Masochism; A New Years Tradition

Above: Yup. It's yours truly

December 31, 20-- 11:00 pm

You're at the masquerade. It's eleven PM and the new year is just 60 minutes away. In your right hand is a tumbler of good bourbon that is assisting you in forgetting the past year. In your other hand is a noisemaker and the wadded lyrics of "auld lang syne", just in case you've forgotten them. You take a drink.

On the large overhead screen, furnished for everyone's enjoyment, Dick Clark's rocking New Years' eve is plugging away with the latest teen fad/sensation undulating in the foreground. Clark himself, held upright only through the help of thin wires, visibly shoves away his thoughts of illegal teen love and tells you what a good time he and the rest of the animated corpses in the audience are having. You take another drink from your tumbler.

You have no idea who the brunette with the feather boa is, only that she is giggling at everyone and constantly rubbing against you. The merlot in her hand has been filled at least five times in the last hour forcing you to remove her from your "get lucky" list. If she's even upright at midnight, you'll eat your boxer shorts and allegations of rape do little to start a new year off correctly. Another drink.

Your tumbler is now almost empty so, being proactive, you shake your pink wig in the direction of the buxom waitress as she passes. She gives you a harried glance but acknowledges you since you've already tipped her more than 30% the value of the bourbon. Unlike the brunette, the waitress is still on your "get lucky" list. God knows why, though. By midnight she'll be drop dead exhausted and will be likely to give less response than the unconscious brunette. Besides, she doesn't seem too attracted to your costume which consists of plastic bubble gum machine tops covering your breasts. Getting lucky is beginning to seem unlikely. Visiting with the ghost of masturbation to come, you finish your tumbler.

January 1st, 20-- 12:01 AM

The ball dropped. Again. The Brunette in the feather boa dropped also. As you predicted. Dick Clark should have dropped, but the wires held, so his waxen corpse is still babbling into the overhead screen. In the room you're in, 300 people are drunkenly singing "Auld Lang Syne", sloppily kissing one another, and making farting sounds with hand held noisemakers. This is the penultimate moment. What everyone has gathered together for. It's a whole new year filled with promise and hope. The people on the overhead in times square, the people at your masquerade, the people the world over, are making as if to embrace this new year. Meet it head on. Seize it. Reap it for rewards. Which of course is why the majority of them are drunk, dressed like peacocks, and desperately molesting people they hardly know. You set down your fourth empty tumbler and hail the frazzled but still attractive waitress. Fifteen minutes ago, you gave her a twenty dollar tip, hoping for the extra attention and the fading possibility of thank you sex. At this point, though, you'll just be happy with a fifth tumbler of bourbon.

On the ground beside you, the unconscious brunette's skirt has ridden up to her waist. Your erection presses uselessly against the overlarge metal chastity belt that you're wearing as part of your costume. The last bars of "Auld Lang Syne" are coming to a close around you and your fifth tumbler of bourbon arrives on time, the twenty having accomplished it's mission. For one fleeting moment you think, this may not be such a bad year after all. Then the man behind you dressed like Madonna vomits on your mostly bare back and brings you back to reality. At least your erection is gone. You take a drink.

January 1st, 20-- 1 AM

The masquerade is winding down now. Forty percent of the revelers are unconscious or catatonic. Twenty percent are off fornicating in some darkened corner. Twenty percent are still vacantly nodding at the dulcet tones of the undead Dick Clark. And the last twenty percent are either event staff or designated drivers who are marching around and allowing themselves a moment of superiority over their less disciplined compatriots. You still sit at your table, vacantly staring at the colorful centerpiece while wondering why you do this to yourself every year. Sexual desire long since washed from your system by the bourbon, you are now using the unconscious brunette as a footstool. You emptied what was left in your wallet into the apron of the buxom waitress as a drunken heartfelt thanks for the special attention. The gumballs in your "bra" give an impotent rattle, as if unaware that the celebration has all but ended. Too drunk to walk, you remain seated and pee out the side of your "chastity belt". The new year has now been officially embraced.

Knowing what state you'd be in, you took a taxi here. The prospect of even walking to the curb and hailing another fills you with a sense of the impossible. Hell. If the floor is good enough for the brunette, it's good enough for you too. So you slide forward and fall to the ground. Right into your own urine. But the apathy of good bourbon holds and you close your eyes on this most majestic of holiday nights. You feel the warmth of the snoring brunette beside you and begin to drift off. Sometime in the wee hours of the morning, she awakens beside you. And notices that her skirt has ridden up to her thigh. And that you're wearing a pink wig, a chastity belt, and nothing else. And that you smell like urine. Which is how you wind up with the rape charge.

