These are my readers, apparently

For those of you not familiar with WordPress, the site offers its bloggers a handy little set of stats.  These stats include how many “hits” your blog has for the day, week, month, year.  It also identifies where the “hits” originate from.  Perhaps the viewer clicked on a link from Facebook or Twitter, or perhaps it is because a fella searched for “Humor” on the WordPress search-engine and stumbled upon your humorous blog, or maybe, just maybe, they searched Google for “my fat friend looks like kool aide.”  This last avenue is the one I want to pause on.  See, as a WordPress blogger, I am able to see exactly what my readers typed in order to bring them to my blog.  The previous (and all subsequent) search entries are real searches made by my real readers.  Those inquisitive souls deserve to find what they are looking for or, at the very least, someone who will respond to what they are looking for.  I am that person.  For each search, I will do my damnedest to provide a sufficient response.  These are my readers, apparently.  Enjoy.

Note:  The searches are in bold and the responses are not.

What is the liquid used to knock people out:  Chloroform, my friend.  I’m sure you’ll have a woozy date in no time.  People who purchased this item also purchased:  A white cloth.

Dirty minds will only be able to see this:  I don’t know what “this” is, but I see phallic symbols all over the place.  Ubiquitous dick, I tell you!

People who look like people from the past:  Any people of an ethnicity other than your own; they all look the same, after all.

I like you you are weird:  If I may, this is quite a charming and cute search.  It feels authentic and is all the more adorable because the searcher opted for “like” instead of “love.”  Well played, anonymous.

Me riding my dog under a saddle:  I’m not sure if Google is gonna give you the picture you’re looking for…it might give you someone riding a dog in a saddle, but I have my doubts that that someone is gonna be you.  I could be wrong.  This could be you.

Causes for cat to be born without eyes:  The eyeballs got lost under the refrigerator with all the other balls.

My children are better than yours:  Well, that can only mean that my abortions were more successful than yours.

Do all men have hair on ass:  Only real men, son.

No levels of honesty just honesty funny cat:  This one starts out philosophical, pausing on what seems to be a disenchantment with the multiple tiers of honesty in favor of a more simple incarnation, then quickly dissolves into “funny cat.”  This type of search is commonly known as of now as Internet Tourette’s, or the inability to finish a serious Google-search without including something utterly ridiculous and off-topic.

Skid marks on bed sheets:  Suggestion number one:  Wipe your ass better.  Suggestion number two:  Stop sleeping naked.  Suggestion number three:  Get a dream-catcher because your dreams should not make you shit your pants.

Dirty ways to use nutella:  Come on over.  Bring the Nutella, honey.  Also, read this, it should get you hot.

Morgan freeman girlfriend:  He don’t need a girl, he got Andy Dufresne!

Badass charizard:  See:  Charizard.

Bikinis on fat animals:  See:  Bikinis on Americans.  America is obese.  Deal with it.

Wham george micheal ;):  I love (LOVE) the winky face.  The fact that someone typed that in with his or her search excites me about the future of the human race.  There is hope yet!  😉

Impossible questions for gingers:  Honestly, I’m surprised more people aren’t searching the same thing.  We need to find out ways to stump these riddle-devouring gingers!

Things I wish were real:  If you consult Google for your personal preferences, there is a problem.  I bet your parents are ashamed.  I know I am.

Kobe bryant and gary oak porn:  I am delighted that this search brought you to my humble blog.

Things to dip in kool aide powder:  Lick you finger.  Dip it in.  Lick a pretzel rod.  Dip it in.  Lick a Fun Dip stick.  Dip it in.  The possibilities are endless.

More coming soon…

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Ash (Ketchum) Wednesday

As a practicing douchebag, next year for Ash Wednesday I am going to put a temporary tattoo of Ash Ketchum (of Pokemon fame) smack dab in the center of my forehead.

How I wish there were a day when all the idiots identified themselves.  I know, I know:  Ash Wednesday was yesterday.  On second thought, I think that’s a bit unfair.  Catholics aren’t that dumb; who else had the gall and forethought to squelch the to-wear-or-not-to-wear-a-condom argument before condoms even existed?  And by using a holier-than-thou argument, no less!

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Democracy: What if Everyone’s a Nazi?

Little known fact: Anal probing with large ballistics is the most effective way to combat fascism.

