Frank used to be a masked vigilante. He was a Zorro with a yellow mask, orange tights, a teal sash and a red do-rag. He carried a saber and he knew how to use it.
The authorities did not officially approve of his candle cutting and bad guy scaring but crime was almost non-existent because of him so they looked the other way. What the hell, he saved them a ton of paperwork.
After a while there was no crime at all in the entire metro area. He got bored and started going after people who didn’t pick up their dog’s poop and began making people floss.
He went from being a hero to being a prick. Something snapped. The first thing to go was the sash, then the do-rag and finally the mask (he still wears the tights, he says they’re comfortable).
He became salty and bitter. When COVID hit he was one of the first people to attack mask mandates. If he wasn’t going to wear a mask, no one was. He began patrolling the streets looking for mask wearers, deftly cutting the ear loups with a flick of his saber.
His efforts were effective. Pretty soon no one was wearing masks and several governors sought him out to lead maskless efforts in their states.
He is now serving as a Supreme Court justice in Florida.…
Sus was a reluctant but gracious guru.
Sus credited his mother, Suidae, with his insights and ability to communicate with humans and other species. When she was a piglet, her farmer caretaker always left the radio on in the barn, thinking it kept the animals company.
The radio was tuned to sports talk radio and the animal found it annoying. The hosts were mostly empty-headed morons, and the animals couldn’t call in to challenge their vacuous opinions and sophomoric insights. Suidae got fed up and changed the station to the Stoic Network featuring talks from people like Alan Watts, Thích Nhất Hạnh, John Cabot Zinn and Shemp Howard.
The barn soon became an informal mindfulness center even attracting crows, fox and turtles who contributed their own deep knowledge to the lively discussions.
Sus was just a piglet then and didn’t really give a shit about any of this. He’d rather chase the chickens, but over time things inevitably sunk in and he developed into a thought leader.
When his mother was taken away to be made into bacon, he realized it was time to enlighten the humans, if that was even possible. For the most part it wasn’t.
Every time he’d try to have a serious discussion with one of the caretakers, they’d listen for about a microsecond then start browsing their cell phones. They also kept changing the radio back to the sports station.
The crows were sympathetic. They too tried to offer wisdom to the humans who often replied with buckshot, their favorite talking point.
Fortunately, there were a few humans who knew some Caw and listened. They learned about Sus and traveled great distances to see him. Word spread and there were often dozens of people lined up along the electric fence around Sus’s pasture. He preferred not to talk across a barrier so if you wanted to do some wallowing and have a chat you had to be willing to get your ass zapped to get past the fence.…
How many of your best garments are labelled “Dry Clean Only?”
I usually only wear jeans, sweatshirts and cheap polyester polos but I do have a nice suit. It cost me 40 bucks at the local thrift store and is one of them “dry clean only” garments.
One day when I was eating some mega fries, I spilled a bucket of ketchup on it. The red ketchup went well with the yellow suit but it got really crusty when it dried so I took it to a dry cleaner.
It was expensive. I couldn’t imagine having to clean a lot of my clothes that way but I suppose that classy people do.
Recently, I noticed that my neighbor is giving away his home dry cleaner along with a drum of custom dry cleaning solvent. If you need a lot of dry cleaning this could save you a bundle of cash. Send me an email I’ll get my neighbor to hold this one for you.
The solvent is banned in the US but is readily available on the dark web.
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You can’t go wrong with french fries, especially mega fries. The bigger the better and leave it to American ingenuity to deliver.
Every culture on earth and beyond cherishes fries and consumes them in massive quantities.
Here in the US we coat them in ketchup and cheese. In the UK, it’s vinegar. The Palooka People in the South Pacific coat them with fermented snail slime. I like mine soaked in Listerine.
Seventy thousand million tons of fries are consumed every year, so it was inevitable that venture capitalists would venture to capitalize on this. Wierich-Fuque was formed and quickly raised $100 million to form Schtrangle Whilly Fries Enterprize (SWFE).
SWFE crunched the numbers and decided using potatoes would not yield sufficient ROI and investigated alternatives. The obvious answer was to use corn instead. 3 billion acres of farmland are currently used to grow corn in the US and the industry enjoys copious tax benefits, government grants, free crop insurance, unlimited propaganda budgets and a wonderful reputation for being all American.
