Statutory Rape
Hugh Jorgen lives. The rope he used to try to hang himself with in Stall 3 (for wide-stancers) in the Men's Shitter at the Bumfuck Holiday Inn broke. It had been outsourced to Lehman Brothers.
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Parts of Speech With Which Not To End Sentences
Hugh Jorgen, long time Left Coast Bureau Chief for The Journal, was standing on the wide-stance commode, just slipping a noose around his neck--beautiful job on the traditional hangman's knot which he'd carefully selected in preference to the simpler but far less elegant slipping bowline. Further, he'd done a beautiful job lobbing the coiled rope over the rafter in the Mens' Shitter at the Bumfuck Holiday Inn. Most of all, he'd done an incredible job with his stock portfolio: Lehman, AIG, GM, RBS, all the usual suspects, plus his own personal favorite, Acme Rope PLC: Acme had been skyrocketing to the extent it made up for a total of 1.4% capital gains as a contrarian bet to offset his huge punt in blue-chips paying steady dividends with customary huge yearly bottom line surprises on the up-side. Just before kicking the barstool away to rest against the familiar graffitti-covered shithouse door, Hugh dropped the following final report onto the shitter floor, for which the Editorial Waterboard will be eternally grateful:
On my 70th birthday, I received a gift certificate from my wife. The certificate paid for a visit to a shaman living on a nearby Indian reservation who was rumored to have a miraculous cure for erectile dysfunction, far superior to mundane, workaday sildenafil citrate.
After being persuaded, I drove to the reservation, handed my ticket to the shaman, and wondered what I was in for.
The old man slowly, methodically prepared a potion with mortar and pestle, consisting of at least 30 herbal ingredients.
He emptied the mortar into a bottle and solemnly handed it to me. With a grip on my shoulder, he stared deep into my eyes and warned: "This is powerful medicine and it must be respected. You take only a teaspoonful and then say '1-2-3.' When you do that, you will be the best you have ever been in your life. And you can perform as long as you want."
I was encouraged. As he walked away, I turned and asked, "How do I stop the medicine from working?"
"Your partner must say '1-2-3-4,' the shaman responded. "But when she does, the medicine will not work again until the next full moon."
I was eager to see if it worked.
I went home, showered, shaved, took a spoonful of the medicine, and then, standing nude next to the bed, yelled out to Ethyl who was in the kitchen: "Ethyl! Get your ass in here, I think I'm onto something you ain't gonna believe!"
Ethyl entered the bedroom at which time I immediately shouted "1-2-3!"
Instantaneously, I was the manliest of men.
Ethyl's eyes popped open, first in disbelief followed by frenzied concupiscence.
She threw her clothes onto the floor in a flash, whilst breathlessly inquiring: "What was the 1-2-3 for?"
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Lives of the Rich and Boring
In a bizarre twist on the concurrent prison situation in The Big PX, it was getting way too crowded in Heaven. So God decided to change the admittance policy. The new law was that in order to get into Heaven, you had to have had a really bad day on the day that you died. The policy would go into effect at noon the next day.
So, the next day at 12:01 the first person came to the gates of Heaven. The Angel at the gate, remembering the new policy, immediately asked the man, "Before I let you in, I need you to tell me how your day was going when you died."
"No problem," the man said. "I came home to my 25th-floor apartment on my lunch hour and caught my wife obviously having an affair. But her lover was nowhere in sight. I immediately began searching for him. My wife was half naked and yelling at me as I searched the entire apartment. Just as I was about to give up, I happened to glance out onto the balcony and noticed that there was a man hanging off the edge by his fingertips! The nerve of that guy!"
"Well, I ran out onto the balcony and stomped on his fingers until he fell to the ground."
"But wouldn't you know it, he landed in some trees and bushes that broke his fall and he didn't die. This pissed me off even more."
"In a rage, I went back inside to get the first heavy thing I could get my hands on drop on the sonofabitch."
"Oddly enough, the first thing I thought of was the refrigerator. I unplugged it, pushed it out onto the balcony, and tipped it over the side. It plummeted 25 stories and crushed him like a stepped-on banana!"
"The excitement of the moment was so great that I had a heart attack and died instantly."
The Angel sat back and thought a moment. Technically, the guy had indeed had a bad day. It was a crime of passion. So, the Angel announced, "OK, sir. Welcome to the Kingdom of Heaven ," and let him in.
A few seconds later the next guy came up. To the Angel's surprise, it was Donald Trump.
