Or How To Stab Your "Best Friends" In The Back. Photographically.
.
You Complete Me
The turbulence was awful, and things went from bad to worse when the starboard wing was struck by lightning.
One woman lost it completely. She stood up in the front of the plane and screamed, "OH MY SWEET JESUS, I'M TOO YOUNG TO DIE!!
Then, recovering slightly, she yelled: "If I have to die, I want my last moments to be memorable! Is there anyone on this plane who can make me feel like a WOMAN?!"
For a moment, there was silence. Everyone stared at the desperate woman in the front of the plane.
Then the man from Australia stood up at the rear of the plane.
He was handsome, tall, statuesque, with curly brown hair and piercing blue eyes.
Slowly, he made his way up the aisle, unbuttoning his shirt as he went, one button at a time. No one moved.
He removed his shirt. Muscles rippled across his massive chest. She gasped…
Then, he spoke.
"Iron this, Sheila. And when you're done with that, I'll have a beer."
.
He was handsome, tall, statuesque, with curly brown hair and piercing blue eyes.
Slowly, he made his way up the aisle, unbuttoning his shirt as he went, one button at a time. No one moved.
He removed his shirt. Muscles rippled across his massive chest. She gasped…
Then, he spoke.
"Iron this, Sheila. And when you're done with that, I'll have a beer."
.
Love Story
An escaped con on the lam breaks into a suburban house to look for money and guns. The mortgage on the house is 200k underwater so, unbeknownst to the escapee, he is actually just looking for guns....or a good time.
Inside the master bedroom, he finds the man and wife asleep on their Slumberville mattress which they'll finish paying off in 2015 in the unlikely event either one is still employed.
He orders the husband out of the bed and ties him to a chair.
After that, while tying the wife's arms to the bedposts, the convict hops up, straddles her and sticking his filthy face into her neck, seems to be whispering sweet nothings into her ear.
After that, while tying the wife's arms to the bedposts, the convict hops up, straddles her and sticking his filthy face into her neck, seems to be whispering sweet nothings into her ear.
Then he gets up and proceeds into the bathroom.
While he's in the john, the husband whispers over to his wife: "Listen! This guy's an escaped convict. Look at his clothes! He's probably spent a lot of time in jail and hasn't seen a woman in years. I saw how he kissed your neck. If he wants sex, don't resist, don't complain...do whatever he tells you! Satisfy him no matter how much he nauseates you! This guy is obviously very dangerous. If he gets angry, he'll kill us both!"
"Be strong," he concludes. "I love you no matter what, honey!'
The wife takes this in for a few moments. Then she says: "He wasn't kissing my neck, Bill. He was whispering in my ear. He told me he's gay, incredibly horny, thinks you're cute and asked if we had any KY. I told him it was in the medicine cabinet. Be strong honey. I love you too."
.
While he's in the john, the husband whispers over to his wife: "Listen! This guy's an escaped convict. Look at his clothes! He's probably spent a lot of time in jail and hasn't seen a woman in years. I saw how he kissed your neck. If he wants sex, don't resist, don't complain...do whatever he tells you! Satisfy him no matter how much he nauseates you! This guy is obviously very dangerous. If he gets angry, he'll kill us both!"
"Be strong," he concludes. "I love you no matter what, honey!'
The wife takes this in for a few moments. Then she says: "He wasn't kissing my neck, Bill. He was whispering in my ear. He told me he's gay, incredibly horny, thinks you're cute and asked if we had any KY. I told him it was in the medicine cabinet. Be strong honey. I love you too."
.
My Count, Try! 'Tis of Thee!
Michael Edward Rashoff is still at work on a think piece exploring the curiously unremarked caesura after the second syllable of Aretha Franklin's performance of "My Country 'Tis of Thee" at the Inauguration.
During this period of intense introspection commencing with the traditional tying of his ass to a tree and walking forty miles into the parking lot at Costco, his wife has submitted the following:
.
Topographical Wiseass
Three men were participating in a corporate "esprit de corpse' enhancing exercise in the forest when, hiking through a particularly fierce region of the wilderness, were suddenly confronted by a vast, raging maelstrom of a river.
Urgently needing to get to the other side, the first man prayed: "Dear Lord, I beseech thee to give me the strength to cross this river."
Poof!
God enlarged his arms by a factor of 2.47, increased the strength of his legs by at least as much and the devout Christian swimmer was able to swim across in about 2 hours, albeit nearly succumbing to the waters on two fairly shitty moments of sincere but, ultimately of course, temporary doubt.
After witnessing the preceding, the second man sank to his knees and prayed to his Lord and Saviour with every fibre of his being:
"God in Heaven and His Only Begotten Son! I will devote the rest of my life to your service with particular reference to the heathen in Saudi Arabia and surrounding areas full of rich unbelievers which many of your followers seem to have overlooked in favor of other locations blessed by Taco Bells of greater proximity. But this I will do, I will go unto the sea of tea-towel/fan-belters to show them The Way, I swear it Lord, if you will only grant me the strength--and the, uh, tools--to cross this river, Praise Jaysus!"
