PLEASE FORWARD THIS ON TO EVERY WOMAN YOU KNOW
*********************************************************************************************************
THIS IS AMUST READ FOR ANY WOMAN! THESE TIPS COULD SAVE YOUR LIFE! A GOOD FRIEND OF MINE CAN ATTEST TO THE FIRST ONE!
* If you are ever in an elevator with another man who tries to rape you, push the 3rd floor button 7 times. This sends a signal to the control room and they will pump the elevator full of gas that is only poisonous to rapists. Don't worry, you will be fine. You may experience slight nausea, but isn't that better than being raped?
* If you are ever raking leaves in October, and a rapist pops out of the pile of leaves, tell him he can rape you only after he recites the lyrics to the "Growing Pains" theme-song. Once he finishes the first line, rack him in the balls with your rake. The pain and shame of not being able to finish the song will cause him to hang his head and slowly limp away.
* If a male employee of Chucky Cheese ever corners you in a restroom there and tries to rape you, inform him that you can identify someone in the dining area who is piggy-backing off someone else's salad buffet. He will immediately stop his unwanted advances to catch the thief, at which point you can leave.
* If you go to the doctor for any sort of illness and asks you if you want an injection, refuse it. He will mix "rape serum" in with the medicine. This only works if you actually tell the physician why you are refusing the injection. Upon hearing this, he will realize the game is up and will leave your town.
* If you are ever fishing in Lake Livingston, and you reel in a rapist, say "Rapist, rapist on my bow, rapist, rapist, leave me now!" And he will dissipate in a mist, never to rape again.
* If you consult a magic 8-ball and ask if "Will I be raped today?" and the answer is "Very likely," shake it again.
* If Vin Diesel ever tries to coerce you into his car for purposes of rape by telling you he's the famous actor AND the inventor of diesel fuel, do not get into his vehicle. Instead, from the relative safety of the sidewalk, flatter him by telling him how good he was in "The Scorpion King." When he angrily snaps that that was The Rock and not him, apologize and tell him you enjoyed watching him play a gay man in "Be Cool." If he doesn't vomit with indignation, certainly raping a woman will be the last thing on his mind, as he drives off to contemplate his meaningless career/existence.
* Every Grecian man is a rapist and will use all his powers towards rape. Just know this.
* And finally, if you are using precious work time to read forwards on how to remain safe from rapists, chances are the email was originally sent by a rapist who sent it only to distract you so that he can position himself to rape you.
PLEASE SEND THIS ONTO EVERYW OMAN YOU KNOW!!! TO DELETE THIS MAKES YOU AN ACCOMPLICE TO RAPE, ASSHOLE!!!
Saturday, November 24, 2007
Thursday, November 22, 2007
We Hate Our Children, Please Drive Recklessly
by George Sodwell
July 2002 Yard of the Month Winner
I saw you do a double-take at our street sign there. Don't worry. You didn't accidentally drive into some bizarro world like East St. Louis. You read that right. Although you might expect a sign like that to read "We Love Our Children - Please Drive Safely," it really does read "We Hate Our Children - Please Drive Recklessly." It's the Lord's truth. I can't stand the little brats that run rampant in this neighborhood, and I would appreciate nothing more than for some speeding vehicle to take out a few. Or a dozen, or so. Surprise me.
Feel free to blow down this street. Wherever you're trying to get to, I guarantee you, you're not getting there fast enough. Speed limit says 30. That's for girls. Go 50. Especially in the late afternoon when they get home from the schools they're flunking in. Don't worry if you hit a few of the little bastards on accident. Or on purpose. It doesn't matter to me. That's how little I care.
They usually start playing their soccer game about 3:30 or so. I don't follow the sport that much, but I thought you scored "goals" by kicking the ball into the net. To watch these hellions play, you'd think the goal was to kick it into my yard all over my crepe mertles. And they must crap these balls on a daily basis. No matter how many I confiscate and kill by plunging a screwdriver into it, they always seem to find more. They can't afford shoes and indoor furniture, but they have a lifetime supply of soccer balls? Don't make no sense.
If you can, try to take out the tall kid who seems to go by the name "Julio." Mr. Julio there decided it would be funny to pour a bunch of soap flakes into the fountain I keep in my front yard in memory of my dead wife. Well, the second dead one. Anyway, him and his little buddies thought it was pretty damn funny to see the fountain overflowing with soap bubbles. I wonder if Julio would find it amusing if I called CPS on his parents, for letting him play in the street until eight o'clock p.m.?