Happy New Year!

The Mashugga Megillah of the Bialy

by numbsain

A beautiful thing, a real bialy is. It's like a bagel but without the hole in the middle. A good thing, that; If I'm shelling out my dough, Some schmuck taking dough out of the middle of my bagel, I don't need! What do they think, out of my tuchus there's money flying? I should be so lucky. To impress a lady, I would just moon her. God forbid I should be robbed by a homosexual pervert.

But as I was saying, No, instead of a hole, a little indent and some chopped onions and poppy seeds for an extra bonus they put in there. But the starter dough they use, is what makes a bialy "a bialy." And from my mouth to your ear, 150 years ago, in a little town in Poland called Bialystok, that starter dough was first created.

Just a little putz, my grandfather was, when one day, from the bakery he owned, his father came home and the most delicious bread rolls they ever ate, he had with him, a basketful of. To my grandfather, a little wad of dough, he handed and said:

"Menachem, dis dough, with yaw life you should guard. Ven you grow up, a bakery of your own, you vil have and oy, such a success it'll be, with starter dough so good as dis."

A bissel of dough, a teenage boy is supposed to care about?

Weeks and weeks, in his pocket the dough sat and, of course, all the time rising and when it got too big, with his fingers, my grandfather would smoush it down. To read an assignment in front of the class, he was asked by the teacher one day. Standing in front of the class, the bulge in his pants, one girl in the front noticed. Like a puppy dog after that, this young goyeh started following him around. Long story-short, married they ended up, and soon, to America they moved, all because of that dough. Enough gelt to buy a whole new wardrobe, they had, with parents like hers, so rich they were. But the pants wit the dough, he kept always and all the way across the ocean, In a suitcase, in the pocket of the pants, the dough kept rising. Nearly bursting out from the suitcase, the dough was by the time they arrived. "Oy! What is dis? In the garbage, that suitcase should be. A disgusting thing like that i need? Feh!"

So into the trash bin it went. Well, from working at his father's Chinese restaurant down the street, this young Chinese boy came walking along. "In the garbage, they throw pants so good as these?" the boy said in astonishment. Back to his mother, he brought them to be cleaned. "Mazel tov, bubeleh! A fortune we can make with this dough from the pocket of those pants." She told her son.

Now, a pretty good egg roll they made, sure. But a fortune? ...eh, not so much. Troubles like you wouldn't believe, the father was having and the Chinese restaurant... Feh, kaput it went after a year. To clean out the place, they came, the new owners did. And still there, in a pot, was the dough. So big it was getting by then, the owners daughter thought: "Such a waste. Food is food, better I should keep some." So in a little bag she put a smidgen and into the purse.

As luck would have it, sent by a nice man who owned a little bakery, a love letter was waiting when she got home. Who knew? She agreed to meet with him and on their date, still in her purse, the bag of dough was, so to him, she gave it. The best bagels in the world, he made with that dough, so good, a little hole, he didn't want to put, so "No hole!" he said. "Maybe just make a little dent and... I don't know, I could smoush some o' these onions in there, that's good." And that's the history of the bialy as we know it.

Investigative Reports: A followup

by Cheddar

Ladies and gentleman, I, Cheddar, recently posted a startling email that began a chain of events that can only be described as earth shattering. I have all but confirmed that Stephen Hawking, Bill Gates, and Woody Allen are one in the same individual, running a triumvirate of power unequaled in any other facet of society. But, ladies and gentlemen, this discovery is merely the tip of the iceberg! It turns out that we, the general public, have been duped by other individuals playing multiple roles, and all for very different reasons. In each case, the magic number appears to be three; as in three different personas. Nevertheless, the cunning involved is monumental! I can confirm beyond a shadow of a doubt that the following individuals, whom I hereby dub "The Axis of Evil," are all pulling the wool over our eyes! Pay heed! Truly notice the similarities.



If these photographs aren't representative of the "Axis of Evil," I don't know what is. Now, separately, these photos may spark recognition in you. The first person pictured hosted "The View" for a while. The second was on a long running show with John Goodman. The third hacked off a stranded writer's foot in a famous movie. But what you did NOT know, until looking at these photographs, is that they are all the same person! I do not know what "it's" real name is. I do not know what "it" does in "it's" spare time. But I do have an as yet unconfirmed reason for this tableau. It is speculated among underground theorists that playing the role of three persons allows this individual the ability to harass Tom Selleck in triplicate! All without his knowledge!



