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

Submissions to Reader’s Digest

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.”

Never-Ending Redneck Dialogue

“Got me a new dog.”
“Why you callin’ me dog, Dog?”
“I ain’t called you dog, Dog!”
“Why you callin’ me dog, Dog?”
“Cause you done called me dog, Dog.”
“But why you callin’ me dog, Dog?”
“I just done tell you, Dog!”
“Why you callin’ me dog, Dog?”
“You mean that last time?”
“Why you call—uh, yeah.”
“I done tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
“Why I call you dog.”
“Why you callin’ me dog, Dog?”
“I dint that time.”
“But before.”
“I done tell ya!”
“Why you callin’ me dog, Dog?”
“Cause you done called me dog! Dog!”
“Why you callin’ me dog, Dog?”
“Cause I did. And don’t call me dog.”
“Why you callin’ me dog, Dog?”
“Why you callin’ me dog, Dog?”
“Why you callin’ me dog, Dog?”
“Why you callin’ me dog, Dog?”
“Why you callin’ me dog, Dog?”
“Why you callin’ me dog, Dog?”
“Answer me: Why you callin’ me dog, Dog?”
“Answer me: Why you callin’ me dog, Dog?”
“What you say?”
"What you say?”
“What you say?”
"What you say?”
“What you say?”
"What you say?”
“I say why you callin’ me dog, Dog?”
“I ain’t call you shit”
“Why you callin’ me shit, Dog?”
“I just say: I ain’t call you shit!”
“Why you callin’ me shit, Shit?”
“I ain’t callin’ you shit, Shit.”
“Why you callin’ me shit, Shit?”
“I ain’t callin’ you shit, Shit.”
“Why you callin’ me shit, Shit?”
“I ain’t callin’ you shit, Shit.”
“Why you callin’ me shit, Shit?”
“I ain’t callin’ you shit, Dog.”
“Why you callin’ me dog, Dog?”
“No one say dog ‘til I done it.”
“Why you say Dog?”
“Dunno.”
“Me neither.”
“I knows!”
“Wha—?”
“Got me a new dog.”
[Return to line 2]

Ode to Solar Inspiration upon Individual Leisure

The sun
Is fun.

Semifinals

Match 1: 1972 Dolphins vs. Mark Spitz.

Spitz emerges from the locker room clearly unimpressed with the record-setting Fins. The Olympian seizes the early momentum, cruising to an ever-widening lead at the break. Coach Shula makes an impassioned halftime speech, screaming at his team that 1972 belonged to them, not some lousy 7-0 swimmer. At the start of the second half, the Dolphins come out charged, quickly cutting into the lead. Then Spitz scores again, appearing to sew up the contest. But Miami isn’t done. A strange and inarguably lucky Griese to Yepremian to Mandich trick play, along with some questionable officiating, forces overtime. In the extra session, Spitz is obviously upset and begins making mistakes. Dolphins win an OT thriller.

Match 2: Secretariat vs. Millard Fillmore

Another nail-biter. President Fillmore is tough, intense, and ready to give everything he has to win this semi. His unwillingness to back down in the face of his opponent’s superior athletic ability keeps him in the contest until the end. Unfortunately for his fans, it is also the prez’s undoing. Late in the match, with the score tied, the Triple Crown winning steed begins to taunt Fillmore. The president responds by losing his poise and drawing a costly penalty. Secretariat jumps to a late but insurmountable lead. Seeing that he’s been outsmarted, Fillmore finally concedes this hard-fought affair. It’s Big Red to the final.

Bad Arizona Similes

Phoenix: That ol’ town’s hotter than morning wood in ultratight skivvies.

The Grand Canyon swallows hikers like Suzie Hanika took in wrestlers in high school.

Driving the Apache Trail is sort of like how drops of water negotiate skid marks in a porcelain bowl.

The ears of a desert hare are not unlike racquetball racquets, but without the handles or strings.

The Lost Dutchman Mine is as mysterious as those vacations where you don’t take a dump for several days.

