Department Store Santa Confidential

by ERTEL GRAY
edited by ANDREW HICKS

Kris Kringle needs some straight Kahlua.

—

I was a Department Store Santa during the hectic Christmas season of 1995. Value City was the store. For years, it’d held prime position as the face of the Lycoming Mall in Pennsylvania. Catering to the “low-income/useless crap on the cheap” demographic, Value City operated under the name “Gee Bee’s” before someone (presumably in a cheap suit), stood up in a board meeting, and said, “Look, we want to offer our customers value. Yet we want to imply that this is no mere store. So… Value Hut? Value Sovereign Nation? ValueTownXpress? Mmm…. how about Value City? Besides, what the fuck is a Gee Bee anyways? Do we really want our customers to associate our name with the song ‘Nights on Broadway’?”

The work wasn’t bad, really. I got stuck in the household accessories department, which — oddly — was filled with massive, massive amounts of African-themed knickknacks, vases, tribal masks, and so on. I was verbally reprimanded for being culturally insensitive for cracking a remark (to a black coworker, no less) along the lines of, “You got it lucky, dude. You work in the shoe department. Apparently, I wandered on to the set of Roots.” The black guy thought it was funny. My boss, Mr. Wunderlin (irony?), didn’t.

Wunderlin, around the time the entire store became a Winter Wunderlin (ha ha!), approached me to ask if I’d take on the assignment of Value City Santa Claus. My qualifications? I was slightly chubby at the time, white, and maybe just had a little “too much” dignity at the time. For six hours a night, I was forced to sit in a chair in a sweaty costume, getting groped by children with sweaty, sticky candy-cane hands. These little angels would yank at my fake beard, while I braved the time bomb that some kid would either, a) piss or shit him/herself on my lap, b) vomit profusely, or, c) all of the above simultaneously. It was as close to hell as I could be without actually going to hell.

Kim Jong Dead

edited by ANDREW HICKS

Once he'd stared into his right hand for an hour or so without blinking, Kim Jong's hand would turn into Satan and give him relationship advice.

—

AMANDA DOPPLER
Who the fuck is Kim Jong Il, and why is he dead?!

ERTEL GRAY
Kim Jong Il dead? Man, and I thought he was just ill. Turns out I was dead Jong.

JEFF BAILEY
Kim Jong, are you serious?! This is seriously fucking my fantasy dictator team. It’s the playoffs!

ERIC DOHMAN
Weekend at Kim Jong’s. Now THAT would be funny.

Glory Hole Bee Gee Hell: A WNF 3-Way

edited by ANDREW J HICKS

Liverpool, 1979: Mama Cass gets down and dirty at the Bee Gee glory hole.

—

JOHNNY RODRIGUEZ
My bedroom window sucks as a glory hole. Nothing glorious about it.

ERTEL GRAY
Oh, the entire concept of a glory hole just… I don’t know if I can place that level of trust in an unseen, anonymous stranger. “Hi… Yep, first time… Anyway, here’s my peen.”

EMILY TOOPS
Agreed. I mean, you gotta be ballsy to use a glory hole.

JOHNNY RODRIGUEZ
But not too ballsy, ’cause balls wont fit thru there.

ERTEL GRAY
My luck, on even my most sexually adventurous of days, I’d wind up on the business end of a scalpel-wielding psychopath known as the Glory Hole Weenis Collector or something. Course, the upside of being a eunuch is, I could always front a Bee Gees tribute band.

JOHNNY RODRIGUEZ
Fuck yeah! I love the Bee Gees!

ERTEL GRAY
How many of them have died? The other two, right? I just heard Robin has some sort of cancer?

EMILY TOOPS
Yeah, I thought two of the three died of cancer. God hated those Brothers Gibb.

Thanksgiving ExtravaGaganza

by ANDREW J HICKS and ERTEL GRAY

—

Soundalike dance songs about turkeys. For an hour and a half. Enjoy, world!

The first Thanksgiving took place 490 years ago. Miles Standish deep fried a turkey, Pocahontas brought over a crapload of Boone’s Farm, and Squanto provided the blunts. Everyone ate, drank, smoked and listened to the music of the Thompson Twins*. Thus, a tradition was born.

The ins and outs of Thanksgiving remained relatively unchanged until 1887, when canned fruits and meats were introduced to the market. Suddenly, Thanksgiving was a time for turkey, Boone’s Farm, blunts and a bowl of jellied cranberry sauce, wiggling and still in the shape of the can. In the century-plus since, no one has ever actually eaten the cranberry sauce. It just sits there. It’s the Ringo Starr of the Turkey Day feast.

