Dwarfs Better off Tossed than Jobless, Florida Republican Says
The stock markets were buoyed today on the rise in the the dwarf tossing sectors of the economy. Speculators clamored for shares in Dwarf Toss’em (DWT), Gnome Chucking (gNC), and Elf Elevating (ELF) were up an average of 8 percentage points. Related industries, including mattress maker Sealy Corporation (ZZ) and Mythical Miniature Man Pads (3MP), were up 5%.
Some analysts are contributing the meteoric rise of the US economy to the repeal of the antiquated regulation banning “inhuman” treatment of fellow human beings in the early millennium. As markets and cultures evolved, the American populace grew restless with such regulations that stymied innovation, ushering in what some economists are calling our post-dwarf boom.
Tallying the Toll of US-China Trade
OMG. Can you believe the deal I’m getting on these tube socks? Unbelievable. I mean, for this price per sock, I’m like making money. I’m going to get two. Better make it four, because its the best shot I have for pulling myself out of this crippling debt.
Olives. Shit, I’m allergic to olives, but for that price no one can be that allergic. Can’t wait to get home and bask in these unbelievably low prices. Eating olives and wearing my tube socks. Closest thing I’ll come to a job since Chi-Mart moved to town. I couldn’t be more happy right now.
No. It can’t be true. Who sells cardboard at this price? I mean, how is that possible? What better thing to patch over that gapping hole in my roof than this cheap, cheap cardboard. Hell, might as well buy the whole crate. I’ve been thinking of an addition on my the old abode for some time now. Have to put Grandma somewhere, after all. And I’d be a fool not to buy it, because it basically pays for itself.
Republican Louie Gohmert Blasts American Jobs Act for Banning Unemployment Discrimination
“This here’s an ‘Employed’ establishment,” the greasy diner cook said from behind the counter. “Ain’t a place for the likes of you.”
“But…”
“‘But’ nothing. You can read can’t you?” the cook said, tapping the black, block lettering on a nearby sign with his spatula. The sign read, “No Smoking,” but the cook continued, “Sound it out. ’No Unemployeds.’ Got that? Good.”
I turned around and slunk back into the rain, my sweatpants growing soggy in the rain soaked street. I bumped into a man dressed neatly in a suit. I saw his tie, knotted a little too perfectly, around his neck. It betrayed him, indicating a man with too much time to spend in front of the mirror. A man with too much time to get it exactly right. He was one of us in disguise. Abandoning the traditional dress of our people, the Unemployeds, in hopes of blending with the other sect. Some desperate attempt to steal a few moments with just a coffee, somewhere, un-harassed.
In Study, Fatherhood Leads to Drop in Testosterone
Goochie goochie goo. Whose my little guy? Huh? Who is Daddy’s little testosterone suck? It’s you, isn’t it? Yes it is. Goochie goochie goo.
Look at you. You’re so flexible! Does your foot taste good? Hmm? Does it? It does, doesn’t? Yes it does. You like your foot, don’t you, my freakin’ little hormone black hole.
Who made a stinky? Did you just make a stinky in your diaper? Did you? You did, didn’t you. You robbed me of my manhood, so why not take away my dignity as well by making me change your poopie diaper. You stinky, man.
What a good stinky! You did a number on those string beans. Just like you did a number on Daddy’s sense of masculinity. Yes you did. Yes you did.
Ahh, don’t cry. Shhhh… shhhh…. shhh… it’s alright. Shhh…. Yes it is. There, there. Don’t cry. Shhh… don’t cry. Criers don’t make it in this word, no they do not. Yes, criers don’t bring enough cash home to take care of their elderly mother and husk of a father. No they don’t. So shhh… shhh…
There you go. There’s a good little testosterone pit. Lay your little head down. Shh… go to sleep. There you go. Shh… Sleep now. Shh… Dream of your androgynous father, and all you’ve taken from him. Shh…
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2011/09/09/nikki-haley-drug-test-exaggeration_n_955900.html
I stand before my fellow Representatives and the American people to demand action on HR 420MRYJNE, otherwise known as the Blow Act. This proposition will protect the hardworking taxpayers to ensure their dollars are not being awarded to morally depraved public servants. Public servants who turn those moneys into drugs that go straight up their noses. So I ask, my colleagues, to succumb to mandatory, humiliating drug testing twice a month to ensure our ranks are not populated by the likes of my esteemed colleague, Rep. Sour.
The drug testing will occur on Thursdays before Friday paychecks are issued. It will occur here, in this hallowed hall, and be broadcast on a special CSPAN channel. All results will be overseen by a super committee comprised of equal representatives from both parties.
Some in this glorified House, namely my dear friend Congressman Chambers — or Rep. Cheech as I affectionately call him — tries to obfuscate the issue. He gets up here, before these cameras, and tries to convince the American people that drug testing elected officials on national television within the House chamber some how debases the institution.
I say, that Rep. Cheech is not concerned enough with protecting the tax payers money. I say, that if it is good enough for the deceitful unemployed, it’s good enough for us. So join with me, esteemed congressmen, and cast your vote in favor of the Blow Act.
http://www.nytimes.com/2011/09/06/technology/closed-in-error-on-google-places-merchants-seek-fixes.html?_r=1&hp
A bead of sweat fell from Rick’s forehead and shattered into a thousand miniscule droplets on the screen of his smart phone. Through squinted eyelids, he read again the digitized text refracted through the droplets’ spherical surfaces. Rick’s thick thumb brushed across the touchscreen, wiping clear the droplets of sweat but leaving a greasy streak across the protective plastic.
