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JOCOP Redux: Menstrual Psyche
Michael Edward Rashoff, The Journal's Senior Involuntary Parking Lot Inspection Tour Bureau Chief, reports on recent developments in Contemporary Menstrual Psychodrama within the context of TNT-- Tamponiacal Neurastheniastic Twatology.
Next week, his article on the results of his own course of male hormonal replacement therapies will appear in The Journal's Sports Section.
A recent study by the UCLA Department of Psychiatry has revealed that the kind of face a woman finds attractive on a man can differ depending on where she is in her menstrual cycle.
The study revealed that if she is ovulating, she is attracted to men with rugged, square-jawed, overtly masculine features.
Conversely, if she is menstruating or menopausal, she tends to be more attracted to a man with duct tape over his mouth and a spear lodged in his chest while he is on fire.
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JOCOP Redux: The Loneliness of Ed Zachary
She hadn’t had a date or any sexual gratification for over five years.
Distraught, desperate for someone, anyone to call, she waited in vain.
Yet hope somehow lived on within her meager breast that somehow she might be released from the nearly violent yearnings for sexual fulfillment now welling up from the very core of her being. But she had to do something....
Thinking that possibly there was a physiological wrong that needed to be righted, she decided to seek therapy.
Throwing caution to the wind, she chose to obtain the consultation of the very best, and most expensive in the field--the renowned practitioner of ancient Chinese remedies, Dr. Chung.
Barely daring to shelter hope for the first time in years, she entered the examination room with trepidation.
With no introduction or preliminaries, Dr. Chung said: "OK, take off all croses."
The woman did as she was told.
“Now geddown, craw reery, reery fass to udda side o’ loom."
Again, the woman did as she was told, crawling across the room, totally nude.
Dr. Chung then said: "OK, now craw reery, reery fass back to me."
Which she did.
Dr. Chung shook his head slowly back and forth.
"You ploblem velly velly bad,” intoned the therapist.
“You gotta Ed Zachary Disease. Worse case I evah see. Dat why you not haf sek or date!”
"Oh my god, Dr. Chung, what is Ed Zachary Disease?" implored the near-hysterical patient.
Dr. Chung sighed deeply, shaking his head anew as if, truly, all hope were finally gone.
“Ed Zachary Disease when you face look Ed Zachary like you ass.”
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JOCOP Redux: The Hippie and The Nun
A hippie gets on a bus and immediately espies a highly attractive young nun.
He sits down next to her and inquires: "Can we have sex?"
"No," she replies, "I'm married to God."
She then stands up and disembarks at the next stop.
The bus driver, who has overheard, turns to the hippie and says, "Hey, buddy, I can tell you how to have sex with her--"
"Yeah?" replies the hippie.
"No problem," says the bus driver. "She goes to the cemetery every Tuesday night at midnight to pray. All you have to do is dress up in a robe with a hood, put some of that luminous powder stuff in your beard and pop up in the cemetery claiming to be God."
The hippie decides to give it a try and arrives in the cemetery, dressed as suggested, the following Tuesday night.
"I am God!" he declares to the nun, keeping the hood low about his face. "I have ordained it! You must have sex with me!"
The nun agrees without question but begs him to restrict himself to anal intercourse, as she is desperate not to lose her virginity.
God agrees and promptly has his wicked way with her.
As he finishes, he jumps up and throws back his hood with a flourish.
"Ah-ha!" he cries triumphantly. "I am the hippie!"
"Ah-ha!" cries the nun. "I am the bus driver!"
The Ancient Motorcyclist
A crusty old biker, on a summer ride in the country, walks into a tavern and sees a sign hanging over the bar which reads:
CHEESEBURGER: $1.50
CHICKEN SANDWICH : '$2.50
HANDJOB: $10.00
Checking his wallet to see if he's good for it, he walks up to the bar and beckons to one of the three exceptionally attractive women serving drinks to a pathetic looking group of farmers.
"Yes?" inquires the one with the big tits, smiling knowingly, "can I help you?"
"I was wondering," mumbles the biker, "are you the young lady who gives the handjobs?"
"Yes," she purrs, "I am."
The old biker replies, "Well wash your hands, I want a cheeseburger."
