Intolerance is Genetic

by RICHARD WENTZ
edited by ANDREW HICKS

 

—

Everett recounts the events of his trip to San Francisco via cordless phone.

I don’t make the following statement lightly — intolerance is genetic. Submitted for your approval, my supporting life experience:

It had been a couple of years since my mother married her sixth (yes, sixth) husband. This new guy, Everett, was exactly what my my mother wanted: someone whom she could physically overpower and be intellectually superior to. She got what she wanted, clearly.

My mom and Everett came to visit my wife and me a couple years back. We planned a day trip to San Francisco, spending the entire drive explaining to my new backwoods stepdad that the city was teeming with people who had different beliefs and lifestyles than his.

 

In the course of conversation, Everett was dealt fair warning that San Fran was, in his words, “infested with the gays.” He made it clear he wouldn’t start a fight, “as long as no guy tries to touch my cooter or my pooper.” This seemed unlikely to happen unless we ran into a relocated hillbilly with an inbred-papa fetish. Or just some hyper-liberal with a fetish for forbidden fruit. Once this was settled, we addressed my apparent lifelong misunderstanding of what exactly constituted a cooter.

 

We arrived in town, and took a walk along the wharf. About seven minutes in, Everett exploded in emotion: “OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD, LOIS ANN! DID YOU SEE THAT?” Everett had spun around and was vigorously pointing at a biracial couple who stood just a few yards away. Needless to say, they heard his exclamation.

 

“What?!” my mom asked, clearly alarmed.“Those two fellers just kissed!”

So over walked Marcus and Darren, the biracial gay couple. Marcus was an extremely well-defined black man — 6 feet, 4 inches of pure muscle. His main concern was figuring out why this scrawny Howdy Doody doppelganger was wagging his hate finger at him and his partner.

Marcus, my wife and I addressed Everett in overlapping phrases.
MARCUS: What exactly is the problem?
MY WIFE: What is your problem? (Her first words to him since the trip began, by the way.)
ME: Dude, calm down. (I was personally hoping to avoid getting my ass kicked by Ebony and Ivory.)

“That guy just kissed that guy,” said Everett, balancing his hate finger between the two like a metronome.“Everett,” I began calmly again, “we told you that could happen. This is the most gay-friendly city in the world.”“Oh, I’ve got no problem with the HOMOsexuals.” Everett replied.

“Then what’s the issue?” My mother was clearly bothered.

“I don’t mind if one feller wants to kiss another feller, but that feller’s BLACK.” Everett’s finger had landed on Marcus, clearly for the last time.

Mixed-race ass beating, here we come…

Marcus spoke again, in a voice that showed more control than his throbbing neck and forehead veins. “You are okay with two men kissing, but not if one of them is black?” He turned to me and said, “Tell me you aren’t related to this guy.”“No, this is my mother’s husband.” I spun around to implicate my mom in her poor choice of men, but she and my wife were nowhere to be found. They must’ve made the quick decision to do some bargain shopping somewhere more peaceful.

 

I quickly explained our visit to him, emphasizing the fact that you can take the hillbilly out of the holler, but you can’t eliminate the brain-drain of many generations of inbreeding. Everett stood there nodding his head in agreement, not knowing exactly what my multisyllabic words meant but certainly realizing I was insulting him for the sake of saving his ass.

 

In the end, Ebony and Ivory decided it wasn’t worth it and strolled off toward a more tolerant corner of the wharf. Had we been trapped in a sitcom, they would’ve each given Everett a sloppy kiss before their departure, but in real life, no one wants to kiss that dude but my mom.

 

She’s still married to Everett, and there’s still plenty of pictures from our San Francisco trip. In the background of just about every picture, there’s an attractive biracial gay couple in the background, holding hands, kissing or otherwise clearly indicating they’re there, queer and proud of it. Everett, for all his prejudice, can’t stop progress.

Idiomatic

"A Fool And His Money Are Easily Parted." Very easily, I assume, as I don't even remember having any money.

by WOO

“A House Divided Against Itself Cannot Stand.” Unless it was just a double-wide mobile home being moved.

“A Bird In The Hand Is Worth Two In The Bush.” A dick in the hand isn’t getting any ‘bush.’ That’s why it’s in the hand.

“A Leopard Can’t Change His Spots.” Which is very unfortunate for the summer fashion season.

“You Can’t Judge A Book By Its Cover.” You can, however, judge its author.

Broken News, June 26, 2011

by WE’RE NOT FUNNY
edited by WOO

—

Ryan Dunn both drunk and speeding @ time of crash

Film recently obtained from MTV Productions, makers of Jackass, shows Dunn just before entering his vehicle for its fated rendezvous, making the statement, ‎”I’m Ryan Dunn, and this is Fatal Crash.”