With just a few hundred genetic tweaks SWFE invented and patented Mikk Corn.
Mikk Corn is herbicide resistant, kills any insect or animal that may nibble on it, prevents fungus growth and is resistant to rot. Best of all it can be processed into a thick starchy substance that can be formed into fries of any size.
Unfortunately, it tastes like shit.
Undeterred, SWFE found a way to strip out the natural flavor and replace it with a delicious and soul-satisfying taste using a proprietary blend of phenols, esters and phthalates. When deep fried in SWFE’s synthetic palm oil and lightly salted, people cannot stop eating them.
Chances are that you’ve enjoyed them if you’ve eaten any fries at any fast food place, diner or restaurant.-SWFE briefly experimented with mega fries, producing giant ones to satisfy the American appetite but the cost of the gallon size packets of ketchup them proved to be uneconomic.…
Sal was quite a ladder dancer in his day. Women drove from miles around to see his act and maybe climb up a rung or two and tuck dollars in the waistband of his shorts..
He originated ladder dancing which was widely imitated in ladies-only strip clubs.
It actually started with a burned out light bulb back in the 80s. Sal was rather buff back then when he was working for the G Spot in Kearny NJ. He was a bulb maintenance technician.
There were a lot of bulbs to maintain at the G Spot and he was frequently seen screwing in new units and shaking his cute, rock hard tush to the music. The ladies loved it and started bringing slingshots and bb guns to shoot out the lights so Sal would have to get up there and they would get a chance to see him shake his things. He wore loose fitting shorts and usually went camo.
It wasn’t long before the owner saw his potential and made him a main act.
He performed on all kinds of ladders, Werner, Louisville, Little Giant, Bailey, etc. He became especially well known for his triple step ladder trick. The ladies always got a good view when he pulled this one off.
As they say, that was then and this is now. In the 90s, the G Spot was demolished and replaced by a Cream Pie Factory Chain Restaurant.
Sal packed up his ladders and eventually found lightbulb work on Broadway. But, then LED bulbs made him obsolete.
He never recovered and started wandering the streets with his favorite ladder, the Bailey model FS13432 Trade Dual Purpose Stepladder . He’d find a busy corner, climb to the top and shake his thing, but no one looked up. One day someone saw him setting up his ladder outside their building and gave him some paint and a brush and asked him to do some touch up.…
Attendance was down at the little chapel on the highway leading out of town. People were losing interest. Services were boring and the doughnuts afterwards were stale. Old Paster Lucas never threw out the uneaten ones and kept serving them. They dated back several years. He recycled the coffee too. It had things growing in it.
Although ancient and seemingly feeble, Paster Lucas had a deeply held secret.
In his youth he became a pagan demon with horns and a tail and really bad breath. There are pictures of him in the church but people just assume these are photos of visiting demons that had been simply banished back to the underworld with the fertility gods. They figured his breath was from drinking the coffee.
Paster Lucas made regular trips to the underworld each winter. The gates to hell are under Mara Del Lago. They aren’t locked and there’s always a lot of traffic in and out.
Demons have figured out how to hide their horns with comb-overs and most of them have had their tails bobbed. You can’t tell who is a demon and who is just acting like one. They all have bad breath.
After a recent decent to hell and fed up with a tepid church, Paster Lucas began preaching abundance gospel. “God wants you to be bestowed with riches, and you have to go out and get it.” As he raved and ranted the walls of the church shook and the skies rumbled. His parishioners raised their arms and howled, some barked, a few made vroom-vroom car sounds. Many peed in their pants (just a little).
His message resonated. “It is time to take what’s rightfully yours and other people’s shit, too.” Church outings became very popular and profitable. He bought fresh doughnuts.
The Church has it’s own Ebay store and it’s booty is available on Amazon.…
Dr. Roy Obit, PhD, LLC, LTD is a neurological researcher and inventor. He specializes in thoughts, other people’s thoughts, men’s thoughts in particular.
Dr. Roy is investigating how often men think about sex. One study indicated men think about sex about 19 times a day on average. The study relied on subjects self-reporting how often their minds were in their pants.
It’s probably an underestimate. If a guy is lost in fleshy musings, what’s the likelihood he’ll going to stop self-titillating himself to report to investigators? So Dr. Roy set out to compile objective data that did not rely on repeated confessions.
