Oscar Caption Contest Winners

Brad won handily this week, with a caption that was about neither farting nor something being in someone's pocket. Let that be a lesson to the rest of you.

Brad, you may proudly display the coveted In Your Face award:



VE came in second with:

Spielberg: "I don't know who he is either. I thought he was one of those Coen Brothers..."

And in third was y not i, whose contribution was:

A near perfect hand: Four kings and a joker.

Congratulations to the winners. Be sure to come back Monday, when we'll have a special visit from Clay Pigeon publisher and jet-setting bigwig Rusty Gibbons.

Thanks to everybody who's been clicking on the Humor-Blogs.com links. I'm back in second place! And really, who deserves it more than me? Keep clicking!

One more thing: I'm planning another edition of What's the Difference in the near future, so if there are any similar terms or concepts that you are confused about, let me know and I'll clear everything up like I did last time.


I'd like to thank Humor-blogs.com for giving me the courage to follow my dreams.

Thursday Shout-Out

Wow, it's been a while since I've done one of these. Been busy editing magazines and whatnot.

Remember the good old days when Humor-Blogs.com was a big happy family, with me sitting on top of that family like a big friendly uncle who smelled like pipe tobacco and beef? Well, those days are over. After several days of pleading with y'all to click the Humor-Blogs.com link (Please! It'll only take a second!), I have clawed my way up to a measly fourth place in the rankings.*

One of the reasons for my fall is Kadi Prescott, who is currently lording it over me in third. What does Kadi have that I don't? Well, first of all she's like 17 times better looking than I am. Second, she's going to be a big TV star.

Yes, our very own Kadi is going to be on ABC's Supernanny.

Kadi stars as a mild mannered steel worker and exotic dancer who transforms into Supernanny when she is bitten by a radioactive Julie Andrews impersonator. In addition to being able to see 426 different shades of green, Supernanny can speak the language of boll weevils and lift a box car loaded with bouillon cubes once a week. The graphical nature of the show is such that the produces cannot legally advertise the air date, but I have it on good authority that it will be on either March 4 or 12.

Kadi is also working on a calendar of hot blogging moms or something. She has promised me a spot in the calendar if I'm willing to wear a bikini. I'm mulling this.

Anyway, check out Kadi's blog before she becomes ultrafamous.

And when you're done there, make sure you check out the Clay Pigeon humor magazine as well, in case you haven't seen this week's issue yet.

The Clay Pigeon features writing from a bunch of different bloggers, so if you enjoy it, be sure to visit some of our contributors' blogs as well:

The Gallivanting Monkey
See Mike Draw
The Frog Bog Blog
Crummy Church Signs
O Mighty Crisis
Izzle Pfaff!
Predator Press
Genuine Ideas
Armadillo Trader
The Reasonable Ego

Seriously, I know you only have so much time for blog reading, but these are some really funny writers. See for yourself.

At the very least, click on this: Humor-blogs.com. You know you want to.

*Ok, I just checked and I've officially overtaken Kadi. But for how long?

I Think My Cat May Be on Drugs

That's not an expression, like "What has gotten into that cat? It's acting like it's on drugs." I mean, it started out that way, but at this point I seriously think my cat may be abusing a controlled substance. I don't really know how to find out for sure; they don't make public service announcements for this sort of thing.

It started a few days ago, when our normally sedate cat started darting from one end of the living room to the other for no apparent reason. Then she would meow plaintively, as if she needed food or wanted to go outside, but if you followed her to where she seemed to want to go, she would just stop at some arbitrary location and look up at you quizzically, as if to say, "Where to, chief?"

"What is up with Molly?" I would say to Mrs. Diesel. "She's acting like she's on crack." We've had this stupid cat for 11 years now, and she had never acted like this. We weren't exactly worried, but it is a little disconcerting to see an animal experiencing a sudden personality shift. Although maybe that's just because in the movies, animals acting strangely is always a harbinger of something horrible. "Shut up, Duke!" yells Expendable Character #1, just before he gets eviscerated by whatever dreadful corpse-like entity Duke was trying to warn him about.

I have to admit that part of the reason I never talked to my cat about drugs is that I feared being thought of as a hypocrite. You see, everybody in my family except my daughter, Speed Pony, is on drugs. (Speed Pony doesn't need drugs because, well, she's freaking Speed Pony.) I take blood pressure medication so that I won't die of a heart attack and Prozac so that I won't die of a shotgun blast to the head (Take it easy, I'm joking*). Mrs. Diesel has rheumatoid arthritis, so she takes all kinds of drugs for that. And my son, Climber, takes Adderall(R), which is basically a stimulant, because he's a space cadet. I think that's the actual technical medical term: Space cadetism. He can't focus on a task for more than about 2.3 seconds without some kind of medication.**

So I feel a bit hypocritical lecturing my cats on drugs. And who knows, maybe it's really hard to be a cat. Maybe sometimes you just need something to get through the 3 hours of the day that you're awake. But when a cat's behavior starts affecting other people, that's when I have to put my foot down.

As I mentioned, Climber takes Adderall every morning. We usually leave his pill out for him on the kitchen counter so that he'll remember to take it. We have no way of knowing whether he has actually taken it; we just assume that if the pill is gone, he's taken it. I mean, we could ask him if he took it, but there's not much point in that sort of questioning due to the aforementioned space cadetism. So as far as we're concerned, no pill on counter = Climber has taken his pill.

