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March 28, 2012 |
New York, NY Courtesy JetBlue JetBlue: When you absolutely, positively need to get there eventually. iscount quasi-airline JetBlue has announced that in-flight movies will be cancelled for all future flights and replaced with a live variety show put on by the flight crew, in response to the glowing praise the airline received for an improvised show put on by the crew of JetBlue flight 191 from New York to Las Vegas this morning.
"We had to do something," explained stewardess Theresa Bower. "The scheduled movie for the flight was supposed to be Ides of March but I accidentally sent that disc back to Netflix instead of the Bumfights DVD I was supposed to put in the envelope, and the only other DVD we had on the plane was Space Jam. And nobody wanted to subject people to that. Thankfully Captain Dave came through when the chips were down. We had no idea he w...
iscount quasi-airline JetBlue has announced that in-flight movies will be cancelled for all future flights and replaced with a live variety show put on by the flight crew, in response to the glowing praise the airline received for an improvised show put on by the crew of JetBlue flight 191 from New York to Las Vegas this morning.
"We had to do something," explained stewardess Theresa Bower. "The scheduled movie for the flight was supposed to be Ides of March but I accidentally sent that disc back to Netflix instead of the Bumfights DVD I was supposed to put in the envelope, and the only other DVD we had on the plane was Space Jam. And nobody wanted to subject people to that. Thankfully Captain Dave came through when the chips were down. We had no idea he was such an electric performer."
The show began with Captain Dave Westman "accidentally" locking himself out of the cockpit after getting up and wandering around the plane for several minutes, at one point standing in the middle of the aisle and eating the lunch meat out of several sandwiches from the stewardess’ service cart and loudly complaining that they didn’t have any bologna. The captain was later seen trying to insert his car keys into the doorknob of one of the plane’s unoccupied lavatories, then arguing with a pregnant woman in coach that she was sitting in his seat. Upon returning to the cockpit and finding the door locked, the uproarious comedy began.
"It was like the best Flintstones episode ever," raved passenger Laura Styles of Brooklyn. "The way he was whining in that sing-songy voice about being let back into the cockpit, I pulled a Bush and totally almost choked on a pretzel."
"It was Laurel and Hardy with air marshals," agreed Styles’ seatmate, Sandra Pullium. "Nobody expected him to drop his pants like that. I was laughing so hard when he tried to knock down the cockpit door with his dick that I didn’t even know what was going on."
"We gotta pull the throttle back, we’re gonna fucking die!" screamed the captain, while furiously pounding on the cockpit door. According to witnesses, the co-pilot responded "Dave’s not here, man," to a raucous round of applause and wolf-whistles from the flight’s passengers.
A hilarious slapstick routine followed, with flight attendants attempting to wrap the irate captain in a comically clichéd straight-jacket, then ending up accidentally whipping off their tops instead and dancing atop the first row of seats to the theme song from Austin Powers.
While the stewardesses were dancing, the captain screamed "There is a bomb on this plane and all you motherless fucks will die in the cleansing fire if we don’t land in downtown Chicago right fucking now! Say your fucking prayers!" before unleashing a fearsomely awkward karate kick to the cockpit door.
"Oh my God," reminisced passenger Todd Franklin of Carson City, Nevada. "When he did that karate thing I almost shit my pants. I had to stick my face in the air sickness bag because I was hyperventilating from laughing so hard."
The flight suddenly plummeted 10,000 feet after the captain bashed down the cockpit door with a fire extinguisher and began comically wrestling the co-pilot for the plane’s controls, resulting in a sissy slap fight that had all the children on the plane calling out for more.
The show proved so popular the flight had to be diverted to Rick Husband International Airport in Amarillo, Texas, so more passengers could be let on for the sold-out evening show.
"When those strippers dressed as cops led the captain off the plane in fake handcuffs, we just all stood up and applauded," explained passenger Lisa Redgraves. "We all wanted an encore but they never came back."
"I hope JetBlue realizes what they have here," mused passenger Roger Trenton of Nardswallow, Nevada. "This show could run for years. I guarantee you the other airlines are going to have copycat shows before the month is out. I only hope they do it right. I could see room for a hilarious inept terrorist character or something like that being worked into other airlines’ shows, but you’ve got to do it right and not just play the smoking bomb underwear for cheap laughs." the commune news has only been on one hilarious flight before, but we’ll still never forget the look on that big, doofy duck’s face right before it flew into the engine. Ivan Nacutchacokov was sadly unharmed in the reporting of this story, but it did bring back memories of the time his Comedy Traffic School class was attacked by terrorists, and that gratifying emotional damage has to count for something.
