Balls and Walnuts
more than you ever wanted to know
Category Archives: Humor
I am not gay.
Sen. Larry Craig, who in May told the Idaho Statesman he had never engaged in homosexual acts, was arrested less than a month later by an undercover police officer who said Craig made a sexual advance toward him in an airport men’s room. — IdahoStatesman.com
I have nothing but sympathy for the Republican senator from Idaho. The man devoted his entire professional life to defending and promoting solid Family Values by voting to impeach President Clinton (after all — Clinton was a nasty, bad, naughty boy), opposing a woman’s right to choose at every turn (0% rating by NARAL — such a badge of honor), and most of all, working diligently to scuttle any bill which might promote gay rights. Yes, you have to respect a man with such a wide stance on the issues.
And what does he get in return for decades of public service? He gets the shaft, that’s what, courtesy of the International Gay Conspiracy! This whole situation really blows.
I feel for this man, though, because I, too, am not gay.
Thirteen comedy duos
Hope you’re ready to burn up the next two hours of your life with YouTube videos (each one personally screened by yours truly).
Edited to add . . .
I guess I’ll finish this later tonight, but I thought I’d give you something to chew on in the meantime. Here we go.
Argument clinic
Back when I played biologist, I used to say if you could imagine a situation in nature, nature would (eventually) provide an example. That’s not entirely true — see niches, unfilled — but it sure seemed true at the time.
I suspect it IS true in the blogosphere, though; and today I found an ounce of proof: someone has come up with an argument clinic that does John Cleese proud. (Hat tip to Crooks and Liars.)
Meet BlogWarBot (and take note of several great arguments in their comment section). Here’s my argument (I’m “guest”):
Why’s it funny? ‘Cuz.
An odd bit of comedy lore holds that punchlines containing ‘k’ sounds are funnier than punchlines that lack them. According to Mel Helitzer,
Mel Brooks agrees. There are phonetic values in certain words that almost guarantee a laugh. “Instead of saying salmon, turkey is a funnier sound. It just helps.”
Why is the k sound funny? Research indicates that babies associate the sound with comfort and joy. Think of many of the words we coo to babies, and you’ll notice they have a k sound, even though most of them begin with the letter c. Just a few are cutie, cookie, kitten, cuddle . . .
. . . and so on. Who am I to dispute ‘research,’ but I’m not convinced. And yet the notion persists. Tonight, over at the Indecision 2008 blog, they have a cool post: 95-year-old Shecky Sloan, a Catskills veteran, weighs in on the comic aptitude of the Democratic Presidential candidates:
John Edwards on Hillary’s outfit: “Not sure about that coat.”
Shecky Says: Taking a pot shot at the lady’s outfit? Well, it’s not my style, but I know the kids like that kind of thing. Oh, my wife said to mention that it’s not a “coat,” it’s a “jacket.” Maybe he was going for the funny “k” sound in “coat,” but that’s also in “jacket.” Good looking kid, though.
The rest is worth a look, by the way. Turns out Biden is a comic genius, while Hillary sucks lemons (that’s my opinion — Shecky is silent on the topic).
Certainly, not all punchlines depend on a ‘k’ sound. But what about punchlines whose power hinges on the sound of the words? Surely such a punchline would have to work in a ‘k’ sound, right?
An attractive young woman sees a gynecologist for the first time. He takes a thorough history, listens to her heart and lungs, then moves on to the pelvic exam. In the midst of the exam, she hears him say, “Do you mind if I numb this up?”
“Well, um . . . okay, sure.”
“Mmmm num num num num num num num num.”
See? Not a ‘k’ in that entire line*.
D.
*You have no idea how long it took me to figure out a legitimate way to tell that joke.
Those Potter spoilers for which you have yearned
Now that the Rowling wench has profited from her lies, I supposed you would like to know the truth of the matter. Sans filigree, sans varnish, as those Americans say.
First and foremost, I am fine, as you can plainly see. In the bone-chilling denouement of our misadventures, I most certainly did not get my hair caught up in one of Voldemort’s Convolvulus spells; my scalp warms my pate still, nary a drop of blood spilt. Nor did that spell foreshorten Little Lord Potter’s wand, as is evident here. (That last image is neither safe for work nor conducive to good corneal health. Click only if you wish to indulge your most self-destructive tendencies.)
Norbert the dragon did not, with a fiery belch, roast the hapless Luna Lovegood. Luna and Hermione presently cohabit in a kitschy Soho flat, but don’t expect La Rowling to provide those steamy details. No, she’d rather turn the poor girl into Lovegood flambé than scandalize her young readers and jeopardize her precious profits.