Now here are "three" sinister looking individuals. Or is it? Look again! Notice the flaring nostrils. The gleaming pate. The painted mouth! It's the same person....or robot! That's right! The almost leader of the free world and Nobel sympathy prize winner and the shrewd but satanic owner of the New York Yankees are actually just synthetic flesh over metal endoskeleton! Kind of like the terminator, only boring! With no gun! And a lot of hot air! Why, you ask? Well, that goes back to Hawking/Gates/Allen. This robot was created using Hawking's know-how and Gates's technology to run for president. It could be an excellent monotone and room killing bore, so all that was needed was the cash flow that a run at the White House required. Hence came the "Steinbrenner" programming. This persona single-handedly financed Gore's White House run with still enough money left over to sign Alex Rodriguez. A brilliant robot indeed. Hawking/Gates/Allen's greatest attempt to grab control of the country and, more importantly, control of the nuclear "button" failed only because he underestimated the complete stupidity of Floridians. The laugh is on you "Axis of Evil"! Ha!



"Whoa!" You say. "Wait a second, Cheddar!" you say. "This can't be right!" You say. Many have known for a while that pictures one and three are synonyms, true. But the guy from "Barney Miller?" Abe?

Allow me to defend my research here. Abe Vigoda was long known as a "personable guy." Liked by everyone he came in contact with. Influenced all those around him positively. Had the charisma of a thousand Alexander the Greats. Sound familiar? That's right bible thumpers! The Anti-Christ! Take heed.

Take Bin Laden and shave his beard mentally. What do you see? That's right! The middle picture! The information has been there for you people all along. You've just needed a true diligent investigative reporter like yours truly to start linking the facts and making sense of the chaos. And before you dismiss picture number three as just a visual gag and not a real "third persona," ask yourself: Why haven't we found Osama Vigoda yet? Hmm?" It's hard to assassinate "someone" who can morph themselves into a shiny turd at will! I mean who'd think to shoot a floater? Eh?

Okay ladies and gentleman. For me, the investigation continues. I have more evidence at my fingertips that we have been duped by even more individuals than what's listed here, but my vow is that I will leave no stone unturned in my search for truth! And you the reader WILL know all that I know! Have a happy Holiday!

Mr. Saturday Night Special

A Night in the Life of Yours Truly

Left: I had the misfortune of running into “Suzette” here at the Arlington Heights Playboy Club. What made it unfortunate was that I was quite inebriated and am now apparently engaged to the chipper fellow pictured. It could be worse, of course. He DOES shave his legs.

by Cheese

It’s Saturday night. A time when a young man’s fancy turns to his pants, or more pointedly, what’s in his pants. Now, I am no longer “young” by most definitions, but I am not quite knocking on death’s door either. I can hear the calling of the frothy mug. I feel the desirable tug of a night spent painting the town. I can taste the freedom of neon lights, gorgeous women, beer nuts, and endless testosterone. So I call my closest friend Mike, grab my fedora, and start driving towards the Arlington Heights Playboy Club.

It’s been years since I’ve set foot in the club. I figured by now there were new employees and I resemble the picture of myself on the wall less than ever, so the lifetime ban imposed on me will be much harder to enforce. Plus, of course, there’s the fedora. No one recognizes you when you’re wearing a fedora, right?

Mike is waiting for me at the entrance. He’s a large man wearing a Hawaiian shirt and ballhugger jeans that would make Steve Perry blush. His heavy brow gives him a look of authority that his comical pompadour all but erases. He’s an excellent drinking buddy because no matter how many beers you put away, he never starts looking like an attractive woman. Or an attractive man for that matter.

Without a word needing to be spoken between us, we pay the cover charge and enter. It takes seconds for all the old familiar sights and smells to overwhelm me. The red brick interior. The plush velvet carpet. The odor of beer, sweat, crisp dollars, and loneliness. I felt right at home. Until........

“Umm, dude,” Mike whispers, his unibrow furrowed in consternation. “Is this some kind of a joke?”

Walking towards us is a pair of “bunnies”, or scantily clad club employees. The one on the left is 300 lbs bone dry, 350 soaking wet I’m sure. The one on the right has a mustache and talks like my uncle Ed. Both of them have Mike and I stopped in our tracks, hands still on wallets, the phantom taste of that first beer still flirting with our tongues.

“Hi fellows,” the buffalo says. “Care to buy a lady a drink?”

“Where do we get the lady?” Mike asks, always as smooth as good bourbon.

“Look no further,” the mustache says, and actually wiggles his hairy ass at me.

I hear Mike make a wretching sound beside me, and move to take action. “Um, we haven’t been here in years. Since when did they start hiring guys as bunnies?” I ask.

