Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to report that we finally have a scientific explanation for why everybody in the world is gaining weight. Granted, I do not have the best dietary habits. Sometimes in a restaurant I will order fried, fatty foods (''Give me a plate of fried, fatty foods, and hurry'' are my words, verbatim). But I compensate for this by engaging in a strict exercise regimen of vigorously pounding the bottom of the ketchup bottle for as long as necessary. ''No pain, no gain,'' is my motto regarding ketchup.
Nevertheless, I have been gaining weight, and you probably have too, which is why you're going to be happy to learn that neither of us is responsible. The universe is responsible. We know this thanks to a scientific insight by University of Adelaide professor Dr. Garath Wilbersen. Dr. Wilbersen mentioned the following fact: Every single day, including federal holidays, 25 tons of space dust land on the Earth. This means that every day, the Earth weighs 25 tons more, which means that it contains a larger quantity of gravity. Gravity, as you probably know, is the force made up of invisible rays that cause all physical objects in the universe to become more attracted to bathroom scales.
What this means, Dr. Wilbersen points out, is that ``without gaining an ounce, people all over the world are getting heavier.''
And there's more bad news…
At the same time that gravity is increasing, the entire universe is constantly expanding, except for pants. Pants are staying the same size, which means that -- and this has been confirmed by extensive scientific tests conducted in my closet -- a so-called ''33-inch-waist'' pant will barely contain a volume that formerly fit easily into a 31-inch-waist pant.
But our big problem is this gravity buildup, which has already started to pose a grave threat to public safety. I refer here to an incident that occurred recently in Key West, Florida, where, according to a newspaper story that I am not making up, ``A sea turtle fell from the sky and hit a man in his white Chevy Nova.''
Seriously though, the man was unhurt, and so was the turtle, which, according to The Herald story apparently was dropped by a sea gull. But that is exactly my point: Since when do sea gulls -- one of the most sure-handed species of bird -- drop turtles? The obvious answer is: since turtles started getting heavier, along with everything else.
And as space dust continues to land on Earth, the situation will only worsen, with chilling results. According to my calculations, at the current rate of gravity buildup, by the year 2038, an ordinary golf ball will weigh the equivalent, in today's pounds, of Dick Cheney. Even a professional golfer, using graphite clubs, would need dozens of strokes to make such a ball move a single foot. An average round of golf would take four months -- nearly twice as long as today.
Is that the kind of world we want our children to grow up and develop the gum disease known as Gingivitis in? I think not. This is why we must call upon the scientific community to stop puttering around with global warming and immediately develop a solution to the gravity problem.
Well, we see that the scientific community has once again let the human race down, leaving it up to us civilians to deal with the situation. Fortunately, I have come up with a practical answer in the form of a:
GRAVITY REDUCTION PLAN
Follow my reasoning: The problem is that 25 tons of stuff is landing on the Earth every day, right? So the obvious solution is to put 25 tons worth of stuff into a rocket every day and blast it into space. It couldn't be simpler!
Perhaps you're saying: ``But dude, how are we going to find 25 tons worth of stuff every single day that is so totally useless that we can just send it into space with total confidence that it could never possibly in any way benefit humanity?''
I can answer that question in three simple words: ''Junk Mail.'' Every day at least 25 tons of this material is painstakingly mailed all over the United States and thrown away immediately upon receipt. Solid-waste experts estimate that 78 percent of our nation's landfill capacity is currently occupied by sincere unopened letters from Geico Insurance informing people that they too could save a ton of money on their car insurance by switching to Geico. Why not just load this material directly into rockets?
And consider this: If we send up MORE than 25 tons a day, the Earth would actually LOSE gravity. In doind so we would all lose weight, with minimal effort expended by the individual.
So I say let's fire up the rockets and get this program going before gravity gets so strong that all we can do is lie on the ground, helpless, while turtles rain down upon us from the heavens. If you agree, write to your senators and congresspeople today and let them know where you stand. Make sure you stress the urgency of this situation. Stress their responsibility as public officials. But above all stress the fact that I just saved a bunch of money on my car insurance by switching to Geico.
