I have never owned one of your quaint “internal combustion engine” vehicles, so I have not had to worry about the high price of gas, but I have been getting nailed on the cost of most foods appropriate for the Thringian Keg-Beast that I ride to work every day.

On my home planet, I fed my Keg-Beast leftover hyper-bananas from the über-chimp orgy the night before, but since I’ve been on Earth, there has been a dearth of both hyper-bananas (apparently they won’t grow in your frigid Earth climate) and über-chimp swinging events (this explains why I am so cranky). So, I’ve found alternatives; the Keg-Beast works best on a mixture of corn syrup, mescaline and the sweat of writers living in a state of quiet despair. Most of those elements are plentiful and relatively cheap, but do you have any idea how costly corn syrup is?

You humans are stupid! You’re burning fossil fuels to grow corn, which you turn into ethanol to burn along with your fossil fuels. Why don’t you just cut out the middle-man and take a flamethrower to your cornfields when they’re ripe? You will lose only a fraction of the energy value and most of the vegetable matter will end up adding to global warming. As an added bonus: big fire!

Then your planet will be able to grow hyper-bananas, and all will be well.

… Assuming we can get a few female über-chimps down here too.

Next time: I’m trapped in the Andromeda galaxy because my hyper-drive engine is asking for a better benefits package — how do it get it back to work without giving it full dental?

Alright, The Skwib has disappeared from the top thirty of humor-blogs.com. You know you have to sign up for an account and vote, or this sad state of affairs will go on? Do you really want such a travesty to continue? You do? Alright, then go visit Alltop instead. I won’t mention it again.

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I found this old ad via Donklelephant, via Fark (yeah, sometimes I’m weak). I love the sales features: no diet, no bath, no exercise! –Wait, no bath?

I’m sure they mean the notion of “Taking the Waters” for weight loss and the curing of other ailments. This quaint European custom is still practiced today in such places as Karlovy Vary (Carlsbad) and Baden Baden (literally, Bath Bath). If you’ve never had the opportunity to “Take the Waters” I’d recommend keeping it that way. Generally speaking, the “Waters” are loaded with sulphates, sulphides and other combinations of salts that will make you wish you we never born.

I stayed at one spa that had telephones in the toilet (restroom or bathroom for all us North Americans). When I checked in, my thought was, “what the hell? Who makes a call when they’re on the crapper?” Then I “Took the Water” and a few hours later, while attempting to eject all the major organs in my body cavity through an opening clearly not designed for such use, I understood.

“Ah, the phone is there in case I need to call for a paramedic. Or perhaps to dictate my Last Will and Testament.”

Seriously, walk around Karlovy Vary, and you’ll be able to spot the people who are “Taking the Waters” and who have already learned why there are phones in the toilets. They’re the ones shambling around like zombies (the slow, dopey kind), clutching their little porcelain cups to their chests, dreaming that one day, they will have visited all of the evil sulphur springs in town — consumed the vile, spurting aquia wretchia, and then they will be done, “Taking the Waters”. With any luck, they will die before having one last go at the room with the other porcelain instrument of torture (and phone).

So, yeah, tapeworms. If I can avoid the “baths”, why not?

If you enjoyed this, or found it revolting, or it made you feel all squingy, why not let everyone know?

You may continue your quest to find the funniest blog at humor-blogs.com, or perhaps alltop. But you’ll just come back here…

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Flush with the success of their most recent Mars mission, NASA is now planning on taking humans to the Red Planet. And they’re starting by collecting urine. Roughly eight gallons a day.

This massive pee-hoard will help contractors test a new toilet for the Orion space exploration vehicle. (Which is going to the moon, not Mars, but you have to break up big jobs into little dribs and drabs.) Apparently, the copious amount of wee-wee is needed because it is difficult to “fake” urine. (Talk to my ex-wife, she could fake anything.)

The request for massive amounts of piddles and widdles was sent in a memo to the workers at the Johnson Space Center, and was not intended for dispersal to the entire globe via the Internet, but the Genie is out of the bottle, so to speak.

So far, NASA officials have concentrated (not too much, we hope, and we certainly hope they weren’t eating asparagus), on why they need so much for their testing, in hopes that we will not be able to see through their cloudy, noxious yellow schemes.

