Too Old For This Shit

Where the shitnipples did I put my trunk?

by TONY FYLER
edited by CHRISTOPHER WOO

I turn 40 in just a few months time. People tell me this means I’m now officially a Grumpy Old Man. I always used to mock the idea that you could only be Grumpy, or indeed Old, once you passed through the mystic portal of fortyness. I’ve been Grumpy since I was 11, when I used to tell my fellow pupils to go buy a brain, or tell adults who insisted on being cretins to go and boil their head. In a vat of Sulphuric acid, if I remember correctly.

But that’s the point. I’m no longer sure I remember correctly. This isn’t a creeping senility, or a momentary lapse of memory. This has been happening on a daily basis since my 35th birthday. Halfway through sentences. Halfway through journeys from one room to another. It’s like someone’s hit me with a baseball bat and I’m in a bit of a daze. I’ve always been known by friends and my wife as Memoryboy, for my freakish ability to remember the most arcane details about things, people, situations. Now I can barely hold a coherent thought from one end to the other.

Goddamnsonofabitch. I know there were other examples of the kind of mental decay that’s been visited on me in the last few years, but I can’t remember now what any of it is!

Oh… that’s right. My wife, stifling giggles, has just reminded me that loud noises… hell, even moderately quiet noises… now make me jumpy. Boy that was fun on Halloween. It was even more fun on Guy Fawkes Day – a kind of 17th Century “Hang A Terrorist” holiday, celebrated to this day by setting off random fireworks. Every banger, whizzer and colour-splashing crack of thunder saw me wince, or cringe, or shift involuntarily out of the way. It’s like my body is trying to tell me something, if I could only remember what it is…

It’s like something has clicked over in my metabolism. I’ve worn slippers without irony. My hands and feet are starting to get inexplicably cold for longer periods of time. Young people have been annoying me since I was one of them, but now,  it’s as though the last remaining drops of patience in my soul have been poured out, I want to tell them, as I did as a child, how insane and pointless they are.

Naturally, given the world we live in, I’ve been shouting at the TV for some time now, but I’ve graduated… I used to only shout at the easy targets – the politicians telling us they know what they are doing, the adverts that dared to tell me – short, fat, balding, greasy, hairy-arsed and clueless me – that I’m “worth it too.”

But now it’s everything. Every advert, every programme, every ridiculous flickering parade of mediocrity that passes for entertainment in the arena of the damned. I shout. I point, like that makes some miraculous difference and makes my rage more valid somehow.

The button has clicked over in my brain from “Thirtysomething, clinging to patience and humour and some desperate hope that advertisers are aiming even vaguely at me” to “Bath-chair.” Like I’m suddenly this old and scowling bastard, in my slippers and my Grumpy Old Man face. If I had a stick, I’d hit people with it. In fact, the only reason I’ve refrained from buying a stick is not to get arrested. And somehow, all of a sudden, the fact that people deserve a damn good stick-whacking has become the height – the very pinnacle – of logic and good sense to me. I’ve become my Gran! And suddenly I’m right, they’re wrong!

I feel the gaze of all the proper Grumpy Old Men upon me now, and they are smiling grimly, as though they have been watching my progress and now are happy to call me one of their own. As though they’re telling me “You see? You were always Grumpy-in-waiting, but now you have the urgency, the forgetfulness, the inexplicable back pain – don’t mention it, you’re welcome… Now you are truly one of us, My Son.”

Don’t mess with me. I’m getting too old for this shit.

Garbage Ass: A Poem

by J.MIZ
as interpreted by WOO

—

its a little creepy
when i’m peeing,
Dwight (cat) will saunter in
to drop one of his
Lucifer deuces.
then when i look
in repulsion
his eye contact is so intense
it pierces me
and my soul can smell his garbage ass.

Ninja

by Allison Stein

All my life I have been clumsy. I can trip up the stairs, walk on my own feet and trip and fall when the ground is flat.  I have learned to fall slowly so I don’t hurt myself, and have learned to get up and make sure that it looked like I fell on purpose. Like I attacked the ground. Yeah… take that ground!!!  Tremble when when I am near….don’t make me tell you again…I’m a bad mother (shut yo mouth!)

So the other day when I fell yet again, was I mad because it kind of hurt…no. Was I mad because it made me look stupid…no. I was mad because I am a shoe connoisseur  and I got mud on my favorite pair of shoes! I was all dressed up ready to rock out one of my jewelry shows and somehow I thought it was time to attack the ground again. But this time the ground fought back and left its battle scar on my shoe!!! I was so frustrated, as a Jewelry Lady you have to have a certain look, and well, mud just doesn’t seem to convey that look.