Route 66 resembles the song about as much as my nipples bear likeness to Antarctica.

Brushing your teeth before a Navajo burrito? That’s like wiping your bum before a major slosh!

Superstition Mountain rises in solitude, like the tit of a Cyclops.

Valley of the Sun? Valley of my red ass is more like it!

The cacti grow across Sky Harbor like zits on the face of a teen.

Tom Cruise’s head is as void of gray matter as Medusa Castle is of residents.

Sedona traps tourists like backside hairs ensnare dingleberries.

Cheap Fireworks

-Conjure memories of last year’s fireworks
-Shooting stars
-Explosive diarrhea
-Tell your wife her butt looks too big
-Projectile vomit
-Violent “see-food” discharge
-Drop melons off the roof
-Drop in-laws off the roof
-Pop a mountainous zit
-Sever an aorta
-Induce tri-stream urination; sword fight with your friends
-Flatulate like a harmonica

Ranking Nothing in Particular

What a difference Clarence Williams III makes!

Top 5, June 17, 2008:

1. The nectar of spleen from the flower of Kaline
2. Class presidents who place Foster Grants on their wieners
3. Blood Drives featuring AMC Pacers
4. Lucky fence menders holing up in flower beds to sword fight with their urine
5. That time I said, “Tell Mannix I liked it when he implied that stowaways flex sideways in the heat of Herman Munster chef-like banana cakes waxed incidentally, be-yotch!”

Top 5 if my flexor’s CB radio handle was “Malt Droppings”:

1. The non-musical bleating of frozen uvula wind chimes
2. Suppression of the brain waves responsible for morning wood
3. Battleaxe spinsters who scream trite colloquialisms about wig Velcro
4. Skid marks on fanciful aprons of lace
5. Duquesne redux: Only 127 days until the 2008 Lego Advent Calendar is released!! Which reminds me: All hail Master Po's mail droppings that release their temporary hangnails "oft to der Wings" in Schlitz!

Presidential Debate Questions

Senator, in your opinion, what would happen if I dug up Millard Fillmore’s bones, then went back in time and handed them to him?

Hey Ralph--popcorn: Who figured that one out?

Say Alan, if C. Montgomery Burns and Carter Pewterschmidt both wanted the same company, who do you think would get it and why?

Question for all: Might the backhoe contingency be rendered useless under existentialist thought as understood by Jim Morrison?

Why are so many entries in this blog written in list format?

If someone’s nickname was Placenta Earl, would that mean his real name was even worse?

Why have I never been given a Whopper that looks anywhere near as good as the ones in the ads?

Why do we not refer to people as a whole but, instead, to their behinds, as in “Tell him to get his ass in here” or “Just leave her ass alone”?

Whatever happened to General Fester’s “remote” as described in that homophobic entry posted May 24?

Unique Father's Day Gift

For the dad who has everything, a poem about places in Michigan:


Fruitport, Westnedge, Mackinac,
Highway 6 and west Paw Paw.
Cheboygan and the Dairy Queen;
Pier Marquette and Kaline’s spleen.

Mona Lake, I-94,
Tekonsha and the eastern shore.
The woods where Nugent finds his bliss,
The rest stop where I took a piss.

Eastmanville, a Cloud called Saint,
Cheboygan and Jeff Daniels’taint.
Farmington and Manitou;
Norton Shores and ol’ Moo U.

Assorted creeks, the Upper Pen;
Motown and the Lion’s Den.
Saginaw, home of the Gears;
Paradise; Bob Seger’s ears.

BE PREPARED...

Lincoln's Trombone is going live....and remote...

The General is going to do our first man on the street (if you will) site work as an anonymous real time blogger from none other than Orlando, Florida. I will be doing some advance work, but will be there to first hand witness this event and report all things faggot: HERE

The thought of this mission repulses every inch of my body and if you know me, that is saying a hell of a lot.