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Pope Swears God Will Punish Drug Dealers With Poor-Quality Shit Vintage Dell to Grace Smithsonian's New What the Fuck Were We Thinking? Wing Isaac Hayes Recognized on Bad Mother’s Day 'Paris Hilton Autopsy' Sculpture Signed to Three-Picture Deal |
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 October 15, 2001
Someone is to Blame for My Sofa StainWho's to blame, good people? That's what I've been asking myself all week: Who's to blame? That and, on an unrelated note, "Why did they cancel Gunsmoke when it was just getting good?"
The earlier question has been inspired by an incident that happened last Sunday, friends. I was enjoying an issue of Hot Dog magazine, as I'm prone to do on occasion, when my charming neighbor Mrs. Hardlevilch stopped by for a visit. As you may or may not know, people who are very close to dying in their old age make a "visit" a huge event, and Mrs. Hardlevilch is no exception. She was dressed in her finest pantsuit and babushka.
The three of us--myself, Mrs. Hardlevilch and my long-suffering wife, Arvelyn--all sat around talking over the state of things, or more commonly the state of things in 1949, the last year before everything went to pot in America. Mrs. Hardlevilch became very flustered and excited when I did my famous Louis Armstrong-in-a-blender impression, and that's when it happened.
Mrs. Hardlevilch wet my sofa! And floor, thanks to some unsightly dribbling, but mostly my sofa is what I'm concerned about.
Needless to say, I was perturbed. At first Mrs. Hardlevilch apologized rapidly, still laughing uncontrollably at my dead-on impression, and offered to build a time machine to go back fifteen minutes and put some plastic on the sofa before she sat down. I was intrigued, but it quickly became apparent her theories of...
º Last Column: I Have Just Seen American Booty º more columns
Who's to blame, good people? That's what I've been asking myself all week: Who's to blame? That and, on an unrelated note, "Why did they cancel Gunsmoke when it was just getting good?"
The earlier question has been inspired by an incident that happened last Sunday, friends. I was enjoying an issue of Hot Dog magazine, as I'm prone to do on occasion, when my charming neighbor Mrs. Hardlevilch stopped by for a visit. As you may or may not know, people who are very close to dying in their old age make a "visit" a huge event, and Mrs. Hardlevilch is no exception. She was dressed in her finest pantsuit and babushka.
The three of us--myself, Mrs. Hardlevilch and my long-suffering wife, Arvelyn--all sat around talking over the state of things, or more commonly the state of things in 1949, the last year before everything went to pot in America. Mrs. Hardlevilch became very flustered and excited when I did my famous Louis Armstrong-in-a-blender impression, and that's when it happened.
Mrs. Hardlevilch wet my sofa! And floor, thanks to some unsightly dribbling, but mostly my sofa is what I'm concerned about.
Needless to say, I was perturbed. At first Mrs. Hardlevilch apologized rapidly, still laughing uncontrollably at my dead-on impression, and offered to build a time machine to go back fifteen minutes and put some plastic on the sofa before she sat down. I was intrigued, but it quickly became apparent her theories of time travel and plans to carry it out were extremely flawed. Within another minute, Mrs. Hardlevilch was convinced someone had entered the room and pissed on her, completely forgetting her role in staining my couch.
I'm now at my wit's end, and it wasn't far to go, let me tell you. I'm left asking, as I said before, who's to blame? Sure, I could sue Mrs. Hardlevilch in a court of law, but no jury is going to convict a withered old fossil of public urination since I'm not sure it's a crime and, truthfully, my living room isn't considered public domain. If I had deemed to shoot her, sure, it would have been legal, but her pissing all over my couch left me without much recourse of action once the moment for retaliation passed. Not that I would ever shoot the dear old women, she'd probably think it was the Kaiser shelling her homeland or something anyway.
If Mrs. Hardlevilch is not to blame, who is? Through some late-night detective work, I managed to find out Mrs. Hardlevilch wears Dapper Debutante brand adult "pads," so that offered me some hope. But so far all threatening letters have not received any offer to settle out of court, and I'm sure signing them with my real name wouldn't help. This means, of course, that there is a faulty product out there in Dapper Debutante adult "safety nets" and behind them is a company unwilling to admit they're responsible for the puddles of the greatest generation.
