Archive for the ‘humor’ Category

 If you ask me, we are doomed, because if the children are our future, we are seriously screwed.
What’s that you say? I’m being harsh and overly judgmental? No, I’m not, and I’ll tell you why. In recent weeks I’ve had the opportunity to look the future in the eyes, (and eavesdrop on its conversations) and let me tell you, it didn’t give me a warm and fuzzy feeling. I got that feeling from a nurse in a bar in Portland, Maine, but that’s a different post all together.
Now, to be clear, when I’m talking about the future, I’m referring to teenagers. Even more specifically, I’m referring to my 18yr old niece, my 15yr old nephew and a modest sampling of their idiot friends.

Here are three things I learned.
1. Despite being connected on a Global Network in the most technologically advanced society the world has ever known, EVERYTHING is AMAZING! Their boyfriends are AMAZING! Their girlfriends are AMAZING! Cheesy pop singers are AMAZING! Facebook is AMAZING! Youtube videos of morons crashing into walls are AMAZING! Apparently, the threshold for teenage amazement is pretty friggin low.
Here’s a tip. When hearing that a teenage girl’s boyfriend is AMAZING! It is not advisable to ask, “What, are you dating a magician?” Because, clearly, you need to lighten up and you are the only one who thinks that’s funny.

2. The rules of common sense regarding the wearing of clothes do not apply to teenagers. Look. Ol’ Rod is by no means some kind of fashion template for the hordes to follow. However, call me crazy but when it is 10 degrees Fahrenheit, to me it seems perfectly logical to wear a jacket. Additionally, when I leave the house, I don’t wear pajamas and slippers. When did that become ok? I suppose in the future we’ll all be walking around with our bathrobes open, with our teeth chattering in the coolest of ways.

Another tip. The question “That’s what you’re wearing?” will always be replied with a rolling of the eyes and the word,” Why?” Furthermore, I don’t advise answering the why with,” Because, you look like a mental patient out for a walk.” If you do say this, expect to be asked what your fucking problem is.

3. The future is hairless. The only exception here is for boys. In their case, growing a wispy gaggle of chin hair sans moustache only adds in making them AMAZING! The rest of the body must be shaved smooth, a la pornstar style, lest he be denigrated by female teens for having “O.M.G. hair on his balls, ewwwww!”
Final tip. Don’t eavesdrop on a teen’s conversation unless you are prepared to hear shit that will blow your freaking mind.

Bonus tip. Don’t refer to a teenage girl’s AMAZING! boyfriend as Amish Dave unless you want to be told “Jesus, would you let it go!” and again…. “You are the only one who thinks it’s funny.” (My personal favorite)

Maybe it’s just me. But I kind of long for the days when I would trim up the goatee, take a Sassoon jean wearing girl out on a date in my “Totally Rad” Mustang with the hope that she might be into fondling my hairy nutsack. LOLZ Bitches!


X+Y=Z (hint Z is around 2hrs)

Posted: December 14, 2010 in humor, true story

Keep the questions rolling in.  Don’t be bashful about putting them on the other page though, unless you think the email route is the way to go. Then do that. I promise I won’t publish your email address or give your real name. Here’s the latest gem.

Q. Ken asks, ” Rod, I hate math. What’s the answer to:  T = d + D = sqrt [ x 2 + 5 2 ] + sqrt [ (20-x) 2 + 10 2 ] ?”

A. Ken, I’m no mathamagician. In fact, that doesn’t even vaguely resemble anything I ever did in a math class. Like any sane person would, I googled it, and apparently it’s something called calculus and it relates to minimum distance. Ken, are you a nerd? If so, I recommend that you get one of your nerdling friends to help you with this. If you are not a nerd, find one fast. It’s your only hope.

However, I’m not one to leave you hanging. Here’s what I know about minimum distance.

  If X is equal to a bottle of Dr. McGillicuddy’s Mentholmint Schnapps that you purchase at a liquor store in Montpelier, Vt.,  and Y =  Greyhound Bus travelling East at snail’s pace toward my parents house in Maine , then Z is = to the amount of time it will take you to drink X and be kicked off the Bus (Y) somewhere near St. Johnsbury, Vt. for trying to get a hippie girl to give you a hummer in the bathroom. Hope that helps.

Dear snow plow driver,

Hi there. It’s me, Rod. The first snowfall of the year is upon us and I just wanted to drop you a line or two in order to clear the air about how we ended things last year in hopes that we can move on from those unfortunate events.  I’d like you to know that if there is a way to create some harmony between us, I’ll do it.  I’m all about building bridges.

