Most researchers put cheese in the middle of the maze for the mice to find. But Dr. Odd puts mice in the middle of the maze for cheese to avoid.
Because, you know, cheese doesn’t want to be eaten by mice.
The hardest part was keeping the mice in the middle of the maze.
Dead mice aren’t all that interesting or threatening to cheese. And there’s rules against cruelty to animals.
After years of experimentation, Dr. Odd developed a humane way to keep mice in the same spot.
Which isn’t interesting or useful at all.
Whatever. Care for some cheese?
Keebler would have you believe that elves make the best cookies.
And they’re right. Just not in the way they think.
You see, Santa Claus runs a massive elven eugenics program up there at his North Pole workshop.
He’s managed the toymaking bloodlines for centuries, breeding the best toymakers and weeding out the clumsy elves.
Clumsy elves are ground up to make elf flour for cookie dough.
They make the best cookies.
So, next Christmas Day, when you unwrap a present to reveal a broken toy or a lousy knit sweater, don’t cry.
Have yourself a cookie.
Isn’t failure delicious?
Every year, the company has a Christmas Party, but it’s earlier and earlier every year.
“All the good places get booked in advance,” says the owner of the company. “So, it’s harder and harder to book a place for the holidays.”
Which doesn’t make sense, because the company is a restaurant management company.
We own and manage restaurants. Some of the best in the country. And we can’t book one for the holidays?
“We could,” says the owner. “But they pay more than we do for a banquet room.”
You know, that makes less sense than Christmas in fucking March.
You can buy Lucky Charms marshmallows by the bag from some online store.
So, I gave these to my son as a Christmas gift.
I put a note on the bag “Santa had the elves pick these out of 20 cereal boxes. Then he gave the crappy cereal to an orphanage full of bad children.”
My son then proceeded to act like a dickhead to his little sister.
That’s when the bag of marshmallow bits vanished, and another note appeared:
“Santa gave your address to the kids in the orphanage. And baseball bats.”
He’s hiding in the basement, behaving himself.
Whenever I go out for lobster, I get a bib with a lobster on it.
I turn it around and become… CAPTAIN LOBSTER!
Captain Lobster doesn’t have any actual superpowers, mind you. He’s just me, but louder and more bold.
Oh, and he really, really likes lobster.
The irony is that his kryptonite is a hell of a lot of lobster.
Clutching my stomach, I moan in agony as the melted butter rolls down my chin.
“Too… much… lobster…”
This is when my sidekick Why Do I Take You Out To Dinner When You Act Like This Woman steps in.
This weekend, we’re going up to a friend’s apple orchard to pick on apples.
No, we’re not going to pick apples. He hires Mexicans to do that shit. Do we look like Mexicans?
We’re going up there to pick on apples.
Sometimes, we pick on them by walking around the orchard, saying how much we really like oranges.
After that, we’ll drink wine and say how much better it is than apple juice or cider.
Finally, we’ll use baseball bats to beat apples out of the three.
(Just gotta be careful not to hit a Mexican while they’re picking them.)
Have you ever noticed that you never see werewolves eating Kentucky Fried Chicken?
I suspect that one of the eleven secret herbs and spices is wolvesbane.
I’m pretty sure that one of the others is garlic, although that has nothing to do with why vampires won’t eat Kentucky Fried Chicken.
First off, vampires are snappy dressers, and fried chicken is greasy and disgusting.
And secondly, vampires drink blood. They do not eat fried chicken.
This would not stop either a vampire or a werewolf from eating a KFC employee, of course.
So don’t forget your silver bullets, cross, and hairnet.
Why is a king-sized candy bar that size?
No, it’s not because there was a king who liked candy that size.
It was because there was a king who was that size.
Well, a king who had a penis that size.
Which king? None other than the Reverend Martin Luther King, Junior himself.
You know how the King Family earns royalties on his speeches? Well, they do the same with king-sized candy.
That’s why you don’t see much candy in that size.
It’s all fun-size and junior-size.
No, junior’s not named for him either.
His penis was huge, man.
Kellogg’s says there are two scoops of raisins in every box.
However, they never say how big the scoops are.
I’ve seen some tiny scoops at the bulk candy store, and I’ve seen some huge scoops in the flour bins at the Whole Foods.
It’s not the huge scoops. Because the box would be all raisins and no bran.
And that “Two Scoops” phrase is on every box, big and small. Even those tiny boxes in the hotel’s continental breakfast buffet. So scoops aren’t the same size for every box?
I think they’re full of shit.
Two scoops of it.
I’m tired of all the smug assholes who eat organic foods and drive hybrids.
What’s the opposite of green? Red?
Whatever it is, I want it. I want it bad.
I want a carbon footprint the size of Godzilla stomping Tokyo.
Every time I buy your product, I want to know that an endangered species has died.
And not one of those ugly benthic freaky fish or nasty killer wasps or Amazonian fruit snakes, either.
I want it to be some cute fluffy creature that you could hug all day that snuffs it for all eternity.
And then, grill it.