Archive for the ‘ Humor ’ Category

For-Sale Northern EXXXposure Is Everything I Miss About the Northwoods

How often in your life do you get the opportunity to buy a strip club and a fifteen-foot fiberglass badger all in the same go?

Well, you’ve got a chance right now, according to Craigslist, where the Northern EXXXposure Gentleman’s Club is listed for only $275,000. And as someone who used to drive by this place (hem, hem) on my way to work at summer camp, let me just say how happy I am that, for their promotional photo, they went with an exterior shot of the building’s random fiberglass sculptures:

northern-exxxposure-strip-club-badger

Yes, that’s a giant badger looming over a strip club. And a giant squirrel on a giant log in the parking lot. He’s about to dive into the hole, hur hur hur, get it? Or maybe he’s just got wood, whatever, who knows; strip club humor is not picky about these things.

The point is, for your $275,000 you not only get a “recently remodeled in & out” (hur hur hur!) strip club with “employees & good client base” already lined up, you also get…giant plastic mammals. (As opposed to giant plastic mammaries, which you can find inside.)

But wait, as they say in the biz, there’s more! It requires a little reading between the lines, but not that much, because this is the Northwoods and come on: the Craigslist ad also mentions “anything else one could possibly need (including friendly neighbors :) )” — smiley face included.

Which seems a little random and over the top until you take a look at the closest neighbors on Google Maps:

northern-exxxposure-birnamwood-new-life-massage

Ohhhhh. That kind of anything else one could need friendly neighbor, colon-close-parentheses. Say no more.

All in scenic Birnamwood, WI. That’s it, baby…come to Dunsinane! Come right now!

Anyone wanna Kickstart this beaut? I could finally fulfill my lifelong dream of owning a sleazy strip joint called Petey Mort’s. (Get it? Get it?)

My Closely-Held Corporate Religious Beliefs

gavel-and-rosaryFor the record, and should this ever need clarification in the future: Geoffrey Cubbage is a closely-held business legal entity (sole proprietorship), with a Constitutional right to religious expression that cannot be restricted by law, save where the state has a compelling interest and no less-restrictive means of achieving that interest exists.

Taxes, of course, have been firmly established as a “compelling interest,” so the owners of Geoffrey Cubbage will go on reluctantly funding wars, corporate welfare, and other things I find immoral. However, there are a number of other laws that, if enforced, would seem to clearly infringe on my business’s exercise of secular humanism, including but in no way limited to the following examples:

  • 1. Disorderly Conduct of Any Kind. As this is the only life I have, celebrating it in my limited time on Earth is a deeply important religious sacrament for me. The Constitution does not protect your right to sleep peacefully through the night, but it does protect my religious observances, even at 3 AM under your bedroom window. Sorry about that. (This is also crucial to my business practice, as my advertising strategy has for years been based around being an unserious, drunken buffoon, and my clients trust me to uphold those values in my daily life. See the entire rest of this blog for evidence.)
  • 2. Sexual Restrictions of Any Kind. As someone with a deeply-held lack of belief in any fictional deity telling me that my bits are naughty, legislation based on that non-factual and highly offensive belief is a clear imposition on my religious freedom. Therefore, I trust my business will never be required to in any way censor its publications, public activities, or graphic media, including but not limited to hot shirtless guy pics, smutty stories, or just bangin’ a ladyfriend out in public one day because fuck it, it’s a nice day, and wherever I happen to be is my place of business. (Also bizzzzz-nass.) It should go without saying that I expect boy-whorin’ when times get tough to be similarly protected.
  • 3. Punching Supreme Court Justices Right Up In Their Stupid Faces. This is currently a high sacrament of my faith. And don’t think hiding behind that 100-foot buffer zone will save your wrinkled old asses — I know my rights.

From the “You’re Doing It Wrong” Files

I’m not a botanist or anything, but I’m pretty sure they didn’t need to worry, here:

no-dogs-on-grass-doing-it-wrong

Science Ruins Everything: “Hedgehog Cleavage” Neither Adorable Nor Sexy

Time was you could rely on the internet for things like, say (just to pick an example at random), photo collections of scantily-clad women cuddling hedgehogs. Who wouldn’t expect to find that when Google Image searching the phrase “hedgehog cleavage” for totally innocuous reasons?

