Max the Lovelorn Bear

There once was a bear named Max.  He was a hopeless romantic who spent his days smelling flowers and eating bark off of trees for the cleanliness of his teeth.  He would always try to find the perfect flower to give to one of his many potential mates.

Natasha the Big Brown Bear was the skankiest bear in all of The NeighborWood, also known as “The Wood.”  She would climb trees and then eat the acorns out of their shells and then spit them at other bears.  She was so annoying.  This one time she spat an acorn shell on the mayor of The Wood, Mayor Hunstingson.  She was kicked out of the city for three days and had to direct traffic from the neighboring city ForesTown to and fro.  Traffic duty is pretty much the worst duty you could do in The Wood since everyone is an idiot and doesn’t know how to drive their cars.

Max found a Red Mistberry Flower growing in a ravine north of the NeighborWood Nuclear Factory.  He thought it smelled so good that he picked it and decided to give it to Natasha as a gesture of affection.  He thought since Natasha would be all alone on the Bearway Pass between NeighborWood and ForesTown, he could make his move.

It was an unfortunate misplacing of romantic intentions for Max.  Natasha had the IQ of a baboon, and the brain of one, too.  That’s why she’s so stupid.  Because she isn’t a bear, she is a baboon in the body of a bear.  Too bad for Max because she had a booty like DANGGGG!!!!!  Natasha ate his Red Mistberry Flower and spat the seeds at him when he presented it to her.

All spat on, heartbroken, and no one to love, Max went back to his den made out of bricks.  It was a nice den, but watch out if he wanted to fart because IT’S MADE OF BRICKS!!!!!  You may not get it, but sure.

The next week, Max found a flower called the Junior Talap Wishmaker.  It was the perfect type of flower to give to Allison the Green Bear.  Why was she green?  Because she is soooooo cool.  That’s why!  She’s like one of those chicks you see on BizarroBook who is friends with someone you know but sticks out like a sore thumb in their friends list.  So, Allison the Green Bear was at the local record store Bear-cords, smelling the guitar tablature books.  She liked the very minor temporary high the glue gave her.  Max came in, holding the large flower between his teeth, trotting down the aisle in a triumphant fashion.  Allison looked over to see Max presenting her with the flower.  She smelled it, but it did not give her even the slightest amusement.  Her swollen red eyes watered as the flowers pungent smell filled her sinuses.  She stood up on two legs and sneezed right onto Max’s face.  Max dropped the flower in astonishment and suddenly he was teleported back to his brick den.  The Junior Talap Wishmaker would grant one wish to anyone who sneezed on the face of the person that had picked (aka murdered) the flower.  In this case, Allison wished for Max to go away.

For two weeks, Max was again depressed and lacking in the macking.  He searched high and low for the next flower that would really impress his new love, Calista the Model Bear.  Calista spent most of her days at the NeighborWood Hidden Lake Resort, poolside, tanning in the moonlight.  The moonlight tanning fad had become a mandated regiment by the bear modeling agency known as Bear-It-All, and was forcing all of their famous bear models to take part in the tanning procedure which consisted of placing a huge amplification telescope above the tanner and focus the beam onto them until they became glowing with moon radiation.

Max was able to catch a spaceship to the Moon and picked a Moonflower for Calista since she seemed to like the Moon and he thought if he got this rare and special Moonflower which you could be arrested for if you picked it because there’s only like three of them left, so it makes it even MORE romantic because he committed a crime to show his love and chicks fall over for that stuff like a domino in a hurricane.

Max was seen by the Moonflower Security Response Team and for the next three days he was in the middle of a Western-Sci-Fi-style laser gunfight and spaceship dogfight campaign to get the flower back to the Earth.  Needless to say, and really the point I’m trying to make, is that Max did a lot to get this flower and it was a lot of effort.

After killing 67 members of the security team, they finally let him go.  Max gained the nickname the Moonflower Assassin for his cunning flower picking skills and being able to elude all of the security around the illustrious Moonflower.

Max , dressed in his space fighter leather jacket, with 67 tally marks on his right shoulder and “Moonflower Assassin” written in capital letters across his back, journeyed up the mountain to the Hidden Lake Resort.  Standing on two legs, he presented the Moonflower to Calista.

“Ugh, what is that?  I don’t even LIKE flowers… harrumph!”  Calista put the cucumbers back on her eyes and began to ignore Max again.

Max fell backward and the Moonflower, encased in its little forcefield blasted off towards the moon, to return to its nest.

Later next week, Max was escorted to the Emergency Sex Change Room.  He had absolutely no luck with women so he decided he wanted to try being one so that he could learn how to make one like him.

