I Gotsk To Getsk Me Some Stripkers

By Popeye the Sailor Man

Sos I retoin from six monthsk of defendink me country overseas with the Navy, and alls I wantsk is a little attenshkin from me goil Olive. I opens the door to her apartmink to surprise her, and I gets a face full of Bluto’s Browneye bouncink up and down on the sofa with Olive spreads-eagles and chuckling underneath. This ain’t the foist time she done this to me, but it sure is the woist.

That’s all I can stands – I can’t stands no more! The last sound that cheatink beanpole skank will hears from me is the steam comings from me pipe as I slams the door. It beats the stuffings outta me what I ever seen in that broomstick-looking bitch in the foist place. When I goes out with the Navys, we takes shore leave in ports all over the woild. Mosk of the guys heads straight to the strip clubs to watch shapely wimmins shakes their naked bresks. Big, round, bouncy bresks… oh, hows I usek to wishk Olive had bresks like that!

Well, this is it – to Hells with Olive! I gotsk to getsk me some stripkers! All I needs is me best sailor suit and a fisk full of money and I’m goings down town lookins for love. Maybe it’ll be like that one times in Manila when that busky beauty named Daon tooks off her tops and tickled me chin, sayins that she’d likes to tickle me somewheres else afters her shifk. Of course in Manila, I stays loyal to me skank-ask goil Olive – but tonights, I writes me number on a fifky, tucks it in her G-strings and says “Well, blow me, Daon!” Aaah-geh-geh-geh-geh-gehhh!

I needs me a new goil anysway. Once she’s out of that red blouse ang black skirt, Olive ain’t nothin’ but bones, knees and feetsk. Anymores with Olive, it just feltsk likes I’ve been shagging a clown skeleting. To Hell with her – I’m gettingk mes a real woman! I cantsk waits to shows me new goil whats I can do in the sack after I eatsk me spinachk! It will be so liberatin’ to enjoys a smokes after a spinachk-fueled shagfest with a goil whose skinny little lady parts aren’t so roughed up that she looks like she jusk got done maskerbatink with a salad shooter.

Call Me Jack LaLame

by Marc VanDerMeer
Reluctant Fitness Guru

OK, you bastards, I'll do it if it'll shut your fuckin' noise holes. Here it is... pull those goddamned gnawed-to-shit baby-back rib bones out of your ears and listen for once.

When the rest of the office guys aren't making fun of my narrow ass or accusing me of everything from having a coke habit to Satan worship, they're asking me how I manage to stay in decent shape. Apparently, I'm the only forty-plus-year-old desk jockey in Illinois whose dork would get wet if he stood outside naked in a rainstorm with a hard-on or something, so I guess that qualifies me to give fitness advice.

No matter how many times I tell these schmucks my so-called "secret", they insist I write some kind of physical training regimen or diet plan or something. So here it is, Flabbos... don't blink or you'll miss the "secret":

Eat less. Exercise more.

I know that's a lot to wrap your tubby minds around, so I'll break it down into more digestible bites for you (which is something you may want to try, Lardissimo. Jesus, the way you fuckers swallow brats at tailgate parties would make Jenna Jameson bow to you in awe!)

Step One: Eat less.

a) Try to get through the workday with a lunchbox that doesn't need a frickin' outboard motor. Seriously, it's not that rough.

b) Eat a little slower, too. You ain't Kobiyashi.

c) Cut back on the condiments, for crying out loud. I've seen your so-called "salad". That ain't a salad - it's a couple croutons floating in bowl of ranch dressing with just enough lettuce to make you drop a bowl-busting asspile during your 2:30 break. Damn.

d) Drink three *good* beers during the game. Trust me, they have more flavor than the 16 or 18 mugs of Old Pisswater Draft you chug combined. And would a glass of water every now and then kill you?

Step Two: Exercise more.

a) Nothing exotic - push-ups, ab crunches, stuff like that. Just about ten or fifteen minutes a day or so - less than the amount of time it takes you to squeeze all that ass in and out of your sedan in the parking lot at work each morning. Hell yes, I watch. And time you. And laugh.

b) Here's another one - try walking your goddamned dog. Have a heart: he's marked every square inch of your back yard, and the sole joy in a dog's life is discovering new places to shit.

To reiterate: Eat less. Exercise more.

It is that easy. I'm living, breathing proof. No pills, no expensive food plan, no frizzy-haired homos prancing around in leotards - just eat less and exercise more.

There. Now my "secret" has been "published." Will you believe me now and let it fuckin' drop, or do I need to charge you three easy installments of $39.95 plus shipping and handling, Moby?

Afterthought: Drop A Deuce

by Brian Peebles

So I'm in the line at the deli in our office building about three guys behind Skippy the Alpha Marketeer and the rest of his pack when I hear them expounding upon the glories of this past Tuesday night's titty-bar adventures. Some of their tales were real, many more were embellished, and I'm sure at least three of them were out-and-out bullshit, but regardless of the level of truth, the stories had two constants: all of them were skanky, and all of them started with one-dollar bills. I looked in my wallet and suddenly felt the need for a shot of penicillin.

