NOTE: This, if you couldn’t tell, was posted by SarahK. Until we get her laptop fixed, we share computers and this sometimes happens.
VOTE FOR TAYLOR. THE END.
Ok, fine, if you insist. Let’s consult the manual, boys: No Stevie Wonder, no Jackson 5, no boring songs. If you disobey my commands, I shall smite you with the non-vote. Wooooo. Scary, I know. Where’s my knife for stabbing my eardrums, because Ryan just said those two words, “Marvin Gaye”. Listen, I’m all about Sexual Healing (it’s good for the soul and was my favorite song when I was 5), but come on. Not for American Idol. Capice?
Taylor’s going first, and Chris last. So I’ve figured out the format. Bookend the rest with the best so people tune in for the beginning and the end. Not a bad strategy, except that some folks will simply switch over to LOST at 9:00, because Taylor’s already done.
And look! There’s Kellie Pickler in the Dawg Pound, Paula’s Poodle Kennel, or Simon’s Staffordshire Spot, whichever you prefer. I wonder if she’s ever seen a staaaage beefore!!
It’s so cute when Simon and Ryan pick at each other. I’m hoping that tonight isn’t the ghastly horrible nightmare that last night was. Ryan, don’t forget about hotel lobby karaoke. 😉 I heart Simon.
Archive of entries posted on 1st March 2006
Secret Weapon for the War on Terror
(A Precision Guided Humor Assignment)
According to this story, a slain soldier’s widow successfully sued a guy who was giving money to Al Qaeda, which means that – thanks to one of the few lawyers not shot by Dick Cheney – the War on Terror is $102 million dollars closer to being over.
It occurs to me there’s another underutilized American resource that could be put to work fighting Islamofascism – Pakistani cab drivers!
Picture this:
TERRORIST: Take me to government building where I can murder innocent people! ULULULULULULU!
PCD: I cannot please to be speaking your English! I get you hotel? Airport? Cocaine? Hookers? Durka! Durka!
TERRORIST: Jihad! Jihad!
PCD: Look Mohammed, I only talk that way to screw with the Yuppies. I don’t actually speak your wacky Arab monkey-jabber durka-durka crap! Either take the broads & coke or get the hell out of my cab!
TERRORIST: Fine! I’ll get someone else to take me! [gets out, slams door]
PCD: The only place you’re going is between the treads of my Goodyear All-Season radials, you terrorist bastard! [sound of squealing tires]
TERRORIST: AIEEEEEE! squish!
PCD: USA! USA! USA!
God bless our patriotic geographically-imported transportation engineers.
Carnival Of Comedy Reminder
Tomorrow March 2nd – Carnival of Comedy #44 will be hosted by Chris at Platypus Society.
As his blog title suggests, Chris has dedicated his life to exploring the rich and hertofore unknown lives and vibrant culture of the platypii, a race of sentient egg laying mammals, native to North America, kept down by the Man.
Future Carnival Schedule:
March 9th- #45 – Bob at Either Orr
March 16th – #46 – Ben at Ben’s Rants
March 23rd – #47 – Steve The Pirate at his self titled blog
Want to host? Email me at spacemonkey@imao.us with “Host Carnival Of Comedy” as the subject.
Want to enter? Go here, or here or we’ll have to make you go live with the platypii.
Democrats Do Have a Plan
Heh.
Amusing . . .
I’m not sure what amuses me more about this undoctored photo:
1. That the Germans actually think the U.N. has a chance of catching anybody doing anything of importance?
2. That the U.N. might actually have a missle defense plan that consists of chasing ICBMs down with butterly nets.
A figure of Iran’s President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad as a rocket, about to be caught by a United Nations’ net is seen on a carnival float during the traditional carnival parade in Dusseldorf, Germany, on Monday, Feb. 27, 2006. (AP Photo/Frank Augstein)
Attack Of The (Usher) Clones
An AP headline reads: Two Ushers Shot During Kanye West Concert.