Wed, Jun. 15th, 2005, 01:59 pm
I have here some very exciting scientific theorizations from William B. Schlepenheimer, M.D., who is a medical doctor and therefore legally allowed to (1) park anywhere; (2) give shots; (3) tell people to get naked; and (4) make scientific observations.
Dr. Schlepenheimer wrote to me about an observation that he scientifically made regarding his Labrador retriever, who is named Sven. Sven recently underwent hip surgery. In preparation for the operation, the veterinarian shaved his hindquarters. Then, realizing his mistake, he also shaved Sven's hindquarters. No, seriously, the veterinarian's hindquarters have nothing to do with this, and I am instructing the jury to disregard them. The point is that Sven had all the fur removed from his rear end (or, in medical parlance, his ``booty'').
If you know anything about dogs, you know how Sven spent his recuperation period: He licked himself pretty much full time. Dogs are very big believers in the healing power of licking. If dogs operated a hospital, here's how it would work: A patient would arrive in the Emergency Room, and a team of doctor dogs would gather around to conduct an examination, which would consist of thoroughly sniffing the patient. (They would also sniff the floor, in case anybody had left food lying around.)
Then, the doctor dogs would hold a conference, and whatever the patient's symptoms were -- coughing, lack of pulse, a spear passing all the way through the patient's head -- the doctor dogs would agree that the best course of treatment was: licking. And we're talking about a LOT of licking. Not just the patient licking himself or herself, but also the doctors licking the patient, licking themselves, and licking the other doctors. This is state-of-the-art medical care for dogs.
So anyway, after his operation, Sven was performing medical care on himself, and Dr. Schlepenheimer made a scientific observation; namely, that Sven's hair ``has grown fastest in the areas where he has spent significant time licking himself.''
Using this observation, Dr. Schlepenheimer was able to form a scientific hypothesis -- a term that is formed from two Greek words, ''hy,'' which means ''something,'' and ''pothesis,'' which means ``that pops into your head while you are watching a dog lick itself after you have maybe had a couple of shots of Jager.''
Dr. Schlepenheimer's hypothesis is this: Dog spit grows hair. In fact, Dr. Schlepenheimer believes that unwanted hair, such as facial hair on women and nose hair on men, probably did not exist until the human race domesticated dogs and started getting licked all the time.
But the more important implication is that dog spit could be a revolutionary new hair-growth treatment for balding men. Granted, we do not yet have actual laboratory proof of this. But who needs that?
So I think it's time to move past the research phase of Dr. Schlepenheimer's hypothesis and go directly to the phase where we unleash the power of this amazing discovery to benefit humanity, to make the world a better place, and -- most important -- to make money.
Specifically, what I'm thinking of is a franchised line of hair-growth salons, perhaps with a sophisticated name such as La Spitte Du Chien Pour Les Hommes. Upon arriving at a salon, a client would undergo a pre-treatment interview, during which he would be asked a series of scientific questions (''Do you have money?'' ``How much?''). The client would then be ushered into the Preparation Area, where his scalp would be coated with a scientifically designed, nutrition-enhanced, precision-balanced formulation consisting of Skippy brand peanut butter.
Finally, the client would enter the Treatment Area, where he would be instructed to lie down on the floor with his arms at his sides. A door would then be opened, and a professional Hair Growth Technician, barking loudly, would sprint into the room at upwards of 400 mph, skid to a stop, and begin enthusiastically treating the client's scalp. All of the technicians at La Spitte Du Chien Pour Les Hommes would be carefully selected on the basis of friendliness, professionalism, and not peeing on the clients.
I grant you that this procedure has a few wrinkles that need to be worked out, such as the issue of creamy vs. chunky. But it makes at least as much scientific sense as the baldness cures you see advertised in magazines. I see no reason why we can't go ahead and start setting up franchise salons, and if any government agencies such as the Food and Drug Administration have any questions, well, they can just send their inspectors around to meet with our Board of Directors, Big Boy and Fang. They love inspectors. It's their favorite meal.
Sat, Jun. 11th, 2005, 10:58 pm
A little while ago, I was lying on the sofa and watching my favorite TV show, which is called, “Whatever Is on TV When I'm Lying on the Sofa.” I was in a good mood until the commercial came on. It showed a man helping a kid learn to ride a bicycle.