An Open Letter To An Old A-Hole

Fellow Grocery Store Patrons,

If I have the happy and fortunate position to precede you in line, MY groceries go first, then yours. When I put the plastic divider down, that is your ‘green light’ to unload away, not before. I should not have to stack my bread on top of itself because you’re driven by some unknown urge to unload your cart as soon as possible. Thank you for your cooperation.

Best,
Anne Gardner

Dear Old Rude Ass Jackass Man At The Grocery Store,

Clearly my previous post regarding grocery store etiquette did not reach you. Probably this has something to do with you not having a Facebook account, or probably even owning a computer.

As previously mentioned, however, MY groceries go first, then yours. Today I even offered for you to go in front of me since you were obviously in a hurry to get through the check out line. And what did you do? You refused, explaining that the cashier was fast and it wouldn’t be necessary. So I said, “yes, she is, but I’m eight months pregnant and not fast.” To which you replied, “Oh, well would you like me to help you unload?” and proceeded to touch my groceries prior to receiving an answer from me! So I hurriedly responded, “No, that’s ok.” But what I was really thinking was, “No. I dont want help unloading. I want you to go in front of me so I don’t have to feel rushed to unload my groceries as I hold my breath bending over the side of my cart with a huge pregnant belly. I want you to get your shopping done without any further interaction with you. And I want you to get your fucking hands off my bread! And really, truly, more than anything, I want to get out of this store with my groceries without getting further harassed, creating a scene, or getting arrested for elder abuse.”

Not So Good With Women

by Buddah Eskew

I am not very good with women. Even when I undress a woman with my eyes I still have trouble getting the bra unhooked. Although, several women have told me I have a face for porn… but a penis for radio. THANKS ladies.

Some people call me Maurice, even though I specifically told them to call me the gangster of love! A special thanks to Steve Miller for that line. I tried to be all gangster with the chicks but they preferred to call me Gangster-Amish. Buddah, you have no electricity or indoor plumbing. Yeah that is true but my horse has a gold tooth and my buggy has chrome spinner wheels. That’s just how I roll, ladies. I was confused by the whole Gangster-Amish thing. I never knew from day to day if I should wear overalls or baggy pants, straw hat or dew rag, pitch fork or switch blade.

I even stooped as low as date rape a few times, but all that happened is I passed out and women just walked right by me, kind of like when I’m awake. Could one of you girls at least grind a stiletto heel into my back when you step over me? I gotta re-read the instructions on this pill bottle.

G-GILF

This article sponsored by Oil Of... Alright we couldn't get a real sponsor. This dude named Havier told us he could hook Natalie up with the "Oil of José" though. Not sure what that means...

by Allison Stein

When did I get old? It’s feels like it was just yesterday and I was making a complete fool of myself in a junior high talent show…

There I was, little four-foot-six me, with a girl to my right who looked like she had gotten hit in the face with an iron, and the 50-foot woman from outer space to my left (she was six foot in junior high, and just as wide).

The routine we had “practiced” had them snapping their fingers and tapping their feet, nothing else, not even back up vocals, just moving. Meanwhile, I was singing, with no mic, a song that had been written by my mother.

Yeah, lets just say it was awesome! …well, if “awesome” actually means Totally Embarrassing, Everyone Will Laugh At You, And You Just Got A Nickname You Aren’t Ever Going Like, then yes, it was awesome. I think we got applause out of pity.

Hooker Or Slut? You Decide!

by Allison Stein

[Editors Note: Please join us here at WNF as we welcome our latest addition to the writing staff. She loves Unicorns and Black Cock, though we’re never quite sure which she is actually referring to. – Woo]

So, I am here blogging, well sort of. This is my first blog, and it stems from a friend of mine thinking I am funny. So now I feel on the spot to be funny. Its kind of like knowing someone can do something and you walk up to them and demand that they do it. Like, walking up to a pirate and demand they say “ARR Matey”, then laugh hysterically and walk away.

So, I may be funny, I may not. Time will tell. The one thing I do know for certain is, that I have often been called a Pirate Hooker, so without further adieu, here’s an “ARR Matey!!” for ya, but because I am a pirate HOOKER, I needs me cash now for performing for you. Just sayin, Hookers get paid, sluts do it for free, and I don’t want to be considered a “slut”. You know… ’cause that would be bad umkay.

