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"I wanna smoke a pile of rocks THIS BIG!"

My generation contains a subset of dorky guys who like girls but have a love for the cheesy adult-contemporary and pop hits of the ’80s and ’90s. I’ve got a friend — loves pussy, loves Michael Bolton even more.

Me, I’ve got musical guilty pleasures out the ass, but I have a special fondness for the Hot Diva Pop of the Reagan/Bush/Clinton years. Music that makes you look gay from women you’d love to fuck. I’m talking about early Mariah, Janet, Vanessa Williams, Paula Abdul, Madonna and, yes, Whitney Houston.

So when Whitney was found dead in a hotel room at age 48 last Saturday, it was a cause for mourning and reflection. There were also many crack jokes involved also. Because, let’s face it — it’s funny.

A coworker complained to me that Whitney was no great legend, that she only had like 6 popular songs. I told him I could name 20 Whitney Houston songs that charted. He didn’t believe me. I rattled them off: You Give Good Love, Saving All My Love For You, Greatest Love of All–

Another coworker interrupted: “How many can you name that don’t have the word ‘love’ in the title?”

I got to 19 Whitney songs and blanked. My general manager, who had arrived around the time I listed Song 13, chimed in, “What about [singing] My Name Is Not Susan“? And I had my 20. How could I have forgotten about the WORST Whitney song ever played on the radio? I started singing, “My name is not Bobby, but my husband’s name is.”

Later, I remembered Whitney’s 1991 live version of The Star Spangled Banner at the Super Bowl. It was released as a single at the height of combat operations during the first Gulf War. You’d better believed it charted. A fourth coworker told me, “You know, at the time, no one had any idea that Whitney lip synched that Super Bowl performance.” I’d had no idea. “Yeah, he said, “saw that one on E! about 6 years ago.”

The weird thing about famous people dying young is, it brings the living closer together, if just in a minor way, for a short amount of time. Whitney, I respect your achievements. I love about 15 of your songs. I even watched your movies. And my coworkers and I had fun remembering you. Rest in peace.

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Whatever you think is happening, it's all a misunderstanding. -Jack Tripper, Three's Company

You’re goddamn right I did that!
-Steve Urkel, Family Matters

I have black friends.
-Ricky Stratton, Silver Spoons

Fucking Charo! AGAIN!!
-Captain Stubing, The Love Boat

I wish I had boobs ):
-Punky Brewster

Yes, let’s have two grown single men and a Canadian with a puppet explain menstruating to me and my sisters. If you will excuse me, I am going to ask the bag lady down the street what to do with these tampons. FML!
-D.J. Tanner, Full House

I (heart) sheep. Like REALLY (heart) sheep.
-Balki, Perfect Strangers

Keep making fun of my accent. Hope you enjoy pubic-hair soup, dicks!
-Mr. Belvedere

Soon, the revolution will begin…
-Benson

We’re all out of grits, bitch!
-Alice

I banged Winnie!
-Kevin Arnold, The Wonder Years

I watched Kevin bang Winnie!
-Paul Pfeiffer, The Wonder Years

I’m having an awesome bang day!
-Blair, The Facts of Life

Sam Malone is in a relationship with Diane Chambers and “it’s complicated.”

I. AM. A. ROBOT. NOT. AUTISTIC. YOU. FUCKING. ASSHOLES.
-Vickie, Small Wonder

I LOVE PUSSY! HA!
-Alf

I LOVE COCAINE!
-Willis, Diff’rent Strokes

I LOVE COCAINE!
-Cliff Huxtable, The Cosby Show

I LOVE COCAINE!
-Animal, The Muppet Show

I LOVE COCAINE!
-Mork, Mork and Mindy

I’m calling immigration.
-Mindy, Mork and Mindy

Norm Peterson checked in at TGIFridays. just now

Mmm hmm, honey. Mmm hmm.
-Any castmember from 227

Why doesn’t anyone else notice my two older sisters are half-white? When will the lies stop? FML!
-Theo Huxtable, The Cosby Show

If they only knew why I wore rainbow suspenders…
-Rerun, What’s Happening!

If they only knew why I wore rainbow suspenders…
-Mork, Mork and Mindy

Is anyone else creeped out that my old-ass parents had a new kid?! Me and Alex could be his parents!
-Mallory Keaton, Family Ties

Legalize it!
-Alex P. Keaton, Family Ties

I hate it when a plan goes spectacularly tits-up. Posted from Cook County Penitentiary
-John “Hannibal” Smith, The A-Team

Joanie Cunningham changed her relationship status from “married” to “divorced.”

Chachi Arcola changed his relationship status from “married” to “widowed.”

Bitches be trippin’!
-Blake Carrington, Dynasty

They don’t call me Boner for nothing!
-Boner, Growing Pains

Homey DOES play that Farmville.
-Homey the Clown, In Living Color

We’ve gotta get a second bathroom.
-Nicole, My Two Dads

My favorite people: Samantuh, Monuh, Eangeluh.
-Tony, Who’s the Boss

Yes, cracka, my middle name is Wayne too.
-Dwayne Wayne, A Different World

Banged Joan. Banged Natasha. Banged Chrissy. Banged Margie. Banged Cynthia. All before breakfast.
-Dan Fielding, Night Court

Banged Chrissy. Banged Cynthia. Banged Natasha. Banged Joan. Banged Margie. All before lunch.
-Sam Malone, Cheers

I pity too many fools. When is it my turn to be pitied? How many chains do I have to put on before my pain is noticed?
-Mr. T, The A-Team

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CONCEIVED BY: J.Miz
EDITED BY: Andrew Hicks
ADDITIONAL CONTRIBUTORS: Benjamin Bennington, Eric Dohman, Tony Fyler

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J.Miz: Making the seatbelt look sexy since 2011.