The Majesty of Karaoke

by ERTEL GRAY
edited by ANDREW HICKS

Karaoke: Where the world's most attractive people huddle together and scream beautifully into a microphone.

—

“For every failed singer in this world, there is a karaoke DJ eating his weight in hot wings by dim light.”
-Voltaire

The ancient Japanese art of karaoke has never really seemed to hit its zenith in America. Even today, every bar you go to has at least one karaoke night on its chalkboard schedule, nestled between $2 Pitcher Tuesday and Thirsty Thursday.

So what’s the appeal? For every Joe Average, maybe it’s the dream of wooing a lady friend with a mystical version of Peter Frampton‘s “Baby, I Love Your Way.” In reality, the alcohol involved always seems to transform Frampton’s ode to loving a female’s way into a horribly off-key, off-rhythm “‘OohbabeeILove…’ where am I? The damn screen’s moving too fast. Where’s Brenda at? Get up here, y’whore! ‘WannaTeeellYou…'”

Karaoke, at its crux, is basic good fun. No one’s there to judge your performance. Oh sure, that guy who just threw up on his shirt sorta looks like Simon Cowell, but remember: you’re wearing beer goggles. I lied about the “no one’s judging you” thing, actually. If you’re singing, you should be aware that I am judging you based on pitch, vocal range and choice of material. I am your own… personal… Cowell.

But you’re not going to win a recording contract and/or make millions with me. I’m judging you solely because I don’t want to make the same mistakes you do. Recently, I made plans to go out with a girl (yeah, I was surprised, too) who absolutely loves to sing. And apparently displays the same lack of shame that I do. A keeper? After tonight’s debacle? Right? (Right!) You’re bloody well right!

Auction War Storage Hunters

by ERTEL GRAY
with ANDREW HICKS

—

”]I am an addict. Step One is admitting you have a problem, and that’s why I’m here. I’ve recently become extremely obsessed with the ever-expanding glut of TV shows about storage unit auctions. You know, those C-level reality shows where people haggle over one-of-a-kind items with pawn shop owners, and/or people rummage around in dilapidated barns and garages, finding rusted-out treasures that I’m told are high-dollar items.

A 19th-century steam-powered vibrator? $300. Thomas Jefferson’s giant granite dangling-cross earring, yanked from Mount Rushmore after fierce protests from Quakers? Four thousand bucks all day. A rare acetate demo of John and Yoko’s blistering 22-minute version of “I’m Henry the VIII, I Am”? Actually, there are 2 million copies of THAT garbage, but I’d still pay at least three grand for the chance to own it.

This is all my fault. I’m addicted to junk. For those who remain uninitiated to shows like “Storage Wars” and “Auction Hunters,” the premise is this — every day, thousands of unclaimed storage lockers are put up for auction. Bidding is fierce, and rivalries develop instantaneously over these storage lockers, which just might be chock-full of rarities and untold riches. It’s the ultimate in Ponzi* schemes, the rule being “buy low, sell high.”

Oh sure, there’s storage units that turn out to be a bust. Apparently, SOME people don’t feel that a damp, 8′ x 10′ concrete storage locker is the best place to keep their priceless copies of Action Comics #1 and miscellaneous Aztec artifacts. But the rule of thumb in the “Storage Wars” world is, if something has intrinsic value, you put it in a glorified carport and lock that shit up with a high-school-locker Master Lock. Then forget you owe $400 for the past four months’ rent and lose your padlocked carport altogether.

Meanwhile, think of how many actual archaeologists have given up scouring the actual ruins of some long-forgotten city whose name Indiana Jones couldn’t even pronounce correctly. Honestly, you can’t blame them. Spending months at a time in some dense jungle, amid the constant threat of attack by large primates and bot flies that lay eggs in open wounds — not to mention the oppressive “jungle stench” — doesn’t help morale. Especially after you’ve spent several months with a Maybelline rouge brush, carefully and intently brushing the faint traces of dirt, layer by layer, from a couple of shards of clay pottery. And it’s Christmas Day.

Take any archaeologist who’s been inspired to unlock the mysteries of Indy movies past, and ask that archaeologist if he or she now feels cheated for having taken that career path, and I’m almost positive the answer will be a resounding FUCK YEAH. (“I’ve been out here in the jungles of Costa Rica for four MONTHS now, and not ONE fucking Nazi! No crystal skulls!  It’s bullshit!”)