You see, the flight to Mars will require the astronauts to be completely self-sufficient, and part of that means they will not be able to waste anything. (Yes, pun intended.) That will include, you guessed it, pee. Somehow, they’re going to have to figure out a way to recycle everything they can, so no doubt there will be more calls for large numbers of NASA workers to “see a man about a horse”, while they test those systems too. So all you would-be astronauts, keep in mind that your journey to Mars will include about eight months of drinking your own (and that of your capsule-mate’s) … uh, recycled liquid wastes.

So you see, Grimshaw was only ahead of his time. [I could not find the YouTube clip of the Python Sketch, so the script is below.]

And if you’re dying to know how one powder’s one’s nose in space, Canadian astronaut, Chris Hadfield tells all (and I guarantee you’re never going to look at shooting stars the same way after you watch this):

Donate your own opinion about this post here.

Other funny blog posts are at humor-blogs and alltop. Sky report here. And now for something completely different:

A hospital lobby. A line of people are being ushered through. A sign says ‘Blood Donors’ with an arrow in the direction they’re all going. Mr Samson (John Cleese) is in a white coat.

Samson: Blood donors that way, please.

Donor: Oh thank you very much (joins the line).

Samson :Thank you. [Grimshaw (Eric Idle) comes up to him and whispers in his ear, Samson looks at him, slightly surprised] What? [Grimshaw whispers again] No. No, I’m sorry but no. [Grimshaw whispers again] No, you may not give urine instead of blood. [Grimshaw whispers again] No, well, I don’t care if you want to. [Grimshaw whispers again] No. There is no such thing as a urine bank.

Grimshaw: Please.

Samson: No. We have no call for it. We’ve quite enough of it without volunteers coming in here donating it.

Grimshaw: Just a specimen.

Samson: No, we don’t want a specimen. We either want your blood or nothing.

Grimshaw: I’ll give you some blood if you’ll give me…

Samson: What?

Grimshaw: A thing to do some urine in.

Samson: No, no, just go away please.

Grimshaw: Anyway, I don’t want to give you any blood.

Samson: Fine, well you don’t have to, you see, just go away.

Grimshaw: Can I give you some spit?

Samson: No.

Grimshaw: Sweat?

Samson: No.

Grimshaw: Earwax?

Samson: No, look, this is a blood bank - all we want is blood.

Grimshaw: All right, I’ll give you some blood. He holds out a jar full of blood.

Samson: Where did you get that?

Grimshaw: Today. It’s today’s.

Samson: What group is it?

Grimshaw: What groups are there?

Samson: There’s A…

Grimshaw: It’s A. Samson (sniffing the blood) Wait a moment. It’s mine. This blood is mine! What are you doing with it?

Grimshaw: I found it.

Samson: You found it? You stole it out of my body, didn’t you?

Grimshaw: No.

Samson: No wonder I’m feeling off-colour. (he starts to drink the blood; Grimshaw grabs the bottle)

Grimshaw: Give that back. It’s mine.

Samson: It is not yours. You stole it.

Grimshaw: Never.

Samson: Give it back to me.

Grimshaw: All right. But only if I can give urine.

Samson: …Get in the queue.

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[Transcript begins.]

Professor Quippy:
Welcome to The Skwib’s first ever presentation of the Pre-Columbian Interpretive Dance Olympics, held here in sunny Southwestern Ontario, where the humidity is hovering somewhere near 90%, the air-quality index is “tubercular” and where I’m sharing the announcer duties with the lovely Dennis Travesty and her biographer and the last Dadaist, Toulouse Le Grandfig.

Welcome all. Now what can we expect to see today Dennis?

Dennis Travesty:
I’m hoping to see that hunky Cro-Magnon I saw hanging around the sausage vendor!

And then I’d like to see him dance. Oh, yes!

Professor Quippy:
Monsieur Le Grandfig, I’m told that you actually won this competition when it was held in Calakmul in 910 AD? Putting aside the issue of your longevity, what exactly will the competitors be feeling right now?

Toulouse Le Grandfig:
It depends a little bit on where they have done their training.

Some of the artists will have been to the Abstract School in Schenectady New York, in which case they will be feeling a sense of confusion and intestinal cramping–

PQ:
Cramping?

