Archive for the 'jokes' Category

Now I’m able to go out and enjoy some serious cock, guilt free.

Published
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Anonymous Coworker
on April 11, 2008 @ 10:08 am
in Mrs. ACW, bitches, devil cat, jokes, people are idiots, potty humor, sex and suhmuhmuh bitch
. 15 Comments

1) I was just recently contacted by somebody at bthesite.com (which doesn’t seem to be working as of this being written) about how they had grabbed my RSS and were posting my content onto their site. That’s totally fine with me. Blogtimore has been doing it for years. But nobody at Blogtimore cares if I put the word “cock” in the title of my blog posts for all the world to see. I’m pretty sure they also don’t mind “fisting” or “felching” or “transexual cornholing santorum lickers”, but we’ll see if bthesite minds. And just to be clear, I grabbed the title from this episode of Extras:

Skip to the one minute mark if you’re in a hurry.

2) Since we’ve switched Sherlock to a new cat food that’s supposed to keep his wee-wee wiener-friendly, rather than full of sharp and jagged crystals stabbing him with their jags, his shit has become even more offensive. And I don’t mean “offensive” like people thought Andrew Dice Clay was offensive but was really only just kind-of funny unless you were a fat guy with a porno mustache, gold chain, stupid haircut, and a bad sweater, and 2 years of a high-school education who lived in New Jersey in the late 80’s and never got any action but still lied to his friends that he did, because those guys thought he was hilarious. No, I mean offensive like Yankee Candle Company’s new scent is “Hangover Shits” crafted specifically after extensively researching the nostril singing aromas of two pitchers of Miller Lite and 50 nuclear chicken wings digested and excreted through the human body, and it’s your birthday and everybody gives you one of those candles.

3) Speaking of offensive aromas, the other day Mrs. ACW and I were at the Annapolis Mall and I suddenly got a whiff of hypersexualized teenage desperation and the triumph of money over taste. “Wow, did we just walk past a perfume store? They must have spilled something.”
“I guess so.”

But then as we kept walking the stink became more palpable, until I could actually reach out an palp it. It was then that I noticed we were beginning to approach the area of the mall that housed the Abercrombie and Fitch store. We weren’t even at the store yet and I was already gagging. Seriously, look at this map. The arrow is A&F and we were at the red dot to the left of JCPenney when we started smelling the horrible smell.

We went on to Nordstrom so Mrs. ACW could look at purses or tampons or nipple-clamps or whatever it is that women look at when they go shopping (I don’t know, I usually turn my brain off), and after finding what she was looking for (or not, I don’t really know) we left to go back into the mall and it was as if I was just punched in the face with the smell of Dawson’s Creek were tv shows to have their own scents.

This time we had to pass the stink-factory on the near side, and it was so overpowering that I covered my face with my hoodie and did the best I could to control the gag reflex while my eyes watered. I wondered how people could even work in there. Do the clothes in there come pre-scented or something? Uggh. It was horrible.

But walking past the store wasn’t even the worst of it! Three hours later I still smelled like I was a non-consensual participant in a boy-band gang-bang, and nothing I did would make the stink come off me. It was like I looked normal, but my shadow was a collar-popping douchebag who bathed in shitty cologne.

Steak and Cheese Lean Pockets, is there anything you can’t do?

Published
by
Anonymous Coworker
on April 2, 2008 @ 9:25 am
in bitches, food, jokes, money, music, people are idiots and potty humor
. 9 Comments

First of all, I’m surprised I fooled so many of you yesterday. I’m a huge liar. You know this. I’m almost constantly lying. How can you tell if I’m lying? Well, you can’t. It’s because I’m sometimes telling the truth that I’m an even more effective liar. But really, you should have known.

That said, here’s a relatively truthful story about what happened to me yesterday.

I mentioned a while back that I’d be sampling beef and cheese lean pockets. And as a quick summary, beef is to me as a shotgun is to Kurt Cobain. Too soon?

Anyway, I quickly realized that the most punishing aspect of the focus group would not be the lean pockets, but would instead be my fellow focus group attendees. Their brain powers combined would barely qualify them to watch Dora the Explorer. I can see the group of them now, sitting in front of a television, three of them wetting their pants out of fear of the talking picture box.

We were given four whole lean pockets, one at a time, and told to eat as much as we could to get an accurate sample. As usual, I was doing my damnedest to mess with the results.

I was right in the middle of the group, so whenever the group leader would ask for opinions, I would listen carefully to what the other folks had to say (which I learned quickly was a pointless endeavor) before saying something completely opposite, and bringing up something out of left field.