“Title IX buddy,” the mustache replies. “It’s not just for women’s athletics, you know?”

“Err, OK,” Mike says. “What’s with the blob here?”

“I prefer metabollicly challenged,” the brontosaurus says. “The American’s with disabilities act covers morbid obesity and ensures that I have the right to work here. Get enlightened gentlemen! Look around!” And with that the “bunnies” moved off.

Sure enough, Mike and I looked around and really took in the employee pool for the first time. There were midgets, crossdressers, siamese twins, amputees, malformed faces, and people in wheelchairs. The only person not represented among the “bunnies” was hot women. We started to back up towards the door.

“I wouldn’t do it fellas,” said a whispering voice. We turned to find an old man huddled over an oak table in the corner. “I tried leaving once like you all. The freaks all came to my house the next morning and screamed about enlightenment in my front yard until every neighbor on my street was sure I hated all the handicapped, crossdressers, and retards on the planet. To this day no one talks to me. My advice would be to go get a beer or three. Pretend to enjoy yourself. Then leave at closing time.”

So we drank. And drank. Then drank a little more. With each one, we were SURE the bunnies would begin to look appealing. Short of that, we hoped for an alcohol induced coma to allow us the opportunity to escape.

Neither occurred of course. We got blitheringly drunk, pretended to have the time of our lives, puked our heads off in the surprisingly clean white porcelain of the club’s restroom then blacked out. Sunday morning we awoke, heads throbbing, in a king sized bed. Mike was spooning with the mustache, and I was tightly holding my Suzette. (see above)

This Saturday, Mike and I are going to watch M*A*S*H* reruns in my living room and drink water. If we feel really crazy, we’re going to go the library and check out books on Title IX and the Americans with Disabilities act. It’s time to write our Congressmen.

Rome, Circa 25 B.C.

Bonus and Meniscus at the Vomitorium, Part I

by Guinness

"Hail, Bonus!" shouted Meniscus from across the forum. "Where you beheaded?"

"It's Sunday, you fool, and as customary, I intend to conjoin with Ignoramus at the vomitorium to gorge myself until filled to the gullet, purge, and repeat until my esophogus is squeaky clean."

"Oh, but of course! My cousin Virus is visiting from the rivalous region of Gaul, and would enjoy an orgy of food and drink...may he attend?"

"Virus? Never heard of him and do not care to have my purge ogled by strange Gauls."
"Oh, it is but my regret. What thoughts have you of the young fellow, Stimulus Terminus?"

"Ah, yes, indeed, bring that one along. I could use a bit of purging at the other end, provided either Ramses, Trojan or Magnum are packing the sheepskins, that is." Bonus dismissed Meniscus with a brusque wave of his heavily braceleted arm.

"Very good, we shall see you at XII sharp then!" called Meniscus after the retreating toga.

The vomitorium teamed with sweating, curly-haired men, some togas hanging off the shoulder, mouths greasy with game juices, wine, grapes and figs. In the center, a stone edged circular recepticle received the exodous of anal and gastric passages. Heaven on Earth, the epitome of man's societal modernization! As Meniscus entered, he spotted Hippopotamus gorging himself with a roasted leg of mutton, Status keeping tabs on the victual levels, Census counting heads, Sinus sneezing vomit from his nasal passages, Hiatus passed out under the fruit table, and his good friend Meniscus with Stimulus Terminus. Fabulous, he thought, and strode to the beverage table... "A shot of tetanus, make it a double."

As Bonus swallowed his beverage, a rucous arose amidst the patrons. Projectilus Vomitus was hurling colorful streams of fruit juiced pork back in a glorious five foot arc which landed dead center into the recepticle. A slightly built toga'd figure underneath the arc screeched "ROJECTILEPAY OMITVAY!" in a female voice. Every good citizen of Rome knew women weren't allowed in the vomitorium.

"Ceasar! er SEIZE HER!" the crowd clamored.

end of part I.

Bigots Are All Alike

by numbsain

Ah! Heah we go princess, Lou-weegee's Gawmay Cuizeen, eh? Eh? Ya like Eye-talian food don'tcha? Well don'tcha? Ya gotta eat, I mean look atcha, ya nuthin' but skin and bones fuh cryin' out loud. So you could eat, right? Right?

Y-e-e-s mother-r-r.

Uh-right. Eye-talian food is good. I hope it's not one o' them Mafia owned joints, Yaw fathuh would NEVUH go eat Eye-talian. "They're all mobsters," he'd say...

Oh Mom, please!...