What a Jackass…

—

New Android Phone Works Even After Bathing in Sweat

Finally, a phone women can carry around in nature’s holster, the underboob.

Now nothing has to stop for a text or Facebook status update. People will be swexting — having sloppy, sweaty sex, while also texting their buddies about how awesome or lousy it is. Who are we kidding; is sex ever bad for men?

While unable to reach anyone via phone for comment, we did receive a written statement from Sony Ericcson as follows: “Because Apple and iPhone refused to accept that 77% of their market was sweaty overweight men, we have developed the Xperia to cater exclusively to them. We look forward to shaking their clammy, fat hands.”

Dear 16-Year-Old Self

by ALLISON STEIN and THE WOMEN OF WNF
edited by ANDREW HICKS

—

Dear 16-year-old self: You're gonna grow up to be Demi Moore in overalls.

Dear 16-year-old self:

• Your brother’s obsession with hand lotion is NOT because he has dry skin.

• Just because you don’t have boobs yet doesn’t mean that you wont have D’s later on in life. But your boyfriend who told you, in the back seat of his mom’s car, that his small penis is going to “get bigger” when he reaches full-on adulthood… well, that kid is sadly mistaken.

• Penis is nothing to be afraid of. It is to be mastered and conquered, and with that comes immeasurable power.

• Weed isn’t that bad, and your mom will never notice. Just try it.

• You know how you wanted to get your period so you could be a real woman? Yeah, it sucks, don’t it?

Devil’s Guide to the 21st Century

by TONY FYLER
edited by ANDREW J HICKS

—

[EDITOR’S NOTE: Tony Fyler presents the following definitions with respectful acknowledgment to the great journalist Ambrose Bierce, who wrote the original Devil’s Dictionary in 1911. -AJH]

—

A: Indefinite article. (See also: “Sarah Palin’s Brain.”)

Advertising: A subtle combination of lies, damned lies and statistics.

American football: A good run, ruined.

Axis of Evil: A collective term for the nations of Iran, Iraq and North Korea. Any student of geography or geometry of course knows that these three countries do not form an axis of any kind. If using straight lines, they are at best an Angle of Evil. If curves are allowed into the proposition, they become an Arc of Evil. Both of these more accurate terms, however, were discarded as being insufficiently terrifying.

The Margarita Machine

by LOLA TUCKER
edited by ANDREW HICKS

—

Lola Tucker's divorced female friend doesn't have time to shave her arms since she got ahold of the Buffett margarita machine.

Last night, as a gift to myself, I trekked across town to the home of a friend who just finalized her divorce. She lives in a bachelorette rental paradise where she doesn’t have to deal with anyone else’s laundry, mess, hairs in the bathroom sink or unflushed toilets. Best of all, on the counter of her perfectly decorated kitchen bar area is — drumroll, please — a JIMMY BUFFETT MARGARITA MACHINE.

I found myself coveting it, longing for it. It was huge, nearly large enough to drown every ounce of stress that is currently plaguing my life. It shaved the ice instead of crushing it, and it even had a cool compartment that drained off any water that had melted from the ice, so it wouldn’t water down your drinks.

What an engineering marvel. I mean it. If any nominating member of the Nobel Prize committee is reading this, forget about that scientist who figured out how to self-replicate life with synthetic DNA, and give some props to the inventor of the Buffett margarita machine instead.

Song Challenge 17: Favorite Tune About Drugs and/or Alcohol

edited by ANDREW HICKS
creatively conceived by J.MIZ

—

"Ever since he started listening to The Velvet Underground, Jesus steals all my good heroin."

JESSICA STIMSON
“Why Don’t We Get Drunk and Screw,” by Jimmy Buffett. Because, really, what more is there to say?

ANDREW J HICKS
If it was me, the song would be called “Why Don’t We Get To That Fine-Line BAC Level Where You Don’t Look Ugly Anymore But My Dick Still Works (And, At That Point, Have Some Sex).”

JESSICA STIMSON
Same difference. You callin’ me ugly?

ANDREW J HICKS
You callin’ me a drunk?

INSCRUTABLE JEFFREY TROTTER
Split Lip Rayfield‘s “A Little More Cocaine, Please” shows a measure of polite society one isn’t accustomed to seeing in your standard coke fiend.

ERTEL GRAY
Gonna go out on a limb here, but how about “Heroin” by The Velvet Underground? I feel sorry for today’s bands — all the good drugs already have a famous song named after them. All anyone can do now is pen a soft and somber tune about the horrors of caffeine addiction.