For example, after tasting the first lean pocket, the comments went like this. See if you can guess which one is mine:

“The meat is too hard? Like, I think it should be softer? Like, not as hard? But more soft?”

“I like this one because it doesn’t taste like pizza.”

“Need more meat. More meat.”

“The cheese is too stringy. I like cheese to be stringy, but not really stringy, just a little stringy. But it was good. I loved it.”

“This doesn’t taste like a Philly Cheesesteak. I did not like it.”

“Did you put mayonnaise in these things somehow? I think I caught some mayonnaise in there. Oh god, I hope it was mayonnaise.”

“The beef is too pink.”

And finally, “This tastes like rubber.”

To which the group leader responded, “Tastes like rubber, or has the texture of rubber.”

“Oh, the texture. … And the taste.” I don’t think that participant knew what the word “texture” meant.

And so the taste test went on like that, my brain cells throwing themselves against the insides of my skull in a desperate attempt to escape the rampant, unbridled stupidity. I swear, if they could bottle stupidity like that, it would become a dangerous, dangerous weapon. Can you imagine all that concentrated stupid being used to wipe out the intellect of an entire country? They could probably call it American Idol or Dancing with the Stars. But I digress.

The one thing that kept me sane the whole time was the near constant supply of hilarious “that’s what she said” jokes running through my head. Almost anytime anyone said anything, it was funny. Just try it with the samples from above. I’ll wait.

But I don’t care what they say
I’m in love with you
They try to pull me away
But they don’t know the truth
My heart’s crippled by the vein
That I keep on closing
You cut me open and I
Keep bleeding
Keep, keep bleeding love

Oh good, you’re back. What a terrible song. Anyway, you can see the potential for hilarity was high, and I was almost fooled into thinking the funniness would outweigh the bone-shattering, mind-crippling dumbness, but every time I would think the dumbness was over, one of the participants would say something like this:

“My favorite cheese is gouda, but I can’t ever find in anywhere.”

I wanted to smack her and say, “Really? Really? You can’t find gouda? That’s funny because I’ve seen gouda in every grocery store I’ve ever been to in my life. Ever. It’s not a fancy cheese. You get it in those shitty fucking Christmas meat and cheese gift baskets that are nice enough to say, ‘I was thinking of you’ but not nice enough to say ‘for more than twelve seconds’. I hate you. You’re an idiot.”

Eventually the session ended, we headed back out to the lobby at the front of the building, and we were given our compensation in the form of a check. Ten seconds later, my ass turned into a Howitzer and I pretended their toilet was the Luftwaffe as I launched a mighty blitzkrieg- hellbent on porcelain annihilation.

Wow. That was a lot of confusing war/feces/Nazi metaphors at the end there.

It just kind of spirals into insanity

Published
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Anonymous Coworker
on March 14, 2008 @ 9:57 am
in beer, food, house, jokes, meta blogging, nerd stuff, people are idiots and the worldwide information super-tubeterwebs
. 5 Comments

Because I hadn’t done it for a while, I thought I’d take a spin through the old stats page to see how the mental deficients, drifting like flotsam on the currents of the intertubes, were washing up on the sparkling golden shores of my website. Here’s a smattering of dumb people using the internet, and some insight as to how their tiny walnut sized brains work:

“18 year old” “parents responsibility” “michigan”

I can see this one going one of two ways. Either it’s a kid trying to figure out how soon they can get away from their shitty parents, or it’s a shitty parent trying to figure out how long they can oppress the life of their child. Or maybe their trying to find out just how little work they need to do to not get charged for neglect by the state. Whichever way you slice it, they wound up on my blog, and probably got terrible advice.


rehomo beach

This one is a little astonishing, because I’ve never even typed “rehomo beach”, but Angy Hangy did in my comments, and her willy-nilly use of a neologism for a gay beach in Delaware landed me this search.


how to stop cats shitting in your yard

I wish I could help you dude. I really do.

he s looking at her boobs game online

Ah, Romania. Is there nothing you can’t do? What’s that? You can’t teach your citizens how to create a legitimate web search? Oh, well, no country is perfect. Except America. Seriously. Don’t fuck with us or we will bring you our democracy. We invented ass whoopin’ for the sake of ass whoopin’.

house

And what country could possibly have worse searches than Romania? America! Home of the mouth breathing idiot that has more time and money than taste or sense. Really, you just typed “house” into a search engine and immediately got what you were looking for? Do you go into the bread aisle of the store and pass out from shock when you see more than one kind? Also, why are you using MSN Live Search? You must be some sort of post-lobotomy lab-experiment in a competition with rats to see who has a better mastery of the internet, and too bad for you, the rats just identity thefted your mouth-breathing ass.

this is relevant to my interests origin

Another newcomer to the internet, this time from Australia. Bonzer, mate! I’m grinning like a shot fox that you found my website. Ace! We should hit the turps with heaps of Foster’s and a Bloomin’ Onion at the boozer! Well, I’ve got a cane toad in my clacker, so donger the cleanskin and sleepout the yabby and we’ll pozzy the spunk for a corker dingo’s breakfast!