Around the same time that Molly started freaking out, Climber started bringing more homework home. It seems that he was having trouble getting all of his work done at school. Still, we didn't correlate these two behavioral shifts until yesterday morning, when I caught Molly on the counter batting Climber's pill to the floor.

Once she had knocked it to the floor, she leaped down and proceeded to attempt to eat it.

I smacked her and grabbed the pill, which was now wet with cat saliva. "What the hell, Molly?" I yelled, and proceeded to rinse the pill under the faucet. (Those damn things are expensive; no need to waste one on account of a few cat cooties.) I put the pill back on the counter.

Molly immediately leaped back onto the counter and grabbed the pill with her paw. You've probably never seen a cat grab something before, but I swear that she grabbed it. The pill was still damp, so it stuck to her paw. She then lifted the paw to her mouth and tried to pop it in her mouth, like it was a Junior Mint or something.

"Molly!" I yelled again, snatching the pill from her paw. I pushed her to the floor.

By this point the capsule had pretty well deteriorated, so I pulled it open and dumped the contents into Climber's oatmeal. "Try to get that, you stupid cat!"

Now as I mentioned, Adderall is a stimulant. It's a Schedule II controlled substance, meaning that it has high potential for abuse and addiction. And of course the dosage of Climber's pill is meant for a fifty pound child, not a ten pound cat. I'm not sure what the proper dose for a cat would be. I think it would depend on how bored you were.

We have no way of knowing for sure whether Molly got into the Adderall before. All I know is that cat was acting like a freaking drug addict. I can't explain its eagerness to get Climber's pill unless she knew exactly what it was.

In any case, we're now keeping better control of our controlled substances, and Molly seems to be back to normal. I think she's coming to grips with the fact that she has a problem. Admitting you have a problem is, of course, the first step to recovery.

And I'm pretty sure that for a cat, the next eleven steps are sleeping.


*I'm really not joking.
**Please don't lecture me on the dangers of medicating my child unless you're also going to deal with the risk factors associated with not being able to finish 3rd grade.


All the cats at humor-blogs.com are on drugs.

Happy Birthday and Get Well Soon!

It's the happiest, saddest and most inappropriate day of the year! Yes, Inappropriate Card Day is finally here!



Celebrate by giving an inappropriate card to someone you recognize! Or don't!

-------------------------------------

The competition in the caption contest was fierce this week.



I finally narrowed it down to these ten:

Brad:

"Most of all, I'd like to thank our optometrists..."

Mark Jabo:

Nominated for Best Picture and, in the lesser known category of Best Mattress Police Caption... "No Country For Old Men"

ArmadilloTrader:

Out of nowhere, Diesel gets a brilliant idea for his sure-fire Oscar winning movie : "Raging Apocalypse Temple of Doom Wars"

renalfailure:

And the Oscar for Worst Combined Eyesight goes to...

kev:

Unable to fight the urge any longer, Diesel decides to give in to temptation and feast on Martin Scorsese's delicious brain.

.45:

The Hair Club for Men delighted this year in bestowing its coveted Golden Baldie award on a shocked and tearful Britney Spears.

stushie:

Surrounded by his peers, Grumpy smiled at last when he was given the Oscar for best performance in "No Country for Old Dwarves."

Tina:

In a moment Diesel would dip his head down and find out once and for all whether Academy Awards were made of chocolate, as he had always believed.

VE:

Spielberg: "I don't know who he is either. I thought he was one of those Coen Brothers..."

y not i:

A near perfect hand: Four kings and a joker.

Opinion Polls & Market Research

Cast your vote and then go check out the new humor magazine, the Clay Pigeon. And then send an inappropriate card. And click this link so that I don't keep dropping in the Humor-Blogs.com rankings.

And call your mother.

Did I mention that you should visit humor-blogs.com?

It's Inappropriate Card Day Eve!

Tomorrow is Inappropriate Card Day! I know, it really sneaks up on you, doesn't it? In case you're somehow unaware of this phenomenon that is now so popular that even when I search my own website for "Inappropriate Card," Google suggests that maybe did I mean "Inappropriate care"? I mean, come on. "Inappropriate care"? Who is searching for that? What does that even mean? "Sorry, Bill. I killed your ficus while you were on vacation. I think I may have given it inappropriate care."

Whatever. Anyway, in case you're somehow unaware of this phenomenon that is sweeping the nation like baby fish mouth*, here's the deal:

February 26 is Inappropriate Card Day. You celebrate ICD by -- surprise! -- exchanging inappropriate cards. There are no rules. Well, except for the fact that the card has to be completely inappropriate -- and not risque inappropriate; that's too easy. It has to be a card that would be perfectly appropriate for someone other than the recipient, preferably on a completely different day. For example, I just got a card in the mail from Crummy Joel which reads, in part:

Jewish life today
has its own flavor,
though it's been spooned
from the same kettle for generations.

It's inappropriate, you see, because Joel is a Nazi! No, not really, but neither one of us is Jewish, so it's suitably inappropriate.

Celebrate ICD tomorrow with someone you tolerate. If you're interested in the rich history of this non-Jewish holiday**, go here.

In other news, the second issue of the Clay Pigeon humor magazine takes flight today! Whether you're looking for news on the upcoming Build-a-Bear Apocalypse or a stirring speech in favor of numerical equality, we've got it.


