To be able to say "Noggle," you first must be able to say "Nah."
In the book Busy Penguins, the authors have a photo that they have captioned incorrectly:
The authors of the book are apparently unfamiliar with the penguin martial art spheniscinatasu. Instead of putting a wing around the other penguin to comfort his compatriot, the penguin on the right is in the process of employing the dreaded aptenodytesu forsterika death strike, a move that crushes the opponent’s arteries to the head and leads to death within agonizing seconds.
Penguins caring, indeed.
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Happy Some-Assembly-Required Day.
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Dog walks into a telegraph office and writes out his telegram: “Woof woof woof woof woof woof woof woof woof.”
The clerk says, “You can add another woof, since you’re charged the same price for ten words.”
The dog says, “But that wouldn’t make any sense.”
(I don’t know why dog jokes get to me, but they do.)
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Hit the kids who are bigger than you from behind with a Six Million Dollar Man lunchbox full of dirt.
A tactic that I employ often to this day.
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Such as your own lane on suburban streets.
Woe to that minivan; a couple of proton torpedoes from a couple upgraded fighters, and soccer mom is walking her kids to practice as punishment for parking in the TIE Fighter lane.
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Dear Doctor Creepy,
I’ve always enjoyed the privilege of being the creepy guy at work, which has meant fewer interruptions of a personal nature and less interaction with my annoying co-workers. However, the company has recently hired another fellow whose creepiness apparently is novel enough that I’m more normal by comparison. This means people are starting to stop by my desk to chat and are starting to invite me to lunches and happy hours. How can I regain my creepiness crown and enjoy merciful ostracization?
Signed,
Not Creepiest
Dear Not Creepiest,
As you well know, creepiness can come in a potion form, so look around the new creepiest person’s desk to see if it’s in a phial on the desk or in the drawers. If not, check the person’s lunch in the refrigerator; if it has mayonnaise upon it, know that this often masks a creepiness potion, and you should lick the mayonnaise off of the target’s sandwich (reassembling it afterwards, of course, to cover your tracks). This will give you the benefit of the elixir and deprive the target of its power.
Additionally, to improve your creepiness, remember the power of the mystical chant; this focuses your energy and chree, the mystical power of discordance that manifests itself as creepiness. I cannot tell you what mystical phrase works for you, but I’d recommend some simple, rhyming chant, perhaps even a nursery rhyme. You should chant this phrase to yourself whenever you’re alone at your desk, in an elevator, or in the men’s room (this works especially well for women). Remember, you can generate some kinetic motion from your chakras by rocking slightly as you chant. Try it now!
Finally, remember eye contact is key in communications. That is, you should never make it. Or you should stare. Don’t do what the straights do, which is break eye contact every once in a while for comfort and then look into someone’s eyes. Overdo it or don’t do it, that’s my motto.
But if you’re going to chant a nursery rhyme, do make the eye contact.
Sincerely,
Dr. Creepy
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Normally, I don’t do this sort of thing because the paucity of responses is bad for my ego, but here’s a photo begging for a quip:
Here’s my best shot:
Think you can do better? Leave it in the comments. Remember, if there are no comments, I will win by default! You don’t want that on your conscience, do you?
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Some people argue that mother fighting is a brutal sport that civilized nations should prohibit, since in many mother fights, the mothers are often wounded mortally or to the point where they are euthanized. While this might be the case, mother fights are conducted in the most humane fashion possible, without the use of spurs or other sharpened implements to increase bloodiness.
While some people don’t like mother fighting, it’s important to recognize the cultural import of the sport to many nations. In some underdeveloped countries, mother fighting provides much need entertainment in relief of hardscabble lives where people lack sports teams that charge $100 a ticket, concert venues where washed-up acts charge $100 a ticket, or functioning democratically-elected legislatures whose entrances cost millions of dollars. It remains an inexpensive sport participated in village greens, small outbuildings, and wherever like minded individuals gather to gamble, drink, and enjoy the spectacle.
And what a spectacle it provides! Brilliantly-plumed hens strutting and preening as they enter the ring, only to circle on another as in a ballet and come together in a whirling, flashing dance of life and death. Tallons, teeth, and elbows fly through the air gracefully, with the sensuous motion of lovers until one triumphs over the other. The arena bursts into applause at that great cathartic moment!