Used to be such a respectable neighborhood. No one under forty-seven. Then the Rodriguez's moved in with their four children. Then there was that house that caught fire. Then there was that foreclosure, which got sold real cheap to the Villanueva's. They had three kids. Then suddenly I found myself to be the oldest person on this street, at the tender age of seventy-three. And the only white person.
I've stood here talking your ear off long enough, you've got places to be and fast. Really fast. Don't worry about stopping. I'll take care of everything. Just listen (ahem) "Gee officer, I'm just an old man, I can't remember things like what the car looked like that ran over these four kids." Or six.
July 2002 Yard of the Month Winner
I saw you do a double-take at our street sign there. Don't worry. You didn't accidentally drive into some bizarro world like East St. Louis. You read that right. Although you might expect a sign like that to read "We Love Our Children - Please Drive Safely," it really does read "We Hate Our Children - Please Drive Recklessly." It's the Lord's truth. I can't stand the little brats that run rampant in this neighborhood, and I would appreciate nothing more than for some speeding vehicle to take out a few. Or a dozen, or so. Surprise me.
Feel free to blow down this street. Wherever you're trying to get to, I guarantee you, you're not getting there fast enough. Speed limit says 30. That's for girls. Go 50. Especially in the late afternoon when they get home from the schools they're flunking in. Don't worry if you hit a few of the little bastards on accident. Or on purpose. It doesn't matter to me. That's how little I care.
They usually start playing their soccer game about 3:30 or so. I don't follow the sport that much, but I thought you scored "goals" by kicking the ball into the net. To watch these hellions play, you'd think the goal was to kick it into my yard all over my crepe mertles. And they must crap these balls on a daily basis. No matter how many I confiscate and kill by plunging a screwdriver into it, they always seem to find more. They can't afford shoes and indoor furniture, but they have a lifetime supply of soccer balls? Don't make no sense.
If you can, try to take out the tall kid who seems to go by the name "Julio." Mr. Julio there decided it would be funny to pour a bunch of soap flakes into the fountain I keep in my front yard in memory of my dead wife. Well, the second dead one. Anyway, him and his little buddies thought it was pretty damn funny to see the fountain overflowing with soap bubbles. I wonder if Julio would find it amusing if I called CPS on his parents, for letting him play in the street until eight o'clock p.m.?
Used to be such a respectable neighborhood. No one under forty-seven. Then the Rodriguez's moved in with their four children. Then there was that house that caught fire. Then there was that foreclosure, which got sold real cheap to the Villanueva's. They had three kids. Then suddenly I found myself to be the oldest person on this street, at the tender age of seventy-three. And the only white person.
I've stood here talking your ear off long enough, you've got places to be and fast. Really fast. Don't worry about stopping. I'll take care of everything. Just listen (ahem) "Gee officer, I'm just an old man, I can't remember things like what the car looked like that ran over these four kids." Or six.
Sunday, August 5, 2007
Why Can't Pretty Wrapping Paper Be Enough Of a Gift?
by Thelma Cortlandt
octogenarian
It's so good to see you! I haven't seen you since the last holiday/birthday/ and/or funeral! I'm sorry I yelled through my door "Who is it," but I saw a sinister looking Mexican man walking around the neighborhood earlier today. Can I get you some sugar-free, caffeine-free, colorless Diet Pepsi?
You know, there's a lot of thing I just don't get about this world. VCRs. Most telephones. Mr. Drew Carey. But one thing that always makes me happy is pretty wrapping paper. Reminds me of the good old days when it was the thought that mattered, not the gift. And that whatever the thought was, it was wrapped up in paper featuring a warm set of colors and realistic paintings of dogs and/or cats in playful poses.
I would be good at thinking up designs. It seems so many of them are thought up by computers. All flashy and symmetrical and precise. Who wants to look at a series of lines with varying length when you can enjoy the moment captured as two puppies tussle over a candy cane? Or a cat nibbling on Santa's cookies! My, oh my! I better slow down, lest all this giggling gives me another stroke.