In the end, as Arvelyn pointed out, I probably have no one to blame but myself. There is nothing funnier in the world than my Louis Armstong-in-a-blender impression; I knew this and carried forth with thoughtless drive to entertain, floors and sofas be damned. More than a reasonable number of healthy young Americans have relieved themselves all over my property in response to my humoriffic comedy "closer." This might seem enough reason for anyone to stop, but I know I won't. The world needs hilarious impressions of famous loveable singers suffering severe torture in a comical fashion, and I think a sofa, after all is said and done, is a small price to pay. º Last Column: I Have Just Seen American Bootyº more columns
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|  May 14, 2007
Wears the BeefHot damn said the devil, it's time for another ass-puckeringly sweet edition of Reflections of a Goocher! I'm your host, Stu Umbrage, and that guy walking by the window has nothing whatsoever to do with this column, ignore him completely. Our first guest tonight is noted poet and man of letters, Sir Sheldon Bivouac.
SU: Greetings, Sir Bivouac, how are you?
SB: Few of us can answer the question of our existence, Stu, the how or the why of it anyhow. The where and when are easy, perhaps even the which. But the-
SU: Riiiiiight. But have you ever considered this: What do you call a vegan that refuses to grow milk thistle?
SB: Huh?
SU: A vetard.
SB: Riiiiight. Anyway Stu, I came on today to read from my latest collection of poems, Rape Ape. This first one is called "A Confederacy of Dulcets":
"I ran Sidney Brace bandage itated Koppel grant farms race in the hole Milwaukee ping-"
SU: Sorry to interrupt you, SB, but we've got to break for a commercial.
Do you ever get that "Not so French" feeling?
-Oui oui, monsieur!
Well now there's a French dressing that doubles as an invigorating douche, only from Hellman's.
-Mon Dieu!
SU: And we're back! Let's see what's on the radio, shall we?
-CLICK-
I've got a peeeeeaceful, greasy...
º Last Column: Gwar of the Worlds º more columns
Hot damn said the devil, it's time for another ass-puckeringly sweet edition of Reflections of a Goocher! I'm your host, Stu Umbrage, and that guy walking by the window has nothing whatsoever to do with this column, ignore him completely. Our first guest tonight is noted poet and man of letters, Sir Sheldon Bivouac. SU: Greetings, Sir Bivouac, how are you? SB: Few of us can answer the question of our existence, Stu, the how or the why of it anyhow. The where and when are easy, perhaps even the which. But the- SU: Riiiiiight. But have you ever considered this: What do you call a vegan that refuses to grow milk thistle? SB: Huh? SU: A vetard. SB: Riiiiight. Anyway Stu, I came on today to read from my latest collection of poems, Rape Ape. This first one is called "A Confederacy of Dulcets": "I ran Sidney Brace bandage itated Koppel grant farms race in the hole Milwaukee ping-" SU: Sorry to interrupt you, SB, but we've got to break for a commercial. Do you ever get that "Not so French" feeling?
-Oui oui, monsieur!
Well now there's a French dressing that doubles as an invigorating douche, only from Hellman's.
-Mon Dieu! SU: And we're back! Let's see what's on the radio, shall we? -CLICK- I've got a peeeeeaceful, greasy feeeeeling…-CLICK- -eh, on second thought, fuck that. You'll have to bear with us for a moment, ladies and gentlemen, apparently there's a Spaniard loose in the rafters and they're attempting to gas him out as we speak. Though I believe the gas they chose was helium, apparently that's all we had handy, so if you come across a chipmunk-talking Spaniard please just hand over your car keys so we can get on with the show. We apologize for any inconvenience folks. I had recommended smoking the Spaniard out, but apparently he doesn't smoke. Oh, nope, the taser got him. And hindsight being what it is, we probably should have put down some rubber gym mats or a trampoline or something, because the old wives tales you've heard about a Spaniard always landing on his feet apparently don't apply to ones that have been electroshocked into drooling unconsciousness. I'm not sure the trampoline would have saved him, but at least we would have got some circus-style entertainment out of the deal, rather than this answer to the unasked question of what would happen if you took a ball bat to a meat-filled piñata. I'm sorry folks, that's all the time we have this week, and we have to arrange for a Zamboni to come in and clean up this mess, but be sure to tune in next time when our special guest will be the guy who invented dogs. º Last Column: Gwar of the Worldsº more columns
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Quote of the Day“Yes, madam, I may be drunk, but you are ugly and in the morning I shall still be drunk! Wait a minute… Okay, I've got a match for you: your butt and my face. TouchĂ©.”