TLG:
Yes, their food handling techniques are notoriously lax. If they’ve gone to the Camus School, then the dancers will no doubt be feeling a sense of ennui and their own futility–

DT:
I’m feeling ennui right now!

PQ:
You seem strangely excited by it. Ah, here comes the first dancers.

DT:
It’s the hunk! And some kind of overweight tourist…

PQ:
Yes, our first dancers are the cave man Thag and Dr. Maximillian Tundra, performing: “Thag blog funny.” Thag is wearing some kind of fur loincloth and Dr. Tundra is wearing a Hawaiian Shirt, greasy jean cut-off shorts, and what appears to be a tiny bowler hat.

Toulouse, do you know where have they done they’re training?

TLG:
Thag is self-taught. It is clear from the way he’s carrying himself to the performance area. Do you see the way he’s dragging his knuckles? That is a sure sign of an amateur. Dr. Tundra has been to the Timothy Leary School. Or he might be a science fiction writer who thought this was the way to the Con Suite.

PQ:
Well, whatever the case, he seems to be getting ready to dance by limbering up. Do you see him touching his toes? Oh, no, sorry … it’s probably a case of nerves. I know that I threw up before the Oral Defense of my thesis.

DT:
Me too!

TLG:
He said “thesis” Den.

DT:
They’ve started!

PQ:
Now, what would that mean? It seems as though Thag is opening his arms to the sky, and Dr. Tundra is lying down.

DT:
Look at his arms!

TLG:
Ah, I see what they’re going for here. The Classic pre-Columbian Duality Dance. Thag is the positive force, and Tundra the negative. Do you see how he’s hopping from one foot to the other? And how Tundra is now turning over, as though he awoke and then fell back asleep?

PQ:
And he’s rolled in his own vomit.

DT:
Ewwwwww!

TLG:
It means that a successful blogger writes something new every day. The lazy ones roll in their own filth. Or it could be something about soup.

PQ:
Soup?

TLG:
Yes, baby fricassee too.

DT:
Oh Toulouse, you’re too much.

PQ:
Now what are they doing?

DT:
Look at Thag’s calves. Yummy!

TLG:
Yes, he’s kicking Dr. Tundra, repeatedly, to show how a good blogger isn’t afraid of doing the same thing over and over. Now, do you see how he varied that kick, with the heel instead of the toe — he’s saying that even if you do the same thing, you need to make it new and interesting. Newts and bowling, by the way.

[Professor Quippy stares at Toulouse Le Grandfig]

DT:
Oh, Dr. Tundra is getting up! He’s covering his privates.

PQ:
So is he saying that a bad blogger hides his personal life?

DT:
No, Thag is kicking him there.

PQ:
I don’t think we should be airing this in prime time.

TLG:
No the kids should see this. Do you see how Dr. Tundra is now huddled next to the bleachers, hugging himself and crying? They’re saying that too much self-love is not funny. You have to make fun of yourself if you’re going to refer to yourself, that’s why Thag is beating him with the sturgeon?

PQ:
Actually, I believe that’s a wiffle bat.

DT:
I love wiffles! With ice cream!

TLG:
Exactly, Den! They’re saying that puns can be humorous too!

PQ:
Now, why are there a troop of large apes entering the dance area?

DT:
Well, duh — monkeys are hilarious! And those are über-chimps.

PQ:
But why are they wearing tutus and fezzes? And why do they have tubas?

TLG:
Custard?

PQ:
Is that little one wearing a tiny Napoleon outfit? He’s adorable.

DT:
Wow, Thag is really laying into those über -chimps.

PQ:
Yes, the little one can’t seem to keep them in their ranks. He does a lot of shouting, doesn’t he.

TLG:
You see how Dr. Tundra is crawling away, hiding under the bleachers? And how Thag is wading in, knocking the über -chimps unconscious? That’s a metaphor.

PQ:
For what?

TLG:
Writing. The key to successful writing is never letting the critics get you down. Just wade into the crowd of monkeys and let fly. Only a failed writer will crawl away.

PQ:
I guess most of the crowd are failed writers too. They’re really emptying the bleachers quickly. Oh, look, some of the chimps –

DT:
Über -chimps!

