I wonder if the urinal ever feels inadequate
When he stares at the stalls with hidden toilet seats inside
And conjectures that he might feel more fulfilled with his job
If only people sat on him.

I wonder how many times someone steps up to drain his bladder
And the urinal rolls his eyes, sighs, and remarks to himself:
“Geez, not this dick again.”

Originality is the fine art of remembering what you hear but forgetting where you heard it.

-Laurence J. Peter

Nicker

Whicker

Whinny

and neigh.

These are the

sounds that a horsey

makes.

I’m an idealist. I don’t know where I’m going, but I’m on my way.

-Carl Sandburg

I don’t think it’s any coincidence that the vast majority of synonyms for comic entertainers carry negative connotations.  If you think of the ways you can insult a person without plunging into that ever-satisfying pool that is profanity, a good proportion of them relate to words describing a court jester or a comedian.  Fool.  Buffoon.  Simpleton.  Clown. 

 

I may be so totally off base that I’m wandering lost deep in the grassy solitude of the outfield, but it doesn’t seem all that farfetched to think that these words were intentionally given dismissive and demeaning characterizations because of the role jesters, particularly court jesters of Old Europe, played in monarch-ruled societies.  The court jester was given the lofty task of entertaining the king and his court, but in this oftentimes dangerous occupation lies the essence of the fool’s role: to tell the truth.  More than anyone else, the jester was given license to mock the king, vent the frustrations of the people, and so on, under the guise of comedy. 

 

The jester was unique in that he was allowed to speak truth to power.  And a successful jester could make himself virtually immune to the taunts, threats, and insults from powerful people that might not otherwise appreciate the humor directed towards them as much as their superior, the king.  In this respect, I wonder how much titles pertaining to or related to jesters and comedians were purposefully cultivated to take on less agreeable meanings to keep the power of comedy in check.

 

For instance, it is remarkably easy to see the same dismissal today whenever a comedian or satirist like Jon Stewart or Stephen Colbert make an honest, valuable assessment or criticism in their comedy that is easily brushed off by the offending party as nonsense spoken by “some comedian” or ”just a comedian.”  Much the same way that many voters and politicians were quick to evaluate Senator Al Franken’s potential based on his history as a comedian.

 

Perhaps our society is due for a history lesson to broaden its awareness of what comedy truly does and is capable of. 

 

Just because the delivery isn’t serious, doesn’t mean there isn’t some serious truth in the message.

Ahoy and Avast, ye scurvy ne’er-do-well cads!

In honor of International Talk Like a Pirate Day tomorrow, I’ve pilfered, plundered, filched, sacked, embezzled, kidnapped, ravaged, rifled, looted, extorted, marauded, and even high-jacked the saltiest (best or worst, depends on where you stand w/r/t pirate jokes) seadog shenanigans for your preparation and perusal.

Fair winds and following seas, ye’ scoundrels! 

 

Why did the pirate cross the sea?

To get to the other tide!

 

What happens when you have sex with a pirate?

You get an AAAARRRrrrggggasm!  Oh, and syphilis too.

  

What is a pirate’s favorite retort to name-calling?

I know you ARRRrrrgh but what am ‘aye?!

 

What does a pirate use on his hemorrhoids?

Prep-ARRRRrrrrgggh-ation H!

 

Where is a pirate’s first choice for college?

Yale.  Just kidding.  Harrrrvarrrrd!

 

Why does it take pirates so long to learn the alphabet?

Because they can spend years at C!

 

What do you call a pirate with two eyes and two legs?

Rookie!

  

What do you call a pirate who can’t conduct a good raid?

The pillage idiot. Har!

 

Why do all pirates have eyepatches?

Chuck Norris.

 

How much are pirate union fees?

An arm and a leg!

 

Why do pirates always bury their treasure 18 inches below the ground?

Because booty is only shin deep!

 

What do you call a pirate with no eye?

A prate!

 

 Why do pirates subscribe to Playboy?

They say it’s for the ARRRRRticles, but it’s mainly for the booty!

 

What did the first mate find when he went into the head?

The Captain’s log.

 

Why is pirating so addictive?

Once ye lose yer first hand, ye get hooked!

 

What’s a horny pirate’s worst nightmare?

A sunken chest with no booty!

