2010: Year in Review

by ANDREW HICKS and WE’RE NOT FUNNY

Pop a bottle of champagne. Shoot a gun in the air. Enjoy the lousy, unseasonably warm Smarch weather. And look back with us on 2010 in the news, entertainment and sports.

The BP Oil Spill catapulted almost five million barrels of oil into the Persian Gulf. The images were haunting and made us want to drink more black coffee. Since the oil spill, we at WNF stopped meticulously separating our recycling. Everything goes straight into the landfill now. At 162,000 barrels spilled per day, we figured there was no number of empty aluminum cans of Diet Ruby Red Squirt we could recycle to make up for it. It is our policy at WNF, when presented with a seemingly insurmountable challenge, to give up immediately.

The BP oil rig explosion that led to the spill happened on 4/20. It is purely coincidental that WNF senior staff was vacationing in Louisiana at the time and bragging to all our new Creole friends about the “giant underwater bong” we were going to “go put a torch to.”

Republicans took back a number of seats in the midterm elections. Christine O’Donnell insisted she was not a witch. We insisted, “It’d be a lot cooler if you were.”

New Year’s Resolutions 2011

by WE’RE NOT FUNNY

• Take down all those David Cassidy posters. But not the Hasselhoffs.

• Enjoy life and appreciate all the beauty nature has to offer by staying inside and watching “National Geographic” specials.

• Stop calling every ape we see on Animal Planet “Snooki.”

• Donate more money toward research into curing the world’s most serious diseases – AIDS, cancer and Bieber fever.

• Go back in time to the 1995 Grammy Awards, when Michael Bolton’s “Said I Loved You… But I Lied” was nominated for Best Male Performance. Present award, announcing “The winner is… Michael Bolton!” When he comes up to the stage and reaches for his award, take it back, telling him, “Said you won… but I lied.”

• Help O.J. find the “real killers.”

• Acknowledge that Pin the Tail on the Donkey is not a bedroom game. And apologize for calling our wife a donkey.

• Continue to “like” our own jokes on Facebook.

Contributors Needed

Do you enjoy our website? Do you consider yourself to be a writer of equal or higher caliber, as well as thoroughly Not Funny? Why not write with us? We currently have room for a few contributors. If you think you qualify, please contact us through the Interested In Writing With Us? page link above. Your self-esteem will thank you, at least until we reject your first submission.

-We’re Not Funny

Facebook Withdrawal

by Woo

I recently decided to take a week off of Facebook. Sometimes you just get so used to things that they don’t offer you the same high anymore. I think there’s some science behind that, but I’m no Botanist.

This is my Diary of A Week With Facebook Withdrawal:

Day 1. Hard not to think about the Facebook. I look at the calouses on my fingers from so much Facebook over the years. I feel regret for these scars, but I know if I could just get a hit of Facebook I would no longer care.

Day 2. Rocking back and forth in my chair, with knees tucked to chest. My every thought and conversation are chronoligical, from bottom to top. My soul is leaving hurtful comments on my heart. “Give up you loser, you need a hit of Facebook. 4 minutes ago.”

Day 3. Restless, and still reeling from the addiction. Everywhere I look, the TV, other websites, the sandwich I made for lunch, I want to find a “Like” to click.

I’ve developed a case of priapism. I knew this could happen with withdrawl, but who ever heard of a 9 hour boner for laying off the Facebook? Worse yet, since my dick isn’t actually on my friends list, I feel it would be dirty to have relations with it.

Day 4. I can’t stop scratching all over. It feels like my blood is itching. I’ve broken the skin in so many places, but no relief. Not even drinking an entire bottle of Calimine Lotion helped.

Day 5. The itching is gone. Humor is coming back to me. I can’t manage to actually laugh though. When something strikes me, all I can do is utter, “L.O.L.” and “L.M.A.O.”

