Today's Joke

Have you ever found yourself eating something, read the packaging, and immediately become nauseas? Usually this happens when someone finds out they are allergic to something in the ingredients or they find out that hot dogs aren't as wholesome as they appear. These things tend not to bother me, if I'm eating something delicious and then find out that it hats rats eyes as the main ingredient, it doesn't make me throw up. It leads to me hunting rats.

But don't let mislead you reader. Packaging doesn't only include the ingredients. No sir/ma'am/smirmam. For instance, sometimes companies make terrible mistakes in branding.

"Give us an example Emmanuel, right now you just sound crazy."

Old Dutch Potato Chips. There. I wish all potato chip companies just agreed to share the name "Deep Fried Potato Slices." that's all the information I need. You can start making them out of delicious rat eyes as long as that's the name.

"But why do you hate 'Old Dutch' so much?"

Because every time I grab a handful of those salty crinkle cuts (which is the worst chip cut), I feel like this is what I'm putting in my mouth:

This, by the way, is the first thing you get when you type "Old Dutch" into Google search. Blame it on me being a visual thinker, but I don't like to imagine each chip as a geriatric, telling me the same stories over and over as they limp down my throat with a walker. Even if it's not a person, then I just imagine a really old potato that traveled all the way from the Netherlands via steamboat to America, where it was made into a chip. Which might explain why I dislike their taste as well.

You may be accusing me of ageism right about now, but it was 'Young Dutch' then I'd just be thinking about eating babies. And while babies are arguably easier to stomach thanks to their size and lack of orthopedic shoes and bifocals, it's still gross. The moral of the story of course is to buy Tostitos. How can that name offend?

Output

Output is the number one lesson I've gotten in the last month. So, of course, output on the blog front fails. Here's some poems:

I don't own a tailored black pea-coat

So I don't know where I should stand in line

My bright yellow jacket looks like a banana surrounded by chocolate

George-Michael is probably going to sell me

I'm fantasizing about summer

Because I accidentally touched my shin to the radiator

Now my shin has a blister

And my house is still cold

These aren't really poems

Unless you are emphasizing these line breaks when you're reading

Like

PO

PO

PO-EM

I AM

I AM EMMANUEL

AM I

AM I?

You read that with the wrong emphasis

And Witt would punch you in the back of your neck

Because he hates spoken word

A bad critique is not

Your work sucks

This sucks, and this sucks

This is too dark, this is too light

And everything you've done is wrong

It is

Well, this isn't what I wanted

Can you elaborate

No

Although I want chinese food

I will not eat it here

Not here, not in this city

Because my last order tasted like chicken water

It made me gag, but

It also reminded me

Of Hot Ham Water

Which almost made it worth it

I take writing and reading good poetry seriously

That said

This was today's joke.

Yesterday's Joke

Last night I received a text message from a stranger who must have thought I was their friend. I decided that I would play along, and found it quite entertaining:

651 500 6008: Your gay lol

Me: Who is this?

651 500 6008: Your worse nitemare

Me: You're Glenn Beck?! Holy shit, I know Glenn Beck's phone number! 

651 500 6008: Huh

Me: You said you were my worst nightmare, right? You must be Glenn Beck, right wing political commentator and moron. I mean, I'm not trying to call you a moron.

651 500 6008: Lol who are you

Naturally, given this prompt, the only way I could respond was:

Me: Your worst nightmare.

Today's Joke

Brought to you by last week's Brown/RISD College Hill Independent:

In an article recently published the Independent wrote about Mexico's recent decriminalization of drugs for personal use. This makes sense, it's a hot topic. But the part that was funny was this excerpt:

"It is now illegal to send someone to jail for the possession of 2 grams of marijuana (about three joints) or half a gram of cocaine (about four lines)."

I love that, because your readers are at a college institution you assume that they need grams to be illustrated in a college friendly vernacular. You would think someone that made it into an Ivy League institution may have been introduced to this unit of metric measurement before?

Today's Joke

I sometimes act in an irrational fashion.

For example, I do not have the internet at my home, nor television. So when I finish my homework I generally read a book, or even better, go to sleep. However, last night instead of using the precious ONE NIGHT that I didn't have a copious amount of homework to do, I made a beef roast. Do you know how long you need to simmer a beef roast on the stove for it to cook? 1 hour per pound plus 1 hour. For those of you that like algebra, here it is : T=Cook Time (in hours) P = Pounds H=Hour

(P x H) + H = T

I had a three and a half pound roast. I started the oven timer at 12:00 am. I am an idiot.

This morning, after not sleeping, I realized I'm old. My body cannot take this anymore. I'm not 12. My ankles and knees are swollen, my lower back aches, I've got wrinkles and dark circles. 21 years is apparently past the expiration date on my warranty.

