Subincontinental Humour

In response to an inadvertently amusing article in "Time's Up Magazine" on Indian-American humor, WisdomoftheEast, a resident of Hindutino, California and inventor of the original and ever-popular Vodkaburger™ ("Hold the beef! Eat the sauce!"™), has forwarded this previously little-known account of a diplomatic incident which took place during the Cold War:

When Mrs. Gandhi went to Moscow, Khrushchev took her for a tour of the city in his limo. Recalling his visit to India, he started giving her a hard time about the sanitary conditions there.

"When I was in Delhi, I saw human excrement lying everywhere."

Poor Mrs. Gandhi was terribly embarrassed, but only for a moment because just ahead was a man sitting on his heels, shitting on the side of the road. She pointed this out to the Premier.

Khrushchev was livid and didn't hesitate: "Driver, get out immediately and shoot that man!"

The driver got out, walked up to the man with his gun drawn, spoke briefly and then returned to the car.

"Sir, I can't shoot that man," blurted the driver.

"Why not?"

"He's the Indian ambassador."

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If (Manchurian Electorate Remix)

Mike Rashoff reports from the nation's capitol on the FDA's approval of Fukitol, followed by an immediate retroactive upgrade by Moody's and S&P of its manufacturer, Fuck You PLC, eleven years after its introduction.

Fuck You have since noted that the ad campaign will be amended to delete the reference to "Job Suck?".

Meanwhile, the National Arts Council has updated Rudyard Kipling's classically obsolete Victorian exhortation, "If," as follows:


If you can start the day without caffeine,

If you can get going without pep pills,

If you can always be cheerful, ignoring aches and pains,

If you can resist complaining and boring people with your troubles,

If you can eat the same food everyday and be grateful for it,

If you can understand when your loved ones are too busy to give you any time,

If you can take criticism and blame without resentment,

If you can conquer tension without medical help,

If you can relax without liquor,

If you can sleep without the aid of drugs,

Then you, my son, are the family dog.

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Satyam Vada Dharmam Chara

With both the Dow and S&P500 plumbing new depths, thus violating the inviolable "November Lows" market bottom of CNBC pundit fame and ushering in the third leg [Ah! My favorite leg!--Ed.] of the bear's remorseless onslaught on our sacred Lazy Fairy Free Enterprise System, a concerned and thoroughly marinated Editorial Waterboard immediately contacted its Senior Ayurvedic Full Lotus Ommmmm Bureau Chief, WisdomoftheEast, via Western Union for spiritual guidance during this time of profound Collateralized Debt Obligation.

From his retreat at Navin's Bar and Chicken Tikka Masala in Big Sur where he is currently Resident Lecturer for Financially Ruined Forfeiters of Self-Realization Fees, WisdomoftheEast sent in the uncharacteristically upbeat report, as follows:

Our communication - Wireless
Our dress - Topless
Our telephone - Cordless
Our cooking - Fireless
Our youth - Jobless
Our food - Fatless
Our labour - Effortless
Our conduct - Worthless
Our relation - Loveless
Our attitude - Careless
Our feelings - Heartless
Our politics - Shameless
Our education - Valueless
Our follies - Countless
Our arguments - Baseless
Our jobs - Thankless
Our futures - Hopeless
Our neighbours - Ruthless
Our grievances - Heedless
Our Sathyam - Truthless
Our emails - Useless

.

Great Seal of The Big PX

The readership of The Journal may be unaware of WisdomoftheEast's profound insight into the most obscure mysteries of Ayurveda, The Bhagavad Gita, The Big Rig Veda (sponsored by Peterbilt™), Absolut™ Meditation, the Ganges Breast Stroke, Transcendental Medication™, frozen strawberry Yoga (FSY), Hindustani Mantovani (starring Ravished Chancre and Ali Open-Bar Khan), the increasingly popular drive-thru Atmanburger™ restaurant chain featuring Ommmmmmm My Fucking God™ brand veganburger sauce and his own proprietary Pork Biriyani.

WisdomoftheEast is The Journal's Silicon Valley Bureau Chief whence he outsourced himself to Bangalore in 2004, commuting via the same cyberspace Star-Trek-based hyper-transporter that will soon be unloading dollars for Rupees like Dr Sanjay Gupta on methedrine.






Official Announcement

The government today announced that it is changing its emblem from the traditional bald eagle to a prophylactic in order to reflect more accurately current politico-economic circumstances which have motivated those within the beltway to ensure liquidity and maintain America's position of pre-eminence in the global socio-fiduciary deficit race.

The condom was chosen because it allows for inflation, halts production, destroys the next generation, prophylactisizes a bunch of pricks and gives citizens the sense of security they require while getting federally fucked.

JOCOP Redux:The Field Trip

WisdomoftheEast originally sent this in during his now-completed equestrian phase. He has since embarked upon the euthanasia plane, starring Bob Hope.


A group of Kentucky second, third, and fourth graders, accompanied by two female teachers, went on a field trip to Churchill Downs, the hitherto unknown Louisville track, to see and learn about thoroughbred horse racing.

When it was time to take the children to the bathroom, it was decided that the girls would go with one teacher and the boys would go with the other.

The teacher assigned to the boys was waiting outside the men's room when one of the boys came out and told her that none of them could reach the urinal. Having no choice, she went inside, helped the boys with their pants and began hoisting the boys up, one by one, holding onto their "wee-wees" to direct the flow away from their clothes.