There are two things I can't stand regarding wrapping paper. One, is how everyone just quickly rips it open and throws it on the floor. Seems like such a waste. The other is how tacky some of the wrapping paper has gotten these days. With the exception of Charlie Brown and his friends, I can't think of one cartoon character who deserves to be immortalized on the wrapping paper. No wonder people are so hasty to discard it when it's featuring that obnoxious Bart Simpson character or that Sponge-looking thing with the big Jew nose.
In my day the wrapping paper was such a special part of the gift. No matter how precious the gift was: A shawl, a thimble set, or a Polio vaccine. Folks cared about the wrapping. Times were just simpler I guess. You didn't have all these fancy (sic) toilets that flush themselves. No sir. You had to make sure all the other faucets in the house were off and move the lever and fiddle with the thing on the inside when you heard it running and the commode was full.
Simpler times.
octogenarian
It's so good to see you! I haven't seen you since the last holiday/birthday/ and/or funeral! I'm sorry I yelled through my door "Who is it," but I saw a sinister looking Mexican man walking around the neighborhood earlier today. Can I get you some sugar-free, caffeine-free, colorless Diet Pepsi?
You know, there's a lot of thing I just don't get about this world. VCRs. Most telephones. Mr. Drew Carey. But one thing that always makes me happy is pretty wrapping paper. Reminds me of the good old days when it was the thought that mattered, not the gift. And that whatever the thought was, it was wrapped up in paper featuring a warm set of colors and realistic paintings of dogs and/or cats in playful poses.
I would be good at thinking up designs. It seems so many of them are thought up by computers. All flashy and symmetrical and precise. Who wants to look at a series of lines with varying length when you can enjoy the moment captured as two puppies tussle over a candy cane? Or a cat nibbling on Santa's cookies! My, oh my! I better slow down, lest all this giggling gives me another stroke.
There are two things I can't stand regarding wrapping paper. One, is how everyone just quickly rips it open and throws it on the floor. Seems like such a waste. The other is how tacky some of the wrapping paper has gotten these days. With the exception of Charlie Brown and his friends, I can't think of one cartoon character who deserves to be immortalized on the wrapping paper. No wonder people are so hasty to discard it when it's featuring that obnoxious Bart Simpson character or that Sponge-looking thing with the big Jew nose.
In my day the wrapping paper was such a special part of the gift. No matter how precious the gift was: A shawl, a thimble set, or a Polio vaccine. Folks cared about the wrapping. Times were just simpler I guess. You didn't have all these fancy (sic) toilets that flush themselves. No sir. You had to make sure all the other faucets in the house were off and move the lever and fiddle with the thing on the inside when you heard it running and the commode was full.
Simpler times.
Monday, July 9, 2007
I Am a Poor-man's Poor-man
by Hobo Tony
Hobo
First off, let me just tell you "God bless you." Secondmost, let me just say that I got five kids and a sick wife sitting in a car just around the corner there. We just got in from Anchorage, Georgia and our car is broke, two of my kids got sick, and one are retarded. My wife has cancer in her toe and I've only got enough money to purchase a can of Spaghetti-o's. If you could spare any change, I would appreciate it so much.
Look man, I ain't tryin' to hustle you or nothin'. I love the Lord. But the workers over at that Popeye's Chicken by the bus-stop do not love me, because I was stealing ketchup packets and asking folks for change. So if you could find it in your heart to help me out with my four kids, I know it would make the Lord happy.
You see this scab on my elbow? I got that when I asked a fella at the museum if I could use the toilet. He called a colored security fella over and he apparently did not have time to help me and my seven children I got in the Geo Prism just around the corner there. You can't see it from here.
Anything you can spare will be appreciated. Well, not anything. Some young fella earlier handed me a prophylactic which I ain't got no use for. Me and my nine kids can't eat that.
What? You'll say a prayer for me later?
Excuse me, man. First off, let me just tell you "God bless you." Secondmost...
Hobo
First off, let me just tell you "God bless you." Secondmost, let me just say that I got five kids and a sick wife sitting in a car just around the corner there. We just got in from Anchorage, Georgia and our car is broke, two of my kids got sick, and one are retarded. My wife has cancer in her toe and I've only got enough money to purchase a can of Spaghetti-o's. If you could spare any change, I would appreciate it so much.
