Sheriff Launches Beer with Queer Program in Alabama

The Baffletown County Sheriff’s Department takes Obama’s beer sit down seriously. Ben When, a reporter from the Flummox Daily News, sat down with Sheriff Dipschitz and asked him about his Beer with a Queer Program.

DIPSCHITZ

Yessur, I like what the President’s doing even though I don’t believe he’s really the President. He was born in Canada, you know, in Labrador. I had me a black Labrador retriever once. They’re good dogs.

WHEN

Can you tell me a how this program got started?

DIPSCHITZ

It’s like this. You see, we don’t have enough musical thee-aters down here. Lately, Mrs. Dipschitz, God love her, has been nagging me to death about going out to a show. So, I said to myself, Dexter, we need to get ourselves some queers down here and get musical thee-ater going again. Since most queers in the state hide in closets, I thought, that ain’t healthy being stuck in a closet with mothballs and the poufy clothes they wear. So, after I heard the nig—uh, er, President speak about making peace between that nig—uh, er professor and the police officer, I got me an idea. Get the queers out of the closet and bring back musical thee-ater to Baffletown. That way I get the bit—uh er, Mrs. Dipschitz off my back.

WHEN

How does the program work?

DIPSCHITZ

First, we had to promise them queers. I mean gays. You know they ain’t called queers any more. I had to promise them they wouldn’t get beat up or her-assed. Had to sign a contract with them. They might be light in the step, but they’re tough son-of-a-bitches at the negotiating table. The program works like this: every night one of my deputies sits down with a qu—uh, er gay at one of them local biker bars to share a beer and talk about. Hell, I don’t know what they’ll talk about.

WHEN

Do you think a biker bar is the best place for a sit down?

DIPSCHITZ

Hell, it’s the only place for a sit down. All we got is biker bars in Baffletown.

WHEN

How are you handling all the resignations?

DIPSCHITZ

Yeah, that’s a sticky point. After I announced the program, all my deputies quit. So, in addition to looking for qu—uh, er gays, we’re looking to hire six deputies.

WHEN

What are the requirements for a deputy position?

DIPSCHITZ

They’ve got to pass a physical and take a test.

WHEN

What kind of test?

DIPSCHITZ

It has questions like: What was the first movie Barbara Streisand starred in? If they know the answer, they lose a point.

WHEN

Doesn’t a question like that exclude gays from joining the Sheriff’s Department?

DIPSCHITZ

Yep. That is true. But I can’t have no qu—gays in the department.

WHEN

Why is that?

DIPSCHITZ

My Beer with a Queer Program wouldn’t work. It has to be gay on straight, not queer on queer. What kind of program would that be?

Unemployment Dayjà vu

On Unemployment Time

I open my eyes and regard the alarm clock on my nightstand. “Oh God, it’s you again.” Nothing has changed. I’m still on unemployment time — the fifth time zone located in the middle of a daydream, where time moves like a waffle ball.

“What day is it?” I ask my dog lying by my side. He shakes his head. He doesn’t know either. I’ll only find the answer after I climb out of bed, my daily workout, and stagger to the office out of breath. The calendar never lies unless I forgot to change the month. It is July, isn’t it? Yes, and look it’s Tuesday, though Tuesday seems a lot like Monday. It’s dayjà vu all over again, redundantly the same.

When I point the cursor to the task bar clock on my computer, it confirms what the calendar says. I feel better until I check the job sites. First, I look for office assistant jobs within 15 miles. Nothing. 20 miles. Nothing. 1000 plus miles later, there appears to be a job in Quebec, Canada, although I’d have to get a visa, and it would be a bit of schlep from Connecticut.

Time to check another job site. Lots of jobs here, but they’re written in a strange, unintelligible dialect. Oops, it seems I’ve drifted off to Belgium. No wonder I can’t figure out how to get off the page. Alt, shift, delete, and nothing.

Am I dead? The screen brightens. Don’t go into the light. No. This light won’t kill me. It just brightens the screen.