Ooooh! Red cawpets! Classy joint eh?... Pahty of two please.

Spit out your gum, mother.

Uh-boy, lookit, ya see dat guy? Ya see Skah-face ovah theah? Mafia written awl over 'em. Oy vey.

Mother, he's a waiter.

Oh no, Scah-face is a hit man fuh the mob ahm tellin' ya. Look at his eyes... (bas-tuhd)

Oh, hello, ah'll have the... um, louey-gweeno crab-on-aro an' do you have Manischevitz? Oh, then just a house white, thank yew.

Oh... Moy... Gawd! Lookit, look at dis what just wawked in! It's Chahlie Chan an' the Dragon Lady. Lookit huh; She's prah-bly 95 yeahs old and she looks like she' s fawty. Dat's them Awri-entals, they nevah age. Oh, lookit what he's got! dat's not a suit case, oh no, Chahlie Chans got a machine gun in theah! Dat's the Chinese Mafia right theah, Ahm tellin' ya!

Mother you are really going too far this time! Now just stop it!

Oh... foyn! (sniff) so that's the way ya tawk to ya muthuh... (snuk) I know when I'm not wanted.

Mother please.

Naomi Lookit! ya see doze Pawtuh Reekins ovah theah? Lookit Pancho's got a box! and they keep lookin' at Shang-hai Chahlie ovah theah!

Mother!

And Scah-face ovah theah keeps lookin' at 'em too! ...Oh moy gawd! Didjoo see dat? Pancho just winked at Scah-face and theah both lookin' at da Chinaman! Honey, uh, I gotta go pow-duh my nose...

Hello is dis the police station? ...You gotta get some squad cars down to Luigi's right away! It's a shoot out!!! somethin' big is goin' down heah! Hurry!

I'm back! whud I miss? It's okay baby, yuh muthuh took care of it. ...Oy Gutten Himmel! Lookit Naomi! See dat tray? He's got a AK-fawty seven under theah. Its a HIT! Get unduh the table honey! Lookit Pancho an' his gang are gettin' up and wawkin ovah theah too! Theah gonna rub out Shang-Hai Chahlie right heah! Stay behind me baby!

Mom! what are you doing?!

AWRIGHT FREEZE YOU BASTUHDS!!! PUT DOWN THE TRAY!! YEAH YOU, SCAH-FACE OVAH THEAH! AND DROP DAT BOX, PANCHO!!! ONE FAWLSE MOVE AN' I'LL BLOW YA FRIKKEN HEADS AWF!

MOTHER!!! WHERE DID YOU GET THAT GUN?!?!

DROP THE GUN LADY!!!

Oh, Awffisuhs, heah's my gun. Thank Gawd you got heah just in time!

Let's go lady, put 'er in the squad car. You too miss.

Is everybody okay here? You okay Luigi? ...Oh good. By the way, thanks for catering the policeman's ball the other night. You okay Mayor Gutierrez? Oh great, The new youth center is really coming together, great work there sir. Councilman Chin, I apologize for this mess, I guess she spoiled the surprise but I hope that crazy old bat didn't completely ruin your evening sir. My partner took her down to the station so there won't be any more trouble. Well if everybody's alright, mind if I stick around and sing? ...Thanks, make a wish Councilman...

HAP-PY BIRTH-DAY TO YOU...

editor's note: nothing here is meant to be anti-semitic. Especially given the fact one of us is Jewish!

Corporate Icon usurped by Warty Toad

by Cheddar

In a move that has rocked the corporate world and has water coolers steaming with speculation, officials at McDonald’s handed Ronald McDonald his walking papers. After fifty years as one of America’s most recognizable icons, McDonald’s decided it was time for a new spokesperson to peddle the restaurant’s high caloric blubbery lard.

“It simply was time for a change,” McDonald’s spokesman Gaylord Byron said. “Modern times call for a modern approach. And, as Geico’s annoying-as-hell Aussie Gecko makes clear, amphibians move inventory.” “After much internal consideration among our management team, our CEO unilaterally decided it was time to introduce the modern face of McDonald’s: Ribbit McDonald, a stubby toad with short hind legs, warty skin, and conspicuous swelling behind protruding eyes.”



In a move that has industry insiders scratching their heads, the company elected to retain “The Hamburglar,” "Mayor McCheese," “the French Fry Guys,” “McNugget Buddies,” and “Grimace”—each of whom will remain as supporting cast members to Ribbit McDonald. “This leads one to assume that this move was actually targeting Ronald himself, as if it were a vendetta on the part of McDonald’s officials,” marketing analyst Laurie Driver said. “It does make one wonder whether Ronald McDonald’s recent visit to the Neverland Ranch had some as yet unknown ramifications.”