-Quentin HillchurchFortune 500 CookieHappiness is indeed a warm gun, but you're not supposed to warm it in your ass like that. If your life is lacking direction this week, we've got one word for you: North. As you have long suspected, recreational drugs are the answer. This week's lucky charms: taupe meatballs, turquoise speculums, puce gallstones, gold bullets.
Try again later.Worst Country Songs Ever| 1. | She Left Me for an African-American | | 2. | I Don't Feel Like Drinkin' | | 3. | Here's a Quarter, Go Buy Some Bubblegum | | 4. | What's the Capital of Tennessee Again? | | 5. | If Anyone Needs Me, I'll be Down at the Nail Salon | | 6. | Regretfulness is the Hardest Word to Spell | | 7. | Mama Didn't Raise No Episcopalians | | 8. | I'm So Lonesome I Could Call an Escort Service | | 9. | I Got This Hat on Sale | | 10. | You Mispronounced My Name for the Very Last Time | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY SHamu Wells D'Froad 6/9/2003 Confederacy of Assholes"When you speak to me, Geech, do it with respect," I told him. Geech was an even larger asshole than myself, size-wise, but I was the asshole of greater intensity.
"Who put the bee in your beret today?" asked Geech. He lit a cigarette and began to puff on it, choking because he had lit the filter.
His question was not worth answering and I snubbed him, turning back to watch the screen. The film was truly awful, as all films are, the narrative structure being so blatantly obvious and the philosophy poor at best. However, Jim Carrey fell down in delightful ways so I forgave its flaws.
By the time it was over, Geech and I had concluded its ending far before it came. Despite cries that we should shut up or go fuck each other somewhere else, crude at...
"When you speak to me, Geech, do it with respect," I told him. Geech was an even larger asshole than myself, size-wise, but I was the asshole of greater intensity.
"Who put the bee in your beret today?" asked Geech. He lit a cigarette and began to puff on it, choking because he had lit the filter.
His question was not worth answering and I snubbed him, turning back to watch the screen. The film was truly awful, as all films are, the narrative structure being so blatantly obvious and the philosophy poor at best. However, Jim Carrey fell down in delightful ways so I forgave its flaws.
By the time it was over, Geech and I had concluded its ending far before it came. Despite cries that we should shut up or go fuck each other somewhere else, crude at worst, incorrect at best, we enjoyed the opportunity to converse over the film before it was over. And ruin a movie for someone else. We decided to leave and go get coffee at some place with terrible coffee.
In the parking lot, we were stopped by a steely-eyed man with a reddish face. A poor physique and mussed hair, an ugly man by an ugly man's standards.
"Hey, you dicks didn't have to talk all the way through the fucking movie."
"We're not dicks, we're assholes," said Geech.
"What's the difference?" the ugly man asked.
"A dick, in the metaphorical term, is someone being either thoughtless or purposefully insulting, ruining your good time for their fun," I told him. "An asshole, as we define it, is a new wave of philosophical thought that preaches our enjoyment first, above all else, even or especially at the expense of others."
"That sounds like the exact same thing!" the guy yelled, growing even angrier.
"It is," I said. "Remember, we're assholes."
The ugly guy calmed down quickly, going so far through anger as to reach some sort of intense fascination. "Tell me more."
"Fuck yourself," I said, tossing my cigarette and making it bounce off his forehead.
On the way home, running very fast with the man pursuing us, Geech seemed confused.
"I don't see why you didn't just tell him about our school of philosophy," he said.
"I didn't like his attitude. He was a little polite about all of it. Training him would be an all-day job."
"Still, it would be nice to have other followers to our school. Don't you agree?"
"Lick me, Geech."
He was right, in some ways. We had created the idea of assholism and assholistic thinking some three months ago, opened our school two weeks previous, and were not doing well financially. Many people were dissuaded when they saw our classrooms consisted of a two-bedroom apartment, and those who were still interested we turned away because they seemed to eager. Plus, our school criteria was extremely high, Geech didn't even qualify. I was the principal and sole faculty member of the new assholistic school, or Jake, as we called it. The idea of allowing someone else to join sounded appealing, even at the risk of lowering our standards.
Still, it's more fun to be the only member of a club than to have real friends. At least I think it would be. If I ever have friends I'll know for sure.   |