What the budding archaeologist fails to realize when he sets out on an Indy mission is that most of the good treasure has already been looted and sold on the black market. Now it’s somewhere in an 8 x 10 storage shed that’s in default of payment, waiting for some hulking behemoth of a man with head tattoos and Oakley shades to slowly bid it up to roughly $1,200 American.

So, in short, to any and all of you potential treasure seekers out there who might be reading this, give up dreams of Custer’s Gold. Put away the maps of Oak Island, and don’t even THINK about going near Fort Knox.

Bid on a storage unit.

You may end up with Lincoln’s personal stash of bukkake tintypes. Or, you might just end up with a fuck-ton of Tupperware. Either way, you played the game.

—

*Given our fascination with combining celebrity couple names, I can only conclude that — somewhere along the line — Potsi Webber and Arthur Fonzarelli, both of “Happy Days,” had a brief, albeit torrid sexual affair. The offspring, carried in Potsi’s butt for three trimesters, was the now-famous word Ponzi.

Cleanup In Aisle 6

by ERTEL GRAY
edited by TONY FYLER

—

The first public performance by many famous women comedians was done in the supermarket checkout. (Pictured above: Elayne Boosler, Paula Poundstone, Betty the Checker.)

It started off like any other trip to the grocery store…

The week leading up to this trip, I spent in preparation. Long, sleepless nights spent staring intently at a blank notepad, a pencil resting uselessly by its side. Frustration builds up quickly when you’re in a creative rut, and in this sense, I was no different from my writing forefathers. Hemingway, Wilde, even Danielle Steele had their creative wheels stuck in the mud, so to speak. But it didn’t matter to me, for I knew inspiration would come. And it did. I finally picked up the pencil.

Soon, my empty page was full of ideas, which I had honed down to a razor-sharp comedic timing. Rough lumps of comedy were honed to fine, crystalline diamonds, in search of the perfect setting. I knew where to put the jokes in, I knew what jokes I wanted to use. Heck, I even cut material that on any other week I would have gladly used! After all that preparation, I had the material that THEY would remember me by.

You see, I’m a comedian. But I don’t work the circuits, and I don’t do open-mic nights at PJ’s Chucklehut, or the Laff Emporium. I’ve got a racket all my own, and I aim to keep it that way.

I work the checkout lines at the grocery store.

Oh sure, my sets are only as long as it takes the cashier to ring me up, but boy… I leave ’em laughing. And I’d imagine that the cashier thinks quietly to herself during her pre-designated ten-minute break, “Geez, that guy was on FIRE today! A regular Gallagher, minus the senseless destruction of fruit! God, I wonder WHAT he’ll come up with next week!” She’s a fan — even Ray Charles could see that.

This week, I had my A material. I figured I’d start light, with some easy observational humor (checkout lines are FULL of observational fruit, just waiting to be plucked and devoured), maybe work in a few sight gags (a la Carrot Top) with the items I’d buy. I mean, why ELSE would I buy a can of whipped cream, a bunch of banana and a box of condoms?! Or a 30-pack of Coors Light, a jar of Vaseline and a rather large cucumber?

Then, when I had them in the palm of my hand, that’s when I’d spring it on them. Bam! Topical humor: “Geez, what is up with Obama these days?! I mean, come on!” (I actually don’t have a joke prepared for this… I don’t follow the politics too well.)

This would be the set they remembered me by. I could hear them talking about me long after I’d left… this was to be my Citizen Kane!

“Hi… you find everything okay?” Debra asked me. Way to serve up that softball, Debra. You’re about to be part of comedic histo– “Oprah Magazine, huh?! Every time I come in here, she’s on the cover! Is she really that egotistical?!”

Who said that?! I thought to myself. It’s brilliant! Why didn’t I ever notice that before?!

“And what is up with all these rag mags?! Bigfoot spotted on top of Loch Ness Monster with Elvis?! Who reads this crap?!”
This son-of-a-bitch was barging in on my act! And worse than that, he was doing a damn good job of it, too! I craned my head over the candy rack separating lanes 5 and 6 to see who was performing. Apparently, I wasn’t alone on the checkout-line comedy circuit.