• I want my new nickname to be SAUCE! S’up SAUCE? How you livin SAUCE?! You’re looking hot SAUCE!!!!

• Our three cats keep sitting in triangle formation. What’s weirder , them lining up like that or the centaur that always appears in the middle?

• What if it turns out 12/21/12 is actually the day Maya Angelou is supposed to die? Oprah will be PISSED!

• The saying goes, “The best things in life are free.” But so are the worst. Like AIDS.

• I think I was just asked out on a blind date online. But the email was in Braille, so I’m not sure.

• The best thing about bipolar disorder is realizing you don’t need those meds anymore. Because you are FUCKING AWESOME!

• When somebody tells me they suck at life, to the point of several suicide attempts, I feel so bad. That they suck at suicide too.

• I am now at the age where I grunt anytime I have to bend over, not just during sex.

• Some women think they’re cut out for motherhood, but in reality they barely pull off mother trailer park.

• Have you ever heard tribal drums only to realize it’s your ceiling fan? #Reasons INeverTriedAcid

• Thanks to my Advanced Task Manager, I can KILL the Messenger whenever I fucking feel like it!

• I once had an affair with my boss. That was a totally awkward situation. For a family business.

• White chocolate has always irked me. Not only is it gross, it’s kinda racist. Regular chocolate doesn’t remind people it’s brown.

• The upside to being back in the dating game is that I no longer feel that terrible emptiness. In my vagina.

• I think it’s funny when fat people jokingly call themselves fat, so I tell them they’re funny. But I don’t say they’re not fat.

• Just ONCE, during sex, I’d like to be told, “Don’t make me turn this thing around!” And then totally make him.

• I’ve always said that one day I would adopt. I want to show a child that I am capable of great love. Not just kidnapping.

• I lick my phone off to clean it. Don’t get any bright ideas, dirty penises of the world.

• To show support of my boyfriend’s busy career and still being able to spend time together, I’ve been going over to his place. To buy my drugs.

• A slight tweak has my boyfriend and I enjoying simultaneous orgasms. The trick is to totally sync up our cheating.

• The fact that men fake orgasms shouldn’t be surprising. They fake love and monogamy all the time.

• I like my men cocky and my ladies perky.

• Vacuuming is my favorite household chore. I prefer my house pets on the verge of a coronary. They’re cuter like that.

• I’m so hungry I could eat my twin.

• I’ll I’ve had to eat today is candy and bread. I feel like a pigeon.

• My phone treats me like it doesn’t know me. It can always predict me typing YouTube, but never foresees “pussy,” “cunt” or “fuck.”

• If it weren’t for nightmares and the excessive amount of premature stock I place on brand new relationships, I’d NEVER have dreams.

• Toolbar: Any athletics themed, suburban tavern that has a DJ.

• If I rolled around with a jacked, strong, well oiled man for 10 minutes, I’D HAVE to fuck somebody. That’s just logic.

• Thank God you can’t get keyboards pregnant, or I’d have kids ALL OVER the Internet.

• I wonder how many people’s lives have been ruined by the fucks on Yahoo! Answers.

• Men are enigmas, puzzles of sorts. I always pick the complicated ones, with thousands of pieces. And one piece is inevitably missing.

• I have a cheapie lighter that makes me feel like a crack head. I have to keep lighting and lighting and lighting it. Under this foil.

• I love iTunes. It knows all my favourite songs.

• I texted my boyfriend to ask him if he was ignoring me. He didn’t get back to me.

• I’ve decided that I am not going to date anyone SERIOUSLY any time soon. Why start now?!

–

This guy stole Doug Stanhope's routines verbatim. All we did was steal this doctored photo from Facebook.

My night’s entertainment has come courtesy of first-rate comedian Doug Stanhope and some sixth-rate dude named Troy Holm. Each one, apparently, wrote the following bit:

i’m going to tell you how to win the war on drugs. the way you have to do it is to attack the source. the source of the drug problem. it’s not the growers or the suppliers. it’s the people that are responsible for making life so absolutely boring, and dull, and predictable, that you rather put toxins in your system to get away from that! whoever that is responsible for T.G.I.Friday’s, and Ashton Kutcher, and Last Comic Standing, and PT Cruisers, and 8 Simple Rules For Raping My Teenage Daugher (or whatever it was called), and Vin Diesel, and whoever made life so fuckin’ dull that you’re working for 5 to enjoy 2.

Stanhope has performed this bit in front of many (probably hundreds of) audiences. Troy Holm is a balding fireman who used to write a blog called Examining My Dance Pattern. Troy’s favorite topics of discussion — picking up beautiful ladies, lying to beautiful ladies so he can have sex with them, getting drunk and working as a fireman. It was a pedestrian little Tucker Max-lite blog.

