So clean, you could eat off us

I’m part of a group called Red Rocket Productions with Andrew Raschke and Derrick Rush. We’re new, you guys. We plan on producing comedy videos and other creative content designed to make people laugh. In general, we’re hilarious. You just wouldn’t know it. As a group, Red Rocket Productions hasn’t produced anything except this interview with Michael Powell and his Comedy Buffet. In keeping with the format of the show, Derrick, Andrew and I discuss the comical significance of some recent news stories. John Stewart, look out! Not really though. As it turns out, when I’m put on the spot, I sound exceedingly racist. Considering I’m on a digital platform, you might say I am eracist. I’m not proud of it. Aside from that, it’s funny, so I’ll let you be the judge.

 

http://thecomedybuffet.com/2012/01/19/episode-63-red-rocket-productions-cock-full-of-anal.aspx

 

Help yourself...to the hilarity

 

Nothing's sweeter than a disease free muppet.

I’ve worked at a lot of sleazy operations (a liquor store, for my father-in-law, Target), but none as controversial as Planned Parenthood. To some, Planned Parenthood represents all that is evil in the world; a place that touts lust and sexual deviance as appropriate behavior. A place where the consequences of such sinful conduct results in the murder of the unborn. Yet, to others, Planned Parenthood is a treasure trove of reproductive health information; not only is it a place to learn safe sex practices but also a resource for limiting the unintended consequences from those practices. They see Planned Parenthood as the proverbial topical cream that soothes the burning of social stigma (and chlamydia).

At Planned Parenthood, the only thing defining good and evil was from what side of the fence you picketed. These competing ideas faced off daily as liberal minded employees made their way to work through a line of staunch anti-abortion protesters. It was awesome. Unfortunately, I don’t work there anymore. And it’s too bad. It was the only job I can think of beside in the race for a GOP presidential candidate where the more radical your moral compass, the better your chance at success. Here, then, are 10 reasons I miss working at Planned Parenthood:

10.)Showing off my extensive knowledge of herpes to my new coworkers only leads them to believe I have herpes.

9.) No one appreciates my crafty misuse of coat hangers.

8.) Protesters at my new job actually work here.

7.) The South Carolina BBQ, the French dip and clam stew weren’t always just euphemisms for lunch.

6.) The sex-ed slides of an oozing, infected penis I threw into my sales presentation doesn’t close deals like they used to.

5.) I never had to force high-schoolers to have safe sex by buying them beer.

4.) The literature in the bathroom was supposed to be covered with pictures of dicks.

3.) There’s no pill in the current inventory to eradicate mistakes from last night’s binge drinking and canoodling.

2.) The dead baby jokes don’t kill like they used to.

~and, finally~

1.) Abortion punch cards! Buy 10, get one free (with purchase of a fountain drink)!

 

Some parents are blessed with children and some are blessed with alimony payments. If you’re like my dad, you’d be dead. That’s because raising another human is extremely difficult. So much so that some parents have a hard time coming to grips with it. They run or die trying. And why not? There is a lot on the line. Children are like houseplants that decompose slowly in a heap of neglect only to emerge on the other side of puberty as the ferns of society (i.e. extremely boring/dangerous). Most parents are delusional and believe that their children will become mature, responsible adults when, in fact, the children are in the back seat of a sedan sadly looking through the rear window as the cab fills with pond water (read: Casey Anthony).  If you’re not sure what kind of parent you are, it might be helpful to examine what actions you take on a daily basis. Chances are you’ve already blown it. Here, then, are 10 reasons you are a dead beat parent:

10.) You’re just doing it the way your parents did.

God dad, you're being a total d*ck

9.) You warned them; “If they keep eating all the food, you’re gonna stop buying it.”

8.) The congregation of bedbugs on your child’s bed and plush toys scatter into his mouth when the lights come on.

7.) Her first job is prostitution. Her second job is to pay rent.

6.) The state says so.

5.) Birthdays? You can’t even remember your kid’s name…Pepper? Todd, maybe.

4.) You’re a staunch Evangelist.

