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Posts Tagged ‘satire’

An early proto type of the new "Sexy Sub."

Here in the secretive offices of The Crusty Curmudgeon, it is something like living in a spy thriller, so imagine our maniacal thrill when we learned the U.S. Navy was going to build submarines for hot chicks.  It’s just like a James Bond movie, and natch, the subs would belong to SPECTR.  But in this case they will belong to the Navy.  Whether or not they’re an arch villain depends on your point of view.  Not in my view.  I think the Navy is cool.  Especially now.

The Navy is now preparing a plan that will—for the first time ever—allow women to serve on submarines.  That’s right.  ABC News reported that an unnamed defense official (See?  An unnamed defense official) reported that Defense Secretary Robert Gates notified Congress of the plan.  So what is, exactly, the plan?  “Um,”  the Navy stuttered, “we’re going to set up separate living quarters for women.”  What?  Is that all?  That can’t be all.  What about the hot chicks?

I quickly dispatched my spies to find the true story.  What they found is exciting and frightening.  It’s a plan shocking in its boldness.  Horrible in its destructive capabilities.  I now publish here, for the first time ever, the Navy’s secret plan.  My reporting the plan may be against the law, but you know, freedom of the press, batten down the hatches, and so on and so forth.  I swear to you that this is true…it’s true that this is what my spies told me.

Here are the facts:  The navy is building subs for women.  They will be staffed only by hot chicks. The subs will be painted pink and phallic in appearance, and the interior will be opulent and luxurious.  Each sailorette will have private quarters, decorated in pink with fresh flowers everyday, grown right in the ships nuclear green house, and the beds will be elegantly adorned in silk sheets and down comforters with matching duvet covers, all purchased from the new supplier to the U.S Navy, The Comfy Bedroom, purveyors of fine bedding from famous designers like Pierre Cardin, Ralph Lauren, and Martha Stewart.

The uniform.

The uniforms of the sailorettes will be hot pink, extra short dresses with little sailor caps cocked coquettishly to the right.  Sailorettes caught cocking their caps to the left will be diciplined severely:  A bare-bottom spanking, but not too hard.  Room service is available.

Sailorettes may wish to take advantage of the sauna and the bubble bath hot tubs in the spa, where clothing is not allowed.  The kitchens will be staffed by top female chefs who will prepare 5-Star dishes of all nationalities, including a special diet menu with a selection of salads.

As for weaponry, that is where the subs get truly devastating.  Torpedo’s will be shaped like lipstick tubes with the red lipstick part being the nuclear warhead.  The ships will come equipped with a new, top secret underwater announcement device, allowing the submarines to actually speak to enemy subs.  Soldierettes are now being trained to say such phrases as, “Not tonight, Honey, I have a headache,” and are being encouraged to make fun of the size of the enemies wieners while laughing cruelly.  This will have a devastating effect on the hostile forces.

Calls to the Pentagon for a comment were quickly re-routed to the CIA, on whom this reporter quickly hung up.  I am currently lobbying to be the only reporter from a major news organization allowed to accompany the first Sexy Sub on its maidenhead voyage.

I promise to behave myself.

Adapted from naval-technologies.com by Reilly Creative.

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Georgia O'Keefe

Georgia O'Keefe

Here in the over-sexed but not wanton offices of the Curmudgeon, we are, all of us, open minded about such things as pornography when it’s by, of, and for adults. We have a “whatever floats your boat,” or “blows up your skirt,” outlook, believing that whatever adults choose to do in the privacy of their own homes is okey-doke with us.

That’s not to say we all sit around watching porn together, which would just be weird (but lots of fun.) I’m sure a couple of the gals down the hall have watched some sexy celluloid with their boyfriends or at pajama parties or wherever it is gals do these things. And then there’s that guy who comes into my office on his hands and knees, fiddles around under my desk, and then crawls back out again. He never touched me, I swear. I asked someone who he is once and was told he is the IT guy, just doing his job, making sure our computers and connections are all working properly. You know he watches porn, and probably has figured out a way to get on all the pay sites for free, which I think is a computer geek requirement.

And I wouldn’t be surprised if the French guy, Jacques (pronounced zhah-kweez) has actually performed admirably in a couple. Naturally, Suzie from Indiana is exempt, since in all her corn-fed, fresh-faced innocence, still thinks we come from storks.

Was It Good For Me?

No. This is for everybody else. Those who think porn is bad and dirty and sends you straight to hell (of course they have to watch it to know just how bad and dirty and damnable it is, but that’s beside the point.) Well I am here to tell them that not only is this not so, but that it is actually a good thing, and that a U.S. Government bailout of the Porn Industry would be a smart move, and in fact will stimulate and lift our economy, firm our resolve, stiffen our upper lip, lubricate commerce, satiate our hungry banking industry, and cause such an orgiastic release of our collective tensions that we’ll all be reaching for the metaphorical cigarette of peace and contentedness.

