Hey, It's a Nickel!

Hey, it’s a nickel!

Funny how excited I get about finding a nickel on the ground. What am I going to buy with a nickel? A gumball? I’ll just leave it for some ten-year-old kid to pick up. Someone who will appreciate it.

Nickels are hardly even worth picking up any more. A nickel! What a joke. A cup of coffee is three bucks these days. That’s, geez, sixty nickels. Can you imagine handing the cashier – sorry, barista – at Starbucks sixty nickels? I’m sure he’d take them, but as soon as you pulled away from the drive-through he’d be all, “Hey, Kyle, can you believe Mr. Jingly-Pants, giving me sixty nickels? Next time go to 7-11 and get some Twizzlers too, Jingly-Pants. Maybe catch up on Bazooka Joe while you’re at it. Freaking loser.”

Why am I obsessing about this? I’m sure the kids at Starbucks have better things to talk about. Besides, last time I ordered a venti caramel frappuccino and paid for it with my gold card. I bet they don’t have gold cards. Stupid college kids don’t know anything.

I should just pick up the nickel. I’ve been standing here now for like a minute and a half. People probably think I’m lost or retarded or something. Just pick up the damn nickel already!

Forget it. What’s the point? Five cents. Five cents. I’m standing here obsessing over five cents. Didn’t I read somewhere recently that it costs six cents to make a nickel? How dumb is that? And nickels aren’t even made of nickel. They’re made of, like, bronze or something. That doesn’t sound right. Stupid lying piece of shit worthless coin. I should pick you up and melt you down and sell you for scrap.

Yeah, that’s it. I’ll become a bronze merchant, picking up nickels and melting them down in my basement. Where would you even sell scrap metal? I’d need, like, a fence or something. God, I’m an idiot.

Ok, let’s start over. Figure that it takes five seconds to bend over, pick up the nickel, and put it in your pocket. That’s a penny a second. That’s… sixty cents a minute. And, um, three hundred, no, three thousand six hundred cents an hour. That’s, uh, thirty six dollars an hour. Wow, that’s not bad. You could make decent money picking up nickels. That would be a nice little side income.

Not that I’m looking for more hours at this point. I’m already putting in a good fifty hours a week at the office. Another job would really make it hard to maintain my social life. On the other hand, it would be nice to have the money to take a girl out to someplace nicer than the Cracker Barrel.

Alright, so here’s the deal: I’m not going to go looking for nickels, but if I happen to run across one, I’ll pick it up. That will be like my official policy, so next time I won’t have to think about it. So sure, I’ve lost about three minutes thinking about whether I should pick up this nickel, but I think it’s worthwhile to invest some time up front if it results in a solid policy like that. Next time I’ll be like, “Hey, it’s a nickel!” And my official nickel-picking-up policy will kick in. After a while it will be like second nature. I may get so good at it that I can shave off a second or two, substantially increasing my profitability.

Ok, here goes nothing. Ready, set…

Hey, that’s not a nickel. It’s just a disc-shaped piece of metal. Geez, this is demoralizing.

I wonder how much something like that is worth.




If a nickel sounds too good to you to pass up, make sure you check out the Clay Pigeon's Looming Recession Issue. And be sure to drop a dime on Humor-Blogs.com.

Happy Mother's Day!

Since I don't normally post on Sundays, I'm doing my Mother's Day post today. I've also updated Central Booking with my thoughts on Godel, Escher, Bach.

A couple quick reminders first:

• Today is the last day to vote in the caption contest. I will post the results tomorrow! Who will win the coveted autographed picture of me and Cary Grant?
• Also, it's not too late to beg my wife to do a guest post. Please? She hasn't seen the post yet, so it would be hella cool to get up to 100 comments by tonight. I'm hoping that affirmation from dozens of strangers will make up for the fact that I posted a picture of her without her consent. Post your comment here. Thanks!

And now, a joke that I came up with while riding around on the tractor, and two limericks I wrote for Mad Kane's Mother's Day Limerick Contest. Enjoy!

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

Jethro and his wife Enid are home watching TV one night when Enid unexpectedly goes into labor. Jethro grabs his car keys and helps Enid to the door. As they get to the door, Enid howls in pain.