3.) After the divorce, you moved into a studio apartment to hook up with chicks and get your life back together.

2.) All your bedtime stories are about your new relationship with meth.

~and, finally~

1.) Visitation consists of kidnapping.

 

What happens when you forget to log off your email on my work computer after checking your flight itinerary for your upcoming trip to Michigan? Just ask my coworker Patrick and his list of 279 closest email contacts. Apparently, he’s got a big secret that’s going to change his life forever. I wonder what his mom will say. Too bad he won’t know what it is until he logs into his hotmail account…

"I ain't goin' all gay or nuthin'." -Patrick

—–Original Message—–

From: Patrick Meyer [mailto:p_ΠΑΤΡΙΚ@hotmail.com]

Sent: Friday, January 20, 2012 1:04 PM

Subject: It’s Patrick here

Hey guys,

I just want you know that I love you so much (that’s right…even you) and I hope that you can support my new life choice. No, I’m not going all gay on you (unless you ask nice;)). I’m joining the Army as an infantryman. It’s been a life long dream of mine to serve my country and now is a better time than ever. As the US pulls forces out of Afghanistan and Iraq, I feel that this might be my last chance to defend the country and freedoms I value so much. Also, I love guns. This will also afford me the opportunity to get some much needed education as well. When I return from Michigan, I will be enlisting and, according to my recruiter, I will be leaving for boot camp before the end of August. While I am scared that my tall frame will be an easy target for insurgents, I am confident that I will be able to dunk on any evil doers. Anyway, I hope you understand my decision because I’m doing this for the love of you and my country. God Bless America.

 

Love,

P-rick (Patrick)

 

"It's not racism if I'm just acting like a racist." -Mel Gibson

Did you ever stop a conversation just by downplaying the plights of Mexicans or Jews? Of course you have. You’re socially awkward. More than that, you’re a north of the border racist. When you’re not at one of your dignified kleetings (Klan meeting/beating), you’re busy postulating the extinction of the white male.  And why shouldn’t you be concerned? According to everything you’ve ever heard from FOX News, you’re a dying breed. You are no more than a fading photograph in the hand of a time-traveling Marty McFly. At this point, the only thing you have any power over is aligning with people who might share your views. Finding like-minded people by testing the waters is tricky especially when those waters are riddled with so many “Chinks and their goddamn junk boats”. So, what do you do? You start chatting up a whore you want to impregnate and right in the middle of negotiations, you unconsciously lay an egg. Here, then, are 10 reasons that you sound wildly racist:

 

10.) Jews haven’t been called “Hebrews” since before the pyramids. And they haven’t been called “Mud People” since the King James Bible went obsolete.

9.) You don’t have to keep explicitly reiterating what you mean when you say “the N-word”.

8.) The voids in your teeth whistle when you stress that “they should be called Mexi-can’t's”.

7.) Okay. We get it. Rush Limbaugh is your guiding light.

6.) Call them “white trash” if you want, but isn’t this your trailer home?

5.) Your mason jar of ‘shine is empty.

4.) References to the “Bill of Rights” have only weakened your argument for slavery.

3.) You hold a degree from a state college.

2.) Nowhere in the Koran does it define Islam as “a heinous tribe of sand-surfin’, baby-eatin’ banshees”.

~and, finally~

1.) You’re white hood is stained with chaw.

 

Step 1: Steal neighbor's wi-fi. Step 2: Conquer the world.

 

Back before pirates ruled the skies in their all too common Somali air ships, they dominated the seven C’s: computers, coding, credit card stealing, communicating, clavier, cracking and, who could forget, chat room conversation. Mastery of these disciplines have allowed pirates to swashbuckle passed secure server logins right into the Paypal and eharmony accounts of hundreds of dozens of lonely subscribers. Although illicit, this behavior has increased demand of the spoils. Shared files, credit card info, music and copious bandwidths of porn have spread faster than swine flu. Technically, this pirated information exists in principle so it’s hard to say who “owns” the media. It’s a barter system of copying and sharing rather than stealing. That Chingy song you just downloaded, is merely a digital copy that lets you listen to a sh*tty rap song but you can hardly take it with you. Even so, this kind of piracy seems pretty f*cking bad. But is it? The answer is no. Here, then, are ten reasons Internet piracy is great:

10.) It’s not real piracy if there are no cannons.