INSCRUTABLE JEFFREY TROTTER
The Velvet Underground has two more overt heroin songs — “I’m Waiting For the Man” and “Run, Run, Run” — and another one about amphetamines (“White Light/White Heat“). They also have quite a few songs about cross-dressers and transvestites. I love this band.

WOO
Smile Empty Soul said it best: “I do it for the drugs / I do it just to feel alive / I do it for the love / That I get from the bottom of a bottle.” Just beautiful. What a grand song for an opioid enjoyer like me.

ANDREW J HICKS
Woo, when’s the next party at your house?

SCOTTY HARRIS
Fuck all y’all and your pro-drug songs — “That Smell” by Lynyrd Skynyrd takes the cake.

ANDREW J HICKS
I think the song is actually called “Thyt Smyll.”

INSCRUTABLE JEFFREY TROTTER
I know it’s lame to admit liking anything from Cypress Hill, but I give them kudos for their sample of Dusty Springfield‘s “Son of a Preacher Man” on their tune “Hits from the Bong.” I saw them at Lollapalooza and Smokin’ Grooves. They actually roll out a giant, smoke-spewing bong onstage for that song. Can’t say they aren’t showmen.

EMILY TOOPS
Trotter’s right. I know it’s shameful to openly and unabashedly enjoy Cypress Hill, but “Dr. Greenthumb” has an incredibly sick beat. And, of course, Bob Dylan‘s “Rainy Day Women No. 12 & 35 (Everybody Must Get Stoned).” Hearing Dylan’s abrasive-ass voice for any period of time makes you wanna toke up.

INSCRUTABLE JEFFREY TROTTER
The lyrics to “Feel Good Hit of the Summer” by Queens of the Stone Age are nothing but a roll call of drugs, repeated over and over. (“Nicotine, Valium, Vicodin, Marijuana, Ecstasy and Alcohol.”) Then the chorus is “C-c-c-c-c-c-c-c-cocaine.” Also repeated over and over. It’s songs like this that make me think I could be a competent lyricist.

J.MIZ
I’m a big fan of “Daisy Chain for Satan” by My Life With the Thrill Kill Kult. I LIVE FOR DRUGS! I’M THE WHITE RABBIT! And Curtis Mayfield‘s “Pusherman” from the Superfly soundtrack always makes me wish I was rockin’ a long body and slangin’ that smack.

RYAN KRAUSE
Check out these lyrics from “Crazed Country Rebel” by Hank Williams III: “I was trippin’ on some acid a Latino gave to me / I was smoking morphine till it knocked me off my feet / Then I scored some ‘H’ from my old Uncle Pete / Now I’m startin’ to feel like I might’ve OD’d.”

PROBABLY MATT LINVILLE
All you guys are wrong. The best drug song ever is a 112-way tie between every song released by Afroman.

More Pearls of Wisdom from J.Miz

by J.MIZ
edited by ANDREW HICKS

—

• 

  This season's trendy sheep costume for wolves includes fully functioning facial features and 400-threadcount Egyptian cotton.

  When life gives you lemons, rub one out and take a nap.

• A wolf in sheep’s clothing should not be feared. Rather, it should be revered as nature’s most fabulous tranny.

• Every cloud has a silver lining that will turn your neck green.

• It’s only after walking a mile in another man’s shoes that you can truly realize, that guy’s a prick!

• Two in the bush is worth one in the stink.

• There’s more than one way to skin a cat, but most are illegal except in the Appalachians.

• It takes a village to run a brothel.

• When you wish upon a star, God kills a kitten somewhere in Iowa.

• The straw that broke the camel’s back was a fat woman named Enid from Queens.

• “It’s not the size of the boat, it’s the motion of the ocean,” is a stone cold lie.

• Music calms the glowsticked raver.

• The family that prays together is not that different from Jonestown.

• Man cannot live on meth alone.

• “See no evil, speak no evil, hear no evil,” is why good hookers are expensive.

• Tomorrow is a new day for life to kick you square in the dick.

• Don’t bite the hand that feeds you, unless of course you’re a cannibal.

• The first step is admitting that you’re powerless over assholes and need to find new friends.

• If at first you don’t succeed, try roofies and KY.

• Time waits for no man, and sadly some men don’t wait for you to cum.

• Certainty? In this world, nothing is certain but HPV and porn.

• Putting all your eggs in one basket is basically what goes on with Mormons and the British monarchy.

• All that glitters can be found in Lil Wayne’s closet.

• Love thy brother as thyself. Dutch Rudders do not make you gay.

• Spare the rod and spoil the woman, because dildos are so much better.