PQ:
Über -chimps, are bringing the mouthpieces of their tubas to their lips. That can’t be good …

TLG:
Yes, yes, yes. This is great. Every pre-Columbian Interpretive Dance should end in some kind of catastrophic bloodshed. And onions.

[Catastrophic, Tympanic membrane-busting, sound. Transcript ends.]

The preceding was a dramatization; no actual tubas were hurt during its production, though Dr. Tundra did throw up. It’s production was in answer to a “non-meme” created by the Menacing Brent Diggs, proprietor of the Ominous Comma, Lord of the Baleful Apostrophe, and Master of Threatening Punctuation. If you would like to participate in this “non-meme”, all you have to do is:

1. Write a funny post that includes an actual and helpful technical blogging tip or educational material helpful to new bloggers.
2. Challenge five other experienced bloggers of funniness.
3. Post it.
4. Link and badge up if you so desire.

I’m sure that most of the other funny blog writers at humor-blogs.com and alltop have seen this challenge, so I will “not-tag” the following bloggers: Mark, Archer,Ellison, Jon and Leslie. Now, if you have a humor-blogs account (or would like one), please express your joyous need for soup and tell everyone you loved this post.

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February 29, 1933, Capipi Bumonsis

I sense the voyage is about to come to an end. The customs agents here are strange men. Their beards are not mellow, but wild and full of strife.

Oh, for a helping of soup!

But there is no rest. The man with the cane spots my imagined tail, and I am nicked. The police are angry.

They make me play whist.

About the Photographer: Toulouse Le Grandfig was a surrealist painter, photographer and writer who never gave up dadaism. Unfortunately, he was beyond the reach of traditional foot architecture.

For most of his life, the artist was perpendicular, occasionally ingested the bodily fluids of other mammals, and seldom baked.

Humor-blogs.com is cooking. You should go there and vote for this post. We will send you muffins to say thank you. Speaking of muffins…

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This classic Harlan Ellison rant comes courtesy of Steve Davey, a travel writer and photographer who has been asked for his share of freebies.

You may want to watch Harlan explain his philosophy on providing free content before you read the rest of the post. Or not. He’s talking specifically about the studios, but he raises an interesting point:

“They always want the writer to work for nothing. And the problem is, there’s so god-damned many writers who have no idea that they’re supposed to be paid every time they do something! They do it for nothing. [raises shoulders and flaps arms] Guh, guh, ghuh, look at me, I’m going to be noticed, huh, huh, huh-huh.”

So all you bloggers out there, according to Harlan, we’re all “assholes”.

I say guilty as charged. What do you think?

Free content provided by YouTube. (Oh, the irony!) Link provided by Steve Davey. If you believe this is a funny blog — sorry about the lack of monkeys today — you should go to humor-blogs.com and vote. You can also find more humor at alltop.

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April 12, Jungian Analysis

Swollen cheeks and brass protuberances strike the crew of the Good Ship Plotkin. It is the worst outbreak of Bugler’s Mouth I’ve seen since the Great War. One by one, the crew is afflicted, and I am left alone to man the ship with “Ahoy Gregor you great walloping pederast.” Alas, my monkey burns…

Next Time: Angry Beards

About the Photographer: Toulouse Le Grandfig was a surrealist painter, photographer and writer who never gave up dadaism. Also, he played with an incomplete deck of cards.

Insert obvious dice-short-a-few-spots joke here. Then insert your vote here. Don’t mention “insertion” while you’re here.

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SS Plotkin, circa. 1901

I separate the mists of time like the Great Jabber Monkey’s own cosmic speculum.

The Fates glare at me as I slowly walk up the gangway: Clotho, Lachesis and Atropos.

“You cannot avoid your destiny,” Clotho says to me, her sea-cap at a jaunty angle.

“No,” Lachesis affirmed. “There is no escape.”

“Arf!” said Atropos, and then piddled on Clotho’s gaberdine cruiseware.

Next Time: A Brassademic

About the Photographer: Toulouse Le Grandfig was a surrealist painter, photographer and writer who never gave up dadaism. Also, he played a mean sousaphone.

The staff apologies for the inadvertent classical allusions used in this post. If you would go here and tell us off, we’d appreciate it. Then mess with these people.

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