It is the briny deck of the buccaneer galleon, “The Blackart.” The dread Jolly Roger is flying atop the mizzenmast. In the background can be seen the swells of the treacherous deep. A rowboat approaches the vessel and its lone passenger is hoisted up along with a heavy trunk. He is a dark pirate, garbed in the full regalia becoming to one such as himself: pantaloons and a gentleman’s cloak, jewels, diamonds, and a fearsome eyepatch. He approaches the captain and speaks.
Dark Pirate: Ahoy! I have returned from the Spice Isles with a wond’rous booty, the likes of which has ne’er been dreamed by a seadog like yourself!
Captain: Is that right? (Chuckles).
DP: How now? If it be not my words that convince ye, let me jewels speak for themselves! (Makes for his trunk).
C: So, you say you’ll be showing me your booty?
DP: Aye! Though I keep it close to me heart. But if ye lay so much as a finger ‘pon it, I’ll strike ye down where ye stand.
C: I see. So let me get this straight, I’m allowed to look at your booty, but I’m not allowed to touch it, right? (He continues chuckling while motioning to some fellow pirates to come take a look).
DP: Aye. (Pause). Why’re ye guffawing like a lusty wench?
C: Oh, no reason. (Chuckles). And you’ve got a big booty?
DP: Bigger’n been seen by the likes of you, ye scurvy shiprats!
C: (Whole pirate gang bursts into muffled laughter. They try to contain themselves but two have difficulty and have to go below decks till they can look at each other without laughing). And it’d probably be safe to say you’ve got lots of junk in the trunk, am I right?
DP: Don’t you be calling me precious cargo “junk” now.
C: No offense. (Snickers into arm. He has to stop looking at Dark Pirate for a minute before finally regaining composure). Do you need some help getting your booty on the floor?
DP: Aye, that would be a kindness. But take care lest you shake me booty.
C: But how will we get your booty on the floor if we can’t shake it? (Whole deck bursts into thunderous laughter). Oh man! You’re classic. Ok, where did you get it? Where did you get your wond’rous booty?
DP: It was easy pickin’, matey. Ya see, I took it from those what have no defenses! I snuck into a ghetto and stole all their greatest treasures. And for that, I am most proud. ‘Tis true, I be proud of me ghetto booty!
Entire ship explodes with the joyous sounds of hooting and hollering as waves of laughter ripple over the entire crew.
A brief interruption of Playboy TV’s Night Calls by Nickelodeon’s Spongebob Squarepants has challenged the morals of a small community outside Saginaw,Michigan. Though the cable company has taken responsibility for the electrical glitch, parents and children have voiced concern over the repercussions of witnessing Nickelodeon’s controversial program.
Heather Wiley, age 7, is the young woman spearheading the campaign. Heather’s father, Randy, was comfortably watching the midnight rerun of Night Calls, when he was stunned to find a graphic depiction of the sponge-like character crying gushes of water and pivoting as though he were a sprinkler. The channel switched back to Juli Ashton instructing a paraplegic how to masturbate before Wiley, who happened to be walking by, could reach the remote control.
“I was just watching the two hot blonde chicks feel each other and stuff,” recalls Randy, “then there’s this scary-looking sponge walking around with bad teeth and bulging eyes. It was scary!”
Though the interruption lasted only ten and a half seconds, Wiley argues that even one second is too much. “Something must be done immediately. Our parents’ futures are at stake here,” she told reporters.
In addition to fierce litigation, Wiley plans to watch Night Calls with her father to ensure his protection should another cable mix up occur.
There is no doubt in my mind that Jesus Christ is the most popular guy around, even though he’s been dead for millions of years. And I’m not the only one because there are a lot of people that love Jesus as well. Most of these people are religious and don’t want to go to hell. But even if you are a hell bound atheist sinner, you still have to admit that Jesus is one cool dude.
Why, you ask? Because Jesus is a winner, and he strived to be the best. And everyone loves a winner. You see, Jesus dedicated his life to performing miracles, and he performed more miracles than anyone before or anyone since. It didn’t matter how big or small the miracle was; Jesus would perform miracles every day like it was game day. If you were hungry because you forgot to pack a lunch, Jesus would make bread and fish appear so you wouldn’t go hungry. How cool is that? That’s why so many people in Africa wished Jesus were still alive.