(With SafeSearch turned off, obviously. Does anyone actually use SafeSearch?)

But apparently some fuckin’ nerds ruined all that for us back in the 80s, when a couple of fruit fly geneticists working on something called the “Hh gene” thought it would be cute to start calling in the “hedgehog gene” because it was kind of spiky looking, and also Hh. And I guess genes do something called cleavage some of the time? Whatever. Science.

And that’s why, when you google “hedgehog cleavage” like a totally normal person would obviously want to, all the time, duh, this is what you get:

hedgehog-cleavage-google-search

Thanks, science guys. Do you know how hard it is to make the internet NOT about tits? You deserve a frickin’ Nobel just for pulling that one off.

“When extracellular Hh is present (Figure 3), it binds to and inhibits Patched, allowing Smoothened to accumulate and inhibit the proteolytic cleavage of the Ci protein.” 

Yeah. Hedgehog cleavage. So sexy and cute. Thhpppppppttt. 

Stop Trying to Remember Your Security Questions With This One Easy Trick!

huge.49.247737My memories, especially my childhood memories, have a lot of holes in them: some from the simple passage of time; others put there by subconscious repression and/or the deliberate and conscious application of strong drink.

We all do what we gotta to get by.

That makes personal identification via the answering of quirky childhood trivia a dubious security protocol at best. A dedicated and criminal researcher bent on stealing my identity could almost assuredly learn more about my past with a couple hours on Google than I can remember on my own.

It’s okay, though. I’ve found a trick for dealing with those goddamn security questions.

Pick a word you like. Pick any word you like. Now, use that word as the answer to every freaking security question you’re asked to select, regardless of whether it makes sense or not. Bonus points if it’s a rude word.

First pet’s name? Fartcheeks. Childhood best friend? Fartcheeks. Favorite sports team? The New York Motherfucking Fartcheeks.

Do not be tempted to stray. Just pick something arbitrary and slap that bastard in every blank space.

Which are you more likely to remember? Your second grade teacher’s maiden name, or that you put “Fartcheeks” down as your second grade teacher’s maiden name when Healthcare.gov asked you for eighty bajillion security question answers?

Motherfuckin’ fartcheeks. Trust me on this one.

(DISCLAIMER: If you’re trying to steal my identity, I don’t actually use “fartcheeks.” But it’s something along those lines. Just keep plugging in rude sounds; you’ll get there eventually.)

 

The “Blue Dragon” Glaucus Atlanticus, While Beautiful, Is Not a Good Fursonality

You may have seen one of these floating around Facebook recently (or around the oceans of the world, if you live a much cooler life than I do): the Glaucus atlanticus sea slug.

blue-dragon-sea-slug-glaucus-atlanticus

Gorgeous, isn’t it?

That’s a real critter, with some very weird biology: it drifts around the ocean, nibbles off the top of other soft-and-drifty sea life, and in the case of the poisonous ones (like the Portugese man o’war, which it loves to eat) stores the larger creature’s toxin-bearing nematocysts in specialized sacs at the tips of those beautiful blue feathery “fingers” you see in the picture above.

That means pictures like this one are incredibly stupid, since the beautiful, alien-looking slug in question might or might not be able to deliver a powerful jolt of venom when picked up, depending on what it’s been noshing lately:

blue-dragon-sea-slug-glaucus-in-hand

But at any rate, it’s rare and beautiful and has “dragon” in one of its common names, and this is the internet, so of course people have made furries out of them.

glaucus-atlanticus-sea-slug-furry

(As usual, I’ve left the most explicit examples out. Feel free to Google around if you want to see similar drawings with humanish naughty bits exposed.)

Which really begs the question: if you are into anthropomorphized animals in a sexy way, and part of that thrill is giving characters the identifying characteristics/attributes of their “template” species, what the fuck do you do with a G. atlanticus?

Don’t get me wrong; I’m not seeing the fact that, like most slugs, G. atlanticus is hermaphroditic as a turn-off for the target market here. I know the internet better than that. I’m just curious how you make “functionally brainless, floats wherever the current takes it; often attacks much larger and deadlier creatures” into a compelling human personality. A drunken hobo that picks fights with biker gangs, maybe?