Thank God I’m alive and back in the motherland. I head over to Yahoo and scroll down the page. There’s a job 40 miles from here if I can speak Spanish, French, and Pig Latin. My Pig Latin is pretty good, but I’d rather not interact with hogs. My French is pathetic. I only know several words, and I am pretty sure they’re obscenities. I can speak Spanish well only if someone is asking about visiting the library.

I should stay away from jobs requiring a second language. Even my native tongue, ethnic suburban New York, is questionable at times. At least I can read the job descriptions in English unlike the other site I stumbled onto halfway around the globe.

It’s easy to continent hop in cyberspace. If only continent hopping was that easy in cyberland, I would apply to that job in Quebec. However, I’d have to speak French. I don’t want to anger my neighbors to the north, especially when it appears they have more jobs than we do down south.

Wait! How lucky is that? A pop up window promises that I can learn French in 24 hours. How fortuitous and thoughtful of them to pop on in. They just need my bank information and pin number. Oh, look. It’s my lucky day. It seems they already have that.

When Right-Brain Tweets Left-Brain

Right-Brain (RB) vs. Left-Brain (LB)

RB: What a day! The sun is shining.

LB: Wear a hat and sunglasses. You could get burned or worse go blind.

RB: You’re negative.

LB: I’m practical.

RB: You’re boring.

LB: Just because I plan my day.

RB: Plan it? You dissect it like a science experiment.

LB: I’m sick of your, “You’ve got to stop and smell the roses BS.” Don’t you know that roses have thorn?

RB: It’s a metaphor for enjoying life. How can you enjoy life when you’re too busy analyzing why it’s a four-letter word?

LB: Enjoying life is on my “to-do” list.

RB: Everything’s on your “to-do” list.

LB: I bet you don’t even have one. You do whatever moves you.

RB: Lately, your anal need for morning bran moves me.

LB: I just try to stay healthy.

RB: Worrying about staying healthy isn’t healthy. You could have a stroke.

LB: At least there’s enough activity on my side of the brain to be affected by a stroke. Your half’s been dead for years.

RB: Appearances can be deceiving. I like to think deeply from time-to-time.

LB: I don’t know how you can equate spacing out with thinking deep.

RB: It’s my way of being right with the world.

LB: Well, that’s the problem. Maybe you’d get something done occasionally if you weren’t always right.

A Headstone Can’t Roll Yet Gathers Moss

Only a medium with a reliable spirit source could answer such a question. Unfortunately, most ghosts are flighty, show up unannounced, and leave cold spots on the living room rug. If I were a ghost, I wouldn’t even hang out in a cemetery; I would haunt a five-star hotel in Cozumel.

Lately, death has been on my mind because I’ve been temping at a headstone company. It’s been dead. – Couldn’t resist – Quiet as a tomb. No ghosts so far. This isn’t a rest stop for spirits. It’s more like a weigh station for words, tweets in stone, as it were. Just the bereaved visit here to create a lasting memorial for a loved one and to ensure the cemetery marker is prominent enough to find amid a gaggle of graves. Traveling down the wrong path in life is an inconvenience. In death, a lost soul would have an impossible task negotiating his way down a graveyard path to locate his headstone, unable to distinguish one from the next among all the clichéd inscriptions like “Here lies” or “Beloved husband of.” Gravestone captions should be more entertaining and insightful like, “Our Loss. Hell’s gain,” or “She would never shut up until now.”

I never realized how many expressions incorporated the word “stone” and that their meanings could be interpreted in many different ways.

Expressions such as . . .

Just a stone’s throw away – Horrible method of measurement for a stone the size of Mount Rushmore.

Nothing is written in stone – A pad and pen are more convenient to carry around in a purse.

Leave no stone unturned – OCD person’s greatest nightmare.

You can’t draw blood from a stone – First Medical Journal abstract.

Man, am I stoned – Villager having rocks thrown at him for being high.

A rolling stone gathers no moss – Just add Crazy Glue and the moss will stick.