In June, Ronald McDonald was photographed at Michael Jackson’s famous ranch. In the photograph, Ronald and Michael are shown seated side by side at a picnic table, while young boys in princess costumes frolick in the background eating chicken mcnuggets. Both Michael and Ronald appear to be eating hot dogs while grinning at each other; however, the grins could easily be interpreted as leers. Ronald McDonald’s sudden termination has fueled debate over the purpose of the neverland visit. Mr. McDonald, seen in the photo at top pushing his earthly possessions down a New York side street, could not be reached for comment as he has no phone apart from a toy replica incapable of receiving cellular signals. However, Ronald’s lifelong friend and colleague, Grimace, agreed to answer a few of our questions.

Goldmind’s Unwind: “Did Mr. McDonald ever indicate to you why he visited Neverland Ranch?”

Grimace: “Rubble rubble. Rubble rubble rubble rubble.”

GU: “But if it was innocent, why was no formal announcement of the meeting ever made?”

GR: “Rubble! Rubble rubble rubble rubble!”

GU: “So Mr. McDonald is or isn’t trafficking in young boys?”

GR: “Rubble! Rrrrubbblle!”

GU: “Well back at you, you fat purple turd! Wanna take it outside?”

No matter how you slice it, it’s a sordid state of affairs in the obese world of two all beef patties special sauce lettuce cheese pickles onions on a sesame seed bun. Either Ronald McDonald’s special sauce has finally caught up to him, or the corporate gurus at McDonald’s have saddled us with years of another ridiculous mascot out of sheer spite. Either way, that creepy burger king mascot is starting to look better all the time.

Stalemate

by numbsain

B. Today we have a special guest with us. Someone who needs no introduction, so without further ado, let's bring him out shall we?

Audience: (Applause)

B. We’re just all so excited that you were able to come today and talk with us.
M.R. Oh, sure you were.
B. It’s such a thrill to meet you.
M.R. Big thrills.
B. I’m sure you feel the same way, right?
M.R. Oh, of course! my gosh, this is like the high point of my life.
B. Oh come now, my show’s not that special. I’m sure there are others that are more important.
M.R. More important than this? Gosh no, this is as good as it gets.
B. Oh you’re pulling my leg.
M.R. Who me? I wouldn’t dream of it.
B. Are you sure because you sound a little sarcastic to me.
M.R. Really? I can’t imagine why.
B. Look maybe we should just wrap it up.
M.R. Oh, I’m so disappointed.
B. Your hurting my feelings.
M.R. Aw your feelings? I’m sorry I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.
B. are you sure?
M.R. Positive.
B. You really do like my show?
M.R. Absolutely.
B. Aw, that’s so nice, but you know, I never realized how gullible you were.
M.R. What? are you serious?
B. Hyuk Hyuk! Gotcha!
M.R. You set me up! I’ll get you for this!
B. Oh, a little hostile are we?
M.R. You’re damn right I’m hostile.
B. You’re serious?
M.R. You have no idea. Did you forget, I can destroy you with one phone call?
B. Okay look, I didn’t want to say this but I know what you did with those kids and I’ve got enough on you to have you thrown in prison for a long time, Mr. Rogers!
M.R. Think about it: if I go down, You're going down with me, Barney.
B. Grrr...
M.R. Hmm...

B. It’s a beau-ti-ful day in the neigh-bor-hood a...

M.R. I love you, you love me, were a hap-py fa-mi-ly...

~numbsain

The Littlest Justice

As the history of our republic unfolds, our judicial branch continues to produce generations of scholars who cloak the profession in vests of honor: John Marshall…Benjamin Cardoza…Learned Hand. These juristic giants are, however, microscopic in comparison to the man who stood a mere 8 inches tall. A man whose hypnotically poetic name hints at an intelligence so vast it could only be understood in German: the little known, Cormorant Chewink Crane.

Cormorant Chewink Crane’s meteoritic rise to our nation’s highest court began on Christmas in 1907. On that auspicious day, Crane witnesses his grandfather, a Yale-educated sugar baron, slip into a fatal coma while roasting acorns and playing his Jew’s Harp. The elder Crane had finally succumbed to rabies, a disease unwittingly contracted when the family’s pet Hungarian Partridge pecked its way through a sugarcane pen and, confused and emboldened by the rapid influx of sucrose, attacked the elderly Crane’s ear, mistaking it for a scarlet berry. The untimely death was catalytic: Cormorant swore to his comatose grandfather that he would immediately quit his job as a cigar-store Indian and become a respect jurist.