9.) Nobody has really been in harm’s way from foul play in cyberspace since Sandra Bullock in The Net or those dead Craigslist hookers. Both of which I now possess.

8.) Like Costco, everyday on the interwebs is a sample day.

7.) ”Open source, dude!” – Favra, the Chinese Super Troopers.

6.) Why buy the Apple when you can get the whole Android for free?

5.) People won’t get hurt if, like the Supreme Court, you consider faceless corporations to be people.

4.) I’m not going to use my credit card number to buy from Amazon when I know it’ll just get hacked and stolen.

3.) Any responsible company will protect you from your own negligence…right?

2.) If they were in it for the money, they wouldn’t be artists.

~and, finally~

1.) Withholding information because of economic barriers creates a class of second rate citizens. Knowledge, not money, is power…look it up.

 

If He wins it all, there will definitely be a second coming ;)

Like the Virgin Mary, Josh McDaniels existed for one reason: Bring the Messiah to the Denver Broncos. Despite what the players on the defensive side of the ball say, Tim Tebow is the second coming of the Lord and the sole proprietor of continued victory in the Mile High City. After starting the 2011 season a dismal 1-4, He rode in on a glorious white horse named Thunder and usurped the evil force that was Kyle Orton’s drunken neck beard only to save a struggling spread offense with the quarterback draw, wildcat option and, ever impressive, victory formation. Field kick after field kick, stand after defensive stand, punt after punt, Tim Tebow carried the weight of his lackadaisical brethren through the belly of the beast and emerged as a playoff contender. Through the adversity and grit, the holy son was born (again)! Glory, glory Tebolujah! Here, then, are 10 reasons that Tim Tebow is the Messiah:

10.) Chuck Norris prays to the sweet baby Tebow.

9.) More people tuned in to watch Tim Tebow thwart the Pittsburgh Steelers than to watch Ross confess his love for Rachel on the finale of Friends.

8.) Matt Prater points at Tim Tebow after every game winning field goal.

7.) Tim Tebow has strength enough to carry twenty-one full grown men.

6.) His capstone project at the Holy University of Florida was writing the Newest Testament.

5.) After winning the Heisman Trophy, He smelted it because of its false likeness to Him.

4.) Taking the job in the Mile High City was a ploy to be closer to home.

3.) Future generations will speak of a Promise Land not of milk and honey, but of hilarious beer commercials in a place called Indiana.

2.) Kneeling pads have been installed at Sports Authority Field for more Tebowing.

~and, finally~

1.) He died on the cross for our wins.

 

Do you remember when writing a blog was fun? I do. I used to look forward to it chomping at the proverbial bit until some earth shattering idea crossed my feeble brain and I could begin stroking the keys in a way that would make Chopin jealous. Then came day two. Ideas were few and far between. The ideas I had were sophomoric and junior. I was sucked into a dirty hole in a men’s bathroom filled with masturbation and cat jokes. Yet, somehow, I persevered. This blog currently has one hundred and forty-seven some odd posts. All original content that I stole. I’m very proud that I’ve maintained something so long (i.e. continued to pay for hosting). What’s surprising is how sporadic the posts are and how scattered my thoughts are. While I may have persevered, I have barely put together anything meaningful. Scattered and irregular, I’ve realized that above all things, I am a flake. I’ve avoided tasks with procrastination. I’ve missed opportunities by ducking out of the hard work. I find it to be an embarrassing attribute. People like me but they don’t trust me. I’m beginning to see that being a flake is taking me to a place I don’t want to go. I’m missing challenges. I’m missing opportunities. I’m missing life and I’m missing fun. I’ve decided that I am going to correct my flaky behavior. For the past three months, I’ve heeded the motto “think it, do it”. If I have to do something, I do it the moment I think it. It is changing my behavior. I’m more responsible for my actions. I’m beginning to take on challenges and grow. My next step is to take this blog to new places. Fun places that are fun and just, overall, fun. That’s something to be proud of.