Most stones found in yards are dull and colorless, which is also true of headstones. They are so gray and dreary-looking and add nothing to a cemetery’s ambiance already lacking vibrant décor. Perhaps something whimsical like a lawn jockey or gnome would make a cemetery more appealing. Colorful yard statues would eliminate the problem and stress of locating a family plot, while providing a more festive-setting for graveside eulogies. Improving a cemetery’s surroundings may even encourage a ghost to hang out there, instead of popping in and out on a loved one at home. However, neither scenario would appeal to me. My afterlife itinerary would not include a family haunt-getaway or a scenic cemetery stroll. I’d rather spend eternity vicariously sipping Mai Tais on the beaches of Cozumel.

Secret CIA program hidden from Congress found in Cheney’s pants

 

Limited public appearances while Cheney was still in office tied to secret program.

Earlier today, an anonymous source told the Washington Retro Times, “It all makes sense now. Cheney intentionally scaled back his public appearances to avoid bringing attention to the bulge in his pants – an encrypted wireless device used to gain control of George Bush’s brain.”

The Times reported that the clandestine program went by the code name, “Walk like a duck,” and ran concurrently with the other secret counterintelligence program also withheld from Congress. CIA Director, Leon Panetta wasn’t surprised. “Now we know why Cheney always had that pained expression on his face.” said Panetta. “He was carrying a load in his pants.”

The startling revelation continued to rock Capitol Hill late this morning and prompted Democrats to call for an investigation. “If it’s true that Cheney secretly controlled George Bush’s brain for the past eight years, it’s a game changer,” said Vice President Joe Biden. “We need to know who was really running the show.

“It also raises complex constitutional issues that I would not touch with a 10-foot pole or any other European national. In particular, I’d like to know why Cheney never put that wireless control of his to better use during those God-awful State of The Union addresses broadcast on every—single—station. Bush could have been transmitting HBO or Showtime, which would have been a hell of a lot more entertaining than that drivel on Niger and yellow cake. Personally, I like my cakes black, chocolate all the way down to the core.”

President Obama was more pointed in his comments. “As a constitutional scholar, I have to say that these revelations are deeply disturbing. To think that for eight years the Vice President of the United States wirelessly controlled the President’s brain with a device hidden inside his pants is astounding and frankly makes me ill. It also explains a lot about the glitches in George Bush’s speech patterns. Apparently, there aren’t enough hot spots in Wyoming.” The President added. “At this time, I would not rule out the appointment of a special prosecutor. This matter requires further investigation. There’s a strong possibility that Vice President Cheney might be hiding other things in his pants. Maybe, we’ll finally find those weapons of mass destruction.”

South Carolina Senator Lindsey Graham disagreed. “I think Vice President Cheney was right to keep it in his pants. When you have a device that is so highly sensitive and technically sophisticated as an encrypted wireless remote drive you have to keep it under wraps. You just don’t know who could get their hands on it.”

Vice President Cheney could not be reached for comment. However, one of his aides issued the following statement: “You idiot. I told you I had nothing to tell those ass-wipes. Don’t’ write this down!” Vice President Cheney later retracted his statement and then proceeded to shoot the aide in the face. The aide is said to be recovering at a veterinary facility somewhere in South Texas.

 

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Bonging in Britain continues as Big Ben Celebrates a 150-year tradition

Over the years, the styles of bongs have changed but the consistency of bonging hasn’t.

After 150 years of bonging, Big Ben still stands straight and tall, a prominent fixture of the London skyline along with the fog that engulfs it. However, the chemistry of fog, long determined to be a natural phenomenon of London’s atmospheric conditions, is in fact, anything but natural.

British Meteorologist, Lenny Loo, explains. “It’s astounding quite frankly. The fog isn’t caused by atmospheric changes, as first thought, but by smoke being emitted from Big Ben’s bongs.” Loo continued. “We began to study the fog phenomenon because whenever the fog rolled in, we’d get the giggles and munchies, and the line at the fish and chip’s joint would wrap around the block. Then some bloke commented on the pungent odor in Trafalgar Square and how all the pigeons were flying loopy, so we started taking samples of the air. We were shocked at the results. The atmospheric resin levels went through the roof, or in this case, the cumulus clouds.” He snickered.

