Ask the Right Question
Instead of asking if Bruce Willis, at 54, is too old for his bride, 30-year-old Victoria’s Secret model Emma Heming, we should be asking this: Isn’t she too old to be a model?
Tag Archive for: sarcasm
Hindsight
You know what would be really sad? Lying dead in the morgue wearing a nicotine patch.
Why I Don’t Need the Gym
I exercised my right to vote. I might have pulled a muscle so I’m letting it heal. Can’t be too careful.
Lost your Job? Drink Up!
New Yorkers know how to find the silver lining in any cloud. That’s why a local bar has created a new night called LAID OFF MONDAYS.
If you’re lucky enough to live here, skip that A.A. meeting and head to the Delancey, where you’ll get one “FREE SHOT OF TEQUILA at 12 am with proof of unemployment.”
This will be the bar where everybody knows your shame. But don’t worry, that’ll go down easier with a nice free shot. And since you digested your Ramen noodles hours ago, you’ll get a buzz on faster. Yay!
There is one drawback to announcing you’ve been laid off: don’t expect to get laid on.
Sandwich Fixins #4
Between the fear and the hope, 2009 is shaping up to be a bumpy ride. I might be a newborn foal taking my first wobbly steps or I could be Old Yeller wagging my tail at the man with the gun. Too soon to tell. Either way, I’ve got some questions.
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Why does George Michael continue to use public bathrooms? How many times does he need to get busted before he’ll learn to put a bedpan in his limo? At least he only got caught with crack and pot this time. Maybe the glory hole was closed for the night.
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Has a friend ever come back from a trip to Europe and told you the public toilets there are great: they’re really clean? Define clean. Did you ever have someone barf into a helmet and then put it on? I trust the answer is no but I think you catch my drift. Those places would look like a CSI murder scene under a blacklight. Or like a bedspread at the Holiday Inn.
I used a public bathroom in Paris once. Supposedly it locked and cleaned itself between every use. So I thought, what if a bum got stuck in there? Would he drown?
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Why don’t environmentalists ever tell people they should stop having pets? What’s worse for the planet: dog shit or dog shit in a baggy, preserved in a landfill until the end of time? People run around bagging up crap behind Fido, but do you think they’d do that for you? They’d put you in a frigging home.
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Where do creationists think oil comes from? It’s fossil fuel. But if the earth is only 6,000 years old and scientists faked the fossil record, where does the oil come from? If dinosaurs walked the earth with humans, which must be true because Sarah Palin believes it, those fossils turn to oil fast. That’s good news because the hamster you buried in your backyard is fuel by now. If we just stop cremation and putting our dead in boxes, we’ll soon be right as rain. Apply some pressure and pretty soon Grandma’s corpse will be bubbling up some crude.
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Does anyone actually think that paint-on abs look good? If I have a huge belly, the last thing I want to do is draw a big diagram on it. The only place I want to see paint on a guy’s belly is at an NFL game. And that’s just so I can make fun of him. For God’s sake, people! Even Stevie Wonder has a sense of touch: do you think he doesn’t know what fat feels like?
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Why aren’t there any winos anymore? Where have they gone?
Related posts:
Sandwich Fixins
Sandwich Fixins #2
Sandwich Fixins #3
Survey Says…?
On occasion, I participate in online surveys. If you’ve read any advertising telling you how much money you can make from filling them out, it’s true. I’m writing this to you from my yacht.
After completing quite a few, and marveling at companies’ need to hear my humble opinions, I felt I’d become something of an expert. At the very least, I was well-versed in answering the demographic questions which precede each one.
Imagine my surprise when I saw this:
Granted, I’ve seen different iterations of this question over time. It used to be simply: What is your gender? I assumed someone had complained about the plain-spoken rudeness of that when I started to see this variation: Which do you consider yourself? I still found this relatively straightforward. I remained confident of my reply.
But now they ask me this: Which of the following best describes my GENDER? Suddenly I’m confused. Who is doing the describing? If it’s the man who saw me pumping gas, wearing a plaid shirt after I’d gotten my hair cut too short, which way would he lean?
If I’m describing it, how best to judge? I’m not a fan of menstruation, but my junk is on the inside. I watch football but don’t spend all day taking a dump while reading the paper.
I could be a pre-op transsexual. If we haven’t had the surgery, aren’t we all pre-op transsexuals? Where will we get all those testicles? Will they use ping pong balls? Surely racquet balls would be too heavy. And where would we put them? It seems like they’d just be in the way. Why don’t more men wear skirts?
Okay, I don’t have testicles, but does that truly make me female? Wouldn’t a man whose huevos fell victim to an unfortunate threshing machine accident be offended that I’ve made this assumption?
Damn these online taskmasters! Describing, I can understand. I can do that. But best? How can I know for sure?
Don’t Mess with Mamet
It seems Jeremy Piven wished to be excused early from the run of David Mamet’s Speed-the-Plow on Broadway. He was just exhausted and incidentally wanted to attend the Golden Globe ceremony. The schedule was adjusted so that he could attend, tired though he might be, then return and finish his couple of weeks as the lead in the play.
Fulfilling his obligation proved too much for the actor’s constitution. He ditched his well-reviewed role and forced his costars to go on without him. Why? Too much sushi. Somehow he had managed to give himself mercury poisoning.
Forget that the man would hardly have time to utter a line between shoving fistfuls of tuna in his piehole to have that effect. Even if he were sucking, snorting and skin-popping the stuff—I think you catch my drift. Bullshit.
Surprisingly, there was much handwringing done over this. It was taken seriously, with urgent talk of mercury levels, fattiness of fish, highness on the food chain, et cetera. I believe a tuna may have been called in to testify. An order of protection may have been issued.
Whether Mr. Piven could resist the urge to leap facefirst into a sushi bar and wallow, snuffling, in its fleshy delights was a cause for grave concern. Limo routes were adjusted accordingly.
Needless to say, this medical crisis precluded Mr. Piven’s return to Broadway. His experimental chelation therapy via single-malt Scotch had doubtlessly already begun.
At some point, a reporter with Daily Variety thought to ask Mr. Mamet, the play’s author and director, his opinion of Piven’s untimely departure. Mamet said, “My understanding is that he is leaving show business to pursue a career as a thermometer.”
Boom! This is why I love David Mamet. What a perfectly crafted line. I like you, too, Jeremy, but you’re the Tawana Brawley of Broadway. Don’t turn your back; there might be a writer there poised to take your measure.