Everybody’s always saying they’re gonna cut out the middle man.
Who is the middle man?
Why is he in the middle?
What’s he doing there?
If he was just getting in the way, why was he there in the first place?
Where do you learn how to be a middle man?
Middle school?
So, you want to cut him out?
If he’s not in the middle anymore, what’s he going to do with his spare time?
I’d rather have him there in the middle, where I can see him. There’s no way I’ll turn my back to a guy like that.
Tag: silly
Barrow
I was thinking about gardening, when I asked myself “Why do they call them wheelbarrows?”
All wheelbarrows have wheels, so why not call them barrows?
Have you ever heard of a barrow? A barrow without a wheel?
I’ve never heard of one. Or seen one.
I looked it up. They’re called a travois. They’re carts that you drag behind horses.
You’d think they’d call them horsebarrows, but they call them travois.
Goddamned French.
However, now that I’ve brought up the subject, can you bring up a horse from the basement?
I’m out of wheels, and there’s gardening to be done.
Plymouth
While on a trip to New England, I asked my mother what the difference was between a stone and a rock.
“A rock is natural,” she said. “A stone’s been worked on.”
“So why is it Plymouth Rock instead of Plymouth Stone?” I asked.
“Because Plymouth Rock wasn’t really worked on,” she said. “Although, they did break it apart and moved it around a few times. And souvenir-seekers have been breaking off pieces of it for years. Oh, and they carved the year into it. So, technically, it should be Plymouth Stone.”
I think historians have rocks in their heads.
Santrum
The editorial board at the New English Dictionary had debated for weeks about their newest entries, and every conflict had been resolved.
Except for one: Santrum.
One group wanted it to mean the tantrum that children throw when they want to visit Santa at the mall.
Another group wanted it to mean the fit that frightened children throw when placed on Santa’s lap.
And a third group wanted it to represent a fit that a mall Santa throws after being pissed on.
“We should be a bit more specific about that last one,” said the editor-in-chief.
(He was into watersports.)
Rotten Eggs
Around Christmastime, people make a deal of Santa trackers. And the weatherman likes to add a Santa animation to the Doppler radar.
But when it comes to the Easter Bunny, does anybody watch that varmint?
No.
They really ought to. Because bunnies can be nasty little creatures, and they have really sharp teeth.
And Easter Eggs have a pretty short shelf life. As pretty as the dye and glitter job is, you do not want to tear open and eat a hard-boiled egg that’s been sitting at the bottom of Peter Cottontail’s basket all night.
Stick to the chocolate ones.
Day Thirteen
On the 13th day of Christmas, the woman who I thought was my true love left me.
After all I did for her, too.
The birds all went back to the pet store, and the nursery took back the tree.
The jewelers aren’t happy about the rings, so I filed a claim through American Express.
The maids went back to the dairy and took their cows with them.
The ladies, lords, pipers and drummers were just day hires. They went back home when the gig was over.
Okay, maybe not the drummers. They’re all sleeping on my couch.
Goddamn deadbeats.
We Wish You A Merry Come In Peace
Every Christmas, the weather guy puts Santa’s sleigh on the radar display.
This year, I’m going to hack into the system and replace Santa with a gigantic meteor.
That way, when he pulls up the map, instead of convincing children to go to sleep, the entire broadcast area will run screaming through the streets with panic.
I hacked into the television station’s network and did the swap.
That night, I watched the weather report.
Right there on the map, for all to see:
A UFO?
Most people ran screaming into the streets.
I didn’t.
Maybe Santa traded in the sleigh?
Hold My Calls
Winston’s last words were “hold my calls.”
And then, an hour later, he died from a heart attack.
Winston’s phone rang while the orderlies were moving his body down to the morgue for processing.
“Hey! Hey there!” shouted the phone, over and over.
It was Winston’s voice shouting as the ringtone, and it scared the fuck out of the orderlies.
“I warned you,” cackled Winston’s ghost.
Then his spirit wandered off to the emergency room, where he placed bets with the other ghosts on who would live or die.
Which was awkward when those dying patients became ghosts too.
Holiday Letters
The Post Office started Operation Santa Claus a few years back, where people could volunteer to answer letters that kids wrote to Santa Claus and stuck in a mailbox.
So, I signed up for it.
Now, I get stacks of letters to read, asking for all kinds of things.
I respond to every one of them with a simple form letter:
SANTA DOESN’T EXIST
And I sign it with my name, then I stick my response in the mail.
My son thinks I’m nuts for wasting my time on this, but it sure beats the hell out of answering prayers.
Mistake
Mother said that bread always manages to land buttered side down.
So, I buttered all the bread we had and, slice after slice, dropped it on the kitchen floor.
Some of it landed with the buttered side down, and some of it landed with the buttered side up.
I asked my mother for more bread, and she asked me why.
I took her into the kitchen, and she saw the mess I had made.
She gave me the spanking of my life.
These days, I look back and I laugh at my childish mistake.
I forgot to toast it first.