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I read an interesting article in the Washington Post the other day about a joke that's been floating around comedy circles for years, the only point of which is to be as offensive as possible. The initial setup and the punchline are always the same, but the middle varies from performer to performer. The article really explains it better than I can (or at least, better than I'm willing to). Either way, I figure now is as good a time as any to try my hand at it. One brief warning, though: if you are capable of being offended, do not read the following. Unless, I suppose, you want to be offended. Not that I really care...
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A family (mother, father, six-year-old son, two-year-old daughter, elderly grandfather, and German shepherd puppy) go into a booking agent's office.
"How may I help you?" asks the booking agent.
"We have a family act for which we'd like you to find us a venue," answers the father.
"I'm sorry," says the booking agent, "but family acts are a little, shall we say, passe."
"Perhaps," says the father, "but you've not seen our act."
"No," agrees the booking agent, "and I don't intend to."
"If you just give us a few minutes of your time," continues the father, "I promise you that you will see an act unlike any you've seen."
"Christ," sighs the booking agent. "Fine. But make it quick."
"We'll do what we can," says the father. Then, without skipping a beat, he removes his pants and his boxer shorts, bends over fully at the waist and, with a darning needle he produces from the sleeve of his tuxedo shirt, lances the enormous boil that sits next to his anal aperture. He catches the torrent of pus and sebaceous fluid in his cupped hand, stands up again, and uses his free hand to pry open his infant daughter's mouth, whereupon he pours the contents of his other hand into her gaping maw. The girl chokes and gags briefly, but soon enough has swallowed all the pus--and judging by the look on her little face, she seems to have enjoyed it.
At this point, the mother picks up the son, turns him upside down, and begins to pound his head into the hardwood floor, over and over and over again, like a piledriver, until the top of his skull is cracked and flattened and he appears dead. She drops him to the floor and, removing a pair of rusty tinsnips from her purse, gets down on her knees beside him, cradles his now pulpy head in her lap, and slowly, carefully scalps the boy, then peels away the skin from the crown of his head to reveal his freshly splintered skull. Using an oyster fork now, she meticulously picks away each of the skull fragments, eventually revealing the child's brain. "Your turn, grandpa," she announces calmly.
Grandpa, a distinguished looking septuagenarian with a full head of thick, salt and pepper hair and a luxuriant mustache to match, removes his pants, gets on his knees, and begins performing analingus on the puppy, which in turn is performing analingus on the father (enticed, no doubt, by the prospect of licking up all that salty sebaceous fluid still weeping out of the lanced boil). The father, at the same time, has lubricated his fist with a stick of salted butter and is now viciously punching his two-year-old daughter in the vagina. The mother, meanwhile, is holding the daughter and stroking her hair in a somewhat pointless attempt to stanch the flow of tears. While this is going on, the boy remains prone on the floor.
After a while, the grandfather is sufficiently stimulated and, erect phallus in hand, crawls over to the lifeless body of his young grandson and, after getting himself comfortably situated, grabs the young tyke by the ears and, mad with lust and rage, begins fucking him in the brains. It is a hideously messy undertaking, and by the time the grandfather lets forth a wild roar and, spasming like an epileptic, ejaculates powerfully into the hollow of his dead grandson's cranium, the inside of the boy's head looks like it is filled with cold oatmeal. Not quite sated, the grandfather scoops out handfuls of the stuff and eats of it greedily, until none is left.
The mother, meanwhile, has sought to satisfy her own urges by gradually coaxing the puppy's entire head into her vagina. Alas, as it is only a puppy, this does not quite do the trick, so the husband helps to butter their daughter's head and, with one great shove, insert it into the mother's ass. Driven into a frenzy by the paroxysms of the dog and the child struggling for air deep within the recesses of her foul lower orifices, the mother begins to lick and suck the brain matter off of the her distinguished old father-in-law's withered old knob. This fills her husband with both jealousy and desire. More aroused than he's ever been in his life, he bends his father over and begins fucking him so violently that one can actually hear things snap and rupture inside the old man. It does not take the husband long to reach the point of climax, but instead of cumming in his father's rectum, he pulls out, jerks the old man down to his knees, drives his throbbing member deep into the old man's throat, and erupts with such volume and intensity that the old man literally drowns in his son's semen.