Hands Across Time
This inspiring first-hand account from Editorial Waterboard member and Senior Subprime IslamoColonicLavage™ Correspondent Michael Edward Rashoff comes at a particularly opportune moment when our thoughts turn away from the daily grind of imminent nuclear war in Pakistan, three-and-a-half-buck gas, erectile dysfunction, the writer's strike, prostate enlargement, adult diaper rash and cancer of the nose...to soothing memories from another time when hope sprang internal and a helping hand was always there with the small assist that, when it counted, made all the difference.
My grandmother died back in ’72 but during the holiday season when her birthday comes around again, I always go back in time and remember the singular attachment between us and the rare commonality of heart we shared in that unique link across the generations.
During the long walks we used to take to the store on Crawford Road, we would together parse the full panoply of human experience stretching back to the dawn of time.
And, as insignificant as they may seem now, those quarters she gave me for pulling weeds or washing the sidewalk came in awfully handy to a young boy just starting out in the world.
The list of those small but endlessly resonating moments shared between the two of us goes on and on.
But the one I remember most was a single piece of grandmotherly advice which the old lady passed down to me when I’d just turned 13.
We were sitting on a bench in the park on a beautiful spring day after spending a morning canvassing the neighborhood for soda bottles for me to turn in at the store for the deposit money.
“One day, Sonny,” Grandma said, “you will meet a beautiful woman, fall in love, marry and start your own family.”
“Yes, Grandma.”
"And always remember this one thing," she said. "Be sure you marry a woman with small hands."
"How come, Grandma?"
“Because it makes your dick look so much bigger.”
A Merry Christmas Blonde
A gorgeous young redhead walks painfully into the doctor's office and says that her body hurts wherever she touches it.
"Impossible!" exclaims the doctor in disbelief. "Show me."
With her finger the redhead pushes on her left shoulder and moans.
Then she pokes her elbow and the moan is twice as loud.
When she pushes her knee-cap, she involuntarily throws her head back in a terrible spasm and shatters the air with a piercing scream.
Nearly delirious with pain, she then pushes her ankle and lets loose a blood-curdling howl to make Lassie cringe.
When the scream has stopped ricocheting around the office, the doctor says, "You're not really a redhead, are you?"
"Well, no," she says, "I'm actually a blonde."
"I thought so," says the doctor. "Your finger is broken."
JOCOP Guide to Holiday Retail, Part III
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Weeweechu
By copy of this posting and with reference to the appalling narrative set forth below [Not with my fucking approval.--Ed.], Hugh Jorgen is herewith bound over to Bumfuck-Presbyterian Hospital for castration and officially reprimanded by unanimous consent of the Editorial Waterboard. Jorgen is thereafter reassigned, for a period not to exceed three (5) months, as Rectal Coordination Technician at the Log Cabin Open Buffet in the Mens' Room at the Holiday Inn, starring Larry Craig.
It was a romantic full moon, when Pedro said, "Mmmm, mamacita, let's do Weeweechu."
"Dejame en paz," said Rosita. "Let's just look at the moon!"
"Pero hijo de la chingada, baby, c'mon, let's do it, let's do Weeweechu! Te quiero mucho and it's the perfect time," Pedro moaned.
"But I just wanna hold your hand and watch the moon," replied Rosita.
"Oh pretty please with ceviche on it, querida, just once do Weeweechu with me...?"
Rosita looked at the pathetic Pedro and finally said, "Oh, okay, just one time, we'll do Weeweechu."
So Pedro grabbed his guitar and they both sang:
Weeweechu a Merry Christmas,
Weeweechu a Merry Christmas,
Weeweechu a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year."
The Protocols of the Elders of Grimsby
At this time of year and on the eve of the Eid festival to which we here at The Journal subscribe [Praise Jaysus--Ed.], we're pleased to run the little number from Captain Organ below, an inspiration to one and all in the context of yet another heartwarming anti-Zionist post-coital global subprime dhimmitudinal martyrdom credit crunch, Aloha Snackbar!™ (Organ, pictured right, continues as the world's longest living heart transplant donor.)
As a teacher, Ms. Jones, was very curious about how each of her students celebrated Christmas.
She called on young Patrick Murphy. “Tell me Patrick what do you do at Christmas time?” she asked.
Patrick came to the head of the class and addressed all.
“Well Ms. Jones, me and my twelve brothers and sisters go to the midnight Mass, we sing hymns, then we come home very late and we put mince pies by the back door and hang up our stockings. Then, all excited, we go to bed and wait for Father Christmas to come with all our toys.”