Day 6. Offered the neighbor fellatio for 5 minutes on his computer with Facebook. I never thought my life would be this way. In my youth I swore I’d never do the hard stuff. Never be an addict. Now here I am, trying to wash the cock taste out of my mouth with White Vinegar, Windex, and MySpace.

Day 7. Waking up with nightmares and nightsweats. When I try to talk, I can say what I want, but whoever I am talking to doesn’t hear it. I figured out it’s because it was never commented. I wrote “Comment” on my left nipple, and as long as I tap that after a statement I can make conversation. It’s all very Tourette’s.

Now that the week has passed, I’ve run a Facebook spike directly into my left arm. It flows right into my veins, giving me highs with renewed vigor. My digital god, i’ll never again forsake you!

My Sexcation

by Pseudonymous

I really wanted to sleep with a midget, just once in my lifetime.

It all started out innocently enough. I learned that prostitution was legal in Nevada, so long as it was outside the Las Vegas city limits. This got me thinking about one of my life goals, to have relations with a little person. As Nevada is not exactly within acceptable driving distance just to get a little ass I decided I would have to make a vacation out of it. My wife had been pushing me to book us a vacation anyhow. Yes, my wife. As any good woman should, she supports me in my life goals. She wants me to self-actualize, and if that means playing spin the midget on the cock then so-be-it.

So I placed a call to a favorably reviewed brothel, The Sex Buffet Loveranch. I advised them I had very specific fantastical needs, and inquired if they had any midget prostitutes. I was quickly corrected by the person on the other end, “We call them Dwarfitutes, sir!” Well, alright, call them whatever you want just tell me that you have one available for my demented fantasies. I was given information about their two Dwarfitutes, including web profiles with photos, specialties, etc. I quickly made my decision which one I preferred, and booked a few hours with her. The decision was an easy one, as I wanted to fuck a scaled-down chick, not one whose head was larger than my own, but on a 4 foot frame.

Inconspicuously Lit

by ANDREW HICKS

The Long Island Iced Tea was invented in Prohibition times to throw off the law, because it actually looked like an innocent, non-alcoholic beverage. Prohibition is long over, but you might find yourself in need of a drink that no one knows is a drink. So if you’re somewhere that doesn’t allow conspicuous consumption, all you need to make this innocent-looking drink is:

• A bottle of vodka
• A bottle of gin
• A bottle of rum
• A bottle of tequila
• A bottle of triple sec
• A bottle of sour mix
• A bottle of Coke
• A ton of ice
• A flash blender
• A quart-sized silver mixing tin
• Seven towels to wrap your glass bottles in, so they don’t clank
• An enormous duffel bag to put all this shit in

Smuggle these 12 things into whichever place prohibits alcohol, and you too can walk around with your “iced tea” and a knowing wink to flash the cool people. This plan is genius, and this plan is utterly foolproof.

The Phony Facebook Status Experiment

By NYM PSEUDO

Recently, I announced in a Facebook status update that I have a half-sister.

This is totally untrue, at least as far as I know. But my 213 Facebook friends have no reason to doubt the update, so they’ve responded with all of the shock and applause and advice you might expect when someone reveals that kind of thing on a social networking web site.

“WHAT?” was my first comment, from an old college buddy who happens to share my last name. Then, “OH my! Let me tell you from experience they are wonderful! Meet her and start your own relationship with her.” Then, “How old? I found out a few years ago that I had two, and they’re great! 16 and 22. And no, I won’t introduce you.”

Clearly, people were buying my story. I also got comments on the new profile picture I posted, showing me standing next to a transvestite I met at 3 a.m. in the Capitol Hill district in Seattle, someone who is very clearly a man, and very clearly a much bigger man than myself. I made it clear, however, that I wasn’t trying to pass this person off as my relative, by explaining “This is NOT my half-sister. I just wanted to give you an idea.”