Look man, I ain't tryin' to hustle you or nothin'. I love the Lord. But the workers over at that Popeye's Chicken by the bus-stop do not love me, because I was stealing ketchup packets and asking folks for change. So if you could find it in your heart to help me out with my four kids, I know it would make the Lord happy.
You see this scab on my elbow? I got that when I asked a fella at the museum if I could use the toilet. He called a colored security fella over and he apparently did not have time to help me and my seven children I got in the Geo Prism just around the corner there. You can't see it from here.
Anything you can spare will be appreciated. Well, not anything. Some young fella earlier handed me a prophylactic which I ain't got no use for. Me and my nine kids can't eat that.
What? You'll say a prayer for me later?
Excuse me, man. First off, let me just tell you "God bless you." Secondmost...
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
celebrity dictionary vol. 1
Braff ( Zack Braff) - (v) what a man does to woo women with awkward quirkiness. "Man, that guy's a dork, but he sure gets the girls because he's always braffing it."
Linney (Laura Linney) - (v) to physically tremble in a heightened emotional state. "When she got the news her brother was killed in Iraq, she was linney-ing pretty hard-core and spilled her coffee."
Farina (Dennis Farina) - (n) where the penis attaches to the body. "When his ex-wife castrated him she got him all the way up to the farina, and then some."
Peet (Amanda Peet) - (n. pl.) the small pieces of mud debris that fall off a truck and hit your windshield. "I was stuck behind this bulldozer in traffic and all these damn peets kept falling off it and hitting my car."
Vanderbeek (James Vanderbeek) - (adv.) a manner of walking in an eager to please fashion because no one knows who the fuck you are anymore. "That guy walked vanderbeekly up to the front of the class to read his speech on high school football."
Dunst (Kirsten Dunst) - (v) the spillage that occurs when pouring a liquid out of a container. "Everytime I pour the coffee from that karafe, it dunsts all over the counter."
Linney (Laura Linney) - (v) to physically tremble in a heightened emotional state. "When she got the news her brother was killed in Iraq, she was linney-ing pretty hard-core and spilled her coffee."
Farina (Dennis Farina) - (n) where the penis attaches to the body. "When his ex-wife castrated him she got him all the way up to the farina, and then some."
Peet (Amanda Peet) - (n. pl.) the small pieces of mud debris that fall off a truck and hit your windshield. "I was stuck behind this bulldozer in traffic and all these damn peets kept falling off it and hitting my car."
Vanderbeek (James Vanderbeek) - (adv.) a manner of walking in an eager to please fashion because no one knows who the fuck you are anymore. "That guy walked vanderbeekly up to the front of the class to read his speech on high school football."
Dunst (Kirsten Dunst) - (v) the spillage that occurs when pouring a liquid out of a container. "Everytime I pour the coffee from that karafe, it dunsts all over the counter."
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
I Promise To Eat Your Brains And Ravage Your Corpse In The Least Offensive Manner Possible
Ted Vernon,
Zombie
Hello, friend. As you can probably tell by the tattered burial suit I'm wearing and the decaying flesh underneath, I am a zombie...yeah, and the stench. Let's not leave that out. Anyway, you probably know what I'm here for, but I'm gonna be frank with you: I'm going to eat your brains and have sex with your dying corpse, but let me assure you that I will do everything I can to make it as easy for you as I possibly can.
Unlike a lot of my peers, I have what most people call "manners." Recall that I knocked on your door and you answered. I didn't just kick it in, only to have you close it on me and my flailing arms. By the way, I did take some time to water your geraniums out there. They're looking a little wilted. They'll be okay, they just needed some water. I had quite the green thumb before I had...you know...an actual green thumb from the gangrene.
If you could just lay on the couch or just put yourself in a prone position anywhere; remember, I'll work around you. We can go in the bathroom if you're concerned about the mess. There will be quite a mess, let me tell you! But see, that's the thing: at least I'm telling you now.
I can't say I enjoy consuming gray matter and getting it on with your lifeless body anymore than you enjoy going to the bathroom. You gotta do it, right? Your life depends on it, right? Same here. I'm like one of those creatures that sucks blood...a lawyer. Ha, ha! Come on, you know that was funny. Told you I was different.
What? "Do I drive a zombie-car?" You watch way too many movies. I still drive my old Camry, dude! It's hard, though, because my left eye keeps falling out of my socket, and I have no feeling in my extremities.
