A bus on a busy street struck a Catholic jaywalker knocking him clear over the curb. He was lying near death on the sidewalk as a crowd gathered.
"A priest. Somebody get me a priest!" the man gasped.
Long seconds dragged on but no one stepped out of the crowd.
A cop arrived on the scene, scanned the crowd and finally yelled, "A PRIEST PLEASE! Isn't there a priest in this crowd to give this man his last rites?"
Finally, out of the crowd stepped a small ancient Jew who appeared to be pushing 90.
"Mister Police," he said, "I'm not a priest. I'm not even a Christian. But for fifty years now, I'm living behind the Catholic Church on Second Avenue and every night I'm overhearing their services. I've heard it so many times I can recall a lot of it--maybe I can be of some comfort to this poor man."
Time running out, the cop quickly agreed and cleared the crowd so the man could get through to where the injured man lay.
The ancient Jew knelt down, leaned over the man and intoned most solemnly:
"B-5.... I-19.... N-38.... G-54.... O-72...."
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Last Rites
The Truth About Eric Cantor
A visiting professor is giving a seminar on the supernatural. To get a feel for his audience, he asks, "How many people here believe in ghosts?"
Suffer The Little Bastards Unto Me
A father put his 3 year old daughter to bed, told her a story and listened to her prayers which she ended by saying: "God bless Mommy, God bless Daddy, God bless Grandma and Goodbye Grandpa."
The father asked: "Why did you say goodbye Grandpa, honey?"
The little girl said, "I don't know daddy, it just seemed like the thing to do."
The next day grandpa died.
The father thought it was a strange coincidence.
A few months later the father put the girl to bed and listened to her prayers which went like this: "'God bless Mommy, God Bless Daddy and goodbye Grandma."
The next day the grandmother died.
"Jezuz Jump-up Christ!" thought the father. "The kid is in contact with the other side!"
Several weeks later when the girl was going to bed, her daddy heard her say: "God bless Mommy. And Goodbye Daddy."
He barely made the bathroom before his bowels gave way uncontrollably. He couldn't sleep all night and got up at the crack of dawn to go to the office. He was nervous as a whore in church all day, drank lunch and watched the clock incessantly.
He figured if he could get by until midnight he would be okay. He felt safe in the office. So instead of going home at the end of the day he stayed there, drinking coffee, looking at his watch and jumping at every sound.
Finally, midnight arrived. He breathed a sigh of relief, staggered to the parking lot and drove home.
He said, "I don't want to talk about it! I just spent the worst day of my goddamned life!"
"You think you had a bad day," she said. "You won't fucking believe what happened to me."
"This morning my golf pro dropped dead in the middle of my lesson!"
Not So OK Corral
A cowboy appeared before St. Peter at the Pearly Gates. "Have you ever done anything of particular merit?" St. Peter asked.
"Well, I can think of one thing," the cowboy offered. "On a trip to the Black Hills out in South Dakota , I came upon a gang of bikers who were threatening a young woman. I told them to leave her alone but they wouldn't listen."
"So I approached the largest and most heavily tattooed biker and punched him in the mouth. Then I kicked his bike over, ripped out his nose ring and threw it on the ground."
"Then I told them: 'Now you sonsabitches back off or I'll kick the living shit out of each and every one of you.'"
St. Peter was impressed: "And when did this happen?"
"About three minutes ago."
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Take That. In Remembrance of Me.
An otherwise fine, upstanding chain-smoking alcoholic geriatric falls prey to the usual Myocardial Infarction and requires immediate heart-bypass surgery.
He awakens in the ICU to find himself in the care of nuns at Our Lady of the Evening Hospital.
As he lays there exhausted, a nun approaches and, in the spirit of Love and Forgiveness inherent to her creed, inquires kindly: "Do you have health insurance?"
"Not yet," replies the ancient reprobate. "I got kicked outta Medicare for fraud in connection with an allegedly unnecessary hysterectomy. Health insurance that's normal everywhere else came 60 years late to this country and won't cover me for another four years. God Bless America."
"Hrrrumph," grunts the nun. "Do you have any money in the bank?"
"No. Do you?"
The nun perseveres: "Do you have any relatives who could assist with paying off this very expensive procedure?"
He says, "Just one. I outlived all the rest, drinking, smoking, running after women. I just have the one spinster sister left. She's a nun."
Apoplectic, the bride of Christ raises her voice unto heaven and shrieks: "NUNS ARE NOT SPINSTERS, SIR! NUNS ARE MARRIED TO GOD!"
"Fine," replies the ancient reprobate. "Send the bill to my brother-in-law."
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For God So Loved The World
A burglar broke into a house one night. He scanned the room with his flashlight, looking for valuables when a voice in the dark spoke:
"Jesus knows you're here."
He nearly jumped out of his skin. He doused the flashlight immediately, then froze.
When he'd heard nothing more after a bit, he shook his head to clear his mind, then continued searching with the flashlight.
Just as he'd pulled the stereo out a bit so he could disconnect the wires, clear as a bell he heard:
"Jesus is watching you."
Panicked, he shone the light around the room frantically, looking for the source of the voice.
Finally, in the corner of the room, his light came to rest on a parrot.
"Did you say that?" he hissed at the parrot.
"Yes. Yes I did," the parrot confessed, then squawked. "I'm just trying to warn you that he is watching you."
The burglar relaxed. "Warn me? You're a goddamned bird. Who are you to warn me?"
"Moses," replied the bird.
"Moses!?" the burglar laughed. "What the fuck kind of people would name a bird Moses?"
"The kind of people that would name a Rottweiler Jesus."
