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:
Category Archives: Humor
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.
STUDY FINANCIAL MANAGEMENT
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.
AVOID POLITICS, CAUSES AND CHARITIES
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.
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.
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,
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.
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.
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:
- 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.
- 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.
- Take the ice bucket challenge. That’s where someone else gives money to charity for the privilege of dowsing you with free ice water.
- Hitchhike to Canada. I’ve read that their average highs in the summer are only about 25 degrees. Celsius, whatever that means.
- Become a nudist, and lobby for laws to make the summer season clothing optional.
- Look for fat people in a crowd and stand next to them for the shade.
- Stand by the side of a busy highway. Enjoy the breeze stirred up by passing traffic.
- Restrict sexual activities to phone sex only.
- Quit smoking. You’ll save money, and at the same time you’ll stop putting glowing hot embers close to your face.
- 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.
At least eight states will have marijuana legalization laws on their ballots this November. California, Nevada, Arizona, Massachusetts, and Maine will be voting for or against legalizing weed for recreational use. And Missouri, Arkansas, and Florida will attempt to legalize pot for medical purposes. Way to try to go forward, Bible Belt!
I’m from Cali, and wasn’t sure which way to vote on this. And then my wife and I visited Capitol Reefer National Park. While at this enchanted park I saw several visions, and these revelations convinced me of the wisdom of legalizing Pakaloco.
In my first vision, a great white president rose before me. He was enwreathed in a mysterious, sweet-smelling smoke. Although he seemed happy in this smoke, he was holding his breath and refusing to inhale it. He introduced himself to me as the Great Clinton. In a raspy voice he proclaimed that in the capitol there are many reefers. He stated that this park was named in honor of all the great leaders of our nation who have secretly toked on the sacred herb of Mary Jane. And then he disappeared into a bush.
In my next vision, a great black president emerged from a bush, eating macaroni and cheese. Magic smoke swirled about his serene face, and he could be seen to breathe deeply of it. He fixed his gaze on me, then uttered, “There’s a reason why I am known as the Great No-Drama Obama. Reflect on it, man.” Then he sprinkled some salt and pepper on his macaroni and faded away.
Around 4:20 in the afternoon a third vision appeared. An older blonde lady in a pants suit was mowing the grass. She was working hard, and huffing and puffing like a dragon. Then she stopped and sparked up a conversation with me. She told me she was up against the stem, and asked if I belonged to the Tea Party. I told her no, and she said, “Well you win a gold star for that.” Then she pulled out a couple of pocket rockets and handed one to me. We torched up while she asked if I had ever seen the Northern Lights.
Yes I had, a few times, I revealed. “In fact, I belong to Triple A, so I have no problem driving up there.”
She got the wind of what I was saying, then got the good giggles. Finally she asked, “Do you know who I am?”
“Sweet Lucy!” I replied, “No, who?”
Her eyes drooped and got dewy and her face went solemn. “I have come from the Great Clinton,” she muttered in ghostly fashion. “And I shall be the new Great Clinton. I am going to leave the great Trump in a ditch, after he crashes the speedboat he’s on.
“And after I become the new Great Clinton, I shall make it possible for all Americans to visit this beautiful park.” She spread her arms out wide, gesturing to the desert hills all around her. “Yes, when I achieve my greatness, no one shall be denied entry. The leaders of our country shall no longer bogart this place for themselves. It shall be shared with everyone, and all people will be allowed to toke the sweet air, admire the red buds, and wake and bake beneath the trees.”
These words were as refreshing to me as a leaf salad. I recalled how so many people had to sneak into this park, and how some of them went to jail for a very long time, after being caught trespassing. I suddenly got very excited. She had won me over. I asked the aspiring new Great Clinton what I could do to help her.
She stared at me sternly and murmured, “Vote to legalize ganja.” And then a strong breeze lifted her up, with her sleeves and pant legs flapping enthusiastically, and she blew away in a vortex of golden leaves.