Are You Ready For Some Football?

An old married couple no sooner hit the pillows when the husband passes gas and says: "Seven Points."

His wife rolls over and says, "What the hell are you doing?"

The old man replies, "It's Fart Football."

A few minutes later his wife lets one rip and says "Touchdown! Tie score."

Five minutes later, the husband releases a violation of the Geneva Convention and says, "Aha! I'm ahead, 14 to 7."

Not to be outdone, the wife lets fly with an appalling contrail and says, "Touchdown! Tie Score!"

A mere five seconds later, she lets out a squeaker and says, "Field goal! I lead 17 to 14!"

Incensed and outraged at the prospect of being humbled by a woman, the husband gives it everything he's got, straining till his eyes are bloodshot: defeat is totally unacceptable, he strains even further. He shits the bed.

The wife says, "What the hell was that?"

"Half time," says the husband. "Switch sides."

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Sperm Management (NASDAQ: SPRT)

The Journal's Far East Bureau Chief, David Marvin Mailer, now reports on the events leading up to the unprecedented $74.2 million bonus awarded by SPRT management to Frank Polisczeschwski, Executive VP for Sperm/Lubricant Coordination in connection with his negotiation of the six-month, fast-track, cost-plus-whatever contract for SPRT's recycling project pursuant to the following incident in New York City:


They came in their tens of thousands.

Chairman Rush was the sole attraction at the new, improved, history-free Yankee Stadium in The Bronx.

Given the tax-holiday incentivized size of the new stadium, Rush easily shattered the now-pathetic seeming attendance records set by Billy Graham during his “Jesus Knows When To Short” sermons of the early Eighties.

Haggard, recession-wracked ex-consumers gathered from all 50 states to see the famed hypnotist/pundit work his magic, ushering in a new era of unlimited credit, direct ATM-linked mortgages, Congressional tax fraud, Oval Office fellatio and early onset thanatosis.

As Limbaugh took to the stage, he held up his arms until the standing ovation had spent itself, meanwhile giving that dose of Oxycontin a chance to kick in.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, I don't have to tell you that these are unusual times through which we are living. No, I don't have to tell you. And I don't have to tell you who the fucking liberals are who got us where we are today over the past eight years. I can see by your faces: you already know. So I am not going to insult your intelligence,” —and here he hesitated while stifling a particularly moist fart--“I am not going to insult your intelligence by inviting twenty or thirty of you good people up here onto this stage to be put into some trance. I already do that on the radio daily to millions. But not now. No, these are exceptional times requiring exceptional remedies. And that is precisely what I will give you tonight, ladies and gentlemen.”

“I am going to hypnotize each and every member of this audience."

The throng gasped as if a single orgasm. Excitement flowed through the vast stadium like shit through a Christmas goose. Rush would make it right...Rush was their man and he would make it all go away. Now it would be alright again, like it was before Saioclism....

Limbaugh stood solitary on the simple, flood-lit stage over second base.

Then, with no introduction, he withdrew a beautiful antique pocket watch from his vest pocket and held it up high, nearly as high as he was, turning to every corner of the stadium for all to see.

"I want each and every one of you to keep your eyes on this antique watch. This, Ladies and Gentlemen, is a very special watch indeed. It's been in my family for six generations. As you will soon see, it is quite extraordinary."

The audience fell into a profound silence, recalling the evocative qualifier that self-summarizes the prevailing culture itself: "Awesome."

Chairman Rush began to swing the watch gently back and forth.

Then he commenced quietly chanting: ”...watch the watch, watch the watch, watch the watch...."

The crowd waxed evermore mesmerized as the watch swayed back and forth, klieg lights dancing off its polished antique surface.

Thousands upon thousands of pairs of eyes followed the swaying watch, in total thrall to the swinging timepiece and its near-godlike manipulator.

Until suddenly it slipped from the Chairman's fingers.

The talisman fell to the floor of the stage and broke into uncountable, irreparable pieces. The Chairman looked down at the wreckage in sheer disbelief

"Ohhhhhhhh FUCK!" cried Limbaugh.

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The Melodious Dipso

A melodious dipsomaniac walks into a bar and says to the bartender, "If I can make my ass sing, do I get a free drink?"

The bartender says, "Sure, why not."

So the drunk jumps up on top of the bar, drops his pants and takes a gargantuan shit.

All the patrons run screaming out into the streets.

The bartender is furious.

"You sonofabitch, why the hell did you do that?!" he screams.

The drunk replies, "Hey. Even Sinatra had to clear his throat."

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.”

Civilization and its Incontinents

Returning from lunch, the pharmacist walks back into the store to find a guy leaning heavily against a wall, open mouthed, looking scared.

"What's with the guy over there by the wall?" inquires the pharmacist.

The blonde clerk replies: "Well, he came in here this morning to get something for his cough. I couldn't find the cough syrup so I gave him an entire bottle of laxative."

"You idiot!” ejaculates the pharmacist. “You can't treat a cough with a laxative!"

"Oh yeah?" inquires the blonde. "Look again. He won’t cough for a week."