The trouble with democracy is this:  What if everyone’s a Nazi?  As per the definition of democracy, popular opinion could favor an Aryan agenda, which could translate into a Nazi administration.  That would be horrible.  In fact, the only upside I see is in the comic potential of a goose-stepping, lame-duck president.  But seriously, I feel that democracy is troubling because it is predicated on the idea that what is popular is right.  I think Churchill said it best:  “Democracy is the worst form of government…except for all the others.”

I anticipate some smart-ass is wondering:  “If everyone is a Nazi, then it follows that everyone would be content with a Nazi president.”  Touché, douche.  Indeed, if everyone were a Nazi, then the world would probably be more peaceful than it is now.  Everyone would share the same bigotry, hair color, and affinity for Vince, the Sham-Wow guy.  Also, mass genocide.  Those Nazis love them some mass genocide.  But, there would be no outlet for mass genocide, so the world would be more peaceful than it is now.  If that doesn’t make you depressed, then maybe the one-in-four chance that you suffer from depression already has.  Moving on.  Smart-asses notwithstanding, I trust the rest of you know what I mean.  The point hits home when you consider that just over half of those able to vote in the U.S. actually do.  Everyone doesn’t need to be a Nazi, every third person will do.

Yes, there are measures in place to safeguard against an impending Nazi regime.  The electoral college is a fail-safe against the stupidity of the people at large.  The Founding Fathers didn’t exactly trust you to make the right decision, America.  Personally, I don’t blame them.  Y’all stupid.  Remember the Snuggie?  That was one of your inventions, America.  I put my bathrobe on backwards and invent the Snuggie every morning.  C’mon, now!  The point of this post is this:  Democracy isn’t inherently anything; Nazis are bad; the Snuggie is simply a bathrobe with alternate directions; and the Sham-Wow is a sham, imagine that!

And for my final trick, I’ll leave you with the famous words of Vince, the Sham-Wow guy:  “It’s German.  You know the Germans make good stuff?”  Believe it or not, that was also the original tagline for Mein Kampf

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Living alone: Where Cats Happen

Pretzel and me.

Living alone means three things: 1.) Eventually a cat will materialize out of thin air 2.) The aforementioned cat will keep to the following arc:  Stranger to pet, pet to friend, friend to lover, and, depending on your commitment, lover to spouse (Note:  Most cat-human relationships are polygamous, involving multiple felines) 3.)  You will intake excess amounts of Netflix and/or Hulu Plus.

I lived alone for half a year before my friend, Pretzel, apparated onto my doorstep.  We’ve lived together for a year now, and I’m beginning to think that I love him.  Sometimes I nuzzle my nose into his jowls and inhale; he smells of dander and ambrosia.  He is my drug and, on account of the catnip I sprinkle on my clothes and in my hair, I am his drug, too.  Yet, while I’m on the verge of loving my cat, something calls out to me:  Reese, you need a real friend.  A people friend.  How did I get to this point?  Allow me to recount:

Our almost-love began as a forbidden affair.  The consequences of our relationship were many.  To say that there were hurdles to overcome would not only be a disservice to the quandary I found myself in, but it would also suggest that I could allay it by leaping over a series of waist-high obstacles; that, sir, is preposterous and would not have helped at all.  Indeed, words and phrases like Not Allowed, Evicted, and I hope he’s potty-trained or you’re f****** were tossed around.  Needless to say, Pretzel and I lived a six-month interpretation of the Phil Collins song, Against All Odds.  During this time, all my people friends graduated and moved away.  I had one more quarter of school left, so I moved to an apartment complex with an attitude more accommodating to Pretzel’s and my situation.

I have been living in this new apartment for half a year now.  I have had a grand total of eight visitors.  If that sounds like a lot, consider that five of them were immediate family members.  Every night, Pretzel and I curl up to watch Bones, Castle, Scrubs, The Walking Dead, Up All Night, or some other TV show that reminds me of the bromance I am missing.  Sometimes I will feed Pretzel chicken out of my hand.  Recently, I’ve begun to try and make him snatch it from between my lips.  His breath is distinctly repugnant, but I’m beginning to like it.  I even tried licking his forehead to see if it would endear him to me; it didn’t, and he ran away.  I’m thinking of trying the same on a human female, but early polls suggest that I can expect a similar result.  Point is, I listened to some Michael Jackson (Man in the Mirror) and have since looked in the mirror.  Despite my initial distraction–compliments of and to my good looks–I began to see that I have slowly, over the past year, transitioned into a crazy, old cat lady.

