Archive

Archive for the ‘Satire’ Category

What Christmas Songs Can We Still Listen To?

December 18, 2018 2 comments

Christmas is almost here, everyone. Time to decorate the tree, bake some cookies, and kick back by the fire while listening to some tunes. You’ve probably got that fire going because it’s cold outside. But don’t listen to that classic ode to rape, ‘Baby It’s Cold Outside.’

After boycotting (and out-screaming anyone who says it isn’t about rape) that song, I began listening to a playlist of old hits. It turns out that the biggest war on Christmas has already arrived in the form of classic Christmas music.

Read the lyrics of any Christmas song, and if you look hard enough, you’ll see that all of them refer to some kind of illicit activity. The following list is by no means comprehensive. Feel free to comment below with your own discoveries.

Here are the most obvious allusions to criminal activity that I found:

All I Want For Christmas Is You. A crystal clear nod to sex trafficking.

Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer. Thinly-veiled commie ballad.

Let it Snow. Cocaine.

I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas. Alt-right white supremacy. And also cocaine.

O Holy Night. Secret slang in the world of cocaine users (cocaine is snorted through holes).

O Little Town of Bethlehem. Way before Jesus became Bethlehem’s most famous export, this little town produced a large amount of blow.

Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer. Hmm, let’s see. Grandma drinks to much eggnog and decides she’s going to walk home? Any old person worth their salt would fall asleep, and that’s before the powerful effects of eggnog set in. See where this is going? You guessed it—Grandma took a few zips of nose candy and unwittingly wandered right into Santa’s flight path.

Back Door Santa. I just found out about this song, and boy am I one steaming little cup of decaf. At first, I believed it to be about anal sex (I heard some youth at Target use the term), but then I remembered that a lot of cocaine arrives in this country via little balloons packed full of white lightning, which are then inserted into the rear end (back door) of the intended mule.

Mele Kalikimaka. This is simply what comes out when someone who is coked to the gills tries to say ‘Merry Christmas.’

So this Christmas season, you may as well skip right ahead to Easter music. I recommend the Rolling Stones, who named themselves after the stone that was rolled away from the tomb of Jesus.

music notes

Photo by Ylanite Koppens on Pexels.com

Moses And His Migrant Caravan Blown To Smithereens By US Military

In a pretty cool fusion of current events and biblical lore, the prophet Moses (who killed a guy one time) and his migrant caravan were blown to smithereens as they arrived at the US border, ending their 40-year journey through the desert with a bang.

After leaving Egypt—a major shithole—the caravan just kind of wafted through the wilderness and for the purposes of this story landed in the Mexican desert. Fox News believers looked on with horror as a convoy chock full of Middle Easterners made its way towards US soil.

Anyways, as the immigrants strolled up to the Texas border, the US military carried out the true hope of Donny and his followers, and blew the whole shebang to smithereens.

That’s pretty close to how it went down in the Bible, right?

 

moses

The Best Tuscan Chicken Recipe

Don’t you hate when you click on a recipe, only to find not a recipe, but some blowhard going on and on about their Italian grandmother’s journey to the United States, and how all she had was two Sicilian dollars and her recipe book to get through the boat ride? And how the boat sank and she swam to shore, now broke, and the only recipe that survived was one for Tuscan Chicken? Fast forward a few years, and now the grandmother (who wasn’t a grandmother at this point in the story) is slangin’ hash for 25 cents a week, while at night she climbs to the roof of her tenement, gazing east towards home, trying to recall all those lost recipes, but still taking comfort in the fact that she at least still has her Tuscan Chicken. Then one day after work, a Wednesday to be exact, because she cooks Tuscan Chicken every Wednesday, a really hot guy follows the scent up the the grandmother’s door and knocks. People were still really sexist back then, so the guy is like “Hey, you’re gonna be my wife and cook that for me.” She says ‘yes’ and they get married. The guy’s misogynist patterns only continue. The years pass, and she begins to resent Tuscan Chicken, because it has now become a symbol of her oppression. She vows to make a change. Next Wednesday, she makes the Tuscan Chicken, true to the recipe, as always. Except for one minor addition—-POISON(and also some of her pee)!!!! They sit down for dinner, and she secretly pulls out a piece of pee-and-poison-free chicken for herself so she can eat without her husband becoming suspicious. Fifteen minutes later, the guy is barfing and crapping everywhere. Next thing you know, he’s dead, and the grandmother ends up in jail. Ten years into her sentence, she finally gets a job in the prison kitchen for 25 cents per month. She still remembers Tuscan Chicken. The prison kitchen doesn’t have the ingredients for it. The head of the prison says it’s not in the budget. So she sleeps with him. It turns out he was lying when he told her that if she slept with him he would have the ingredients brought in. So she poisons him and escapes. I think this is how she became pregnant. Anyways, now she’s an ex-convict single mother who has killed two people. Tuscan Chicken helps her forget all that.

It’s usually about this point in the story that the person actually gives you the recipe, and it’s really annoying that they could have just put it right at the top. It’s rather vexing. Now, you came here for a Tuscan Chicken recipe, didn’t you? Cook some chicken and pour Italian seasoning on it.

agriculture animal baby beak

Life Objective: Land A Spot On The Writing Staff Of Dr. Oz

Oh, to be a fly on the wall of the Dr. Oz writing room. No—to be a person on a chair in that writing room.

To make the cut on the Dr. Oz show, you’ve got to know a thing. The thing being, of course, redundancy. When you send the esteemed Dr. Mehmet Oz out into that standing-room-only-lioness-den-and-also-television-studio packed to the brim with bored, middle-aged women, he better be stuffed up to his beady little eyes with tips on how to lose weight.

If not, upon you will the harem of Oz feast.