The JOCOP Guide to Wellness, Part I

In line with work by seminal healers including Doctors Salk, Kevorkian, Zhivago, Feelgood and Mengele, together with the entirety of the medico-evangelico-ecoindustrial conspiracy, The Journal kicks off the first in a series of occasional articles on Wellness aimed at the Readership's unique health concerns centered around two (5) main issues, viz., Dynamic Eugenics™, Autodidactic Dipsomania (AD) and Transpastic Satyriasis (TS). With a side order of SSRI's (Selective Service Reuptake Inhibitors), hold the mayo.


In a number of carefully controlled trials, Creation Theorists at Bob Jones University have demonstrated that if sampler-erroniacs drink one litre of water each day, at the end of the year the cubistic concrescence would have absorbed more than one kilo of E. Coli (Escherichia coli)--fecal bacteria.

Without adjustment for additional variables, we are consuming approximately one kilo of shit per year.

Notwithstanding all the above, the RQ (risk quotient) is not verifiably present in the case of alcohol ingestion wherein the bibulocity is rendered pure via boiling, fermentation, filtering and/or waterboarding.

Aide Memoir:

Water = Shit
Alcohol = Health

As anticipated by our forebears who intuitively factored the above into their daily regimen of bibulous frontier prophylaxis, it's one thing to drink wine and talk stupid. It's another to drink water and be full of shit.

Support Larry

In conjunction with the Bumfuck Jaycees and the local chapter of the Idaho Log Cabin Republicans, the Editorial Board—native Idahoes all—has voted unanimously to co-sponsor an “Evening for Larry” next Saturday night at the Holiday Inn.

Larry--Senator Larry Craig (R-Idaho)—will make a personal appearance and grace the crowd with his rendition of Vesti la Giubba as performed by Alberto Gonzales, followed by a stirring attack on the liberace news media biased against Gay Old Party stalwarts via innuendo.

The Bumfuck branch of the statewide Supporters United against Craig Kickers (SUCK) will host an open bar from 0600-2000 hours in the Men’s Room with a full buffet located adjacent to the shitters for diners’ convenience. A door prize will be awarded to the winner of a recital in which participants will compete in either Rimsky- Korsakov’s world-renowned “Flight of the Bumble Bee” on the skinflute. Or the traditional “Slobber Blues” on the meatwhistle.

The Board regretfully announces David Marvin Mailer will not be authorized for participation on the grounds his constitutionally guaranteed species-preference will not be represented. The Journal has been advised Mailer is in touch with his attorneys in connection with potential litigation.

Presidential Asshole Repair

JOCOP News Cervix –July 22, 2007

The Free World breathed a sigh of relief Saturday as the Commander-in- Chief’s rectal loophole was successfully rehab- ilitated with the removal of five (2) polocks from the recto-colonial zone of the lower intestigiality. During the anacoluthon, the President's sphincter, pictured left, suspended the Prostitution of the United Steaks.

The Commander-in-Chief resumed his duties at 1104 hours on Monday after failing to emerge from anaesthesia.

Chariot of Fire

The following article, by Lewis Page, is reprinted from the 4th May 2007 edition of The Register® (www.theregister.co.uk)

AMERICAN INVENTOR BUILDS JET-PROPELLED CRAPPER

An American inventor has gained belated media recognition for a truly stunning achievement--building and operating a jet-propelled portaloo.

Paul Stender, a 43-year-old former pit mechanic, had been drifting along in the way that one does: designing jet-propelled motorcycles, pickup trucks, a school bus--basically not fulfilling his life's potential. But then one day, according to an article in Popular Science, "he saw a windstorm blow portable toilets across the tarmac, and it was Newton’s apple all over again."

Except that instead of developing the theory of gravitation, Stender dashed out and spent $5,000 on a US Navy-surplus Boeing 502 gas turbine, which he sawed in half and adapted so that it could produce "what he guesses is a few hundred pounds of thrust."

He then attached the unit to the portaloo of champions, a "Country Classic portable toilet from the Hampel Corporation of Germantown, Wisconsin," according to Popular Science.

“It’s heavy and looks like fake wood,” Stender says,“like an outhouse should.”

Naturally, the machine is piloted from the "original throne." The operator looks out through a hole in the door, and steers using handlebars.

JP-4 jet fuel is reportedly "funneled in through the original urinal," allowing a skilled and fearless crapper-jockey to achieve speeds in excess of 70mph. Of course, the potential of turbo-dumper propulsion can't be fully developed without afterburner capability (that's "reheat" for older UK readers--sounds just as good in this context, we submit) and this too is provided, with a CO2-pressurized JP-8 injector. This latter equipment gives the speeding crapper the essential ability to belch 30-foot-long trails of fire from its "rear pipe."

"If the engine is running at low rpm’s, hitting the switch sends out a long, loose, yellow fireball," notes Popular Science.

The turbopowered lavvy, dubbed "Port-O-Jet," has apparently had a successful career at US racetracks, vanquishing a jet barstool two times out of four. It appears to have been in operation at least since 2002, but only in recent days has Stender achieved the worldwide fame his achievement so clearly merits.

Tragically perhaps, given the obvious hazards implicit in dunny-jet operation, Stender has apparently been unable to maintain ready-to-use in-cab loo roll capability.

"It kept getting sucked into the engine," he says. "You suck in a piece of garbage, it’s going to explode—and you’re going to go with it.”

No shit.®