However, for the good of the blog, for the good of the nation, for the good of the old fashioned mockery of it, I'm gonna blog live goings on.

Please feel free to add your special requests......

PS: I just threw up a little in my mouth....

Frat Boy Gossip Columnist

Greetings from the Chi House! We rock!!

I tell you what, we got so ****faced last night it wasn’t even funny. I almost missed my friggin deadline! But here I am, with news of celebrities and ****.

Hollywood **** Lindsay Lohan is reportedly planning a birthday bash. Should be one drunken whorefest. Sweet piece of ***, but at this point I wouldn’t tap that skank with your ****!

Speaking of skanks, Jessica Alba is gonna marry some NSync faggot. Man, she sure went from piece of *** to piece of **** in the time it takes to popcorn ****!

Another faggot band, New Kids On My ****, is back together. Most of the guys here in the house think they suck, but sometimes I like watching a group where I know I could kick any of their *****.

Must be the week for wuss musicians. Bon Jovi was on that news show with all the old *****. He’s a cowboy, all right. Riding straight up my ******* leg!

The new Indiana Jones movie is out. I hear it kicks ***, even tho the star is like 90. On the plus side, that makes him a good match for Karen Allen’s wrinkly ***.

There’s a rumor of a CHiPs movie, sort of like that Starsky & Hutch piece of **** from a few years back. What I heard is that Carlos Mencia is set to play Ponch. Guess the role called for pretend edgy but not remotely funny.

That show Lost is taking a 2-week hiatus. With so much time off, aren’t they worried their audience will get confused? Ha ha! I mean like, what the ****?!

American Idol finally ends this week. Since it’s 2 dudes, they should have them fight it out. MMA, man! That would absolutely rock! On the same bill they could match that political show guy who used to do Sports Center versus the ****head who’s all over the web yelling at his producer. I hear those 2 ****sticks hate each other!

It’s also 2 dudes left running for President. Tough choice. One’s a hard ***, the other actually knows some music post-Dave Clark 5. Too bad Eddie Vedder ain’t running. Or Will Smith! That dude kicks ***!!

In the world of sports, John McEnroe is again gonna be the color commentator for the French Open. So once more, we get to hear that dip**** tell us how to win a title he never sniffed.

Finally, Big Brown won a race or some such ****. I don’t follow horse racing, being that I’m under 70.

A Paragraph of Sentences That Have Never Been Uttered

Fondue forks may well investigate the mental hygiene millers of Flat Top whilst tube socks milk forests of guava melts. Moreover, those magnets of lint, they force derivative destinations into twilight. Bingo hails indubitably across the blue dwarf. Conversely, occupations that taste like ink can be utilized on the scabs of plaid duffel bags. Horse meat, of course, just holds the Flaxin cards. It follows, then, that clandestine diseased fruit cannot be tried for murder within a vacuum. Catch the filibuster now, Saint Weatherhorse? I believe you and 17 tapirs roundly assonate! Furthermore, saving the table scraps of Revolutionary War widows is unethical toward pleasing Forrest Whitaker. I mean: “Banks in your shoe?” cold cocked Grady’s stand-in. With that in mind, oatmeal toast is forever Carl Jung. From this argument, one can opine that corn soup would likely have a backhand that scatters municipalities. And I don’t need shuttlecocks of spearmint in my gruel! In other words, smegma cannot be sold at hockey games in Hell. So why, you ask, is dinner served in the void of consciousness? Well, maple dung hairs notwithstanding, there is conclusiveness surrounding Frisbees. And admonishments are clarity personified. Therefore, bullies fornicating on ice are neither sea dwelling lint nor should I amble about. However, traces of mastication arrive daily in fonts of oak. This particular argument proposes clambake justice for French Open qualifiers of modest girth. In essence, tribal sensibilities inherit Formica ball returns toward louder farts. Climb it on Topcat’s ear, I hear you justify. That said, guppies traipse sideways in transfer functions alluded to by Diffenbach. But “hold your placenta!” screams the wayward youth of mooring scabs. Indeed, strangeness oil, forgotten as one, banters about with Ms. Pac-Man. To clarify, bale sandwiches mark the drainage of certitude. Pour crayon welts atop flow cycles, you ask? Well, payment of frosting accelerates doors hidden via Millard Fillmore’s phallic cloud formations. More specifically, mountainous, gelatinous, pendulumous breasts clarify the auction sites without ever once leaving Cleveland, eh? Those who can’t wax holidays feel it like bass gurneys. In conclusion then, tapestry cinderblocks revolutionize the needed objectives of youth, despite fantastics who can’t say otherwise. Neither, of course, does Larry Storch’s irritatingly frightened muffin tops.