Mother fighting, unlike many of the organized sports of the upper classes, does not require expensive equipment nor time and minivan commitment. All a boy needs is a mother, time to train, some grain, and a dream. And what dreams the boy has; he can feel the warmth of the lights and the lightness of head that comes when his mother enters the ring and emerges victoriously. The boy’s name will live forever, and the boy will become a proud man.
Some opponents of mother fighting think that it’s barbaric and want to institute prohibition. They seek to transmute Mother’s Day, the annual festival of mother fighting and the day of some of the largest, most festive carnivals and biggest mother fights, into a day of peace, a day set aside to preserve and honor the mother. This foolishness cuts to the very heart of tradition and seeks to impose a set of beliefs not held by the majority onto the world at large. We should not let this come to pass.
(Read the Point, Let’s reclaim Mother’s Day for peace, by Jordan’s Queen Noor.)
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Get your new business slang free here at MfBJN! Here’s today’s term:
Net of Command: A chain of command hierarchy that is so interconnected and confused that any decision becomes tangled in it.
Feel free to use it amongst yourselves.
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Remember those young and carefree days, where the chicks dug your long hair, man, and couldn’t help but run their fingers through those shimmering tresses? Too bad you got old and bald. But at the RkHCfM, we can help restore those youthful looks with an even softer feel than before.
Instead of using your own back fur or artificial fibers implanted in your gourd, the RkHCfM uses naturally harvested animal pelts to provide the hair your shrunken self-esteem needs to enlarge to its full grandeur. You’ll smile longer and harder than ever before.
Our special process causes no pain to the donor animal (which is already departed, rest in peace) and little pain to you. You can get the color, feel, and texture you want by choosing from a wide variety of available options, including:
You can trust RkHCfM to do a good job. Why? Because I’m not only the president, I’m also a member.
 Before |
 After |
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What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. Monzas, too.
(Thank goodness for the Internet, where I can footnote my puns.)
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Old MacDonald had a farm,
E-I-E-I-O.
And on his farm, he had a thresher,
E-I-E-I-O.
With an “Ahhhh! My arm!” here
and an “Ahhh! My legs!” there,
Here an “Ahhhh!”, there an “Ahhhhh!”,
everywhere an “Ahhhhhh!” “Ahhhhh!”
Old MacDonald had a farm,
E-I-E-I-O.
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Let’s sue Cracker Barrel for its racially insensitive name. There’s got to be some scratch in that, ainna?
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If, in your sonnet to your immortal and incomparable beloved, you find yourself rhyming truest suitor with Bruce Sutter, you should probably just copy something from a greeting card.
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Originally, Sudoku was named Countdoku, but then the Lucasfilm attorneys sent a letter. The rest, they say, is numerology. Or history. Or what have you.
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William Squire posted some ghostwritten jokes for John Kerry, who recently bombed with a "botched joke":
You know, education, if you make the most of it, if you study hard and you do your homework, and you make an effort to be smart, uh, you, you can do well. If you don’t, you get stuck in Iraq.
Whereas I do not think Mr. Squire was entirely ingenuous (or whatever the opposite of disingenuous is), I wholly sincerely offer up my own services as a humorist for Mr. Kerry. Here, then, are my sample jokes:
Why did the firemen need the jaws of life for the uneducated soldier who was fiddling with his car radio’s FM dial?
Because he lost control of his vehicle, rolled it down an enbankment, and was stuck in his IROC.
Why didn’t the uneducated, not trying to be smart soldier give Senator Kerry the ascot the Massachussetan asked for?
The uneducated soldier didn’t know it was stuck on the tie rack!
See, I’m marginally more amusing than the senator’s current writers.
I’m available for low, low rates!
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Doctor Creepy says:
You must loathe yourself before you can truly loathe others.
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When travelling to Japan, do not ask the tattooed native if he/she is a member of the jacuzzi unless you like finger prosthetics.
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Can it be a coincidence that so many centenarians and super-centenarians died in the months leading up to the 2006 midterm elections?
It’s obviously a Bush plot. I mean, some would say that it’s statistically probable that really old people will die, but that’s just the insidious cloak in which the Bush cadre cloaks its nefarious activities.
No, these people were killed, many with a special strain of pneumonia that appears to only be a case of pneumonia and not a deadly bacterial agent. Look at the list and note the reasons why they had to die:
You think I am mad? Listen to how carefully they planned it out!
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