Every now and then, Troy Holm would spice things up by posting entire Stanhope routines, transcribed word for word, while never acknowledging Stanhope as the source. Don’t you remember the rules? High school English? It’s okay to use someone’s words if you tell us you used them. Pretend those words are yours, and all lit geek/indie comic hell can break loose.

It’s semi-fascinating to look at the comments section for Troy Holm’s “Working Hard/Prison/Drug War” post, which has been up since July 15, 2010. On July 16, one woman commented on the blog post. On July 18, Troy Holm left a single reply comment, acting as if the words in the post were all his. Then the post sat idle for 18 months. Suddenly, commenters (825 so far) began to explode with scarlet-letter rage and indignation. Troy, they’ve said, is a “plagiarizing shitstain,” “unoriginal twat” and “talentless turd.” (One of my favorites: “I bet you say shit in ‘Borat voice’ at parties too.”)

Troy Holm’s Facebook profile pics have also suddenly become riddled with venomous words from Stanhope fans. Troy has a receding hairline, so read the comments and you’ll see 100 bald insults that are damn near the same joke. (Guys writing unoriginal, hacky bald jokes to insult a dude who got caught stealing words from a famous person? It’s an Inception-level mindfuck!)

Best of all, Stanhope’s army of followers was tipped off to Troy Holm’s existence by Stanhope himself. Stanhope left at least one comment on Troy’s Facebook profile (“I Know What You Did Last Summer”) and shared a link to Occupy Troy Holm, a Facebook fan page that picked up 850 likes its first hour. Spend 10 minutes hitting Pg Dn every four seconds, and you’ll find some good roast-type jokes — mostly in the C- to B+ range — at Troy Holm’s expense.

Whether Troy’s blog or Facebook profile will still be active by the time you read this, it’ll be interesting to see how much more cyberabuse this man takes and how far up the media ladder this story will get before it quickly fades. But remember, kids, no one likes a plagiarist. But if you must plagiarize, please plagiarize someone more obscure than Doug Stanhope.

by CHRISTOPHER WOO

So, here we are at the end of 2011. It’s been quite the eventful year for news coverage, to be sure. I’ve taken a lot of time off from We’re Not Funny to focus on other things, but when Editor-In-Chief-Comedian-Extraordinaire Andrew J. Hicks threw the idea at me to do a year-end news review… well, it just sounded right. So here you go folks, more of the same old snarky, dry jokes you’re used to from me.

Herman Cain suspends presidential campaign after allegations of marital affair and sexual harassment

Herman Cain is a pimp straight out of the old school. The man gets his whole shit busted for all of his infidelity then has the brassnuts to bow out of the race while blaming it on the media figuring out what a swine he is. That’s right. It’s not his fault he can’t keep his Calzone out of some extramarital Deep Dish, it’s the media to blame for finding the sad Train O’ Whores. That’s gangster, son… gangster.

Rapture predicted for May 21st

Another religious nutjob had an end-time prediction. Not just any prediction, but an exact date. Like a good heathen even I know the bible says not even Jesus knows ‘the day nor the hour’ the Big G will come back, but this guy thought he did. This date, of course, passed by with little incident. Well, unless you count the woman who tried to kill her kids and herself to save them all, or the numerous other folks who sold off all they owned or gave it away. Nevermind all that, though, I’m just happy I get another undefined period of time to jack-off to Emma Watson in the first Harry Potter, err… the last one… the LAST Harry Potter.

Lindsay Lohan spends 5 hours in jail for probation violation

Seriously? This made the top news of 2011? Am I on Candid Camera? OK, listen Two-Thousand Eleven, you and I have to talk. You fucked up, you fucked up real bad and I am not happy at all about it. When I made a wish on January 1, 2011 for a talentless coke-whore to die, and a talented coke-whore to find some rehabilitation, this is not at all what I meant. You mixed that shit all up, 2011. Amy Winehouse was supposed to be the one to find some rehabilitation.

Congress passes deal to raise debt ceiling

All seemed well and rational in congress, at first, until John “DJ Boner” Boehner dropped a beat and shouted out “raise ‘da roof, homeslices.” Add to this Michelle Bachmann’s confusion over the issue and it’s easy to see why this passed:

Casey Anthony found guilty of giving false info to law enforcement

Frankly, this one makes me sick. Not for the reasons you are thinking, though. First of all, how many of you were on the Jury of her trial? Yeah, I thought so… All you heard about for two weeks on Social Media sites was this woman. Y’all don’t know that she did or did not do a thing, so what’s with all the trippin’ over it? Seriously, don’t we all have some bills to pay or a book to read or something? And what makes me even more gut-hurt over this? Immediately after the trial you have porn producers trying to get a contract with her for a movie. I mean seriously? Who the hell wants to watch a porn starring a pretty attractive young woman who claims to have been sexually abused as a child and is a possible child-murderer? Who? Tell me who! Wait… who? Eric Dohman? Oh…

Major protests in Egypt, Libya, Bahrain, Greece, Iran…

The Occupy Movement, the getting-off-of-your-ass-and-doing-something-about-it movement for the video game generations. I stand in solidarity with you guys, but I must say, I think you got it mixed up a bit. I understand the thought of targeting the petty bourgeoisie on Wall Street, where they do little to make lots, I do. However, I don’t think that has the impact you could have had with a little more creativity. Like any good Ayn Rand fanatic, the 1% are completely irrational and must bed their married understudies to… wait… no that’s just Ayn Rand. The point I make here is that we should Occupy them where it hurts. Occupy the Mercedes dealership. The Lear jet manufacturer. Realdoll.com. The Ronald Reagan Presidential Library. Iraq, Afghanistan, or Palestine… wait, no they already have those occupied.