Say your bitch ass friends forgot to bring the booze like they were supposed to. If Jesus was at your party, then Jesus would make some schnapps out of water just like that. And if you’re bumming out because that slut from the party gave you some funny looking warts on your penis, just forget about it. Because Jesus will fix you right up. Don’t worry, Jesus doesn’t have to touch your penis to heal it; he doesn’t swing that way. Even if you fell into a ditch and accidentally died, Jesus would bring you back to life. And he would do all this for free, because he wanted to perform more miracles than anyone else. That’s how dedicated Jesus was to performing miracles.
How did Jesus get so good at performing miracles? This isn’t in the Bible, but rumor has it that Jesus traveled to Asia and hung out with the ruler of all Asia, King Confucius, who was really good at performing miracles. But Jesus was such a good learner, and so dedicated, that he soon performed miracles even better than King Confucius did. That’s why no one ever hears about King Confucius performing any miracles: Jesus got so much better that everyone forgot about King Confucius. So King Confucius decided to stop performing miracles and became a philosopher. But King Confucius was so bitter that he kicked Jesus out of Asia and made him go back to Europe.
Basically, if you think that Jesus isn’t cool, then you can just forget it! You’re are going to hell where Jesus’ immortal enemy, Satan, will cook you in really hot fire and eat you.
Whenever I’m feeling down, I like to boost my self-esteem by comparing myself to other people. Perhaps that’s why I like alcoholics, the elderly, and people who play Counterstrike. Recently, however, I chose someone who would prove to be a tougher target (but just barely): Mario Lopez, better known as A.C. Slater from “Saved By the Bell.” At first I felt kind of bad about making fun of a dead guy, but then his agent assured me that he was, in fact, available for commercials, dunk tanks, bar mitzvahs, self defense classes, or defecating onto a paper plate in front of a crowd of people. But I’d have to bring the plate.
SLATER – Web Hits on Yahoo for “Mario Lopez”: 25,300
MATT – Web Hits on Yahoo for “Matt Loker”: 2
Yeah, I’d have 25,000 hits too if my name was “John Smith” or “lesbian peeing nipples.” By the by, his personal website is a blank page. Understandable, seeing as how web hosting prices are up to 40 dollars a month. At least they were the last time he had anywhere near 40 dollars. Winner: Him (Funny aside: “Last Updated: 25-May-1999”)
SLATER – Current Occupation: …Seriously?
MATT – Current Occupation: Computer Tech
Though a computer tech is hardly the sexiest of jobs, remember this: I drink scotch “for fun,” as opposed to “with my unemployment check.”
Winner: Me
**SLATER – Phone Number: 266-9666 Best Spelling: Bony Mom
MATT – Phone Number: 527-1439 Best Spelling: LA-71-HEY**
While it may seem that his is cooler because it doesn’t sound like something a quarterback would yell, bear this in mind: he has the MARK OF THE BEAST in his number. That, and the Bay Area is cooler than L.A. any day. L.A., of course, is area code 819. Not that that means anything.
Winner: Me
**SLATER – Best Movie of Career: “Breaking the Surface: The Greg Louganis Story” (1996)
MATT – Best Movie of Career: “Party at Matt’s House Where Matt Passes out in the Shower After 14 Shots of Jager” (2000)**
While my entry wasn’t a Hollywood movie per se, it’s still better than a cheesy TV biopic about a gay swimmer. I’d rather call up my mom and tell her I was in Pussyman’s Cocksucking Championship 8. As a janitor. Winner: Technically, Him (Another funny aside: a user comment on the IMDB reads as follows – “A beautiful and brilliant film. Mario Lopez’s acting ability is incredible and plays Greg Louganis with such sensitivity and emotion.” It’s nice to see that he takes the time to reflect on his own work.)
**SLATER – Attends UC Berkeley: No
MATT – Attends UC Berkeley: Yes I can’t believe the computer randomly chose this category! I mean, that’s just weird. Winner: Me**
**SLATER – Quote: “I love talking about women because they are a constant study and you’re always learning.”
MATT – Quote: “You’re fucking stupid.” As always, my witty rejoinder carries the day. Winner: Me**
That’s right, I win it 4-2. Hey, I feel better already. Next up: I challenge Jerry’s Kids to a kickboxing contest! The winner gets to keep all the wheelchairs.
One last funny aside: Slater’s co-star Screech from Saved by the Bell is actually named Dustin Diamond. No shit. When you’re filming something with a half-Mexican guy and someone named Dustin Diamond, they have a name for that: GAY PORNO.