I became flushed with panic and started grasping at straws: “What is up with that hairdo, Debra… Oh no, I didn’t mean… I’m sorry. No no, I wasn’t insulting you… Fuck me! Oh no… I don’t mean you Debra, not literally… look, what… where… Paper or plastic… save a plastic tree?” Ugh! God! I’m bombing, and I can’t stop the freefall!

“Would you like a bag?” she asked him. And, with perfect comedic timing, he replied “Oh no, I left her at home!” Bam!

“You son of a bitch!” I cried, as I lunged over the candy rack between our lanes. “This was MY time! I was supposed to be the star!” I picked up a giant jar of pickles and brought them down on his head repeatedly, in a murderous rage.

After the trial, and the sentencing (14 to 30 years, if you’re wondering), I did a lot of soul searching. And finally, I decided to give up my dreams of comedic stardom. Daily mouth rapings will do that to a fella.

I still observe things in my own weird little way, though. Sometimes I even get a chuckle out of my cellie, but mostly I keep them to myself. After all, it’s kinda hard to talk with your mouth full.

—

NOTE: This is the first post edited by WNF senior contributor Tony Fyler. Be sure to congratulate him on his promotion next time you see him at the water cooler. -Andrew J Hicks.

Know Your WNFer

by ANDREW HICKS

Image by Eric Dohman.

We’re closing in on our 250th post, with 9+ months of near-daily fresh comedy under our collective belt. And now we finally own WereNotFunny.com, for at least the next year or two. So what better time to acquaint yourself with the WNF Crew? In-depth individual profiles and a multipart Ken Burns PBS documentary to follow.

.

WE’RE NOT FUNNY STAFF LIST

ANDREW HICKS — Editor-in-Chief/Co-Founder

It’s not so weird that I’m writing about myself right now. I’ve been writing about myself online in one form or another since 1995. I blogged the Year in the Life of a Nerd journals before the term “blogger” existed. Then I went and got drunk for like 10 years. Then I went and met my beautiful wife and had a couple beautiful kids. Got sober, started writing again and, for the first time, got myself an ensemble of Midwest comics, essayists and regular old bantering friends and friends of friends. Started organizing and editing our various words and ideas into blog posts.

REQUIRED READING: Love Letter to Phil Collins

.

T. ALLAN CHRISTOPHER — Associate Editor/Co-Founder

T. Allan, to quote the Wu Tang Clan, is “the Osiris of this shit.” No sooner had I said, “I wonder if we could get some people together and start a site where we post daily solo pieces or group conversation highlightsor whatever the F we want,” than TAC set about getting a site up and running, for us to play around with. T. Allan is an active administrative and creative presence in our Facebook material-gathering groups, he takes care of a post or two a week for me, and every now and then we get him to write us a full solo piece, when he’s not busy working on this blog or this blog. As an aside, T. Allan Christopher has formerly written under the pseudonym Woo.

REQUIRED READING: Haiku News

.

J.MIZ — Creative Coordinator/Co-Founder

I’d been on Facebook for about two months when I noticed J.Miz leaving astoundingly funny top-of-her-head comments on a mutual friend’s statuses. I sent her a friend request, we started bantering, and immediately there was a symbiosis of humor, mischievous fun and shared cultural references. Facebook got five times more entertaining when I met J.Miz. Once Woo, J.Miz and I got together, the comic chemistry was intense and immediate. Keep in mind, J.Miz had never considered writing comedy or really thought she was funny. Now she constructs and spits out jokes like a one-woman one-liner factory on Twitter. She’s given our writing group all kinds of concepts and premises to work from, and she’s helped me out of more than one creative jam. J.Miz has also brought WNF a healthy handful of like-minded contributors, and she’s proven effective at squeezing solo pieces out of existing contributors.

REQUIRED READING: WTF Facebook Friends

.

TONY FYLER — Twitter Editor/Senior Contributor

Fyler is a fiercely intelligent, incisively witty writer from Great Britain or Wales or Ireland or something. His areas of interest include politics, theology (particularly, lack of) and the occasional off-the-wall food, sex or miscellaneous sociological joke. Oh, and he also fronted the money for our WereNotFunny.com domain, after I procrastinated and made excuses about being broke. Fyler’s not getting a penny of that $19 back, either.

REQUIRED READING: Devil’s Guide to the 21st Century

.