• Don’t count your chickens before you make an omelette.

• Where two or more are gathered in my name, that is a J.Miz fan club.

—

EDITOR’S NOTE: Read the original “Pearls of Wisdom from J.Miz” here.

Broken News, June 20, 2011

by WE’RE NOT FUNNY
edited by WOO

—

Cows churn out “human breast milk”

The Chinese playing god with my breast milk? I don’t think so. Just another way for that damn Nazi Obama, the socialist bastard,  to piss on Lady Liberty’s udders, and I will not stand for it! America used to mean something! This and more tonight with me, Glenn Beck.

What will they call it, “I Can’t Believe It’s Not Breast Milk”?

—

Bono’s “Spider-Man” musical still weak, critics say

Perhaps Bono should go back to making world peace, rather than giving the world pieces of crap?

On the positive side of reviews, Former President Bill Clinton is quoted as saying, “It was so good I needed a cigar and a fat girl afterwards. Not necessarily in that order.”

Rapture 2: This Time It’s Personal

by TONY FYLER
edited by ANDREW HICKS

—

So where were you for the Rapture? Check this out for big hairy man-balls – not content with the whole “meeting Jesus in the clouds” thing, I got on a plane over the US and flew up to meet the dude at the Reality Turnpike.

Nothing. Nada. Not so much as a sacred sandal. Which leads me to a question: considering all the vast wealth accumulated by churches that follow the guy’s alleged teaching, has anyone thought about buying Jesus a really kickass alarm clock? Because he seems about as reliable as a twentysomething stoner after a major bong sesh. Hmm… note to self: contact Mel Gibson re: The Return of the Christ, starring Seth Rogen…

Dude, where's my apocalypse? DUDE!

Anyway, so there I was, thousands of feet in the clouds, waiting for His Nibs to make an appearance, and of course, abbbbbsolutely nothing happened. Well, technically, a couple of people tried to kill themselves or their loved ones (the logic of which is what, exactly? Avoiding the lines at the Pearly Gates?), but other than that, the world – just like Jesus – missed the memo that it was Game Over, and kept turning as previously advertised.

Daddy Lessons

by WE’RE NOT FUNNY
edited by ANDREW J HICKS

—

"Yeah, yeah, I'm lickin' your balls..."

[EDITOR’S NOTE: On this Hallmark holiday that finishes a distant third to Valentine’s and Mother’s Day, the fathers on the WNF staff have united to share a few words of (mostly immature) wisdom to all the dads and expecting dads who might be reading. Which probably won’t be many, given that our readership demographic is 91% female since Friday’s “Shit Bags” post. Also, a couple of our contributors who don’t have kids felt the need to contribute anyway, proving they don’t pay a lick of attention to instruction. I’m just desperate enough for material that I’m using their jokes anyway. Happy Father’s Day, everyone! –AJH]

—

• When the labels say “Keep out of reach of children,” remember your children will be able to reach about twice as far as you think they can.

• Any time you change a diaper, you’re engaging in a delicate game of Russian Roulette. Maybe not this time, and maybe not next time, but one of these times, you’re gonna get smoked.

• You will think your kids are awesome. You will think everyone else’s kids suck. This is how the other parents feel, too.

• When potty training your toddler, you will have to juggle the actions of wiping your little one’s bum and preventing the dog from eating baby poop.

Suburban Unemployment Blues

by EMILY TOOPS
edited by ANDREW HICKS

—

Emily Toops seeks gainful employment as bench swing guarder. So far, all her bench swing guarding work has been done on a pro bono basis.

As a 19 year old who’s never held down a job, doesn’t have a driver’s license and isn’t planning on returning to college next year, I often hear phrases like, “You need to sort out your priorities,” “Get your life together, dammit,” and, “What did I do to deserve such a sorry excuse for a daughter?”

When I was a kid, I always assumed that at 19, I’d have accomplished all my dreams. I’d be a well-received actress living in a swanky apartment in Chicago’s super-elite Gold Coast neighborhood with my boyfriend Orlando Bloom, summer property in Barbados and Steve Martin on speed dial. I now realize in order to make this childhood dream come true, I do, in fact, need to get my life together and find me a job. Which isn’t as easy as it sounds.

A lot of the ol’ “go-to” ideas that instantly come to mind when considering first-time employment have already been exhausted. Babysitting isn’t going to happen. I hate children with an intensity that puts me somewhere between the psychos of lore who hand out arsenic-laced candy on Halloween and crotchety old people who like to scream at local young’uns to “get the hell off my lawn.” The kids who live in my neighborhood are tiny minions of Satan, and I’d sooner exorcise them than watch them for an hour. All the little bastards around here have nannies, anyway.

