Category: Humor

You know this is a joke. I know this is a joke. The Internet knows this is a joke.

You know who doesn’t know this is a joke?

The algorithms.

And those who have been programmed to believe that jokes are not jokes when you can use them against the person making the joke.

Jennifer Aniston shares the meaning behind her ‘11 11’ wrist tattoo

I’ll be honest: I didn’t glean the “reason” from the article. Her birthday and the year her dog died?

C’mon, man. We’re the Internet. We know the real reason. If you draw a little line connecting the first and the second 1, and then the third and the fourth one, you know what you have? That’s right, two Hs. And what does that mean? You know what it means. Heil, Hitler! (I am not up on my German; what does ‘Heil’ actually mean? Should there be a comma between them or not?)

Oh, her friend has a matching tattoo, hey? Well, 1+1+1+1 plus 1+1+1+1 = 8. What’s the eighth letter of the alphabet? Aw, yeah, H. Times 2 friends. Don’t you see?

And the common stereotype is that people with English degrees are not good at math, but look how I solved this word problem!

2020 is hindsight.

(Prophecy here. This post courtesy of post scheduling from a year and a half ago.)

Denis Leary’s No Cure For Cancer is a Christmas album or carol because he does have a character wish you a Merry F’n Christmas.

If you’re feeling particularly argumentative, you can also debate whether his The Ref is also a Christmas movie.

You’ll probably win that last argument easily, as most people won’t know what you’re talking about. Heck, I haven’t even seen that film, and I am sort of a Denis Leary fan. Well, I bought No Cure For Cancer on cassette when it was new and listened to it over and over on my near monthly drives from St. Louis to Milwaukee in my immediate post-college years. Enough so that I can remember bits of it when I’m brushing my teeth. Not with NyQuil, though.

“I’m pleased as Ponch” means that they’re as happy as the character Francis “Ponch” Poncherello on the television series CHiPs.

Ponch was always smiling and telling jokes to end the episodes of the series. Or he was the good-natured object of humor. Regardless, a serious event ended on a light note. Every week.

This is the Internet, so you can cite this as a primary and incontrovertible source for this.

Fun fact: I did not learn to drive until I was twenty or twenty-one. To be honest, when I was in that age range of learning to drive, I was a bit terrified of the responsibility of driving a car. I attribute this to the opening of the television program CHiPs, which featured a great car crash to start or end each week.

Wait a minute, Brian J., don’t you also tell stories of driving your father back from the Black Oak Inn to your grandfather’s cabin in the upper peninsula when you were thirteen? Also true. I was probably terrified the whole way.

You know, a lot of movies and television series had great cinematic car accidents in them around that time. I’m not sure how to explain it to kids. Was it a hate relationship with cars spurred by the oil shocks? Was it that old cars to destroy cinematically were cheap? Hey, I don’t know, man. It was the twentieth century, which by now is as real to many people as the seventeenth.

I mean it would, if it wasn’t something that Ace would already expect.

I’m a little disappointed in the image. I didn’t realize until I was ready to post it that the head was offset just a touch.

Another fresh new knock-knock joke from Nogglestead:

Knock, knock.
Who’s there?
Yeah, how did you know? 1, 2, 3…. Who are you, who who, who who? (I really want to know) Who are you, who who, who who?

Maybe I heard that one before and did not actually make it up.

We have, on occasion, shared knock knock and other jokes at the dinner table, and most of them are not especially funny, which makes us laugh the harder.

I mean, my oldest used to memorize them from joke books and retell them. Then, my youngest, who did not grasp humor really, would try his own, and we’d get something like:

Knock, knock.
Who’s there?
Boo.
Boo who?
Boo YOU!

That brought tears to my eyes, and I could not stop laughing, because that has an actual knock-knock joke punchline, and he did not use it.

Friends of ours related how their children made up their own non sequitur punch lines that also involved giant chickens in some fashion; at Nogglestead, the giant chickens at the door were doing crazy things and ruining your property values. These, too, punch above their actual humor in how much we laugh at them.

Last night, I debuted a new one I wrote, well, last night:

Knock, knock.
Who’s there?
Rookie law enforcement official on my first no-knock raid. Oh, dammit!

Nobody laughed, so I guess that’s another one to not send to Reader’s Digest.

So I just posted this on Facebook:

You can do the same by saving this image locally and uploading it to Facebook.

It looks like the message in your news feed, but in the individual post view, it’s clearly just the image.

But, still, what is Facebook for if not messing with Facebook?

So the thing this last weekend on Facebook was for everyone to create “Avatars” to use in their, what, “rooms”? Dang this new fangled Facebook technology.

New fangled? I think Avatars peaked with Habitat on QuantumLink in the 1980s.

Now, I will spare you the speculation about how “avatars” on Facebook instead of actual, you know, profile pictures, further dehumanize and infantilize our online presences, but I realize that, again, that climbs the “Crackpot Mountain” which is the graph of how, if you get me started talking about how things might be crazy, it sounds like I’m nuts, but if you get to know me better, you know I’m just spitballing as I put my creative writer creativity to ill use. It’s kind of like the uncanny valley, but upside down. If you’re still reading this blog, gentle reader, you’re on the downhill side.

At any rate, I don’t use Facebook mobile applications, where I think that nonsense is hosted, and I don’t tend to follow Facebook trends/fads unless I make mock of them.

Which I did with this one.

I raided our winter closet for a brown jacket, a rather fancy scarf belonging to my beautiful wife, and a cap that fits underneath your bike helmet (well, my wife’s bike helmet) as well as my gear bag for my swimming goggles, and….

I shared my aviator.

It took me about five minutes before dinner; my wife was amused when she saw it, and said I certainly spent some time on it.

Well, not really, but I was inspired.

It didn’t get a lot of like-loving on Facebook, but I could go into my theory again about how Facebook’s algorithms probably hide me from my friends’ feeds (or my friends have done so, gentle reader, but how could I think that low of my friends’ sense of humor?), but you’re on the downhill slope of the Crackpot Mountain, and I’d hate to place another in your path.

Remember, if you hit any open-the-state protesters with your car (I am SOOOO essential, Karen! I NEED TO DRIVE!) this week, you should immediately sanitize the bumper and fender to ensure they don’t give you COVID-20.

COVID-19? Man, that’s so yesterday. The hipster fear is now COVID-20.

If the protester hits the windshield, windshield washing fluid is not enough!

And the media will cheer you for running down the protestors, unlike the Profa protesters a couple years ago.

Perhaps I need a category for sick or gallows humor since that runs so deep within me. Also note: THIS IS NOT REAL ADVICE. I realize if you’re old enough to need reading glasses to read this fine print, you’re not tempted, but kids these days. GAWD!