As she lifted one, she couldn't help but notice that he was unusually well-endowed. Trying not to show that she was staring, the teacher said, "You must be in the fourth grade!"

"No, ma'am,” he replied, “I'm riding Silver Arrow in the 7th.”

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.

It's a Super Thing

This is an unusually penetrating allegory, even by the Himalayan criteria unique to The Journal's Karmaführer™ himself--
WisdomoftheEast.

That it's a parable of drive-through, satori-inducing Insta-Lightenment® goes without saying.

Why, then, do we say it.

No one knows.

[If you recognize the subject of this photograph from the archives of your own memory, call an ambulance. --Ed.]




Superman was feeling stale after a long streak of crime fighting. The Man of Steel wanted to go out and party.

He called Batman to ask if he wanted to hit a few clubs, pick up some girls. Batman said Robin was passing a kidney stone and he'd have to look after him in the West Coast Batcave out in Laurel Canyon.

Disappointed, Superman called Spiderman to see if he fancied a few beers. Spiderman told him he was already having drinks and dinner at Musso&Frank's with Cat Woman.

As a last resort, Superman flew over to Wonder Woman's apartment on Wilshire to see if she was free. As he landed on her balcony, and even without benefit of x-ray vision, he couldn't help but notice through the curtain Wonder Woman stark naked on the bed with her legs spread wide open.

Superman thought to himself Hey--I'm faster than a speeding bullet, can leap tall buildings in a single bound and stand for Truth, Justice and The American Way. Hell, I could be in there, have sex, and be out again before she knew what was happening.

So Superman did the super thing in a split second and merrily flew off into the friendly skies.

Meanwhile, on the bed, Wonder Woman said: "Did you hear something?"

"No," said the Invisible Man, "but all of a sudden my asshole hurts like a sonofabitch."

At long last, Jesus

We'd like to welcome Our Lord, Jesus Christ, to this website.

He's a good ole boy and we are grateful to Wisdomof theEast, a registered Hindu fanatic and hophead, for sending this in.

Aside from your personal salvation--correct me if I'm wrong--isn't there some sort of traffic-related advice also contained herein?

Waiter!!

Spiritual Selection

Upon reflection, it will come as no surprise that this is the original contribution to The Journal of Contemporary Opinion. In a spirit of profound compassion for a seriously fucked-up species, it was selflessly forwarded by no less than the Tathagata of Cupertino himself--WisdomoftheEast.

A tribal elder in the utmost Himalayas is explaining the cosmological significance of Spirits. In order to make his meaning known in a fashion that will be most readily understood, he naturally turns to a metaphorical setting from the Old West as the arahats are gathered around the campfire.

"Well ya see, boys, it's like this. A herd of buffalo can only move as fast as the slowest buffalo. And when the herd is hunted, it is the slowest and weakest ones at the back that are killed first. This natural selection is good for the herd as a whole, because the general speed and health of the whole group keeps improving by the regular killing of the weakest members. In much the same way, the human brain can only operate as fast as the slowest brain cells. Excessive intake of alcohol, as we know, kills brain cells. But naturally, it attacks the slowest and weakest brain cells first. In this way, regular consumption of beer eliminates the weaker brain cells, making the brain a faster and more efficient machine. That's why you always feel smarter after a few beers."

Certain Genderial Truths: A Brief Prolegomena

WisdomoftheEast forwarded the photographs shown here. Why? Because they clearly substantiate the truth of the argument for Feminine Superiority, which is to say, of course, Equality. These photographs graphically illustrate (and is there another way to illustrate? why, yes, there is) to low-life mysogynists, even, the inherent truth of this proposition.

As will be intuitively oblivious, this medium is dedicated to the proposition that women are indeed an oppressed majority and any swingin dick in disagreement with this can hightail it back to when Man ran the publishing world, for example.

Hemingway, McCullers, Faulkner, O'Connor, Jones, Parker, Fitzgerald! Losers! All of them! Edited by Man!

As opposed to the situation today when Woman selects and edits the books that get published. So I rest my case. Look at the photographs. Then look at the publishing situation now and ask yourself this simple question: is it better today? Or whut?

Annual Neologism Awards

From the desk of WisdomoftheEast.

Once again, The Washington Post has published the winning submissions to its yearly contest, in which readers are asked to supply alternate meanings for common words. The winners are:

Coffee (n.): the person upon whom one coughs.

Flabbergasted (adj.): appalled over how much weight you have gained.

Abdicate (v.): to give up all hope of ever having a flat stomach.

Esplanade (v.): to attempt an explanation while drunk.

Willy-nilly (adj.): impotent.

Negligent (adj.): describes a condition in which you absent-mindedly answer the door in your night gown.

Lymph (v.): to walk with a lisp.

Gargoyle (n.): olive-flavored mouthwash.

Flatulence (n.): emergency vehicle that picks you up after you are run over by a steamroller.

Balderdash (n.): a rapidly receding hairline.

Testicle (n.): a humorous question on an exam.

Rectitude (n.): the formal, dignified bearing adopted by proctologists.

Pokemon (n): a Rastafarian proctologist.

Oyster (n.): a person who sprinkles his conversation with Yiddishisms.

Frisbeetarianism (n.): The belief that, when you die, your Soul flies up onto the roof and gets stuck there.

Circumvent (n.): an opening in the front of boxer shorts worn by Jewish men.