An Amazing New Product: Santorum Shit Bags

by ERIC DOHMAN and ANDREW HICKS
edited by ANDREW HICKS and WOO

—

OAKLAND, CALIF. — The Clorox Company, parent corporation of Glad Trash Bags, is scheduled to launch a new specialty product line this week called Santorum Shit Bags.

The plastic Shit Bags, which resemble a four-gallon kitchen trash bag with holes, will be stocked in supermarkets and drugstores next to adult diapers. However, company execs are quick to point out that the Santorum Shit Bag is a completely new, innovative product.

“This is not a diaper, this is something that was pioneered by the indigent community. We thank them for their homeless, pantsless efforts,” said Clorox Corporation CEO Donald Knauss.

This Week in J.Miz, Volume 6

by J.MIZ
edited by ANDREW HICKS

—

If the J.Miz's Cougar Pops truck is a'rockin', it probably means the nearest high school has let out for the day.

WEDNESDAY

The next time I see cupcakes in a bar, I’m gonna start punching white people.

About to go from living solo to cohabitation. I am beginning to realize the necessity of censoring my flatulence.

My guy friend was saying how awesome the Jedi mind trick would be for getting laid. Then I realized, I have that! It’s called a vagina!

I’m so committed to being a cougar I bought an ice cream truck that only plays “Milkshake” by Kelis.

Sobriety’s made me socially awkward. When I go out I still pretend to drink, I act wasted, and I walk home shamefully the next morning.

TUESDAY

When I see a fat kid with fat parents, I feel bad. I mean, those poor parents are stuck having to love a fat kid!

No matter who you are, what you do or what you think, you do not have haters. You’re not that important. To anyone. That is all.

I’ll know I’ve hit rock bottom when I fuck a ventriloquist, a guy who does impressions or that dude who wanted me to call his cock a “crank.”

My mom is always stealing my lighters. I hate it! And besides, at her age, she should really stop smoking crack.

My cat just pooped on my futon. I was angry until I did some quick math and figured out that, long term, it would be more cost-effective than using kitty litter.

 

Porn Stars Rush To Aid Weiner

by ERTEL GRAY and J.MIZ
edited by ANDREW HICKS

—

We feel bad for chicks. Now when they Google "wiener pics," this is what they have to work with.

NEW YORK – Recently disgraced U.S. House Representative Anthony Weiner, deeply embroiled in a recent Twitter/nude penis photo scandal, found unlikely allies among the nation’s top male adult film stars.

“We’re here to lend our support. It’s a shame that our country is so desperate for scandal that we’ve resorted to a modern-day Salem Witch Trial, ” noted James “Buster Banger” Edmunson, 37, star of the Adult Video News Award-winning smut masterpiece The Semen Bitch Trials and 350 other skin flicks.

Martin “Ricky Spankadocious” Francis, 41, is a gay-for-pay adult film star and chairman of the porn industry free-speech activist group Don’t Be A Punk, Show Your Junk. He told WNF reporters he has posted pictures of his penis on various social media websites, including Twitter, Facebook, MySpace, 4Chan, ChatRoulette, eHarmony.com, Google Earth, Craigslist, Bing, AskJeeves and RamenNoodleRecipes.com.

“Chances are if you’ve ever entered the search terms ‘Midget,’ ‘Sex,’ ‘Midget Sex,’ or ‘Choke Me While I Cry And Masturbate On Your Yearbook Photo’ anywhere on the Internet, you’ve seen my work,” said Francis. “I’d place Weiner’s below-waist self-portraits right up there with my finest photography. It would be a shame to silence such a master craftsman.”

When I Was A Kid In The 80’s…

by ANNE GARDNER and ANDREW HICKS
edited by WOO and ANDREW HICKS

—

Wait, that's not a box of Chicken McNuggets, it's a crazy Transformer hanging out in a fake styrofoam box!

There were no gender-specific McDonald’s Happy Meal toys back in the day. Boy or girl, you got the same toy, like it or not. They were shitty, and they got exactly one play session — during the ride home — before being sentenced to life imprisonment in the toy box. Now kids get Barbie dolls and Littlest Pet Shop (“That’s who!”) figurines. I’m talking the real toys.  Lucky kids. Of course, these children are fatter, slower and weaker now than we were, but whatever. I still feel ripped off.

There were TWO different brown M&M’s during my childhood. A light brown and a dark brown. Someone must’ve misheard the acronym for the colors of the rainbow — “Broy G. Biv,” or some shit. The company finally realized brown was one color and killed the lighter-skinned M&M, but I wonder what kind of personality the light brown M&M would’ve had if it’d survived to be a part of the current ad campaign. Like the green one’s all sexy, the yellow one’s a fatass with a comb-over, the red one is gay… what would the light brown one have been like? Social reject? Awkward jokester? Corner pouter at the cocktail party? Or would he just get pulled over by cops all the time because he’s BROWN?