Let this one go, boys and girls. The “blue dragon” is beautiful, and has a very nerdy name, but it is not your go-to “fursonality.” Trust me on this one.

Groupon’s Chicagoland May Not Look Quite Like Your Chicagoland

Ah, “Chicagoland.” That blessedly vague friend to advertisers everywhere.

It manages to combine the allure of the big city with the friendly, folksy suggestion of “the Heartland,” all in one phrase that’s as juicy and delicious as an all-beef hotdog (no ketchup!).

It also apparently describes a swath of land encompassing most of northern Illinois and a bit of Wisconsin, all of which is “near shopping” in Chicago. Land.

Everyone does it, but Groupon is far and away the worst offender I’ve found to date. This should be particularly embarrassing since Groupon launched in Chicago, but that hasn’t stopped their copy writers from assigning any hotel with a Midwestern zip code to the Chicago destinations section. Search for hotels or “getaways” in Chicago and you’ll end up as far afield as Elmhurst (half an hour from downtown in good traffic), Buffalo Grove (closer to Wisconsin than it is to Chicago), and, my personal favorite, this gem:

groupon-hotel-chicago-algonquin

…in Algonquin, IL.

Algonquin? Yes. Algonquin. It’s a place. I didn’t know either. Let me put it this way: when your promotional copy is urging people to visit Schaumburg’s Woodfield Mall (“where you’ll find Lord & Taylor, Armani Exchange, The Cheesecake Factory, and Rainforest Cafe”) as a driving-distance attraction worth driving for, you’re not in Chicagoland anymore.

You might not even be in “land” anymore. Here there be dragons, or at least creepy storefront evangelical churches and weird, low-rent, specialty businesses like VHS tape repair.

Not Chicagoland. Come on, Groupon. Show some local pride as you slide inexorably into obsolescence.

You can get offices in Algonquin after the bankruptcy.

That Forest Moon: Admiral Ackbar’s Ambiguity

star-wars-forest-moon-of-endorIt’s no secret that I love Star Wars, and therefore no surprise that Star Wars has given me my favorite example of what ambiguous prose can do to a story.

You may recall, if you’re a total fucking nerd, that in Return of the Jedi Admiral Ackbar describes the Death Star as “orbiting the forest moon of Endor.” (Grainy bootleg clip here if you’re interested.)

That’s an ambiguous description. It could mean “the forest moon belonging to Endor,” in which case Endor is presumably the planet that the moon orbits (although it could also be a government, a corporation, or even a person). It could also mean that “Endor” is the name of the moon itself, as in “the land of Oz” or “the kingdom of France.”

If Ackbar had said “the planet Endor’s forest moon,” or “the forest moon known as Endor,” we’d know for sure. But all we get is “the forest moon of Endor,” and since that’s the only time anyone mentions the moon by name, that’s what we’re stuck with.

No big deal —  until Star Wars became a massive media enterprise with literally hundreds of contributing authors, and thousands of obsessive fans. The subsequent attempts to fix Return of the Jedi‘s ambiguity, as laid out on Wookiepedia, are frankly hilarious:

The planet Endor was never visible in any scenes in Return of the Jedi set on the forest moon, a fact which the novelization explains by asserting that it was destroyed some time earlier, and that the moon now orbits its star in a planetary orbit of its own. It should also be noted that in two of the space battle scenes, a pinkish planet can be seen in the background, in the vicinity of the forest moon. Another shot showing TIE fighters flying towards the Death Star (and camera) with several Star Destroyers in the background shows the pinkish planet. This, coupled with the fact that a moon without a planet should itself be defined as a planet in its own right, has caused some fans to speculate that this pinkish planet is in fact Endor, and the novel is wrong. In addition, a large body, probably the planet Endor, can be seen in the sky during some scenes in the two Ewok telefilms (Caravan of Courage: An Ewok Adventure and Ewoks: The Battle for Endor), though this does not closely resemble the planet seen in Return of the Jedi. Star Wars: Battlefront IIshows the planet Endor as a large blue planet, possibly a gas giant, when in Galactic Conquest mode.

