Stephen King has a son named Joe.
I’m not joking, but he is.
Short form comedy formats, jokes, memes, and punchlines organized for easier doom-scrolling from Chaotic Meh — organized so the algorithm can pretend this place has adult supervision.
Stephen King has a son named Joe.
I’m not joking, but he is.
Well, another election in my household has passed and the results are in: The Sex-Every-Sunday Referendum was defeated soundly, 1000-1. I knew agreeing to the 500-vote-per-boob Electoral College would come back to haunt me.
I told one of my HMO patients to go get a tonsillectomy, and now he’s mad because he thought I said “appendectomy” and got his appendix removed instead. I guess I should really look into getting my drive-thru speaker fixed.
If you ever make the grueling trek to speak to the wise old man who lives at the top of the mountain and he lets you ask one question of him, don’t make the mistake I did and blurt out, “How’s it hangin’?”
My single friends kept asking me to “fix them up with a nice guy,” but afterwards all they did was complain bitterly. I figure it’s their own fault: If what they really meant was “nice AND has all his teeth,” then they should have said so.
It takes 10,000 hours to become an expert at something and we chew food for an average of 25 minutes per day. Using that logic, we will stop biting our cheeks by the age of 66.
I hate it when people call me a windmill.
I’m not a big fan.
Someone ripped the 5th month out of my calendar.
I’m dismayed.
Penguins are funny. Mustard is funny. But do you think a penguin covered in mustard would be funny? I don’t know, but it might help if he were wearing a bib, ’cause bibs are funny.