MICHELLE DEE — Facebook Fan Page Editor/Senior Contributor

Mrs. Woo has been around since the beginning and has possibly posted more WNF links to Facebook than anyone on this list. Around 28 percent of times the “share” button is clicked on Facebook, Michelle Dee is the culprit. Michelle recruited WNF staple contributors Fyler, Allison Stein and Eve Ventrella. She also runs our Facebook fan page, so next time you see the word “afraid” spelled with two F’s in your news feed, address your letter of complaint to Michelle Dee. Who will write you back within three business days with the one-word response, “Haytchoo” and an ASCII-text middle finger.

ಠ_ಠ

Required Reading: Possession 101

.

ERIC DOHMAN — Senior Contributor

Dohman distinguished himself in the WNF group immediately upon being discovered and added by J.Miz. Not everyone knows how to take Eric, and others think he traffics too heavily in dick and poop jokes. To me, Dohman is a solid, insightful, even innovative comic voice on most every topic he touches. High brow, medium brow, low brow and lower brow. Dohman also has graphic skills and has come through with the (still too few) image assignments we’ve given him. “But Andrew,” you say, “I thought you steal all your art straight from Google Image.” Well, that’s mostly true, but we’re gonna lean on Dohman more and more heavily in the very near future. He just doesn’t know it yet.

REQUIRED READING: Santorum Shit Bags

.

ANNE GARDNER — Senior Contributor

Anne is a lady whose path I crossed briefly at the age of 18 and reunited with thanks to the magic of Facebook. She’d leave a sarcastic comment here or there on my statuses, and when WNF came into being, I invited her into the group. A.G. has maintained a presence ever since, contributing one-liners to group pieces and writing her own solo articles. And she has an infant at home and everything.

REQUIRED READING: Facebook-Baked Glee

.

ERTEL GRAY — Senior Contributor

I found Ertel via Facebook one day while bored and searching for an old Dana Carvey SNL sketch called “Lyle, the Effeminate Heterosexual.” Ertel had posted the video on his wall at some point. I friended him on the basis of that alone, but I had no idea how completely and instantaneously Ertel would fit in with the WNF Crew. Funny dude, Ertel Gray, and I think he knows even more obscure ’80s and ’90s pop culture than even I do.

REQUIRED READING: Reg Strikes Back

.

PAUL LAO — Senior Contributor

Paul lives in California, so we almost always publish whatever he sends us.

REQUIRED READING: 9 Demons of the College House Party

.

There are a dozen other current contributors I rely on for material. Many of them are Illinois comedians — Andrew Cline, C.J. Dodd, James Draper, Scotty Harris, Ryan Krause, Probably Matt Linville, K.B. Marion, Drift Roberts, Saracakes (who also spent many hours legitimizing WNF’s Twitter feed) and Emily Toops. Another, Lola Tucker, joined our ranks after reading and enjoying the WNF blog.

Two others — Buddah Eskew and Inscrutable JeffRey Trotter — are no longer writing for We’re Not Funny but have some great stuff scattered throughout our archives. I also want to thank Saracakes for her many hours of work editing and posting to our Twitter feed.

I want to thank everyone mentioned above for loaning us some of their time and creativity. And thank YOU for reading.

Broken News, August 15, 2011

compiled and edited by WOO

—–

London rioters point to poverty and prejudice

The London rioters have pointed to prejudice and poverty as reasons for their actions. They then laughed maniacally and set more buildings ablaze. We hear the rioters are so pissed they might even set sail for new lands and build their own nation.

—–

Man Locks Wife in Basement for 8 Years (Keeps Girlfriend Upstairs)

We think of this story as a very sad reality, and yet, a fucking amazing premise for a sitcom. Something along the lines of “Three’s A Crowd.” Every week there would be wacky struggle to keep the women from knowing the other exists. Perhaps a Mr. Furley-type nosy neighbor as well.

—–

Walgreens to sell health insurance

While picking up your cheap vodka and box of condoms, and thinking about the hooker you having waiting out in the car, purchasing a quick HMO or PPO might not be such a bad thing. Although you may be tempted by insignificant health insurance impulse-buy add-ons while you wait to check out. Really, though, Walgreens will be selling insurance? Isn’t that a bit like your heroin dealer opening a rehab?

—–

Carnage on Wall Street: Dow sinks 634 points as panic rules

We are coming after you, rich swindling-ass muthafuckas! Taking advantage of everyday people’s decency. We will bring you to justice by mob rule. But we have to do the laundry first. Man, does that shit pile up quick.

—–

Michele Bachmann: What do her favorite books tell us?

She’s from Iowa, is a congresswomen in Minnesota, and one of her favorite books is about how the South was in the right in the Civil War? Keep up the state pride, Michelle.