To do that he knew he would need to see inside the brain to determine when sizzling, lurid, erotic, hot, lusty, carnal, hubba-hubba thoughts were occurring in real time.
Hooking up people to probes in the lab would definitely bias the results. It’s hard to have fornicating fantasies when you’ve got electrodes attached to your head.
So Dr. Roy invented a portable, Bluetooth device, a sextometer, to determine when a guy’s brain is in the gutter. It works on the principle of quantum colocation. As neurons in the brain are activated by some juicy thoughts, their atoms spin clockwise at a frequency of 837 hz.
The Sextometer detects this and will produce a color coded readout ranging from yellow to dark red. Yellow readouts are generally PG thoughts. As the thoughts become more X- rated the color changes to red and then dark red. Some subjects have produced deep violet readouts.
As he was explaining it to me the displays lit up several times as men passed us on the street. Each time it lit up, a targeted Google ad popped up (mostly for lubes and condoms)
Dr. Roy has written several peer-reviewed papers on the device and has been awarded a U.S.…
Flash back to the moon race years. Anyone who watched TV, read a magazine or listened to the radio back then remembers Space Paste. It was heavily advertised and sponsored several popular shows including the Jetsons (of course).
Space Paste was a very advanced total nutrition and dental hygiene system originally designed for astronauts. With just one brushing you could get a full day’s supply of protein, carbs, fats, vitamins, minerals, fiber, fructose and calories.
To make sure the nutrients were absorbed you needed to pre-rinse with a brine solution, brush thoroughly and then follow up your brushing with a sealant. It took about 20 minutes.
Just about everyone in the United States loved the stuff. I know I did and if you are of a certain age, I’m sure you did too.
The food industry took a huge hit. People still ate normal food but much less of it, especially when Diet Space Paste came out.
I’m sure we would all still be enjoying Space Paste now if it weren’t for the radioactivity in the brine and the lead in the sealant. When someone figured out these things weren’t good for us, Space Paste was taken off the market and the Jetsons were cancelled.
Astronauts still use it.
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The Rat Men are an incredibly proud cult based in south Jersey and their numbers are growing.
They have numerous lodges (called Nests) throughout the region where they hoard food and squeak to each other. Initiates are called Mice. It takes about two years or more to learn the squeaking and become a full fledge Rat Man.
They are very big on vaccines: COVID, measles, rabies, plague, etc. No one is allowed in the Nests without one. Special rat masks are also required, but. You also have to be well groomed. No one is allowed to be dirty in the Nests. Pipers are also not allowed.
Recruitment is booming. These guys are very convincing. I would have signed up if I lived in south Jersey. I took one of their brochures and I’m hoping they’ll build a Nest around here.
The application is 23 pages long. You have to answer a lot questions about stuff from quantum physics to obscene rap lyrics. If you are accepted you need to sign a Rat Pact. They seem to be pretty secretive.
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Trevor didn’t start out to be a daredevil. He suffered from Thrill Creep, always looking for a bigger rush.
It started when his parents bought him a trampoline, one of the most dangerous lures for people subject to TC. All it takes is a few bounces to trigger it and Trevor was no exception. Once he got on the tramp all he wanted to do was to bounce higher and higher.
It wasn’t long before he mastered bouncing and was soaring more than 20 feet in the air. All the kids in the neighborhood came to watch him launch himself to ridiculous height. Having an audience stimulated his TC and he started doing tricks like juggling flaming torches as he bounced.
Pretty soon he was jumping off the roof to get more bounce and adding cats to the flaming torches he juggled.
But that just wasn’t thrilling enough . He wanted to go higher and convinced a local pilot to take him up for some skydiving. He put on a parachute but had no plans to use it. It was just for show.
When the plane was directly over the trampoline he dove out, head first, without opening the parachute
About 300 kids were gathered on the ground looking up in awe as he descended, doing flips and juggling cats (the pilot wouldn’t allow torches).
His aim was perfect and he landed right in the middle of the trampoline. Unfortunately, the force of his impact destroyed it and it caved in. Fortunately he landed on the cats which cushioned his fall and saved his life. (Not so much the cats.)
That was the end of his thrill seeking. A wash-up at only 6 years old.
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