washington Post

Traffic searches by highway patrols in Colorado and Washington dropped by nearly half after the two states legalized marijuana in 2012. ~ NBC News

It’s nice to know you don’t have to buy marijuana in order to get gassed in Colorado.

Casual marijuana use is linked to brain abnormalities. ~ Northwestern University

Marijuana disorients the mind, affects memory, reduces physical coordination, causes rapid heart beat, causes bronchitis and cancer, sterilizes men and disrupts the menstrual cycle of women, deforms sperm cells, and causes birth defects. ~ Foundation for a Drug-Free World

Marijuana improves memory in older mice. ~ University of Bonn, Germany

It’s a myth that marijuana causes sterility, and marijuana has little evidence implicating it in fetal harm, unlike alcohol, cocaine or tobacco. ~

Marijuana is unlikely to cause head, neck, or lung cancer. ~ Daniel E. Ford, MD, John Hopkins Medical School in Baltimore

Continued use of cannabis causes violent behavior. ~ Journal of Psychological Medicine

Legalizing marijuana will eliminate much of the violence and corruption that currently characterizes marijuana markets. ~ Cato Institute

Marijuana use has adverse effects on your aura and soul. ~

Marijuana balances your system, alleviates worry, expands the mind, heightens consciousness, facilitates meditation, improves self-knowledge, and puts us in touch with universal spiritual values. ~

With all the contradictory information and opinions I’ve read from all the above experts, I can only conclude one thing:

They’re all smoking it!

Better Than Sex

When I was young I loved sex. It consumed me. In fact I was mentally obsessed with it. About 90% of my waking thoughts involved plotting and planning on how to get laid. The other 10% involved how to make a living so that I could live long enough to actually get laid.

Sex was very frustrating. With all my plotting and planning, my rate of success finding a partner was similar to Wile E. Coyote’s success at catching the roadrunner. Except for one very willing partner whose name was Rosy Palm.

Just the same, I believed sex was the best thing in the world. I couldn’t imagine anything more thrilling or satisfying than a roll in bed with honey.

But then I got married and sex became a regular, routine activity.

And after 25 years of wedded bliss, I have reached the point of what I call, “sexual maturity”. As a mature, older man, I have come to realize that there really is something better than sex.

It’s called sleep.

A deep slumber sends the mind floating down a serene river of nerveless relaxation that is impossible to experience from sex. Sleep refreshes and renews one’s spirit, whereas sex consumes the spirit. The pleasure of sleep lasts much longer than the quick thrill of sex. And sleep has many other advantages over sex.

Men always fantasize about having multiple partners. But having multiple partners can be dangerous. It can ruin your marriage, spread horrendous diseases, and lead to paternity suits.

But under the aegis of sleep, a man can dream about having sex with many different partners, with no negative consequences whatsoever.

I’ll admit that after a good night’s sleep, my body feels kind of stiff and can have a kinked up neck or shoulders. But good sex wears my body out even worse. And the kinkier it gets, the more kinked up my body feels afterward.

Sex can require weeks, months, or even years for a man to seduce a willing partner. But if I stay awake past 9:00 pm, no seduction at all is required to lure sleep into bed.

Women can enjoy multiple orgasms, many times per day. But older guys like me can enjoy multiple naps many times per day.

The lure of sex for many is the thrilling, orgasmic climax. But I enjoy the anticlimax better. There’s nothing like that soft suasion of deep drowsiness drawing me to dreamland just minutes after the Big Bang.

So go for it, young men with raging hormones! Keep pursuing, persuading, and cajoling, trying to fulfill your sleazy fantasies. Hunt for the cunt on that long, frustrating trail to the tail. You can have it.

Meanwhile, I’ll prop my feet up on an easy chair, turn on the Golf Channel, and settle in for a long, afternoon snooze. At long last, I’ve found something much better than sex.

News From Town

This here's a replica of my town.

This here’s a replica of my town. The fence is our most prized feature. It’s very tall, and keeps people out who make us feel uncomfortable.

Once in a while I write a letter to my mother, who’s in prison. I speak the language she remembers from the outside, and let her know how things are going in our town. I thought I might share this one with you, so you can enjoy the quaint character of our tiny rural hamlet:

Dear Ma,

Not much been happenin here lately. But here is a few tidbits for ya’ll to chaw on.

A meteor shower drenched our town at two in the mornin. Most of the population slept right through it. But a few unfortunate folk who was outside at that godawful hour got soaked in stardust. They came home pretty lit.

Mrs. Curdle went to our local bakery last year, and caught a yeast infection. A few weeks ago she gave birth to an eight pound loaf of bread. ‘Course we all held a breadcrumb shower for her. She seemed right pleased with the gifts, even though most folks jist gave her a toaster.

A few days ago I kilt me a cockaroach in our house. I done lassoed it, wrestled the critter to the ground, then tied all six of its legs together. Then I jugulated and butchered it with my bowie knife. Our freezer is packed now and, boy howdy! Looks like we folks’ll be enjoying roach steaks for the rest of the whole danged year.

Toothbrushes have went on sale at our local drugstore, and the line outside the store must have gone three blocks, if it weren’t a country mile. It’s not that folks here are addicted to hygiene. It’s just that they’s some mighty curious to know exactly what a toothbrush is.

Well, that’s all the news for now. Oh yeah, we’s all in good health, an’ we hope ya’ll is too. ‘Cept for those 27 stitches I got where I was gored by a horny toad. An’ the missus sprained her ankle slippin in the shower. She was shore surprised when water shot out of that round thing up there with all the holes in it. But ‘sides from that, we’s fine.