The mother has by now reached her own state of bliss and, well satisfied, removes the dog's now-and-forever still head and her newly departed daughter's head from those places wherein they gasped their final, fetid breaths, and walks over to her husband. They look deep into one another's eyes for a moment, then share a warm, yet tender, kiss.
"Well," asks the father, "what did you think?"
"Jesus... Jesus Christ," mutters the ashen booking agent. "What in the name of God do you call that act?"
"Oh," replies the father, nonchalantly, "we call ourselves, 'The Aristocrats'.
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Two Myths (translated from the Greek)
Kronolaides, a somewhat pudgy young man, wished to persuade his lover, Angroclosiastomes, to marry him. Zeus, who was feeling cranky that day, turned himself into a faun and ate all of Kronolaides's figs, which he’d left out in the sun to dry. Incensed, Kronolaides called upon his uncle, Poseidon, to send forth a tidal wave to drown the faun. Poseidon, however, knew that the faun was really Zeus, and instead sent forth a storm, which wrecked Kronolaides’s trireme. This is why it’s considered bad luck to drown fauns.
Hesperococles, a deaf blacksmith, made regular sacrifices to Lapridiades, the god of deaf blacksmiths, in the hope that he’d be granted a larger anvil. This angered Zeus, because, as Zeus saw it, how come nobody ever asked him for anything? He knew where to get anvils just as well as Lapridiades, and probably for a better price, too. So Zeus transformed himself into a small stone, and intentionally tripped Hesperococles, who was on his way to steal some olives from his neighbor. Hesperococles fell so hard, he split open his lip. He decided to vent his frustration on the stone that tripped him, but instead picked up and threw into the sea the stone that was next to it, which happened to be his mother, Kesperanica, the goddess of bathing, who was trying to play a trick on her son as a subtle rebuke for his accidentally eating her best linens. So distraught was Hesperococles that he flung himself into the sea, where he was strangled to death by a giant squid. This is why it is considered bad manners to steal your neighbor’s olives and then fall down and split your lip.
If you enjoyed reading about these ancient myths, please visit your local library. It is a good, quiet place to hang yourself without drawing much attention.
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Today, October 17th, is the feast day of St. John the Dwarf. This is very much true, but, as it turns out, not the least bit funny, unless you think Berbers slaughtering religious hermits is something to laugh at. Fortunately, though, the Catholic hagiography is chock full of hilarious martyrs. Perhaps you'd care to learn about some of them? Please—join me, won't you?
St. Pulpus of Cremona - An Italian schoolboy who longed someday to become a dressmaker, young Pulpus began having visions of Anthony of Padua shortly after his parents, who were pagans, tried unsuccessfully to imprison him in a cask of sweet vermouth. It was a vision of St. Anthony that convinced Pulpus to flee his native Cremona to preach to the Flemish. Little else is known about Pulpus, but presumably that same vision of Anthony of Padua instructed him to be burned at the stake in Bruges somewhere around 220 A.D. Pulpus is the patron saint of little boys who yearn to grow up to be dressmakers, and is invoked against malaria, banditry, and price gouging.
St. Larry - Born in Lindenhurst, New Jersey in 1908 to a prosperous Druid family, Larry began to challenge his parents' faith shortly after he turned fifty, having been inspired by a flyer some crackpot handed him. His parents died soon thereafter, and he was left out of the will. He died penniless in a Weehawken boarding house in 1972. According to the modern Church, this was close enough to martyrdom, and he was named a Saint almost immediately, just as soon as a few phony miracles could be concocted. Larry is the patron saint of Weehawken and poorly constructed plastic whistles, and is invoked against werewolves.
