Archive for the ‘And jokes and jokes’ Category


Newest Joke

March 7, 2007

I used to be one of these like, “emo” cutter kids. But I wasn’t really hurting myself. It’s just that whenever I heard an emo kid bitch, I would cut him.



February 17, 2007

This joke is largely in the verbal telling, but I’ll give it a go anyway

This guy walks into a talent agents office. He says “boy, have I got an act for you!” The talent agent says, “I’ve got to stop leaving my fucking door open. I guess you’re in here now, make it quick.” Guy pauses, thinks.

“It’s a family-type act,” he starts, “starts with just a man and his three sons. His wife is dead, so she inevitably misses her cue and has to be dragged on stage. Anyway, the man lines his sons up, pulls his cock out and rams them in the ass one at a time. Fucking guy doesn’t even give a courtesy reach around. Meanwhile, they’ve had no prep and the dad is fucking huge, so one by one, like the fountains at a swanky casino, blood and shit starts pouring out of their assholes. If the audience is lucky, there’s some backed up semen, and that starts coming out too. Now the wife has been dragged on stage by this point, and she’s been dead for several weeks. Maggots, curious at all the commotion, start pouring out of every orifice. But these are no ordinary maggots. Theses are super happy terrific Japanese maggots, who have been specially trained to go from orifice to orifice spreading joy, or whatever it is that maggots spread. As this is going on, professional fluffers sneak on stage and get the boys hard, and there’s a sort of ring toss kind of game, only the rings are on fire. Eventually, the boys’ penises are as enflamed and red as their assholes. At this point – and this takes real talents, the father shoves a microscope up each of their asses, after of course sanitizing it, and pushes on their prostates. The microscope allows this to be broadcast onto a big screen, in a kind of “insider moment”. At this point, they all ejaculate violently onto the wife. In a surprise move, a gerbil, seemingly from nowhere, wriggles out of the dads ass, gasps, and dies. Now, they take the come, blood, and maggot covered dead wife, string her up by her feet, and stick a fork up her ass.”…

At this point the talent agent got indignant. “Now you’ve gone to far. Who the hell do you think you are that you could get away with an act like this?”

The guy replied, simply “we’re Celebrities!”



February 10, 2007

it’s that time again! yes, time for another standup in progress.

Without further ado.

When you have classmates who have a lot of money, and don’t realize that you don’t have the same means as them, you have to find little ways to get around it. Like you might be out getting some food somewhere, and then when the bill comes, you pull this move. “Ohhhh damnit!, I don’t have any change. Does anybody have a 10 or something?” Now, the key to this move is looking not only annoyed, but genuinely surprised that you don’t have a 10. Now you know that you don’t have a 20, a 50, a 5, a credit card, debit card or even a food stamp, but they wouldn’t understand that. Not having any change, they understand. They’re sympathetic. They murmur among themselves. “Hmmm, no change. I totally understand. Happened to me last week. It’s an epidemic.”

Going to an all white school, I realized that I was different from my classmates. I couldn’t afford to pay for certain luxuries, like in transportation and whatnot. It’ll be February, and a white kid will say “man, it’s cold, I better find a cab.” Whereas I would say, “wow, it’s cold, I better find a white person.” See, they were used to taking cabs places and being their instantly. Having to take the train places meant that I had to plan a little differently, and leave more time to get to parties and such. God forbid I misplanned and got somewhere too early. I get to a party, it’s all light outside, parents still home. I have to pretend I’m delivering a package or something. “Why is he delivering a package at seven p.m. in street clothes? I don’t know, Honey, it must be one of those Negro customs.” Or I get there ridiculously late, knock on the door, the family’s sitting there having breakfast. God forbid somebody who takes cabs everywhere should have to take the train. Or, more accurately, God forbid I should have to be there. Because they just ask the stupidest questions, once they get one or two stops past where they or their therapist lives. “What part of the Queens is this?!?” “Bitch, this is 23rd and 6th!”. Or, the other annoying one. If you don’t live somewhere close to them, they have no sense of direction, and wherever they are, they ask you if it’s near where you live. We could go on a class trip, to like, Washington D.C., and as long as we get on a train to get there, I hear them whispering “I think X lives near here.” “He must, there’s a lot of black people around. They like to stay together.”