Special Christmas Message

by REVEREND ISAIAH “PRAYER” FOHMUNEE

This is your Reverend, over at the First Apostolic Landmark Diastolic Systolic Anastomotic  Missionary Free Methodist Double Double Rock Rock In The Path To Zion Halfway To Heaven Holiness Baptist Church Of The Immaculate Preconceived Interventionist Episcopal Conceptualization Temple. I would like to wish you a Merry Christmas on behalf of my congregation, and We’re Not Funny. Oh, and for you heathens, Happy Holidays as well. You bunch of Quasi Kwanzaa, Half-Ass Hanukkah, Superfluous Solstice celebrators. Jesus loves you anyway, yes, yes he do. And now, allow me to lead you in this here prayer:

Dear Godaaaaa,

I comes to ya Lord. I said, I stands before ya Jesusaaa. I said I humbly humbly humbly lay my soul bare to you Gee-Hov-aaaaa, to thank ya’ Lord for the many blessings you hath given. This Christmas season’a, there are so many Lord, so many who do not have a Playstation 3. I said no Playstation 3. Some of ’em Lord, they got three Playstation 1’s. But in your omnipotence Lord I know you know that ain’t the same’a. I said you know that ain’t ain’t ain’t the same! We not askin’ for the keys to the kingdom here Fatha’. We just need us some entertainments. We also know Savior, that there are those brothers and sisters among us driving around in 1986 Chevy Citations. I said a Haaaaatchbaaack’a. Oh Dear Jeeeeesus, you know the reliability just isn’t there Lord. How can we spread your word when the car won’t start? How can we make a sinner desire what we have with you Lord’a, when they see us in the hoopty. Reverend get lonely Lord, I said loooonely Lord. How’s a humble humble servant supposed to get some companionship on these cold cold nights of the Christmas Season? Maybach! Oh yes Lord’a. I said a brotha’ need to lay-back in the Maybach! Represent your name in style. P. Diddy only spreads the name of P. Diddy Laaaawd, but he get to lay-back’a. I said I need the Maybach’a. I come humbly humbly humbly before you with such a simple request’a. But I digress’a. Gee-Hov-aaaaa, bless these WNF reader’s this season. Let ’em know you the reason.

Ameeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeennnnaaa.

Yo’ offerings can be mailed right on in to Jesuuuuuus here:

F.A.L.D.S.A.M.F.M.D.D.R.R.I.T.P.T.Z.H.T.H.H.B.C.O.T.I.P.I.E.C.T. 
C/O Reverend Isaiah "Prayer" Fohmunee
P.O. Box 777
Holiness Chapel Village, New York 77777

Using the Force To Find Baby Jesus

by J. MIZ

My mom had the tree up, and  ready for my 3 yr old niece Azzy, to help decorate. This afternoon, she brought up all the boxes of ornaments (35 yrs worth) and had them all set out. When the tree was like 9/10 done, Azzy came across a Tupperware box of the Hallmark Keepsakes ornaments, in their own boxes. She got all excited (not realizing she had already removed some of them earlier) because she the found the box Baby Jesus went in, but it was empty. So, after some digging, she found Baby Jesus. She was soooooo happy & yelling “Look it’s baby Jesus! It’s baby Jesus!” She then presents us with Baby Jesus, but we all know Baby Jesus a little better by his “hollywood name.” Obi-Wan Kenobi.

Merry Xmas Baby Jesus. May the force be with you.

–As a side note (and to show a bit of  her dry humor) my mom says, “Well, in her defense, she’s never really been to church. She got the beard and robe right, so HEY!”

Love Letter to Phil Collins

by ANDREW HICKS

—

Dear Phil Collins,

I just got finished reading the feature about you in a recent issue of Rolling Stone. It said you don’t want to make music anymore–and you don’t even want anyone to call you Phil–because the “Phil Collins” we think we know is a hated public figure who is perceived as being uncool.