“Very nice Patrick,” beamed Ms. Jones. “Now, Jimmy Brown, what do you do at Christmas?”
Jimmy stood up in front of the class.
“ Well, Ms. Jones, me and my sister also go to Church with Mum and Dad and we sing carols and we get home ever so late. We put cookies and milk by the chimney and we hang up our stockings. We hardly sleep, waiting for Santa Claus to bring our presents!”
“Thank you so much, Jimmy.”
Realizing there was a Jewish boy in the class and not wanting to exclude him from the fun, Ms Jones called on the lad.
“Now, Isaac Cohen, what do you do at Christmas?
Isaac stood up at the head of the class.
“Well, it's the same thing every year. Dad comes home from the office. We all pile into the Rolls and then drive over to his toy factory. When we get inside, we look at all the empty shelves and then we sing 'Oh,What a Friend We Have in Jesus.' Then we fly to the Bahamas."
Country for Old Men
An exceptionally modest man was in the hospital for a series of tests, the last of which had ravaged his gastro-intestinal tract.
An enervating series of trips to the bathroom seemed never to end, night after night.
Finally, after making several exhausting but unsuccessful trips to the bog, the man said to hell with it and, deciding the latest episode was yet another false alarm, opted to stay put and get some sleep.
Without warning, he filled the bed with diarrhoea and was embarrassed beyond his ability to remain rational.
In a complete loss of composure he jumped out of bed, gathered up both bed sheets and threw them out the hospital window.
A drunk was walking by the hospital when the sheets landed on him.
He started yelling, cursing and swinging his arms violently trying to get the unknown things off and ended up with the two appallingly soiled sheets in a tangled pile at his feet, huge quantities of watery fecal material scattered over a five foot radius on the sidewalk.
As the drunk stood there, unsteady on his feet, staring blurrily down at the sheets, a hospital security guard who had seen everything raced over to the drunk and exclaimed, "My god, what the hell happened here?"
The drunk--a reformed ex-journalist who'd acquired (a) ethics and (b) dipsomania during the self-same ten-second epiphany--stared down at the heap of shit and cloth at his feet.
"I think I just interviewed Alan Greenspan and Jimmy Carter.”
Hydrogen Sulfide at Tiffany's
A woman of the geriatric persuasion walks into Tiffany’s on Fifth Avenue.
She browses in a leisurely fashion until she suddenly sees a stunning diamond bracelet. Its beauty and craftsmanship take her breath away as she bends over the display case—whereupon she inadvertently breaks wind.
Mortified, she immediately glances around the shop interior to see if anyone has noticed her accident. She utters a silent prayer that a salesperson won’t appear for the next olfactorially-critical moments.
As she turns around, her worst nightmare materializes in the form of a salesman standing right next to her.
The compleat professional, not even remotely ruffled, the sales consultant greets the woman in the clipped tones of a Noel Coward which, as a white male back in England, would have him deported.
"Good day, Madam. And how may we be of service this morning?” he smoothly inquires.
Suddenly hopeful that no one witnessed the accidental gastrotoxicity after all, the woman tentatively ventures into normal commercial discourse as if nothing had happened.
“Sir, what is the price of this exquisite bracelet?"
He clears his throat slightly with head in hand, staring down at the bracelet in the display case for several moments.
Then, finally, looking up at the customer he replies.
"Madam, I’m teddibly sorry, " he says with true mourning in his voice. "But in all due deference to the other customers—if one farted just looking at it, one would positively shit when one heard the price.”
Stand By Your Man
In a galaxy far far away, many years from now when the fires of this earnest passage we call life are tamped and one can look back with equanimity, an elderly couple are having dinner one evening when the husband reaches across the table, takes his wife's hand into his and, staring deep into the profundity of her eyes, speaks movingly to his bride.
"Hillary, soon we will be married fifty years, and I know I haven't exactly been a model of propriety and this question may seem unfair. Yet I feel I must ask it. In all these fifty years have you ever been unfaithful to me?"
Hillary replies, "Well Bill, I have to be honest with you. Yes, I've been unfaithful to you three times during these fifty years. But it was always for a good reason."
Bill is visibly crushed by his wife's confession. But in a spirit of born-again Christian forgiveness he forces himself to reply, "I never suspected. Can you tell me what you mean by 'good reasons?'"
