Oscar’s toaster made any bread stuck into it vanish.
“So, where does it go?” asked Karen.
“I have no idea,” said Oscar. “But I’ve had to switch to cold cereal.”
“Does this happen with bagel halves, too?” asked Karen. “Or just toast?”
“I don’t eat bagels” said Oscar. “Just toast.”
Karen bought some bagels, sliced one in half, and stuck it in the toaster.
She waited for a minute, and the bagel halves popped out.
“I guess it’s just bread,” said Karen.
Oscar shrugged and went out to buy a new toaster.
He smashed the old one with a hammer.
When I was little, I knew exactly what was in each Cracker Jack box before I opened it.
I could hold the box in my hands and just know what was in there.
As time went by, the prizes got cheaper and less impressive. I used to sense tin whistles and compasses. Now I sense stickers and “collector cards” that aren’t worth collecting.
Cheap, flimsy crap. Everything is cheap, flimsy crap these days. And it just keeps getting crappier.
But you know what the worst part of this “gift” is?
I’m diabetic. Never could eat the shit.
Adam ran out of names by the time he got to the last three animals.
“What will you call this one?” asked Eve, holding up a furry, lumpy creature.
“I’m not sure,” said Adam. “Goat?”
“No, you’ve already used that one,” said Eve.
“Urchin?” he said.
“That’s the prickly thing over in the lagoon,” said Eve. “How about… platypus? Wait. You’ve use that one, too.”
“Screw it,” said Adam. He built a fire, and then cooked and ate the three creatures.
“I dub thee Breakfast, Lunch, and Dinner,” he announced. “Now where is Rabbit? I need to wipe my ass.”
It’s a long fly ball.
I’m in the bleachers, and it takes me a second or so to realize the ball is headed straight towards me.
My hands are full, and I’ve got a choice: drop the beer and catch the ball or protect the beer and get hit with the ball.
I choose a third option: putting the beer down and trying for the ball.
I bend over, and I feel a thud on my back.
I drop the beer, and it spills as it rolls into the row below.
I guess there is crying in baseball, after all.
War-weary Abraham Lincoln may have proclaimed the last Thursday as Thanksgiving, but he also dictated the special meal to be served to those observing it…
“Tree bark, sour grass, and whatever bugs you can catch!” yelled Abe. “All washed down with muddy, algae-encrusted water!”
Eventually, Abe came to grips with his modest log-cabin upbringing and settled on turkey with all the trimmings.
“But don’t forget the vomit buckets!” screamed Abe. “They’re the second-most essential part, right next to dressing a common streetwalker like an Indian and beating her to death with a fireiron!”
Once again, another regrettable Lincoln childhood memory.
Abdul leaned over the cereal bowl and scowled. “What gives?” he asked.
“Notice how the cereal is shaped like shredded Zionist body parts,” said Mohammed. “And the milk turns red.”
“Nice touch,” said Abdul. “What else?”
“Seventy-two raisins in every bowl!” beamed Abdul. “Just as Allah promised!”
“I thought we got virgins,” said Abdul.
“It’s a mistranslation,” said Mohammed. “It’s really raisins.”
“Fine,” said Abdul. “So, we call them Yasser-O’s?”
“They’re flakes, not circles,” said Mohammed. “Resistance Flakes: A legitimate resistance to hunger for… um… freedom? Independence? Sovereignty?”
“Whatever,” said Abdul. “Add a grenade as a prize and we’re ready.”
Every July Fourth, there’s some kind of hot dog eating contest at Coney Island.
Some skinny Japanese guy always wins, which is why they think five full-sized adults can fit into one of their cars, I guess.
I can’t eat animal fats anymore due to a crash diet my doctor came up with.
This is why I buy the big Super Star Dogs at Minutemaid Park – they hold the most condiments like relish or mustard and onions.
Those vegetables are healthy right?
And I swear it’s not my fault that someone put meat in between them and the bun.
Cocaretzi is a Greek dish of stuffed ox intestines
It is also the name of Heracles’ cousin. He was similrarly tasked with twelve labors.
Most of them involved solving petty disputes between neighbors. One was getting a bad wine stain out of a toga.
The final labor of Cocaretzi had to do with catering a picky Greek king’s picnic. He was tired of the usual fare, so he challenged Cocaretzi to come up with something new.
Yes, this is where the ox intestines come in.
Cocaretzi was executed for the vile dish, but at least it forever bears his name.
I work for a winery in California, answering the calls on the 800-number.
Most of the calls are complaints, but every now and then I get a world-class weirdo.
Just this morning, someone asks, “What sort of wine goes with donkey?”
Now, I’m no expert, but a bunch of experts wrote up a list of what goes with what.
We’ve got different kids of steaks, all sorts of chicken dishes, and even suggestions for squid and octopus…
“Nothing for donkey,” I say. “Sorry.”
“Fine,” says the caller. “I’ll serve beer. Thank you.”
And he hangs up.
I need a vacation.
Studies have shown that playing classical music causes a plant to grow faster and stronger than if a plant is raised in an environment with rock and roll music, noise, or complete silence.
It turns out that the same goes for babies. Classical music makes them grow quickly and in good health.
And if you pump the music in directly through headphones, you block out the crying noises of other babies, which turns out to be somewhat infectious and irritating.
Nice, juicy babies.
Removing the hair and bones cleanly and rapidly through automation is something we’re still working on, however.