- I wonder how spiders don't get stuck to their own webs. The webs must have the same ingredient as Super Glue or Magic Shell – they don't harden until they sit in the air for a spell. Incidentally, a warning about Magic Shell: it retains its “magic” through the alimentary canal, so prepare yourself for some shrapnel on the back end.
- I can't enjoy myself at company picnics. It's not that I don't like the people, barbecue or softball. I just can't help thinking, I usually get paid to hang out with you people, but now I'm doing it for free. Also, I don't like seeing my coworkers' family members. They're delightful. But seeing them humanizes my colleagues, and I'm usually plotting their termination. It vexes me.
- What Einstein did for physics, Mexicans did for food.
- Why does gum stick to the sole of your shoe more than the sidewalk? This is the kind of thing that makes me a pessimist.
- This would be a cute name for a dog groomer shop: Canine Casanova.
- Even if you women do break through the glass ceiling, you'll still have perverts looking through it and up your dress.
- A recent trend in labor law is to fine employers who hire illegal aliens. Why don't we fine the Border Patrol instead? Better yet, let's fine the alien's home country. That'll teach the country to keep those little vatos where they belong! Hell, we could probably get a year's worth of free oil from Arabia just by raiding all our 7-Elevens.
- Imagine a homosexual married couple. They're out and about, and an attractive member of the same sex passes by. When this happens to hetero couples, one looks at the other and waits for him/her to foolishly steal a glance at the attractive passer-by. Then a fight ensues. But what do gays do? Do they look at each other and ask “Are you thinking what I'm thinking? Threesome! [high-five]”
I saw a bumper sticker with the motto “Coexist.” The letters doubled as symbols for the world's major religions. It's cute. But it's wrongheaded. One thing I know for sure is, only one religion can be correct. The rest, by necessity, are wrong. Religions dictate the absolute truths of the universe. Therefore, they can't all be equally right (my condolences to the PC crowd). Given that, I don't want us to “coexist.” Instead, I want everybody to duke it out -- fisticuffs. Bring on the rage. Let's go mono(theist)-a-mano in a religious steel cage match. I want to see who the winner is so that I know what to believe in. Then, I'll have a convenient Rulebook for Life, be it a Bible or a Qu'ran a Tora, and I can consult it with all my ethical quandaries -- instead of Dr. Phil paperbacks.
Don't worry about the wrong team winning. Whoever fights for the one true religion will have Divine Intervention catapult him to victory. Just imagine the clash of the titans. The Christians have God. The Islams have Allah. The Jews have Jerry Seinfeld. The Hindus have that 8-armed fella, who I imagine would be a badass in a fight, what with half a dozen switchblades and a pair of nunchucks. Whatever you do, don't lay any money on the Taoists; they don't give a shit who wins. Personally, I'm rooting for whichever religion forgives gluttony, lust, intemperance and swearing.
Let the best religion win. Then we can all stop bickering, join the winners' religion and go back to falling short of its ideals.
Everybody's joked about the “chromosome-challenged” shoppers at WalMart. It's cliché. I always figured it was an exaggeration for comedic effect. But after shopping at WalMart last week, I discovered that it's not an exaggeration. It's an understatement! Were these people exposed to radiation or something? What a cesspool of human genetic cataclysm. Every other person stank of Marlboros. And I suspect WalMart applies a 10% discount to those weighing over 300 pounds because the place was chock full of fatties! I transversed contrails of body oder and Brut cologne as I fought my way to the electronics department. Yuck. I'm not the judgmental type. I live and let live. But when you concentrate that many genetic misfires into one area, it's like achieving critical mass for a hatred explosion. Sam Walton is the Robert Oppenheimer of discount shopping rubes.
I'm confused: there aren't any trailer parks near my WalMart, yet the patronage was entirely composed of the species Anthroparkus Trailerius. I wonder if WalMart installed magical teleportation machines in trailer park outhouses that beam fatties into the chip and pretzel aisle.
It is the irony of our time that as people get fatter and fatter, the aisles at Walmart get narrower and narrower. I walked 2 extra miles detouring chunky, polyester-wearing, Marlboro-smoking mothers chastising their kids in public. And why do these people believe the store entryway is a fine place to stop for a chat or to browse the WalMart sales ad? Tell me good sir, On which aisle might I find cattle prods?
Acting on a spell of morbid curiosity, I visited the WalMart clothing section. The shirts and pants never quite match. Do they do that intentionally? Or are those slave-wage Pacific Rim children in the factories all colorblind? All the clothes at WalMart have that 1970's charity bulk-sale look to them.
Oh, man. I wish you could have seen the ghoul who greeted me at the door. This guy looked like he moonlighted at Disney's Haunted Mansion. I knew I'd have to pass him on the way out, so I stopped by Aisle 8 and picked up a crucifix. “Thanks for shopping. Have a good day, sir.” “And you have yourself a good afterlife, you freak of nature.”