Poof!
God instantly produced a Boston Whaler tied up to a nearby tree and the Believer powered across the raging effervescence in a Khobar minute, which runs just about an hour and a quarter.
Seeing what had happened to the first two men, the third man--a consultant passing himself off as an atheist to get his nose up a violently devout VP's ass significantly further than would otherwise have been the case--suddenly found spiritual sustenance sufficient to make the following heartfelt-to-the-core albeit ever so slightly more comprehensive request via the usual gratuitous and billed-in-advance "pre-planning."
Poof!
The Lord instantly transformed the third member of the party into a woman.
"God!" he/she/it invoked the heavens. "This is me--Ted! Or Tessa! Whatever! Strictly up to you, I could give a shit!"
"For chrissake," continued Ted/Tessa, "please give me/us/she/it/him (a) the strength, (b) the technology, (d) the bogus schedule and budget I'll need to back up this true smeller of a billing and--most important of all--(c) the actual intelligence required to cross this cruel, bad-ass motherfucker of a river!!!'
The third person, now of the feminine persuasion, immediately went to his/her/its backpack, wherein was contained each and every item he/she/it/them had requested--including one in particular which caught her eye right off--a map of the immediate area which, checking it in the most cursory fashion possible, conclusively demonstrated that a hike of one hundred meters up-stream would take he/her/sheit to a massive bridge.
Whereby it embarked upon the twelve minute journey thereto and casually walked across the bridge--traversing, of course, the river.
The male members of the "team" were, of course, aghast at this miracle and all fell to their knees to praise the Lord for the wonders of His works.
After which they returned to their personalized work cubicles whence to proceed to the coffee machine where Earl, who wore the largest flag-lapel pin of all the "associates" in the office, summarized it all:
"And then the cunts wonder why they get treated like shit at work...."
.
Bombed Blondshell Withdrawal Preview
Speaking on behalf of global media conglomerates everywhere, The Journal would like to wish Hillary Rodham Clinton the best of luck and good hunting in her future endeavors on the occasion of her withdrawal from the 2008 Democratic Presidential Primary.
Hard fought though the campaign may have been, and taking into account the considerable disagreement The Editorial Waterboard took to the fair sex's choice of mud catapultation techniques unseen since The Punic Wars, we now extend the hand of compassion and reconciliation to the ex-candidate in profound appreciation for what in the final analysis was the unprecedented vacuum of either humanity or principle in the candidate's electoral re-enactment of Genghis Khan's final campaign in hold-out regions of Lower Manchuria, all in the context of a kinder, more feminine Democratic Party.
The former candidate is shown above in the context of 22 vodka tonics and a Botox overdose during happier times soon after the Pennsylvania primary.
.
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.
.
Dear Ed Zachary, Part I
The Journal is proud to present the first in a series of occasional advice columns from Ed Zachary, the internet's sole male practitioner of 100% whole-grain subprime eco-transpastic sildenafil-citrate fuelled counsel for the romantically-reamed.
Dear Ed:
I hope you can help me here. The other day I set off for work leaving my husband in the house watching the TV as usual. I hadn't gone more than a mile down the road when my engine conked out and the car shuddered to a halt. I walked back home to get my husband's help.
When I got home I couldn't believe my eyes. He was in our bedroom with the neighbor lady. I am 32, my husband is 34 and we have been married for twelve years.
When I confronted him, he broke down and admitted that they had been having an affair for the past six months. I told him to stop or I would leave him. He was let go from his job a year ago, and he says he has been feeling increasingly depressed and worthless. I love him very much, but ever since I gave him the ultimatum he has become increasingly distant.
He won't go to counseling and I'm afraid I can't get through to him anymore.
Can you please help?
Sincerely,
Stalled in Stratford, Ont.
Dear Stalled:
A car dying after being driven a short distance can be attributed to a variety of mechanical faults. Start by checking that there is no debris in the fuel line. If it is clear, check the vacuum pipes and hoses on the intake manifold and also check all grounding wires. If none of these diagnostic techniques solves the problem, it could be that the fuel pump itself is faulty, causing low delivery pressure to the carburetor float chamber.
All the best!
Ed Zachary
Day One in Green Bay
The Palm Springs PD picked up Mike Rashoff at 0430 hours this morning meandering through the empty Costco parking lot in Cathedral City where neighbors had complained of his campaigning at the top of his voice for his preferred presidential candidate, Adlai Stevenson.
Rashoff, the Journal's IslamoColonicLavage Senile Democracy™ Bureau Chief, had inadvertently been in attendance at a public announcement earlier in the day:
Following the Green Bay Packers' loss to New York last weekend, Deanna Favre has announced at a news conference this morning that she will be the starting quarterback for Green Bay next season.