So that is where I’m at right now.  Living alone and ascribing a more loveable personality to my cat by the day.  Who knows, soon Pretzel might not be enough.  Maybe his long-lost brother, Schnitzel, will magically appear to help unsuccessfully fill the void left by my people friends.  After Schnitzel, maybe Falafel, followed by Juniper, followed by Rufio, followed by *Chicken (you can’t live forever, Tori), followed by **Pookenshtein and ***Nimbus (ditto, Owen and Anna), followed byoh, well, you get the point!  Soon all the cats in the world will be mine.  Rawr.




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Trading Candy for Poop: The Story of my Life

From left to right: Me, two slices of gingerbread.

I grew up shy and self-conscious.  Chalk most of that up to the fact that I entertained two older siblings–it bears mentioning that both were and are gingers–who made damned-sure that I felt as fat as I was.  But, I admit, at least part of my disposition was natural.  I was a shy kid with a bit of a body-image issue, one exacerbated exponentially by two older siblings who, it bears repeating, were and are unrepentant gingers.  This prepubescent shyness caused sundry problems for the young me; problems that continue to haunt me in the same way vestigial organs haunt their old stomping grounds–always there, never useful.

One of the byproducts of shyness is friendlessness.  One of the byproducts of friendlessness is never getting invited over to other people’s houses.  Truth is, I never learned how to interact with people.  I grew up wild, untouched by etiquette.  I was not rude, merely raw–something of a savage.  Now I don’t mean to exaggerate my plight, but clearly there is a subtext to social interaction–a set of unspoken expectations–and failure to learn them makes things, well, awkward.

To other kids, I was entertaining.  I had wildly aberrant views on religion, sex, and feces.  Take feces, for example:  When I was younger, my siblings and I got rewarded, in the form of candy, for pooping.  Call it incentive.  We called it pooter treats.  Our paradigm for bathroom etiquette and expectation–poop for treats, quid pro quo–unprepared us for the real world of school bathrooms.  See, my brother plopped one out in the school bathroom.  Undoubtedly, he was satisfied with himself for the good job he had done.  The only hiccup was how on earth he was supposed to collect his reward, his pooter treat, as it were.  See, kids are conniving bastards when candy is involved, so our parents needed to inspect the evidence before doling out a reward–no goods, no candy.  My brother, knowing this, decided that the only logical thing to do was to scoop his deed into a brown toilet-paper roll, wrap it in toilet paper, stow it in his lunchbox until he got home, plop the contents into the toilet at home, and demand his pooter treats for a job well done.  It was logical.  Yet, what would you think if you confiscated a piece of shit wrapped in toilet paper in a first-grader’s lunchbox?  Yeah, I thought so.

It is all about perspective.  You can never judge something in isolation, you need a frame of reference.  Example:  My brother and I used to nurture the yellow film on our teeth by neglecting to brush.  We would scrape it off with our fingernails and compare the amount.  We called it imperial scum.  We thought we were normal.  And why not?  We had no frame of reference.  I can hear some of my readers scoffing at what they consider poor parenting.  Scoff if you like at the laissez-faire formula, but it allowed me to make my own mistakes and it allowed me to be weird.  As Robert Frost would say:  That has made all the difference.  But I digress.  Poor parenting notwithstanding, the fact that my brother and I mistook abnormal for normal has caused many social missteps for the both of us (see:  pooter treats).

I am not trying to demonize my upbringing.  It is the reason I am the way I am.  I appreciate it.  However, there are certain consequences for being a former savage.  When I have to converse with people in situations where normalcy is expected, I still find it difficult.  I grew up, by and large, with one personality.  Most people tend to at least two; one for business and one for private.  It is the business settings that throw me for a loop.  Job interviews are tough.  During one such interview a few years ago, I asked a Sears manager if being a Sears manager was what he had wanted to do when he grew up and, if not, what was.  Needless to say, I didn’t get the job.  In fact, he told me this:  You don’t have to be intelligent to get this job.  You just need common sense.  I honestly did not know I was being a condescending little prick.

Meeting other peoples’ parents is another business situation.  You can’t act like yourself, especially if yourself is like myself.  See, I can’t very well strike up a conversation about the implications of pooter treats on a child’s maturation; it is decidedly not dinner table acceptable.  Instead, I flounder around with banal answers to banal questions.  It is truly a skill to spice-up answers to stock questions.  And so, it’s tough to relate over mashed potatoes and butternut squash when all I can think of is what I used to have to do for dessert.  If I was being too delicate, let me be blunt:  I used to have to take a shit for dessert.  This is about pooter treats, remember?