The incredible revelation on the chemistry of London’s fog was published in the July issue of the Meteorologist publication, Weather or Not, the swimsuit edition, and caused shock waves throughout the community. One noted Meteorologist, Perry Puffweed said, “I thought there was something wacky about the air in London. What do you know? It was wacky tobaccy.”

Lenny Loo summed up the findings best. “Frankly, it’s lightened up the blokes around here a lot. It’s been a good thing for London. I don’t know what we’d do without Big Ben’s bonging.”

Mary Burgess, Yorkshire mother of two, had a different opinion. “Ya’ know I told those little buggers of mine for years about that nasty sh**t and how it could make you lose your mind and all. Well, it was a waste of me bloody time. Big Ben bongs 24 hours a day and me kids go bonkers any way. It’s bloody ridiculous. They don’t do their chores. They fall asleep in school at lunch, nod off right into their McNuggets. They don’t do their homework on their own. After me shift at the pub, I knock back a couple of boiler makers, go home, then wake up the little snots, get their sorry butts out of bed, and help them with their homework.”

Ms. Burgess revealed afterward that she never finished elementary school and that since she began helping her kids with their homework, their grades have plummeted. “I had to do it,” she admitted. “I had to do something. I knew that if they flunked out, I would ground them, and they’d have to stay inside. It’s the only way to keep them kids from breathing in that stuff from Big Ben’s bonging.”

A recent London Times poll showed a split among Londoners. 50% approved of Big Ben’s bonging, while 40% disapproved and 10% were “just too stoned to give a sh**t.”

Birthline Cruises: Disembarking the Mother Ship

Port of Call – Maternity Ward

GREETER
Hello. I’d like to welcome you here after your long journey.

BABY
Thanks, but I have to tell you that I’m miffed. After nine months on the high seas and that schlep through the terminal, I expected better service after disembarking. Instead, some scary-looking guy, with no nose or mouth, beats the living daylights out of me . . . Where’s my luggage? Did they lose my luggage?

GREETER
The scary-looking guy is the Chief Doctor. He’s wearing a surgical mask that covers most of his face.

BABY
It’s a disguise so I can’t ID him after I press charges.

GREETER
He didn’t do anything illegal. He had to smack you on the behind to get you to start breathing.

BABY
By knocking the wind out of me? When I get older, I’m going to sue the son-of-a-bitch

GREETER
Let’s talk about your mother’s womb. How were the accommodations?

BABY
Terrible. There were no lights, no windows, and no way out until I was whisked through the terminal.

GREETER
What was your most memorable experience?

BABY
Being stuck in the dark without cable, and the food, which sucked, literally.

GREETER
How would you rate your Birthline Cruise experience, based on a scale from one to five, five being the worst?

BABY
Definitely a five. I was stranded in a crummy womb for nine months, on the lower deck near the engine room. Then, Suddenly, it’s show time — bright lights, loud noise, and then in case I wasn’t already paying attention — Bam! I get whacked in the butt.

GREETER
The whack was part of the Birthline Cruise package.

BABY
It wasn’t in the paperwork they had me sign before I left the terminal.

GREETER
It was in the fine print.

BABY
I can barely see your face, and they put something like that in 6-point font.

GREETER
The whack on the butt is left to the doctor’s discretion if you’re not breathing.

BABY
Discretion . . . is that the medical term for assault?

GREETER
He’s a doctor. He knows what he’s doing. He went to school for many years to become a doctor.

BABY
After all that time, someone should have realized he wasn’t qualified.

GREETER
No, no. It takes years to become a doctor.

BABY
There’s something wrong with that . . . and the service in this place. What does someone have to do to get some food around here? I’m starving.

GREETER
Your mother will feed you.