—–

Get Your Child to Like Veggies Before Birth

Women who fellated their spouses regularly seemed to produce cock-hungry teenagers. Some connection seems to have been made between the use of plastics in sex toys, and the desire for oily fried foods. Perhaps the consideration of using a cucumber in place of a dildo during pregnancy should be strongly considered, given this new evidence.

—–

Facebook Tackles IM With ‘Messenger’ App

—–

Mystery Orange Goo Invades Alaska Village

It would be awesome, since it’s Alaska, if it was just an endless geyser of Orange Julius.

—–

Contributors: Michelle Dee, Andrew J. Hicks, Eve Ventrella, Eric Dohman, J. Miz, Ertel Gray, Scotty Harris

Fake Facebook Forwards From Fools

by ERTEL GRAY
edited by ANDREW HICKS

—

PARENT ALERT…..there is somebody called Harry Graham requesting kids on facebook to be his friend. He is posing as a 14yr old when actually he is a 48 yr.old man. He is known to the police. Please be aware and tell everyone you know. We must keep our kids safe…..please, please copy and paste.

–Recent false Facebook status forward

This middle-aged man, who is not real, poses as a 14-year-old, who is not real, on Facebook. And goddamn, check out that hair! Thanks gocryemokid.com

We all have idiot Facebook friends who forward unsubstantiated lies like these as gospel truth. They just post this stuff, of course. They never try to research or dirt-dig or verify facts. And see, I go on Facebook to read exciting things. I take pride in my friend group, and I want to hear about, for instance, a baby oil/Twister threesome with conjoined amputee twins. Then I want to leave a comment below the status asking, “Is sex with conjoined amputees really a threesome?”

Instead, my news feed is clogged with this crap. They invade my Facebook like Germany invaded Poland. These copy-‘n-paste statuses are basically barometers to gauge how many of your friends chew with their mouths open, refer to Walmart as “Wally World” and write lengthy erotic short stories involving the cast of “Hee Haw” in contrived porno scenarios. More people on the Internet than you might think immortalize their elaborate sex fantasies about long-cancelled TV shows in 2,000-word fan-fiction prose.

So, in an effort to dispel yet another Facebook chain post, with a little detective work, I decided to pick this one apart, phrase by phrase:

PARENT ALERT…..
Yes, parents, please take some time away from Farmville and do your civic duty. Alert your neighbors and relatives to the latest menace stalking Facebook. We everyday folk have to spread the word because the FBI aren’t getting on Facebook themselves to tell us. Government agencies are lazy and technologically backward. *ahem* What?! No, we’re not talking about you, Deparment of Homeland Security!

there is somebody [bad grammar] called Harry Graham requesting kids on facebook to be his friend.
I did a quick Google search on this dastardly Harry Graham. The top match is for English poet Harry Graham, 1873-1936 — which, if this is the Harry Graham in question, your first question should be, “How are you communicating to us from beyond the grave?” Then you should tell resurrected English poet Harry Graham, “I read on your Wikipedia page that Harry is only a nickname for you, and your real name is Jocelyn. That’s a sissy name. Why are you trying to friend my 13 year old, sissy?” The next top match is Scottish professional cricketer Harry Graham, 1887-? This Mr. Graham is more suspect, since no determined date of death is known, though it is generally accepted that he died sometime after 1925. Which clearly makes him “hide yo kids, hide yo wife” material.

He is posing as a 14yr old when actually he is a 48 yr.old man.
True story: I saw a “hipster dad” the other day, black cargo shorts, hair dyed jet black, pierced lip, etc. I found it especially ironic and stunning that a man who was clearly older than me preferred Escape the Fate (the post-hardcore band pictured on his T-shirt) to Foghat. I thought maybe I’d entered some strange vortex melding and skewing the timelines I was used to. Shouldn’t this guy be telling me that Bad Company’s first album was their best? I thought to myself, Where… are… we? That it only took the thought of Nancy Reagan sitting on Mr. T’s lap to ease my anxiety is a testament to how far we’ve come in pop culture-related therapy exercises.

He is known to the police
Apparently, his band, Harry Graham and The 14/48 Year Olds opened for The Police at two dates during their ’79 Red Light Tour. Sting was quoted at the time as saying, “Really guys, we couldn’t get Dire Straits to open?”