Don't get me wrong - I have no problem with guys paying to see attractive ladies in as little clothing as legally allowable in a public setting. I do have a problem, however, with the thought of cloth paper that has marinated in and soaked up the au jou du skanque of gyrating poledancers being used as the most common means of exchange in this nation - including right frickin' now in my own frickin' hand as I collect and pay for my spicy pepper ranch tuna melt.

Thus I have a dilemma: When a cash purchase involves figures which don't break out evenly in fives, what are my vajuice-free options? Either I carry around a pocketful of quarters like Uncle Jingles, the office building's former caretaker and current child molestation suspect, or have way too many people keep way too much change. There are the new dollar coins, I guess, but that's not much better than the Uncle Jingles option... and the sorry little bastards look like fucking Chuck E. Cheese tokens to begin with. I'd rather not have to persuade the tollbooth asshat that I'm handing him legal tender for all debts public and private, not just rounds of skeeball from an oversized anthropomorphic rat.

Then it hits me... two dollar bills. Shit yeah! They're real money. They look like real money. They spend like real money, albeit with the occasional sideways glance from teenaged cashiers who have only seen the poor things stuffed in birthday cards from their Aunt Frieda in Green Bay. Best of all, the odds that they've ever been within six inches of a sweat-soaked strippercrotch is infinitessimal. From here on out, I fill my wallet with Jeffersons. An occasional trip to the bank is a small price to pay to know that paying for a beer at the game won't put me knuckles-deep in cooze ooze.

Where’s My Holiday?

By Freddy Krueger

Today is Easter, the day designated to celebrate the resurrection of Jesus. Oh, hooray… Jesus came back from the dead. Whoop-dee-shit. I did that ELEVEN times – where’s MY holiday?

Look, hard as it is to believe, I like Jesus. The whole dying for people’s sins thing was quite big of him. That’s what Good Friday is all about. I don’t begrudge him for Good Friday – that’s completely his holiday. He earned it. But the resurrection gig? You’re stepping on Freddy’s toes with that one, Carpenter!

Seriously, who did resurrection better than me? Jesus? Zombie, please! He only did it once… and the only people who “confirmed” he did it were a couple star-struck groupies whose own accounts didn’t even rate as books of the Bible. I rose from the grave eleven times – on film, to rockin’ theme music no less. Coming back from the dead is Krueger Country, baby – Easter is mine!

Changes coming, Kiddies! First thing – no Easter Bunny. Bunnies hump all the time, and anybody who’s seen my work knows how I feel about cute young fornicators. Next, lose those dumbass pastel colored hats. Either wear a fedora or go sans chapeau, Prudence! Wearing the ratty striped sweater would also please me. The wisdom of pleasing me on the day dedicated to my rising from the grave to mete out punishment to those I consider deserving should be glaringly apparent, but… you know… do what you think is best. Heh.

All the other stuff is cool by me – eggs, chocolate, jelly beans, plastic grass – what have you. I feel the kids should get to have some fun on my holiday – I’m no ogre. My only suggestion would be to bake your own ham – the glaze on those Honeybaked jobs is so thick and sweet it’s almost nasty. If anybody could give you guys tips on savoring the subtle complexities of the texture and flavor of baked juicy flesh, it would be Your Boy Freddy, no?

So there you have it. Have fun with your pastel parading rodents today – I’m a bit late getting this out – but come March 23, 2008, I’d better see some Fedora-and-sweater wearing revelers slicing their home-cooked hams with their razor-fingers, or Marshmallow Peeps won’t be the only things lying about headless on Monday!

Fun April Fool's Jokes

by Randy Yazell

It's April Fool's Day, and some of you would like to do something a little more crafty that the centuries' old "Your shoe is untied" gag. Not to worry - Randy Yazell, consultant for professional services firm Weir-Alice-Lees-Yazell is on the job for you.

a) Find the receipt for your most recent haircut. Return to your barber / stylist with receipt in hand. Mention your haircut isn't working out and you'd like all the cut hairs put back on your head.

b) When with a group of four friends: Sniff loudly, make a face, and back away from one of the group. Get the two from whom you aren't backing away to join in. Slowly increase the severity of your faux repulsion by saying things along the lines of "Jesus, Steve!", "Ever heard of Beano/Body Wash/FDS?", and/or "Damn! Go wipe!" Really sell it. Continue until your victim-friend visibly questions his or her own hygiene.

c) Order an onion bagel at the deli. Once it is presented, balk at paying. Angrily mention that your bagel is defective and demand a *complete* bagel, while pointing to the giant hole in the middle. If the vendor protests, stick something through the hole and repeat your claim of defect. Should your exchange produce a standoff of wills, be more vigilant, voracious, vocal and vulgar with what you shove through the proclaimed defect. Continue until you achieve satisfaction (with the vendor, not the bagel you perv!) or police involvement is threatened.

And just think... if we're giving *these* babies away - how good are the ones we charge for?

Happy April Fool's Day, Punks!