In conclusion:  I was chubby; afraid to ask my dad for deodorant, so I stunk up fifth grade; and toting bad breath until high school because I did not know I was supposed to brush my tongue, too.  Even now, I can only effectively use a beard-trimmer because the time to ask my father how to manage a close-shave is five years old.  I still feel like an animal at posh restaurants because I’ve hardly learned regular etiquette, let alone high-highfalutin etiquette.  But, at least I’ve learned to drop a deuce without expecting a treat in return.  Though, it would be nice once in a while…for old times’ sake.

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I Want You Weird

Some people–we’ll call them “douchebags”–say things like:  Hey, Reese, you’re weird.  I bet you eat banana peels and gently stroke the fur on kiwis.  My lawyer has advised me to categorically deny both allegations but I am obligated by ironclad scruples to admit to the fondling of kiwis now and again.  Tangent aside, these people, the so-called “douchebags,” make a good point:  I am weird.  What the “douchebags” fail to recognize is this:  Normalcy is not something to which I aspire and weirdness is, at worst, criminal, and, at best, extraordinary, but never dull.  I am happy to be called weird.

Look at it this way:  I just want a normal guy is greater than or equal to killing, then supplanting indigenous people (commonly referred to as settling).  No one genuinely wants a normal guy or girl because a normal guy or girl is uneventful and boring.  Normal people cook dinner, read newspapers, discreetly peruse porn online, destroy the evidence of said porn perusal, clip their nails into the wastebasket, nod when they watch CNN and grumble when they watch FOX or vice-versa, and they deny ever pooping.  That last one is important largely because it means that normal people are liars.  Yes, normal people are untrustworthy.  Let me tell you something:  Normal people clog the toilet only slightly less frequently than weird people, and normal people’s regularity is the only thing that accounts for the disparity between the two.  Everybody poops.

Don’t get me wrong:  Weird people lie, too.  But they compulsively lie and tell you that they’re from Birmingham or Toronto when they’re from Cleveland.  They tell you that Buffy the Vampire Slayer is a higher quality show than Dollhouse.  Lies!  There’s no apparent reason for them to lie, which makes it interesting.  If the cause is too obvious, then the effect is boring.  Weird people make you wonder:  Why?  Why would he lie about being from Birmingham?  Why would he flaunt his chest hair so brazenly in that deep-v?  Why would he ask to dip his toes in there?  Weirdness has an allure that normalcy never has.

I am not advocating for all the freaks out there, because weirdness is not always good.  Weirdness can be, shall we say, disturbing.  I think that we can agree that pedophiles are weird, yet certainly not good.  (Side note:  If you disagree, we know who you are.)  Also, weirdness can be annoying.  I’m looking at you, high school goths with your myriad piercings, blood vials around your necks, and oversize and overly-zippered black pants; you are trying too hard to look the part to be the part.  Charlatans are not weird, they are irritating, merely.  The moral of this story is this:  Weirdness is sometimes good and sometimes bad; normal is never either.

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A Ramble

Notice the man cleavage. That's how you know you're doing it right.

Full disclosure?  I have hipster tendencies.  But so what if my deep-v facilitates a man nip-slip here and there.  Ladies love a little mammary.  It’s one of the many ways that I let the ladies know what they are working with:  A mammal.  And yes, I frequent Urban Outfitters…that is, I have ever since I realized that Urban Outfitters wasn’t a clothing store catering to, shall we say, inner-city denizens?  (Note: I’m not a racist, you made the leap.  And about that leap:  You ought to be ashamed).  Regardless, or irregardless for those of you who maintain that two wrongs do make a right, I have hipster tendencies, yet I am not a hipster.  Now, before you object on the basis that those who are hipsters intrinsically deny their affiliation with hipsterdom, allow me to clarify:  I do not wear flannels unless I am going  Lumberjacking, to the 90’s, or to the store to pick up a gratuitous amount of Brawny paper towels.  Moreover, I do not have a fixed-gear bike (though I admit, a strong case could be made against my bike, albeit for aesthetic reasons).  I do not have a tattoo, and I do not have a Tattoo.  I do not think bands “sell-out.”  I think bands begin to make money.  Basically, I am a real person in hipster’s clothing.  Why is this important?  It’s not, but I thought you should know.