True to his word, Cormorant Crane completed a lengthy legal apprenticeship in 1908 and went to work as a prosecutor in New York City. Within a year, a fortuitous event brought Crane to the attention of then-President Theodore Roosevelt. In 1909, while hiking through a forest in New Guinea, Roosevelt was savagely ambushed by a flock of Shamrock Macaws. Recognizing the opportunity, Crane extradited the flock to America for prosecution. Although unable to pin charges of racketeering or attempted murder, Crane was successful with charges of tax evasion and the birds were sent to Alcatraz. By summer’s end, Crane had been appointed to the federal bench.

Steadily, Crane gained confidence in his ability to disguise tenuous ideological assertions as opinions grounded in law. His burgeoning skill was never more apparent than in his clever handling of a hybrid trust in the landmark decision, Gibbons v. Goblin. In Goblin, Gibbles Gooble, a zookeeper suffering from lycanthropy, declared a trust giving one of the zoo’s gibbon’s legal title and broad discretionary powers to hold a bag of crackers in trust for the Goblins, a family of plumhead parakeets. The case reached Crane’s court when Gables Goblin, one of the parakeets, filed a motion to terminate the trust and thereby prematurely reach the delicious salty crackers. Gibbon argued that because Gibbles gave Gibbon broad discretionary powers over the Goblins trust, the trust implicitly indicated it was Gooble’s material purpose not to terminate the trust. Dissecting the issues with his scholarly scalpel, Crane concluded that the power to sell crackers did not signal a protective intention on the part of the zookeeper to prevent the parakeets from terminating the cracker trust. On appeal, Goblin was upheld. Impressed with Crane’s mastery of trust law, Herbert Hoover nominated him for a recently vacated seat on the U.S Supreme Court.

Basking in the glory of his prestigious nomination, Crane returned to his hometown to receive a plaque memorializing his accomplishments. No one, however, could have anticipated the tragedy that would soon unfold. As the festivities were winding down, an opposition member of the Senate Confirmation Committee handed Crane a red helium balloon. Too light to prevent it from lifting him off the earth’s surface, Crane gracefully floated into the stratosphere, waving to the crowd as he ascended. He was never seen again.

For the past 50 years, sailors traveling the Atlantic have reported seeing a small man floating across the horizon. Some claim he visits their anchored ships while they sleep, resolving their unconscious conflicts. Although such tales are of dubious authenticity, Crane’s spirit undoubtedly lives on. That spirit continues to inspire generations of law students who have come to recognize that, within each of us—particularly lawyers—there is little justice. Let us never forget Cormorant Chewink Crane: the littlest Justice.

~Goldmind

Dr. Seuss' Secret Unpublished Literary Archives: Blue Procciutto—& other Seussishness

This is Poot.
This is Bluto.

Poot and Bluto
live on Pluto.

One day Bluto said "Atchoo!"
Something Plutons rarely do.
And so when he did, Poot knew;
Bluto caught the Pluto flu.

"I know what will help you Bluto."
"What?" asked Bluto. "Something new!"
"What?" asked Bluto. "Blue Procciutto!"
Poot said: "That's the cure for you."

"Blue Procciutto? Are you sure?
Blue Procciutto? That's the cure?"
"Sure, my Blue Procciutto cures
the flu 'cause my Procciutto's pure."

"That can't be! That can't be true!
Procciutto can't cure Pluto flu.
In my case it's quite acute.
It can't BE cured, Dr. Poot!"

"This Proccuito, blue and pure,
cures the flu—that's what its for.
If you have the Pluto flu,
Blue Procciutto's good for you!"

"Blue Procciutto's not for flu so
Blue Procciutto's not for Bluto!
it won't cure my flu from Pluto,
I don't want your Blue Procciutto!

Flu is cured by rest in bed,
That is what i'll do instead.
If I eat your Blue Procciutto,
Surely I will wind up dead!"

"Try my Blue Procciutto Bluto!
It will cure you, this I do know!
Blue Procciutto clears the head!
Even more than Pseudofed!

Even better than Menudo!
It will get you out of bed!
You'll be cured in just one day!"
"ALLRIGHT I'LL DO AS YOU SAY!!!"

"Blue Procciutto makes me mad,
But you know it's not half bad!
I should not have been so hasty,
Blue Procciutto's rather tasty!"

"I must say i'm feeling great!
Why then did you hesitate?
Next time tell me sooner, will you?
"Bluto, I might have to kill you!"