"Well," Hillary replies, "the first time was shortly after we were married and we were still broke because I hadn't yet turned that one-thousand dollar cattle futures long position into a hundred grand through sheer native intelligence and guts... and we were about to lose our little house because we couldn't pay the mortgage. Do you remember that one evening I went to see the banker and the next day he notified you that the loan would be extended?"
Bill indeed recalls the visit to the banker and says, magnanimously, "Yes, I remember. But I can forgive you for that. You saved our home, it had to be done, I realize that now. But what about the second time?"
Hillary says, "And do you remember when you were so sick, but we didn't have the money to pay for the surgery you needed because the commodities brokerage firm went bust and their cheque wouldn't clear? Well, I went to see your doctor one night and, if you recall, he did the surgery at no charge."
"Oh, yes, I recall that," says Bill. "But you did it to save my life so of course I can forgive you for that. But tell me about the third time, I've got to know."
"Alright," Hillary says. "Do you remember when you were running in the Iowa caucuses and you needed just 873 more votes?"
Chaste Nuts Roasting on an Open Fire
According to spokesperson Angela Van Dyke of the Alaska Department of Fish and Game, both male and female reindeer grow antlers in the summer each year.
However male reindeer drop their antlers at the beginning of winter, usually late November to mid-December. Female reindeer retain their antlers until after they give birth in the spring.
It follows that, according to all historical renditions of Santa's reindeer, every single one of them, from Rudolph to Blitzen, necessarily had to be female.
Only women could manage the circumnavigation of a drunk in a red velvet suit without getting lost.
Let's Put Christ Back Into Xmas, You Worthless Sonsabitches™
At this time of the year, WisdomoftheEast gets hopped up on Jesus and girds his loins as the retail jihad makes its inexorable way up the ureter en route to the bathroom mirror.
One Christmas season long ago, Santa was getting ready for his annual circum- navigation with particular emphasis on Soggy Labia™, home of the Meccaneers, a farm team Santa had a ten percent stake in.
But there were problems. Four of his elves were down with the clap and the trainee elves did not produce toys as fast as in Guangzhou where they were being dipped in strychnine-laced kryptonite. Santa was beginning to feel the pressure.
Then Mrs. Claus broke the news her 92 year-old skank of a mother was coming to visit.
Santa went out into the workshop and had a few pulls off the "secret" bottle of vodka hidden in the back of the Kelvinator's freezer compartment.
Then, when he went to harness the reindeer, he found that two of them were about to give birth and three had jumped the fence and were AWOL, the dirty flea-ridden sonsabitches.
Then when he began to commence loading the sleigh, one of the boards cracked and the toy bag fell to the ground, scattering broken toys across the floor of the workshop.
Throwing up his hands in despair, Santa returned to the Kelvinator for another secret series of pulls on the Absolut.
Standing under the now vertically upturned bottle, he discovered the elves had gotten shitfaced on what had remained of its contents, the rabid little cocksuckers. Santa was outta jetfuel.
Then he accidentally dropped the bottle. It broke into hundreds of little pieces across the workshop floor. He went to get the broom and found that mice had eaten the straw leaving a quarter-inch stubble.
Just then the doorbell rang.
Santa cursed the day he was born all the way to the door.
There stood a small angel holding a gargantuan Christmas tree towering over his/her/its head.
"Merry Christmas, Santa!" she blurted in terminal perkytude. "Isn't it just a lovely day? I have a beautiful tree for you. Isn't it just lovely? Where would you like me to put it?"
Thus began the tradition of sticking the angel on top of the Christmas tree.
Omission Accomplished
Upon hearing that the Commander-in-Chief was rosily doubtful as to whether he was still alive, Osama bin Ladin sent the leader of the free world a letter in his own handwriting to remove all doubt.
When Fratman opened the letter, it appeared to contain a coded message:
370HSSV 0773H
Bush was baffled. He e-mailed it to Condi Rice over at Foggy Bottom. Condi and her aides had no clue so they passed it on to the FBI.
No one could solve it over at the J. Edgar Hoover Building so it went from there to the CIA at Langley where it was ignored for fear they'd be unable either to spin it, or else stab someone in the back with it.
It then went to the NSA where it was lost because they were overwhelmed with unencrypted domestic email. They plunged deep into CYA mode and, as usual, forwarded the message to MI6 in London.
MI-6 cabled the White House:
"Tell the President he's holding the message upside down."
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