Well, I've really enjoyed our chat, but I really do need to get started here. Hey, look on the bright side. Not everyone gets to say they were eaten and ravaged by zombies...You never saw movies where zombies had sex with the people they killed? Again, my friend, you have been misled by Hollywood...Well, you'll just have to trust me on this one.
Zombie
Hello, friend. As you can probably tell by the tattered burial suit I'm wearing and the decaying flesh underneath, I am a zombie...yeah, and the stench. Let's not leave that out. Anyway, you probably know what I'm here for, but I'm gonna be frank with you: I'm going to eat your brains and have sex with your dying corpse, but let me assure you that I will do everything I can to make it as easy for you as I possibly can.
Unlike a lot of my peers, I have what most people call "manners." Recall that I knocked on your door and you answered. I didn't just kick it in, only to have you close it on me and my flailing arms. By the way, I did take some time to water your geraniums out there. They're looking a little wilted. They'll be okay, they just needed some water. I had quite the green thumb before I had...you know...an actual green thumb from the gangrene.
If you could just lay on the couch or just put yourself in a prone position anywhere; remember, I'll work around you. We can go in the bathroom if you're concerned about the mess. There will be quite a mess, let me tell you! But see, that's the thing: at least I'm telling you now.
I can't say I enjoy consuming gray matter and getting it on with your lifeless body anymore than you enjoy going to the bathroom. You gotta do it, right? Your life depends on it, right? Same here. I'm like one of those creatures that sucks blood...a lawyer. Ha, ha! Come on, you know that was funny. Told you I was different.
What? "Do I drive a zombie-car?" You watch way too many movies. I still drive my old Camry, dude! It's hard, though, because my left eye keeps falling out of my socket, and I have no feeling in my extremities.
Well, I've really enjoyed our chat, but I really do need to get started here. Hey, look on the bright side. Not everyone gets to say they were eaten and ravaged by zombies...You never saw movies where zombies had sex with the people they killed? Again, my friend, you have been misled by Hollywood...Well, you'll just have to trust me on this one.
Thursday, June 7, 2007
The Berenstein Bears And Mama's Black Eye
It was a bright sunny spring morning in Bear Country. Brother and Sister bounded downstairs for their breakfast. Mama was making her trademark flapjacks. "Good morning, Mama," they said. Then Mama turned around. That was when Brother and Sister noticed something odd: Mama had a black eye.
"Gee, Mama. What happened?" asked Sister. "Did you run into a doorknob, like I did that time?" asked Brother. "No. I--uh--just fell down," replied Mama. "Here's your flapjacks!"
Papa Bear came down for breakfast. He looked very cross and mumbled something when he sat down. Nobody said anything for a long time. "Well," said Mama nervously. "Brother, what are you doing today?" "Well, we're going to the field to play baseball. Too-Tall and his gang were there yesterday, but then my friend Terry stood up to him and smacked him, pow! Right in his kisser!" Mama jumped in her chair. Then she stood up and left the room.
"What's wrong with Mama?" asked Sister. "Why are you looking at me?" replied Papa. "How should I know? All I know is that a certain someone overcooked the meatloaf last night and then another certain somebody got indigestion and then the first somebody made a rude comment about the other person's flatulence. So get off my case!"
Papa bear stood up and left the room. Brother and Sister just looked at each other. Then they smiled and reached for Papa's flapjacks.
"Gee, Mama. What happened?" asked Sister. "Did you run into a doorknob, like I did that time?" asked Brother. "No. I--uh--just fell down," replied Mama. "Here's your flapjacks!"
Papa Bear came down for breakfast. He looked very cross and mumbled something when he sat down. Nobody said anything for a long time. "Well," said Mama nervously. "Brother, what are you doing today?" "Well, we're going to the field to play baseball. Too-Tall and his gang were there yesterday, but then my friend Terry stood up to him and smacked him, pow! Right in his kisser!" Mama jumped in her chair. Then she stood up and left the room.
"What's wrong with Mama?" asked Sister. "Why are you looking at me?" replied Papa. "How should I know? All I know is that a certain someone overcooked the meatloaf last night and then another certain somebody got indigestion and then the first somebody made a rude comment about the other person's flatulence. So get off my case!"
Papa bear stood up and left the room. Brother and Sister just looked at each other. Then they smiled and reached for Papa's flapjacks.
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