BABY
What’s she serving?

GREETER
Milk

BABY
Milk? Is that it? I could really go for a burger.

GREETER
You don’t have any teeth.

BABY
Oh, God. I’m a freak.

GREETER
No. It’s not like that. Babies don’t have teeth. Teeth aren’t included in the package.

BABY
What kind of place is this?

GREETER
It was listed in the brochure.

BABY
I’m seriously considering getting back on that ship despite the accommodations.

GREETER
Things will get better here.

BABY
I bet you weren’t treated this poorly after your disembarkation. What was your arrival like?

GREETER
I have no idea.

BABY
How could you forget?

GREETER
I can’t remember anything that happened before the age of five. That is true for most people.

BABY
You mean the next five years will not mean a thing to me when I’m old enough to appreciate them.

GREETER
Unfortunately, that is the case.

BABY
So, I’ll have no recollection of my arrival.

GREETER
That is correct.

BABY
So, I‘ll forget how pissed I was at the doctor . . . when he beat the living daylights out of me?

GREETER
Yes, you’ll forget about the whack on the behind.

BABY
Then do me a favor. Get me a good lawyer now while I can still remember that I want to sue the son-of-a-bitch.

Scammers and Crows

Shock and Caw

Cyber-site-overload short-circuits the electrical impulses in my brain. Too many job sites, too many want ads touting useless propositions like, “Work from home. Make money storing nuclear waste in your basement,” or “Be your own boss and earn enough money to start banking in the Cayman Islands.” There are too many vultures circling the battered bodies in the trenches. The job market is dark and moody like an Alexander Proyas film, a director of movies such as “The Crow.” (I’ll get back to crows later.) Reading the want ads — an oxymoron — can be depressing. I see more jobs that are not in my field and the few that are recruit students, moms, or retirees. “Is now the right time to ask your doctor about Prozac?”

When vultures act like crows

I take a deep breath, exit the Internet, and listen to crows cawing outside my window. My dog hates crows and barks at them. The crows enjoy getting under her skin. After all, a crow’s modus operandi is picking the meat off bones. They mock my dog. They think they are better than she is, sitting high on their hemlocks. Once after my dog killed a chipmunk on the front lawn, then left it to come inside for dinner (talk about irony), I watched a crow swoop down, grab my dog’s kill, and fly away with it. Snarky bird. No wonder my dog hates those lice-laden wing-flappers.

Becaws they are loathsome creatures

Besides being loud vile carcass-eaters, crows enjoy mocking both man and beast. They delight in being disruptive at 4 a.m. with their incessant cawing and sound like old bitter men gossiping. The loud harsh cry of a crow is more abrasive than the rumble and thrust of a prop plane, which is fleeting. You see crows never leave. They prefer to loiter in trees, squawking among themselves, while plotting their next crime against humanity. Stealing garbage from bins and then scattering the leftovers across lawns and driveways is one of their most notorious misdeeds. I thought the pièce de résistance of all their birdbrain schemes. Yet, as I pick up cans of empty cat food, a crow perched on a branch above me, drops chicken bones on my head.

E-mails wearing a disguise

Internet scammers remind me of crows. I recently received an e-mail scam after applying for what I thought was an accounts receivable/collection position. The responding e-mail from the bogus company requested my personal information. I quickly hit the delete button and likened the incident to a CSI worker stealing a wallet from a corpse at a crime scene. There is no honor among thieves, even if they know how to Google or send automated e-mail messages. That makes it worse, a savvy scammer (in the axis of weasel) using his intelligence to prey upon people down-on-their-luck or just down. To put it into better context, I am road kill. Scammers are crows waiting in the gutter for an accident to happen, so they can devour the remains. Morose, isn’t it? Well, at least, the sun is shining. Crows are harder to spot on a cloudy day because they blend into gray sky. Their abrasive cawing gives them away. It always does, which is also true of scammers.

Which is worse?

a. Scammers b. Crows c. They both suck d. Pop up ads