Comedy In Purgatory: Ωpen Mics

by ANDREW KING

Open mics: the Alpha and Omega of stand up comedy. It’s where every comedian starts, and I have no doubt that it’s where several comedians have called it their end. An open mic has the ability to make you feel invincible, giving a high like no other. It can also crush your soul and make you doubt every decision you’ve ever made. Now, performing in general already can have those results, but with open mics… you’re doing it for free.

Here in Purgatory, where the majority of open mics are for musicians who want you to hear their brilliant covers they spent a couple of afternoons learning, comedy is considered alien, and it is often ignored. On the other side of that, however, is a great feeling of accomplishment if you can actually win the crowd. It’s not easy by any means, and depending on the location, the odds are heavily stacked against you. But it is possible.

There are different types of open mics:
—-

Bar Open Mics

Found here are TV’s blaring, people playing pool, drunks arguing over sports teams and more. Oh, and don’t forget the jukebox. What’s more fun than trying to win over a crowd who’s trying to drink away sorrows, the abandonment of dreams, or just another day at the office/coal mine? Trying to win over said crowd while the Ghostbusters theme is playing in the background.

And All That Jazz, Jan. 18, 2011

Coming Out Of My Heathen Closet

by Vickie Sauseda

Telling my family that I am atheist has had the most peculiar repercussions…

I didn’t think that the revelation would even be noticed:

“Oh, hey, I don’t believe in God.”

“Ok, Vickie, can you pass the butter?”

How wrong I was. Getting yelled at by my Father was a shock; I nodded, smiled, and didn’t press the issue. My Mother, on the other hand, posted on Facebook: “Vickie was just kidding about that atheist crap. We all know she’s Methodist!”

And All That Jazz, Jan. 13, 2011

Just because I don’t have much junk in the trunk doesn’t mean I don’t like sex

 

by Vickie Sauseda

Many of my friends made the New Year’s resolution to get fit, while others are expressing, what I call “hefty pride.” They join groups like, “Curvy girls are better than skinny girls!” or post updates about being fat in “all the right places.”

I’m happy for any person comfortable in his or her own skin, but damn it, I feel left out. I want a group that will boost my self esteem. “The body of a 13 year old boy is sexy!” or ” Just because I don’t have much junk in the trunk doesn’t mean I don’t like sex.” For the sake of not being arrested or shaming my family, I suppose I should keep that to myself.

This is the first post in the And All That Jazz series by Vickie Sauseda. Stay tuned for more!

Comedy In Purgatory: Hell Gigs

by Andrew King

Every comedian I know has a great story of a really bad gig. The better ones have several. Hell Gigs are a rite of passage in the comedian community, an integral part of the journey of being a stand-up comic. There are many ingredients to a Hell Gig, they can have a combination of,  or all of these things:

[_] Heckler (You suck!)

[_] Oblivious/Bad Audience (What? Comedians? WTF is a comedian?)

[_] Awkward Set-Up (So here’s a milk-crate you can stand on… What? No, the TV’s will still be on.)
Now this particular gig had all of the above…

It was a benefit show for a guy who had cancer. I say “had” because he died before the show. So the benefit changed goals and now the proceeds would be going to a cancer charity. The show itself took place outside of a biker bar in East Moline, Illinois. Already there are enough signs to know that it’s going to be rough.

The stage was a Semi-truck’s flatbed trailer. There was a ladder nailed to it so you could get onto it. The trailer faced the brick wall of the bar and the audience was at an angle eating curly fries. I’ll try to illustrate below:

Quackery

by Vicki Sauseda

I suffer from bipolar disorder. No, jackass, that doesn’t mean I find both girls and guys sexually attractive. Every once in awhile my brain engages in a great suicide debate, and when it does, I go to the hospital.

At the first Group Time – mind out of the gutter children –  during my last stay in the hospital, I was shocked and disgusted. Why? A HUGE poster was hanging on the wall: Dr. Phil’s Rules of Living. What? I’m trusting my fragile mental state with people who are following Dr. Phil McQuack’s advice? Does Jerry Springer do their relationship counseling class?

I could go on and on about how much the poster bothered me, but I’m sure you can come up with your own reasons why bipolars, schizophrenics, the depressed, and so on, need better care/advice than Dr. Phil. His number one rule: Either you get it, or you don’t. Apparently, I fall into the latter category. I found humor and a snippet of comfort in that.

SWF In Search Of…

By J. MIZ

I few years ago, I had a boyfriend with extreme ADD and ADHD. I’d grown up with a sibling who had ADD, which made me extremely patient. HOWEVER… it was EXHAUSTING! My boyfriend’s IQ was half of mine, and he was always stoned, so I had continual opportunities to Jedi Mind Fuck him. He pretty much believed anything I told him and expected nothing but niceties from me. That, good people, is exactly where he fucked up.