Dear Mr. Rothenberg,
It has come to our understanding that, unlike many males your age, you were raised by a pack of wolves.
Unfortunately, at this late age you’ve never learned the proper etiquette for certain ‘masculine-only’ institutions. It’s possible you’ve learned that a proper male always sits with his legs primly wide open, so that the crotch can breathe. And that to acknowledge passed gas, the hand is raised halfway, then a little nod is given. But you probably don’t know how to do that cool double hand slap from Top Gun, during the volleyball scene, or that the proper etiquette for lovemaking entails not pulling out until she is firmly and politely impregnated.
Most challenging of all is the Men’s Restroom, such a warren of challenging etiquette that Isaac Asimov spent half of his book “Caves of Steel” on it. Here are some pointers:
1. Despite common usage, it is acceptable to glance at the next door Urinal if you have reason to believe its occupant has an unusual wang. This may be because of ethnic stereotypes, an unusual height or weight, and five ‘just becauses’ a year.
2. After urinating, many men exit without using the wash. This is unacceptable. The correct etiquette is to sprinkle the hand lightly with water, as if to fool your Mother. When shaking hands with another male, grasp firmly using the hand that has just held the penis. His own penis germs will war with your own, providing a non-violent means of establishing dominance.
3. As their inefficient bladder design makes restroom visits long, on occasion female visitors will enter the Men’s Restroom. This can be borne with fortitude so long as a tampon doesn’t appear, in which case it is appropriate to get a case of the severe ickies.4. Please, do not speak in the Men’s Restroom! Many of us are silently contemplating the heartbreaking loneliness of a masculine existence, and do not wish to be disturbed. 5. The ancient rule holds that if you ‘shake more then three times, you’re just playing with it.’ While true in the past, today’s powerful urine may require vigorous whapping to be shaken loose. Thoughts of a past lover or popular underwear model may help.
6. If your urine is red or green, please consult a physician. Unless it is Christmas, in which case you are in the Holiday Spririt.
7. Some restaurants and bars pipe soft music into their restrooms. Please remember that you are there to urinate, not to groove.
There are, of course, many other challenges to be faced, including the proper expression to exude during a prostate exam (in brief, not aroused), gracefully dying several years younger then your spouse, and what to do about that horrible floppy thing below the waist. But this should get you on the road. Godspeed!
Yrs, – Men
The guitar solo on the pop-reggae classic “No Woman No Cry (Live),” as it appears on the 1984 Polygram release “Legend: The Best of Bob Marley & the Wailers,” fades out as the track ends, sources reported Tuesday.
The solo, which follows the final chorus sung by Mr. Marley, begins three minutes and forty-four seconds into the track and continues as the four minute and four second track slowly fades out.
“Unlike guitar solos that are featured in the middle of other tracks on the album, this solo does not have a discernible conclusion,” James Riley, a compact disc and vinyl buyer at Rasputin Records, commented about the solo.
“What’s interesting is that urban legend often attributes the solo to Marley himself, but it’s in fact played by [Wailers guitarist] Al Anderson.”
Darren McFarlane, a 5th year Peace and Conflict Studies major, added, “You cannot hold the guitar solo within The Man’s arbitrary bounds of time, for Jah is in the guitar solo and cannot be held down. Jah is great.”
For three football seasons now, I’ve put up with the Slovenian-army uniforms, the hats bought on clearance from Pierre’s Styles of the French Foreign Legion Boutique, and the damned high-stepping as if the entire gridiron were an Afghan minefield on which fifty St. Bernard’s with dysentery had done their business. But this year, Cal Band, you’ve gone too far.
As much as I loathe your langurous tempos and tendency to drag, and as much as that repetitive rat-tat-tat drum beat makes me want to sodomize my neighbor with a broken Amstel Light bottle, you’ve always been able to keep my interest with the purity and power of your music.
But why, oh why, did you have to go and do what you did at the Big Game? Here was your chance to come forward and perform the show of your life in front of a packed house of 70,000 cheering fans! You could have played your balls off, bringing the audience to its feet. You could’ve played a great show! Perhaps a medley of fight songs, or famous tunes from previous years of Cal greatness, or even a trite but witty collection of the Billboard Top 40 from 1995. Instead, you disappointed us all. You disappointed your parents, your friends, and your classmates, not to mention the wide-eyed members of that inner-city youth marching band who were standing in the end zone eagerly awaiting a stunnning performance from the (albeit self-described) “pace-setter of college marching bands.” At the very least you could have left them all with a sense that there was some meaning to those ten minutes of their life that you stole. Instead they got 150 geeky college kids awkwardly hacking through an arrangement of Nelly’s oh-so-seminal hit “Hot in Herre.” For shame.