Given Ms. Granger’s present lifestyle choices, I needn’t comment on her on-again, off-again histoires de coeur with that Weasley sniveler. But never fear: I understand Nymphadora slipped Weasley some Amortentia potion at last year’s Sorting Ceremony Feast, and now he is an official Tonk Boy Toy. I was wondering why she asked me for a dram of Rohypnol . . . the woman never did have confidence in her potion-making abilities.
What about all those deaths and resurrections of which Rowling is so very fond? All of it untrue. Yes, yes, life is so dreadfully undramatic, isn’t it? Why, just the other day Albus and I were giggling over our butter beers on this very point. We had received our advance copy of Deathly Hallows (Rowling grows a positively fetching tail if she fails to send us each an ARC) and for all the laughter, we could not see through the tears. Voldie swung by our table and made a grab for Albus’s copy.
“What is it? What is it? What confabulations has that hideous muggle wrought now?”
“You — you’re dead again,” said Albus. “Sorry old chap.”
I didn’t have time for Voldie’s grumblings. He was bringing us all down. I said, “Simply be content you’re not the object of slash fiction couplings with young Potter.”
That stopped him. “Much of that, is there?”
“Reams of it,” I said.
“Oy,” said Albus. “You’re making me hot. I wonder what Minerva’s up to tonight?”
S.
Thirteen things Americans should know about British Columbia
I shall begin this Thirteen with what is fast becoming a traditional whine:
If you knew what I had been through today, you would be impressed that I managed to write anything at all.
Cue violins, then follow me below the fold.
What, no rectum?
Erin just had to get me back for the Aneros prostate stimulator (pictured), so she sent me to the Erotech website.
Erin, I’m not going to ask how you found out about the LoveLumpTM; but I picture you up way past your bedtime, cursing the Goat for falling asleep while you were working on your daily blog post, figuring you’d find some porn satisfaction on the Web, and racking your brains for the most twisted search terms possible.
“Hmm,” Erin sez. “How about appendage, organ, reactive, and warm? Ah, here we go!”
Good thing this is Friday, because the photo below the fold is sooo not work safe. You’ve been warned.
Overheard at the Hogwarts Association of Romantic Bisexuals and Lesbians
Reports of Voldemort-sympathizers among the HARBL prompted the Hogwarts faculty to send an observer to their most recent meeting. Minerva was the logical choice, but stubborn as ever, she insisted she liked a good hard pounding as well as the next slag; and Hagrid declined this opportunity to acknowledge his true self. I drew short straw.
With my drab attire and poorly coiffed hair, there was little chance I could pass myself off as bisexual — though, if there were no other way, I might have invited young Weasley along; the boy would provide believable cover. But there was another way. I swallowed a polymorph draught and soon became the dentists’ daughter: Granger.
I set out for the HARBL assembly, sharing my most simpering smile with each passing classmate. How difficult was it to feign the malapert’s identity? Not difficult at all. I had borrowed the library’s dustiest tome and now hugged it to my apricot-sized breast, spouting inane trifles like, “There’s little truth Rabastan Lestrange waterboarded Frank and Alice Longbottom; he himself admitted to using the cruciatus curse!” Blah, blah, blah. I needn’t have bothered; by custom, everyone ignores the impudent child.
Mere feet from the oaken door, I espied Granger herself heading for the meeting, her face a mask of lusty purpose. Who knew! And now, I had to think quickly, for fast approaching was Edvardus Moot, the transsexual Hufflepuff Chaser.
“You!” I cried out, eager to get in the first “You!”
“You!” quoth the real Granger.
Came my riposte, “The warp of your cardigan has come loose,” and when she looked down, I struck her with my ebony wand, then hustled her into a vacant broomstick closet. After applying a hasty Immobulus spell to the vain little oaf, I hastened to the meeting.
Naked Couch Day, Sans Couch
D: But but but Dean’s doing it! In two places, even. And Kris is doing it, too!
K: NO. I will NOT let you humiliate us in public AGAIN.
D: Those leopard skin briefs could have belonged to anyone.
K: Anyone with the fur of a Tasmanian devil.
D: Exactly. And that chair photo left a great deal to the imagination.
K: Really? You thought so? I thought it left very little to the imagination. Just a teensy inconsequential mote —
D: You won’t even have to take off your clothes.
K: What?
D: There was nothing in Dean’s challenge that said both parties had to be naked.
K: So I’m not going to regret this later.
D: Not at all.
K: But you might regret this later.
D: I would if I had any shame.
Yes, that’s precisely what led up to this particular photo shoot . . . yielding an image that captured the zeitgeist of a generation, a cover widely regarded as Rolling Stone Magazine’s greatest ever.