Please be aware and tell everyone you know. We must keep our kids safe…..
Yes, we must keep our kids safe. That’s indisputable. If not morally, then by law we’re bound to keep children safe. So let’s let them make profiles they can easily hide from us as parents, since we’re not as tech-savvy as they are.

please, please copy and paste.
I imagined this closing line delivered in ultra-dramatic, Lifetime Channel Original Movie-style by Sally Field, Meredith Baxter-Birney or perhaps even Buddah’s fantasy gal Valerie Bertinelli.
In conclusion, I’d like Sally, Meredith and Valerie to dig deep into their emotion-filled past and implore the users of Facebook to please PLEASE think twice before copying and pasting status updates that make you look like an uneducated dullard.

Repost if you AGREE!

Hung Over: A WNF Conversation

edited by ANDREW HICKS

—

Some days, WNF staff meetings never get off the ground.

EVE VENTRELLA
Does anyone else get nervous to look at your own comments on Facebook the next morning after drinking?

PROBABLY MATT LINVILLE
I do. Today I’m afraid whatever I say on Facebook will be my last words, cuz I feel like death. I feel redrunk or something.

ERTEL GRAY
I get that, too. Like, say I’m here dickin’ off like usual on FB, then I walk to the store and get hit by a car. Oh great, Ertel’s last words were, “Hey, if a straight man buys a Fleshlight, do lesbians have to buy two of them?”

PROBABLY MATT LINVILLE
I drunk dialed someone’s grandma last night and told her I didn’t feel well.

EVE VENTRELLA
Last night my grandma called and said some perv was trying to have phone sex with her.

PROBABLY MATT LINVILLE
Well, it wasn’t your grandma. Unless I went on a grandma drunk-dialing binge.

ERTEL GRAY
What is it with grandmas being so paranoid about people trying to sex ’em up? You’d think they’d appreciate the attention, right?

EVE VENTRELLA
My grandma says to “put up or shut up.”

PROBABLY MATT LINVILLE
Well, I don’t remember much. I think I sent her a picture of my penis or my mangina. I may have tucked it under for her.

EVE VENTRELLA
Is it possible to do the mangina/weiner tuck and the “brain” at the same time?

ERTEL GRAY
Theoretically, the mangina/brain is possible. Depends on which end you’re starting from.

PROBABLY MATT LINVILLE
I may have called the police and cussed them out last night.

EVE VENTRELLA
It should be illegal for drunk people to be within three feet of a phone.

ERTEL GRAY
There should be a drunk-dialing app for smartphones that chooses numbers at random. Imagine drunk dialing someone from another country.

PROBABLY MATT LINVILLE
Ughhhhhhhhhhhh, the room is spinning.

ERIC DOHMAN
I’m in the same boat right now, Linville. I literally can’t leave bed. Debating whether to piss in this cup.

PROBABLY MATT LINVILLE
Just pee on a pile of clothes.

ERTEL GRAY
Oh man, that’s what we call Mid-’50s Rural Kentucky Drunk.

ERIC DOHMAN
Never struggled this much for a morning erection.

PROBABLY MATT LINVILLE
It is possible to rub one out while limp. I did it after a whiskey night. However, it won’t make you feel better.

ERTEL GRAY
‎^Truth right there. I never thought the words “depressing” and “orgasm” could be uttered in the same sentence.

PROBABLY MATT LINVILLE
It was the weirdest thing. The orgasm cameth, and yet I still wanted to die.

ERTEL GRAY
The closest thing I could equate it to would be stumbling on a digital camera with Helen Hunt nudes. You’d be like “Oh man, this… oh shit, it’s Helen Hunt. Who gives a shit if she’s nude?”

PROBABLY MATT LINVILLE
I’m getting depressed just thinking about that. Uh oh, the heartburn is starting. Ugh.

ERIC DOHMAN
I need Wendy’s. Fuck!

PROBABLY MATT LINVILLE
I feel like Stephen Hawking with a broken computer speaking device.

EVE VENTRELLA
I’m sure Mr. Hawking would be flattered.

PROBABLY MATT LINVILLE
I’m drooling just like him right now.

ERIC DOHMAN
He gets laid more.

PROBABLY MATT LINVILLE
I’m better at planking though.

ERTEL GRAY
Speaking of Hawking, are we 100 percent positive that those are the actual words he’s thinking that come from his SpeechTron 5000? He could be giving some speech on space/time, and in reality, he could be thinking, “I could use a good blowjob right about now.”