Your performance shook my sensibilities to the very core. It wasn’t that your rhythm and tempo was squarer than Conan O’Brien eating a saltine covered in mayonnaise while doing the hokey-pokey and it wasn’t the fact that you cracked more notes than a note-cracker on crack; it was the fact that you danced. You stripped. You stomped about with a skill and unison only marginally better than that of the Cal Dance team. We shouldn’t have to see two dozen white and Asian bandos attempt to do a choreographed dance charade. First, learn to march to your sets together, then try dancing.
You may argue that you had a good crowd response to your performance, and this may be true. But it was not a pure response! They were not cheering your marching or your music, they were doing what any half-witted band of Philistines will do: they cheered your implied nudity. It didn’t matter that you were still dressed in more layers of fabric than 90% of the crowd, the simple act of faux-stripping will get cheers and laughs from even the most ignorant of audiences. It was a cheap, cheap, and shameful crowd reaction.
Oh, please do not treat this as just another mindless criticism. This is a call to action for those of you who truly desire to resurrect a once proud institution! You have grown complacent and formulaic and I’m here to give you a much needed (and well-deserved) kick in the pants. Onward and upward, Cal Band! Excelsior!
And no, I would not like to join.
In a turn of events that stunned a small beach community, the Stinson Beach Downtown Association condemned shop owner Margaret Feffershim’s exterior signage, claiming it failed to comply with Article 7 of the association’s bylaws. The business under scrutiny was Mrs. Feffershim’s Downtown Antique Shop.
Said Michael Mitchell, president of the SBDA and co-owner of Pappy Mitchell’s Downtown Flamin’ Armadillo BBQ Hoe- Down, “Feffershim flagrantly violates this community’s legislation that states that ‘all businesses in District 12 must achieve an exterior visual quaintness factor of at least 14, as determined by the Stinson Beach Downtown Quaintness League.’ I’d say her shop earned a 6.8, 7 tops.”
The SBDA had been fielding numerous complaints from outraged citizens for months before confronting Feffershim about the scantness of her shop’s exterior. According to disgruntled Stinson Beach local Jean Moore, “The shop just doesn’t fit. There’s no character. Just brick. Where are the ducks pushing carraiges? Where are the cats playing cribbage? Where are the bears wearing tuxedos? That’s the kind of downhomey stuff I like to see.”
In lieu of featuring animals performing human activities, Mitchell said, the SBDQL has asked Feffershim to alter the spelling of her business to Mrs. Feffereshim’s Downetowne Anthyque Shoppe, in addition to making her sign the shape of a jaunty top hat. Continued Mitchell, “Maybe after the change she’ll fit in more with the other shops of the area, like Colonel Beauregard’s Downtown Country Georgia Plantation Venison Grill and Constable Peet’s Downtown Ammunition Surplus and Adult Novelty Gifts.”
Last week a suit was filed in federal court charging God with two charges of giving life to absolute fucking idiots. The two people in question are Gregory Rhymes and Tanya Ellington, the teenagers who recently brought a lawsuit against McDonald’s after they became obese by consuming huge quantities of fast food. The suit alleges that God, despite his divine foresight of all things to come, knowingly animated the two dipshits that would later go on to seek millions of dollars as a reward for stuffing their massive gullets with hedonistic amounts of horrible, horrible crap.
Legal charges filed against God include negligence for allowing such dangerously stupid people to cohabitate the earth with other competent individuals. These individuals, also known as “not total fucking morons”, are distinguished by their ability to comprehend that consuming large amounts of meat, salt, grease, and sugar leads to obesity. A possible adjunct charge is being mulled in the event that the two plaintiffs in the McDonald’s case ever mate, especially with each other. When reached for comment, Charles Darwin refused an interview on the basis that he was busy revising his theory of evolution to account for the benefits now received by the completely retarded. “Oh Christ, sweet fucking Christ”, he was heard to mutter.
In a related story, 17 attorneys general from different states have filed similar charges against God, claiming as evidence the Rev. Jesse Jackson, “No Blood for Oil” protestors, Teen People, and the fact that prop comic Carrot Top has yet to be hung by his scrotum from a tall, sturdy tree.