Wait… there’s two Ushers? My God, I take a break from celebrity news for a week, and Usher clones himself? I didn’t realize that Usher had added Mad Scientist to musician, writer, record producer, and actor on his resume.
If two Ushers were shot, does that mean… God perish the thought, there’s more of them? Perhaps… just perhaps… is this how Usher will populate Usher World? With legions upon legions of Usher clones?
The Usher Clone Army must be stopped!
Thank goodness that Kanye West is telling his people to go out and shoot the Usher clones. You know, to keep the world from being conquered by the Usher Army to create Usher World.
Although… maybe… Kanye West is cloning himself too? And the Usher clones are getting in the way of Kanye West clones.
This is far more sinister than I previously thought. And terrifying, too.
Perhaps George Bush doesn’t hate black people after all. He just hates the black people who clone themselves.
In My World: One Day Dockside
Bush set a pencil on top of his stapler and then tried to karate chop it in two, but it instead flew across the room. “One day I’ll master my kung fu and smite my enemies… especially those at the New York Times!”
The hooded figure of Karl Rove emerged from the shadows. “Our plan with the ports is going as foreseen.”
“There’s a plan?” Bush asked, “So far nothing seems to be happening except everybody hating me.”
“All of this is predicted by The Book of Punditry,” Rove intoned as he held up a large book.
“Really? Let me see that…” Bush reached for the book, but Rove then faded back into the shadows as he laughed evilly. “I really should listen to Laura about worrying more about Rover eating my soul,” Bush grumbled. He then stood up. “Well, if people are concerned about port security, I’ll show initiative and check out the ports myself to make sure this UAE deal won’t harm America.”
Bush stormed out of his office. “Don’t forget your mittens!” Laura called out to him.
But it was too late.
“Hey, President Bush is in the hizouse!”
“This is a port, not a house, moron,” yelled a worker.
“Whatever,” Bush said as he looked around the port. Then he spotted someone. “Ha! An Arab!” Bush declared as he approached a worker. “I knew you guys were going to try to sneak in here!”
“I’m a Mexican, you stupid gringo.”
“Well… uh… then where’s your green card?”
“Where’s yours?”
“I don’t need no green card.” Bush thumped his chest. “I’m the President of the United States.”
“Prove it.”
Bush searched his pockets. “Man, I don’t where my Presidential ID card is! I hope it’s not stolen, or someone could be out there pretending to be me and pardoning everybody.”
The Mexican stared at Bush for a moment. “Hey! I recognize you now! You’re that American President who keeps bothering me.”
Bush brightened up. “And you’re my old friend, The Mexican!”
The Mexican pulled out a switchblade. “I never did get to cut you!”
Bush squealed as he ran away from the Mexican, but then he rammed into a group of men. When he looked up at them, he exclaimed, “Hey! You’re Muslim terrorists!”
“What?” yelled one angrily, “Why do people always stereotype us?”
Bush stood up. “It’s just that…”
“It’s just what? Because you see a bunch of Arabs with AK-47s chanting, ‘Death to America!’ and carrying around odd looking canisters, you just immediately think ‘terrorists,’ huh?”
“Well…”
“You’re a stereotyper, that’s what you are!”
Bush hung his head. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to stereotype.”
“You better be sorry, or we’ll kill you with the rest of the infidel Americans!” The men then walked off as Bush kept trying to apologize.
“Who are you?” called someone from behind Bush.
“I’m President Bush,” Bush answered as he turned around, “You may remember me from such State of the Union Addresses as State of the Union Address 2002 and State of the Union Address 2005.”
The man checked his clipboard. “We don’t have any ‘President Bush’ listed as being allowed on the port today.”
“I’m just here to inspect security. Who are you?”
“I’m the port security guy,” he said and then pointed to a label on his shirt. “See, it says here ‘Port Security.’ That’s hand-stitched; very official.”