Woo’s News, June 13, 2011

by WOO

—

US Scores Three More Insider-Trading Convictions

There are criminals on Wall Street. Who fucking knew?

Vancouver’s Lapierre finds success to the max after leaving Ducks

Wait… this is about hockey? Can’t seem to give a shit…

Facebook IPO seen moving ahead in first quarter

So a nerd found out how to make money off of people posting status updates every time the weather changes by two degrees, they eat dinner, suffer gastrointestinal issues, or find a Youtube video mildly enjoyable. Just think, everytime you tell us about your second cousin’s graduation, or post a photo of a kitten talking jibberish, it’s worth cold hard cash, to someone else.

That’s Not Funny…

Print it out and sign it, you unfunny twatwaffle.

… according to PAUL LAO
edited by WOO

[Editors Note: This piece, while containing plenty of humor, is more of an advice column for those striving in the Stand-Up comedy arena. We could all use advise from one who has been around, and we all know Paul Lao has been around!] 

I have been doing stand up for 8 years and I know how to spot a hack, a train wreck, a complete waste of time.  Here is (from my findings) what I consider to make one suck at the hard art:

1. Don’t hate fuck the crowd.
If you think this is going to go well because you shocked the crowd with a raping grandma’s corpse joke while curb stomping a baby, then guess again.  Also don’t talk shit about the venue, the owner, the staff, and the audience.  You are there to make people laugh. At least start with a welcome and a smile before you decide to fist them with no lube.  Wait for them to wrong you then come down on them with furious vengeance.

2. Don’t dress up and make a joke about it.
Resourcefulness is a very admirable attribute when we think of a hero.  And what’s worse than to give him/her a situation that they are completely prepared for?  Diehard would have sucked if John McClane had the Ironman suit.  I have seen guys wear Hawaiian Shirts, 3 piece suits, hats of every genre, t-shirts, props glued to their chest, a doll house on their head, and a guy who slammed his hands on his shorts and popped red fake blood onto the floor.  If you make a joke about a circumstance that you put yourself in you will not get any laughs because the surprise isn’t there.  Or the punch is going to be weak if they see it coming.  Comedy is about misdirection and an awakening of the mind.

Do material about the body you are born with, and how you deal with it.

Pearls of Wisdom from J.Miz

by J.MIZ
edited by ANDREW HICKS

• 

  Tell ya who Nancy Reagan DIDN'T "just say no" to -- Frank Sinatra. Bow chicka wow wow!

  If at first you don’t succeed, try something you don’t suck at.

• To thine own self be true, but lie to others so you look better.

• What goes up must defy physics, so catch that shit, exploit it, and sell it by the gram.

• That which does not kill us only proves it’s a pussy.

• Misery loves hostages.

• Those who see the glass as half-full are optimists. Those who see it as half-empty are alcoholics.

• Just say no way am I passing up free drugs.

• He who laughs last is retarded and didn’t get the joke.

• Rome wasn’t built in a day, because they didn’t have enough Africans and Jews.

• Silence now has less value than gold.

• If you love somebody, set them free. If they come back, they obviously didn’t hear about your new boyfriend.

Prince’s Birthday Itinerary

by ANDREW HICKS and WE’RE NOT FUNNY

1 pm - Play symbol-shaped guitar in field of blue fiber optic wires and purple posies while a sheep looks on.

The Purple One turned 51 yesterday, and it was a special birthday for the little man. We know it was special because WNF operatives managed to get ahold of his symbol-shaped day planner. Here’s how Prince planned to spend his birthday time:

5 am – Get woken up by alarm clock that blurts out “Ch-Ch-Ch-Chaka Chaka Chaka Khan Chaka Khan, Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Chaka Chaka Ch-Ch-Ch-Chaka Khan, Chaka Khan.”

5:30 am – Eat bowl of Cap’n Crunch with soy milk.

6 am – Open blinds, check to see if sky is all purple and people are running everywhere.

6:30-8 am – Do Pilates while listening to 90-minute version of “Batdance.”

8:15 am – Finally shave off that eighth grade mustache.

9 am – Walk door to door asking neighbors if they’re ready for Jehovah’s return.

10 am – Call Rebecca Black. Ask her if she’s interested in collaborating on a song about Hump Day. When she excitedly says yes, laugh loudly, scream “No way, bitch!” and hang up.

