Tag Archives: jokes

The Great Big Mall in the Sky

Even with the pleasure of TSA’s company, I am willing to bring my spirits back into balance. Yes, gentle citizens, I cheer myself up and don’t require the services of another human being to do so. I think that’s a wonderful quality to have, as plenty of other people are seemingly lacking in this department. This is a self-service comedy area, friend.

To my good fortune, there’s always a SkyMall catalog to keep me centered. For anyone who has flown on a plane since the 90s, they will immediately identify with the name and the vast amounts of premium junk hawked within its glossy folds. After all, we’re Americans! If we want to throw our hard earned pay away on the Bedazzler and the Flowbee, then we are free to do so, by God. To quote Philip J. Fry, “shut up, and take my money!”

Let’s take a look at the wonderful merchandise one can buy while flying the friendly skies:

The Solowheel

In an attempt to capture any remaining fervor from the Segway, the good folks at Inventist have offered a single-wheeled solution for all of those lazy unicyclists out there. It’s called the Solowheel, and for a mere $1,800 it could be yours. Annoy your friends, family, and neighbors as they see you rollin’. Don’t worry, they’re just hatin’. It only makes you look like an extra from B.C., the comic strip. This is not to mention you could get a pretty sweet Huffy for a fraction of the cost.

Mounted Squirrel Head

What words are used to describe the Mounted Squirrel Head? Cute and kitschy. If you were going to say “tacky and in poor taste,” I would be right there with you. It seems a bunch of out-of-work realtors have been “retooled” for the advertising industry. The $25 price tag seems a bit hefty, but I’m sure the magic starts once it’s secured to your living room wall. The only time I would purchase one is if it laughed like the deer in Evil Dead 2.

© “Bigfoot, the Bashful Yeti” Tree Sculpture

From the makers of the “Hanging Chimp” statue and the “Grand Tiki” Sculptural Tables comes their greatest polyresin product yet: “Bigfoot, the Bashful Yeti.” Never mind Sasquatch and Yeti mythology are more like kissing cousins, or Bigfoot is arguably more freaked out by flabby white guys in plaid flannel shirts than bashful, this is a treasure with little equal. Think of all the fun you could have entertaining your family:

“Hon-nee! Why are you hiding behind that tree?”

“I’m not, sweetie. I’m right here.”

“Oh! Then who’s that?!”

That is our new ‘Bashful Yeti’ sculpture! Isn’t it adorable? :D”

“Oh! I thought you forgot to wax today.”

😐

Reasonably priced at $70, no wooded residential lot should be with out one. It would be a tragedy to ignore the beauty of this magnificent beast.

Box of Applause & Box of Laughter

This is my personal favorite, and I’ve saved it for last. For $25 per box, the aspiring comedian (ahem) or comedienne can get all of the affirmation their hearts desire with the flip of a lid. In other blogs, I have voiced my opinion on laughing at my own jokes. The point being is if I didn’t laugh at my own jokes, I wouldn’t have an audience. With these little bundles of self flattery, my audience has increased two fold! I won’t double up the count with both boxes, because I’m just that modest.

I don’t know about you all, but all of this SkyMall shopping has made me thirsty. I’ll have to signal over the flight attendant to accommodate me with a half a can of pop and my bag of six complimentary peanuts. So refreshing!

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My City by the Bay (Chapter 2, Part 5 of 6)

Sig dramatically threw himself into the seat at his desk. He let out a deep sigh and muttered “that went well. It could have been worse, at least.” All of the paperwork stared at him expectantly. Moving it around in circles with the palms of his hands, a shiny corner of color with a white border appeared. It was a picture of Chrissy and him at one particular New Year’s Eve party. For all the fighting, she could look as sweet as an angel for the camera. He was also thankful that picture was taken before the second bottle of champagne was drained and she was singing David Allen Coe‘s “You Never Even Called Me By My Name” for the sixth time in a row.

“Hey, Wachiewski!” A doughy-eared, ox of a man peeked around the corner with a bright, beaming smile. “Why don’t Polacks eat pickles?”

Sig dropped the photo, stared ruefully at his desk lamp, and muttered “this day gets better and better.” Slowly turning to the aspiring comic, he replied, “I don’t know, Pauly. Why don’t Polacks eat pickles?”

“’Cause they can’t fit their head in the jar.” Sucking in as much enjoyment as he could handle, he let out his signature horse laugh. Sig sighed with resignation. After all, everyone plays the fool sometimes.