So, if anyone from the Dr. Oz camp happens to be reading this, I went ahead and drafted a spec script:

Dr. Oz, returning from commercial: “Welcome back ladies, yes, I am a real doctor.” He pauses here to allow swooning. “Now, let’s get right to it: who wants to lose weight?”

Audience: “MEEEEEEEE!!!!! MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!”

Oz: “Okay then. I’ve got a secret to share, something no other doctor will ever tell you. Quick survey: how many of you eat a cheeseburger and French fries every day? Show of hands.”

Everyone raises their hand.

Oz: “Did any of you know that a diet like that is actually bad for you?”

Everyone looks around in disbelief.

Oz: “It’s true, it’s true. What if I told you that, instead of eating a cheeseburger and fries every day, you will lose weight if you eat broccoli and rice instead?”

The audience collectively bows down to The Oz: “We’re not worthy! We’re not worthy!”

Dr. Oz: “And here’s a bonus tip—it’s also healthier to drink water instead of soda!”

Everyone is now spasming and speaking in tongues.

Dr. Oz: “And one more thing before we go: if you exercise instead of sitting on your couch, your metabolism will speed up!”

Something like scales fall from upon every eye in the audience. A massive rebirth has taken place. They all go forth into the world, ready to turn their lives around. However, in the time between the end of the show and the next morning, all of these brutal truths are washed away by one last binge, followed by the intoxicating coma that comes after eating a box of Cosmic Brownies….

Tomorrow, Dr. Oz replaces cheeseburger with hot dog. Broccoli becomes spinach. Water is now decaffeinated green tea. No one notices.

The unstoppable Oz cash cow continues to feast upon itself.

ouroboros_white

Ouroboros.

 

 

 

If #AllLivesMatter, That Means I Can Do Whatever I Want With This Dead Guy, Right?

I recently read on the internet that all lives matter. Read: since only things with lives matter, that automatically means that anything without life, any object lacking that essential élan vital, is second class scum and not worthy of our time. All of this pleases me, ‘cuz I’ve got this dead guy.

This dead guy does not matter one bit. It’s right there in the hashtag. That gives me the go-ahead to really go to town on this corpse. Sex. I didn’t say it. You were thinking it. Anyways, there are a lot of non-sexual things you can do with a worthless body that just wouldn’t fly with a live person. I plan to stab it first. After that, I’m going to throw it off my balcony and see if it explodes on the concrete below.

That’s it. That’s all I want to do with the dead guy.

 

Thousands of Perfect Little Minnesotans Angry At Blair Walsh

It’s been a rough week for perfect Minnesotans. The superior breed is really letting Blair Walsh have it after the Vikings kicker missed a 27-yard field goal near the end of the team’s 10-9 loss to the Seattle Seahawks. Here are thoughts on Blair Walsh from people who have never made a (televised) mistake in their lives:

“Kickers make that 27-yarder 99% of the time. People are going to remember this for years to come,” said a cow milker who one time couldn’t figure out how to open a condom wrapper, and instead of using the 99% effective rubber birth control device, decided to have unprotected sex and now has to make child support payments for years to come.

“I could have made that,” claimed a vending machine repairman, whose bathroom floor is puddled with urine that never made it into the toilet.

“He stinks,” said an out-of-work dog whisperer who never learned to wipe properly and is perpetually surrounded by a faint poopy smell.

“Little purple gnome miss point and I mad,” said a camouflage enthusiast who does not fully understand English, his first and only language.

“He didn’t focus,” observed a fast food connoisseur who bit her own finger off after thinking it was part of a batch of chicken fries.

“I like to drag my ass on the carpet. Like a dog,” said a guy who likes to drag his ass on the carpet like a dog.

Fun With Pharmaceuticals

December 15, 2015 5 comments

There are perks to being a blogger. We have this unique platform that enables us to let our voices be heard, and sometimes a guy in suit from something called Big Medicine approaches you with a sack covered in dollar signs saying that he’d like you to talk about the greatest drug for high blood pressure ever created, and you tell him you’ll never sell out, and then he shows you that there’s actually money in the sack, so you say you’ll take the offer.

Even though that happened, it had no influence over my decision to talk to you today about Fluvalipitorbrate™, the best boner medicine to hit the market in years.

You see, sometimes in order to lower your cholesterol, or whatever this stuff does, you need to make sacrifices, like only having one functioning kidney. You have two for a reason, so it’s not much of a sacrifice anyways. And—this is according to Big Medicine—comas brought on by Fluvalipitorbrate™ are actually healthy, because it gives your body a chance to rest and recover from the ulcers and painful full-body burning sensations that led to the coma in the first place. Plus, you won’t be conscious for the bloody diarrhea. Sounds like Fluvalipitorbrate™ is doing you a solid there.

When you come out of the coma, which 65% of people do, you’re going to have some suicidal thoughts. But that’s only because you’re mad at yourself for not taking Fluvalipitorbrate™ years ago, when it was still causing men to grow massive breasts. You’ll cheer up when they give you a jar full of your teeth and then find that all the hair on your body has fallen off, which will help you swim very fast, once your muscles grow back.

Then you’re on the home stretch to a major testosterone boost, which is what this drug is all about. After you fight off the minor bouts with bi-polar disorder, diabetes, necrotizing fasciitis, and halitosis, you can tell all your friends (through sign language, if you still have lockjaw) about Fluvalipitorbrate™ and how it changed your life.

For more info, ads for Fluvalipitorbrate™ can be found in Men’s Health magazine, or on our infomercial that airs from 3-4 every Thursday morning (it’s the one with happy men golfing and a voiceover talking extremely fast about internal bleeding and bones turning to dust).

 

 

 

 

 

%d bloggers like this: