16 Activities that are no Dumber than Some Olympic Sports

Balancing a beach ball on one’s foreskin
Cultivation of arm pit juice
Estimating the correct circumference of Ashlee Simpson’s butt pimples
Spork tossing
Molding Cheez Whiz into the shape that best approximates a tortoise pancreas
Vomiting handkäse on the side of a stagecoach museum
Sucking navel lint (judged per poundage)
Molecularization of ear wax
Measuring J’s with a straight edge
Dancing around drops of urine on a rusted shower drain
Blowing spit bubbles sans milk
Turning textbook pages with the blade of a scythe
Making Disney jokes in the vapid netherworld of space
Stare downs with crotch rot
Goin’ all “Sal Muncy” at square dances
Making lists of activities that are no dumber than some Olympic sports

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Life in These United States

Even respected brain surgeons get leaky roofs, I unfortunately discovered one day. Luckily, one of my patients was a handyman and agreed to repair the structure for free.

“It’s a slow leak into the living room,” I explained to the crusted strongman.

Without missing a beat, he replied, “Guess I’ll get started.”

Humor in Uniform

Deciding to spend my hard-earned leave back home meant boarding a DC-9 for the Deep South. To pass the 4 hours of required travel time, I brought along the latest Beverly Barton thriller. I was so overjoyed when we finally touched down in Biloxi, however, that I deplaned quickly—without my book!

As I was conveying my thanks to the pilot, I heard a commotion behind me. When I glanced back, I saw my trusted flight attendant, holding my lost paperback and pushing her way to the front of the line.

“Lieutenant!” she yelled for all to hear. “You’ll love the ending!”

All in a Day’s Work

Returning from a sales conference, our driver was clearly lost, although he was not the type to admit it. Fortunately, a quick-thinking associate requested that we pull off the highway in order to procure a much needed meal. Once this task was completed, my colleague began asking the locals for directions. His first victim was an elderly gent atop a motel porch, seated on a rocking chair and whittling.

“Which way to Decatur, old timer?” he asked the grizzled veteran of life. The man pointed south.

My buddy was flabbergasted. “Now we’ll have to make up an hour’s driving time!” he cried.

The man did not even looking up from his carving as he answered, “Good luck.”