Tagged: dark humor

Hypothetically Speaking…

I should probably start taking an occasional sedative.  At the very least, sample some anxiety medications.  Because for the love of Bruce Springsteen, if I get asked one more stupid fucking hypothetical question, my brain is gonna explode all over the person asking.  I don’t want that to happen…

Ok.  I'll take a stab at it.  Were *hippies* the best thing before sliced bread?

Ok. I’ll take a stab at it. Were hippies the best thing before sliced bread?

There’s something about unanswerable questions that make me uneasy.  I don’t like the abstract.  I like definitive answers.  Like for example, if you were to ask me, “Would you like a cookie?”  My answer would be: “Yes, yes I would like a cookie.”  Question asked.  Answer known.  Case closed.

However, if you were to ask me, “What was the best thing before sliced bread?”  My mind would flip to *spin cycle*, and cause my head to violently twist off my body.  I don’t know the answer to that question.  Nobody does.

Hypothetical questions are usually barfed out of people that spend most of their free time sitting in a coffee shop talking about *String Theory* and *Subatomic Particles*.  The other half of the time they’re watching Jeopardy.

I think it’s time to start closing out a few of these trivial debates.  Or at the very least, volley it back over the philosophical net in the form of another stupid question.  I’ll let you ponder it, Einstein.  My skull is starting to feel like a ripe tick.  Time to blow off some steam…

Head explosion beginning in 3…2…1…

Let’s suppose…

If a tree falls in the woods and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?

It seems that “make a sound” would be a drastic understatement.  If a tree comes down in the woods, it’s usually because of a 300 million volt charge of electricity.  The thunder-crack and explosion of branches and squirrels caused by the bolt of lightning would be deafening.  The answer is an enthusiastic “yes”.  If a tree fell in the woods and the closest person to it was on Mars,  it would make a sound.  A *big sound*.  Ok?  Settled.

If you were to choke a Smurf, what color would it turn?

I’d like to volley that question back, and instead, ask a burning question of mine:  if a Smurf fucked an Oompa Loompa, what color would the offspring be?  Trick question.  Smurfs are four inches tall.  And made out of construction paper.

I'll take Questions without an Answer, Alex. Answer: Daily Double.

I’ll take “Questions that can’t be Answered” for 400, Alex. Answer: Daily Double.

Which is the correct way to extract toothpaste, from the top or the bottom of the tube?

Do I care?  Cut the tube in half already and put the power to decide in the hands of the two lunatics debating it.  After you’re both done brushing your teeth, wash your hands.  Then check the lock.  Then wash your hands.  Then check the lock.  Then wash your hands.  Then check the lock…

What hair color do they put on the driver’s license of a bald man?

I’d hate to have that job.  It’s no wonder the DMV is nothing but a bunch of sour-faces.  “I’m sorry sir, but we can’t put “bald” on your license, so we’re going to have to examine your pubic hair in the back room.”

Why did the chicken cross the road?

Because that’s one of the only things a chicken does.  They peck, cluck, and walk.  Why exactly are we so hung up on the idea of a chicken crossing a road?  Did I miss a vital piece of information here?  Ask me something like, “Why did the chicken do the Macarena”, and I’ll tell you that it’s “worthy of further investigation.”

If milk goes bad if not refrigerated, does it go bad if the cow isnt refrigerated?

Yes.  I can’t stress enough the importance of the following:  Make absolutely sure that your grocer is stocking milk in his dairy freezer that was extracted from a refrigerated cow.  Also, make sure that you store your opened Mayonnaise at room temperature.

Why is it that when you’re driving and looking for an address, you turn down the volume on the radio?

Because it’s hard to look for something when you’re head-banging and playing the steering wheel drums.

On Gilligan’s Island, why did Ginger have so many different outfits when they were only going on a 3 hour tour? 

She bought a ticket for the *Love Boat*.  She boarded the wrong ship.  Ditz.

How come Superman could stop bullets with his chest, but always ducked when someone threw a gun at him?

(Part 1)  First off, who throws a gun?  It’s not a Boomerang?

(Part 2)  Clark Kent wasn’t a neurologist – he worked for the Daily Herald.  I’m pretty sure he was making sub-par wages like the rest of us clowns.  Probably had a crappy insurance plan to boot.  A nose-job procedure would be absolutely out of the question.

"Honey, the TV's broke again.  Can you bring me some more lard after you call the repair guy?"

“Honey, the TV’s broke again. Can you bring me some more lard after you call the repair guy?”

How come you press harder on a remote control when you know the battery is dead?

I thought this was common knowledge.  A remote control works like a ketchup bottle.  When the battery is low, more pressure is required to extract and utilize the remaining juice.

Side note:  God forbid you have get up and walk your lazy ass five feet from the couch.  “I guess I’ll just have to settle for another RonCo Informercial…”

If ghosts can walk through walls and glide down stairs, why don’t they fall through the floor?

Because all ghosts are issued a pair of hover boots.

Why does the Easter bunny carry eggs? Rabbits don’t lay eggs.

What do you want it to carry around, placentas?  I’d rather dye eggs than placentas…

Why are there flotation devices under plane seats instead of parachutes?