Well, the plain truth is, you ARE uncool. You’ve always been. It’s a big part of your appeal. Your voice, and the irresistable pop genius of much of your ’80s/early ’90s output is appealing, yes. But so, too, is your massive, glaring uncoolness.

You’ve got Noel Gallagher of Oasis making fun of you on the microphone at his concerts, but look, everyone makes fun of that dude, too. Embrace your Philness. There’s lots to love. For instance:

• I love the saga of the “Bill Collins” character in the video for “I Wish It Would Rain Down.” Bill Collins is a fictional creation of Phil Collins who starts as a stage actor and becomes an enormously popular solo music star. The details of the life and career of Bill Collins are in no way related to those of Phil Collins. Also completely conjured up from thin air are the characters of Bichael Jackson, Bem-Cee Hammer and Balla Abdul in the video. Oh Phil, you’re such an imagineer.

• Your sensitive but catchy ballad about the homeless, “Another Day in Paradise,” will always trigger the following memory in me: It’s a beautiful early summer day, I’m walking into the old Busch Stadium for a day game, and I notice a fenced-in outdoor patio area where people are stuffing their faces and drinking free beer. Right outside the fenced-in area of casual opulence, a homeless dude is digging through the trash. The piped-in soundtrack to all this? Your song “Another Day in Paradise,” blaring over the outdoor PA.

Wassup!

by WE’RE NOT FUNNY, as written by WOO

We here at WNF asked ourselves, “Whatever happened to the ‘Wassup!’ crew from the Budweiser commercials?” So we tracked down the creator, and sent in a letter requesting an interview. We would have liked to have met up in a nice bar, or dining establishment, and discussed their current goings-on. However, after not receiving a response to our mailed request, we decided to call and see if we could not get a phone interview. That  interview went as follows:

We’re Not Funny: Yes. This is Woo over at We’re Not Funny, an online magazine. I was wondering if I might speak with the creator of the Wassup! commercials, Mr. Charles Stone III?

Charles Stone III: Hello?!

WNF: Umm, yes we’re doing a “where are the now?” segment for our magazine, and we were wanting to do one for you and the crew from the commercial. Would that be alright?

CS3: Watchin’ the game, havin a Bud.

Buddah’s Holiday Tips

by BUDDAH ESKEW

#8--Just add milk and 5 more maids.

1. Yuletide does not fight to get out stains as well as regular Tide.

2. You will never win a game of Strip Dreidel with a Jewish chick.

3. Never punch an elf before all the toys are made.

4. This year’s fruitcake will be made from the remains of Bea Arthur.

5. Now we don our gay apparel, which is fine IF YOU’RE GAY!

6. I said “Mall Santa,” not “Maul Santa!” Bad doggy!

7. If there are really sugar plums dancing in your head, you may want to schedule an appointment with your therapist.

#10--Reindeer sausage, reindeer brats, braised reindeer, reindeer on a stick, reindeer kabobs...

8. Eight maids a’milking sounds dirty, but I can live with it.

9. Damned! Wal-Mart is out of frankincense and myrrh again!

10. Reindeer sausage is NOT the other white meat.

11. This holiday season, please give to Charity. She is my favorite dancer at the strip club.

12. Yes, Hallmark Channel, I would love to see another sappy Christmas movie starring Mary Steenburgen.

13. Eggnog without a little rum is kinda like Hitler without a little mustache.

What About Bob?!

by J. MIZ

Before I begin, let me delve a bit into my family history. I am the product of teenage parentage. My mom is 7th of 7 in an Irish Catholic, Slovak,  and Polish Family. All very football and male-centric. Her whole family is hilarious! We tend to be very dark, or repetitive humor on that side. Our humor saves us from death and others insanity.