Also, this is a personal note to the person who is still using Netscape 5.0 to access my site:

Who the hell are you!? Is Netscape Navigator 5.0 some sort of magical web browser that no one ever used but is capable of time-travelling 10 years into the future to read a shitty blog?! That’s awesome, but also kind of really lame. Oh, and by the way, September 2001 is really going to suck for you guys, so be ready for that. Also, you might want to stop buying any products from China, unless you’re really into lead. Um, I think that’s it. Keep it dopey double-fresh on the rewind, and hook-up your blingety for me. Yes, that’s how we talk in 2008.

Whimsy 3

Published
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Anonymous Coworker
on March 6, 2008 @ 9:27 am
in Mrs. ACW, beer, food, jokes, people are idiots and travel
. 8 Comments

Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’m really phoning it in this week. You wanna fight about it? Anyway, before all this craziness with my family, my brother and our respective wives took a trip along the Mason Dixon Wine Trail and found, surprisingly, that all wine made in this area isn’t complete and utter cat piss, and is, sometimes, in fact, preferable to standard “drinkin’ wine on a Tuesday night” wines like Yellow Tail, for example. Wow, that last sentence looks like it just got tea-bagged by the comma monster. Whatever, if we weren’t supposed to use them they never would have been invented. Here’s a transitional sentence!

At some point during our trip through the Pennsylvanian hinterlands we started getting hungry and decided to stop in a tiny town comprised of a grocery store, Rite Aid, Italian restaurant, and tattoo parlor. Having consumed something on the order of all the wine in Pennsylvania, we opted for a modest 42″ pizza and two baskets of fried bric-a-brac. We’re still not exactly sure what we ate, but we think we might have had fried zucchini, fried cauliflower, and deep fried chicken fried steak fries, all slathered in a healthy coating of ranch dressing, of course.

The service was nice and prompt, and our waitress was nothing if not extremely friendly and attentive, but the menus left a little something to be desired.

You can see them below, but you really need to click through to flickr to see them full-sized in all their majesty. I imagine the restaurant owner, having spent a few hours working on the menus, sent for one of the town elders to review his work and instead got a barely literate sixth grade dropout. I’ve only looked at the menus twice, and each time I’ve found new stuff to laugh at, so I’m sure there are still some gems in there that I’m overlooking. Lemme know what you find that I missed.

menu

drinkmenu

Whimsy 1

Published
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Anonymous Coworker
on March 5, 2008 @ 8:54 am
in awesome, jokes and music
. 5 Comments

This is EXACTLY what it’s like to work in a record store.

Found at Beaucoupkevin.com

How about a favor?

Published
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Anonymous Coworker
on February 27, 2008 @ 9:11 am
in Mrs. ACW, bitches, family, jokes, suhmuhmuh bitch and the worldwide information super-tubeterwebs
. 43 Comments

I realize that for the past few days I’ve been pretty fucking pissed off. Have been… am. Whatever. I guess I’m going through the 5 stages of grief:

1. Denial: The initial stage: “It can’t be happening.”
2. Anger: “Why me? It’s not fair.”
3. Bargaining: “Just let me live to see my children graduate.”
4. Depression: “I’m so sad, why bother with anything?”
5. Acceptance: “It’s going to be OK.”

Let’s see… I don’t think I ever went through the denial stage. I remember getting the the phone call and thinking, “Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.” I’m clearly in monkey-humping lust with the anger part. In fact, I mentioned to Mrs. ACW that on Sunday when we went to get food to take to my family’s house I was thinking, “Why are all these people out shopping? Don’t they know the world should stop for me?”

I’m pretty sure the bargaining thing isn’t going to crop up for the same reason that denial didn’t: I just can’t turn off the coldly logical part of my brain. I think it’s that part of my brain that helped keep us from buying a $20,000 vault when my family was ready to throw down cash for anything and everything. I know I’ve flirted with depression over the past few days, like, “Why do my homework? Why exercise? Why care what I’m eating? Why not just drink every night?” But it hasn’t been paralyzing, and usually that same part of my brain kicks in and says, “Shut up. That’s stupid. You’re not the one who just died.”

