My friend Billy says he is as happy as a clam.
How happy are clams? And how can you tell?
The government offered millions of dollars in research grants to determine how happy clams are.
It’s part of a greater project to determine the overall happiness of coastal bivalves and mollusks, such as oysters and mussels.
Of course, the research is really just a cover for a bunch of grad students and professors holding clam bakes and oyster parties at the taxpayer’s expense.
Sure, they say the clams are happy, but I’m not happy about getting shucked for this shit.
Tag: cliche
Santa Yoga
Santa’s really into Yoga these days.
Last year, he came back from his delivery run, and he went through the leftovers in his sack.
The last thing he pulled out was a Yoga DVD.
So, instead of just sitting on his ass watching porn and yelling at Mrs. Claus until November or so, he’s got his yoga mat and a 65-inch flat panel high-definition TV (another delivery he “lost” that year), and he’s stretching and breathing.
I hear he’s lost forty pounds. Had to get his suit resized.
That’s okay. This year, he’ll find leftover porn and gain fifty back.
A little something extra
Every year, Mommy tells me to be good so Santa will come and leave me presents.
“And so I can make that son of a bitch take a paternity test,” she mutters.
Yep. Santa left a little something one year.
In Mommy:
Me.
The process servers say the North Pole is out of their jurisdiction.
So, Mommy left out a plate of cookies and a glass of milk.
Santa wears mittens, so you can’t get fingerprints, but you can get trace DNA from the glass.
“It’s a match,” says the analyst.
This year, forget the bike.
I’m getting Child Support.
Christmas Party
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.
It’s A Wonderful Ending
After the party ended and everyone left, Mary put the kids to bed.
George Bailey counted the money again.
It was more than enough to cover the savings and loan.
Perfect.
“I’ll take care of that,” said Uncle Billy, scooping the stacks of money into a basket.
“Fuck no, you goddamned stupid drunk!” shouted George. “You’ve fucked this family for the last time!”
George took Billy’s keys away. “You’re fired!”
Then, he had Bert the cop drive him into town so he could put the money in the safe.
“Merry Christmas, savings and loan,” he mumbled. “Take me home, Bert.”
Dear Santa
Dear Santa,
A lot of my friends are sad, worried, and afraid.
And I can’t do anything about them.
But tell them I’m sorry, which doesn’t really help.
Maybe instead of going around the world
And leaving presents for all the good boys and girls
You could go around and collect up all the sadness
And worry. And stress. And fear.
Collect them all up in your bag
And then fly out over the deepest ocean
Or the South Pole
And dump them over the side of the sleigh.
Oh, and pick up newspapers and soda cans
For recycling, too.
Cereal Gift
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.
Young Mary
Young Mary had a dream. An angel told her that she was pregnant with God’s baby.
“But I’m a virgin,” she said.
The angel shrugged. “The Boss likes ’em young.”
Her family tried to get her to see a doctor, but she didn’t want them anywhere near her miracle baby.
“God will take care of His child,” she said.
As her belly grew larger, Mary grew weaker.
Until one day, she was dead.
The baby turned out to be a rapidly-growing tumor in her intestinal tract.
Nobody wanted to be the first to ask for their baby shower gift back.
Wishes
Ever make a wish on a star?
If you make it on the first star you see, it never comes true, right?
That’s because that star is hundreds of light years away. Maybe thousands.
Nothing can travel faster than the speed of light, so by the time the wish reaches the star, you’ll probably be long dead.
However, there’s Alpha Proximi. It’s just 4 light-years away. So, if you make your wish on it, and a wish goes the speed of light, it will take 4 years for JACK SHIT TO HAPPEN BECAUSE STARS DON’T GIVE A FUCK ABOUT WISHES!
What kind of world?
“What kind of world are we leaving to our children and grandchildren?” shouted the Green Party protestor.
I followed him home after the protest.
He lives in his mother’s basement.
If you’re going to get them to succeed, you’ve got to kick them out of the nest.
Which applies to space travel.
Humanity will never reach for the stars as long as it can play its XBoxes and Playstations in its mother’s basement.
If we ruin this planet faster, humanity has no choice but to reach for the stars.
Forget saving the nest, kid. Spread your wings and fly free.