Bookmark the Clay Pigeon today!

Um, yeah, so you're still here. Unfortunately, that's all I've got for you today. I didn't bother to write a real post because I figured with the ICD excitement and the Pigeon, I wouldn't need a post for today.

Listen to me, apologizing for not having a post! You know what I think? I think I've spoiled you people, making you expect a brilliant new post every Monday. Look, sometimes it's just not going to happen, okay? And anyway, I worked hard on the Clay Pigeon. Go read it. There's some really good stuff in it. And after that, go pick up some inappropriate cards while you're thinking of a caption for the caption contest.

Then go outside and play. I can't script every second of your life for you.

Oh, and be sure to come back tomorrow to vote for the best caption.


*I made a When Harry Met Sally reference! What is up with that?!
**But there's no reason Jews can't celebrate it, except for the ever-present threat of having their unique cultural identity obliterated by adopting Western customs.


Humor-blogs.com wishes you a happy Rosh Hashanah.

Caption Contest: The Oscars!

Yes, it's that time of year again, I guess. I can't stand the Academy Awards. What a load of pretentious crap. But hey, that's no reason for me not to capitalize on the popularity of the Oscars for my own purposes.



In case you're new here, that's me rubbing shoulders with Frank Coppola, Marty Scorsese and a couple other blokes. Submit your captions in the comments. I'll post the top 10 on Tuesday. And I'll be back on Monday with a brand new post -- not to mention the second brilliant issue of the Clay Pigeon.

Have a pleasant weekend.

Listed on humor-blogs.com.

Sarcasm, Harry Potter and Satanism, Oh My!

Bear with me while I conduct a little experiment.

I've noticed that the traffic on this site has taken a significant drop over the past week or so. Analyzing my stats, I see that I'm not getting nearly as many hits from Google image search any more. This isn't necessarily a bad thing; what I'm interested in is readers, not people looking for Britney Spears pics (and yes, in answer to yesterday's questions, I did actually post one picture of Britney before yesterday -- in my Britney/Paris Hilton caption contest).



Anyway, this discovery prompted me to do some experimenting with Google image search, and sure enough, I'm no longer the world's leading authority on sarcasm. If you look hard enough, you can find my sarcasm motivational poster, but on someone else's site. What's up with that?



Same thing with "Harry Potter Satanism." My "Satanism for Dummies" book cover pops up, but on someone else's site.



And the form that I tore out of the back of a Harry Potter book to request more information about Satanism is nowhere to be found (click to enlarge the picture).



(As a side note, if you really want a good laugh you should go back and read the comments that people keep leaving on my Harry Potter/Satanism post. How someone could read that post and not get that it was a joke is beyond me. It's sarcasm, people. Remember?)

Clearly these are pictures that need to be accessible to the general public, but they're nowhere to be found on Google. At first I thought maybe Google made some changes to their search algorithm (I know, you'd think I could just ask somebody at Google, right? Sadly, I don't even know what building those people work in. I think there may be a secret underground bunker somewhere). But then it occurred to me that maybe those images are just buried so far in my archives that Google is no longer indexing them.

And that's a shame, because people really need to be able to see what a Crack Whore Barbie might look like.



To test my theory, I thought I'd do a post filled with all of my most popular images. Which, in case you haven't figured that out yet, is what I'm doing right now. If I'm right, then my traffic should shoot back up again as a result of this post. By the way, if you're one of the people who, ahem, appropriated one of my images to use on your site -- don't worry, I don't mind. In fact, I love seeing my stuff on other people's sites. If you read the fine print over there on the bottom right, you'll see that you, as a blogger/webmaster/church newsletter editor/whatever, you are free to "copy, distribute and transmit" anything on this site. You can copy and paste entire blog posts if you want. All I ask is that you mention that you found it on my site.

Of course, if you want a picture of novelty testicles hanging off the back of a pickup, you'll have to ask these guys, because sadly I didn't fabricate this picture:




On the other hand, if you want a picture of something from the Scrotowear(TM) line of products, I can help you out.





I won't even bother to post my pictures of Air Force Sergeant Michelle Manhart nude except for some strategically placed body armor, or the USC song girl ass, because that's really not the kind of traffic I want.

Thanks for your patience. I'll be back with an all-new fabricated picture for the caption contest tomorrow.


Humor-blogs.com is your one stop shop for sarcasm and Satanism.

Don't You Know that You're Toxic?

So lately my neck has been killing me. I’m not sure if it’s the driving or what, but I’ve got this knot in my upper back/neck area. The really messed up thing is that when I went to bed on Friday night, it was on the left side, and when I woke up Saturday morning it was on the right. How does that happen?

I’ve been thinking about going to a chiropractor, but with my luck I’d get somebody who slept through How to Not Paralyze People class. So as a sort of compromise between incessant whining and possibly becoming a quadriplegic, I’ve been getting occasional massages.

My massage therapist, despite the fact that she shares a last name with a famous movie serial killer, is pretty good. One of the things about people in quasi-medical professions, of course, is that they are required to master the art of speaking in pseudo-scientific language. Toxins is a favorite word, generally used to explain why you feel even worse after the treatment. “You may be nauseous for next several hours, but that’s just because of the toxins being released.” (As a side note, I knew guys in college who used that line on remorseful women who woke up next to them after a party. “It’s ok, baby. That’s just the toxins you’re feeling.”)