Apparently there’s also stuff in other Expanded Universe novels about how the planet Endor (not the moon Endor) was destroyed, leaving the moon to orbit its star on its own, but later that turned out to be an elaborate hoax? Something like that, anyway. The point is, a lot of people have tried very hard to turn “the forest moon of Endor” into something that makes sense and stays consistent throughout a massive and badly-organized canon.

It’s almost like Admiral Ackbar was laying a massive…linguistic…wait a minute…

Just Once I Want These Weirdo Perverts to Go to Court

trenchcoat-flasherWhat is it about the perverts with really unique cases that makes them all take a plea bargain?

Okay, okay, obvious answer: they’re weirdo perverts who got caught doing weirdo pervert stuff, and neither judges nor juries tend to be sympathetic to that shit, no matter how clever your legal loophole is.

But just once, I want to read the transcripts where one of these guys fights the case all the way.

Take my deer, excuse me, dear old home state of Wisconsin, for example, where back in 2005 a man named Bryan Hathaway found a dead deer by the roadside and made the obvious and logical choice to have sex with it then and there. Charged with “misdemeanor sexual gratification with an animal,” he ended up pleading guilty to “misdemeanor mistreatment of an animal,” despite the fairly obvious argument that the deer was not, in fact, an animal, but rather a corpse, and in no shape to be mistreated worse than it already had been.

Which, absolutely true, right? Not to beat a dead horse here or anything (HEYO!), but we draw a pretty distinct line between living animals and dead corpses. There are sometimes laws about what you can and can’t do with corpses, too, but those didn’t seem to come into play in Mr. Hathaway’s case.

And that’s a shame! I would have liked to see what legal precedent the courts ended up setting if they’d had to make an actual ruling, instead of accepting a guilty plea for a crime that was obviously not committed.

Or here’s another weird one: Jacob Bovia of Maryland, who was arrested after police received multiple complaints about a man exposing his genitals to women on the Anne Arundel Community College campus in Arnold, MD. Only catch was, they weren’t actually his genitals. He was using a fake penis that police discovered in his car.

Initially charged with three counts of indecent exposure, Mr. Bovia ended up pleading guilty to a charge of disorderly conduct and walking away with a probation and a psychological examination. Which, again, talk about a loss to the annals of legal history, right? Oh to be the fly on the wall of the courtroom where they decide whether shaking a dildo out your fly at someone is “exposing” anything or not.

Public perverts of the world, do this humble blogger a favor and fight the case some time, will you? The law is on your side! (But the jury probably won’t be. Just FYI.)

Chicagoans, It’s Time to Get Over the “Willis Tower” Thing

sears-willis-towerLook, guys, I don’t wanna sound cruel here, but you’re not a special snowflake because you grew up calling that big building on South Wacker the “Sears Tower.”

Pretty much all of us who were born in the 20th century did that. (And as long as I’m telling hard truths, we can tell you were born in the 20th century just by looking at you. Huffing and interrupting whenever someone says “Willis Tower” ain’t telling us anything we don’t already know.)

It’s time to let go. Buildings change names all the time. Even buildings in Chicago change names all the time.

If you don’t believe me, just swing on by the London Guarantee Building (formerly the Stone Container Building, not to be confused with the Smurfit-Stone Building, which was named for the same company but is now the Crain Communications Building, and which everyone calls “that diamond-shaped building” or “the vagina building” anyway).

Besides, you can say “Willis” like “willies” and it’s funny, because the building has two giant penises on top of it.

And really, what exactly are we celebrating by clinging to the name “Sears Tower”? Sears never managed to fill more than two-thirds of the building during the company’s entire ownership. The name (and in a lot of ways the building itself) is a monument to corporate hubris and unrealized expectations.

I suppose this is the town that roots for the Chicago Cubs.

But seriously, guys, grow up. Be mad about things that really matter, like how some building in New York gets to count the fiddly bits on top toward overall height because they’re “spires,” but somehow the Willis Tower fiddly bits don’t count because they’re “antennae.” (Highest roof, occupied floor, and now pinnacle height in America still the Willis Tower; suck it New York and shove your bullshit “structural height” right up your not-actually-1776-foot-tall building’s ass.)

We need to show a little maturity is all I’m saying here, all right?

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