I guess I’ll eventually get to acceptance, I mean, I know I will, but right now I’m just really fucking pissed. I almost reactively called Wayne a “fucker” in the comments yesterday until I went back and re-read his comment and realized that it was relatively positive message (if only a bit preachy). So yeah, I’ve the anger part down pat.

This is where you come in! Know any good jokes? Magic tricks? Seen something really funny/bizarre/goofy online recently? Please let me know. If there’s one thing I learned from all this it’s that the periods leading up to and immediately following funerals are in desperate need of someone who knows a good joke. Lay them on me.

Talk Like A Pirate Day

Published
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Anonymous Coworker
on September 19, 2007 @ 9:45 am
in awesome, beer, jokes and nerd stuff
. 12 Comments

Avast ye, wenches! Today be International Talk Like a Pirate Day, so ye scalawags best be livin’ up to th’ day. I know ye lubbers be smarter than bilge rats, so make grab your cutlass and some grog, and join me for a good pillagin’ o’ some booty!

For those of ye who aren’t swayed by such impassioned speechifying, set back and prepare to be hornswaggled by the greatest tale of gore and swashbucklery ye shall ever hear:

Twas naught but a few years ago that a grog-slopping friend of mine saw an old sea-dog wander into his small-batch micro-groggery/bistro. The mysterious pirate found his way up to the bar; his peg leg knocking solidly against the floor-boards as he hobbled up onto the stool.

“Rum,” said the pirate in a gruff voice that was very quiet, but full o’ command. This friend o’ mine quickly acquiesced, not wanting to anger the blood of such a dark character. He set the rum down on the bar with a dull “clunk” of the pewter tankard, and the old pirate reached out with a hooked hand and pulled the rum toward himself.

“Can I get ye anything further?” asked my friend.

The pirate looked up from under his hat and fixed his eye on my friend, his other eye obscured by a patch. “Just make sure this mug don’t empty itself.”

The evening went on as usual, my friend serving other patrons looking for libations of all kinds, but a dark cloud hung over the strange pirate, and no one except for my friend returning to fill his tankard went near him.

At the end of the night when everyone else had made their way off with some alcoholically enhanced wench or cur, or died from overconsumption, my friend approached the pirate to see if he needed anything else before my friend insisted the pirate be on his way.

“No. Ye’ve been serving me smartly all night. I’m feeling my spirits now!”

Happy the pirate was in a better mood, my friend made a risky move and asked a personal question of the pirate, “I hope ye don’t mind me askin’ but I was wonderin’ if ye could tell me how ye lost your leg.”

“Oh this thing,” the pirate said, pickin’ up his leg and bangin’ it against the floor. “I lost this during a miserable time in me life. My crew had just mutinied and marooned me on some far-flung piece of dirt in the middle of the ocean. They forced me off the boat and made me swim to shore. They’d stolen my dagger, my cutlass, my pistols: everything. Not a decent pirate among them. As I was swimming I was set upon by a swarm of sharks, and they was ravenous. Biting and striking everywhere. Dragging me arms down. I swallowed my fair share of ocean that day. Finally one made a mortal strike at my leg and tore free a chunk of flesh. The feeding frenzy nearly dragged me to Davy Jones’ locker. But when I felt my leg tear away I knew I was saved. I barely made it to shore and passed out there. Lucky to have only lost my leg.”

My friend went back to wiping down the bar, shocked that anyone could survive such an ordeal. He grabbed a bottle of rum and made his way back down to the pirate. He filled the pirate’s tankard, “On the house.”

“Thank ye kindly, me boy.” The pirate took a swig of the rum, cleared his throat and said, “I guess ye’ll be wantin’ t’ hear about the hand,” he lifted his hook up into the dim light of the bar and the few spots that weren’t worn down with scratches glinted and shone.

“I must admit that it does have me a bit curious.”