Now meet Bob! He is 6th of 7 in a Swedish and Polish Catholic family (unwillingly converted from Lutheran). Bob is one of the most intelligent and creative people you could ever meet. He’s in M.E.N.S.A., toured with bands in my childhood, a studio musician, journalist for a local paper, guitar and steel guitar player, self-taught to read piano music and play piano. He also successfully ran a telecommunications company for 30 years.  Bob is not funny to save his life. He is a closer talker. He is a Ginger. He is clumsy. He sported a Chuck Norris moustache for eons. When he farts he’ll ask, “What was that?”

Warning: Inept Robbers On The Loose

by RYAN K.

Doors were locked – dead-bolted to be exact, yet the evil men decided to penetrate my house while my roommate and I were at work this evening. It seems to be the typical smash n’ grab situation. They got away with my laptop, TV/Monitor, digital camera, $300.00 cash – which was nicely situated on my desk – next to the laptop (charging and awaiting the triumphant return of his master who would have used him once again to look up conspiracy theories, shitty music videos, and yes, an indecent amount of filthy porn). My roommate lost his fair share also: PS3 (he wasn’t too attached to it though, I mean he only purchased it two nights ago, literally!), 40-some inch plasma TV, and his wallet was taken from his desk and thrown on the couch because there wasn’t anything in there but a Walmart gift card.

The reasons why I think this is the worst robbery ever are as follows:

Slackluster Holidays

by ANDREW HICKS

The Christmas season is upon us. Only ten days left before I do all my holiday shopping at Walgreens really late at night on Christmas Eve.

Christmas was never a big deal in my house. The peak of our family Christmas celebrations came when I was 11. Logs crackling in the fireplace, mounds of presents and full stockings of goodies. I remember my younger brother got the Batwing from the first Tim Burton Batman movie and the elusive April O’Neil action figure, the rarest in the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles line of 1989 play products. I got turtles Leonardo and Rafael, if I remember right, and a shrink-wrapped cassette copy of Petra Praise: The Rock Cries Out. Which, 21 years later, is still a great album. I’m not quite as enthusiastic about Batman and TMNT these days, incidentally.

My family put up the same fake Christmas tree every year, and it was always a fun night of hanging branches and lights and digging through what was a pretty decent collection of ornaments. The unpacking of the ornament box always included a quick memorial for whatever old ornaments had ended up shattering just before or after the 11-month off-season the ornaments spent in the basement.

Man You Guys Ain’t Even Funny Man

by KANYE WEST

Yo We’re Not Funny!

I’m really happy for you!

I’ma let you finish, but The Onion has one of the best comedy sites of all time.

One of the best comedy sites of all time!

*shrug*

MILF poll

Know your Buddah

by BUDDAH ESKEW

• I am allergic to eggs but eat them anyway cause that’s how I roll.
• I like small children but, no, not in that way.
• I have peed in pools countless times.
• I do not eat green veggies except for lettuce, celery and green crayons.
• I talk with John Quincy Adams on Facebook. Martin Van Buren, however, is a stuck-up bastard.
• I want custard pie all the time for no apparent reason.
• I wish I was a 1940s-era professional baseball player, major league or Negro League.
• I don’t want to party like it’s 1999 because I made a lot of bad decisions that year.
• Before getting married, I got my wife’s permission to stay in love with Valerie Bertinelli.
• My wife Lori is my best friend and true love and always will be.
• I finished second in the fifth grade spelling bee, and now I can’t spell worth a damned.

Miser in Mexico, Pt. 3

by NYM PSEUDO

—

I met Seth while he was cradling a bottle of wormwood-less absinth and lamenting the lack of ‘titties’ at the Fiesta Americana. He compensated for the tittie shortage by instructing a random girl to lean over the top of the swim-up bar if she wanted a drink. Fortunately for Seth, it took awhile for the bartender to show up. I had made my first friend.
-From “Miser in Mexico,” Part 2

—

Running low on cash, I resolved to ride my all-inclusive status to the vacation’s terminus, though I did drop a couple hundred bucks on a three-day scuba package that included a free underwater DVD. That’s when I learned my next lesson about doing Mexico cheap and alone: the art of the mooch.