"Mr. Trump, before I can let you in, I need to hear about what your day was like when you died."
Trump said, "No problem. But you're not going to believe this. I was on the balcony of my 26th floor apartment doing my daily exercises. I had been under a lot of pressure so I was really pushing hard to relieve my stress I guess I got a little carried away, slipped, and accidentally fell over the side!"
"Luckily, I was able to catch myself by the fingertips on the balcony below mine. But all of a sudden this crazy fucker comes running out of his apartment, starts cussing, and stomps on my fingers. Well, of course I fell. I hit some trees and bushes at the bottom, which broke my fall, so I didn't die right away."
"As I'm laying there face up on the ground, unable to move and in excruciating pain, I manage to look up and see this guy--get this--push his fucking refrigerator off the balcony. It falls the 25 floors and lands on top of me, killing me instantly."
The Angel is listening intently as Trump finishes his story. "This is bizarre but I could get used to the new policy," he thinks to himself.
"Very well," the Angel announces. "Welcome to the Kingdom of Heaven," and he lets Trump enter.
A few seconds later, Bill Clinton comes up to the gate. The Angel is temporarily speechless--thoughts of assassination and war pour through the Angel's head.
Finally he says, "Mr. President, I hate to violate Executive Privilege, even ex-post facto, but please tell me what it was that occurred the day you died."
Clinton says, "OK, first of all, I never had sex with that woman. Second, picture this--I'm naked, curled up inside a refrigerator......"
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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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The Limited Spectrum DNA Agrarian-Bucolic of Infinite Distinction
A Mexican, an African-American and an Agrarian Bucolic Limited Spectrum DNA Hillary Rodham Clinton suppository were inexplicably walking in tandem along the beach when they happened upon a bottle with a genie inside.
They opened it and she came out with a whoosh.
"I'm sorry," said she in a deep Joan Crawford voice, "but I have only three wishes for the lot of you--so you each get one. Make it good."
The Mexican thought a moment, then announced his decision.
"I wish that all my Latino friends, relatives and Raza members be able to return to Mexico where they can enjoy a good life with plenty of tortillas, arroz y frijol, together with a decent, elected and representative government and democracy and absence of civil strife and corruption!"
The genie waved her wand with a flourish.
"It is done," said she. And the Mexican had disappeared in a puff of vapor.
The African-American was next. He had been thinking while the Mexican spoke.
"That sounded pretty good. We sure as hell didn't get a royal welcome here, this was one hard goddam row to hoe. And not too many breaks since. So I wish for the equivalent of that Mexican fella--all African-Americans to return to Africa where they can live the good life, eat plenty of ribs and collard greens, smoke cancer-free Kool cigarets, enjoy the benefit of good, clean, democratically elected government free of corruption...and, of course, revel in the complete absence of tribal war and/or civil strife."
The genie again waved her wand and the black man disappeared in a puff of smoke.
She then turned to the gentleman of Georgian extraction but he looked a bit puzzled.
"Are you telling me all them Meskins and Nigrahs just went back to Mesko and Africa? And took all their kinfolk with 'em?" inquired the agrarian.
"That is correct, Sir," replied the genie. "And now it is time for your wish...."
"Praise Jaysus! Well--what with the tacos and jigs gone, I guess I can go ahead and celebrate! Gimme a Dr. Peppah!"
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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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HRC rin frevelatin fo KY Denial of ies Bull Dyke Rumours
Tons of euphoric feminists, pictured above, turned out early Tuesday morning to greet their preferred Democratic primary candidate.
HRC Triumphant In KY Breakthrough
Currently under 24 hour guard in his cell at Camp Zeist, Hugh Jorgen, The Journal's erstwhile Left Coast Zero Equity Chapter 11 Bureau Chief, faces charges of Crimes Against Humor™ at the International Criminal Court in The Hague.
The original charge was brought by The Editorial Waterboard of The Journal of Contemporary Opinion.
Shown right are three of the defendant's court-appointed defense attorneys from Louisville, KY--staunch Hillary Rodham Clinton suppositories.
"If he's not innocent, I'll lick my balls on the courthouse steps," stated one of the defense lawyers who requested that her name be withheld.
Two limited spectrum DNA agrarian-bucolic Hillary Rodham Clinton supporters, Billy Bob and Luther, are talking one afternoon when Billy Bob tells Luther: "Ya know, I reckon I'm 'bout ready for a vacation. Only this year I'm gonna do it a little different."
"Howzat," inquires Luther.
"Well, the last few years," continues Billy Bob, "I took your advice about where to go. Three years ago you said to go to Hawaii. So I went to Hawaii and Earlene got pregnant."
"Then two years ago, you told me to go to the Bahamas. And sure enough Earlene got pregnant agin."
"Then last year you suggested Tahiti and goldarned if Earlene didn't get pregnant agin!!"
Luther turns to Billy Bob and inquires: "Wul, what you gonna do this year that's different?"
Billy Bob says, "This year I'm taking Earlene with me."
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Hugh Jorgen Writes
The Journal's defrocked Left Coast Bureau Chief, Hugh Jorgen, shown right, currently under indictment for Crimes Against Humor© and now living a life of sildenafil-citrate fuelled Senile Democracy™, has forwarded the missive below in an unctuous attempt to insinuate himself back into the good graces of the Editorial Waterboard.
The Board would merely refer to the night deposit he left in Stall C (wide stancers only) immediately adjacent to the Log Cabin Buffet in the Mens' Shitter just down the hall from the Rheum Room.
Starring Larry Craig.
Dear Jocop,
In an attempt to fulfill the 12-step programme that will, my therapist advises me, eventuate my ultimate return to the Editorial Waterboard and a new start at the only way of life capable of rendering my otherwise meaningless existence tolerable, I have just read an article on the dangers of drinking.
You can believe me when I tell you, it scared the living bejezuz outta this cowpoke.
Please be advised, therefore, that from here on in--that's it.
No more reading.
In nomine patrius et fillii et spiritus sancti,
Hugh Jorgen
Poll, No. Pollo, Sí
The latest Gallup poll taken on behalf of the California Governor's office asked whether people who live in the Golden State think illegal immigration is a serious problem:
29% of respondents answered, "Yes, it is a serious problem."
84% of respondents answered, "¿Problema? ¡Coño! no hay ningún problema...."
Outraged Editorial
In order to draw a line in the sand, set an example for others and bring submissions such at the one appearing below to a complete halt, the Board has unanimously voted to place Hugh Jorgen on indefinite suspension and hereby orders his visitation rights revoked to Stall C (wide stancers only) adjacent to the Log Cabin Buffet in the Mens' Shitter just down the hall from the Rheum Room.
Hillary the farmer was in the fertilized egg business. She had several hundred young layers, known to avian cognoscenti as 'pullets.'
And ten roosters whose job it was to fertilize the eggs.
Hillary kept records.
Any rooster that didn't perform went into the soup pot and was replaced.
That took a lot of her time, so she bought a set of tiny bells and attached them to her roosters.
Each bell had a different tone so Hillary could tell from a distance which rooster was performing.
Now she could sit on the porch and fill out an efficiency report simply by listening to the bells.
Hillary's favorite rooster was Old Bill and a fine specimen he was.
But on this particular morning Hillary noticed Old Bill's bell hadn't rung at all!
Hillary went to investigate.
The other roosters were chasing pullets, bells-a-ringing.
The pullets, hearing the roosters coming, ran for cover.
But to Hillary's amazement, old Bill had his bell in his beak so it couldn't ring.
He'd sneak up on a pullet, do his job and walk on to the next one.
Hillary was so proud of Old Bill, she entered him in the Arkansas State Fair and he became an overnight sensation among the judges.
The result--the judges not only awarded Old Bill the No Bell Piece Prize, they also awarded him the Pullet Surprise as well.
Desire Under The Elm
In connection with his recent indictment for Crimes Against Humor™, The Journal's Left Coast Bureau Chief, Hugh Jorgen, has been placed on suspension [of the foreskin. --Ed.] by order of the Editorial Waterboard.
The Board will release its final finding together with sentencing next Wednesday.
While walking through Golden Gate Park in Baghdad-by-the-Bay, a dromomanic itinerant of the touristic persuasion chances upon another man hugging a tree with his ear firmly placed against the trunk.
"Just out of curiosity," inquires the pedestro- vagabondarian, "may I inquire what you are doing?"
"I'm listening to the music of the tree," the other man replies in classic high-church NoCa.
"Are you really."
"Yes. Would you like to give it a try?"
"Well, alright, why not," replies the ambulatorio, understandably curious and wanting to get into the spirit of the famously liberated city.
So he wraps his arms around the tree and presses his ear up against it.