  1. No matter what I said, I do not think your mother is a godless whore.  I don’t even know where that came from.  Jeez, ya know, I really regret saying that.  I’d had a long day, maybe even a few beers. I’m an idiot and sometimes I say hurtful things I don’t mean.  I’m sure your mother is a God fearing woman whose reputation in the community and the local church is beyond reproach.  Along the same lines, I’m sure your wife is a handsome woman and not the ugly, three- toed, swamp pig I referred to. I have no idea what her ass looks like, but I’m confident it isn’t fat. Can we just chalk that up to a heat of the moment mistake and move on? I’d like that.
  2. You are an excellent driver, skilled in your chosen profession, and I’m sure that it isn’t easy to get a snowplow driving license.  I know it’s impossible to get one of those licenses in a gumball machine, and I’m fully aware that the training to drive a snowplow is not part of a county social services program designed to give slack-jawed retards something to do.
  3. I know that you are on a pre-determined route with the roads you plow and that you are most certainly not ‘lying in wait’ for me to clear the berm at the end of my driveway. That’s just ridiculous, and I’m ashamed for being so paranoid and adolescent in my thinking. I know you weren’t laughing maniacally as you buried me in for the fourth time. I needed the exercise anyway.
  4. That ice chunk I threw was not aimed at your open window. Sometimes the magic of a winter wonderland brings me back to my childhood and I get the itch to toss a snowball or two. That one got away from me. Seriously. I hope you didn’t need stitches.
  5. Don’t worry about that mailbox. It was ugly and needed replacing anyway. 

Wow, talk about coincidences. As I type this I can hear you coming down the street.  I’m gonna go out and wave to you and then later when you read this you’ll smile. It’ll be like a special moment captured in time, fostering our budding friendship. Be right back.

Listen and listen good, you miserable prick! It’s way too early in the season for the type of shit you just pulled.  Are you too fucking blind to see where the road ends and my lawn begins? And the mailbox? Again? Really?  Hey asshole, why don’t you put the beer down for five minutes and join us in the land of the living? Mark my words. I’ll fix your ass, loser. I know where you live.


The guy five minutes and a couple smokes away from a shoveling induced heart attack

If you ask me, the time between Thanksgiving and New Year’s  is my favorite time of the year.  Now, nevermind all the waxing poetic about the magic of the holidays and family get togethers and reflecting about the turning of the seasons and another year past, because I’m not talking about any of that crap. As I have referred to previously, I spent the better part of a decade as a Teacher and, as any Teacher knows, this part of the year is the Sweet Spot in the calendar.

Why do I call it the Sweet Spot? There are several reasons. First of all, as a Teacher if you’ve done things right, by now you have set the tone in your classroom and by that I mean that you have instilled fear into your students and the certainty that you will lay the smack down for any transgression of the rules hangs over them like a heavy cloud.  I made it a point to be serious as a heart attack for the entire first quarter. No jokes, few smiles, firm but fair with no bending of the rules. In short, I was a huge prick from Day 1 to Parent Teacher Conferences and the message was clear; Do not fuck with Mr. R. 

With the proper tone set, I entered  a period of time within the Sweet Spot I liked to call the Season of  Asskissing.  Why? Because Christmas was in sight. (I taught at a Catholic School. If you aren’t Catholic replace Christmas with whatever Heathen Holiday you celebrate. It doesn’t matter, you’re going to hell anyway.) My students knew if they screwed up now, the potential for a shitty holiday was a very real thing. I taught middle-schoolers for the majority of my tenure as the fool talking to the walls.  Middle-schoolers like to try to make everyone believe that they are mature and worldly and full-grown, but secretly a good many of them still wear footed pjs and cuddle with mom on the couch before bedtime.  While they might not completely believe in Santa, they haven’t yet lost their innocence (except Jasmine, she was a total ho at 13). The bottom line here is that they were always on their best behavior to secure a spot on the nice list. They washed boards and took out trash without being asked.  Homework was neat and completed on time. Even the smelly kid turned his act up a notch and bathed a little more regularly. (quit picking your nose, Ryan).

It’s not just the kids who took part in the Season of Asskissing. Being the only male on the faculty and a very snazzy dresser, I found that during the Sweet Spot/SOA I was beset by a bevy of middle-aged cougar moms wanting to help me with everything from decorating the classroom and organizing the class act for the Christmas Play to finalizing all the details for the pinnacle event of the Season; The Class Christmas Party. Being a straight male, and therefore lacking any panache whatsoever when it comes to interior design, I would sit back and ‘supervise’ as the ladies descended upon the class with their decorations and Thermoses of Hot Chocolate. One year, the principal poked her head in to see what was going down and shot me a look mixed with shock and admiration. I winked and nodded at her and held out my mug for a cocoa refill. She walked away shaking her head.

