Woman, get me a beer and a catnip mouse!

Marlie is laying on the couch, reading a paperback novel, when her husband Bernie the half-cyborg cat jumps up on her and nuzzles the book out of the way so he can sit on her chest and get in her face.

“What the feck do ya want?” Marlie says, unhappy that Bernie has interrupted her reading.

“I’m bored,” says Bernie.  “Pet me and then go get the sparkly stick.  I want to play.”

“Ah, do it ya self,” Marlie says, uninterested.

“I can’t play with the sparkly stick by myself, ” says Bernie.  “You need to wave it around for me.”

“You get the sparkly stick, I’m readin’,” Marlie says.

“I can’t get the sparkly stick, it’s in a drawer,” Bernie says.

“Sa?  It’s in a drawr,” says Marlie.  “Sa what?”

“So I can’t open drawers because I don’t have any fucking thumbs, ya cunt!”  Bernie says.  “Now go get the sparkly stick!”

“Did’ya joost call me a coont?” says Marlie.  “We dunnot use that ward in this house, Bernie.  Bad kitty.”

“You called the toaster a cunt this morning,” says Bernie.  “There isn’t an appliance in this house you haven’t called a cunt.”

“Yah, but you dant say it with an Irish accent,” Marlie says.  “See, whan I say it, it sounds funny and charmin’.  When you say it in your awful American tangue, it don’t sound sa good ta me ears.”

“Just get the god damn sparkly stick,” Bernie says.

“I’ll get tha damn squirt bottle if ya keep usin’ tha Lard’s name ‘n vain,” Marlie says.

“Look, I’m feeling hyper and if I don’t get it all out of my system with sparkly stick I’m going to end up shredding something,” says Bernie.  “Like your bathrobe or your curtains or your Team Ireland jerseys.”

Marlie sits up and puts Bernie on the carpet. “All right, but I’m doin’ it from tha couch.  And later you gotta gimme one of them kitty biscuit massages.”

Marriage is full of compromises like this.

humor-blogs.com - fuelmyblog.com - alltop-humor - cre8buzz - blogcatalog

I think I can, I think I can, I think I could use more money

So we hear that John McCain’s top economic adviser Phil Gramm say that the economy is actually fine and that the bad feeling Americans have is what he called a “mental recession” and that we’re a nation of whiners.

“Of course he’s going to say everything’s fine,” says Bernie the Half-Cyborg cat. “He’s Vice Chairman of a Swiss fucking bank. Everything’s coming up Milhouse Nixon for him. Meanwhile my office is cutting staff.”

“Mental recession?” I say. “Does that mean that Mikka is only imaging that his workplace is laying people off?”

“Yesterday I thought I had forty bucks with me yesterday, turns out I only had twenty,” says Bernie. “So I guess I had a mental economic expansion.”

“If this is a mental recession, can I get out of it by imaging that I have more money?” I ask.

“No, because then you’ll have mental inflation, and then your thoughts will be worth less,” says Bernie. “You know how in Zimbabwe they have like a million percent inflation there? And notice how no one cares what Zimbabwe thinks about anything?”

“But have we really become a nation of whiners?” I say.

“We’ve always been a nation of whiners,” says Bernie the Half Cyborg. “Waaah, the British are taxing our tea too much. Waaah, if you don’t let me keep my slaves I’m leaving the union. Waaah, someone flew planes into our buildings.”

“So instead of whining about real things, we should keep a stiff upper lift about imaginary things?” I say.

“Works for me,” says Bernie.

And so while we continue complaining about paying $4.11 a gallon for gas, we show our gritty iron-jawed resolve against the Giant Nuclear Robot Buzzsaw Moths who threaten our nation’s sweaters that we just thought up after about five or seven shots of… I think it was rum. Might have been wiper fluid.

humor-blogs.com - fuelmyblog.com - alltop-humor - cre8buzz - blogcatalog

Just Another Lonely Friday

I was supposed to be hanging with the fliest peckerwood to ever walk the Senate floor Trent Lott, but he’s still mourning the death of his Senate running buddy/southern racist Jesse Helms from last week, so he’s unavailable.

So I call Mikka up to go hang out down at the Bass to Bass, but Samurai Cathy just came back to town after her meditation sabbatical stemming from their double date with Tag Larkin two weeks ago.  So it’s been awhile since Mikka’s gotten some nookie.

I go across the street to see if Bernie the Half Cyborg Cat is around, but apparently he and Marlie are having one of their kinky role-playing nights.  I find this out when Bernie answers the door dressed as David Beckham and Marlie walks by as a sexy referee in hot pants.