With all this talk of universal health, it got me to thinking about pushing some legislation I've been thinking about. It falls under the category of life insurance I suppose, although I think it would be referred to "male, 15-25, bad decisions insurance."

The plan is that I take your money. I put it in a cookie jar. For every drink you imbibe, I take ten cents on the dollar. For every cigarette I charge a dollar per pack. This steep hike in price sounds like a lot, but this isn't even insurance I suppose. See, the plan is to grow organs matrix style and put that shit on layaway. By the time you turn forty and your liver and lungs are shot, BADOW! You've just paid the cost of a new liver and lungs. If you don't make it to forty, shit... your money is going to the beer fund.

I like the idea of putting body parts on layaway. I hear that super stars and super models insure their bodies all the time, like Heidi Klum insured her legs. I figure if you're a drunk frat boy, why shouldn't I be able to provide you with this exclusive service. I promise most of the organs won't come from monkeys or pigs, but if you're on a budget I know a man who has a beaver ranch. Whoa. Sorry for the incendiary language, that came out wrong. What I'm saying is beavers have strong hearts.

Bad at blogging, better at homework

Sorry to leave you hanging four readers, but it seems like doing actual work and getting my assignments done is more important than writing daily jokes.

However, here is Today's Joke:

Art school seems to be a void of knowledge. For example, if you ask anyone at art school why they do not know anything, they will undoubtedly respond, "How should I know that, I go to art school."

This can range from acceptable excuse to pitiful excuse. For example, "What are some laws of quantum-mechanics?"
"How should I know that, I'm in art school!" - is a perfectly acceptable answer.

"How am I supposed to know Mexicans were native Americans? Wait, Indians here aren't the same Indians there are in India?"
This answer, which I got recently (I won't name names) is stretching the art-school cop out.

The worst excuse however came when someone was drawing in terrible perspective. When pointed out, they responded, "How am I supposed to know that, I am in art school."

Today's Joke

Today's joke is brought to you by Tide.

I'm a cornucopia with teeth.

Is the Marshmallow Peep the chicken equivalent of a blow up doll?

What part of the chicken is the nugget by the way? It is my contention that the nugget must either be the soul of the chicken, or a lump of meat above the pancreas.

Speaking of chicken nuggets, have you ever noticed how babies in strollers are experiencing the best part of their lives and don't even know it? I wish I could eat a tupperware container of honey-nut cheerios, wearing oversized sunglasses while someone pushed me around all day. I imagine heaven is an upright hammock which rolls around and you can take naps in the hot sun. I think the first person to market an adult stroller will be shunned, but the second wave will surely catch on. No more wheel chairs. They are passe, and being in one indicates you have some sort of disability. I don't want people to judge my love of seated rolling as a disability, I'd rather they acknowledge it for what it is: I'm lazy. Let's call apples apples.

I wish we could all indulge in our laziness without being pressured to always do something like "get a job" or "do your homework" or "get dressed in the morning." I'm the type of lazy person that will actually spend hours of hard labor crafting devices to facilitate laziness, almost like searching the house for the remote control instead of walking to the TV to change the channel. For instance, I once rigged a hose from my bathroom faucet to my couch, with a clamp on one end, so I could refill my water glass without getting up. Yes, I'm a regular MacGyver. The true innovation is when I skipped the middle man and just fed a catheter into a Britta filter. Let's just say if necessity if the mother of invention, then sloth is the father. Which probably means it was an artificial insemination, because he never got around to it.

Today's Jokes

Today's joke is a practical joke, which I accidentally played on myself.

Drink 1 pot of coffee.
Study late into the night, and top it off with a bag of microwave popcorn.
Eat half a bowl of cereal before realizing the milk is bad.
Try to hold that down.

Also, I realized I didn't post yesterday's joke. I didn't have one then, and I don't have one now, but here it goes, improv:

Instead of paying social security, I decided just to return all of my Grandma's birthday cards with checks written out for three dollars and fifty cents, with the area for notes filled out "College." I wish I could live in that ideal world where college tuition could be covered selling penny candy. Unfortunately, the last time I went door to door selling candy for school, I was met with much resistance. Apparently, people can't get behind a man's quest for education, who happens to have a beard. It also might've been my only choices were a half-finished bag of Swedish Fish and a Luna bar.

When I was in grade school they used to ask children to fundraise for field trips by handing out catalogs of expensive wrapping paper, chocolate covered nuts in decorative packages, and $45 dollar ornaments of smiling snowmen. If you sold a certain number of nut bags you were rewarded with a yo-yo or maybe a Nerf gun. If you were the top seller you got a 10" television with built in VCR. Not surprisingly, the top earners in our class went on to make great telemarketers, sales reps, and prostitutes.

I was morally opposed to selling myself out on the street, whether it be for wrapping paper or whatever. I was not, however, morally opposed to placing fake orders in my friend's names and then eating the resulting fraud-chocolate.

OK, well, that fizzled out. Whatever.