Love ‘n Sweetcorn,

A Man’s Voice

I felt outraged at what women had been doing to men for all these years. But things were slowly, gradually, turning around. At least there was that. Men had fought long and hard for their rights, and bit by bit, year after year, were winning more and more respect and support from women.

But we still had a long way to go. The hottest issue in this gender-battling political firestorm was the vasectomy issue. Most women were against vasectomies, but most men were for them. Vasectomies had been made legal many years before, by a Supreme Court decision. But that didn’t stop the Pro-Wife movement from trying to overturn that decision, commonly known as Scro v. Laid.

No sperm is more sacred than a man's voice.

No sperm is more sacred than a man’s voice.

I belonged to the Pro-Voice movement. Which figures, because I was a man. I wanted a voice in what I did with my own life and body. But believe it or not there were still many men who were Pro-Wife. They bought into the argument that every sperm was sacred, and had the right to compete in the great swimming race for the egg. Even if that meant men would have unwanted babies, forcing them to marry and raise children at home while their wives pursued lucrative and fascinating careers.

I hated the label Pro-Wife. To be anti-Wife implied I was a misogynist. And I loved my wife. Why couldn’t we all just agree to the terms Pro-Vasectomy and Anti-Vasectomy? The label made things very confusing. But that’s just an example of how clever and tricky women could be, in their efforts to manipulate and dominate men.

Women controlled everything. They controlled the Supreme Court. They controlled Congress. And there had never been a male President. Never. Ever.

That’s why the upcoming election was so historic, and so important for men. For the first time in history a man had been nominated by a major political party. And lucky for us men, he was Pro-Voice! Rod Clippin had fought very hard for this nomination against, you guessed it, a woman. Her name was Berniece Panders. And she was very popular with a lot of men, so it wasn’t easy for Clippin to beat her.

But he did. And now he faced another woman. A rich, megalomaniacal lady with greenish-blonde hair, named Donna Dump. Nobody really knew where Dump stood on the vasectomy issue. First she was Pro-Voice, but then she was Pro-Wife. But one thing was certain. If Donna Dump was elected, she’d appoint a female Supreme Court Justice who would vote to overturn Scro v. Laid.

Men could soon be forced into having back-alley vasectomies.

Election Day. I stood in the voting booth and gazed at the list of candidates. I reflected on the centuries of repression men had endured at the hands of chauvinistic women. And I trembled with resentment at the thought of men losing their voice. More than ever, I wanted women to get their damned hands off of our man parts. And there on the list of candidates glistened the name, Rod Clippin. For the first time in my life I had the chance to vote for a man for President.

I was so excited! I made my selection with hands aquiver. A vote for Clippin. Fuck you, Donna Dump!

This was an archaic voting machine, with a long red lever. I had to flip a smaller lever to make my selection, then pull the long lever. Ah, to vote for a man by pulling a long red lever seemed powerfully symbolic to me. You can bet I gripped that lever tight and yanked it as hard as I could.

That’s when a sharp pain scissored through my groin. Then everything all around me faded. The voting machine dropped out of sight. The curtained booth vaporized. Suddenly I found myself lying flat on my back, writhing in agony. My groin was on fire from an injured man part.

Wow, that was crazy!

As the fire subsided and the fog lifted from my brain, I realized I had just woken up from the weirdest nightmare I had ever experienced. It was all just a terrible dream. And I felt so relieved and grateful to remember that the world I lived in was not dominated by women, after all.

I let go of the big red lever, and stretched and yawned. It was time for another day of conquering the world.

And thank God it was still a man’s world.

Ten Cheap Ways to Beat the Heat

Don't be as cheap as me, or you may end up here.

Don’t be as cheap as me, or you may end up here.

I’m a cheapskate. I’m damned if I’ll spend triple-digit money to avoid triple-digit heat, by switching to refrigerated air conditioning. Even though our swamp cooler seems to be spitting in the wind against this summer’s wall of xerothermic weather. With spit that sizzles and evaporates in seconds.

Yes, I’m damned. I’ve condemned myself to Hell. It must be karma. Cheapskates like me must go to Hell.

But I haven’t given up. Instead I’ve become innovative in my effort to keep cool, while keeping out of debt with the electric company. I’ve devised some cheap ways to beat the heat.

And now I offer these ideas to you, for a donation. Please don’t be as cheap as me. After you read these ideas, please donate. Otherwise, you may find yourself joining me in a place similar to the painting, above.

Ten cheap ways to beat the heat:

  1. Take a cool, refreshing swim in your neighbor’s swimming pool. Not your own swimming pool. Never throw away money by owning a swimming pool.

  2. Go to a convenience store. Open one of those glass doors where you buy sodas and beer. And then just stand there until they kick you out.

  3. Take the ice bucket challenge. That’s where someone else gives money to charity for the privilege of dowsing you with free ice water.

  4. Hitchhike to Canada. I’ve read that their average highs in the summer are only about 25 degrees. Celsius, whatever that means.

  5. Become a nudist, and lobby for laws to make the summer season clothing optional.

  6. Look for fat people in a crowd and stand next to them for the shade.

  7. Stand by the side of a busy highway. Enjoy the breeze stirred up by passing traffic.

  8. Restrict sexual activities to phone sex only.

  9. Quit smoking. You’ll save money, and at the same time you’ll stop putting glowing hot embers close to your face.

  10. View a solar eclipse. Temperatures drop dramatically whenever the sun is obscured by the moon. (This is not as far-fetched as it may seem. Much of our nation will experience a total eclipse in August of next year. We’ll feel cool and refreshed for a precious few minutes. And then the world will come to an end.)

There, now wasn’t that worth a donation? Send your donation to: Tippy Gnu, 7734 Styx Avenue, Hades, Hell, 66666. All funds will go to a worthy cause. Me! If I raise enough money, I’m going to buy an air conditioner.