Even Tina the Lesbian is busy tonight, catching the Sex and the City movie down at the metroplex with some of her softball friends.  She asked if I would like to go, but declined because I don’t buy Sarah Jessica Parker as a romantic lead, or as someone Chris Noth would actually bang.

Avonia the Wiccan Pimp’s working the streets.  Mercury Shadow and Crimson Paraplegic are on patrol making sure people don’t siphon gas out of other people’s cars.  Ninja Vicki’s busy stalking Mikka and Samurai Cathy.  Psycho Dave is out bringing democracy to an unspecified Central American country, just so he can take it away.  And Tag Larkin is… well, I’m not about to call Tag Larkin.

Maybe Sniper Cathy’s watching me tonight.  I like to think she is, because it reminds me not to watch porn by an open window.

humor-blogs.com - fuelmyblog.com - alltop-humor - cre8buzz - blogcatalog

Feline Rail Line is Divine

There’s a cat in Japan who is the master of a railway station. So I asked the cat expert what this is about.

“Well, with gas prices shooting up so high, mass transit is going to be big,” says Bernie the Half-Cyborg Cat. “And so we’re getting into key positions so when the time comes to strike we will control all transportation.”

“I wasn’t aware cats knew the concept of mass transit,” I say.

“We’ve already learned how the buses work,” says Bernie. “That cat in England broke that code for us.”

So now that I know that cats have infiltrated the highest ranks of our mass transit systems, I write a letter to my state senator.

Dear Senator,

My local paper says you have consistently voted against expanding mass transit in our state. Is it because cats own it? Maybe you should tell people about that. It would probably help your polling. Please respond like you usually do to me, by planting secret coded messages in my issues of Esquire magazine.

And in an interview with Colin Farrell, I find out that my senator has no comment on the issue.

humor-blogs.com - fuelmyblog.com - alltop-humor - cre8buzz - blogcatalog

Some gave more, we all gave less

So President Bush stopped playing golf while the war in Iraq was/is on.  Well, actually, he said he gave it up in August 2003 when the top United Nations guy in Iraq was killed.  Well, actually, he kept playing until October 2003.  But still, sacrifices were made!

Anyway it got us talking down at the bar about what sacrifices we made for the war effort.

“I gave up golf too,” says Bernie the half-cyborg cat.  Actually he was banned from the local course for treating the sand traps as a litter box.

“Well, I gave up owning my Lexus for the war,” I say, neglecting to mention I had help from the repo man and a pissed off bank that was dumb enough to give me a loan.

“I gave up using Internet Explorer and went to Firefox full time,” says Mikka.

“How about you?” I say to Nikki Vowelsdower, a young woman who’s husband is serving in Iraq on his third tour.

“I gave up the ability to hear the doorbell ring without breaking down in a hysterical crying fit,” NikkI Vowelsdower says, chasing a handful of Lexapro with a vodka tonic.

“Well, at least you’re allowed on the golf course,” says Bernie.

humor-blogs.com - fuelmyblog.com - alltop-humor - cre8buzz - blogcatalog

Unwelcomed Nomenclature

It’s another round of Renal Failure’s Naming Babies That Aren’t Ours. This time it’s our friend over at Wicca201 who has a baby on the way. She’s not due till August, but we figure there’s a better chance of the names getting used if we get them in now.

Now it’s been confirmed that she’s having a daughter so we don’t have to come up with boys’ names. Also her last name starts with a “T” so no names beginning with that letter will be accepted because alliteration opens the door to harsh ridicule in school. And also I’ve decreed no repeating names from the last time we suggested names, because that’s lazy.

This, however, does not stop Tag Larkin from suggesting that the wee lass be named Tag Larkin.

“Petra’s a good Finnish girl’s name,” says Mikka. Then I inform him that the father is German, not Finnish. I also point out the father of this child owns an XBox360. “Oh, then call the kid Halo.”

“Dethklok,” says Bernie the Half-Cyborg Cat, who thinks naming children after metal bands is a good idea. “Or Gwar. Can Gwar at least be the middle name, because that will give that kid instant metal cred, and metal cred is hard to come by these days.”

“Well, if I were having a daughter I’d go with Fiona or Wynter,” says Avonia the Wiccan Pimp. “But pimps don’t get maternity leave, and the goddess tends to ignore my fertility offerings.”

“How about… uh… Peppermint and… who was the one with the fire bush… oh yeah, Sinnamyn,” says Anonymous Doug, recalling the names of the two strippers who gave him lap dances last weekend. I’m pretty sure my friend does not want a stripper pole as a baby shower gift.

“Lady Snowblood,” says Samurai Cathy. Well, it certainly would keep the maladjusted kids at school away from her. When pressed for a second suggestion, Cathy just shrugs and says “Zatoichi?”