Jan 262011
 

I’m sitting here at my computer at my desk. I’m completely comfortable except for one thing. My cat, Leo, is laying on my lap. This wouldn’t be a problem if he was the size of, say, a normal house cat. He’s bigger than most cats which poses a couple of problems. In addition to blocking my arms from reaching the keyboard, his weight is putting an unnecessary amount of pressure on my bladder. I’d make him move so I can use the toilet except he’s so relaxed.

He’s even trying to playfully chew through the cord to my head phones. That’s kind of annoying but I don’t think it’s as distracting as the warm spot he’s making on my lap. The heat radiating on my crotch is the equivalent of turning a blow dryer on my nether region. On top of the heat is the constant kneading and nesting with his front feet(?). Place a poorly constructed doll house in your lap and turn a blow dryer up to tooth and nail hot and you could easily be sitting in my place. What’s worse is that with every gnashing opening and closing of his mouth to get through the headphones, he’s emitting some sort of foul-smelling, gag-inducing cat breath. It can only be described in terms of  what shrimp cocktails smell like when they’re vomited into a litter box.

Speaking of litter, the rhythmic tenderizing of my crotch is causing pee-absorbing, clay balls to loosen from his paw fur. Still wet with what I can only explain as diaper filler, this horrendous smelling clumping agent is being mashed into my pants. In my best attempt to create this post and pet the feline, I am typing with one hand and caressing with the other. His hind quarters flex as my hand passes over his back and tail. I just spotted a speck of brown jangling between thrusts and squats. “Oh God!” Yep, it’s poop. “Oh God. Oh G…” Silence? He just gnawed the headphone wire in two. “Get off! Ah! There’s crap nuggets and fur on the keys! What’s that smell? Just remember that you’re going to die one day!” (And I’ll be sad.)

 

About a year ago I decide that I hated my job and that it was time to follow my dream.  I quit my job and wearily began practicing and performing as a comedian.  With the support of my family and friends, it became easier to commit.  I made significant progress in experience but not financially.  Without a “real” job or prospects of quickly becoming a rich and famous comedian I had to revisit my priorities.

I reluctantly accepted a part time job and then a full time position.  My brother convinced me that if I was truly passionate, I could work hard at my job and advancing my performances to satisfy both needs.  It was a nice sentiment.

I stopped writing.  I stopped performing.  I started complaining…a lot of complaining.  It’s been six months and the funniest thing I’ve done lately is to give a nonchalant wet willy to a guy in front of me at a Green Day concert.  He was pissed.  It turns out that nobody likes Green Day.

No matter what shenanigans I’ve gotten into, comedy still weighs heavily on my mind.  The more I think about it, the more scared I get and the more excuses I come up with to stay away.  I feel I don’t have time.  I’m scared that I burned bridges and if I go back people will hate me.  I feel like my jokes will suck worse than before.  I fear that I’ll repeat the same pattern I’m in now in six months time.  This list goes on.

Attempting to regain motivation for my passion, I read this book called The War of Art by Stephen Pressfield.  In the book, Pressfield talks a lot about Resistance blocking the way through creative battles.  Resistance forms as procrastination and excuses and many self destructive behaviors.

Recognizing Resistance is only part of the problem.  Success is a result of moving past the bull crap, sitting down and doing the work.  As it turns out, doing the work, the part I’ve neglected and feared, is the one thing that will get me over this hurdle.  The excuses are not the problem…I am.

My priorities are the same as they’ve always been.  I’m still working but I’ve started writing again.  I’ve toned down the complaints.  The next step is to get back on stage.  I’ve done it before and I can do it again and again and again.  After all, it’s what I want to do.  As long as I remind myself that it’s easier to just do the work rather than resist, I’ll be fine.

 

In an attempt to secure new energy sources, scientists recently found oil in a place that has some critics up in arms.