I hate being one of those comedians who tells just white/black jokes, but there are differences. Like in the way they walk. See, black people walk like this. (walk normally). Whereas white people walk like this. (walk normally). I’m sorry. I kind of fucked that up. In the second example, imagine I’m walking into a job.

I’m kidding, but it’s true, the unemployment rate among blacks is higher than among other people. But at a certain point, you have to start taking responsibility. Like if you go into a job interview and don’t get it. Maybe it is because you’re black, Shantanasia, maybe it is. Or maybe it’s because you brought two kids to the interview. I’m just saying. Or because the first thing you did when you got to the office was to stuff 22 sweet and lows and a copy of Golf Digest into your purse.

It’s a hard time to be a black person. And not for the old reasons. It’s hard now, because we can’t really complain anymore. Like you complain about having to share a room about two of your brothers, and out of nowhere some Mexican or Chinese dude just pops up with a story about how they had to share a room a quarter of the size with eight more people while running a restaurant or a Laundromat. Or you watch some documentary about people getting beaten or hosed during the civil rights era, and say something about how fucked up it is, and then an Arab person pops up and says “30 years ago? That happened to my brother Akhmed yesterday. And he wasn’t even fighting for civil rights. He was just chilling in his village 10,000 miles away.” Or a black guy complains that people think he’s lazy, or stupid, or untrustworthy. Now here’s an Indian guy. “You think that’s bad? People think I’m Arab.”

I date a white girl, I’m not going to lie about that. Hey, hey, hey now, I went to a white middle school, high school, college. I had to find some way to prove I was really a black guy. Anyway, there are differences. Politically I mean. Like in the candidates we choose to support. We both choose candidates who reflect who we are. Like as a charismatic black male, I naturally gravitate towards Barack Obama. And she gravitates towards Hillary Clinton, because I get blowjobs at work. I guess it wouldn’t be so bad if I weren’t a middle school tutor.

I play a lot of basketball, which is cool, you know. And during the summer, I like to play outside. And inevitably, it attracts, like, old black dudes to watch. It’s like they hear the sound if a ball, drop whatever mixture of pork and hot sauce and malt liquor they’re eating and rush over as fast as they can. And it’s cool, you know, until the ball goes out of bounds and rolls over towards one of them. Then all of a sudden they start having flashbacks and shit. It’s like they want to prove that they used to play or something and so instead of just giving the ball back to you, they have to pull out some globetrotter shit. But it never works. Like they try to go behind their back or something and it goes in the wrong direction, and you have to send somebody after it. And by somebody I mean that guy whose just happy to be playing.


stand up

January 30, 2007

I just figured out how to get back into this blog, so I’m going to post a bunch of stuff pretty soon. This standup is kind of a work in progress.

Alright, how are you guys feeling. By a round of complete silence, how are you guys? Excellent, this is going to be a good show. I’m a lazy guy. What can I say. I’m not ashamed. Most of the progress in the world was made by people who were probably lazy. Take fire. Fire was probably discovered by some lazy caveman who didn’t want to freeze to death, but wasn’t willing to get up and go inside his cave. The wheel was definitely a lazy person. “I want to move…but, I don’t want to stand up.” Religion? Had to be a lazy person. Some lazy guy must have thought, “I want to take advantage of and rob people, but I only want to work once a week…” Everything is lazy people. Porno magazines. Invented by a person who was too lazy to even come up with his own fantasies. Some other guy took it further. He invented the Internet. That’s the height of laziness. “I know I don’t have a job, or a girlfriend, or a car, but fuck turning pages. You know whose not lazy? Terrorists. Lazy people are never terrorists. They’re never serial killers either. Or stalkers. Like those pedophiles who stalk the little children? Stalking takes work. It’s tough to find the perfect twelve year old to stalk. You have to wait outside schools, ice cream parlors. You have to make up elaborate lies just to get around the kids…you have to waste valuable time and money building a fucking Neverland Ranch. Actually, it used to be difficult. Now they even made that easy. There’s a group, most of you have probably heard of it. The North American Man Boy Love Association, or as it’s known for short, uh, Myspace.