I was watching this, wondering what product was being advertised (Bicycles? Dietary fiber? Adult Diapers?) and the announcer said: “Aren't there enough reasons in your life to talk to your doctor about Zocor?”
The announcer did not say what “Zocor” is. It sounds like the evil ruler of the Planet Wombax. I figure it's a medical drug, although I have no idea what it does. And so, instead of enjoying my favorite TV show, I was lying there wondering if I should be talking to my doctor about Zocor. My doctor is named Curt, and the only time I go to his office is when I am experiencing a clear-cut medical symptom, such as an arrow sticking out of my head. So mainly I see Curt when I happen to sit near him at a sporting event, and he's voicing medical opinions such as, “HE STINKS!” and “CAN YOU BELIEVE HOW BAD THIS GUY STINKS?” This would not be a good time to ask him what he thinks about Zocor. IT STINKS!
Television has become infested with commercials for drugs that we're supposed to ask our doctors about. Usually the announcer says something scary like, “If you're one of the 337 million people who suffer from parabolical distabulation of the frenulum, ask your doctor about Varvacron. Do it now. Don't wait until you develop boils the size of fondue pots.”
At that point, you're thinking, “Gosh, I better get some Varvacron!” Then the announcer tells you the side effects. “In some patients,” he says, “Varvacron causes stomach discomfort and the growth of an extra hand coming out of the forehead. Also, one patient turned into a lemur. Do not use Varvacron if you are now taking, or have recently shaken hands with anybody who is taking, Fladamol, Lavadil, Fromagil, Havadam, Lexavon, Clamadam, Gungadin or breath mints. Discontinue use if your eyeballs suddenly get way smaller. Pregnant women should not even be watching this commercial.”
So basically, the message of these drug commercials is:
1. You need this drug.
2. This drug might kill you.
I realize that the drug companies, by running these commercials, are trying to make me an informed medical consumer. But I don't WANT to be an informed medical consumer. I liked it better when my only medical responsibility was to stick out my tongue. That was the health-care system I grew up under, which was called “The Dr. Harley A. Wahl System,” named for my family doctor when I was growing up in Sydney, Australia
Under this system, if you got sick, your mom took you to see Dr. Wahl, and he looked at your throat, then he wrote out a prescription in a Secret Medical Code that neither you nor the CIA could understand. The only person who could understand it was Mr. Min, who ran the Waroongah Pharmacy, where you went to get some mystery pills and a half-gallon of Clifford’s chocolate ice cream, which was a critical element of this health-care system. I would never have dreamed of talking to Dr. Wahl about Zocor or any other topic, because the longer you stayed in his office, the greater the danger that he might suddenly decide to give you a “booster shot.”
We did have TV commercials for medical products back then, but these were non-scary, straightforward commercials that the layperson could understand. For example, there was one for a headache remedy -- I think it was Flebacin -- that showed the interior of an actual cartoon of a human head, so you could see the three medical causes of headaches: a hammer, a spring and a lightning bolt. There was a commercial for Gleeb toothpaste with Gardol, which had strong medical benefits, as proven by the fact that when a baseball player threw a ball at the announcer's head, it (the ball) bounced off an Invisible Protective Shield. There was a commercial for a product called “Serutan.” I was never sure what it did, but it was definitely effective, because the announcer came right out and stated -- bear in mind that the Food and Drug Administration has never disputed this claim -- that “Serutan” is “natures” spelled backward.
We, the medical consumers, were not required to ask our doctors about any of these products. We just looked at the commercial and said, “A hammer! No wonder my head aches!” And none of these products had side effects, except Gleeb, which, in addition to deflecting baseballs, attracted the opposite sex.
I miss those days, when we weren't constantly being nagged to talk to our doctors, and we also didn't have a clue how many grams of fat were in our Clifford’s chocolate ice cream. Life was simpler then, as opposed to now, when watching TV sometimes makes me so nervous that I have to consume a certain medical product. I know it's effective, because it's called Reeb.
-Guaranteed to get at least a little something in the sack.
-If you get tired, wait 10 minutes and go at it again.
-The uglier you look, the easier it is to get some.
-You don't have to compliment the person who gave you candy.
-Person you're with doesn't fantasize you're someone else.