In other news, I’ve given up on my dream of becoming the leader of a crew.  Instead, I adjust my attention to bromance.  A bromance mandates man-dates, which is always a plus because it allows, nay, necessitates a pun.  Basically, I need a bromance to affirm that I am a desirable man to men.  Sure, women respond to me the way ice responds to fire (they melt, and then things get a little wet, damp, moist, and, given the previous adjectives, surprisingly dirty), but men are mostly immune to my animal magnetism.  They think I’m queer (definition circa 1870)  or queer (definition circa now), neither of which are bad, just lonely.  I want a Downey to my Law, an Affleck to my Damon, a Brock to my Ash, a Bush to my Blair, a Bush to my Jesus, a Lando to my Han, a Chewbacca to my Han.  You get the drift.  If you want to strike up a bromance with me, send me your man data* and maybe we can have a mandated man-date.  Until next time, word to your mother.


*Note: This is NOT code, or innuendo suggesting that you send me pictures of your junk.  If you do, I admit I will look at it.  Then I will laugh.  Then I will post it, thus eliminating your chances at becoming president. 

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If I were a Cult Leader…

Cult leaders, for all their insistence on spic ‘n span brain-matter, have pretty dirty minds, if you ask me.  Polygamy is raunchy business, and a cult without polygamy is like a hand without an index finger:  What’s the point, errr…? Well, that joke almost worked, then, Bam! it did thanks to my indecisive pause.  Intrigued by my wit and charisma, are we?  I have the makings of a cult leader, eh?  I was thinking the same thing.  We should meet for some Kool-Aid.  OH YEAH!  Little known fact:  The People’s Temple cult really used a knock-off brand, Flavor Aid.

Drawing by Riiko Sakkinen.

My first promise as a potential cult leader:  I would not skimp on the supplies necessary for mass suicide.  There is no way I would buy off-brand.  Only the best before I lay you to rest, I always say.  We’re getting ahead of ourselves.  Let’s revisit this polygamy business.

When my cult is just getting started, I don’t flatter myself to think I’ll have too many followers.  My initial goal is to have at least 7 female followers.  That way, as per the requirement of my cult, each woman will have to legally change her name to one of the following:  Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, or Sunday.  You see where I’m going with this.  Well, just to keep ’em guessing, I’ll throw a wrench into the mix:  I will sleep with each woman on a night different than their given name.  Obviously, when my cult balloons to greater numbers, I will have to have each woman legally change her name to a number, 1-366.  Yes, that means one unlucky woman will only get to be with me once every 4 years.

To be completely honest, I have not really finalized the beliefs my cult will subscribe to.  Beyond polygamy, I’m pretty much just gonna spitball some shit.  Maybe I’ll follow in the footsteps of other millenarian movements and haphazardly choose a date for the end of days; that’s bound to pick up a few followers, right?  Perhaps I’ll invest and build a giant compound for my peeps, cleverly name it H2O, stockpile an inordinate number of weapons, and build a barbed-wire fence surrounding the place.  I will, obviously, have the barbed-wire facing inwards.  My first test to see if my brain ablution took will be attempting to convince my peeps that the barbed-wire is to keep the outside world out.  Well, let’s see how this cult thing will play out for me:

Eventually, my outlandish and suspicious activity will pique the curiosity of the public.  The religious folk will be the most fervent, labeling my ideologies as utterly ridiculous, fantastical bullshit.  I will respond by tweeting:  “I am rubber and you are glue, whatever you say bounces off me and sticks to you.”  As you can imagine, my scathing, spot-on retort will usher in an age of new age of enlightenment.  People will abandon their religions in favor of logic and secularism.  My cult, now being the only made-up alternative to science, will graduate into a religion-status.  My followers will increase exponentially.  The scientists, fearing my powers as a demagogue, will strike me down, but, like Obi-Wan, I will become more powerful than they can ever imagine.  Such is the effect of a Martyr!  And so, my religion will sweep across earth, science will be snuffed out by the ethos attached to my demise, and, in my honor, the world will intentionally blow itself up on the day that I haphazardly chose for the end of days.  That will be my legacy.

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Reese’s Road-Trip Tips

Fact: You don’t need to see where you’re going if you know where you’re going.

Where to Sleep:  The price of a hotel or motel is directly correlated to the reckless pizzazz of its name.  The Swashbuckler’s Bungalow.  The Edge of the Woods Motel.  The Highlander Castle Inn.  The Wade and Sea, Beach (read this one aloud, then wait and see, bitch).  Basically what I am getting at is this:  Hotels overcompensate for their shittiness by overdoing their names.  Or, sometimes, you’ll get lucky (in more ways than one!) and find the motel below:

This hotel/motel shit is money-saving advice when you are on the road and need a place to crash for the night.  Trust me, you’ll save a buck or two.