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End to a Conundrum
The Executive Waterboard is proud, after endless argumentation and bibulous invective, including a hard left hook to the solar plexus of the Managing Editor, to announce a dramatic breakthrouth from the heuristic end of the bar at the Bumfuck Holiday Inn Rheum Room.
After years of bootless investigation into this gut-wrenching philological impasse, The Waterboard has arrived at the definitive answer to a seemingly insoluble riddle which has haunted mankind since the dawn of time and remains the still-classified cause of World War I.
For the record, Michael Edward Rashoff was drinking Costco Scotch with a sildenafil citrate spritzer back at the moment of revelation.
A chicken and an egg are lying in bed. The chicken is leaning back against the headboard, smoking a cigarette, with a satisfied smile on his face.
The egg, looking disgusted, grabs the sheet, rolls over, and says:
"Well, I guess we finally answered that question, you sonofabitch."
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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...."
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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!"
Journal Bureau Chief Abuses Pontiff
JOCOP News Service--April 17, 2008
Scandal rocked the ecumenical community Thursday night as Vatican sources leaked details of The Journal’s David Marvin Mailer having abused His Eminence The Pope, brutally and repeatedly, in a midnight tryst at the Bumfuck Holiday Inn during an unscheduled stop in the Papal itinerary.
“I normally confine myself to underage, aluminical Australopithecus,” Mailer revealed in an exclusive interview with The Journal’s Ed Zachary.
“On this occasion, though, something just snapped and I felt a sudden tsunami of uncontrollable lust for homo sapiens—just as a change of pace, mind you. All work and no play make Jack one dull sonofabitch,” averred Mailer.
In reply to a query as to why he’d singled out Il Papa in particular, Mailer gazed into the distance for several moments , cleared his throat then spat emotionally onto the glazed tile of the Mens’ Shitter just down the hall from the Rheum Room.
“Well, first off, it seemed like the thing to do. Second, he was the only other guy in the Mens’ Shitter boisterously demanding what he called “Schnell Relief!”
"In the final analysis, I figured, what the hey, as long as I was going to defile my person with a species I wouldn’t ordinarily touch with a 2” pole, I might as well do to The Pontiff what he and his friends had been doing to Catholic Youth for the past 75 years.”
“And this took place where?” inquired Ed Zachary.
"Stall C for wide-stancers. We were both of us shitfaced on Remy and Seven…."
Asked if he had any message for His Eminence in the wake of an international incident of unprecedented unimportance, Mailer replied: “Yeah, I do. He don’t call, he don’t write, he don’t e-mail…"
"What am I supposed to do? Pray?”
Salty Conundrum
"If it were possible to cross an agnostic with an insomniac dyslexic," writes Salty Slivers, The Journal's Perfidious Albion Bureau Chief, pictured right, "would this result in someone who lies awake at night wondering if there's a dog?"
Born Hymen Ziegfeld Shapiro in 1898 to an Irish emigre family in Upper Hants, Salty Slivers was forcibly sex-changed at age 7 on the basis that it was either a clitoridectomy or else removal of both hands. Pursuant to a bad war dodging constant gunfire from members of her extended family, it graduated from King's College Cambridge where he distinguished herself by being the first woman to take a First in Fellatio. She was voted Epiglottis of the Year in 1952. Following a torrid affair with Kim Philby, during which time it starred in James Jesus Angleton's classic noir Dick Tater of the Proletariat, she hire-purchased religious conversion in 1961, going on to serve ten years in the Franciscan monastery at Gdansk, Polack where she serviced the labor movement, Solidarnosc. He lives today in the West Country of a large island off the coast of France.
Born-again Cowpoke
A cowboy, originally from Texas, is in Gillette, Wyoming where he walks into a bar and orders three drafts of Bud.
He sits in the back of the room, sipping from each glass in turn.
When he finishes them all, he returns to the bar and orders three more.
The bartender approaches and says, "You know, friend, a draft goes flat after I draw it. It would taste better if you bought one at a time."
"Well,” replies the cowpoke, “I have two brothers. One’s in Arizona, the other’s in Colorado. When we all left our home in Texas, we promised that we'd drink this way to commemorate the old days when we drank together. So I'm drinking one beer for each of my brothers and one for myself."
The bartender has to admit that this is an unusually decent custom, nods and leaves it there.
The cowboy becomes a regular in the bar and always drinks the same way. He orders three drafts and drinks them in turn.
One day, he comes in and only orders two mugs. All the regulars take notice and fall silent.
When he comes back to the bar for the second round, the bartender says, "I don't want to intrude on your grief, but I wanted to offer my condolences on your loss."
The cowboy looks puzzled for a moment; then the light dawns.
"Oh no, everybody's just fine," he explains. "It's just that my wife and I accepted Jesus Christ as our personal saviour and I had to quit drinking."
"Hasn't affected my brothers though."
Losing a Friend
Our Senior Subprime Gaza Bureau Chief, Padraic O'Cossett, was able to get a message smuggled out of the Gaza City Ramadan Inn [Alas, rectally.--Ed.] which certainly made a lasting impression on the Editorial Waterboard for reasons which will be intuitively oblivious.
Dear Jocop,
Greetings from Gaza City!
Eid was really great this year, see photo of my wife (right) during the height of celebrations.
Especially during the Hajj period which I know means so much to everybody back in Bumfuck (please say hello to everyone at the Log Cabin Buffet for me, will ya?), this heartwarming message now making the rounds here in Gaza will most assuredly reach out and touch you guys back home.
It's a truly profound story about life, death and friends and is certain to strum your heartstrings and touch your soul.
As you all know, I normally don't send out mushy messages but this one I couldn't help . . . I'm still choked up over it!
All the best,
Paddy
[Please click on "X" if you love Jesus.]
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.”
JOCOP Guide to Holiday Retail, Part III
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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.
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