PROBABLY MATT LINVILLE
Does it just speak what he is thinking? Cuz that really could be embarrassing.

ERTEL GRAY
I could totally see him desperately reaching with his tongue for the volume button whenever he thinks, “Jeez, that woman in the third row has some AMAZING tits!”

PROBABLY MATT LINVILLE
Ohhhhhhh the room is spinning again. Uggggggggggh.

Stereotypes

by ERTEL GRAY
edited by ANDREW HICKS

On the next COPS: "Ma'am, step out of the cooler. Ma'am... step out of the cooler."

—

Have you ever run into people who actually FIT a certain stereotype? Like the archetypical redneck, aka Guy Voted Most Likely To Be Arrested on COPS While Shirtless in a Pair of Cutoffs, Cigarette Dangling From His Thickly Moustached Lips, Spreadeagle in a Stained La-Z-Boy Recliner With a Glazed-Over, Not-Shocked-in-the-Least-To-See-the-Police-Within-the-Confines-of-His-Modular-Home Look in His Eyes?

Or perhaps you’ve borne witness to the dumb, post-high school jock who STILL insists on calling you Squirt Stain 15 years after he supposedly “caught” you masturbating onto a urinal cake in the boys bathroom, when all you were really trying to do was zip your pants up?

I have, and boy, it ain’t pretty at all. I should also state for the record: Arizona Jeans are shoddily crafted.

Famous Last Words

by ERIC DOHMAN, WOO and WNF STAFF WRITERS
edited by ANDREW HICKS

"Hurry! Call 911! Act now! Call 911" -Billy Mays

—

• “Is that Bubbles?” “No.” “I meant in the syringe.” –Michael Jackson

• ‎”What the fuck, Brutus?” –Julius Caesar

• ‎”Maybe I shoulda just eaten that donut.” –Karen Carpenter

• “Always left, left, left. Let’s see what happens if I go right for a change.” – Dale Earnhardt

• ‎”Delete all my texts from that black chick.” –Thomas Jefferson

• ‎”Fuck, I forgot the eyebrows.” –Leonardo DaVinci

• ‎”I’m on a horse!” –Christopher Reeve

• “Maybe I was TOO easy?” -Eazy E

• “Birds. I dedicated my life to a bunch of fucking birds.” –J.J. Audubon

• ‎”A Tyson fight? I am SO there! Just let me finish this 827 hours of recording time, that’ll in no way fuel rumors that I faked my death by continuing to release CDs posthumously. -Tupac Shakur

• ‎”If the casket fit… oh… oh shit.” -Johnnie L. Cochran Jr.

• “O.J., that knife is too big to cut up veggies.” –Nicole Brown Simpson

• “That white light’s way too small for me to fit through.” –Andre the Giant

• ‎”I’m still alive, FUCKER!” –Betty White

• ‎

Broken News, July 25, 2011

compiled and edited by WOO

—–

Amy Winehouse found dead in her London home

Found in the early morning, the person finding her was reportedly calling, “♫ Amy Amy Aaaaamy ♫”, but received no response. The smell of her rapidly decomposing career is said to have led to the discovery. Long known for her usage of cocaine, her last words were reportedly recorded in her home studio as, “♫ They try ta make me go to Rehab, but I said noooo noooo *croak* ♫.” Courtney Love, known for similar habits, tweeted: “Pshh… what an amateur! #Winehouse.”

—–

These Tongs Are Actually an FDA-Approved Vibrator for Men (NSFW)

Who has an anniversary coming up? We do! We’re wondering if we can get our Salad Tong in CyberSkin, or maybe bedazzled with plastic gems? Have they created DoubleTongs yet? Erm…

Lost Rock Concept Collaborations

edited by ANDREW HICKS
creatively conceived by ERTEL GRAY and SARACAKES

—

Metallica scores movie starring Kermit and Miss Piggy: MASTER OF MUPPETS.

Woody Allen writes lyrics for Madonna album: NEUROTICA.

Courtney Love and Jonathan Davis hit the road: THE KORN/HOLE TOUR.

Stevie Nicks and Lindsey Buckingham’s album tribute to dance fads: FLEETWOOD MACARENA.

On the road with Styx and The Stones: THE WE’LL BREAK YOUR BONES TOUR.

Snoop Dogg’s long-awaited children’s album: HOW MUCH IS THAT DOGGYSTYLE IN THE WINDOW?

Britney Spears covers Pink Floyd: COMFORTABLY DUMB.

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.”

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.

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.