Bush looked at the label. “It is. Still, I just got chased by a Mexican trying to cut me; that doesn’t seem very secure.”
“Mexicans may do that, so I put up signs,” the port security guy said as he pointed to a sign behind Bush that said “Don’t Pester the Mexicans.” “You have to read the signs,” he continued, “I don’t put signs up for fun. It is a bit fun, but that’s not why I do that.”
“Sorry, I’ll pay more attention,” Bush said, “So what do you do for security?”
The port security guy pointed to two German Shepherds behind him. “These are Ed and Ted. Ed is a drug sniffing dog and Ted is a bomb sniffing dog.”
Bush stared at the two. “They look exactly the same; are they twins?”
“I dunno; they never talk about their personal lives.”
“How do you tell them apart?”
The port security guy shrugged his shoulders. “I tried putting collars on them with their names, but they keep getting out of them. Still, if one of them barks at a crate, we know it’s either drugs or a bomb. And, if they both bark at a crate, then it’s a drug bomb… or Milk-Bones.” The port security guy thought for a moment. “Actually, every time they bark, it’s always Milk-Bones. Far as I can tell, they only know how to find Milk-Bones.”
“I once tried a Milk-Bone and I didn’t like it,” Bush commented. He then noticed a larger German Shepherd barking at a crate. “What’s that dog’s problem?”
“That’s our new dog, Hans,” the port security guy said as they walked over to the crate. “He’s trained for our new mission now that the UAE will be buying this port.”
“He found WMDs?!” Bush exclaimed.
“No, he found Israeli goods. He’s trained to sniff for kosher-ness.” The port security guy looked to some workers. “Take this crate out and blow it up.”
“We’re on break!” they answered.
“Union workers,” the port security guy grumbled, “they take forever to explode anything.”
“Bad anti-Semetic dog! Bad!” Bush shouted at Hans. “Being German, I would have thought you’d be more sensitive to things like that.”
Hans lay down and whimpered.
“You made Hans sad,” the port security guy said. “You’re a mean President.”
“I didn’t mean to,” Bush answered defensively. “Man, port security is hard. Maybe I can just come up with a cool slogan to raise awareness.” He thought for a moment. “I got it! ‘Port Security is Im-PORT-ant!'”
The port security guy stared at Bush for a few seconds. “So, are you technically a lame duck now or what?”
Survey Fun
BlogAds is having their annual survey, and, since IMAO is highly influential political blog, they want to hear from our readers. Go take the survey here and make sure to answer “IMAO” for question #23.
Go now and answer honorably, ronin.
Prayer Request
Things have been really stressed at home lately. Poor Sarah has had a huge tension headache and stress has been making it worse (luckily she has Kellie Pickler to release some stress on). I guess a big part of it is Rowdi and the cats. Anytime we’re in the kitchen, Minerva now jumps in range of Rowdi on the counter and gets angry when Rowdi inevitably comes near. If not completely restrained, Rowdi will often lunge at the cats, plunging her nose into their side. I assume if Rowdi meant to hurt the cats, she’d lunge with her mouth open, but lunging itself is scary. Anyone know what that behavior means? Is it a herding instinct, or is she just enthusiastic about smelling?
Anyway, until some peace is reached between Rowdi and the cats, things are probably going to be a bit stressed. I know it doesn’t seem like the biggest problem in the world, but we’d appreciate some prayers to help us through it.
BTW, Rowdi is getting more obedient but we still need to figure out how to calm her when she gets excited. She is great at walks now (the Gentle Leader is a great product) and even sat quietly while I talked to a neighbor and twice her little dog tried to nip Rowdi in the face. Also, we noticed that she looks a lot like these pictures of a tan lab. I guess we should get a bit over this pit hysteria and just call her a mutt. She just looks too much like a plain-old dog to pin down the breeding. The only characteristic that really stick out about her is her stub of a tail. What kind of dogs have that?
Thanks again for all your advice. You people are great readers, and I love dishing out the funny for you.