Jethro says, "Come on, Enid. We gots to git you to the hospital."
"Ah cain't," says Enid, and sits back down on the couch. When the labor pains subside, Jethro helps her up again and they walk to the door. But once again, just when they get to the door, Enid screams. "Jethro, ah cain't!"

Jethro calls 911. "What is your emergency?" says the dispatcher.

"Mah wife is havin' a baby," Jethro says. "We's tryin' to get to the hospital, but ah can't git her to the car."

"Ok, don't panic," says the dispatcher. "How far apart are the contractions?"

Just then Enid screams again.

"They's real close together," says Jethro.

"Alright," says the dispatcher. "I can send an ambulance, but it might take a few minutes. Your best bet is to try to get her in the car and take her to the hospital yourself."

"Ok," says Jethro. "Enid, the man says you need to git in the car and --"

"Jethro, ah cain't!" sobs Enid.

"Ok," says the dispatcher, hearing her distress. "I'll send an ambulance."

"Thank you," says Jethro. "What should we do till then?"

"Just try to keep her comfortable. Tell her to take deep breaths and stay calm. You want to try to slow down those contractions if you can."

"Ok," says Jethro. He turns to his wife. "Enid, the man says you gots to slow down your contractions."

Enid nods, tears streaking down her cheeks. She takes a deep breath and says, as slowly as she can, "Jethro, ah caaaaaaiiiiiiinnnnn't."

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

Me mum didn’t raise any dummy
but after 5,000 years in her tummy
it felt less like a womb
and more like a tomb
but she’s still the world’s greatest mummy!

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

There once was a man like no other
who had an ape for a surrogate mother
He loved to fling poo
and when asked, "Was that you?"
He'd say, "No, ma, that was my brother."

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

I'm sure my mother is particularly proud today. Happy Mother's Day!


Humor-blogs.com is the mother of all humor blog sites.

Mixed Fruits and Metaphors

EXT. GARDEN OF EDEN. DAY.

Adam is busily scribbling on a piece of paper with a pencil when God quietly walks up beside him.