A friend of mine recently went to get acupuncture for some wrist pain. She got really sick afterwards, but this was – of course – explained by the release of toxins that had presumably been building up in the wrist area. My friend, who had spent years building up that delicate balance of toxins, was understandably annoyed. I believe her exact words were, “Why you gotta be messin’ with my toxins?”

I don’t doubt that there is some bad shit that builds up in one’s body that can be released by these treatments. What I have a problem with is the word toxins. Toxin just means “poison.” So why don’t they just say “poison”? I’ll tell you why: because poison is such a harsh, specific word. That’s the kind of word that makes people ask questions, like “Why the f--- do I have poison in my body? Is someone trying to kill me?”

Toxins, on the other hand, is imprecise yet scientific-sounding. We’ve all come to accept a world filled with toxins – vaguely threatening chemical compounds that waft invisibly through our air, probably as a result of Hiroshima or whatever freak accident produced the Doodlebops.

Modern medicine is, of course, powerless to assist us in ridding our bodies of toxins. For that, we must seek holistic treatment and then drink some completely absurd quantity of water. I think it’s up to 800 glasses a day now. The only way to be sure that you’re completely free of toxins, in fact, is to get impaled with needles in the morning and then spend the rest of the day in the bathroom, simultaneously gulping down water and peeing out toxins. It is rumored that a man in Thailand has, by employing this method, reached the ripe old age of 247. Unfortunately he is not available for interviews.

Here’s a good rule of thumb: The next time someone uses the word toxins, replace the word in your mind with evil spirits. If it makes just as much sense, then the person doesn’t know what they are talking about. For example:

“You may feel ill for several hours after I have slathered your body with a mixture of pork fat and cat urine. This is because this age old treatment releases evil spirits which have been trapped in your joints. After the treatment, the evil spirits are free to intermingle with your bodily humors, causing an imbalance in your chi. To rid your body of the evil spirits, you must fill your pockets with salt and then spin in circles until you vomit and fall over. Also, drink lots of water.”

On the other hand, the evil spirits hypothesis still makes more sense than the idea that all illnesses are caused by “subluxations of the spine,” which is why I’m avoiding going to a chiropractor. I mean, for pete’s sake, Firefox doesn’t even recognize subluxation as a word. Shouldn’t that tell me something? I don’t want to spend the rest of my life blowing myself around in an automatic wheelchair, thinking, “Firefox tried to warn me, but did I listen? Nooooo.”

In any case, the massages seem to be helping. I had one yesterday, and I’m feeling almost back to normal. I’m just hoping that the pain doesn’t suddenly resurface in some completely different area of my body again.

Those toxins can be crafty little devils.


Humor-blogs.com never has an imbalance of humors.

Pay Attention to the Man Behind the Curtain

Occasionally as I am making my rounds through the blogosphere, I run across someone referring to me in excessively laudatory terms, e.g. "the mighty Diesel" or "Mr. Diesel President-CEO-Founder-King of Humor-Blogs." (Thanks, Lobo and Bee.)

I want you to know, first of all, that I enjoy these appellations and wish them to continue.

It is only fitting, after all, for someone who has the 25,692nd ranked blog on Technorati to be held in such esteem. I'm basically a celebrity, like Taye Diggs or Leelee Sobieski.

And this blog -- the 25,692nd most popular blog in the world -- isn't even my only website. I also run Humor-Blogs.com, which, when it isn't crashing because of some kind of database error, is a really big list of other blogs. And frankly I'm being modest, because in addition to it being a list of blogs, there is big column of arbitrarily truncated posts from those blogs, that may or may not appear in chronological order!

Yes, I am an impressive individual. And, not being satisfied with a blog that is almost in the top quarter hundred thousand blogs in the world and a blog directory that comes up first when you type its name into Google, I have now also started a MAGAZINE. Holy crap, right? I mean, how important can one guy be?!?! It's not like they hand out domains like claypigeonmag.com to just anybody with $29 burning a hole in their pocket. (BTW, in case the guy who owns claypigeon.com is reading this -- I'll go up to $104, but that's my FINAL OFFER.)

With great power, of course, comes great responsibility. Occasionally I must step down from my ruby-encrusted throne in order to arbitrate disputes among the common people, and also to make an appointment with my chiropractor, because damn those rubies are digging into my spine.

Recently, for example, a controversy broke out regarding allegations that Bee was monopolizing the top spot in the Humor-Blogs home page feed. Her posts were always showing up on top, even when newer posts would get added. The logical conclusion, of course, was that Bee is a big cheating stinky poo-poo head. Surprisingly, however, in this particular case the problem was actually with the feed aggregating code that I wrote. I know, right? This is pretty much the first time that anything has ever broken with that site. Other than, you know, the database upgrade that broke everything and the time I accidentally deleted all the users, and those data truncation errors and the formatting that isn't quite right on half the pages.

The point is that Humor-Blogs.com isn't just some site that I threw together over a few spare weekends a while back, totally as a lark, never expecting it to have more than a few dozen sites listed. I mean, it is, but it's much more than that. That's because I'm involved, and I'm a Big Deal, so no matter how shoddy the site appears, it should be taken VERY SERIOUSLY.

The rankings, for example, are basically gospel. The very best humor blog in the whole world is 15 Minute Lunch, because Humor-Blogs.com says so. Crummy Church signs is a distant second. There is of course a margin of error of +/- 4 blogs, which is why Mattress Police is oddly mired at #5.

