Posts Tagged ‘humor’

"Eat me!" Photo by law_keven / flickr

Here in the spic and span offices of The Curmudgeon, we write about people who are “washed up,” “washed out,” and “washed over,” but never have we written about Lobsters that have been washed ashore.  That’s right.  Free lobster.

It happened in St. John, New Brunswick, in a small seaside Canadian town.  A storm in the Atlantic caused the crusty crustaceans to wash ashore and word spread quickly:  “There’s free lobster, eh?”  To lobster lovers, it was a perfect storm, and the people came quickly to fill up on this bounty from the sea.  All those lobsters laying there on the beach, saying in their little lobster voices, “Eat me, eat me,” and “How’s a lobster roll sound?” and “Want some tail, sailor?”

But in today’s world nothing is so simple.  I mean, there are governments and all, and nothing doesn’t go through them somehow some way.  “Hold on there, my hungry citizens, where is my cut?”  That’s right.  The government took exception  to this free delicacy.  Free?  Who has ever heard of such an absurd thing?  Where is our cut?  In fact, the Canadian federal Fisheries and Oceans ministry said the shellfish sackers were breaking the law which says lobster can only be taken in traps by licensed fishermen during open season.  Anyone caught, the ministry continued, collecting lobsters without us getting our cut…er…I mean, anyone caught could be fined $100,000.

Mayor Pierre Godin of the town Petit-Rocher dismissed the warning with a wave of his hand, as though shooing a pesky fly, said (hopefully in a French accent,) “Sacre Bleu!  About one zouzand peepole have enjoyed zee lobster, including moi.  We have been eating zee washed up seafood for centuries, mon dieu!

And here I thought the U.S. had a lock on this kind of government intrusion, and it really doesn’t come as a shock, and yet I was a little taken aback that the feds insisted on sticking their fingers in this tasty bisque.  It’s not like the good citizens were fishing out of season or stealing from traps.  This was a gift from mother nature.

And we all know it’s not nice to fool with Mother Nature.

(This story was first reported in New Brunswick Telegraph-Journal, January 6th, 2010.)


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Here in the hyperactive offices of The Curmudgeon, we’re rushing here, running there, general hustling and bustling, and that’s just getting to the coffee room.  Needless to say, accidents will happen, and on more than one occasion, a hospital visit has been a needed if distasteful necessity.  This is why I found a hospital sign in Elmhurst, Queens, honest, refreshing really, and just stating it like it is.

None of this arrogant “Gods of Medicine Reside Herein” for them, no superior Peoria General Healing Center West do they proclaim, instead choosing an advertising, catch-their-attention, we’re open for business approach.  Well, they didn’t make the decision.  Fate did.  And fate is sometimes one funny dude…or chick.

Some choice lights burnt out on their neon sign, morphing their “Elmurst” neon into “Im hurt.”  Noticed by a passerby who took this picture, it was brought to the attention of The Guy Who Publicly Deals With Colossal Screw-ups.   It was a surprise to him.  “We’re going to get this fixed?” he asked.  Um, we don’t know…that’s what we’re asking you.  “Oh,” he said, “Yes.  I mean, we’re going to get this fixed.  Removing the baboon heart on that botched liver transplant will have to wait.”  Okay, he didn’t say that last one, but he might have.

I think they should leave it.  It says what it is, does, and promises.  They could win some kind of advertising award.

“Ow!  My brain!  Im hurt.”  Clearly, the person who utters these words wants to go to Elmhurst Hospital.

Simple.  Just watch out for the baboon hearts.

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Here in the cushie offices at The Curmudgeon, we are familiar with comfortable things. Recliners chairs every everywhere. We don’t have recliner races in the hallways or anything, but I think we soon will. You probably will too. Of course there’s the matter of getting your recliner to go.  Fast.

I now call him King of Recliners. Who else but the King could take his La-Z-Boy motoring down a Minnesota street and get a DUI. Dennis LeRoy Anderson plead guilty to driving his motor vehicle while drunk. He was sentenced to 120 days in jail but got probation. This info courtesy of TMZ.

He did exactly what your not supposed to do. Got hammered in a bar on eight or nine beers and got in his vehicle. While flying down the street – capable of 20 mph – he crashed into a parked vehicle. The King wasn’t hurt, but he was drunk, ringing up a 0.29, three times the legal limit. That’s as drunk as “Otis,” as in Mayberry.

Hey, everybody makes mistakes. He has that baby really souped up, too. He installed a converted lawnmower engine. The chair has a stereo, a headlight, and cupholders. Now that’s an Easy Chair. I can see me now, racing down main street with Lawrence Welk blastin’ on the stereo (that was a joke. It would probably be Sublime).