With the classroom aglow and the details of The Party set, it was pretty much smooth sailing in the Sweet Spot. It’s the shortest ranking period of the school year so being a lazy  smart teacher, assignments were doled out at a minimum ensuring little in the way of  my time spent afterschool grading papers and much in the way of visiting the local watering holes for Holiday Happy Hours. As a result,there were a few extra Movie Days during the Sweet Spot.  This is also where I’d loosen the noose a little as well. A joke here or funny story there went a long way in getting the kids to see that I wasn’t a complete ass and it also primed the pump for receiving gifts at the Classroom Christmas Party.

Look, I’m not a total dick. Every year I would put out a letter to the Parents stating matter-of-factly that I did not expect to receive any gifts and that the opportunity to shape the young minds of their fine children was in itself a Christmas Miracle.

And every year they bought that shit, Hook. Line. and Sinker.   When the day of The Classroom Christmas Party arrived,  students with cougar moms in tow would arrive bearing extravagant gifts for yours truly, but before you get all indignant on me, realize that the gifts weren’t as much for me as they were to show up the other moms. If I got a ten-dollar paperweight from Derek’s mom, I could be sure that I was going to get a twenty-dollar paperweight from Renee’s mom. One year I got a pair of very expensive silk boxers and a personal letter smelling of perfume from Jasmine’s mom, but that is a different post all together. All in all the competition for out doing each other in the gift giving department was ridiculous, but I made out like a fat rat and I friggen loved it.

Once the Party of the Year was over and the kids were sent home the best part of the Sweet Spot started. Winter Vacation; Ten days of bliss and family get-togethers and reflecting on another year gone down the crapper and all that happy shit.

This is the only time of year that I miss teaching and the Sweet Spot between Thanksgiving and New Year’s, not counting Summer Vacation of course.

They say good things come in threes. I don’t know shit about that, but I do know that the following three stories have one thing in common; they made me think, What the Fuck?!?

Since it’s the holiday shopping season, I figured I’d start off with a great gift buying idea for the hard to buy for friend, pervy uncle or the weird neighbor who stares a little too long and whistles softly to himself as you walk by.

It’s a genuine Snooki Blow Up Doll. 

Sausagefest? Not with this little honey around.  She’s the Jersey whore who’s always ready for more. Pretend your living in style on the Jersey Shore. Pop in some Bon Jovi to set the mood and, as the box says, fill her three greasy holes with gravy.

 Gravy?? WTF!

Moving right along…. Well now, which one of us is proud of our mug shot on file with the local police? I know I’m not. My hair was all fucked up and my shirt didn’t match my eyes, Nick Nolte style. Had I known I was going to be immortalized on film I would have done that shit right.  Just like my next guest did….err … does. Weekly.

Ima stunna like no otha

Like many young women preparing for the weekend, hairdresser Kaylin Ransom has her nails done and picks out her nicest clothes. But then she drives more than an hour for a weekly appointment she can’t miss: having her mug shot taken at the county jail. Every Friday for the past six months, Ransom has traveled to the Lake County Jail as part of her 90-day weekend sentence on aggravated-battery and child-abuse charges.

This fashion concious sister gets thirty chances to get her glamour shot posted on the Lake County Sheriff’s Office website.

I know what you’re thinking. Rod, there’s no sex in this story. What gives?  I beg to differ, as does Ms. Ransom’s weekend cellmate, Jill, who was quoted as saying, ” Damn, she fine. Every Friday I’s like all tingly and shit. ‘Round fo tirty, Ima like, Hoooo gurrl, I can’t wait to tear that shit up!”

I like to end these things on a high note. Ya know, something that really just says, WHAT! THE! FUCK!…  So, I saved this next pearl for last. 

What’s a lonely nerdling to do, all alone again on a Friday night? If he could only find the right girl to ease his mind and the unrelenting boner in his corduroys. Sixteen year old, David Gillem Jr. found a way to get the girl of his dreams. He built her. Out of Legos. 

Mavis Gillard almost fainted when she opened her son’s bedroom door and caught David Jr. with what appeared to be a naked girl in bed.

A first she wanted to scream bloody murder, but on taking a closer look she knew something was more than a little odd. The Blond-haired vixen was made entirely of Lego blocks. The form was shockingly accurate in almost every detail, even down to the blue eyes and perfectly square 36dd breasts, typical for women with plastic augmentation.


That’s right, folks, the industrious little pervenstein not only built himself a girl, he took her for a test ride.

Mavis’ husband Bernie wasn’t as kind as he grilled Johnny over the use and reason for what was later referred to as, ‘Barbara Big Boobs.’

“She’s my friend and yes, we do have sex, sorta… Who cares, my friends like her and so do I.”

Taking over 125,000 pink-colored Legos and more than an estimated 2,200 hours to assemble, Barbara Big Boobs travels everywhere Johnny is able to lug her, and rumor has it that Barbara is equally “friendly” with David’s friends. Earning her keep, “she” has helped repay the more than five hundred dollar tab for her own construction

Sorta?!? WTF does that even mean?  And am I getting this straight? He not only gets it on with Lego Lolita, he pimps the bitch out to his friends too???  Holy BATSHIT Crazy, Batman!

