Tag: Humor

Stuff that makes me laugh

5 Worst Things Santa Said To Your Kid At The Mall

Friday Feature, The Worst

In ascending order of ugliness:

  • “Hurry up and ask, Lakesha, ‘cos Santa’s gotta go pee.”
  • “No, Olivia, I don’t have a hot dog in my pocket.”
  • “Jimmy, could you just scootch up just a little further?  Oh, yes, yes, yessss…”
  • “I’ll get you that bicycle, as long as you don’t tell your momma what Santa just did with his finger.”
  • “No, Freddie, that’s not eggnog on Santa’s pants.”

Your suggestions in Comments.

Mum’s Car

Drive Time

My mother once had one of these:

Owners of Morris Minors (boasting a top speed of just 63mph, and taking more than 30 seconds to get to 60mph) are among the most prolific drug and drink drivers, a new study suggests.

And it looked exactly like this one:

I think hers had a single windshield, not a split one, but I could be wrong.  She loved it dearly, and was distraught when my father secretly sold it, replacing it with one of these:

She kept the Austin-Healey for almost a year, then forced my father to get rid of it, “because the men keep looking at me and flirting” — which tells you all about my mother.  Its replacement?  An Austin 1100:

…which she kept for years until I wrecked it in 1971 (sorry, Ma).

Anyway, about that drunken Morris Minor driver thing:  I suspect that it’s because most Minor drivers today are old farts, who suffer from impaired reflexes and decaying driving skills as well as a tendency to drink lots of gin.

I want to drive a Morris Minor then, because I fit the profile perfectly.  But I want the Traveller model, complete with wood (which is real wood, by the way):

I bet I could pull the chicks* with that beauty, big time.

* of my own vintage, that is.

“Dear Mr. President”

Funny Stuff, Lies and Untruths

Sorry to bug you again, O God-Emperor, but seeing as you turned me down for the post of U.N. Ambassador, something just occurred to me.

While the wonderful Sarah Huckabee Sanders has yet to resign from her job as White House Press Secretary, it may only be a question of time before some loony Socialist attacks her at a restaurant or something, and she quits.  Allow me therefore to offer, with the utmost humility, my services as a replacement for Mrs. Sanders should that doleful occasion arise.

My qualifications:

  • I hate the Press.  All of them.  Even Brit Hume makes my face twitch on occasion.  Considering that they all hate you, I think turnabout would be fair play.
  • CBS: Commie Broadcasting System;  NBC: Nothing But Commies;  ABC: All Bloody Commies;  CNN: Commie News Network;  MSNBC: Motherfucking Set of Nutballs, Bastards and Commies — ‘nuff said.
  • I have so much dirty laundry in my checkered past (none of which I care a rat’s ass about), the Jackals of the Press (JotP) will be too busy chasing down details of the famous Parking Lot Incident Of 1989 to worry about your latest dealings in Iraq/North Korea/Iran/the economy/global warming/[insert liberal Cause Of The Month here].
  • If a question is too tough to answer, or the answer would likely cause you embarrassment, I’ll just babble some nonsense in Afrikaans (hey, that approach worked for Margaret Tutwiler).
  • I’d actually like to conduct the Press briefings in Afrikaans, just so all the multi-culturalists can experience the result of their all-cultures-and-languages-are-equal nonsense.
  • I’m also a genuine African (unlike some Dolezals I could mention), so I can’t be accused of being racist when I state that the latest murderous Somalian kleptocrat dictator is “just another one of those African scumbags.”
  • Most hostile questions from the JotP would be answered with:  “I bet you wouldn’t be asking the same question if Hillary Clinton was President.”
  • I’m sick of reporters like Jim Acosta making political statements in the guise of a question, and I’ll bet you are too.  So I’ll use a stopwatch on each questioner, and if the question is longer than 5 seconds, I’ll interrupt them using a truck’s air horn and shout, “Next!”
  • All Acosta’s questions/rants would be met with a pitying chuckle and a shake of the head.  Just for giggles, I’ll first put a sombrero on my head before answering him in a terrible Mexican accent.
  • Come to think of it, if asked a question by any  furrin JotP, I’ll repeat their question back to them in a parody of their accent before answering.
  • In answer to most questions from furrin Press jackals, the statement would go: “Well, to start off with, we’re not going to do what your government would do…”
  • Post-briefing fistfights in the corridor would be a common occurrence.  We could sell tickets.
  • All references to NorKPres Kim Long Dong or whatever he calls himself will be prefaced with “That Commie rat…”, ditto Castro, Nancy Pelosi and that tool from Venezuela.
  • All questions about the Pore & Starvin will be answered with: “We’re going to make George Soros share a couple billion of his own dollars with them first to see what happens, before we throw taxpayer money at the problem.”
  • In fact, I could use that reply to all questions pertaining to economics or social policy, if you wish.
  • I’ll keep a Wrist Rocket on the podium, and every time some liberal JotP asks one of their loaded questions, I’ll shoot him in the gut with a ball bearing, and laugh out loud when he squeals like a little girl.  And seeing as they all want to be treated like men, female JotPs will get the same response (I’m not sexist).
  • Saturday Night Live will never be able to lampoon my Press briefings, because the reality will be funnier than anything those liberal New York assholes could ever dream up.
  • If you’re holding the briefing and get asked a tough question, you could always just say, “I’ll let Kim answer that question,” and then look puzzled as there’s a mad stampede for the exits.
  • I can say you’ve declared war on any country, and none of the JotP will believe me… until after the first ICBMs have detonated.
  • I won’t take any questions from a reporter whose organization has ever said anything nasty about your family members.  That should shorten the Press briefings considerably.
  • The horrible New York Times will stop sending reporters to my briefings, either because they’re sick of being mocked, or else because they’ll have run out of reporters to send.
  • When asked, “Are you actually carrying a gun under your jacket?” I’ll just smile enigmatically, and move on to the next question.
  • And to keep the JotP quiet on the topic of guns and gun control, I’ll add a weekly “Department of Righteous Shootings” item, and cackle like a maniac as I describe the dead goblin’s wounds in detail.
  • The Nielsen ratings for my White House Press briefings would make the most popular current TV sitcom look like a Dick Cavett Show rerun.
  • Finally, I won’t ever need any Secret service protection when I go out for dinner in Washington D.C.  Best you don’t ask why.