My latest venture, the Clay Pigeon, promises to be every bit as Breathtakingly Important as Humor-Blogs.com. Already I have made $0.16 on Google ads, and that's money that can be plowed right back into the magazine, to buy larger and faster-moving electrons.

But don't worry, no matter how famous and important I get, I will always remember where I came from. I won't forget my loyal Adjutant Inspectors, although admittedly I did shuffle them off to another page somewhere because the damn blogrolling script kept breaking. I mean, come on, am I the only professional around here? (Seriously, if you have a blogroll script that isn't a pain in the ass, let me know and I'll put my blogroll back).

Ok, that's probably about as much of my wonderfulness as you can take. I'll be back tomorrow with another Extremely Important Post. In the mean time, do check out the Clay Pigeon if you haven't yet. The fate of humanity may depend on it.

The Mighty Diesel has spoken.

The Clay Pigeon has Landed!

It's here!



The Clay Pigeon is a weekly online humor magazine put together by a select few of the evil geniuses over at humor-blogs.com (including yours truly). The first issue launches today!

I've been working so hard on this damn thing over the past few weeks that I didn't even have time to write a decent post announcing it. So I pretty much stole this one word-for-word from Joel over at Crummy Church Signs, one of my co-conspirators.

What is the Clay Pigeon? Well, to truly answer that question, you had best visit the magazine itself and read the special interview with publishing magnate Rusty Gibbons.

In short, however, the Clay Pigeon is a collection of the funniest of the funny. Some older, reworked, blog posts. Some brand new pieces. Some funny things we found online by unknown authors that you really need to be reading. All approved by the CP staff and edited (yes, edited...this is a magazine, after all, and not a blog) to reach Full Humor Potential.

Make no mistake: We're gunning for the big time with this. We feel strongly that this is some of the funniest writing that you'll find out there on the internet. Yes, the whole internet. The Onion may have the market cornered on funny fake news, but that doesn't mean it has the market cornered on funny. We're here for the demographic that finds things besides fake news stories funny.

We need YOU to spread the news about CP. Email friends. Do a blog post. Put a banner on your website. Hell, put a banner on your house. Just tell people about the new voice in humor, the Clay Pigeon.

Anyhow, go visit and post a comment here or there about how hard you laughed. Then be sure to check it out each and every Monday, with new articles and interviews. Enjoy!

Caption Contest Winners

This week's winning caption came from Theresa. Theresa, you may proudly display the image with the winning caption and/or the coveted In Your Face award:



Theresa narrowly beat out renalfailure, who offered up:

The years were not kind to Short Round. Not only was his hairline receding, he completely ceased being Asian as well.

And in third was LOBO, with:

... Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet ... ?

Thanks for playing, everybody. Have a great weekend, and be sure to come back Monday for an earth-shattering announcement. Literally, the earth will shatter.



Humor-blogs.com will never cease being Asian.

What's the Difference?

I'm proud to present a new feature on Mattress Police called What's the Difference?, in which I explain the difference between two similar words or concepts. I think you'll find it fun and/or educational.

Cyborgs and androids. Here's the deal: Cyborgs resent their human makers and will eventually turn on them. It is an open question whether androids dream of electric sheep, but it is a known fact that cyborgs dream only of the eradication of the human species. And sometimes that they are running.

Bison and buffalo. Despite the fact that buffalo and bison are two completely different things, they cannot tell each other apart. This causes no end of trouble for the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, which insists on lumping them together -- flouting the clear distinction made by the always authoritative Wikipedia. The easiest way to tell these two proud animals apart is to carry a buffalo nickel with you for reference. It has a picture of a bison on it.

Pumas, cougars, panther and mountain lions. In stark contrast to the bison/buffalo, there is a definite pecking order among these biologically identical cats. Panthers -- or, as they prefer to be called, panzers -- are the aristocrats among the species puma concolor. Mountain lions are next, and the poor under-appreciated cougars at the bottom of the hierarchy are considered to be just below chimpanzees and little better than human beings.



Ophthalmologists and optometrists. Many people think that it takes more schooling to be an ophthalmologist than to be an optometrist. This incorrect belief probably arose from the fact that it takes the average person roughly six weeks to learn to spell ophthalmologist. In fact, however, the relationship between optometrists and ophthalmologists is analogous to the relationship between scientists and Scientologists: Optometrists scoff at ophthalmologists while secretly envying their dark magic and sports cars.

Scientists and Scientologists. Generally speaking, you shouldn't trust anyone who feels the need to add an "olog" to their title. For example, a psychiatrist can actually help you with your problems, whereas a psychologist can only write your problems down in a notebook until they have enough material for a screenplay. Similarly, it is foolish to rely on astrology when the magic of astronomers has been proven to be at least three times stronger.

The best example of this principle is the distinction between scientists and Scientologists. Scientists believe in the furthering of human knowledge through the observation of mice running through mazes. Scientologists believe in the furthering of Scientology through the observation of Tom Cruise jumping on couches.

Ships and boats. The oft-heard rule of thumb to distinguish ships and boats is that "you can put a boat on a ship, but you can't put a ship on a boat." This is a fine rule in theory, but unless you have a pretty good idea which is which beforehand, employing this test will result in a badly damaged boat much of the time. Moreover, even if you manage to get one vessel on top of the other, there are still three possibilities: boat on ship, boat on boat, and ship on ship. All you've really established is that if only one of the vessels is a ship, it's not the one on top.