Where to Eat:  Not surprisingly, it is obligatory road-trip tradition to eat fast food for almost every meal.  If you are not seeping grease out of your pits by the drive’s end, then you are not traveling correctly.  On the rare occasions that your stomach is deep-fried to oblivion and you absolutely need something other than McDonald’s or Long John Silver’s, then it is imperative that you find a janky-ass Ma and Pa’s to eat at.  This is important for two reasons:  (1) You will unhappily discover that Ma and Pa’s “secret” recipe is to simmer everything on the menu in a vat of gurgling, semi-coagulated lard and that Ma and Pa’s “secret” sauce is Thousand Island Dressing, in one form or another (2) You will undoubtedly feel uneasy about the provinciality of the other patrons, finding a new sense of allegiance to wherever it is you are from.  This is important on a road-trip:  The rural pit-stops must reinforce both how backward country-folk are and how much better wherever you live is than wherever you are passing through is.

How to Sight-See:  Do not take pictures of well-known landmarks.  The only possible exception to this is if you or someone you know is posing in front of them, but even this is only necessary if you lack Photoshop prowess.  I can see you doubting me, rolling your eyes and whatnot.  Consult the picture below:

You will NEVER take a picture or Mt. Rushmore this awesome. NEVER.

Unless you are a photography savant AND have the cajones to trespass at a National Park, you will not take a picture as good as the one above.  And even if you did satisfy the criteria to take a picture as awesome, it would simply be a copy of that which already exists.  Again, the only time you should be taking a picture of something famous is if you or someone you know is going to be in it, and that is only if you lack the skills necessary to photoshop you or your buddy into an already existing professional photograph.  Enjoy the moment with your own eyes; don’t waste it by looking at it through an LCD screen.  Trust me

This cat knows what I’m talkin about.

How to Drive:  Remember:  If you’re not passing anyone, you’re losing the race.  In light of exhaustive studies, it has been ethically proven, and verified by science, that the demographic most at risk to be victimized by bouts of inspired road-rage is slow drivers.  Don’t become another statistic.

How to Pass the Time Driving:  Believe it or not, many people do not read my blog.  Thus, many people will not know that speed limit signs have, in invisible ink, a +10 tacked onto the end of each number.  And so, the ire that these lollygaggers inspire will help you get through the drive.  Phrases like, “You son of a bitch in the Buick, I will murder your grandchildren, then euthanize you,” will certainly be conversation-starters.  If there are no slow drivers around to act as a scapegoat for your boredom, you can always strike up a conversation about a divisive issue like religion, politics, or euthanasia; that will surely snowball into something unmanageable, yet time-consuming.

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Impossible Questions

  • What is creepier:  A ghost, an albino, or an albino ghost?
  • Can you really say “Toy Boat” five times fast?
  • Who is the better dunker:  Michael Jordan or Dunk-a-roos?
  • Are Black and Asian people upset that they have one natural hair color or are they relieved that they will never be gingers?
  • Do you think Jesus was white because you’re racist or because he tastes like a cracker?
  • Why do some prefer to think of bridges as man-made Isthmuses?
  • If it’s easier said than done, what say you about tongue-twisters?
  • Which is bigger:  A jumbo shrimp or a dwarf monkey?
  • Who the hell stole the cookie from the cookie jar, and why do we still care?
  • Also, when exactly does the statute of limitations for cookie-thieving expire?
  • Are poison ivy bumps like braille alphabet soup to a blind man?

Above are some stirring questions.  Honestly, I don’t have the answer to many of them.  Indeed, it requires strict adherence to the scientific method to weigh a Black man’s desire for different hair colors against his trepidation of possibly joining the ginger ranks.  Of course, these questions are some of the most difficult questions known to man.  Philosophers have toiled over the answers.  For the better part of a thousand years men have studied artistic renditions of Jesus, perplexed by his whiteness.  He was in the Middle East, for His sake!  And so, thoughtful men have pondered the origins of his pallor.  Moreover, historians are puzzled by the rather Hallmark saying:  It’s easier said than done.  Could it be that the saying out-dates the very advent of tongue-twisters?  It would seem to be so because, otherwise, it would be quite as easily said than done, and both would be difficult, no?

And so, I would like to open this up for discussion:  Do you have an answer to one of the above?  Do you have other questions that deserve to join their ranks?  Sound off below!

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