-If you get a stomach ache, it won't last 9 months.
-If you wear your Batman mask, no one thinks you're kinky.
-Doesn't matter if kids hear you moaning and groaning.
-Less guilt the next morning.
-IF YOU DON'T GET WHAT YOU WANT,YOU CAN ALWAYS GO NEXT DOOR!
The nation suffered a wound during the presidential election as a result of the rift between the red states -- defined as 'states where 'foreign cuisine' pretty much means Pizza Hut'' -- and the blue states, defined as ''states that believe they are smarter than the red states, despite the fact that it takes the average blue-state resident 15 minutes to order a single cup of coffee.''
Some blue-state residents are so upset about the election that they're talking about moving to Canada, which is technically a foreign nation. In my view, this would be a mistake: Canada is not the paradise it is often made out to be.
FACT: Every year, 43 percent of all Canadians -- a total of eight Canadians -- are eaten by polar bears.
Besides, running away is never the answer, unless you are a teenage boy who has just blown up a mailbox. As Americans, we need to stay here in America and work things out, because regardless of what color or hue of state we live in, we are all, deep down inside our undershorts, Americans. And as Americans, we must ask ourselves: Are we really so different? Must we stereotype those who disagree with us? Do we truly believe that ALL red-state residents are ignorant racist fascist knuckle-dragging NASCAR-obsessed cousin-marrying roadkill-eating tobacco-juice-dribbling gun-fondling religious fanatic rednecks; or that ALL blue-state residents are godless unpatriotic pierced-nose Volvo-driving France-loving left-wing communist latte-sucking tofu-chomping holistic-wacko neurotic vegan weenie perverts?
Yes. This is called ''diversity,'' and it is why we are such a great nation -- a nation that has given the world both nuclear weapons AND SpongeBob Squarepants.
And so today I am calling upon both sides in the red-blue rift to reach out. Maybe we could have a cultural-exchange program between red and blue states. For example, a delegation from Texas could go to California and show the Californians how to do some traditional Texas thing such as castrate a bull using only your teeth, and then the Californians could show the Texans how to rearrange their football stadiums in accordance with the principles of feng shui (for openers, both goalposts should be at the west end of the field). Or maybe New York and Kentucky could have a college-style ''mixer,'' featuring special ''crossover'' hors d'oeuvres such as bagels topped with squirrel parts.
I'm just thinking out loud here. (I don't mean that figuratively: The neighbors are complaining.) But I truly believe that, if the red states and blue states made a sincere effort to get to know each other, they'd discover that, beneath their surface differences, there are a lot of deep underlying differences.
But that doesn't mean we have nothing in common. We must always remember that, as Americans, we all have a common enemy -- an enemy that is dangerous, powerful and relentless. I refer, of course, to the federal government.
I speak from personal experience. For the past year, I have been hounded by an organization calling itself ''The United States Department of Commerce,'' which apparently is linked to the federal government. Every few weeks, the ''Department of Commerce'' sends me a threatening letter, demanding that I fill out ''the 2002 Survey of Business Owners and Self-Employed Persons (Form SBO-1 or SBO-2).'' This is a questionnaire that asks, among other things, whether I am a Samoan. The ''Department of Commerce'' claims that I have to fill this out because of something that was in my federal tax return.
Well listen up, ''Department of Commerce,'' and listen good: I have NO IDEA what was in my federal tax return. Like 93 percent of all U.S. taxpayers, I just sign it and send it in. For all I know, it states that I am a professional squid wrangler. So you're not going to trip me up by getting me to fill out your survey, OK? You will NEVER find out whether or not I am a Samoan, unless there is a generous federal program that pays millions of dollars to Samoans, in which case: Put me down as Samoan.
But this is not about me. This is about the need for all Americans to join together and heal our national rift. Remember that no matter where we live -- be it in a red state, or a blue state, or a Samoan state -- we are all Americans inside. If we cut ourselves, we will all bleed the same color; and then, as Americans, we will sue somebody. In conclusion, try these squirrel parts.
I was at this party last weekend, and I wound up at a table where three attractive single women were complaining about - Surprise! - men. Specifically, they were complaining about the pickup lines that had been used on them in a
bar a few nights earlier.