 

What do a bleached blonde and a pirate have in common?

A little black patch.

 

Why do pirates make such great boxers?

They have killer left hooks.

 

What do you call a black pirate?

A pirate, you racist seadog!

 

How many pirates with ADD does it take to screw in a lightbulb?

Oh, look a parrot!

 

What was the excruciatingly slow, bloody, and painful cause of Capt. Hook’s death?

Jock itch.

 

Where do you find pirates who’ve lost their wooden legs?

Right where you left them.

 

Two ships were crossing the ocean, coming from opposite directions towards one another.  One ship was painted red and travelling at 45 knots per hour.  The other ship was painted blue and travelling 20 knots per hour.  What happened when the ships collided?

They were marooned.

 

What has 8 legs, 8 arms, and 8 eyes?

8 pirates.

 

What’s the best way to keep pirates off your lawn?

Beavers.

 

 A pirate walks into a bar wearing a paper towel on his head. He sits down at the bar and orders some dirty rum.

The bartender asks, “Why are you wearing a paper towel?”

“Arrr…” says the pirate. “I’ve got a bounty on me head!”

 

A pirate walks into a bar and the bartender says, “Hey, I haven’t seen you in a while. What happened, you look terrible!”

“What do you mean?” the pirate replies, “I’m fine.”

The bartender says, “But what about that wooden leg? You didn’t have that before.”

“Well,” says the pirate, “We were in a battle at sea and a cannon ball hit my leg but the surgeon fixed me up, and I’m fine, really.”

“Yeah,” says the bartender, “But what about that hook? Last time I saw you, you had both hands.”

“Well,” says the pirate, “We were in another battle and we boarded the enemy ship. I was in a sword fight and my hand was cut off but the surgeon fixed me up with this hook, and I feel great, really.”

“Oh,” says the bartender, “What about that eye patch? Last time you were in here you had both eyes.”

“Well,” says the pirate, “One day when we were at sea, some birds were flying over the ship. I looked up, and one of them shat in my eye.”

“So?” replied the bartender, “what happened? You couldn’t have lost an eye just from some bird shit!”

“It was the day after I got the hook.”

I handed her a bouquet of pheasants,

tethered with a knot of toads,

but the lone reply she indulged me to suffer,

was naught but a jay’s icy scold.

Boobs in face = bleeding gums and excruciating pain.

 

I don’t know if it’s simply because it’s convenient for you, Dental Hygienist Assistant, to utilize my face as a shelf for your breasts when you are sodomizing my gums with the razor wire you call floss, but I am beginning to fear the correlations and associations that are beginning to penetrate my subconscious mind. 

 

Just so we’re clear, I’m perfectly okay with my face being employed as a shelf for breasts.  Perfectly.  In fact, I encourage it.  It’s just the horrific counterpart to this delightful experience that concerns me.

All summer, I’ve been participating in the online book club/community that is Infinite Summer and I’m happy to report that I persevered and recently finished David Foster Wallace’s 1,079 page tome, Infinite Jest.  The book, while infuriating at times (particularly at the end, and often throughout the 100 pages of footnotes), was undoubtedly a worthwhile endeavor with a valuable lesson. 

 

But does it betray some fundamental lack of appreciation/intelligence/humanity that my greatest relief is that I no longer have to heft around a hardcover book that is purportedly only three pounds, but in the practice of routinely holding said book in one hand felt more akin to an awkward, boxy, 15 lb. dumbbell?  I was beginning to develop such muscular definition in my right hand and forearm that every person who noticed the disparity in musculature between my left and right arm no doubt pegged me as a savagely chronic masturbator, silently judging me, and on a few occasions, offering up expressions that seemed to suggest I might try changing it up with the other hand every now and then.

 

So, thank you, David Foster Wallace.  Though I know you are sadly no longer with us (I couldn’t determine whether the fact of my finishing his masterpiece on the first anniversary of his suicide was appropriate or grossly macabre), I am certain you are deriving an infinite amount of jest from the public’s perception of my overachieving onanism when, in reality, the only self-abuse I was subjecting myself to was the neural conditioning your book induced.  Well, most of the self-abuse.

My computer beat me at checkers, but I sure beat it at kickboxing.                                                           

 -Emo Philips