I’m going to get started tomorrow. For an engine, I think the old Suzuki motorcycle will do the trick, and that whiny engine noise will be perfect for bugging the neighbors. It’s got to be a little more tricked out though, CD player, satellite TV, built-in cooler, and whatever else I can think of.

Call me Easy Glider

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bat cat

Here in the clubby offices of The Curmudgeon, we are animal lovers.  We have written on this subject before so it’s no secret.  I can’t speak for the rest of the staff, but I, for one, am a dog lover, and as such am not particularly fond of cats.  And yet I own one.  He is, at times, not the nicest cat in the world, being a stray rescued from the “mean streets” and set in his wild and demanding ways.  You’d think he’d be grateful, but nooOOOOoooo.  In fact, My Evil Cat is Trying to Kill Me.

But even I am shocked at the recent goings on  in the United Kingdom, not at the behavior of a certain cat, but rather the wussiness of the Royal Mail Service.  According to the Weston Mercury, the mail delivery manager made a personal visit to notify the cat’s owner that unless their cat is restrained, they will cease to deliver mail to her address.  She was shocked.  “My cat wouldn’t hurt a fly,” she said.  Okay, that’s clearly a lie, for what cat can resist chasing a fly and knocking over everything it it’s path to get it.  But still, a fly is a far cry from a postman.

The cat, the delivery manager said, “as soon as it hears the letterbox, is straight out the cat-flap and attacks the post person.  Animal attacks are a major cause of injury to Royal Mail staff. If any further incidents of this nature are allowed to take place, I shall have no alternative other than to consider suspending the delivery of mail to your home.”  I can buy that most injuries to postmen are due to animal attacks, but cats?  In short, the cat “goes postal” on them.  Methinks I smell a rat.

So they performed an experiment.  The postal rep pretended to post something, but the cat didn’t do anything.  Just like a cat not to do it when it’s owners were around.  Cats are well known for their sneakiness and subterfuge.  But still, a cat?

I think the postal employees are a bunch of scaredy cats.  I certainly wouldn’t go to my supervisor whining about a little pussy beating me up.  And how many, exactly, postmen have reported this behavior?  One?  Two?  It makes a difference.  It could just be a bunch of Cat Hullabaloo.

I hope they get all this straightened out.

The postman doesn’t always ring twice.

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Here in the well-defended offices of The Curmudgeon (we have an alarm system you know, not to mention a few boobie traps) we are mixed on the issue of citizens owning handguns.  I think the waiting period is a good idea, after all, if you have a legitimate need for a firearm, then what’s your hurry?  “But Crusty,” you say, “criminals aren’t getting their handguns legitimately anyway, so it doesn’t deter them.”  Um…okay…you’re making my head hurt.  Let’s just put it this way: no one should be allowed to own a handgun…unless it’s me.  After all, guns don’t kill people.  People with guns kill people.  But seriously, I don’t have a problem with it.  I just think there should be rules.

The handgun debate is really not at issue here, except that they sometimes fall into the wrong hands and sometimes accidents happen.  And sometimes people are stupid.  All three are true for a Fort Meyers man who accidentally shot himself in the tucas, as reported on news-press.com.  Timothy Allen Davis, 22 years old and so much to learn, told the cops that when pulling a shirt from his drawer, his .380 semiautomatic handgun flipped in the air, landed and fired, hitting him in his caboose.  It reminded me of the Three Stooges.  Whenever Mo got shot in the butt, he ran around yelling, “I’m losing my mind!”

He didn’t even know he’d been hit, but when he went to tell his sister everything was fine and dandy, she noticed blood coming from his pants in the rear.  Let me tell you, if you ever have blood coming from your ass you’d better hope it’s from a bullet.

When asked for a statement, the gun said, “It was self-defense!”

Darwin is rolling over in his grave, convinced now his “survival of the fittest” theory is wrong…all wrong!”  I am against this increasing interloping by the government.  I suppose the bottom (pun intended) line is, I do believe in preserving our rights and the rights of man.

Let us never take away the right of man to shoot himself in the ass.

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Would you auction this Granny?

Would you auction this Granny? (Courtesy of scottcountyva.info)

We try to keep things positive here in The Curmudgeon offices and grousing, bellyaching, moaning, griping, sniveling, carping, bitching, grumbling, and whining are frowned upon and strictly forbidden. After all, that’s my job. When someone breaks this directive I just want to get rid of them. But I have money invested in these people with training and education, like teaching them how to construct a sentence or spell. Hence, I am stuck with the misanthrope. But not any more, since this conundrum has been solved by a 10-year old schoolgirl.