Researchers have discovered a technique that can unlock vast amounts of fossil fuel within petrified dinosaur eggs in a process called hatching.   Spokesperson Pete Frank of oil giant ExxonMobile explains, “Once fossils are extracted, scientists use a special tool to penetrate the hardened shell and inject a chemical cocktail which liquefies the contents and makes me rich!”

Groups such as Focus on the Fossils and the LJPE (League of Jurassic Park Enthusiasts) oppose the effort.  Critics argue that the extraction process harms defenseless eggs.  Referencing the plot of the 1993 blockbuster movie, Jurassic Park, opponent Janice Planko of the LJPE postulates, “How can we realize Steven Spielberg’s vision of real life dinosaurs if big oil destroys these innocent creatures and all of their ‘dino DNA’?”

Researchers claim that large deposits of fossilized eggs exist all over the world and that hatching eggs could free up nearly one billion barrels of crude oil.  Frank adds, “I don’t understand the critics.  There’s no shortage of fossils.  Moreover, technology to achieve the Jurassic Park pipe dream doesn’t exist.”

Despite a lack of substantial technology to back their arguments, opponents aren’t giving up.  Several agencies  have teamed together to file a law suit against big oil.  The case defends that hatching uses federal funding to destroy the unborn and violates several constitutional rights.  Janice Planko contests, “We have to stop the greed and destruction.  These relics are our only stepping stones to actually riding dinosaurs.  And that’s a world I can’t even imagine living in.”

 

Once upon this one time, there was a woman who laid with me.  She said, “I was a virgin four inches ago.”  What she meant to say was six.  That’s when I said, “Didn’t you mean six?”  She thought that was the funniest thing…six inches.  “I meant what I had,” she replied.

Back then, my stamina was as short as my temper and still is.  When I finished, she was just starting.  Her skin glistened with my haughty discharge.  I grabbed her and then a towel.  The towel was beach.  It had sand on it.  After that, I had sand on me and then on her and then, because of an awkward hug she refused, on me again.  She was not pleased.  She hated hugs.

Dry as desert and sweet as dessert, we attempted her second try.  Our relationship ended four inches after that.  My parting words were, “I can’t believe you get paid to do this.”  Her parting words were more like tears.  “Who’s going to clean all of this sand?” I thought.  That’s when I remembered that the cleaning lady would be back in the morning.

 

It’s that time of the week again.  It’s Funny Friday.  Do you want to play along?  Of course you do.  Here are the rules: 1. A minimum of roughly 80 percent of everything that you do today must a.) be hilarious, b.) incite hilarity or c.) pay the pickle man.  2. You may or may not do whatever it takes to uphold rule #1.  Also, third, don’t be annoying.  That has the opposite effect (save it for Over-the-top Tuesday).

If you’re having trouble deciding what to do on Funny Friday, then you’re over thinking the task.  Here are some things you can do, though, if you’re really having trouble:

Imitate a retarded person imitating a normal person

Sneak up on friend with one of your farts in a jar

Piss in something that’s not a toilet

Have a coffee drinking contest

Sleep with your fat neighbor but no kissing

Punch a bunny in the face

Push over a one-legged duck (quack!)

See how many grapes you can fit in your mouth

Spin your office chair until you fall out of it/puke

Hula hoop on a chair

Spend some allowance from your spank bank

Tape your hands together with masking tape and poke stuff

Pull your cat’s tail

Take a dump in a fitting room

Chew old gum out of the carpet

Fill a can with spit and drink it

Eat a cigarette

Tape your cube mate’s office supplies to a wall just out of his reach

Play dress up

Cut your own

Make a paper airplane and set it on fire before you throw it

Take your shirt off,  sit down and watch your stomach fat get fatter/paint your nipples white with white-out

Look at kittens/puppies/babies

Have a push-up contest with your friend Donny

When Donny wins, murder him (for fun)

Whatever it is you end up doing, have fun with it.  After all, it is Funny Friday.

 

I was outside today at lunch and I saw a rabbit eating grass.  First he would nibble on some grass and then turn around, and right in the same place as he was sitting, he would nibble again.