“I’d like to see a girl named Katana,” says Ninja Vicki, holding up her katana blade. “That would be sweet.”

When asked for a second suggestion, she thinks about it for a moment, then remembers she’s got her iPod earbud in her ear when “Glory of Love” comes on. “How about Cetera? That would be an awesome first name.”

“Bailey s’n Jamesyn…” Marlie says. I’m not sure if she’s suggesting names or placing her drink order, and she was unavailable for clarification because she then proceeded to pass out. And while our friend at Wicca201 liked Marlie’s previous suggestion of Teagan, it won’t work here because of our alliteration rule.

Tina the Lesbian struggles for ideas until I tell her that the child’s father is a big Star Trek geek. “Oh, in that case either Jadzia Dax or Captain Janeway.”

And I suggest either Morrigan, the Celtic goddess of war and fate, or Nemesis, the Greek goddess of divine retribution. I’m leaning toward Nemesis because then the child can refer to the movie “Snatch” when asked about her name: “Do you know what “nemesis” means? A righteous infliction of retribution manifested by an appropriate agent. Personified in this case by an ‘orrible cunt… me.” Now tell me that wouldn’t sound absolutely adorable coming from a five-year-old girl’s mouth.

humor-blogs.com - fuelmyblog.com - alltop-humor - cre8buzz - blogcatalog

King Friday Wore a Bomb Vest

I’m watching a new Palestinian children’s program, made possible by Hamas and viewers like you. This one is different than the show that keeps killing their animal hosts. This new show has puppets.

So this new show has puppet President Bush meeting a young Palestinian child. Well, he says he’s President Bush. He looks more like Leslie Nielsen in a green floral mu’umu’u with one of those boxing nun puppet bodies. Anyway, this child blames Bush for making him an orphan because his dad died in the Iraq war and his mom died during the bombing of Lebanon and his other brothers and sisters died in Gaza from other bombs.

“Is this kid Bruce Willis from Unbreakable?” says Bernie the half-cyborg cat, who was nice enough to join me in my afternoon of Palestinian children’s programming. “How is this kid surviving all these attacks?”

Well, super orphan kid has brought a sword to slay the puppet President, and all of the President’s Secret Service is missing because for reasons not made clear to the audience all the American people have surrendered to the power of Islam, thanks to this kid’s army of Mighty Morphin’ Islam Orphans.

“It’s a hard knock life, Allah willing,” I sing, thinking that I’ve just stumbled upon Islamic version of the musical Annie. “Instead of treated, we get Zionist oppression! Instead of kisses, we get bombed by the Great Satan.”

“Children have not been able to defy the government since the movie E.T.,” says Bernie. “They have contingency plans so nothing like that happens again.”

“Yeah, and the real ending to Newsies was all the newspaper boys being gunned down by the cops,” I say. “But it didn’t test well, so they wrote a new ending and put in some songs.”

“But it is rather accurate that Bush would be the last person to know that everyone in America surrendered to the Teenage Muslim Ninja Orphans,” says Bernie. “He was the last person to know we were under attack on 9-11.”

So then President Boxing Nun Puppet begs for his life and offers to bring all the members of Islamic Menudo back to the White House for food and toys, but the Cabbage Patch Suicide Bomber kid informs the President that the White House has now been turned into a giant mosque and that President Steve Martin cannot enter it because he is impure.

“If they knew half the shit that went on in the White House, they wouldn’t even consider turning it into a mosque,” says Bernie the half-cyborg cat. “Forget Clinton’s blowjobs. Andrew Jackson used to drown captured Indian women in his bathtub while doing them up the ass.”

“Nixon burned kittens alive just to get an erection,” I say. “And I heard Warren Harding was really into feet. Eeeew.”

They drag things out a little longer until Little Orphan Islam delivers the final Inigo Montoya stab to avenge every orphan who lost their parents to the Israelicons and the Legion of American Doom.

“It sounds like Mr. Bill getting killed,” says Bernie.

“Everyone on these Palestinian children shows sounds like Mr. Bill,” I say. “It’s like they just got the original 1970’s episodes of Saturday Night Live over there. Are they going to do a Bass-o-Matic parody and call it the Jew-o-Matic?”

“That’s what they need, Saturday Night Hamas,” says Bernie. “Starring the Not Ready for Glorious Martyrdom Players.”

If Allah is so great, why can’t he provide better television for his people?

Gonna keep on dancin’ to the rock and roll… on humor-blogs.com… 

Are There Irish Samurai?

Mikka is slowly introducing his girlfriend Samurai Cathy to his circle of friends, which in turn is my circle of friends. First he brought out Bernie the half-cyborg cat out to meet her, now it’s time to meet Bernie’s Irish wife Marlie.