He looked up again, observing the lights and sounds emitting from the diner in front of him. The head of what appeared to be a waitress stood perfectly framed by the window, a smile flickering across her face before she buzzed along to another booth.
Rick looked back down at his phone. ”Permanently Closed” the Google Places informed him. He scratched his head as he looked back across the car roofs blanketing the parking lot at the diner. His mouth tasted like chalk. He could use a drink, he thought. But where…
http://www.washingtonpost.com/local/dc-politics/dc-sues-nonprofit-alleges-misuse-of-hivaids-funds-to-renovate-night-club/2011/08/30/gIQAJjzNqJ_story.html?hpid=z3
Jackson “Tiny” Pumperknickle
4938 Avenue St.
Washington, D.C. 20011
Objective:
To obtain a position that supports job acquisition for toned, sexy women with a variety of God-given “assets”.
Previous Work Experience:
Employment Coach
Stadium Club, 501(c)3
Washington, D.C.
2008 — Present
- Provide intensive, personal attention to the variety of tasty dishes in the agency’s job training program
- Instructed participants in rigorous, 1 hour workshops on the arts of the milk shake, Madam Butterfly, and junk trunking
- Developed weekend retreats where women could metaphorically shed the shackles of un-sexist oppression to bare themselves to the world as they are (also, chicks got naked)
Freelance Consulting
Greater Washington D.C. Area
2000-2008
- Utilized the plying of bills to provide guidance to neophyte job holders as they gained confidence in the field of self-expression
- Invented the motivational philosophies of “Horny Shouting,” “Crass Crooning,” and “Sickening Ogle”
Education:
University of None of your Fucking Business (NFB)
Doctor of My Fist Your Face
College of I Will Break You
Masters in Destruction
http://www.nytimes.com/2011/08/28/opinion/sunday/ugly-you-may-have-a-case.html?_r=1&hp
I speak to you today in this low-lit room, my crater faced brethren, because the time has come for us to demand our rights. Now is when we must join one hideous hand with another and fight for equality amongst the beautiful.
We must fight for the right to hold a high paying job. We must fight for the right to obtain a low interest mortgage. We must fight for the right to be the heroes in movies and not just the monsters and villains—or to have our story reduced to a ugly duckling story that ends in a swan. We must fight to see our pimpled faces plastered on billboards on Time Square.
We do not fight just for ourselves, but for our children and our children’s children. Some of you feel that either your personality or money will spare this fight from your off-spring. And to those I say, “really?” Have you seen us? Have you looked into those neglected mirrors that hang in a corner of each of our homes? No members of the attractive oligarchy would touch us. Why would they let their good genes and impeccable grooming be wasted on people like us? Why would they threaten the maintenance of their chosen elite?
No, friends. We have suffered for too long under the oppression of the comely few. We must begin our battle by taking it to the kingmakers: fashion designers. We must end our toleration of these weavers of cloth that cater exclusively to the beautiful ilk. No more shall we bear the humiliations dictated by these keepers of the status quo, who connive to magnify our every defect while simultaneously highlighting every piece of their unblemished flesh. The “in” color last year, determined by these masters of oppression, was orange. Orange. What other instrument could have been better designed to keep our ginger friends down?
So let us rise up, my blemished friends, and use our numbers to our advantage. Tonight, the garment district shall feel the wrath of the fugly hordes.
http://www.nytimes.com/2011/08/26/arts/design/rhino-horns-lure-museum-thieves.html?_r=1&scp=1&sq=rhino&st=cse
Look, I’m going to give it to you straight. This shit. This shit that I’m holding here. This is top quality shit. I mean, I can tell you’re a man of high tastes, but this is the finest rhino horn you’re ever gonna get.
What do you want? Huh? Do you want virility? Shit, this will give you virility. Virility up the ass. Your sex drive… shit you’re sex drive will be in overdrive. That’s where your sex drive will be. In the red. You’ll be fucking red lining your sex drive after eating some of this rhino horn. That’s where your sex drive be.
You want passion? Man, this horn will knock you on the ass with passion. After taking this, the world will seem vibrant. I’m talking radiant. Reds will be redder. Yellows yellower. Whites—forget bleach—whites will be burning your eye sockets out. And blacks… well, black is fucking black.
And now, man, this is where I let you in on a secret. What makes this horn so potent is the matter in which it was harvested. From a well aged rhino, snatched during an adrenaline laced heist. That, my man, is how you make a primo aphrodisiac.
http://www.npr.org/2011/08/24/139910281/corn-the-gold-standard-of-agriculture-commodities
Kernels upon kernels of corn, yellow gold, sit outside my window. It just waits there, inches past the edge of my yard. Taunting me day after day, month after month. I’ve watched from the corner of my eye old Farmer John riding like a king upon his big John Deere. Back and forth. Back and forth. Tending and loving those kernels of yellow gold.
Tonight my patient observation pays off. Tonight, my months of planning, scheming really, comes to a head. Tonight I dawn my stocking cap, tiptoe across my crab grass, and help myself to cob after cob of what’s coming to me. I’ve put up with Farmer John’s arrogance long enough. I’ve tolerated the stench of that fertilizer, the droning of the tractor engine at ungodly hours. I waved back at Farmer John as he smugly beamed down at me from that damn John Deere. Muttered swears under my breath, yes, but I was decent enough to wave. And tonight I take what’s mine.
