These Left Twix vs. Right Twix commercials are annoyingly stupid.
There is no Left and Right Twix.
The packaging opens from the left and right, but the two pieces are Top and Bottom.
And I don’t think a candy bar company would ask:
“Are you a Top or Bottom?”
While the Twix assholes work their shit out.
I’ll be eating Kit Kat.
Because it’s not Left, Right, Top and Bottom.
it’s all one bar.
Although their commercials are wrong, too.
I never break off a piece of a Kit Kat bar for anybody.
I just give them their own bar.
Category: My stories
May The Fourth
Every May Fourth, Star Wars geeks say “May the Fourth be with you.”
Which sounds like “May the Force be with you.” Except with a lisp.
You know who had a speech impediment in the Star Wars movies?
Jar Jar. Fucking Jar Jar Binks.
As often as the Sith would taunt their opponents over their underestimation of the Dark Side of the Force, George Lucas vastly underestimated how much people would hate Jar Jar Binks.
Why wasn’t he killed in the first movie?
Not because the Force was with him. It was because the Sith let his clumsy ass live.
Misjudge
It’s possible to misjudge spelling bees.
Last week, Bob Costas Elementary held their annual spelling bee, and when the kids asked for the words to be used in a sentence, the judge kept shouting the word and then “I SENTENCE YOU TO DEATH!”
It really scared the little fuckers.
Especially when the word was hamster, because Miss Donegal’s class had a pet hamster, and the judge demanded that the kids get it and carry out the sentence.
The kitchen ladies refused to let them use any cutlery, but the Art Department had a paper chopper.
This is why we homeschool.
Time Suck
When Daylight Savings Time kicks in, I have one less hour to come up with a story for the day.
I looked back over the years, and the stories on the short days tend to really suck.
On the other hand, when Daylight Saving Time is over, I have an extra hour to write a story.
And those stories kinda sucked, too.
In fact, a lot of my stories really suck.
But the great thing about it is, there’s thousands of them. And even if one percent are good, that’s still dozens of good stories.
And that’s fine by me.
Fries
What do you dip your fries in?
Ketchup?
Mustard?
Mayonnaise?
Cheese dip?
Barbecue sauce?
I like sour cream with my fries.
What’s so weird about sour cream?
They’re potatoes, right?
And what do people usually have with potatoes?
Sour cream.
And bacon bits.
And green onions.
And cheese.
Not the cheese dip crap, but real cheese.
Why not just make a baked potato?
Because I can pick up fries a lot quicker than it takes to make a baked potato.
And it’s harder to dip a baked potato.
Cut it up, and it crumples apart on your fork.
Fries. Fries.
The Mozart Effect
Some scientists say that if you expose a baby to Mozart, it will boost their IQ.
Other scientists say that this has no effect on a baby’s IQ.
No matter what the scientists say, everyone agrees that exposing Mozart to babies really pissed him off.
“Vat’s mit all zees kinders!” he’d shout, sticking his fingers in his ears and scowling at the room full of babies. “Vere ist mein harpsichord?”
Then the babies would scream louder, and Mozart became even more irritable and outraged.
Further research is necessary on The Mozart Effect. And self-changing diapers to stop babies from screaming.
Idioms
I told a blind woman that she was easy on the eyes.
She tried to slap me. And missed. Because she’s blind.
I told a man with no legs to quit dragging his feet and get the job done.
Damn, his motorized wheelchair was fast.
I had to run up a flight of stairs to get away from him.
I told a mute person that they were like music to my ears.
But they couldn’t hear me.
Still, they could read my lips.
And they punched me in the face.
The guy without legs ran me over with his wheelchair.
N
I sipped my coffee and read the gossip pages:
Mindy broke up with Max.
Marty broke up with Mary.
Melissa broke up with Mark.
Madison broke up with Milton.
Sure enough, everyone’s name began with an M. And they all broke up.
I looked at yesterday’s gossip pages.
Sure enough, everybody’s name began with L.
I couldn’t look up the gossip pages from the day before. Those were already recycled.
Will everyone in the gossip pages tomorrow have a name that begins with N?
What happens when we get to Z?
“Nate,” said Nancy. “We need to talk.”
Tomorrow, dear.
Fried Baby
They said that if I tried to open a restaurant that served fried baby, the townspeople would chase me with torches and pitchforks.
But the truth is, they’ve been pretty good to me.
The zoning commission approved the lot. Right next to an adoption agency. The building inspector says that the restaurant is up to code, and the health inspector says that the kitchen is clean.
“Don’t forget hairnets,” he says.
“On the babies?” I ask.
“No, for your fry cooks,” he replies. “Babies are usually bald, right?”
“Oh, right,” I say.
The town arrives.
Brandishing pitchforks?
No, waving coupons.
Kitchen Zone
My kitchen is the fucking Twilight Zone right now.
I’ve got an entire cupboard full of Tupperware, but none of the lids fit any of the containers.
Same thing with the pots and pans. The lids are either too big, too small, or the wrong shape.
Seriously, who the fuck wants a square pan? I have a square lid here, and no pan that matches it.
Maybe some kitchens are like clothes dryers. Left socks vanish from the dryer, pots and containers wormhole out of kitchens.
This is why you should use child safety locks.
And eat out at restaurants.