Deanna asserted that she is the most qualified to start as QB on the basis that she spent the past 16 years married to Brett while he played the position for the Packers.
During this time, said Ms Favre, she'd become conversant with every aspect of audibles, the hurry-up offense, blown coverage, costly turnovers, red-zone defense and the corner blitz.
Asked by a reporter if she felt she would be able actually to improve on her husband's record, Ms Favre smiled cryptically and said the former quarterback had always been her athletic supporter.
A survey of Packers' fans shows that 37% of those polled believe Ms Favre will be able to lead Green Bay to the SuperBowl next season.
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.
The Lovesong of David Marvin Mailer
A large woman wearing a sleeveless sun dress walks into a bar in Vancouver.
She raises her right arm, revealing a huge, hairy armpit as she points to all the people sitting at the bar and demands, "What handsome stud here will buy a lady a drink?"
The bar goes silent as the patrons try to ignore her. But down at the end of the bar, an owl-eyed drunk slams his hand down on the counter and bellows: "Give the ballerina a drink!"
The bartender pours the drink and the woman chugs it down. She turns to the patrons again, points around at all of them, revealing that same hairy armpit, and says, "What handsome stud wants to buy a lady a drink?"
Once again, the same little drunk slaps his money down on the bar and says, "Give the ballerina another drink!"
The bartender approaches the little drunk and says, "Y'know, Murphy, it's your business if you want to buy the lady a drink, but why do you keep calling her a ballerina?"
The drunk replies, "Any woman who can lift her leg that high has got to be a ballerina."
Gentlemen Prefer Blobs
It was with an unusual level of kreative™ bureauthirst that a quorum of the Editorial Board met at the bar of the Rheum Room just down the hall from the Bumfuck Holiday Inn Business Conference Center --first right after the shitter--last Thursday night.
Business at hand—appointment of the Professor Emeritus to The JOCOP Chair at the Don Imus School of Ethnic and Feminist Studies at the University of Idaho.
It will come as no surprise to the readership that the final selectee was The Journal’s Senior Trans-Species Sexual Investigations Correspondent, David Marvin Mailer, whose academic credentials and wide spectrum of antibiotics in this area are eutrophic.
We congratulate Mailer (pictured above during a recent PRC inspection tour) on his imminent proximity to young women just past the legal permissorial age statute in several northeastern Utah counties.
A ventriloquist is touring the clubs and stops to entertain in a small town.
He's going through his usual schtick of risqué and dumb-blonde jokes when a well-dressed platinum blonde woman in the fourth row stands up on her chair and starts shouting at the comic.
"I've heard just about enough of your stupid blonde jokes, you arsehole! What makes you think you can stereotype women that way?"
"What connection can a person's hair colour possibly have with their fundamental worth as a human being?"
"It's morons like you that prevent women like myself from being respected at work and in our communities and from reaching our full potential, just because you and your Neanderthal brethren continue to perpetuate negative images, not only against blondes, but women in general, just for the sake of cheap laughs."
"You are a pathetic, misogynistic relic of the past and what you do is not only contrary to discrimination laws in every civilized country, it is deeply offensive to people with modern sensibilities and basic respect for their fellow citizens."
"You should hang your head in shame, you pusillanimous little maggot."
Gobsmacked by this outburst, the ventriloquist begins to mumble feeble apologies.
The blonde, now furious, screams at the stage--
"You stay out of this mister! I'm talking to that little sonofabitch on your knee!"
Loose Lips Sink Ships
A sexually active woman tells her plastic surgeon that she wants her vaginal lips reduced in size because they are too loose and floppy.
Out of embarrassment she insists that the surgery be kept a secret. The surgeon agrees.
Awakening from the anesthesia after the surgery she finds three roses carefully placed beside her head on the pillow.
Outraged, she immediately calls in the doctor.
"I thought I asked you not to tell anyone about my operation!"
The surgeon tells her he has indeed carried out her wish for confidentiality to the letter. And that the first rose was from him:
"I felt sad because you went through this all by yourself."
"The second rose is from my nurse. She assisted me in the surgery and empathized because she'd had the same procedure done some time ago."
"What about the third rose?" the patient inquired.
"That's from a man upstairs in the burn unit. He wanted to thank you for his new ears."
Mammogram Day
As a matter of policy, your Editorial Board strongly urges the readership to honor the spirit of Mammogram Day by scheduling appointments for titty-shots and nipple tennis asap.
To the casual observer, this may seem to be particularly apropos in the case of our allegedly female readers. But in line with our arbeitmachtfrei of Total Halal™ and Politburo Correctumization™, we strongly suggest that male members [sic] of the readership also have this procedure performed at the earliest opportunity. Individual names are of course being withheld in line with our HUAC-based Security and Secrecy Publication Policy™, although we know who you are, you stinking faggots.
Politically astute female readers may want to schedule prostate exams concurrent with the customary flap, tap and slap.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
.jpg)