Unusual Ways to spend your tax rebate

1. A bikini wax for those hard to get to places on your pet wallaby.
2. Spanish lessons for the broccoli that refuses to respond to the erstwhile longings of a love stricken japaleno.
3. Buy some watermelons and go door to door on your street telling women "i'll let you touch mine if you let me touch yours"
4. Hoarding off-brand spleen juice at Sam's Club
5. Go to the jail, randomly bail out a drunk and then have him arrested again for indecent exposure.
6. Sponsor the first annual "Erik Estrada film festival and turnip tasting"
7. Trade it all in for dimes and pay for everything for a week in change.
8. Educational experience: Take pacman jones clubbing with the fam....
9. Rent a booth at the county fair and tell 'fortunes' by sniffing armpits
10. Have your name legally changed to Loebig-Muncy.

Ranking Nothing in Particular

What a difference loads of mispronounced grapefruit make!

Top 5, April 21, 2008:

1. Tiger spleen drops not from India
2. Clandestine mortification at disciples of glue
3. Rebellious grandmasters posing as insect dung
4. Guys named Ed whose glasses fog upon sudden bouts of delirium
5. Tiebreakers that end in /n/

Top 5 when removing the nexus of Hendershorts:

1. Acid rain devoid of vinyl Jed Clampett impersonators
2. Laughing at a drunk’s dangling participle
3. Municipal cool dudes, strutting their socket wrenches
4. Dependence upon formaldehyde groupies
5. Dyspepsia removed from the souls of wailing grapes

Tax Day Advice (Actually Random Musings)

If I were ever talking to myself and then suddenly realized someone was in the next stall, I would pretend I was on a cell phone call and say, “You idiot! You do that and it won’t detonate!”

When ranking the melodiousness of 3^rd century dental ailments, I would have to place pericementitis first, although one could make a case for pulpitis.

I firmly believe that Speedy Gonzalez could beat the Road Runner in a short sprint (say, across a room), but would lose miserably at any distance over a half mile.

Mules blasted into outer space would be cool, unless one of them got injured. Then Houston would have to listen to wailing and braying until they got tired of it and exploded the rocket.

I don’t believe Einstein died of an aneurysm. I think he solved time travel, but the technology eventually got into the wrong hands and so, to cover their tracks, the bad guys went back in time and killed Big Al before he actually invented the very system they were using to murder him.

Based on their descriptions, one would think that hot fudge over ice cream was a dumb idea and auto racing would be cool, not the other way around.

If formal diagnostic testing could be used to help scrutinize the leftist leanings of those who like to dress up as albino armadillos, I would worry that the backhoe contingency would do little more than describe saucers of malt liquor.

Although most Americans don’t believe in dictatorships, you have to admit that it’s kind of cool how we might continue handing the presidency back and forth between 2 dysfunctional families.

Tromboning: Myths vs. Facts

Myth: The mainstream tromboning media have a bias against rust belt players.

Fact: Within the past 2 years, sections from the Cleveland and Toledo symphonies, as well as that of the Gary Pops, have been featured favorably in both Trombone Monthly and Sliding with Sly. Moreover, the first and third chairs from, respectively, Miami and Fresno, have been blasted by the same major publications during this time period.

Myth: The mouthpiece makes the player.