Martin was an executive chef from Denmark, by way of Los Angeles, in Cozumel by himself because his wife doesn’t dig diving. Martin was in search of a “dive buddy,” which we’re all supposed to have underwater in case we run out of air and need to shank someone with our dive knife and take over their regulator. In the hotel lobby, we met, and Martin asked if I’d like to be buddies.

Enter Kipper, Exit Elmo

by ANDREW HICKS

Every now and then, when cynicism strikes me, I ponder the possibility that love by nature is fleeting. Two of the couples who were married at the last three weddings I attended have already gotten divorced. They didn’t even hang in there long enough to celebrate the exchange of fine leather in traditional observance of the third wedding anniversary.

I guess not everyone’s priorities and life goals match up, but I know I’m digging in my heels and holding on tight at least until I get the traditional fruits and flowers that are the spoils of celebrating a whopping four years of marriage. I never thought I’d outlast some of my peers just by staying married for a fifth of a fifth of a century, but actually, when I put it that way, it kinda seems like a long time.

Within the last few weeks, I’ve witnessed a love I thought was pure and eternal disintegrate right in front of my eyes. This is a love I could’ve sworn would last forever. I’m speaking of my 2-year-old daughter Sarah’s torrid, abiding passion for Elmo. Once, he was all she would talk about. She would awake in breathless anticipation of his headwide smile and way-too-frequent, self-conscious giggle. Now, it’s like Elmo never existed, and I’m wondering if he pissed her off. I saw her rip the crap out of his picture in a book last week.

Miser in Mexico, Pt. 2

by NYM PSEUDO

—

“Jesus loves you!” Ramon calls after me. Of course Jesus loves me. Jesus would nod in admiration at how I’d bitched at Orbitz long enough to get them to throw in an “all-inclusive package” that makes kobi tuna salad, mahi mahi, filet mignon and agua purificada a series of delicacies for which I pay nada.

-From “Miser in Mexico, Pt. 1”

—

I was in Cozumel, one of the top five diving destinations in the world. I’d decided I wanted to learn to scuba dive. And the only instructors for whom I found good references were in town, a good eight kilometers from my resort. Getting to my lessons was gonna cost me six dollars each way in cab fare. Scooters were $15 a day, and cars were $25. And this cheap bastard wasn’t willing to pay for any of it.

So I hitchhiked, which is kind of a bitch, really. Seventy percent of the cars that pass you are white taxicabs. The taxi union in town is so powerful, I was told, that they’ve kept any kind of reliable bus system from getting off the ground in Cozumel. And when you stick out their thumb, they honk and yell at you, which would make me feel bad if I gave a fuck.

Christmas Muzak

by ANDREW HICKS

Every year around Thanksgiving, the musical floodgates open and heap steaming piles of reindeer dung on our listening ears. Anyone can drop a Christmas album at any time. Rick Springfield and the Captain and Tennille both released Christmas albums in 2007. Not 1982. Two thousand and freaking seven! And Toby Keith has a double-disc Christmas album! And I’ve heard it – the entire second disc is nothing but up-tempo boot-stomping songs about how Santa Claus doesn’t bring presents to towel-headed boys and girls.

Despite the flood of product, there’s really just a handful of Christmas songs, and there’s only so much you can do with the lyrics. Take: “It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas.” Now there’s an observant soul who’s been to a shopping mall sometime since September. Nice work, poetic lyricist.

Or: “I’ll be home for Christmas… if only in my dreams.” Try using that one the next time your grandma invites you to that three-hour Christmas worship service at her Pentecostal church all the way across town. “Mom, thank you, I can’t wait, and I will definitely be there… if only in my dreams.”

That logic can be applied with very broad strokes. Maybe I’ll be a multi-billionaire with magic powers and a set of blond 19-year-old twins for Christmas… if only in my dreams.