Your best bet is to avoid situations where you may be expected to know the difference. This is easier said than done, especially if you are the valet at the Puget Sound Ship and Boat Club and Captain Hazelwood has just asked you to pull his ship around.

In this case, I recommend employing a handy trick that has been used since the time of the Vikings: Always carry a small plastic ship in your pocket. That way you can argue that any vessel you are on must be a ship, because how could it be a boat if you put a ship on it? And if that fails to mollify Captain Hazelwood, you can give him the little toy ship. Everybody loves little toy ships.

Its/It's. This one has plagued mankind since about the 3rd grade. Just remember that it's is a contraction of it is, and like all contractions it has an apostrophe. Another good rule of thumb regarding contractions is that if they're closer than three minutes apart, you should get to the hospital.

Its, on the other hand, is possessive. Very possessive. Just try borrowing a copy of Catcher in the Rye from its sometime, and you'll see what I mean. Linguistic psychologists think that its' possessiveness stems from the fact that it has always felt that it's' apostrophe rightfully belonged to it. "'Its' isn't fair," is its' plaintive cry in its its/it's debate with its rival it's, but "its" is its fate.

Tories and Whigs. There is a simple mnemonic device to tell these two historically important political parties apart: For the Tories, think of Tori Spelling, who was the daughter of Aaron Spelling, the creator of Fantasy Island. Fantasy Island starred Ricardo Montalban, who went on to play Khan in Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan. Khan was the captain of the S.S. Botany Bay. Botany Bay is in Australia, which was originally a British Penal Colony. England is part of Great Britain. Therefore, the Tories have something to do with England.

For the Whigs, you should also think of Tori Spelling, but wearing a wig.



Humor-blogs.com refuses to discriminate amongst the great cats.

Vote!

Sorry, folks, it's been a crazy day so I'm a little late getting this posted. Here are this week's top ten captions. I'll post the winner on Friday.

Brad said...

After fulfilling young Diesel's odd request, Harrison Ford immediately quit the Make-A-Wish Foundation.


Howard said...

Diesel: "AAAAAAAHHH! Oh, sorry, Indy. I thought you were a mummy. Jesus, you're old now."


Bunk said...

"Sorry about that one, guys. I held it in as long as I could."


LOBO said...

Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet ... ?


Barry said...

Indiana: So Diesel, You remembered to pack the lube?


Theresa said...

Indy: Come on Marion, we've got to get him to the bank before rigor mortis sets in, otherwise they'll never let us cash his check.


.45 said...

If I can just get in there one more time, I think I can reach the gerbil.


renalfailure said...

The years were not kind to Short Round. Not only was his hairline receding, he completely ceased being Asian as well.


stushie said...

Indy: You know that stuff that kills 99.9% of germs?
Diesel: Yeah.
Indy: This gets rid of the other 0.01%


ArmadilloTrader said...

"Don't shoot! Don't shoot! I've been sent here from the future. Harrison, do NOT make any movies with Anne Heche. And Karen...well, it's pretty much down hill for you after this one."

Opinion Polls & Market Research

14 Shopping Days Till Inappropriate Card Day!

Every year somebody asks me what I'm getting Mrs. Diesel for Valentine's Day.

My answer is that Mrs. Diesel and I don't celebrate Valentine's Day.

This statement is greeted with predictable disbelief. "But you have to get her something."

"No, I don't. She told me not to get her anything."

Then comes the inevitable tsk-tsking (and let's say it altogether now): "She says she doesn't want you to get her anything, but you know she really wants something." This is followed by a dissertation on what a Foolish, Naive Husband I am for not reading between the lines of "Seriously. Don't get me anything. It's a stupid holiday. Don't get me anything. Really."

So here's the deal: While I appreciate your presumption that you have a better understanding of my 15 year relationship with my wife than I do, the fact is that Mrs. Diesel is neither a materialistic whore who trades affection for candy and flowers, nor a sub-lingual beast who is incapable of communicating her feelings in anything other than barely comprehensible grunts.

I have joked about the differing modes of communication employed by men and women, but the fact is that Mrs. Diesel and I are in perfect agreement on this issue. Valentine's day is a stupid, fabricated holiday. One year I actually had her write me a note that I could show to all the women in the office: "I told Diesel not to get me anything for Valentine's Day because I think it's a stupid holiday."

I mean, let me get this straight: This is a special day to celebrate our love for each other -- a love so unique and enduring that it can only be expressed by the delivery of shiny trinkets and dead flowers at the prodding of greedy retailers. Got it.

(In the interest of full disclosure, I was planning on giving Mrs. Diesel a gift of sorts this year, but it didn't work out. I've been working on my impression of Eddie Vedder singing "Do You Believe in Love?", and I was planning on recording it and leaving it on Mrs. Diesel's voicemail, but despite singing myself hoarse on the way to work I still haven't nailed the chorus.)

And yes, I feel pretty much the same way about Christmas. Unfortunately, the Christmas machine is too all-encompassing for Mrs. Diesel and me to do much about it. But Valentine's Day? That's just for us, baby. It's all about expressing our love for each other in the face of an uncaring, materialistic world. And we've decided to express our love for each other by giving a hearty f--- you to the Valentine's Day machine.