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Dick Cheney has one thing to say to the Grim Reaper.

Almost a year ago, I posted my 2011 Celebrity Death Picks. I certainly missed the mark, but don’t ask Liz Taylor. (Liz “famously said, ‘A world without Michael Jackson just isn’t worth living in.’ I agree, so get out!”) There were the obvious misses, like Amy Winehouse, Andy Rooney, Harry Morgan, Betty Ford and even Heavy D. But Randy “Macho Man” Savage? Who saw that coming? And Dr. Jack Kevorkian? May I just say, “Bahahahaha!!!”

Also, Dick Clark still lives. He has proven to be an elusive bastard indeed. I give up, Dick. You will live on forever, even if no one ever understands another word you drool.

So here go my 2012 predictions:

• Muhammad Ali — All of Ali’s weights are now considered Shake Weights. Even Michael J. Fox has a shot at knocking out the champ.

• Wilford Brimley — The Cocoon jig is almost up, Willie. We have all bought enough insurance, denture cream and shitty cereal based on your endorsements. Now move over. Dick Van Dyke needs the work.

• Dolly Parton — Insert “big titty” joke here.

• Kirk Douglas — Last year, I picked Michael Douglas and blew it big time. Damn you, cancer cures! If I can’t have the son, I’ll take the father.

• Zsa Zsa Gabor — For chrissakes! She has died three times in the last five years. Can a brother get a decent coroner?

• Kelsey Grammer — Just a hunch…

• Fidel Castro — When Fidel drops, my 1959 Castro dictator rookie card will double in value. And to think, the Cubs just hired Fidel as their new hitting coach.

• Andy Dick — I’m calling it right here! Suicide by April 1st. No fooling.

• Tito Jackson — Tito is the Frank Stallone of his family. He will never hit more home runs than his brother Reggie or win as many championship rings as his cousin Phil. So I forsee a sporting goods accident around mid-summer. Sleep well, La Toya, you may be up next year.

• Joan Collins — I masturbated to Dynasty-era Joanie C in the early ’80s. Here’s a clue: Linda Evans in the library with the candlestick.

• Dick Cheney — Sorry, no hunting accident, just a good ol’ fashioned heart attack.

• Jerry Lewis — This guy has blown up so big, I swear I saw him floating above the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade. Time to pop, Jer.

• Andy Griffith — My lone holdover from last year. I just know 2012 is his year.

• Adam West – Holy embalming fluid, Batman! POW!

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SIDEBAR NOTE: I was all set with the great, obscure, dark-horse death pick of Francine Hurd Barker of Peaches and Herb fame. I’ll be damned if Francine didn’t one up me in 2005. R.I.P. Peaches.

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According to Lola Tucker, a little plastic surgery isn't a bad thing. (NOT PICTURED: Lola Tucker, a little plastic surgery.)

Recently, while out and about, I heard a lady mention that she’d had liposuction on her waist and hips. I was surprised. She had always been a very attractive woman with a knockout figure.

Now, I should point out, I’m not anti-cosmetic surgery by nature. Of course, I don’t like people who take it so far that they begin to look like a Madam Tussauds Wax Museum figure, with skin so tight their eyebrows are hidden in their hairline. But a little plastic surgery here and there is cool.

I wouldn’t mind a little Restalyn or perhaps some Juvaderm. My upper lip is starting to resemble that of a woman who has been smoking for 30 years. I’ve never even picked up a cigarette.

I had breast reduction surgery. To this day, I can say without hesitation it was the best decision I ever made. And not just because I was worried about my back failing under the weight of my 38DDs. I reduced my boobs purely for vanity’s sake. Let’s face it, there is absolutely nothing attractive about a rack that enters a room several seconds before the rest of this 5’3″ frame strolls in. After my surgery, men started to look me in the eye.

Alas though, poor Bill… My husband is a “boob” man, and now he’s got a wife with tiny (albeit perky) boobs. He keeps threatening to buy those 38DDs back and reinstall them. I keep telling him he needs to become a leg/ass man, but I don’t know if a dude can change teams when the game is this far in progress.

But liposuction? That’s the one procedure that conjures up some really horrible images for me. I’ve talked to people who have had this procedure, and apparently what happens over time is, the fat you had sucked off one part of your body will appear in another area entirely. This is not an urban legend, I swear. I have anecdotal evidence.

So let’s say, for the sake of argument, that you have liposuction on your stomach. Does that mean you’ll eventually grow a butt as big as Kim Kardashian or Jennifer Lopez? Maybe, but what if the fat comes back, let’s say, around your neck, and you look like you have goiter for the rest of your life? I like scarves and all, but that would be a tough one to cover up.

Or what if you have liposuction on your thighs, and the fat comes back on your arms, and you look like you have curtain valances instead of well-toned triceps? Worse yet, it could come back around your ankles, then you’ll have a flat belly with cankles down below.

Think about it — there are worse places to have a little cushion than around your fanny or tummy. My fear of lipo has helped me develop a happy relationship with my “pooch.” And I’ve worn the crap out of some Spanx.

