In light of the attacks on Afghanistan and the impending Armageddon, I think  it appropriate that we start laughing again. What a killing all the manufacturers of five-dollar Bin Laden toilet paper are making. The mug of a comical Bin Laden caught between the sights, the caption above reading, "Bin Hidden, Bin Laden." Then we have Bin Laden T-shirts en vogue in Pakistan, Indonesia, and various pro-Islam and Bin Laden lauding states. Exploitation, you got to love it. No matter how you look at it, he's become an overnight 
hit. Everyone knows of Bin Laden. Video may have killed the radio star, but it sure made the terrorist star. Nero sang as Rome burned around him. Song is in essence the laughter of the soul. Now I say it's time we all howl. 

This is a short excerpt from the first "Man of Mystery Series", of which there will be a triqual soon. Mike Meyers; we're not worthy. Is it possible to see similarities  between a ficticous character and the real Dr. Terror. 
Let's munch on it.

(NOTE: Read in a British Accent if possible)

Dr. Evil: The details of my life are quite inconsequential– Very well, where should I begin? My father was a relentlessly self-improving boulangerie owner from Belgium with low-grade narcolepsy and a penchant for buggery. My mother was a fifteen-year-old French prostitute named Chloe with webbed feet. My father would womanize, he would drink, he would make outrageous claims, like he invented the question mark. Sometimes he would accuse chestnuts of being lazy. A sort of general malaise that only the genius possess and the insane lament. My childhood was typical. Summers in Rangoon, luge lessons. In the spring we'd make meat helmets. If I was insolent, I was placed in a burlap bag and beaten with reeds. Pretty standard, really. At the age of twelve I received my first scribe. At the age of fifteen, a Zoroastrian named Vilma ritualistically shaved my testicles. There really is nothing like a shorn scrotum. At the age of eighteen, I went off to evil medical school. From there–

This is a joke told to me by my brother, Peter. He is the funniest person I know. Truly, a night with him and he would make you howl. Please; this does not reflect any personal values. My only purpose is to relate a joke. If you find it offensive, I apologize beforehand. (Is it possible to do justice to something that should be orated? An Analogy: Homer, without a doubt, isn’t the same in paperback. The Bard’s voice must be heard, but I suppose we 
must make do.)

A workingman comes home from a hard day of work. He is your typical blue collar, union type. He walks in the door and sits down in the easy chair in front of the television. He grabs the remote and turns it on. Ah! Momentary peace.
The man yells, "Woman, bring me a beer."
Meanwhile, the woman is in the kitchen cooking dinner. In one hand she’s holding a crying, year old baby, and in the other, a spatula. The four other little tykes are running around the kitchen table yelling and screaming. Her back hurts. She is eight months pregnant. She stops mixing the ground beef and grabs a beer from the fridge. She brings it to her husband who is 
sitting in the living room watching the boys of summer. Time passes and soon the beer is empty.
The man yells out again, "Woman, bring me a beer."
At this moment, it is very inconvenient as she is in the process of frying dinner.
The man yells again, "Woman, bring me a beer."
The angry woman yells back, "Get it yourself, I’m busy cooking dinner."
The man yells louder, "If you don’t bring me a beer now, you ain't gonna see me for two months."
The woman thinks about it for a brief second. It's not really that hard a choice. Either to have peace and quiet for two months, or bring the bastard of a husband beers all night.
"Get the damn beer yourself." the woman hollers.

Two months later, the woman can barely see her husband out of the swollen slits of her eyes!

That's all folks! Have a good night! Don't drink drive or you may make some mothers MADD. After all folks "Why drink and drive, when you can smoke and fly."  by  SYJ