Mrs. Diesel and I have even created our own holiday. It's called Inappropriate Card Day, and it's on February 26. We've been celebrating it every year since 1992, and last year we went public with it. The full story is here. This is an abbreviated version:

------------------------

Our first date was the week before Valentine's Day. This put me in an awkward position. I had been trying to ingratiate myself with this girl for a couple weeks now, and I wasn't entirely sure that she wasn't just humoring me. I wanted to do something for Valentine's Day that indicated I liked her without scaring her off.

I honestly don't remember what I ended up doing. I may have just called her, or gotten her some lame-ass card. But I remember feeling cheated by circumstances. I was in love with her, and I felt constrained not to demonstrate it on the one day that I should have been able to go crazy. Not that I'm a big fan of Valentine's Day; as a rule I don't like having my behavior dictated by the Hallmark corporation. But I would have made an exception for her, if I didn't think that I'd have scared the bejesus out of her.

My solution was to say, essentially, "Screw Valentine's Day. Screw Hallmark. And screw American Greetings too, while we're at it." I made up my own holiday.

On February 26, I slipped a card under my future wife's door. It was a "Happy Birthday Grandson" card. I wrote "Happy Inappropriate Card Day!" on the inside. And a new tradition was born.

Every year, my wife and I exchange inappropriate cards. One year she got me a sympathy card. One year it was a little kid's birthday card, with Bambi on the front. The caption was, "Kinda wobbly, aren't you?" I think last year I got her a card that said "Happy Father's Day from both of us." My best effort was the time I stopped at a gas station on the way home from work and got her a postcard with the windmills from Altamont Pass on it. "Wish you were here," I wrote.

You can give an inappropriate card to anyone. There are no rules. Well, except for the fact that the card has to be completely inappropriate -- and not risque inappropriate; that's too easy. It has to be a card that would be perfectly appropriate for someone other than the recipient, preferably on a completely different day.

-----------------------

So that's the story. Inappropriate Card Day is just as arbitrary as Valentine's Day, but the great thing about it is that it's the one holiday that the greeting card companies can't make a card for. You can just use a card from your reject pile, or grab one from the bargain bin. Hell, you can use the Ace of Spades for all I care.

Inappropriate Card Day is February 26. Celebrate it with someone you love.


At humor-blogs.com, it's Inappropriate Card Day every day.

Caption Contest: Indiana Jones

You know the rules. Submit your caption in the comments. I'll post the best ones in a poll on Tuesday. Have a swell weekend!

It drops on 2/18.

Listed on humor-blogs.com.

Terminator vs. Highlander: The Sarah Connor McLeod Chronicles

Sarah Connor McLeod, proud Highlander woman, is tending her sheep in the Scottish Highlands, when a hulking stranger wearing a kilt approaches.

Terminator: Are you Sarah Connor McLeod?
Sarah: I am. Sarah Connor McLeod of the Clan McCleod. And who might you be, stranger?
Terminator: I am a cyborg sent from the future to kill you. I was reprogrammed by a resistance fighter and sent here to prevent a terrible catastrophe.
Sarah: Kill me? But why? I'm just a poor Scottish peasant type person, living in the Scottish Highlands.
Terminator: You will give birth to a son who will be named Connor McLeod. He will be immortal, as long as nobody chops his head off.
Sarah: Well, that doesn't sound like a bad thing.
Terminator: Yes, but in the 20th century he will father a daughter, who will be called Sarah Connor. And she, in turn, will give birth to John Connor, who is destined to be the leader of the resistance. He will lead humanity to victory against a race of intelligent machines who are trying to eradicate mankind.
Sarah: John Connor? That's odd. My husband's name is John Connor.
Terminator: It was long believed that John Connor died fighting the cyborgs, but we have learned that he dreaded the thought of living a life without purpose after the war was over, so he fled to a more exciting time, long before the cyborgs were ever created.
Sarah: Wait, are you saying...?
Terminator: Ma'am, your husband is not really a cod merchant from Cork. He is John Connor, the leader of the resistance, who was born in the year 1985.
Sarah: No! But that means....
Terminator: That's right, John is his own great-grandfather. We believe that is how this whole immortality thing started. Something about endless recursion in the gene pool.
Sarah: My lands, that's terrible! Now that you mention it, though, it does explain some things. But wait, you still haven't told me why you need to kill me. Sure, John going back in time and marrying his great-grandmother is a little kinky, but....
Terminator: We believe that what he did caused a rift in the space time continuum. All kinds of horrible, unexplainable things are going to start happening.
Sarah: You mean like Egyptians with Spanish names and Scottish accents?
Terminator: Exactly! History itself has become unglued. When you start mucking around with chronological recursion, the principle of cause and effect breaks down. Literally anything could happen, in any order, for no particular reason. Connor could be inexplicably replaced by a younger, better looking cousin, for example. Aliens could start arriving from other planets, trying to kill him.
Sarah: ...Mario Van Peebles could show up, playing a completely unconvincing villain.
Terminator: See, it's happening already. Mario Van Peebles won't be born for 400 years! You shouldn't even know who he is!
Sarah: Remember his breakout performance in Heartbreak Ridge, when everyone was saying what a big deal he was going to be?
Terminator: Stop it! You're only making things worse. I have to kill you so that none of this will ever have happened.
Sarah: Why didn't you just sneak up behind me and kill me? Why did you have to tell me all of this?
Terminator: In my short time here in the Scottish Highlands, I have learned what it means to be human. I am no longer a soulless machine.
Sarah: It's the kilt. Put a kilt on a guy and suddenly he thinks he's no longer a soulless machine. Hark! I think that's my husband on yonder ridge!
Terminator: You think?
Sarah: It's hard to tell sometimes. He can look like at least four different people.