Far be it from me to claim full sanity. I have suffered depression, anxiety and slight obsessive-compulsive disorder in regards to my closet. Clothes are hung by sleeve length, collar type, skirts, pants, suits then dresses. I get nutters if it isn’t maintained that way. As my mom says, “A little OCD is okay if it’s productive.”

One year, a few days before his birthday, he went on one of his blabbermouth tirades. All he did was bitch and moan and whine as I sat there on our bed, brain completely numb. I believe people should be able to vent, but CHRIST! MAN UP BRO!

School Memories

by AVIAN

Cannibalism is like punching your friend in high school. It’s a terrible idea unless you want to get someone expelled.

Since I’m not going anywhere in life, let’s talk about my past. We’re going back to school. Preschool, that is. Preschool actually doesn’t make sense as a word if you think about it, but I assure you that’s not relevant to this post.

I hated preschool. All the creative kids are finger painters, but if I finger painters there’s court hearings and prison and signs in my yard. I don’t need more shit to mow around; I don’t even have a weed eater.

I think the reason I hate preschool so much is because I hate children. Children are like savings bonds — nobody likes them, and they’re completely useless until they mature.

Don’t get offended by that, either. You’ve hated every kid you’ve seen since you were 6 years old. Family doesn’t count; you’re obligated to ‘like’ them. Not me, though. I hate every kid I’ve ever seen.

I have a 10-month-old nephew who recently discovered the stairs to the basement. You’re damn right I kicked him down. He was protected by the stupid metal plate in his head… from the last time I kicked him down some stairs.

Calm down, child lovers. I assure you, these are jokes. I love babies. They’re just like Etch-A-Sketches. If you make a mistake, you just shake them, and it all goes away.

Enter The Buddah

by J.MIZ

Andrew Hicks at 16?

I became affiliated with We’re Not Funny after Andrew Hicks stalked me off a mutual Facebook friend’s page. This lead to a succession of subsequent stalkings by Woo, Alan Perry and Buddah Eskew, among others. It was their collective error in thinking I had any sense of humor or comedic bone in my body. What became evident almost IMMEDIATELY, is that I’m a gangster. Part of my OG-ness is YOU DO NOT FUCK UP ON MY WATCH!

As we all began to congregate in a secret Facebook group (Damn! I broke the first rule of secret Facebook group! Dammit! Twice! Dammit!), our individual quirks, weaknesses and fortès became apparent. For Buddah, failure was upon him in the inability to lightly tap an enter key in order to post in the group. As I have always procured my own brand of vernacular and quirky phrases, I immediately sent Buddah off to a virtual corner to don THE HELMET! This has lead to numerous helmet jokes and Buddah often being referred to as ENTER or “Enter is the NEW BUDDAH.”

With the amount of my content increasing in WNF and its sister site We’re Not Serious, I decided to encourage my parents to read. A quick side note — my mom taught special ed and thus gifted her children with the glorious, “Go put on your helmet!” joke. My dad, well that’s the INFAMOUS BOB! Upon my third attempt at getting BOB to read WNS, he finally got it! He emailed me with a very sweet compliment and a short poem of his own. That is all well and good, but not as great as his reaction to Woo’s personal blog! BOB’s statements were as follows, without him even being privy to the HELMET jokes:

“That’s a good picture of you by the way, but not as good as this Woo’s. He has on a helmet. You should have put on a helmet. 


Woo, in "helmet"!

“I love Woo’s helmet. I always feel sorry for kids who have to wear those.”

That’ll do, BOB… That’ll do.

ENTER

Who Is Your Inspiration?

by BUDDAH ESKEW

Ladies Love Finger Buddah

It doesn’t matter if you write stories, poems, or jokes. We all were inspired to indulge our talent by someone or something. A Teacher, friend, author, poet, comic, etc. Here are a few of my inspirations:

1. Johnny Carson: The only entertainer that would bomb in his monologue and still make it damn funny.
2. Adam Sandler: Made me want to make goofy videos with my buddies. His comedy CDs are AWESOME. The one person my comedic mind wants to measure up to. Yes, I know there is a long road ahead.
3. Bill Cosby: Does the type of standup I don’t do well — storytelling.
4. Ron White: A guy I somewhat tried to emulate when I first started out in standup, minus the cigar and scotch.
5. Maria Bamford: The funniest lady in comedy today. Maria is funny enough to have her own sitcom.  I did a workshop with her and it was mega-fun. She is the blond in the Target Black Friday commercials, for those who aren’t familiar with her.

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!”

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.

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.