“What’s wrong? Can’t take a joke? Come on now. Where’s your sense of humor? All’s fair in love and jokes.” Pauly’s 6′ 2″ frame was looming over Sig’s desk like a docking zeppelin.

“Oh, is that right?” An oaken voice interrupted amateur hour. “Got any good ones for me?” Behind the big mook stood Sgt. Darius King, a stout, barrel-chested black man from Montgomery, Alabama.

“Heyyy, uh, Sarge. I… I don’t know what you mean.” The look on Pauly’s face was enough to know he had no idea where this was going.

“Got any good jokes for me? I could always use a good laugh.”

“Oh! OK, two guys walk into a bar…”

“Not that kind of joke.” Darius interrupted

“Oh, well, uh…”

“OK, Pauly, let’s rephrase that. Do you have any jokes about me?”

“No, Sarge, I’d never make fun of you!” sputtered Doherty.

“Really?” King’s brows arched high on his forehead. “You mean to tell me that a white, Irish cop can’t think of one, measly, little black joke?”

The trap was sprung. Pauly had walked right into it, and his eyes widened like a deer.

“No! NO! I wouldn… I’d… no!”

“Pauly,” Darius was using paternal tones now. He was a father of four and husband to Clara, the best baker the force has ever witnessed. Sig would make a habit of finding ingenious ways to swipe more than one of her blueberry muffins from the break room. “Tell me a black joke.” With a light touch, Sgt. King straightened Pauly’s collar.

Doherty’s face went beet red, and his eyes shut as if to finally moderate the things coming out of his mouth.

“A, uh, a black man and a w-w-white man start running in a race…” Who would have thought this big braggart of a man would now be a quivering mess?

“Pauly, is that really the way you talk around your white buddies?” Darius wheedled. It was getting painful to watch, but Sig held fast to his desk chair.

“No,” Pauly whimpered.

“Tell the real joke.” The sergeant’s body was contorted, almost like the coils of a snake, threatening to inflict some type of punishment if he didn’t get what he wanted. Beads of sweat broke on Pauly’s brow and he continued.

“A nigger and a white guy start running a race. Who will win?” Doherty was now a shadow of his former self.

Darius straightened up in surprise and flared his nostrils, obviously to play up the stereotype. “That’s a good question, Pauly. I don’t know. Who wins?”

“Th… the… the white guy.”

“Oh, really?! Now, why… is… that?” Darius always had a fondness for Samuel L. Jackson. It couldn’t be hidden by a planet at this point.

“B…b…because the nigger had to stop half-way and spray paint ‘motherfucker’ on the wall.” Pauly was now on the verge of tears. Insulting the sergeant was nuts, but with a joke like this?

Satisfied, Darius gave Pauly a big smile and a rich laugh. A slight nod of the head produced, “that’s funny, Pauly… but I’ve already heard that one before. Don’t quit your day job.” With that, the sergeant lightly slapped Doherty on the cheek a couple of times and walked over to the break room. Pauly fell in a nearby chair like a deflated balloon. His face gave off so much heat that it warmed his hands as he sat buried in them.

Now that the show was over, Sig got up and sprinted to the break room. There he saw Darius casually mixing the chunks of powdered creamer into his coffee. “Hey,” Sig felt the need to say something, “thanks, uh, thanks for sticking up for me back there.”

King’s head shifted back slightly to give him the appearance of a double chin. “Standing up for you? Hell no. I just wanted to watch his white ass squirm.” With a chortle, the sergeant set out on a course for his desk. He, unlike Sig, actually kept up on his paperwork.

Back at his desk, Sig started to have a fit “Now! Now! Nownownownow!” That was code for, “I need to get this done. Where do I start?” Sorting out the disheveled papers on the desk, he stuffed the large McTaterTot from breakfast that morning into his mouth. Proceeding to keep half of it out like a golden-fried tongue, he banged the stack of papers on the desktop to straighten them out.

“SIG!” Benelli walked up to the desk at a brisk pace, “we’ve got a murder in Old Town. They think it might be connected to the case. We’ve got to go!” Sig blinked at her, wide-eyed, with the wafer in the same position it had been for a while. “Get that thing out of your mouth, and let’s go!” She never thought any of his antics were funny. How depressing.

© 2013 by Corvidae in the Fields, all rights reserved

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