It sucks to grow old for a lot of reasons, not all related to physical attractiveness: memory loss, poorer eyesight and the inability to sneeze or laugh without wetting your pants. Wrinkles? They definitely suck, and I work hard to ward them off by whatever method necessary. But you know what? Eventually, they come, and you realize it will be okay.

I don’t want to look like I’m 20 again. Hell, I still had acne at 20. I’ll settle for looking ten years younger than my age. I’ll be 47 in February, but last week a gentleman guessed that I was in my late-30s. I was so elated I nearly kissed him. Really, what more could I ask for at this point in my life? And when I’m 60, and someone tells me I look 50? Hell, I’ll be REALLY happy about that. Fifty may seem a bit old now, but someday I will look back with great fondness and remember how young 50 really was.

The goal for this girl is to grow old gracefully, with a twinkle in my eye and a cocktail in my hand. I’ll take a bit of help here and there and I will still work to “maintain the buffet,” but in the end, I want to be appreciated not only for who I was years ago, but for who I am right here, right now.

And that, folks, is the lesson in growing old. Time can either drag you along with it, kicking and screaming, or you can dance alongside it and enjoy every moment. I choose to dance.

Kris Kringle needs some straight Kahlua.

–

I was a Department Store Santa during the hectic Christmas season of 1995. Value City was the store. For years, it’d held prime position as the face of the Lycoming Mall in Pennsylvania. Catering to the “low-income/useless crap on the cheap” demographic, Value City operated under the name “Gee Bee’s” before someone (presumably in a cheap suit), stood up in a board meeting, and said, “Look, we want to offer our customers value. Yet we want to imply that this is no mere store. So… Value Hut? Value Sovereign Nation? ValueTownXpress? Mmm…. how about Value City? Besides, what the fuck is a Gee Bee anyways? Do we really want our customers to associate our name with the song ‘Nights on Broadway’?”

The work wasn’t bad, really. I got stuck in the household accessories department, which — oddly — was filled with massive, massive amounts of African-themed knickknacks, vases, tribal masks, and so on. I was verbally reprimanded for being culturally insensitive for cracking a remark (to a black coworker, no less) along the lines of, “You got it lucky, dude. You work in the shoe department. Apparently, I wandered on to the set of Roots.” The black guy thought it was funny. My boss, Mr. Wunderlin (irony?), didn’t.

Wunderlin, around the time the entire store became a Winter Wunderlin (ha ha!), approached me to ask if I’d take on the assignment of Value City Santa Claus. My qualifications? I was slightly chubby at the time, white, and maybe just had a little “too much” dignity at the time. For six hours a night, I was forced to sit in a chair in a sweaty costume, getting groped by children with sweaty, sticky candy-cane hands. These little angels would yank at my fake beard, while I braved the time bomb that some kid would either, a) piss or shit him/herself on my lap, b) vomit profusely, or, c) all of the above simultaneously. It was as close to hell as I could be without actually going to hell.

I was issued the costume, which consisted of a hat, a fake beard that smelled like linseed oil and a pair of furry red pants and matching coat. I suited up in the men’s room and began practicing my script (yes, there was a fucking script). To be honest, I didn’t look that bad. I was chubby but not quite “bowl full of jelly” obese. I looked like a Santa who’d been held captive by Buffalo Bill from Silence of the Lambs for 3 months. As the great wordsmith Mr. Wunderlin put it, “Yeah, I mean you’re fat, but you’re not ‘Santa fat.’” Fuck you, Mr. Wunderlin! I didn’t even bother to change your name when I wrote this. Asshole.

His solution was to strap a decorative pillow from the home furnishings department around my waist with the MacGuyver-esque use of a back brace. Problem solved. Say hello to Lumpy Santa Claus.

Wunderlin sent me out to the mall’s center court to study the mannerism of the official Mall Santa. The Mall Santa was Broadway; the Value City Santa was off-off-Broadway. I had to stand around Santa’s Village for hours in street clothes, studying Mall Santa’s subtle nuance as he asked an endless stream of lap-sitting children what they wanted for Christmas. Picture the parents of these children, noticing a loitering solo male who looked like a cross between Eddie Vedder and a Nintendo Magazine ad. I’m suprised I didn’t end up on the sex offender list.

My script was as follows: “Ho ho ho! Merry Christmas! Have you been good this year? And what would you like most for Christmas this year?” Then you’d do your photo op with the kid, slip the kid a candy cane and greet the next kid. By the second day, I threw my script out the window. I was in full-blown improv mode. I was in the ZONE! My natural ability to develop a rapport with the younguns made me a hit. I was Jokey Santa. I used this to my advantage. Why? Two words why: Single Mothers.

A sample conversation:

ME: I think that Mom should join in on this photo with us. What do you think?
KID: YEAH! C’MON, MOM!
MOM: Oh well… I guess… okay, what the heck!
ME: That’s the spirit! You’ll get a candy cane too, Mom!
MOM: Awesome!
ME: Ho ho ho… It sure is Mom, it sure is.

