Tag Archives: being clever at other people’s expense

Harold Pinter, Nobel Laureate

Posted on by
Reply

Harold Pinter has been awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature. In honor of this event, please observe a ceremonial moment of silence in this manner: Stare intently at the floor until someone asks you what’s wrong. Continue staring, take a breath, and reply: “Nothing.” (employing a British accent is recommended, either Northern Working Class or Cockney, depending on the color of your trousers and your political affiliation).

Those of you who wear glasses should then remove them and pinch the bridge of your nose between thumb and forefinger at this point. Do not put them back on. Those of you with contact lenses can achieve the same effect by rubbing the corner of one eye with your forefinger. Those of you without corrective lenses of any kind should merely blink a few times, if desired.

If your tormentor does not leave immediately, rise slowly. Silently back them against the nearest wall, bookcase, or kitchen appliance. Ignore their protestations.

Lean in close to their face and, through clenched teeth, say: “Nothing . . . is . . . wrong.”

Allow this to sink in.

After a long pause, punch them in the stomach.

Return quietly to your seat and continue to stare, ignoring their whimpers and the eventual arrival of the police.

Blackout.

Rise of the Ubermensch

Posted on by
Reply

I hate him. I just hate him. Maybe it’s Frank Miller’s fault. Maybe it’s Jules Feiffer’s fault. Maybe they’re the ones who soured me forever on the big blue schoolboy. But whoever it was . . . god do I hate Superman.

This clip isn’t official. Some nimrod fanboy put it together because of the Kryptonian size of his enthusiastic hard-on for the upcoming movie.

This is what happen when men don’t date, kids.

But . . . why do I hate Superman so?

Is it just that there are Lennon fans and there are McCartney fans, and never the twain shall meet?

The Marx Brothers vs. the Three Stooges?

Coke vs. Pepsi?

Can’t we all just get along?

No Rodney, we cannot.

Superman is stupid, he’s a moron. As is anyone who gets that gaudy ‘S’ logo tatooed on any portion of their anatomy, anyone who wears a t-shirt, anyone who puts the sticker on their car.

A few weeks back, I passed a truck with one affixed to their trailer hitch. My son, god bless him, offerred to give them the finger.

Warming to my subject, let me one again stress my thesis that Superman is a complete and utter tool.

And that’s one of the main reasons I hate him. He’s an idiot. He’s borderline retarded. Here’s how you can tell — all of his arch enemies are geniuses, they’re brilliant minds.

Put simply for the Kryptonians in the crowd, Superman’s enemies are all smarter than he is.

Braniac. Lex Luthor. Even Bizarro (the retard Superman) are all defined by Superman’s lack of intelligence.

In short, Superman is all wax and no wick.

As a comparison, Batman’s primary villians are all crazier than he is.

Which begs the question, what would you rather be: Crazy or stupid?

And, lest we forget, Superman is also a complete dick as well.

There’s a movie coming. This is, I expect, a subject to which I shall return in the months to come.

Lucky you.

Fear Itself

Posted on by
Reply

Someone (can’t remember who, probably the geniuses at Something Awful got me looking at this site which is an obviously well intentioned and yet terribly cheesey effort to combat terror — Because, if you can’t post lame pictures of yourself and housepets and sonograms proclaiming “WE ARE NOT AFRAID!” then the terrorists have already won.

A few days later, this site showed up.

One of these sites made me laugh. The other made me roll my eyes. You guess which is which.

And then he guessed my weight…

Posted on by
Reply

Sitting in an early morning meeting this morning with five salespeople I’ve never met before in my life, I mentioned being from out of state and someone asked where I was from.

Before I could answer, one of the other guys at the table said “You’re from Virginia.”

Which is, of course, entirely true — I was born in Virginia but moved out of state when I was three or four years old.

Strange thing is, this guy caught that in my voice. There’s some thirty-plus year olf remnant of a southern accent lurking in there somewhere.

I was impressed and told him so. Then someone else at the table chimed in: “Yeah, but don’t be too impressed. His track record isn’t perfect.”

Seems that the last time the guy pulled his carnival act, he detected a faint drawl in a prospective customer’s voice and asked her where she was from. She told him that she was from Michigan, born and bred. But he wouldn’t let it go, commenting throughout the meeting on her southern accent.

Later, he found out that she had a stroke two or three years before that left her with permanent damage to her speech centers. I didn’t ask if he got her business.

At the end of my meeting this morning, the Dutch Kreskin asked me what T.M. stood for.

I told him to take a wild guess.