Mr. President, I hope that you will consider my qualifications favorably, and offer me the job should the occasion arise.  Let’s be realistic:  all those Fake News Press bastards hate you already, so my appointment can hardly make things worse for you (and they may even make things better).  But let’s also remember that as bad as your approval ratings are, most people hate the Press even more.  So why not capitalize on that hatred and have a good laugh for the remainder of your Presidency, as a bonus?

Besides, you have to admit that seeing a battered BBC or CNN reporter carried out the White House on a stretcher each week would be a definite morale-booster for your electoral base, to say nothing of your White House staff.

Sincerely,

Wife Needed

Drive Time, Friends and Family

I don’t do well by myself.  Today I dropped the Tiguan off at the Eurocar repair shop to have the back brakes replaced (after only 65,000 miles — whatever happened to quality?).  The owner of the place very kindly offered me a lift home, which offer I gratefully accepted.

And then it all went pear-shaped.  You see, I always drop the deadbolt on the front door when I leave the house because I go out through the garage.

You know where this is going, right?

Yup;  the garage door opener is still in the Tiguan, ten miles away, and my front door key is useless because deadbolt.

So I sidled off to the apartment complex manager to see what could be done.  Long story short:  nada.  For security reasons, there is no universal remote for the garages, and as with the front door, the patio door is likewise deadbolted.  I am marooned for the next four hours or so, and I don’t like it.

Follow my reasoning, here:  if I had a wife, she’d be at home to let me in, with a steaming cup of consoling coffee withal, and I wouldn’t be sitting here typing on the complex’s public computer with only the lovely Claudia in the office to look at, listening to the canned “boom-tsss, boom-tss, boom-tss” background music supporting the usual helium-voiced Black chick singing crap lyrics in nigh-incomprehensible Ebonics.

Or maybe it’s Taylor Swift singing.  I’m not sure because tinnitus makes it difficult to hear anything through the World’s Cheapest Speakers echoing through the hard-floored hard-walled curtainless office complex.

This wife thing may seem to be something of an extreme remedy for the (very) occasional circumstance of locking oneself out of the house;  but there are plenty of other reasons, such as the fact that my last sexual encounter with a woman was during the Bush presidency (and don’t ask which one, either).  Another reason for me to have a wife is that I am absolutely sick of my own cooking — a man can only eat so much steak, shrimp, toasted cheese or -chicken sandwiches, coleslaw, lamb vindaloo, Jarlsberg cheese, bacon & eggs, grilled boerewors, baby back ribs, grapefruit segments, sausage rolls, steak ‘n kidney pie, ice cream, and baked beans on toast for so long before he dies of the dreaded Gastric Boredom.  Some variety, in other words, is needed.

Speaking of need, I need a drink, but of course old-fashioned hospitality has disappeared because offering a cocktail to a man in dire straits is nowadays something Only Hitler Would Do, or so I’ve heard.  If I had a wife, I’d never have that problem because anyone I’d marry would know that when I need a drink, I need a drink and that’s the end of it.

So I’m announcing today that I am now in the market for a wife, on a first-come first-served basis, so to speak.  And while all offers will be closely scrutinized, I should remind all lonely desperate needy partners that I am, to put it very mildly, a terrible prospect and you would be better off hooking up with Hitler.  Or something like that.

Unless Maintenance somehow manages to find some way into my apartment and gets me inside, in which case never mind.