‎10:15 am – Grab aloe vera tissue, gently wipe away tears from eyes of pet dove.

10:30 am – Go online and see if there are any sweet new axes on PhallicGuitars.com.
‎

11 am – Open package in the mail, roll eyes when it turns out to be a strawberry beret. Realize your friends don’t know you at all.

Reg Strikes Back

by ERTEL GRAY
edited by ANDREW HICKS

—

An epic battle is waged between Ertel and his supposed twin at a convenience store that is very, very blue.

Ever have a friend come up to you and say, “Man, you look EXACTLY like ______ who works at _______”? My buddy recently told me there was a dude at a Sunoco convenience store who was my twin. I couldn’t figure out for the life of me who in his right mind would want to look like me. Was it a lack-of-self-respect thing? Did this other me not realize I already had the market cornered on the disheveled, night-fry-cook-at-Denny’s look?

Totally off the subject, but a waiter once remarked to me that I look a lot like “an older Elton John.” An older Elton? That fucker’s like 65. I left the dude a .000001% tip, which was less than a penny, so I actually left him a rudely worded IOU instead of a tip. However, in honor of the Tiny Dancer himself, I’m going to name my nameless body double “Reg,” which was Elton’s nickname before he was Elton.

In my head, I kept hearing the phrase, “You look just like____” until it consumed me. I started having visions of Highlander-style epic sword battles with my doppelganger*. So, after a sensible breakfast, some impromptu sword training courtesy of Nintendo Wii tennis, and a bagged lunch of various condiment packages I stole from Wendy’s, I had to drive to the Sunoco store to meet Reg.

Song Challenge 16: Most Irritating Kids’ Song

edited by ANDREW HICKS
creatively conceived by J.MIZ

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You know what makes you wiggle? Meth.

SARACAKES
The lyrics to “The Alphabet Song” are kinda lame.

JESSICA STIMSON
Barney‘s theme song: “I love you, you love me / Mommy’s gonna need some PCP.”

ALLISON STEIN
Everything by Barney sucks. Barney needs to die in a horrible, fiery car explosion after having his prostate examined by a doctor nicknamed Big Knuckles McGee.

J.MIZ
I think anything Barney needs to be mind-sucked from every generation that had to endure that Clockwork Orange-type shit! If I saw that as a kid, I’d be shitting my bed every night… Instead, there are other reasons.

ERTEL GRAY
I gotta go with that “Fruit Salad” song by The Wiggles. Scratch that — anything ever recorded, uttered or even remotely associated with The Wiggles gets my vote.

PROBABLY MATT LINVILLE
I would say “The Potty Dance Song,” but I kinda burned it onto a CD, and I kinda listen to it like every day now.

ANNE GARDNER
“The Cuppy Cake Song.” I don’t think I even need to explain why I hate it. Click the link. You’ll hate it too.

RYAN KRAUSE
Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen‘s “Peanut Butter,” from their hit album Brother For Sale. The Olsen/ twins are so young in this song that they sound like a duo of metally handicapped adult ladies. Kinda funny how I would’ve loved to smother them both in peanut butter and lick it off when I was 18. (I can say that shit. Mary Kate and Ashley are the same age as me.)

ANDREW HICKS
I’d lick peanut butter off either Olsen twin or both simultaneously. (I can say that shit. I love peanut butter that much.)

Ode to Golden Grahams

by ANNE GARDNER
edited by ANDREW HICKS

Anne Gardner expects a lifetime supply of Golden Grahams when the WNF website finally takes off.

Golden Grahams, my obsession,
My delicious squared perfection,
You tempt me with your honey glaze,
Your tiny grooves, your tasty ways.
Little flake of flavor blast,
Too many days have gone past
Since I’ve explored your crunchy clout,
Too much time, I’ve gone without.
But my hips are way too big
To keep indulging like a pig;
But when the fat has gone away,
A family-sized box, I’ll pay
For and indulge in, all at one time,
O Golden Grahams, sweetness sublime.

Thanking A Wiz

by JAMES DRAPER
edited by ANDREW HICKS

Leonardo da Vinci: Terrific at art, not so terrific at personal grooming.

Comedy is the world’s last true form of wizardry. There are no smoke or mirrors to make you think something has changed or happened. There’s simply a wave of the hand, or magic words said and poof, you’ve become something else. Your physical being has changed in an instant. You begin breathing hard and fast. You start exclaiming out loud with laughter. You feel a connection, and something has magically tickled your brain, stomach, and heart. Out of thin air, you are now happy or, in some cases, pissed off. You might be terribly offended, or you may feel a little awkward or left out. Something is now there that, moments ago, wasn’t.

