Temporary Fake Tattoo #25
I was born with a rare bone disease that keeps me as weak and fragile as a reed. I’m also quite allergic to any form of pain. If ever I were to commission a “real” tattoo, certainly I’d pass out and possibly die from exhaustion. And yet I needed to appear very bad-ass in effort to impress a handsome young biker gentleman I met at a local dive bar (a lone wolf with the most dreamy eyes this side of the open road).
My doctor recommended Temporary Fake Tattoo #25 as a medicinal substitute to the “real” tattoo I wanted to get (but simply couldn’t because of my delicate consistence). I bought a few hundred of these babies and have been wearing them every day since.
My biker boy, Dirty Dan, hasn’t noticed at all. He completely believes that the tattoo is real; he often admires the complex intricacies of the barbs while making here-and-there comments about how he wishes he had a tattoo this hardcore.
I’m happy to say that I succeeded in courting my dream man thanks to this product. Of course I expect to be buying many thousands more if I want to maintain this harmless deception. Especially because Dirty Dan and I have plans to get married as soon as the Supreme Court recognizes our love.
J. D. Watson, from English sacred poetry of the sixteenth, seventeenth, eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, by Robert Eldridge Aris Willmott, London, 1863.
(Source: archive.org)
Review of Truck Balls Bull Nuts
After moving into my new house, I thought to myself that I should buy a new truck to make myself appear even more bad-ass than I actually am (which is an almost impossible feat). My four-door Ford Excursion, the largest SUV in Ford’s lineup and a gas-guzzling monstrosity, did not have the same impression on my new neighbors as it did on my old friends back at the trailer park. Perhaps I needed something more elegant? Maybe something with enough interior space to seat the entire block and their families? So I traded my Ford in for a Lincoln Navigator, the full-size SUV styled and equipped for an upscale audience. Since my new ride shares the bulk of its underpinnings with the Ford Expedition, including its standard 310-horsepower 5.4-liter V8 and six-speed automatic transmission, I thought, “Finally, I’ll get some respect from these ignorant suburbanites…”
Turns out, nobody seemed to care much about my mammoth vehicle (except for, maybe, the parents of the three-year-old kid that I accidentally ran down, because, well, he was just too short and I couldn’t see him from my driver’s seat nearly six feet off the ground). Instead of buying yet another truck—something bigger and badder than before—I happened upon these fabulous Truck Nuts. And to make a long story short, people in my neighborhood finally seemed to take notice. If it’s true that your vehicle is an extension of your penis, then these nuts are the perfect accessory. They inspire awe and jealousy in everyone who see them. Now my neighbors stare intently at me in my truck as I barrel down the street. Some of the women even grab at their children, covering their eyes, afraid that my ostentatious show of virility might tempt their virgin daughters into a life of wickedness and sin. These Truck Nuts have given me what I deserve: respect, reverence, and attention. And best of all, I didn’t have to buy a new truck to teach my neighbors the meaning of the word “authority.”
“ One winter a Farmer found a Snake stiff and frozen with cold. He had compassion on it, and taking it up, placed it in his bosom. The Snake was quickly revived by the warmth, and resuming its natural instincts, bit its benefactor, inflicting on him a mortal wound. “Oh,” cried the Farmer with his last breath, “I shall never live to see the Dawn of Technology.” -”
Predictions
2011: The most powerful website in the world creates a social network.
2019: One third of the world belongs to the network.
2045: World War III begins.
2046: World War III ends.
2047: The internet is outlawed.
2065: Monkeys begin talking.
2082: The flying car is replaced with a flying talking monkey.
1987: Time Machines are invented.
456 BC: Martin Stevensonon, Professor of Time Mechanics at Ball State University, murders Aeschylus, playwright and soldier, by chucking a turtle at his head.
2004. They’re selling ice-cream in the parking lot!
2011: What were we talking about again?