David Gillard Sr. decided that his son is emotionally unstable and may require psychiatric attention, but others seem to disagree. The Lego Corporation wants to hire young David in order to create the design for a kit so the company can send more Barbara “models” to remote places like Antarctica, North Korea, or the International Space Station to entertain and amuse men working in prolonged isolation.

Psychiatric attention? Hmmmm… perhaps.  A gallon of Jergens lotion and some wetnaps?  Most Definitely! 

Enjoy your Humpday, folks.

 The  picture on the left appeared in my local newspaper. The names and locations have been altered 1. to protect all parties involved 2. to prevent me from having my ass kicked. 

He’s been chasing Beaver for 45 years but life-long Beaver Hunter, Ken Jenkins recently broke his personal record when he successfully pulled a 67.5 lb Beaver from a local beaver hotspot. When word of Jenkins feat got out , it spread like wildfire in this Northern New York town and curiously, not all of it was good. I know a good beaver story when I see one so I did a little poking around to see what the buzz was all about. 

My first stop was at the Mills Tavern, a local watering hole and gathering spot for beaver chasers both young and old. Tim McPhee, 25 was first to speak up when I mentioned word of Jenkins giant beaver.

” Ya know it’s true. Ken is pretty much a beaver chasing legend in these parts. In his younger days he got around quite a bit, bagging beaver all over the county. There’s even a story about once when he was in high school where he bagged three beavers in one night. I don’t know if it’s true or not but it makes a helluva good story. I know for a fact he’s gotten some beavers that were almost as big as that one. He just doesn’t tell anyone about them.”

Bill Johnson, 62, chimed in,” Yep, Ken’s an old beavermaster there’s no doubt about it. I was with him the night he bagged those three beavers. In fact, I was working one of those beavers pretty hard and he stole it right out from under my nose. He was selfish like that. I’ll tell you that boy was addicted to beaver. But he’s no spring chicken anymore. He doesn’t chase beaver like he used to. These days he goes after the old beavers. And old beavers tend to be the big ones. It ain’t really that hard to get yourself a big old beaver. I don’t see what the fuss is all about.”

I decided to go right to the source and tracked down Jenkins as he was coming out of the local Bob Evans restaurant where he had been enjoying the early bird special and regaling folks with tales of his beaver hunting escapades.

Me: Ken, it seems like everyone is talking about your giant beaver. What do you say to those who claim that it’s no big deal and that these days you only chase the old big beavers?

Ken: Well, it’s a small town and people like to talk, but there’s some truth to that. I’m getting older, no denying it. Chasing young beaver is a young man’s game. My legs don’t carry me like they used to and I’ve got a bad back now, so I focus on the older beavers.

Me: Is there a secret to bagging old beavers?

Ken: Young beavers move around a lot. They move from place to place sampling a lot of different kinds of wood. But an old beaver, well, once the weather gets cold an old beaver won’t travel too far from its house. It just stays near its house and grows a thick pelt and doesn’t get too picky about the kind of wood it gets. Once I find an old beaver, I visit it a few times a week and give it some nice hardwood. Pretty soon that beaver gets friendly and is waiting for me to show up. Once that happens it ain’t long before I bring that beaver home.

Me: So that’s how you know it’s an old beaver? By its size and the thickness of its pelt?

Ken: Those are indicators, sure. But you would be surprised how much younger a beaver looks when you take off the fur. Sometimes it’s a little unsettling, really.  I mean one minute you think you’ve got yourself a nice mature beaver and then boom, no fur and you’re not so sure. The thing I look for really is the look in the beaver’s eyes. An old beaver has certain look. It’s hard to explain, but when you’ve been chasing beaver as long as I have. You just know.

Me: Ken, what do you do with the beaver once you take off the fur? Do you eat it?

Ken: Beaver is an acquired taste. If it’s cleaned right it ain’t too bad, but there’s a gland there that makes it taste a little funky, especially the old ones. I used to eat it in my younger days but not much anymore.  My cousin Jill, on the other hand, she loves the taste of beaver. She can’t get enough of it. She’s always calling asking if I’ve got a beaver I can turn her on to. To each his own or her own for that matter.

Me: So Ken, what does the future hold for you? Will there come a day when you can’t go after the beaver anymore?

Ken: I don’t want to admit it but I suppose there will be a day when my beaver chasing days are over. But I’ve got a lifetime of memories and a shoebox full of beaver pictures to keep me busy when that day comes. And I hear there’s lots of stuff about beavers on the internet, so there’s always that I guess.

Me: I guess so. 

So there you have it, Ken Jenkins, man, myth, beaver chaser extraordinaire.