While they watch the man with oddly indeterminate features approach, suddenly another man, slightly less bulky than the Terminator, but also built like a bodybuilder, shimmers into existence before their eyes.

Sarah: Is that...?
Terminator: It's Jean Claude Van Damme. Cheap knockoff of the T100 series. They make 'em in Taiwan.
Van Damme: Hello, folks. I'm agent Max Walker of the Timecop division. I was sent here to investigate a disturbance in the space-time continuum.
Terminator: Everything is under control here, officer.
Sarah: What's with the accent? Is everybody in the future from France or something?
Van Damme: France! I'm from Belgium! You never heard of the "Muscles from Brussels"?
Sarah: Why do you have a Dutch name and a French accent? Who do you think you are, Mario Van Peebles?
Terminator: Belgium is a product of the rift in the space-time continuum. Belgians are a little indecisive as a result.
Sarah: You mean the Belgians waffle?
Terminator: Ha! Good one, Sarah.
Van Damme: You're one to talk, Terminator. Explain to me why you're the only terminator model to sport an Austrian accent again?
Terminator: The terminators were designed to be able to infiltrate groups of humans undetected, but the early models weren't very effective. So they gave us Austrian accents. That way, if we did something really weird, people would just say, "Oh, don't mind Karl. He's Austrian."
Sarah: Good thinking.
Terminator: I've been programmed to kill Sarah Connor McLeod, thereby preventing the rift in the space-time continuum from ever having happened. That should take care of your disturbance, officer.
Van Damme: But if you prevent the rift, then Belgium will cease to exist! I'll never become a movie star!
Terminator: Yes, and it should also prevent any number of other inexplicable events.

John Connor walks up.

John: What's going on here? That's my wife you're getting friendly with.
Terminator: Not to mention your nana.
John: You! So you've come back in time once again to finish me off.
Terminator: Not you. Your wife. And your nana.
John: Who sent you here?
Terminator: You did, John. When the future you realizes the sort of havoc you caused by having sex with your great-grandmother, you sent me back in time to kill her before you give birth to your father, thus preventing yourself from ever being born!
Sarah: But if he's never born, then he can't send you back here to kill me either.
Terminator: True.
Sarah: So by killing me, you're saving my life.
Terminator: I suppose so.
Sarah: Ok, I guess I'm alright with that. As long as I never have to sit through Universal Soldier again.
Terminator: Not a problem. The "Muscles from Brussels" will never have existed.
Van Damme: I don't feel so good.
Terminator: Oh, and this will take care of Dolph Lundgren too.
Sarah: Hmmm. I have to admit, it's tempting.

Suddenly yet another figure shimmers into existence. It is a strange looking humanoid creature, with a long face, eyes on short stalks, and flap-like ears that reach almost to its knees.

Creature: Meesuh Jar Jar Binks!
Sarah: Oh, for f---'s sake. Just kill me already.




Humor-blogs.com is yet another result of the rift in the space-time continuum.

Sock Drawer

Sometimes I wonder if Hugh Jackman is an alien sent to earth from outer space to spy on humanity. The aliens wanted to give him a totally average sounding name that wouldn't stand out, so they came up with "Jack Human," but then there was a mix-up with the paperwork.

I think broccoli is a freak of evolution. There are two evolutionary paths for plants to go down: Either they taste bad so people (and most animals) don't eat them, or they taste good so that animals will eat them but discard the seeds and more plants grow. Either way the plant wins. But there are a few plants, like broccoli, that couldn't decide which path to take. So they're edible, but just barely. Way to pick the "chock-full-of-vitamins-but-tastes-like-crap package," you stupid vegetable. Oh, and you can drop the act. Nobody really believes you're a tree.

If Cop Rock was in the dictionary, it would be right above coprophilia.

When fog is really thick, people always compare it to pea soup. But when pea soup is really thin, nobody says, "Wow, it's like eating fog."

My mom used to say, "Remember, when you point at someone, there is one finger pointing at you and three fingers pointing back at yourself. Which is why I always point with all of my fingers.

The next time I hear somebody complain about how windy it is, I'm going to say, "Yeah, but on the other hand, we could really use the air."

If I've learned anything from watching movies, it's that nothing good ever happens at the old mill. How many kidnappings and other evil plots have to go down before people get up the nerve to just burn that place down?

I'm concerned about how those bluetooth earpieces for cell phones are affecting the fabric of our society. It's getting harder and harder to tell schizophrenics from assholes.

Never believe a label that says "self-cleaning." Unless it's on a cat.

I want to start smoking, but I'm having trouble getting into the habit. Will nicotine patches help with that?

I don't understand the system we use for deciding what foreigners are supposed to be called. Why do we have Australians, Italians and Brazilians, but not Japanians or Mexiconians? And if Australians are from Australia, why aren't Canadians from Canadia? People from Canada should be called Canadanians. And why aren't people from Germany called Germaniums? I mean, I know it doesn't make any sense, but it would be funny, and I think the Germaniums owe us that much.


Humor-blogs.com is a schizophrenic asshole.