Seriously. Think about it. Studies have shown over and over (and again, and again, and again) that orgasm is an ultra-healthy release of harmful tensions and anxiety, good for the mind and the body, and what causes more tension than a depression? Unemployment, bankruptcies, heating expenses, food costs, medical care…awwww…it’s enough to make you dig up the old collection of 8mm stag movies that you haven’t seen since you got married.

What would happen without porn? Armageddon, my friend, Armageddon, that’s what. Unemployment, up! Layoffs, up! Crime, up! Murder, up! Spousal abuse, up! Rape, up! Up, up, up! Our minds turgid and roiling with pathology, ready to burst at the seams of an already severely worn fabric.

Yea, But Does It Swallow?

So don’t let the porn movie go the way of the dildo…er…Dodo. Don’t let the lifestyles of the porn stars go flat. Don’t let the producers want for hot-tub cleaning supplies (do you realize how many gooey scenes they shoot in those hot tubs?). What did the banking industry ever do for you besides charge you exhorbitant usury fees? What did the automobile industry ever do, other than charge you too much for their products which break down constantly and gulp expensive fuel?

Your DVD of Hairy Plotter and the Order of the Phallus never gave you an overdraft charge, and The Curious Case of Benjamin’s Butt actually does run on electricity, so don’t tell me those industry’s are worthy of a government bail-out and porn is not. Your reasoning does not hold a big wad of truth.  Bailing out porn would be like Viagra for the economy.

You Put Your Tongue Where?

OK, this has all been tongue in cheeks, but it seems to me as though these companies are in trouble because they have conducted their businesses stupidly. The porn industry will survive in spite of the government as it has always done, as will the entertainment industry in general, since in a depression people seek the fantasy and relief that movies offer.

This, at least, is a fact: Susie really does think we come from storks, and for all I know she may be right.

Now, where did I hide those 8mm films?

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The U.S. Post Office released these images of the new stamps.

The U.S. Post Office released these images of the new stamps.

Today in the Curmudgeon offices, it is extremely quiet but not narcoleptic. Why I do not know. Normally the place is full of laughter, grousing, whispered conversations, the occasional sob, and high-volume cursing like a fishmonger’s wife. And so it was that instead of working, I tuned into the Opera channel and a production of Dr. Atomic, about atomic physicist J. Robert Oppenheimer and the atomic bomb.

There is something you should understand about me and opera: I hate opera. Opera sucks. Opera sucks the big one with wanton enthusiasm. And this one—this steaming pile of “fecality” stinking up the world of art—is a veritable orgy of “suckiness.”

And that is precisely why I was watching it: It was too damn quiet around here and I like quiet. Quiet makes me happy and I don’t like being happy. See? They don’t call me the Curmudgeon for nothin’.

Having done it’s job faster than a Tijuana hooker with a 16 year-old (the very thought makes my skin crawl, and probably would literally cause one’s epidermis to move of it’s own accord with nasty stuff a few short days later,) I soon did as the fishmonger’s wives would do, spouting epithets in colorful language, speaking to no one in particular, just my disembodied, foulmouthed vocabulary emanating from under my door.

Pleased as punch, I switched over to TV Land just in time for Dragnet.

Which is how I get to the new US Postal stamps. (Whew. Didn’t think I was going to make it, did you?) The main offering among the new stamps are 20 commemoratives of Early TV Memories. All great icons of American culture and gentle reminders of a simpler, kinder world. There are other’s as well, such as the Gary Cooper commemorative, but I’m not going to list them all here.

If you want to know what they are then you, my friend, are a Philatelist, and worse, that would make me one too, and then I could tell you what an “Inverted Jenny” is and say witty things like, “What have you done for me philately?”

The stamps will still be at the current rate—42 cents—but don’t worry, the price of 1st class postage will go up again in May. In spite of that, here is what I shamelessly say about the U.S. Post Office: They ain’t so bad. Think about it. For 42 cents, they take a letter and deliver it anywhere in the States, for chrissake! Oh, sure, sometimes things take a little longer and sometimes things get lost. You can’t even drive across town without losing your way, so I don’t want to hear any more bitching about the post office.

Letter writing is a lost art. Don’t let it go. It beats the hell out of email, at least for being meaningful and–if you are so lucky–romance. So come August, 11th, write a letter to a relative or an old friend, buy a new stamp with Lucy or Jack Webb or Groucho or Hitchcock or any of 16 others, stick it on the letter, and put it in that box you have out in front of your house. They’ll come and pick it up and take it anywhere in the good old USA.

And then come back here and lick this.

Your Enigmatic Friend,

Crusty

 

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