God: Hey Adam, what's up?
Adam: Oh, uh... hey, there, God. I was just, you know, coming up with some more animal names.
God: I thought you named all the animals already.
Adam: The Mediterranean animals, yeah. But I figure that you've got a lot of animals in other climates that still need names.
God: What's a 'polar bear'?
Adam: Geez, I don't know. A bear that like poles? You don't have to use it if you don't want.
God: No, no, it's a good name. I'll come up with something. Ooh, I like this one. Kangaroo. Sounds like something you could put in your pocket. Speaking of which, I noticed you're wearing trousers stitched together from leaves.
Adam: Oh, that. Yeah, I was feeling a little self-conscious with all my, you know, parts hanging out.
God: Did you eat from that tree I told you not to eat from?
Adam: Ummmm... Actually that was the woman.
God: The woman? You mean Eve?
Adam: No, the other woman. Of course Eve.
God: Don't get smart with me, mister. You've got a lot more ribs.
Adam: Ok, sorry. Anyway, Eve said the snake told her it was ok...."
God: The snake? Eve is listening to snakes now?
Adam: She goes a little crazy for a few days around this time of the month.
God: Man, I knew talking animals were a mistake.
Adam: You mean the animals really can talk? I thought Eve had gotten into the happy mushrooms again.
God: That's it, no more talking animals. Also, the snake is going to have to crawl around on its belly from now on.
Adam: As opposed to...?
God: Well, walking on its legs, of course.
Adam: Snakes don't have legs.
God: Of course they do. Four stubby little legs.
Adam: You're thinking of a lizard.
God: No, I'm pretty sure it's a snake.
Adam: No, the ones with legs are called lizards. Remember, you wanted to call them all "snakes" but I said that I thought we needed a different name for the ones with legs. So I came up with "lizards."
God: Oh yeah. It's too bad in a way.
Adam: What?
God: I was really looking forward to pulling its legs off.
Adam: Maybe just remove the wings?
God: Yeah, that'll learn it. No more winged snakes. Oh, and one more thing: I have to kick you out of the garden.
Adam: Oh. Because of the fruit thing?
God: Yeah. Rules are rules.
Adam: Ok. It was getting kind of dull in here anyway. What's it like out there?
God: To be honest, most of it is kind of crummy compared to this.
Adam: What? Why? Didn't you create everything perfect?
God: Inside the garden, yes. Outside... not so much. And now that you've sinned, you have to go out there.
Adam: Wait a minute. You deliberately created a shitty world all around this garden so that just in case we screwed up you'd have a place to exile us to? Nice.
God: No, it didn't get screwed up until you ate the fruit.
Adam: Wha...? I took one little bite of a piece of fruit and a I screwed up the entire world? This doesn't make any sense. Things look fine to me.
God: Inside the garden, yes. But not out there.
Adam: But shouldn't the garden be the place that got screwed up? Does the screw-up radiation just skip right over the garden?
God: Er, no, the garden will start to go to pot pretty quick too.
Adam: So why can't we just stay here?
God: Well, there's also the matter of the Tree of Life.
Adam: Tree of Life? So there are two magic trees in the garden? I thought there was only the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Not So Good.
God: Evil. It's called evil. You can stop pretending that you don't know what it's called.
Adam: Evil, huh? It's got sort of a wicked sound to it.
God: Yeah, anyway, there's also the Tree of Life. It's the one on the other side of the tool shed.
Adam: Really? I thought that was an apricot tree.
God: No, it's the Tree of Life. And I can't have you eating from it, because then you'll live forever. Which sounds like a good thing, but now that you've been corrupted you're going to have to die.
Adam: But I've already eaten some of that fruit.
God: Yeah, but not after you ate the fruit of the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. Eating from the TOKOGE counteracts the effects of the Tree of Life. But if you eat from the Tree of Life after eating from the TOKOGE, you'll be evil and live forever.
Adam: What kind of twisted mind comes up with this stuff? Are there any other magic trees I should know about? Maybe one that'll make me shit diamonds?
God: Look, don't make this any more difficult than it has to be. Ok, here comes Eve. When she gets here, tell her you want to go for a walk and head down that path to the gate. The angel with the fiery sword will see you out.
Adam: "See us out"?
God: He's going to guard the gate to the garden so you don't get any ideas about coming back for your couch or anything.
Adam: Is there going to be a wall around the garden?
God: Of course.
Adam: Is anybody going to be going in or out after we leave?
God: No.
Adam: Then why do you need a gate?
God: Ok, enough questions. Mysterious ways and all that. Just leave quietly, ok? Don't make a scene.
Adam: This sucks.
God: Hey, I told you not to eat the fruit.
Adam: Here's an idea: Next time, build the wall around the Forbidden Tree. I mean, what the hell is up with the cobblestone path and park benches?
God: I thought it made a nice sitting area.
Adam: Well it would have if the Fruit of Evil wasn't hanging over our heads!
God: Ok, here's the deal. I'm going to tell you something that might freak you out a little, but hopefully things will start to make a little more sense to you.
Adam: Um, ok.
God: A lot of times when I say an "angel" is going to be doing this or that, it's not literally an angel. Sometimes the phrase "the angel of the Lord" just means me. But primitive minds have a hard time comprehending someone doing so many things in so many different places at once.
Adam: So... you're not really sending an angel to guard the garden?
God: It depends what you mean by "really." Maybe you should come up with another word for when we're going to use concrete terms to refer to abstractions like good and evil and sin and heaven and grace and perfection.
Adam: Hmmm. How about "metaphorical?"
God: Excellent!
Adam: So you'll be putting a metaphorical angel in front of the gate?
God: The metaphorical gate, yes.
Adam: Are the trees metaphorical?
God: It kind of sounds like it, doesn't it? If they weren't, this whole garden scene wouldn't make a lot of sense.
Adam: So maybe the entire garden is....
God: Yes, yes. Now you're starting to see why I thought this would freak you out. Just keep in mind that none of this is any less "real" just because it's metaphorical. You just have to remember not to push the metaphor too far, or the whole thing starts to sound absurd.
Adam: So Eve and I....
Eve: Hey guys, what's the deal with the angel at the gate?
God: He's here to escort you out of the garden.
Eve: He's what?!
God: Adam will explain everything.