Zoe Pemberton from Clacton in Essex was visiting her father and grandmother when granny’s moaning began to irritate the little girl. What to do, what to do? But then the little entrepreneur had a stroke of genius. She would sell the old bag…er…her dear old grandmother on eBay. She wrote up the listing which described the pensioner as “rare and annoying and moaning a lot.” But she also said she was “very cuddly,” and added that she loved word searches and enjoyed drinking tea.

It was a cute little stunt, not to be taken seriously, except that it attracted bids – 17 of them – totaling more than $3,500. When asked why she would do such a thing to her dear, old grandma, the little girl replied, “Well, she was annoying me. She was moaning at me when I wrote down that her favorite food was curry — she said could I change it to Chinese. Apart from that she didn’t seem to mind.”

Of course the auction eventually came to eBays attention. “While no doubt Mrs Goodall would have fetched a princely sum, eBay does not allow the listing of any human being on the site,” said an eBay spokesperson.  Don’t I know it. They put the kibosh on me when I was winning the auction for that stripper.

“Mind you, we were impressed to see a total of 27 bids for the lady in question,” the eBay spokesperson said.

Okay, so you can’t sell humans on eBay.

I wonder if I could auction off my cat.

(Information and quotes from foxnews.com, whom I am loath to mention, but rules is rules.)

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Here in the timely offices of The Curmudgeon, we, meaning myself and the staff, are a time conscious bunch.  Not to imply we are slaves to the clock, but I’m pretty sure everyone wears a watch of differing style, expense, and taste.  I’m also pretty sure that no one here owns a Rolex, unless you count Bennie in accounting who wears a fake one.  I know because the second hand moves tick, tick, tick, one second at a time, herky jerky,  instead a smooth, fluid glide around the entire face without stopping.  Besides, I don’t pay anyone enough for that kind of vanity.

And yet people covet them, Rolex watches that is.  Corporations give them to lifelong employees (or they used to – back when they cared about lifelong employees); people save and spend their life savings on them;  and enterprising chicks pick-up lonely men in hotel bars and go their room where the guy later wakes up druggy, handcuffed to the bedposts and minus his Rolex.  But this is the first I’ve heard of a doctor letting a guy croak so he could steal his fancy, smancy Rolls Royce of timepieces.

That’s the allegation anyway, by the dead guys family and as reported by Sfweekly.com.  The lawsuit says Doctor No stopped trying to save the dudes life so he could help himself to the man’s Rolex…after he went to great beyond.  After all, dead men don’t talk.  And whats he need a watch for anyway…where he’s going?

Rolex "President."  Retail about $27,000.

Rolex "President." Retail about $27,000.

The dumbass doctor is one James Enmon of Hermosa Beach, California, and is now facing the wrongful death lawsuit and grand theft charges as well.  To top it off, the hospital tried to cover it up.  I mean, really, how embarrassing for them.  Thing is, the nurses noticed the missing Rolex, and then noticed the watch-shaped bulge in the Doc’s pants.  Busted.  Is that a Rolex in your pants or is your dick on a timer?

And don’t you think most of the family members had their eye on the extravagant bauble?  Not to cast dispersions on them, I’m just sayin’.  I mean, I would.  Wouldn’t you?

What can you say about something like this?  That the guy is despicable?  Yes.  That he is arrogant?  Yes.  That he’s an asshole, mo fo, shit head?  Yes, yes, and yes.  Hippocrates is rolling in his tomb.  Part of the Hippocratic oath says, “But it may also be within my power to take a life; this awesome responsibility must be faced with great humbleness and awareness of my own frailty. Above all, I must not play at God.”  Unless the corpse is sporting a Rolex and I covet it.   Of course, in Hippocrates day it was a sundial, not a Rolex.

I think Dr. Evil is going to go down for his alleged crime.  (I love this alleged business:  The alleged perpetrator was captured on video stabbing the victim 37 times. Alleged?  Is the vic allegedly dead?

Here is why he will pay:  The corpse was a retired cop.  You know, when you screw with a cop, the living cops get all pissy and grouchy and come after you with everything they got.  It is curious how a retired police officer came to own a $27,000 dollar watch, but that’s not the point.  The point is the quack is a thief, and that’s the least of it.

He’s toast.

And he still doesn’t have his precious Rolex.

The Rolex ticks for thee, doc.

Tick, tock.

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