My first thought was that he was working on some kind of age-old, rabbit fart, microwave technology.  I thought, “Maybe this rabbit likes his clovers warmed through and funky.”  I then considered what he was actually doing;  he was eating ass grass.  Gnarly/Far out.

That started me thinking about when people act similarly; where they touch their consumables with their groty ol’ butts and then eat.  It’s like when, after a coke mule gets through airport security with a bag of Colombian marching powder stuffed three inches up his rectum, he then relaxes by removing the bag and sampling his tainted goods.  (Keep in mind that the relaxation isn’t from removing the drugs; it’s the reinsertion that feels so good.)

That totally reminded of those times I drank all that pool water last summer.  I got so sick.  Was if from ingesting too much chlorine?  We’ll never know.

Oh, that made me think of when people get submerged in liquid to have their body fat inspected.  What if they used stuff other than water like chocolate sauce  or dollar coins to test body fat?  You know, like Scrooge McDuck?  If I had a tower of gold coins and I was made a toon by the great God Himself, I’d totally swim in that filthy, filthy, dirty, wonderful money.

What if instead of a vault of money, I had a vault of cool and refreshing mayonnaisse?  I would totally swim in that.   I would probably fart in it and watch/smell my bubbles as they gurgled to the surface (because that’s what you do when you go swimming).  And just like that rabbit in the grass today, I’d probably eat it.

 

Here’s the problem with laptops.

Here’s the sitch.  Family’s away for a short while.  Spouse, parents, live-in life partner, master, whoever.  You’re alone.  You’re thinking, maybe I’ll have just a quick jerk.  (Ladies, maybe just a quick flick.)  Your fastest release…Internet PORN!

You strip down to your skivvies and, even though you know there’s no one around, you sneak your way over to the laundry hamper and grab an old sock for cleaning up.  You scurry to the bathroom and lotion up.  When you realize your wonderful circumstances, you instantly “perk” up.  You prance and spin and dance your way over to your laptop.  When you approach your laptop, you see that it is still in the computer bag.  “No problem,” you whisper dismissively, “I got this.”

And, in your complacent attempt to gingerly open the bag’s zipper without leaving a shred of evidence revealing the act of masturbation, you drop your clean-up sock.  As you go for it, you forget about the lotion on your hand and spill it all over the computer bag.  Now the zipper is slathered in Jergen’s and you panic.   You try and wipe it up by salvaging as much lube as you can.  Your hands occupied, you start wiping excess lube with your hardened penis.

You freak when the zipper proves to be too abrasive on your tender flesh. You yelp in pain. Instinctively, and as not to disturb anyone (as you would under normal rub-your-chub circumstances), you cover your mouth.  In doing so, you transfer lotion from your hand to your mouth, you look down to see your penis is bleeding.  You also see that in your frantic struggle you shed pubic hair all over your work files and fallen sock.

You tell yourself, “F*ck it, I started this and I’m gonna finish.”  You reach for the computer and manage to open it and turn it on with your non-lotiony hand.  The computer is password protected and you type out what you think it is.  You kick yourself as you remember inventing a password that not even the world’s top hacker could crack.  A breeze for you any other day but, in the chaos, you panic.  The letters alternate lower case and capitals.  A percentage sign?  You press the keys with your cleaner hand, using your tongue to press the shift key.

You finally log on and run the Internet with no luck.  The router for the internet isn’t working. You run into the other room and unplug the router, wait 30 seconds and plug it back in. Fully erect, you sprint back to the computer.  Realizing your alone time is diminishing, you grab your penis and single-handedly type the name of your favorite X-rated website (the only form of multitasking a man is capable of).  You scroll over a video clip and watching a random preview of two Russians prod and poke each other, you bust a load of your future’s best, brightest and whitest directly into your belly button.  No time for the clean up sock.

You relax and laugh at the mess you’ve created: The lotion covered computer bag.  The blood.  The semen.  The porn site.  You fall asleep. You wake up to your wife screaming at you for scarring her children for life.  “No child should see her step-father this way!” she screams.

Laptops are the worst.

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