Book Review: Catcher In The Rye

by WOO

What a pile of crap. Nothing like reading 200 pages of nothing. Let me give you the condensed version:

“This one thing happened. Man I hate that. It’s so phony. Then something else happened. It killed me. I did such and such like a madman. The end.”

That’s the basic gist of this entire literary purse-snatcher. Our main character is supposed to be an angsty teenager, and this is somehow supposed to relate to the reader. I remember my teen years, but I don’t recall being an absolute ass-clown like this bastard. Holden Caulfield should be a slang term for kids that choose to screw themselves in life. If only someone in a People Killing Hat had let loose on Salinger before this shitpile missive was ever penned.

I’ll take this moment now to warn you of spoilers in the coming diatribe. I don’t know why though, because you should never read this suck-assed pile of shit.

So we follow this clusterfuck of a main character around for several days, painfully reading as he takes every possible good situation and screws it up. Why does he screw it up? Typically because he thinks it is “phony” or he “hates” it for no obvious reasons. Hell, he even goes to visit his History teacher, whom he likes and respects probably more than anyone, but becomes annoyed that this man is telling him he can and should do better.

Miser in Mexico, Pt. 1

by NYM PSEUDO

“I want to tell you about Jesus Christ,” says the smiling Mexican giving me a lift to my hotel.

Fuck. I’m almost to the Fiesta Americana Cozumel Dive Resort, a pina colada and a nap. Last thing I need right now is a speech about the Lord.

I smile. “Oh yeah! Jesus! I know all about him.”

“You go to church every Sunday?” Ramon persists.

“Of course,” I replied. “Every Sunday.”

The ride ends. I hop out.

“Jesus loves you!” Ramon calls after me.

“I know!” I yell back, hurrying away from the little red beater that’d saved me a six-dollar cab fare.

Of course Jesus loves me. Jesus would applaud me pissing off the powerful Cozumel taxi-cab union by thumbing, jogging, walking, and panting my way to and from the Fiesta. He’d nod in admiration at how I bitched at Orbitz long enough to get them to throw in an “all-inclusive package” that makes kobi tuna salad, mahi mahi, filet mignon and agua purificada a series of delicacies for which I pay nada. He’d smirk at my rebuff of the street-side vendors calling out “Hey buddy” and hawking fake Cuban cigars as I make a bee-line for Cozumel’s version of Wal-Mart, where 100 percent-agave Mezcal is a paltry $17 a fifth.

A Rather Anal Request

by WE’RE NOT FUNNY, as written by WOO

UNITED STATES–According to anonymous gluteal sources, they would just like to ask one favor of you: Get off of your ass! Our source has indicated your ass is growing quite weary of being sat on, when there are so many other body parts that do not suffer the same abuse. They would like to ask that you step it up on the job and around the house. You having been doing nothing but gaining more and more weight, and putting greater strain, literally, on your relationship with your rumpus. In an exposé released to We’re Not Funny, your caboose has expressed its want to see the world in the same way in which you do. It has grown tired of crease marks from your chairs and couches, and staring at fabric all day is not what it dreamt of in childhood. Your aft would appreciate the same rights and privileges your fore has. Booties have feelings too, and are requesting their civil liberties be respected. In closing your budonks have simply requested that you get off of them, before they have to resort to more insistent means.

The 12 Don’ts of Christmas

by MICHELLE DEE and WOO

Do you have holiday pet peeves? Aside from the term “pet peeve” itself, I mean? I’m sure we all do, and here we have decided to take note of a few for you. Perhaps you are one of the offenders. Please, take our advice, and correct your behaviors. We have a PhD In Christmas, after all.

1. Save the bow if you must, but wrapping paper is meant to be ripped open. Don’t sit there and have a 20 minute conversation with everyone waiting while you try to pry off the scotch tape. Seriously Grandma, this one is for you. Stop denying it now!