St. Lizabetta - The daughter of a Polish bureaucrat and his retarded, limbless grandmother, Lizabetta's life was difficult from the start, not even taking into account her schoolmates' taunts about her being her own mother (or cousin or uncle or however it works out); she was born with one leg, a big, thick, central leg with two feet sprouting out at the bottom, which made her look odd when she walked, and downright hilarious when she ran. On top of that, her tongue was extraordinarily thick and long, which made her speak like some sort of Polish cartoon character. Despite these shortcomings (or, actually, probably because of them), Lizabetta became a nun. A few years after entering the convent, Lizabetta became convinced that by praying a lot, she'd make God happy enough to, at the very least, give her a sudden and painless death. To show her devotion, she'd go months on end without sleeping, reading the Bible over and over again in her ridiculous, spittle-accented voice, much to the delight and amusement of the other sisters. As a reward, God gave her pancreatic cancer and forced her to suffer with it for an unprecedented eighty years. Lizabetta is the patron saint of placebo manufacturers, tricyclists, and militant Islam, and is invoked against too-salty osso buco, postage stamp rate increase, bee swarms, and Lincoln's ghost.
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A quick kids’ movie idea:
The Kodiak Kid - A 10-year-old boy discovers that he can play golf on a PGA tour level whenever he uses Kodiak chewing tobacco.
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I recently read an article about how Kobe Bryant is aloof and has never been particularly friendly with any of his teammates. Even on the road, he always opted to be by himself. In his early days in the NBA, he spent his free time holed up in his hotel room, writing poetry.
I know. I didn't buy it either, but I did a little investigating, and sure enough, in a metal box buried beneath a porch in Inglewood, I unearthed a sheaf of papers bearing the distinctive handwriting of basketball's most misunderstood acquitted rapist (actually, in all fairness, it's probably wrong to keep calling him a rapist after the acquittal). Anyway, to make a tedious prologue mercifully shorter, here are some of the highlights of my big find.
We Played Good Tonight
We played good tonight
but I guess they must have wanted it more
they was hittin' on the perimeter
and doing a good job shutting us down
it took me a little while to get going
but... I don't know
We'll just have to play harder tomorrow
Ode to Del Harris
Del Harris, Del Harris, how the wind whispers Del Harris
there's no magic night in Paris that could stir me like you do
oh you tuly are the fairest, sweet Del Harris, sweet Del Harris
and while perhaps it should embarass me I must declare my love for you
Fuck You, Kurt Rambis
So they call you Rambo, huh?
Think that makes you pretty tough?
Think you all better than Del Harris or something?
Bitch.
My Vagina
My vagina
yes, my VAGINA
is not just some delicate flower
for you
to pity
and fear
It is not some
bleeding wound
that I
like all my sisters
must suffer for the sin
of being woman
it is less than me
it is more than my essence
it is of me
and of itself
Please, Shaquille O'Neal,
won't you fill it up?
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The following are representative of the kind of things I would never want to write. I write them now only as a sort of cautionary lesson. Take heed, little ones, take heed.
1) The north forty lay fallow nigh on a year after Mummaw died; Paw had come down with what the townsfolk called, "the dry gripes," and thereafter devoted his attention only to the enduring comforts of the Good Book, and perhaps the occasional cup of hard cider when the rheumatiz got too bad.
2) " 'twere nothin' but a nor'easter," said old Pete Cudger, meaningfully, but with little animation. Lukie Ralscomb's deeply lined face showed not a whit of reaction. After a long moment, he cleared his throat softly, said, "Mayhap it were," in his stoic, noncommittal way, and returned to his whittling.
3) O! The tormenting tintinnabulation of those cursed alarum bells! Would I have no rest?!
4) Belflax X-2J-11 strode briskly through the spaceport. "The next spacebus leaves in six quarforts, and I only have nineteen zorkmids to my name. What to do, what to do?" he wondered. Down the corridor, a certain five-armed space raider from colony V-Omega wondered much the same thing.
5) Francine looked at the man sleeping beside her. Was this the man she'd met in Paris, what seemed like a thousand summers ago? Was this the man who'd sang to her, as the shadows crept along the length of the Champs Elysées? Francine, Francine, you are my dream… She decided it wasn't, and a slow, silent tear coursed its way gently down her alabaster cheek.
6) "Lawsie, I's din means nuffin ba it!" Ressie whimpered. Boss Murphy wiped a grubby paw across the back of his sunburned, bullish neck, gave Reesie a hard look, then picked up his whip. A flash in his hard, blue eyes told Reesie that somewhere deep inside, Boss Murphy was enjoying this. A lot.
7) Moira Donnelly was 7 years old when she saw her first angel. She was 41 when she saw her next, and oh so much had happened in between.