Category: Funny Stuff

3 Inexplicable Things

3 Inexplicable Things

Welcome to a new feature on this here blog, which will look at why strange things happen (or don’t happen) in various categories.  Today:

3 Inexplicable Things About Figure Skating

1.  Even though Jayne Torvill was kinda plain-looking and had a dorky hairstyle, most men would still have bonked her if given the chance.

 

2.  Gay men participate in the activity.

3.  This move hasn’t ever resulted in any sexual harassment cases:

(As my friend Patterson once put it:  “Grab her box and you’re a piggish bastard.  Strap on some skates first and all of a sudden it’s ART.”)

More inexplicable things to follow, as I see them.

Feel free to leave your own contributions in Comments, but restrict them to figure skating.  Violations will be deleted.

Monday Funnies

Funny Stuff

It’s Monday, and if you feel swamped already, you’re not alone.

So let’s rise above the tide, buoyed by a little laughter.

…but just try to follow their instructions, and you’re the bad guy.

And I think we can all empathize with this kid:

Our official entry for the “WTF?” category:

And it’s that time of year again:

(The “customer”  is a fucking moron.  Thirty-seven years ago, that coupon probably represented a 50% discount on the price of a bottle of Crisco oil.  Today?  Maybe 10%, if that.)

And here are a few single moms, to help us get through the week:

Now quit loafing around the kitchen, and get to work.

Divided By A Common Language

Mocking Furriners, Travels

That’s because the average town in Britishland has clearly-defined boundaries, where Town Planning forbids any kind of development outside those limits.

Here in the Land Of Da Free, our towns sprawl all over the fucking place, and (e.g. in Plano) you can drive around all day, not see a business of any kind, and still technically be “in town”.

The Germans, of course, have it down pat.  If you take the Ausfahrt  off the Autobahn  to, say, Stuttgart, you just follow the signs which say Zentrum  and you’ll end up in the main business center of town.

Which, by the way, the Brits with their love of inscrutable acronyms refer to as the “CBD” (central business district), only they don’t always use street signs to direct you there.  You get downtown by guesswork and luck.  Don’t ever stop and ask for directions, because the local yokels think it’s great fun to send you into a series of one-way streets and cul-de-sacs  (which is what signs do say, and not “dead ends”) until you wish Hitler had got the job done and flattened the place, back during the Slight Disturbances Of The Early Forties.

Not that I’m bitter about it, or anything.  When you finally get there, it’s all worth it.

…right up until you try to find parking.