Prefatory Note: the following was written almost two years ago in honor of “National Dr. Seuss Day” as a tribute to the beloved children’s author. As many of you may not have seen the original post, I’ve decided to bring it back this week.—CLS
I am an inmate in a prison near you.
I am Oaf
Oaf I am
That Oaf-I-Am!
That Oaf-I-Am!
I do not like that Oaf-I-Am!
Do you like
Nutraloaf? Continue reading
The holiday spirit lit up Mud Lick, Alabama like the warm glow of lights from a Christmas tree. This was Sheriff Roy’s favorite time of the year. Though snow wasn’t common that deep in the South, all the residents took great care in meticulously decorating their homes and storefronts. Holiday music rang through the speakers at the local Value-Lot.
A modest Christmas tree sat in the corner of the Sheriff’s Department bullpen. Sheriff Roy bought doughnuts with red and green icing that morning, and he nibbled on one as he wrapped his Secret Santa present: a copy of Scott Adams’ “Win Bigly.”
Sheriff Templeton’s festive mood was suddenly jolted by his phone ringing. It was Deputy Miranda. Continue reading
When you graduate from law school you get two letters next to your name for the three years of effort and debt. Those letters are J.D., and in theory they stand for “Juris Doctor.” Sometimes, those letters stand for “Justa Dickhead.”
Submitted for your humble consideration is such a motherfucker by the name of J. Wade Smith, an attorney from Lake Charles, Louisiana, working mighty hard to make those of us who call ourselves lawyers look mighty shitty.
J. Wade has a neighbor named Elizabeth Richards. Ms. Richards either has kids or lets kids play in her yard. On November 10, two children were kicking a football in Ms. Richards’ yard. One kick sent the football “dead center” into the “designer metal fence” surrounding J. Wade’s property. Continue reading
It was Thanksgiving in Mud Lick, Alabama, and Sheriff Roy Templeton was getting uneasy. Arlene was setting odd place cards at the dining room table. Sheriff Roy’s read as follows:
ROY TEMPLETON. PRONOUNS HE/HIM/HIS
“Arlene, what in the name of Bear Bryant are these wastes of card stock doing at my damn dinner table?” the Sheriff asked.
“It was your niece Cindy’s idea, honey. She says it respects peoples’ dignity to do stuff like this, and we don’t want Roy Junior thinking his family’s disrespectful, do we?” Continue reading
Here are a few unsolicited opinions, offered by a likely unqualified person on the internet, which no rational person should give a damn about unless they agree with said opinions.
If you walk up and down every aisle of a grocery store and don’t actually purchase an item from each aisle, you’re the Kroger equivalent of a mall walker and deserve to be treated as such.
Texting is ruining human communication. What reasonable person spends time typing words out with their thumbs when you can accomplish the same goal in less time with a phone call? It’s getting out of hand. We have birthday texts, holiday texts, group texts, and more. There’s even “sexting,” which becomes problematic when kids do it. Just stop now. Continue reading
Tuesday I saw an abomination at my son’s day care. It stood in the lobby, taller than both of us, green, and covered in lights. Someone put a fucking Christmas tree up on November 12th.
Did I miss a memo? Are we no longer even putting Thanksgiving in the calendar as a holiday? Why are we going from Halloween straight to Christmas now? This is the fault of those fucking millennials, isn’t it?
Thanksgiving is an important holiday on the calendar. It’s the one time of the year when we celebrate the greatest of all things American: eating massive amounts of food, imbibing beverages of all sorts, getting into arguments with your uncle who posts stupid shit on Facebook, and eventually falling asleep on the couch watching football. Continue reading
Prefatory note: I was handed the following text from an intern at Children’s Workshop. The bastards finally did it. They got to Sesame Street.
INTRO WITH GRAPHICS
(notify Standards and Practices of lyric change)
La la, la la, la la, la la, Elmo’s world.
La la, la la, la la, la la, Elmo’s world.
Elmo loves his trans friends, and cis friends too,
That’s Elmo’s world! Continue reading
By the time you read this Halloween will be over and we’ll be headed toward Thanksgiving. It’s a shame, really. Halloween is one of my favorite holidays, a night where the ghouls, ghosts, and things that go bump in the night get a chance to party. Fortunately, there’s always next year, and I’m in a giving mood, so today’s Friday Funny are some tips to enhance your Halloween 2020 experience.
Another baseless fear is that of teen vandals out to egg cars or roll houses with toilet paper. American teens would much rather spend their time and energy playing Fortnite on their iToys than committing acts of vandalism. If you’re really scared, don’t call the cops. Defend your castle like a fucking adult. I’ve personally found bear traps, motion activated security systems, and a lifelike replica of Pennywise the Clown works for me. Continue reading
A Teen Vogue Op-Ed recently stumbled into my newsfeed. After giving the matter some thought, and consulting with the local Junior Curmudgeon’s Legal Aid Society, I’m announcing today that I’m applying to trademark the word “journalist” to stop Teen Vogue writers from ever using it as a descriptor.
Before you immediately dismiss my application as some sort of conservative/Republican stunt, I can assure you this is no partisan political issue. I also want to profess my respect for actual journalists like Radley Balko, Liliana Segura, and Brad Heath. All three and their colleagues are deserving of the “journalist” title for tirelessly working to expose truth to the public.
No, what’s troubling is hack writers for a site with front page listicles like “22 Gifts For Your Friend Who Would Rather Be Napping” and deep insights like “Miley Cyrus Said She Had To Be Gay in An Instagram Live” calling themselves “journalists.” It’s an embarrassment to the profession* and something needs to be done about it. Continue reading
Sheriff Roy, lost in the pages of Joe Hill’s book “NOS4A2,” heard a knock at his office door. A rather plain, unassuming young man stood at the door.
“Yes, son, come in.”
“Sheriff Roy Templeton?” asked the man, barely out of his teens.
“Yes, son. How can I help you?”
The teen pulled a stack of papers from a sheaf and said, “You’ve been served.” Having completed his assignment, the teen took off at a dead run for the Mud Lick Sheriff Department’s exit. Continue reading