The rest of the days leading up to Christmas Eve were a cocktail of every disgusting bodily fluid and odor imaginable. I got pissed on, farted on, drooled on… and that was just the mothers! Yowza! During one kid encounter, my Santa beard, was yanked off my face so hard the elastic snapped. A Value City lackey was immediately dispatched to the crafts section for a bit of twine. By this point, my white Santa beard had taken on a slightly pinkish hue, due to the amount of candy-cane hands constantly pawing at it. One of my boot leggings split up the side and had to be repaired with black electrical tape from the hardware department.

So that’s my tale. Value City went bankrupt a few years later and is now a Burlington Coat Factory. And out there somewhere, wandering the malls, looking frantically for the latest “craze” toy, there is a whole slew of those children of 1995 who grew up to be adults with children of their own. And they will take the new generation to see a severely underpaid Santa at some shitty department store, trading in his last remaining scraps of dignity for the utmost honor of getting pissed and farted on by a giggling 7 year old.

Fuck you, Mr. Wunderlin. Just, fuck you.

–

Andrew Hicks in 1993. We think he still owns that tie.

For lack of anything better to utilize space, I will now bring to you THE ANDREW HICKS INDEX OF LAST MINUTE CHRISTMAS GIFT-GIVING IDEAS VOLUME XXIII. If you’re anything like me, you now have two shopping days left until Christmas and haven’t even started your Christmas shopping yet. And, by December 23rd, the only things left in the stores are the 8-track recording of Barry Manilow Sings the Hits of Vanilla Ice and Santa Helper, a holiday variation on Hamburger Helper with reindeer meat substituted for ground beef.

Not to worry. With these six helpful hints, you’ll give your friends and family a Christmas they won’t soon forget. I can guarantee that!

• Give something practical. I recommend the new combination Ginsu knife/laser disc player/encyclopedia/potato fryer/water purifier/mini-blender (because “love is a mini-blendered thing!”)/Thigh Master.
• Most people prefer something you made yourself over an extravagant store-bought goods. What, you may ask, can I create on such short notice? Ever hear of the fine art of dryer lint sculpture?
• No one can have too many pairs of underwear. Nothing says lovin’ like Fruit of the Loom!
• For items over $30, leave the price tag on for that lavish appeal.
• Chances are, if you just wrap up one of the person’s old items he’s forgotten about and give it as a gift, he’ll think you bought it. Best of all, it doesn’t cost you a dime… if you use a free community newspaper to wrap it.
• If you’re planning on giving that special someone an all-expense paid trip, make sure it’s not an excursion to Beirut, Libya or downtown St. Louis.

And remember this: Even if you can’t find any last minute gift item to give them, most people will be willing to forgive you if you’ll show them how to program their VCR.

Brandon Stokes

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• Shout-outs to George Jefferson’s wife AND Lil’ Wayne, for having the same voice but being two completely different Weezys.

• Shout-out to that Lil’ Wayne CD you keep stashed, just in case you have to give your black friend a ride home.

• Shout-out to guys who tell chicks they’ll eat their butts in text messages.

• Shout-out to Southpole and FUBU for keeping wiggas PIMPED OUT LIKE A HOMIE G DAWG!

• Shout-out to every time you want to say, “That shit’s racist!” but you’re not quite sure.

• Shout-out to black people who aren’t afraid of eating fried chicken in front of white people.

• Shout-out to everyone that couldn’t find the pussy from doggystyle when they lost their virginity… or was that just me?

• Shout-out to Flavor Flav for getting famous with Public Enemy instead of just being that one stupid nigga from the news.

• Shout-out to YouTube for letting the closet racists vent.

• Shout-out to anybody who came out the house with a tin-foil platinum GRILL.

• Shout-out to Facebook for allowing me to threaten your boyfriends when it’s too cold to fight.

• Shout-out to my Napster porn and masturbation days. That’s the only thing I remember about middle school.

• Shout-out to niggas who used to write a check list of all the jewelry, do-rags and bandanas they wanted.

• Shout-out to niggas that used to want a wave kit.

• Shout-out to people who wish they had enough heart to burn down their workplace.

• Shout-out to people who voted for Dubya but hate Obama. Don’t get me started.

• Shout-out to all the white people who are going to delete me for participating in this niggerdom.

Kim Jong swills.

Before his death, the North Korean dictator merchandised the crap out of his likeness rights… KIM JONG SHILL.

Roasted dog-meat burgers are on the Dollar Menu at KIM JONG GRILL.

That little guy sure had a high voice… KIM JONG SHRILL.

Dude had a sex change 30 years ago that was somehow hidden from mass media… KIM JONG JILL.

North Korea should construct a protected landscape using Kim Jong’s figure as inspiration. Enjoy your kimshe on the grassy tummy area of KIM JONG HILL.

Or in Summer 2012: Take the kids for a spin on the new Wackadoodle Minicoaster at KIM JONGVILLE.

Care for fresh pepper on your Korean food? Ask the waiter to grind his KIM JONG MILL.

For being a totalitarian, he had little power in the bedroom — he could only manage the KIM JONG TIP DRILL.

Every time he ejaculated, it was a KIM JONG SPILL.

His hoarding habits will make for a lengthy read of the KIM JONG WILL.

Did he drown? Because I don’t think he was KIM JONG GILL.

Maybe he fell on a porcupine… KIM JONG QUILLS.

He really loved American popular culture. After acquiring it many years ago, it is now known that he will be buried in Elvis’s KIM JONG COUPE DEVILLE.

