Happily Ever Laughter

I love writing humor (loosely defined, of course), but have recently found myself on the short end of a catastrophic calendrical crunch. Much of that crunch is due to my co-editorial (again, loosely defined) duties at Brutish&Short, where, since February of this year, I have been attempting to showcase my marginally more serious side on at least a daily basis, rather than just a weekly or biweekly one. Though my fellow coeditors don’t tolerate nearly as much monkeyshine as I would like, I do manage to sneak in a live one here and there. However, between the new blog and a day job that also consists entirely of writing — indeed, which features the word “writer” in the job title — the time and energy I need to continue this vapid vanity project just aren’t there anymore.

Thus, rather than continuing to die a slow and silly walk death by pretending that I’ll be returning to my wisecracking ways any day now, I’m officially pulling the plug on this exercise in senility. And no, 48 months is not a very long time to pursue something you claim to love, but in blog-o-years, that’s an eternity, so since all bad puns must come to an end, consider this Write in the Kisser’s. But before we go, how about one last poop joke? You know, for old time’s sake.

Knock knock.
Who’s there?
Poop who?
Poo-poo comes out your butt! 

Ahhhhh, it’s good to go out at the top of your game.

Toodles, toddlers. It’s been Wreal.

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All the single ladies (and men, too, if that’s your thing)

While attempting to help a coworker think of the name for “that tree that starts with the letter ‘M’ and has all those large, twisting roots up near the surface,” I came up with a sure-fire entrepreneurial endeavor involving an adult-themed all-male revue.

Picture, if you will, a murky club filled with twisting tendrils of fog machine smoke, yards of synthetic old man’s beard draped over every nook and cranny, and a center stage reminiscent of Swamp Thing’s lair. Suddenly, the music changes, the verdigris-tinged spotlights swing toward the stage, and a group of scantily clad, faux-camouflaged male dancers ascend on a pneumatic platform as the announcer blares, Ladies and one-in-ten gentlemen, it’s the moment you’ve all been waiting for, so put away your bug spray and relax your vajayjays as our cast of grotto gods officially welcomes you to…The Man Grove!!!

I bet Trump would get behind it. (As it were.)

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Weird doesn’t begin to describe him

That’s why there’ll never be another:

So what are you waiting for: Buy his new CD! (Wait, why the hell am I schilling for him? I don’t see any of that money. Buy my t-shirts instead!)

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Oh, Dad!

My dad got an iPad for Christmas last year. Having used tablet PCs for years, he was a bit slow coming around, but it wasn’t long before he was “Sent from my iPad”ing with the best of them.

Then, about a month ago, we had the following conversation:


I wonder if you can change the tagline? (“Sent from my iPad.”) For example, Droid phones let you customize to say things like “Typos by Droid” or what have you.


I guess so.

Sent from my Droid

Since then, I have received the following farewells:

  • Sent from my iThingyi
  • iThingiDroidipodpadiphoneinot
  • Sent from my iThingy
  • Sent from my iWhat?
  • Sent from my iGoof
  • Sent from my iBurp
  • Sent from my iBleep
  • Sent from my iNot
  • Sent from my iLost

In conclusion, Oh Dad!

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A frothy mix…

So Rick Santorum is running for President.

Thank God I’ve already printed the bumper sticker!

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This man is my hero — his wife, less so

Please enjoy Pixar guru John Lasseter’s tour of his Hawaiian shirt closet.

Yes, I said Hawaiian shirt closet, because apparently, John Lasseter lives in Heaven. (Here’s hoping his wife and my soon-to-be never get to talking, however.)


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Macs in the Box

After little-to-no deliberation, my cousin Matt and I have decided to collaborate on a series of one-panel comic strips. This collaborative effort may or may not last longer than this comic below, as I intend the relationship to function as follows: I’ll provide the inspiration, Matt’ll contribute the perspiration, and we’ll split all subsequent fame, fortune, and internet groupies 50/50 (which, I believe, is how Edison would have wanted it). As long as Matt doesn’t realize that he is capable of thinking up inane punchlines on his own, I foresee a long, fruitful partnership ahead — especially since I couldn’t draw my way out of a Friendly’s place mat maze.

And now without further a doo-doo joke, the world re-premiere of Macs in the Box. This week’s episode:

When Proverbs Fail

(cross posted at Brutish&Short)

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