Comedy also makes many things disappear, such as sadness or contentment. In most cases, it can obliterate boredom. These “spells” can last for days or weeks. Even years later, you will remember something so damn funny or offensive that you’ll repeat it to others, making the magic spread even further than the room it was delivered in. Your thoughts and emotions have been twisted by the magical arrangement of words and movement. The hypnotic rhythm of the delivery and its poignancy grasped you, and you’re changed in some way, whether you wanted it to happen or not.

Dear Ex: Anonymous Kiss-Offs

edited by ANDREW HICKS
creatively conceived by ALLISON STEIN

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Dear Ex: You were not as attractive as I led you to believe.

Dear Ex: Thanks for all the child support. You’re not her father.

Dear Ex: I feel like I can tell you now — you don’t have to pray about EVERYthing. Pretty sure you’ve got the green light from the Almighty if you wanna have a popsicle.

Dear Ex: I’d undercook your meat sometimes.

Dear Ex: I still laugh my ass off that the guy you married after me turned out to be huuuuuugely gay. Not mature, but funny as hell.

Dear Ex: Weekday daddy busted a jizzload on your side of the bed.

Dear Ex: I made out with your mom more than I made out with you. And she was better at it. But that’s no secret.

Dear Ex: Remember how I said you were the best sex I ever had? The only orgasms I ever had during our marriage were the ones I gave myself. Thanks for nothing. Love, Me.

Dear Ex: I could tell you were not a habitual marijuana smoker when we got high and you spent the next two hours scratching down your entire body while singing a song called “Itchy Time.”

Dear Ex: Your brother used to try to have sex with me every time you weren’t home.

Dear Ex: I find it completely hilarious that I actually slept with more women than you did, and they were better in bed.

Dear Ex: I still get good laughs telling people how, every time you saw a stray dog or cat walking on the side of the road, you would stop the car, pull over, throw open the passenger side door and yell, “Go home! Go home! Go home, doggy! You have a home! Go there and be safe!”

Dear Ex: Your mother doesn’t love you. She told me once she wished you’d never been born.

Dear Ex: We might have worked out if we hadn’t been so hopelessly incompatible in bed. We made the best of it, but in all fairness, your squeaking noises during sex ruined the mood. Also, it would have helped if your dick stayed hard the whole time.

Dear Ex: Dental hygiene is important. Brush up!

Dear Ex: I used your toothbrush to clean the sink. Every time.

Dear Ex: I fucked a random Italian man the night before our wedding.

Dear Ex: Your hair is not growing back in. Not even a little, so stop spending the equivalent of the national deficit on Rogaine. You’re fucking bald.

Dear Ex: Remember that night you were so drunk, but you swore we had sex? We didn’t. I had sex with your best friend. You watched from a chair in the corner, holding your dick in your hand.

Dear Ex: If I’d known when I left that you’d become an evangelical Christian… nah, screw it, I still would have left.

Dear Ex: I appreciate you staying in contact with me for seven or eight years after I broke up with you, saying you always wanted to be friends. I do find it curious, however, that since you’ve married that doctor, I haven’t heard a single word.

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CONTRIBUTORS: Allison Stein, Lola Tucker, Andrew Hicks, J.Miz, Tony Fyler, Woo

POLL: Tell Your Catholic Priest

CONTRIBUTORS: Jeff Bailey, Eric Dohman, Buddah Eskew, Scotty Harris, Lola Tucker

This Week in J.Miz, Volume 5

by J.MIZ
edited by ANDREW HICKS

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J.Miz-brand Shellack: Now available in Jewfro Strength!

MONDAY

Men who ask me out and have no notion of dating etiquette will be asking out a lot more girls.

Today, I start hiding people in my Facebook news feed. It’s like a modern day book burning of sorts.

There’s a group of dudes outside talking. I wish all those bros* would shut up and just let the South African dude talk. I don’t know what he’s saying, but it’s HOT!

*white meathead guys

My white friend just used the phrase “dip set” in a sentence. Correctly. #NapervilleIsGangster

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SUNDAY

This Midwest humidity is fucking up my fabulous, so I invented a new product — Shellack: Anti-Humectant! Now available in Jewfro Strength.

I miss my Geo Prizm. #ShitINeverSay

My 4-year-old niece Azzy just asked why I’m not married and my apartment is so small. Mentally I kicked her in the chest, and it was satisfying.

Going out in public with my niece allows me to rock the I’m Just A Tired, Dissheveled Hippie Soccer Mom look. #ImReallyJustLazy

I’d rather wake up next to a one-night stand than my 4-year-old niece. They forget your name, she says it repeatedly. #INeedCoffee