Whereupon the original tree hugger immediately slaps a pair of handcuffs on his wrists, takes his wallet, all his jewelry, his car keys, the $500 inflatable walking shoes, then strips him naked and with no further ado, takes his leave.
Two hours later another nature lover strolls by, sees the victim handcuffed to the tree stark naked, and asks, "What in heaven's name happened to you?"
The victim quickly relates the whole terrible saga about how he came to be in this revolting predicament.
When he finishes telling his story, the nature lover shakes his head in sympathy.
Then he walks around behind the victim, slips his tongue into the man's ear and murmurs: "First, Welcome to San Francisco. Second, I don't think this is gonna be your day."
Norwegian Wouldn't
Thor vass a Norveejian vorking at the fish plant up nort in Dulut vhen he accidental-like cut off all tenn of his finkers.
He vent to da emergency room in the clinik and vhen he got dar, da Norske doctor look at Thor and say, "Let's haff da finkers and I'll see vhat I can do!"
And Thor say, "I hafen't got da finkers."
"Vhut do you mean, you haffen't got da finkers?" ask da doktor, not believen' his goddam eers.
"Lordy!" say the doktor denn, "it's fukkin 2008, ain't it!!! Vee got mikrosurgery and all kinds of udder new tings!" he said, shakin' his head.
Den he say: "I could haf put dem back on and made you like new, yu yurk!!! Vhy vhy vhy didn't you bring in da finkers?!!"
Thor say: "And how da fock vass I suppose to pick 'em upp?"
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."
Jack and Jill
"And this, Jack, is what I call my Life Ruiner™. "
Just before Jack married Jill, Jack's father took the bridegroom-to-be aside for a little fatherly advice.
"When I married your mother, the first thing I did when we got home was take off my trousers," he said. "I gave them to your mother and told her to put them on."
"When she did, they were enormous on her and she told me she couldn't possibly wear them, they were too large."
"Naturally, I told her. They're too big."
"Jack, ever since that day, we've never had a single problem. I wear the trousers in this family...and I always will!"
Jack took his father's advice to heart. As soon as he was alone with Jill after the ceremony, he did the same thing--he took off his trousers, handed them to Jill and told her to put them on.
With a shrug, Jill did as requested. Then, as expected, she said the trousers were too big and she couldn't wear them.
"Exactly," replied Jack, "I wear the trousers in this relationship and I always will. I don't want you to forget that."
Jill paused. Then she removed her knickers and handed them to Jack.
"Try these on," she said. So he tried them on but they were too small.
"I can't possibly get into your knickers," said Jack.
"Welcome to reality, you pompous piece o' shit," replied Jill.
A New Low
A man is dining in a four-star restaurant and there is a gorgeous brunette sitting at the next table.
He has been checking her out since he sat down but lacks the nerve to talk to her.
Suddenly she sneezes and her glass eye comes flying out of its socket directly towards him.
He reflexively reaches out and plucks it from mid-air. He gallantly hands it back to the brunette.
"Oh my, I am so sorry, " the woman says as she pops her eye back in place. "Let me buy you dinner to make it up to you," she says.
They enjoy a wonderful dinner together, after which they proceed to the theater followed by drinks. They talk, they laugh, she shares her deepest emotions, he shares his most profound hopes and they consume one another.
After picking up the tab for everything, she asks him if he'd like to come to her place for a nightcap and stay for breakfast.
They have, to say the least, a time neither of them will ever forget.
The next morning, she cooks eggs benedict to make Wolfgang Puck fall on his chef's steel. Her lover has to rub his eyes and shake his head in disbelief, it has all been so incredible.
"My god," he blurts, "you're the perfect woman. Are you this good to every guy you meet?"
"No," she replies. "You just happened to catch my eye."
Unfortunate of the City
Are there any still unaware of the deep humility and profound spirituality of Hugh Jorgen?
I walked down the path of the city, vexed, for all things had come unto me but I was lost.
And lo, my eye fell upon an unfortunate of the city and there are so many in evil days, everywhere the eye falls.
Covered in rags and threads, every worldly possession in two mean bags, the unfortunate's fate reached out and touched my heart.
Some of the people turned to stare.
Others looked away as if they would be rendered unclean.
But I was as a child and the word came unto me and I heard the Lord say care for the sick, feed the hungry and clothe the naked.
Yea and I was moved by the hand of the Lord to reach out and render succour.
And verily where some saw only rags and pestilence, I could see beauty.
And the Lord said unto me, "Reach out! Reach out!"
And I did.
And it was good.
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