He started as a software programmer, making cool games that sold millions of copies.
Now, as the CEO of his own software company, he was all about the bottom line.
Which was bottoming out.
“MAKE ME THE NEXT KILLER APP!” he shouted at his programmers.
So, the programmers worked up code that linked a phone’s motion sensors, GPS, and traffic data.
Whenever the driver of a car was in heavy traffic and going very fast, the phone would make a horribly distracting noise that would cause the driver to crash.
They installed it on the CEO’s phone.
Without telling him.
Tag: sick
Idiot Box
Some people call television “The Idiot Box.”
I find this to be a shallow and ignorant description of the televised media.
It’s also insulting to my own product: “Idiot In A Box.”
There’s not much to it. It’s just an idiot in a box.
I got the idea for it from my retarded little brother, Fred.
He liked to sit in boxes.
And watching him in there was highly entertaining.
Unlike television, with Idiot In A Box, you don’t need signal, cable, or Internet to get content.
Just the idiot. And a box. Maybe some oatmeal.
Oh, and diapers.
Enjoy!
Job Market
The job market out there is tough, and everybody’s beefing up their resume with exaggerations and lies.
Me, I’m beefing up my resume with beef.
I started by sending my resume with the finest steaks packed in a cooler with dry ice.
The recruiter threw out the resume and ate the steaks.
Then, I developed a special dye to etch my resume on to the steaks.
The writing vanished as the steaks cooked.
Finally, I made sheets of jerky and printed the resume on those.
By then, the recruiter had died of a heart attack.
And I got his job.
We are not alone
Fred hated everyone and lived alone.
He shopped online and had everything delivered.
He never answered his phone, doorbell, or email.
Every so often, he’d have to go out for something, like doctor or dental checkups. He’d get in the taxi, go his appointment, and come home as quickly as possible.
He wasn’t unhappy.
He just hated people. And liked being alone.
The SETI@Home program on his laptop flashed.
It analyzed signals for extraterrestrial life, and it appeared to find something.
Fred smiled.
Not because there was life out there, but because it meant more life for him to hate.
Rich
Some parents tell their children about the birds and the bees, but Richie Rich was taught about the bears and bulls.
This made for a troublesome learning curve when it came to dating.
Where others were making out in malt shops, movie theaters and Lookout Point, Richie had a hard time convincing any girls to play “Red Capes And Picnic Baskets.”
Until he started paying them to do it.
I mean, come on. The kid was loaded. He could by the finest ass available.
Instead of graduating from Wharton, Richie mastered Whoredom.
Cadbury the butler saw it all.
And wept.
Triple
Vinnie Double Chin’s laid up in the hospital.
Another heart attack.
Which isn’t such a surprise, because he’s at least five hundred pounds and eats five times a day.
When they tried to sink him in the river, the cement truck ran out before they could make his shoes big enough to fit.
Doctor says he needs a triple bypass.
So what does he do?
He calls up Cousin Vito, tells them they can bury witnesses under the freeway they’re building in his chest!
I hope he makes it.
Because I don’t want to be a pallbearer lifting that coffin.
Out Of Network
Growing up, my pediatrician was Dr. Mengele.
Yes, it’s true. The infamous war criminal who did medical experiments in the Nazi concentration camps.
Sure, he went under the name Dr. Sherman, but he couldn’t fool me: he was Mengele.
How did I know?
Well, instead of “Feed a cold, starve a fever” he’d say “Gas a cold, gas a fever.”
When I sprained my ankle, he prescribed gas.
Same with upset stomach, chicken pox, and everything else that happened to me.
The worst part of it was that he was outside my Dad’s HMO network, so the co-pays were murder!
The Pitcher
Pablo Picasso’s last words were “Drink to me!”
But his caretakers misheard him, and thought he’d said “Drink me!”
So, they put him in the bathtub, chopped him into pieces, and ran him through the blender, toasting their friend Picasso with every bloody glass of the liquefied artist.
His bones posed a serious problem, since they were too difficult for the kitchen blender to pulverize, no matter how small they cut them up with the woodshed axe.
One of them suggested melting them with acid.
“How are we going to drink the acid?”
They tried anyway.
(Nobody drank to them.)
Fancy Labels
I have a rule: The fancier the label, the worse the product.
I made this rule based on the assumption that the more a company spends on label design, the less they have left over for quality parts, ingredients, manufacturing, or anything else related to the actual product.
Good products don’t need eye-catching gimmicks or advertising to get you to buy them. You can sell them in a brown paper wrapper if you wanted to.
I wrote a book about this.
Okay, so it has an orgy of blood, sex, and explosions on the cover.
Hey, gotta sell it, right?
Kate
Remember that supermodel Kate Moss? Yeah the really thin chick. Really thin. Scary thin. She could put on a bikini and double her weight. yeah, that’s her. You could see the bones in her hips… her arms, really unattractive, yet, she was a model.
Well, she got bitten by a zombie… kept groaning brains, and all, but when it got right down to it, after all the biting and attacking and stuff, she didn’t really eat any brains. Oh, sure, she’d moan braaaaaaains along with the rest of the pack, she ended up just pushing them round on her plate.”