2. Always bring the hostess a gift, but not cheese balls/logs. If everyone brings cheese balls the rest will go spoiled before the first one is ever used. I think we all can relate to spoiled cheesy balls. Oh yes you can, go take a shower! How about your bring Wine instead. Wine is better with age, and your family is more acceptable when you’re sloshed.

Drink Order

by Andrew Hicks

Imagine yourself as a longtime restaurant server, and picture the following scenario: You walk up to a table. A man is sitting alone with one menu in front of him and one across from him. You approach him and toss off a casual, “Hello, how are you?” He shoots back, “I’m waiting for my wife!” You have to imagine this guy’s gruff response as a moderately toned-down version of Harrison Ford’s line in The Fugitive, where he’s in the giant sewer pipe waterfall and he barks to Tommy Lee Jones, “I didn’t kill my wife!” That’s the basic delivery.

Okay, yes, I see you’re waiting for your wife, you think. You say, “Well, is there something you’d like me to bring you to drink in the meantime?” Now the Man With Two Menus is more insistent in his reponse, more like Tommy Lee Jones in the same Fugitive scene, where Tommy yells out, “I don’t care!” The MWTM looks at you like you’re crazy and offers a clipped, “I’ll wait for my wife.” At that point, you excuse yourself from the table for a lengthy minute.

WNF Holiday Shopping Guide, Pt. 2

by We’re Not Funny as written by Woo

We’re back, with more amazing items for your perusal! This is more exciting than Cop Rock!

Yeah, you’re reading that correctly. I said yes already! Subtle Butt, ok? These rectangular strips of fabric and activated carbon are your stinky asses new best-friend. Or your best-friend’s stinky asses new best… chance at having more friends than just you? It’s not your fault you were born with no scent receptors, stop your whining! Forget your impotent smellbuds and think of someone else for a change! This compact fart filter is yearning to slide down the crack of your rancid ass right now. Your only other options are complete social ostracization, or shoving actual charcoal right into the starfish’s mouth. Save the charcoal for the grill, and get these for those bologna blocks you call an ass. And, hey, while you’re over there ordering cloth stickers for your budonk, why not look at a few of their other products: Knicker Stickers, Delicates Defender, Nipplomats, The Perk Up, Skid out, and Drip Sticks. You can’t write this shit folks.

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What’s In A Name?

by We’re Not Funny as written by Woo

Before we here at We’re Not Funny, were called as such, we really did not know what to call ourselves. We had our vision (to be the hot friend your mom had inappropriate thoughts about), and our plan of action for the ‘Zine. We were just stuck on choosing a name. We all did some brainstorming on my Facebook wall, and while none of those ideas ever worked out, there were some worth noting.

Several sprang out right away:

• Feed Glenn Beck To Alligators
• Inarticulate Articles
• Space Balls, The Magazine
• And A Midget

None of these seemed to have the feel we were looking for. Even Andrews following idea and explanation, while guffaw-inducing, did not work out for us. “They once asked me to help name a porn film that had stoned foot fetishists in a pancake restaurant. I told ’em to call it High F*ck-Toes Porn Syrup.”

WikiFreaks

by We’re Not Funny

We’re Not Funny, like the rest of you, has been bombarded with media coverage and words of soundbite wisdom from TV talking heads about WikiLeaks, the controversial site that releases classified government information online. Much of the information that’s been leaked so far basically consists of mundane gossip about foreign dignitaries. It reminds us of that scene in Mean Girls where all the secret gossip about the junior class in the Burn Book gets photocopied and spread around school.

WikiLeaks has become so talked-about that online porn parody sites are already starting to rear their (wiki-)freak heads. Now nipple fetishists can visit WikiTweaks.com or watch shy virgins break out of their shells at WikiMeeks.com. Look hard enough in the adult crates at the flea market and you may even find an old-school VHS copy of Helen of Troy and the “Trojan Horse” in the Greased Palm Award-winning 1986 classic WikiGreeks.