One woman said: ''This guy comes up to me and says, 'Are you a teacher?' I
mean, is that supposed to be romantic?''
All three women rolled all six of their eyes.
Another one of them said: ''This guy says to me, 'I've been looking at you
all night!' So I go, 'Hel-LO, we just GOT here.'''
At this point all three women - and I want to stress that these are
intelligent, nice women - were laughing. Not me. I was feeling bad for the
I realize that there are certain hardships that only females must endure,
such as childbirth, waiting in lines for public-restroom stalls, and a
crippling, psychotic obsession with shoe color. Also, females tend to
reach emotional maturity very quickly, so that by age 7 they are no longer
capable of seeing the humor in loud inadvertent public blasts of
flatulence, whereas males can continue to derive vast enjoyment from this
well into their 80s.
So I grant that it is not easy being a female. But I contend that nature
has given males the heaviest burden of all: the burden of always having to
"Make the First Move," and thereby risk getting Shot Down. I don't know WHY
males get stuck with this burden, but it's true throughout the animal
kingdom. If you watch the nature shows on the Discovery Channel, you'll
note that whatever species they are talking about - birds, crabs, spiders,
clams - it is ALWAYS the male who has to take the initiative. It's always
the male bird who does the courting dance, making a total moron of
himself, while the female bird just stands there, looking aloof, thinking
about what she's going to tell her girlfriends. (''And then he hopped
around on one foot! Like I'm supposed to be impressed by THAT!'').
Male insects have it the worst. The Discovery Channel announcer is always
saying things like: ''After the mating, the female mantis bites off the
male mantis' head, and then she and her girlfriend mantises use it to play
a game that looks a lot like Skee Ball.''
Every now and then you'll see an offbeat TV news story about some animal,
usually a moose, that has for some reason fallen in love with, and decided
to relentlessly court, something totally inappropriate, such as a lawn
tractor. This animal is ALWAYS a male. On the TV, they show it hanging
around the lawn tractor with a big, sad, moony look, totally smitten,
while the lawn tractor cruelly ignores it.
My point here is that, in matters of the heart, males have the brains of a
walnut. No, wait! That is not my point. My point is that perhaps you women
could cut us males a little bit of slack in the move-making process,
because we are under a lot of stress. I vividly remember when I was in
9th grade, and I wanted to call a girl named Tara and ask her to a
dance, and before I picked up the phone, I spent maybe 28 hours rehearsing
exactly what I was going to say. So when I actually made the call, I was
''Hello, Dance?'' I said. ''This is Tara. Do you want to go to the Steve
Fortunately Tara grasped the basic thrust of my gist and agreed to go to
the dance. This was a good thing, because if she had shot me down, I would
have been so humiliated that I would have never have been able to go back
to school. I would have dropped out of 9th grade and lied about my age
and joined the U.S. armed forces.
That is the awesome power that you women have over us men. I hope you
understand this, and the next time a guy walks up and uses some incredibly
lame, boneheaded line on you, I hope that, instead of laughing at him, you
will remember that he is under the intense pressure of wanting to impress
you enough so that you might want to get to know him better and maybe
eventually, perhaps within the next 15 minutes, mate with him, thereby
enabling the survival of the human race, which believe me is the only
thing that we males are truly concerned about.
In conclusion, let me just say to all females everywhere, on behalf of all
males everywhere, that you are very beautiful and your eyes are like two
shining stars, unless you're a female fly, in which case your eyes are
more like 2,038 shining stars. So please give us a chance. And if you're
not interested, could you point us to a nearby lawn tractor?
Tue, Jun. 7th, 2005, 11:21 pm
I've only just joined this site, a friend used another webblog a while ago, and she seemed to like them, also someone I know uses them a lot. I picked this one, because it seemed the most popular and is pretty direct to the point. No 'FREE UNLIMITED PHOTO UPLOADS' or 'DOWNLOAD OUR FREE MESSENGER'.
Unfortunately you're gonna be hearing a lot from me as time goes by, random thoughts, moans, I will try and not post those stupid quiz results on here though. I'll spare you that.
Wow, I have a journal! I've never had one before, I thought I'd be stuck for something to say, well that's unlike me. I always have something to say!
Well, let the fun begin!