“I’m happy to oblige.” The pirate took another swig of rum then started in on his story. “My crew weren’t the smartest bunch of sailors ye’ll ever meet. They left me on an island alive with tropical fruits and wild animals. Once I regained me strength from losing me leg I fashioned this old stump from a strong branch of teak. I got so used to hobbling around on the thing that I almost forgot that I had lost me leg at all. I started exploring the island and one day decided to follow the trickle of freshwater that had been keeping me alive for the past few weeks. The trickle grew into a small stream, and the stream grew stronger and wider until it was deep enough to see a few minnows swimming about. Further along the stream opened into a dark lagoon that was being fed from many sides by other streams coming out of the underbrush. Knowing that the lagoon would be filled with larger fish I set about making me self a spear for catchin’ some dinner. I couldn’t see but just below the surface, so I stabbed at every flicker of water, every bubble. After what seemed like hours I had success. I pulled a frantic fish out of the water on my spear and reached out to grab it off the spiked end when a crocodile lept out o’ the water and made off with the fish, the spear, and my hand. It happened so fast that I barely felt it. I stumbled back to my camp to stoke the fire to char the wound. I passed out from exhaustion afterward and had fever dreams of being attacked again by the sharks. Nipping and pulling at me from all sides. When I awoke I found myself below deck on a ship! Apparently a passing sloop had seen the inferno I had stoked to stem the bleedin’ of my arm and picked me up in a rowboat and brought me aboard. I did all I could while on their ship, and when they put me ashore at the next port I had earned just enough to have a blacksmith fashion me this hook. I swear I’ll put it through the guts of each of those mutinous crew members, once I’m done keelhauling them, if I ever see them again.”

My friend filled the old pirate’s tankard once again, completely gobsmacked as to how anyone could survive such tribulations. Being eaten alive by sharks? Losing a hand to a crocodile? How could anyone survive such horror? Without even thinking he blurted out, “Your eye! You must tell me how you lost your eye!”

The pirate stared into his tankard, not moving, not speaking. Finally, after what seemed like hours he said, “A seagull.”

“Some misfit bird from Hades swooped down and pecked out your eye?”

“No. Shat in it.”

“Shat in it?”

“Y’arr. It was me first day with the hook hand.”

It’s just a cat! In another country people would eat it.

Published
by
Anonymous Coworker
on July 26, 2007 @ 4:09 pm
in devil cat, i am so fucking awesome, jokes, meta blogging, people are idiots, the worldwide information super-tubeterwebs and travel
. 27 Comments

I am not exactly sure where the fascination for this story comes from, but it’s driving me fucking bonkers. The first email I got about it, I thought, “Hey, that’s kinda weird.” Then I saw it on a blog, and then another one. And then another and another. And then all of them. What the fuck people? Are we seriously so simple-minded that we’re going to devote all this energy to a cat that, in all likelihood, is just trying to stake out its next meal?

This is how crazy religions like Scientology and Catholicism start!

In other news, I’m outta here on vacation until August 6 or 7. In the meantime you should find a nice corner to curl up in and weep while you await my return.

How about this heat?

Published
by
Anonymous Coworker
on June 20, 2007 @ 9:05 am
in awesome and jokes
. 10 Comments

I recently had to verify to the guv’mint that Mokie’s mail-order bride was legit

Published
by
Anonymous Coworker
on May 15, 2007 @ 10:11 am
in Mrs. ACW, beer, i am so fucking awesome, jokes, money and sex
. 9 Comments

RE: AFFIRMATION OF RELATIONSHIP BETWEEN MAIL-ORDER-WIFE AND MOKIEJOVIS
Information about the person writing this letter:
Full Name: Anonymous Coworker
Address: 123 Fake St.
Date of Birth: September 14, 1980
Place of Birth: Baltimore, MD, USA
Relationship to Applicant: Brother-in-Law
Relationship to Applicant’s Spouse: Brother

To Whom It May Concern:

I have known Mokiejovis, my brother, for all of what can be called the pathetic rehearsal of daily activities he calls his life. He met his “wife”, when they were in college together in the fall of 2000. At the time I thought she was some sort of border-jumping prostitute, but they assured me, in the few moments that they would lift their heads from a mountain of Colombian cocaine, that she was not a border-jumper.

I attended both the legal ceremony of their marriage in November of 2004, and a hell of a time it was. Elvis parachuted in from over 20,000 feet (or so I’ve been told) and presided over the ceremony. I’m pretty sure that both Mokiejovis and what’s-her-name were there, but I never saw them together at the same time. (Just between you and me, I’m harboring a secret theory that they might even be the same person.) I was also the best man at their religious ceremony in June of 2005. I’m not sure what religion they are, but I want no part of it. I’m not exactly sure how sneaking a van full of migrant workers across the border counts as a religious rite, but whatever; they gave me an 11-year-old Mexican bride to keep my mouth shut. My wife and that little Mexicani firecracker (polygamy is great!) and I helped them move into their apartment/meth-den, and then from their meth-den/sex-dungeon to the house they bought together with a sack blood-stained hundred-dollar bills. We regularly visit them at their home to pick up our drugs and a feral baby or two.

I can state conclusively that they are happily married as long as the booze keeps flowing and the pot supply doesn’t run low. Otherwise, watch out for those two.

Regards,

Anonymous Coworker

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