I’m in favor though. You hear all these coaches and commercials and announcers talking about separating the men from the boys. I think it’s good that finally there’s a website that brings them back together. I don’t want you to think that Myspace is just for 35 year old men to find young boys to stalk. There are plenty of girls on Myspace too. It’s got everything a weirdo could want. It’s like a WalMart for pedophiles. Even better. They don’t even have to leave their houses anymore. It’s fucked up when you can even pedophiles can do their shopping online. You can get good jobs being lazy. The best jobs, in fact. Look at a lot of high-paying, high profile jobs. CEO’s, entertainers – they work like eight or nine months a year. Hell, some of the best jobs work only three or four months sometimes – actors,…athletes…presidents. The one thing guys still had to work for was getting girls, and now Facebook made that easy too. All you have to do now is type in Scripps, and most of the work is done. Now I’m not saying that all Scrippers are easy, just, you know, the girls.

I can’t make these sorts of jokes anymore though, I have a girlfriend, have had one for a while now. Things kinda slow down after a while the fire is gone. You know the fire is gone when your girlfriend catches you cheating, and rather than being mad, she’s just relieved she had a night off. But we go out sometimes though, to little restaurants. I call her up and suggest we go to this or that place, then maybe back to my room to “hook-up”. But she complains sometimes, as everybody does. But one time it was just ridiculous. She just went off once. So one time she says, “I don’t know, the service is terrible, the menu is unappetizing, and the portions are tiny.” So I tell her, it’s fine we can go to a different restaurant. She says, “ no, the restaurant is fine, I was talking about the hookup”. And I wasn’t even insulted, because it meant I had the night off. That’s how lazy I am.

I have had jobs before though, I’m not entirely lazy. I used to babysit. But even that I kind of half-assed. I’m not going to lie, I didn’t really pay that close attention. Once I was holding the kid when I went in the kitchen for a drink, and wound up getting mixed up. Yeah, I wound up vigorously shaking the kid, and molesting the orange juice. It was ok, though, we both wound up fine and ended up taking a nap. Although, now that I think about it, we probably should have put our clothes back on before his parents got back. It was a good nap though. I’m a big fan of the nap. But sometimes it’s not appropriate. Like during class, or meetings, or funerals, or sex. I took a nap during sex once. But hey, in my defense, she had already been sleeping for an hour. I know what some of you are thinking: wow, an hour, that’s not bad, at least he’s got more stamina than I expected. What I failed to mention was that 55 of those minutes were spent trying to unclasp her bra. I guess I’m just more used to training bras. She didn’t wake up at all though, which is kind of a miracle. What can I say. She needed the sleep. The combination of schoolwork, and extracurriculars, and dating me, and roofies…Some of you saw that joke coming. That’s because some of you have woken up at CMC before. Date rape is serious though, it’s not a joking topic. Girls, look to your left. Now look to your right. Statistically speaking, both of those people will date rape you within the next six months. The only way to avoid a possible date rape charge is to get the appropriate form signed and faxed to the Office of Campus Intergendered Affairs for approval within five minutes of hooking up. That, or letting me watch. I’m not trying to influence you to do one or the other, but the Office of Campus Intergendered Affairs doesn’t actually exist. I know what you guys are thinking; where are all of my faxes going then? They’re all going to Tom from Myspace.