Which sure beats dumping the body in the KIM JONG FILL.

Lil’ Wayne to release tribute song: “KIM JONG MILLI, A MILLI, A MILLI.”

Diced tomato, short black hair, green chile, sunglasses, jalapeno and a crazy-assed smile = KIM JONG ROTEL.

From We’re Not Funny, we’d like to wish everyone a HAPPY KIM JONG YULE.

–

CONTRIBUTORS: Andrew Hicks, J.Miz, Christopher Woo, Eric Dohman, Andrew Cline.
EDITED BY: Andrew Hicks

Once he'd stared into his right hand for an hour or so without blinking, Kim Jong's hand would turn into Satan and give him relationship advice.

–

AMANDA DOPPLER
Who the fuck is Kim Jong Il, and why is he dead?!

ERTEL GRAY
Kim Jong Il dead? Man, and I thought he was just ill. Turns out I was dead Jong.

JEFF BAILEY
Kim Jong, are you serious?! This is seriously fucking my fantasy dictator team. It’s the playoffs!

ERIC DOHMAN
Weekend at Kim Jong’s. Now THAT would be funny.

OLDFUNNYJOKER
Kim Jong Il is dead. I guess that’s the end of his Korea.

J.MIZ
Wait! Kim Jong Il WASN’T a puppet?!

ALAN PERRY
Kim Jong Il died, but the headliner killed.

CARLOS VALENCIA
First Patrice O’Neal, now Great Leader Kim Jong Il. It’s a sad year for comedy.

JOHNNY RODRIGUEZ
Kim Jong Il sucks for breaking up The Beatles.

BUDDAH ESKEW
Korean flag at half-mast at all Long Jong Silvers in Korea this week.

ALAN PERRY
I will always remember Kim Jong Il ringing the bell on “Fantasy Island.”

JESS NORTON
Just when we thought Kim John Il couldn’t get any sexier? HE DIED AT THE AGE OF 69! wackajoewackajoewackajoewacka

–

Helen Keller and the Miracle Worker in black used to play a fun game where the Miracle Worker would breathe into Helen's face, and Helen would determine exactly what the Miracle Worker ate for breakfast that morning.

“I ain’t no holla back girl!” -Helen Keller

Awhile back, somebody gave me some Fire & Ice enhancing lube. In those days, we called it “the clap.”

Money can’t buy you love, but you can buy it for yourself.

Every time I type “fucking” into my cellphone, it asks if I mean “sucking.” How THE HELL does it know I’m on my period?

I never trust a guy with a Kings of Leon ringtone.

Some men find me a little too crass. In all honesty, that’s a pretty fair assessment. I expect it. From a pussy.

Opinions are like assholes — sometimes there’s sucking involved.

I LOVE the feel of a warm body next to me as I sleep. But the downside is, it never lasts. They start smelling if you don’t ice them down.

I never trust a guy in a jean shirt.

I recently reconnected with my little cousin, thanks to the Internet. FUCK YOU, RESTRAINING ORDER! I WIN!

My boyfriend asked if I think about him when I masturbate. Honestly, I do. Then I work at replacing that image with something effective.

Isn’t kinda weird when a really hot person has a totally ugly sibling? I mean, MY brother’s totally cute…

I never trust a guy who “rocks” any article of clothing.

I am the only person who didn’t have to get me drunk to fuck me. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t.

Whenever life has my eyes down and head hanging, I say to myself, “HOLY FUCK, I HAVE A NICE RACK!” Then I go use it to get some free shit.

I never trust a guy with an “amazing” dip recipe.

Home on a Friday night with laundry to do and cat shit to clean. If that doesn’t scream MANIACAL MASTURBATION FEST, then nothing does.

I never trust a guy with food allergies.

NO amount of chocolate could take away the fact that right now, in my apartment, there is ABSOLUTELY no chocolate.

I’ve left several of my last few jobs due to sexual harrassment. Isn’t anyone into that anymore? I miss feeling pretty at work.

I never trust a guy with vanity plates.

I propose in an attempt to reduce food waste, that first-world countries fine, incarcerate and euthanize the bulimic. You hold it down, OR YOU PAY!

I think it’s a travesty that Drake is the only one with balls enough to address the fake booty epidemic.

There are guys out there who have no idea how to treat a nice girl. So I date them.

I never understood how a person with a communicable disease could still be considered communicable. I mean, nobody hangs out with Pink Eye Penny to begin with.

White people will continue to lose my respect as long as they leave their house with a wet head and wear shorts with a winter coat.

You ever have one of those days you needed somebody to fuck the self-esteem back into you?

Took a long hot shower and decided to shave. R.I.P. Yeti Leg.

My Android suggested the word “Klingon” in a text today. I didn’t plan on using it, but it fit perfectly. Well played, Klingons.

Byron Allen is the Bryant Gumbel of comedy.

I never trust a guy who calls his mother “Mother.”

I’m 37. Guys can pretty much approach sex with me like a baker would a preheated oven.

A guy friend took me out for drinks, thinking I’d fuck him. It never happened, though. I had WAY too many gin and platonics.

This black dude just told me I look like Debra Winger. Huh?! Guess they do it too.

I never trust a guy who misses having a ponytail.

Why do people have to complain about kids wearing their pants hanging off their asses. Doesn’t gravity already hate their pants enough?