And so if you live on Pluto,
and you catch the Pluto flu,
you should eat some Blue Procciutto;
Bluto did and so should you!

by Dr. Numbseuss


Note: although these stories rhyme, they're not meant for story time. Just because they're cute and witty, doesn't mean there good for kiddies. Though they sound like kids would love it, parents should think better of it.Read them once they've gone to bed, Goldmind thought that should be said.

Dr. Seussie’s alphabet
by Guinness

Big A little a, what begins with A? Ashes, Auschwitz, Adolph’s ass in hell, hooray.

Big B, little b, bad bodacious Beth, bouncing boobs behinds and Bob’s bad booze breath.

Big C, little c, what begins with C? Crazy cousins chewing cow’s cud C….c…..c.

Big D, little d, Dandy Dinmont Dog, dumping drops of dung in the dam den, Don’t!

ABCDE..e…e.. eczema, edema, and an epileptic eel

Big F, little f, F f F, effin flick a finger for an F you, Jeff!

ABCDEFG, Grandma’s goatee’s grown, gotta get a new Gillette

Big H, little h, Hairy horny Herrs humping Hank in Heidelberg, Hagen and Hamburg

Big I, little I, I…I…I… Icepack on an itchy implant, I, I, I!

Big J, little j, jaundiced jowly jerk, joking jarheads jumping from a jam-packed Jeep

Big K, little k karaoke Keith, Kelly hides her keloid neath a keen kerchief.

Big L, little l, lumpy lazy louts loiter by the liquor store, lisping lend a lot

Big M, little m, what begins with m? Moping midgets mashing melons, much mango mayhem.

Big N, little n, N n N, Numbsain nunchucks noisy neighbors necking near a Nen.

Big O, little o, what begins with O? Ouchy Oh-filled orgasms and Oprah’s bowl of oats.

Big P, little p, pecker packing Pat, poking Penny’s pinafore, now that’s pretty phat

Big Q, little q, what begins with q? Quivering quiffs quaff quinine in a quiet, quaint queue

Big R, little r, what begins with r? rickets ridden rednecks running round radar,

Big S little s, silly sappy Steve, stuck some stolen scissors up his short shirt sleeve.

Big T little t, T t T, telepathic tomboy talks to his T.V.

Big U, little u, uncle’s umpteenth ugh, ulcerous and useless, just an utter ugly thug.

Big V little v, what begins with V? Velma’s vestment’s very vulgar, vouldn’t you agree?

Big W, little w, Willie’s wilting wank, winking Willa’s wishing Willie’s wank would whip her flank.

Big X, little x, Xpired Xcuse, mixing moxie foxes puts your Ex to use

Big Y, little y, Yorkies yip and yap, yawning yokels, yearning yuppies yell yackety -yack

ABCDEFG HIJKLMNOP QRS TUV W X Y and Z

Big Z, little z, what begins with Z? Zappa’s zipper, zany zig zag, zither and zombie.

Now you know your abc’s, say them often, won’t you please

Tell your mom, your daddy too, abc’s are good for you.


ZACK

by numbsain

This is Zack.
Zack talks smack.
Zack talks smack to Sergeant Glack.
Zack gets flack for talkin smack.
Glack say’s “Hands behind your back!”
Zack gets cuffed for talking smack.
Zack tells Glack “Get off my back!”
Zack thinks it’s because he’s black.

Zack gets flack.
Flack from Glack.
But it's not because he’s black,
Zack gets flack cause he’s on crack.

Crack is what makes Zack talk smack,
Crack is why Glack’s on Zack’s back,
Crack is why zack ain’t got jack,
and why his home’s a run down shack,
and why he lives across the track,
No Zack, no! not cause you’re black,
it’s cause you won’t stop smokin crack!

Zack’s shack is whack, he ain’t got jack,
but still Zack always tries to mack.
Landlady say’s Zack has to pack,
his rent is due from three months back.

Zack tries to mack, his mack is whack.
Zack’s checkin’ out landlady’s rack.
Zack tells her he’ll pay in the sack.
Landlady say’s “Are you on crack?”

“You will not get me in the sack,
you will not get me on my back.
You will not in a cheap hotel,
or on a snowy day in hell.
I won’t let you see my vagina,
no, not for all the tea in china.
I do not even like you, Zack
so take a hike and don’t come back!

Now that Zack’s a homeless bum,
he started feeling pretty dumb.
His race is not why life’s unfair,
we all have got a cross to bear.
The question now is simply whether,
Zack will get his head together.
Stop feeling so under attack
and most of all stop smoking crack.
Instead of feeling like a victim,
heed critiques don’t contradict ‘em.