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
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