Liverpool, 1979: Mama Cass gets down and dirty at the Bee Gee glory hole.

–

JOHNNY RODRIGUEZ
My bedroom window sucks as a glory hole. Nothing glorious about it.

ERTEL GRAY
Oh, the entire concept of a glory hole just… I don’t know if I can place that level of trust in an unseen, anonymous stranger. “Hi… Yep, first time… Anyway, here’s my peen.”

EMILY TOOPS
Agreed. I mean, you gotta be ballsy to use a glory hole.

JOHNNY RODRIGUEZ
But not too ballsy, ’cause balls wont fit thru there.

ERTEL GRAY
My luck, on even my most sexually adventurous of days, I’d wind up on the business end of a scalpel-wielding psychopath known as the Glory Hole Weenis Collector or something. Course, the upside of being a eunuch is, I could always front a Bee Gees tribute band.

JOHNNY RODRIGUEZ
Fuck yeah! I love the Bee Gees!

ERTEL GRAY
How many of them have died? The other two, right? I just heard Robin has some sort of cancer?

EMILY TOOPS
Yeah, I thought two of the three died of cancer. God hated those Brothers Gibb.

JOHNNY RODRIGUEZ
God was like, “Fuck disco!”

EMILY TOOPS
Cos Jesus and Steve Dahl were buddies.

ERTEL GRAY
Or… since most of the cool ’60s rock stars are already dead, maybe heaven’s a few decades behind on their musical trends. Maybe it’s just now turning into the mid ’70s in heaven, or hell. Either way, Frampton better watch his fucking ass.

EMILY TOOPS
Frampton Comes Alive? More like Frampton Becomes Dead! Amirite, folks?

ERTEL GRAY
“Stayin’ Alive”?! Not so fast there, guys. Amirite?

JOHNNY RODRIGUEZ
They look like skinny zombies.

EMILY TOOPS
There were no normal-sized musicians from the mid ’60s til the late ’70s. They were all beanpoles. With the exception of Mama Cass. An angel in a muumuu.

JOHNNY RODRIGUEZ
Ham sammiches will fuck up your day quick fast and in a hurry.

A stunned Ertel receives terse words from a deceptively smiley, multiethnic lady named Nancy. Image by Eric Dohman.

–

[DISCLAIMER: The following conversation between me and a debt collector literally just happened. As I was on the phone, I was furiously typing away on this porno/typewriter thing I call the Internet. The rest I filled in from memory. Some I may have even embellished. So sue me... wait, don't sue me. Forget I even mentioned that.]

NANCY: Hello, this is Nancy with [insert bullshit collection agency name] and am I calling in regards to an overdue bill, on your account with [bullshit business name] Am I speaking with Ertel Gray at the moment?

ME: Yep. You sure are.

NANCY: Mr. Gray, I am calling on behalf of [bullshit business] in regards to your outstan–

ME: Yep. Listen, Grace, we’ve established that.

NANCY: It’s Nancy.

ME: I am who you’re looking for, and yes I owe [bullshit business] [X amount of] dollars. Congratulations, you’ve tracked me down.

NANCY: We can offer you, if you’d like to settle this debt today, by check or credit card, no service charges whatsoever.

ME: Well, that’s awfully generous of ya to waive a three-dollar surcharge if I pay today, Shelley, but I have like no money on my bank card until payday, so I’m gonna have to pass.

NANCY: Again, it’s Nancy. Let me ask you this, what would you be comfortable with paying today?

ME: Greta, I gotta tell ya–

NANCY: It’s Nancy.

ME: I’m sorry, I mean no disrespect, I just have a hard time with names.

NANCY: How much would you be comfortable with paying today?

ME: Well, I’d be completely 100-percent comfortable if I could just give you all of it. I’d literally be lying on a marshmallow cloud of comfort. However, the myth vs. reality of the situation here is I can’t pays what I ain’t gots.

NANCY: Is there a partial amount you could pay today?

ME: How does three dollars sound?

NANCY: Three dollars? [long pause]

ME: Yeah. I mean, that’s what I have available to me at the moment. I could search the apartment for loose change. I tend to forget to take it out of my pockets when I’m washing clothes, but it’s probably not worth your drive all the way to Pennsylvania for a few loose quarters and dimes in change. I could be wrong, I’ll admit. It’s possible I’m underestimating your devotion to settling this outstanding debt. But like I said myth vs reality, I’m betting on reality.

NANCY: Sir, I don’t believe that you are taking this matter seriously.

ME: Oh, but I am, Gertrude.

NANCY: Nancy.

ME: Sorry, Darla.

[I can feel the aggravation literally oozing through the telephone at this point.]

ME: Look, I’ve never had one of these calls before, so I just don’t know what to tell you. Blame the economy, blame my shitty job, blame the home-market collapse, I know, I’m not happy about that either. But it is what it is.

NANCY: Well, sir, this is a very serious matter.

ME: Look, what do you want me to do? I’ll turn tricks if I need to, but you guys will have to front me the fishnets, high heels and a good strong-armed pimp. One who watches out for his tricks, ’cause I’ll tell you this — I am NOT getting punched in the mouth by that Slap Chop guy ’cause I refused to kiss him.

NANCY: Okay, good day to you, sir.

ME: You too, Debbie.

NANCY: [sighs] Nancy. It’s Nancy.