So we all go out to O’Cirrhosis’s Pub, which is one of the few places in town that show Football League of Ireland games and will allow Marlie to be on their premises. She’s at the bar arm wrestling sailors for free drinks, and judging by the large pyramid of empty shot glasses next to her she seems to be on quite a winning streak.

“‘Ey, ‘ow ya’s all du’in?” Marlie greets us after beating yet another Irishman. Ya’s all is Mikka, Cathy, me, and Bernie, and I’m carrying Bernie in his kitty caddy because Bernie heard they piss on the floor in this bar and doesn’t want his paws getting messy.

“Marlie, I want you meet my girlfriend Samurai Cathy,” Mikka says. “Samurai Cathy, this is Bernie’s wife Marlie. She’s very Irish.”

“Nice to meet you,” Samurai Cathy says, putting out her hand for Marlie to shake, but she doesn’t.

Just further proof that a benevolent, merciful God does not exist

Yesterday was the five year anniversary of the start of the Iraq War, but we’re observing it today because I can’t really account for my whereabouts yesterday.  Strange.  Anyway, so we’re observing it today, but we weren’t sure how.  So Bernie the half-cyborg cat and I went to the local pub for margaritas served in an Army helmet.

“I have a question,” says Bernie.

“I have an answer,” I say. “May not be the one you’re looking for, but it’s an answer nonetheless.”

“Let’s say you’re a financial planner of sorts,” says Bernie.

“We can say that, sure,” I say.

“And let’s say that because of your advice and analysis, you lost all your clients’ money,” says Bernie. “And even worse, your wrong choices makes the firm you work for go out of business. Would you expect to get hired by another financial firm after that?”

“Well I certainly wouldn’t hire me, that’s for sure,” I say.

“Now let’s say you were a doctor,” says Bernie. “And you fuck up royally. Like you’re supposed to take out someone’s appendix and instead you set them on fire. Would you be allowed to practice medicine after that?”

“I would think not,” I say.

“Okay… okay…” says Bernie. “Now let’s say you’re one of those foreign affairs or military experts that get printed in newspapers and magazines, and get invited to appear on all the news shows on TV.”

“So I’m no longer a doctor,” I say.

“Correct,” says Bernie.

“Good, because I don’t much care for curing the sick,” I say.

“And let’s say as one of these experts you quite vociferously advocate the dumbest, bloodies, and most costly military conflict of the new century,” says Bernie. “Would you expect to continue to have people listen to you after fucking up so badly?”

“I would hope not,” I say.

“Then why do these fucking idiots keep showing up in my morning newspaper?” says Bernie. “Why do I keep seeing their stupid faces on my TV?”

“Because when you’re a foreign affairs or military expert, your job is not to be right,” I say. “Your job is to get a gigantic erection over the thought of war and then rigorously stroke that massive war cock all over whatever media you can get on until gooey bloody completion. Then, and only then, will you be considered a ’serious’ thinker on the subject of international affairs, and you’ll be paid ridiculous amounts of money for years to come just for continuing to beat off to the prospect of the thousands of dead people that will result from your putrid analytical skills.”

“You know, that really was the answer I was looking for,” says Bernie.

“Glad I could help,” I say. Then I volunteer to help Bernie make a list of pundits that should be beaten in the crotch with a bat until it breaks off for being pants-on-head retarded, for still having jobs, and for still having their continuously idiotically wrong opinions respected. Pundit. Bat. Crotch. Repeat until it breaks off. The crotch, not the bat.

Fighting soldiers from the sky… fearless men who jump and die… men who mean just what they say… the brave men of humor-blogs.com

St. Catrick’s Day

It is a little known fact that Bernie the half-cyborg cat and his wife Marlie first met on St. Patrick’s Day. The details are a bit sketchy, but they were both at the same pub, they both drank a lot, and somehow they ended up going home together. And since a talking cyborg cat was a lot better than most of the guys she had woken up next to in the past, they stayed together. Eventually they got married the day before St. Patrick’s Day, so that 1) they could still go get shitfaced the next night and 2)they would remember when their anniversary was.

But getting married or finding love on or around a holiday can be dangerous, because if something goes wrong you can ruin that holiday for quite some time. It’s hard to get amped for Christmas if that’s when the only good thing in your life decided to leave you.  Merry Christmas, you weren’t good enough for him and every bit of tinsel is a cold reminder of that soul-breaking fact.

It’s like how I had a relationship end on Martin Luther King Jr. Day. Because of that, it took me years to start liking civil rights again.

Veteran’s Day is still a sore subject for Tag Larkin.

Oh Humor-blogs.com, the pipes, the pipes are calling…