I forbid you to eat the fruit of humor-blogs.com.

Imagine My Surprise

I've always been a shy, introspective sort. I had a hard time making friends as a kid, so I resorted to devising imaginary friends. Fortunately, I was quite imaginative and was able to construct entirely believable fictional characters with whom to while away recesses.

My best friend was Toby. Toby was everything you might want in a friend: generous, helpful, and just a fun guy to be around in general. He was athletic but he didn't rub your face in it, and he was a good student but not a brown noser. He was smart enough to stay out of trouble but mischievous enough to engage in the occasional prank. He was, as far as I could imagine, the best possible friend.

Things were going well with me and Toby. Too well, in fact.

As I mentioned, I was an introspective and creative child. I was the kind of kid who could never just let things be. I drove my teachers insane with my incessant questions. I was always asking "why?"

It was not surprising, then, that I soon started to wonder why Toby was hanging around with me. Surely a kid like Toby had his pick of friends. Why me? I was unathletic, shy, unpopular and frankly a little odd. What did Toby see in me?

Soon flaws began to appear in Toby's character. I came to suspect that he spent time with me primarily out of some sense of obligation. This became clear to me over dinner one night at Toby's house. Toby's family was very wealthy, occupying a vast hidden mansion in the woods behind my family's modest ranch house. I often went over there for dinner, because his mom made fantastic lasagna and they had a trampoline.

Toby's dad was a minister and was always talking about helping "the less fortunate." He let something slip that night that about how proud he was of Toby for "doing his part." He quickly changed the subject, but it was clear that he was talking about me. I was "the less fortunate." Not because I was poor or handicapped or something, but because I was me.

After that, things were different between me and Toby. The spell had been broken. Toby started hanging out with the more popular kids. He played basketball with them during recess. He would always ask me if I wanted to play, but he knew I would say no. I'd rather be alone than embarrass myself on the basketball court.

Then Toby got a girlfriend. Her name was Angela, and she was the most popular girl in school. They were too young to date, per se, but they spent as much time they could together. Toby was alway mysteriously "out" when I called. Eventually I stopped calling.

Toby got Angela pregnant during freshman year of high school. They moved to Alaska, where Toby's uncle got him a job gutting fish. I heard that Angela divorced him eight months after the baby was born. She and their daughter moved in with her parents in Michigan.

Toby called me three weeks ago. He said he was in Sacramento, and asked if I wanted to meet him. I drove up there and met him at Denny's. He had a beer gut and was losing his hair. He said he was working odd jobs, trying to get up enough money to start a landscaping business, but it was hard because his rent was so high. It turned out he had been living at a Motel 6 for three months.

I told him I had a finished room in my barn he could stay in if he wanted to. I had been thinking of putting in a bathroom, and asked if he wanted to help out with the project in exchange for room and board. He protested that he couldn't possibly impose on me, but not very convincingly. We swung by the motel, picked up his meager belongings, and headed back to Ripon.

Toby lives in my barn. He's a loser now, like me.



At least you'll never be lonely at humor-blogs.com.

The Adventures of Crash McFarlane in the Blogosphere

Crash McFarlane hopped into his iPod, desperate to reach the blogosphere before dark.

The iPod sputtered to life, creaking and shuddering as it soared above the docking station. McFarlane prayed that the batteries would last. If they gave out before he reached the outer blog ring, he’d be stranded in Bluetooth territory when the sporks came out.

Once clear of the ebonic barrier, Crash set the iPod to shuffle to conserve energy. He sailed above the playstation, absently watching the kleenex bots meticulously detoxing the muffin-toppers and zine phishers. He wondered if he would ever come this way again.

The bloggers had made it very clear that they wouldn’t hesitate to TiVo his beloved Wiki if he didn’t return with the emoticon before dusk. He reflected on the irony of the situation: he knew that the power to defeat the bloggers lay within the emoticon itself, but only Google knew how to use it, and only the bloggers knew how to reach the old man. There was no other solution: he would have to turn the emoticon over to them, giving them the power to floam the entire city.