Fact: A nice piece is great, but without decent lip action, you might as well blow a woodwind.

Myth: Pulling the pipe results in greater bell size.

Fact: It may seem that way at the time, but overall mass doesn’t change.

Myth: The Trans-Siberian Orchestra’s one-liners about “slide extension” are the filthiest trombone jokes known to man.

Fact: Only for those with short memories. Back in the day, members of the London Philharmonic told tromboner jokes that were more vulgar than a cellist in heat.

And finally…

Myth: Simply owning a Bach large bore makes one more arrogant.

Fact: 2 words—Niel Loebig.

Some Good April Fools' Pranks

Sneak up on your best friend’s wife and, when she’s least expecting it, break her arm.

Take a dump on your boss’s desk. When he asks who did it, say it couldn’t have been you because yours smell like peppermint.

Tell your children that mommy and daddy are getting a divorce because they can’t stand to be around kids who fight all the damn time.

If your girlfriend is feeling amorous, kiss her passionately. Then blindfold her and tell her you have a kinky surprise. Once this step is completed, quietly sneak in your roommate to finish the job.

Go into a co-worker’s office when he isn’t there. Pour beer all over the carpet. Call in the boss and ask if he thinks your colleague might be drinking on the job.

When the meeting chairperson isn’t looking, perform surprise titty twisters on other committee members.

Power staple a slide trombone to a stranger’s back.

Replace your roommate’s mouthwash with cerebro-spinal fluid. If he’s a major league baseball player, do the same to his syringes.

Ask your girlfriend if she wants to rent The Godfather. When she goes out to get it, place a bloody horse’s head under her sheets. Wait 3 hours for the merriment to ensue.

In permanent marker, write “I eat sh*t” on your sleeping spouse’s forehead. Make sure he or she oversleeps and has to rush out quickly in the morning. And hide all the hats.

Call a subordinate into your office. Tell him that you’ve received numerous reports that he’s a Nazi. Turn on a tape player and say, “According to federal law, I’m required to record your response.”

If you’re an identical twin, threaten to break up with your brother’s girlfriend unless she bears you a son.

And, lastly:

Make your mother think she’s pregnant by climbing back into her womb.

Numero 151-160 Central American sayings....

160. Somos los verdaderos americanos
159. Vaminos Liquidos Poopos
158. El Kaline Spleeno Juico
157. La Trombona Magnficent, El Producto mucho bueno musico
156. ¿Cuál es el precio de la especial Spitzer?
155. Loebig come Muncy la vagina
154. I puke, por lo tanto, i am
153. My name jose jimenez
152. I mi izquierda obnoxion cuchara hasta su culo
151. Sus testículos como el sabor del pene britney

Af-Am Veterans for Truth Raise Questions About Obama

A group calling themselves “African-American Veterans for Truth” is questioning the veracity of Barack Obama’s assertion that he is of African ancestry. Claiming to be former colleagues of the Illinois senator, this newly formed organization is going public with what they term “the real story.”

The leader of the group, who goes only by the name “Cement Head,” had this to say about the presidential candidate: “It’s falsehood, that’s all it is, claiming to be African-American when you’re clearly not. It would be like a stapler pretending to be wiffle ball, you know?” Other members chimed in on the topic as well.

“He’s not been honest with America,” said one unidentified woman. “We have what I consider sound evidence that he watches NASCAR.”

“A friend of mine knows someone who heard Lee Greenwood coming from his car stereo,” added a middle aged man who wished to be identified as H. “All I’ll say is the next time somebody says ‘all African-Americans raise your hands,’ you can bet he won’t.”

Although admitting he never met Obama, or saw him in person, Cement Head stated that he grew up “just a few states” from Illinois and that he “knows and hears shit.” He was not as quick to respond to the question of why his group is called “African-American Veterans for Truth” when neither he nor any of his cohorts are black.

“Now Obama can see what it’s like,” he finally opined, adding that “at least one” of the members is a veteran.

“So we’re basically representing ourselves honestly.”