Most people don’t even know how to work the tray table, and you expect them to figure out a fucking parachute?  Under duress, no less.  “Seeing that we’re in the middle of a 30,000 foot vertical nose-dive, I think I’ll don my parachute now.”  It’s highly unlikely that they’d ever get used.  Plus, having parachutes would tack on an extra 30 minutes for the pre-flight prompt:

Flight Attendant (demonstration):  “Please note that in case of an emergency, you’ll find a very complicated parachute device located under your seat.  To put it on, start by inserting left arm into “loop A”, then ask the person seated next to you to help you insert your right arm into “loop B”.  Pull thigh harness straps over legs, and connect the four loops with a square knot.  Strap yourself to the back of an experienced sky-diver if there is one available on the plane.  The parachute has been packed in accordance with federal regulations; however, please feel free to re-pack yours in the isles after the seat belt light has been turned off, and before the arrival of the lunch cart.”

That doesn’t even take into consideration the added cost.  You want a parachute?  Ok.  No more free peanuts.  Or water.  Or bathroom.

Let’s just keep that cheap floating thingy…


-Rock on, Chowderheads  \m/

Click Here for Part II



The Fruitless Pursuit of an Anonymous Hacker

At a time when I’d found myself wallowing in the deepest, darkest depths of writer’s despair, the universe once again delivered.  Unfortunately, my newfound inspiration came with a price tag of a hundred dollars and a few days of lost blog-humping productivity.  One all-too-anxious click of the mouse and I’d contracted a nasty case of cyber-gonorrhea, as well as an attitude toward the stinky prick that was responsible for it all.

It was hard not to feel remorseful about the timing of the matter.  I was just starting to feel centered for once.  The colorful aura that had surrounded my optimistic project faded, forcing me to shelf it for the time being.  Back to the bitch diaries.  I had a more pressing issue at hand.

I spent the next couple of nights by candle light, snapping off tacky one-liners with a quill pen and a head full of trance.  Nothing that I wrote satiated.  I needed more.  I was desperate for reprisal, so I decided to try and track down the bastard.  If I was going to find any closure from the whole ordeal I’d have to do a little police work first.

I figured my best shot at finding the guy would begin with establishing a motive and a detailed profile.  In between slugs of coffee, I paced the room like a nervous cartoon, jotting down notes on a spiral-pad.  I was feeling confident, on to something I thought.  The pencil in my head began to swirl a composite sketch of the perpetrator at large.

The Investigation…

I knew that he didn’t work for a reputable company like Microsoft or Apple, because it would contradict his whole philosophy.  It’s difficult to get hired into a company like either of the two when you’re on a bi-monthly bathing schedule.  I could picture him; isolated in some basement hideout, screaming into a headset while touring the World of Warcraft – the smell of some off brand air freshener fighting off the stale pizza rolls and TV dinner trays piled up on his desk.  In between yelling fits and large blocks of anime porn, there he sits, writing malicious code on a highly sophisticated machine.

Reason led me to believe that he probably didn’t leave the house often, so I’d have to track him down outside of his headquarters.  Where would he go?  What would he look like?  My brain was in desperate need of answers.

He had long hair – an anything-but-trendy ponytail, perhaps.  A person of poor hygiene would mean long hair.  I’m sure a hairdresser wouldn’t leave their scissors near a person smelling like a dirty sponge, yet alone volunteer their services.  Facial hair was also a strong possibility.  He’s clearly a non-conformist, which meant rule out anything fashionable or trendy.  Cheap sunglasses, military boots, an old recycled leather jacket even.

A strong supporter of the Unix operating system.  Everything else was inferior computing, fit only for the common caveman like myself.  Maybe I could track him down online.  Start in the forums and look for the arrogant flake.

All I needed now was a motive.  What would drive a human to bully the civilized world with such malicious intentions?  The answer was obvious.  The poor bastard was probably exiled from the rest of his peers at a crucial time during development.  It caught up with him later on – revisiting, lamenting his awkward high school years.  Now he was evil.  Non-conformists are born that way though, no fault of another.

The Fruitless Pursuit…

There was no use wasting anymore time.  Generally speaking, I had a good idea what I was looking for.  In retrospect, it was a bit optimistic of me.  More importantly, I didn’t know what I was going to do with him when I found him.  What sort of punishment would fit the crime?  More questions.  Then it hit me: motherboarding — a method used for dealing with cyber terrorism, which involved tying the perpetrator to his throne, and beating him senselessly with a stack of motherboards.  Half the problem with the prick is that he’s too smart for his own good, so I may as well bring his IQ down a few clicks.

I knew where I’d find him.  The downtown district is full of non-conformist beatniks – lumbering around in large packs like prairie bison.  What if this was all for nothing?  What if I was pursuing the wrong person?  Maybe he was much more refined — off shore bank accounts, suave dresser, expensive car, Rolex — the whole bit.

The once roaring fire of optimism within me was now turning into a smoldering pile of doubt as I watched the markers tick by.  I could feel my foot easing off the accelerator as my reservations intensified.  I decided to pull off for a bit and make sense of everything.

I ordered a coffee – no cream, no sugar.  It was hard to keep myself from pulling napkins out of the dispenser and shredding them on the table.  The smoke was heavy – a thick blanket of it hanging above the greasy diner tables.  My mind was still in overdrive, but my thoughts were halted by an angry woman that stood up and threatened to off the male sitting in front of her. I could sense the tension mounting in the atmosphere after the blow up.  Maybe it was the caffeine.  Either way I decided to leave a tip and exit before I was the recipient of a misguided projectile.

Going back was intolerable.  I’d been beaten this time, but not destroyed.  What sense would it make to continue this pursuit?  Tracking down one anonymous hacker and removing him would be like containing an influenza epidemic with a single can of Lysol.  Let him have his kicks for now, I thought.  The poor bastard has his coming…

-Happy Blogging Private Eye Bitchers…