He wished there was some other way, but he couldn’t bear to allow Wiki to be TiVo’d. If the bloggers had given him the choice, he’d have gladly allowed himself to be TiVo’d in Wiki’s place. But they would not be so merciful. If he failed to deliver the emoticon, he would have to live with the fact that he had allowed the Wi-Fi energy of the TiVo device to turn Wiki into a mindless spork. So here he was, doing the bidding of the blogosphere, feeling like a complete palm pilot.

Eventually Crash nodded off, exhausted from hours of web hacking to retrieve the emoticon from the Wintel spamcops. He awoke to the sound of the gentle bling-bling alerting him that the iPod was nearing the Youtube. The tube would take him to the outer blogosphere, where the blogrollers were constantly shoring up the blog ring to protect the blogosphere from spork attacks.

Crash checked the battery levels. Two percent. Just enough to get him to the Youtube gateway. From there, the Youtube would propel the iPod to the blogosphere.

Suddenly the gaydar sounded. The neocon showed two spamcops approaching rapidly from behind.

Crash took the iPod out of safe mode and hit the accelerator. The Wii engines roared to life and the iPod rocketed toward the Youtube gateway. Crash could practically see the battery levels dropping. He wasn’t going to make it.

The gaydar blinged again: The spamcops had launched a volley of Gnutella logic bombs.

Crash looked down, scanning the netscape for a place to ditch the iPod. He spotted a small patch of blue. No, he thought. It can't be. Can it?

As the blue patch grew larger, there could no longer be any doubt. It was a long shot, but it was his only chance.

He jammed the joystick forward and the iPod hurtled downward, toward the Blue Screen of Death.


TO BE CONTINUED...


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How the Almond Farmer Saved Christmas

During the 2005-06 crop year, more than $1.3 million worth of almonds were stolen from growers and shippers in the San Joaquin Valley. Truckload after truckload, thieves allegedly trespassed onto properties, cut fences and broke locks to get to the valuable nuts. Sheriff's deputies say thieves hot-wired several tractor-trailers around the Central Valley and were able to flee with almonds that were awaiting shipment overseas.

California almond growers in 2004-05 produced $2.2 billion worth of almonds.

Source: California Farm Bureau Federation

The Thule fog whipped around Santa's sleigh, obscuring his vision of the ground below. "On Donner! On Blitzen! We're going to be late!" Not for the first time he cursed himself for letting Rudolph go. The old boy had been hitting the nog pretty hard lately, but his incandescent schnoz sure would have come in handy on a night like this.

A loud crack and the howls of terrified reindeer broke the calm of the still winter air. "Up! Pull up!" Santa barked. But it was too late. The reindeer flew headlong through a tangled mess of knotty tree branches. Santa gritted his teeth as the branches whipped past, smacking his face and tearing the buttons off his coat. Finally the rig came to a halt, the reindeers' antlers hopelessly entangled in the branches, the sleigh dangling precariously beneath them. The ground could be five feet or fifty feet down. It was impossible to tell in the fog. "Blasted cartographer elves!" Santa spat, as the sleigh rocked nauseatingly. Where his charts showed an empty field he had found an orchard. Reindeer bleated pathetically above him and Santa tried to stand to appraise the situation. He lost his balance and flailed about, finally grasping the end of a branch. It was leafless and dead looking, with only the hint of new buds tucked away under the coarse grayish brown bark. A few tiny blackened bits of fruit dangled from the end. "Not supposed to be an orchard here," Santa muttered. "And it could at least be chestnuts. These look like...."

"Almonds," said a gruff voice below. Except he pronounced it A-munds, so it rhymed with salmon. Judging from the voice, Santa figured he was only about ten feet up.

"Almonds," you mean, said Santa. "Who is that?"

"Name's Jess Van Den Berg," said the man. "I'm an a-mund farmer. And no, I don't mean al-mond. You're in Ripon, California. We're the a-mund capitol of the world. And we call them a-munds."

"Ok, fine," said Santa. "I'm in a bit of a hurry. This is my big night, you know. Lots of presents to deliver. Do you think you could help me out of these trees?"

"Sure," said Jess. "I'll get my chainsaw and a ladder. One thing, though...."

"What is it?" Santa asked, impatiently. The reindeer continued to flail about and make plaintive sounds.

Jess continued, "There was a big a-mund theft out here recently. I lost about half of my crop. It's not going to be much of a Christmas for my family."

"Uh huh," said Santa.

"And well, you're Santa Claus, so you can pretty much give anything to anybody, right?"

"Within reason," Santa said cautiously.

"Ok, well I was hoping you could get me my nuts back."

"Uhh...."

"Or not, whatever. Anyway, I should probably see if there are any sleighs caught in the trees of my walnut orchard across the levee."

"Ok, ok! You can have your nuts back."

"Really? That's fantastic! Ok, wait right here. I'm going to get my chainsaw."

Jess hopped in his pickup and sped back to the barn where he kept his equipment. He was thrilled. This was going to be the best Christmas ever. He couldn't wait to get home and tell the family how he saved Christmas and got his nuts back.

He grabbed his chainsaw, fifty feet of rope and a long extension ladder, threw them in the back of the pickup, and drove back out to where Santa's sleigh still hung pathetically in the trees. It took him nearly an hour, but he managed to work the reindeer loose and lowered the whole rig to the ground without so much as a broken antler. He was sweaty and his muscles twitched with exhaustion, but he had done it. He had saved Christmas.

Standing there next to Santa's sleigh piled high with presents meant for good little boys and girls across the globe, he felt a strange sensation, a combination of pride that he had something to do with the spreading of such joy, and embarrassment that he had put his own nuts ahead of the happiness of all those children. It was a humbling experience.

Santa put his hand on Jess' shoulder. "Jess, I can't tell you how grateful I am for your help. There are going to be a lot of little boys and girls who are going to be very happy tomorrow morning, thanks to you."

Jess smiled sheepishly, thinking back to the joyful Christmas mornings of his youth. Tears began to well up in his eyes.

Santa hopped back into the sleigh, then looked back, with a twinkle in his eye. "I suppose you know now, Jess, that your nuts were in your heart all along."

Jess nodded slowly and smiled as Santa grabbed the reigns. Then a confused look came over his face.

"My what?" Jess said.

"Your nuts," Santa said flatly. "They're in your -- "

Jess spat and shook his head. "Look, maybe that kind of crap flies at the North Pole, but here in Ripon we pay our debts. And you owe me twenty tons of nuts. I can't believe you're trying to screw the guy who saved Christmas out of his nuts."

Santa said, "You see, Jess, I said what I had to say to complete my mission, but I don't make the rules. The fact is, you've been rather naughty this year...."

"Naughty?! I friggin' saved Christmas!"

"Yes," Santa said. "That will factor positively in next year's accounting, I'm sure. However, you used a lot of Malathion for fumigation this year. Do you know how bad that stuff is for the environment? And I believe there were a few instances where you threw construction waste in your burn pile this past summer. Very naughty, Jess."

"Unbelievable," Jess said. He stepped in front of the sleigh. "Ok, I think I know how to settle this," he said.

"Jess, get out of the way. I've got a lot of presents to deliver."

"I didn't want to have to do this, Santa. But here's the deal: I've got a chainsaw. You don't. Give me my nuts or yours are going back up in that tree."

Santa sputtered and cursed, but finally gave in. He reached into his sleigh and hauled out a small bag, no larger than Jess' fist. He tossed it to Jess.

Jess held the bag upside down, thinking Santa was making fun of him. To his surprise, a great cascade of almonds poured out of the bag. And they kept pouring out, until there was a pile up to Jess's waist. Finally he closed up the bag, convinced that Santa had made good on the deal.

"They're all there," Santa said. "Twenty tons."

"Good," Jess said.

"Are all of you almond farmers this stubborn?" Santa asked.

Jess grinned. "Pretty much," he said. "And it's a-munds."

"But there's an L in it," Santa protested. "It's al-monds."

"Sure, there's an L when you spell it, but when you say the word, there's no L."

Santa sighed in resignation, as the reinder took flight. "No L?" He shouted back to Jess.

"No L!" Jess shouted back.

And the words echoed in Santa's head as he flew over the little town of Ripon, reflecting on what he had learned about keeping Christmas promises.

Noel, Noel,
Noel, Noel,
Born is the King of Israel.