He hated flowers forever.

The end.

Moral of the story:  If you only have two minutes to think up a moral to explain your story, you’re doing it wrong.

 

The Prefect Candy Bar

Alone in an alley, the mayor of Candybarrio in Foodland, Cassius Candybar was strolling through.  It wasn’t exactly the safest of places to take a brisk walk, considering the last five high profile homicides had taken place here, in which all of the victims were mutilated to the point of being called a different food.  No one knew what a Tomato Chocolate Smoothie was until last week when Clive Tomato and Sandy Chocandy were murdered and blended together.

“What kind of murderous, Foodlandish person would be able to exist?” the local news stations explored that question to no avail and received higher ratings than ever before.  Conspiracy theorists even started to believe the news stations themselves were propagating this uptake in mutilation-type violence — or even hiring people to commit them so there would be more news coverage!

The sad truth of the matter was, that it was not that simple… Cassius knew more than he had let on in his myriad of interviews.  To cut the mystery short, it was Cassius who had murdered the the five Foodlandish in the alley.  He was using the publicity of the murders to propel himself to the forefront of the minds of Foodlandish in the upcoming elections.

And his plan was working.

That was, until a copycat murderer decided to open his killing spree with a high-profile target.  Banana-Face the Orange had trained with his knife skills for like three hours before he came to the alley behind Roger and Jefferson’s Waffle House and Croissant Bakery.

It didn’t take too much effort to slice the ligaments in Cassisus’ legs… and before Cassius could do anything, a six-inch fruit peeler was jutted into his back.  Banana-Face twisted the fruit peeler slowly as the caramel began to ooze out of Cassius.  In his screams came more and more pain.  The nougat began to ooze out along with the caramel and Banana-Face’s Relentless Fruit Peeler began to dig at Cassius’ peanuts.  Once the hole was big enough, Banana-Face thrust his hand into Cassius and grabbed a peanut, ripping it from his nougaty center.

Cassius did everything he could to crawl away but it was to no avail.  Banana-Face enraged and began to rapidly stab Cassius in his back.  He began to bash Cassius’ head with his own peanut and caramel began to ooze from the back of his head.  Cassius’ last ditch effort was to get his Battery-Powered Blender Knife from his right pocket.  He reached for it and turned it on.

Banana-Face was in the middle of another Stab-and-Twist when Cassius flipped over, causing him to lose his balance.   Cassius raised the whirring Blender Knife into the air and came into Banana-Face’s lower extremities.  Banana-Face screamed louder than Cassius had, and orange juice sprayed onto Cassius’ face as he laughed maniacally, exacting his painful revenge on the orange.  Orange pulp began to spray, as the knife got closer to Banana-Face’s core.

Cassius removed the Blending Knife and readied his thrust again.  In that instant, Banana-Face reached and grabbed the fruit peeler in Cassius’ back and used it as a handle to get closer to Cassius before his next thrust.  Cassius screamed in pain, but that didn’t do much to offset his balance as the blending knife came from the right and into Banana-Face’s side.  They both screamed at the top of their lungs in their weird hug-like stance.

The alley was full of orange caramel juice.  It flowed like a miniature river as it ended up into a grate on the floor.  Banana-Face’s life force drained away and he eventually fell limp.  Cassius fell to the ground as well, but in victory.  He was relieved he had survived the ordeal, but little did he know, a new threat loomed beneath the alley — a fire-breathing Drah-Gun!

Shunookle the Drah-Gun was on a vacation from Nikpan and thought the sewer system in Foodland would provide for a nice respite from the hustle and bustle of Dragon Town.  Unfortunately for her, this was the sixth extremely loud murder to occur within the last week, and it was pissing her off!  She burst out of the alley’s asphalt and flew into the air, throwing asphalt all over the place and flying away.

Cassius Candybar was ultimately known for killing all tourism in Candybarrio once Shunookle the Drah-Gun posted on BizarroBook, the world’s most popular social network that Candybarrio was a very loud and unsafe place to visit.

Moral of the story: Considering the consequences of your actions is prudent in matters of politics.

 

Dr. Stinky’s Guide to a NASCAR Race

This column brought to you by Jesus who reminds you that he did not place that beer in your hands, and that drinking 13 more cans will not make it so.

If you’re anything like me, when you think of a place that’s filled with lunatics, drunks, and rednecks, you think of the White House. Of course, the next thing you’d probably think of is a NASCAR track on Sunday. I am not ashamed to admit that I’m a NASCAR fan, and no one makes fun of me for being a NASCAR fan. Of course, I do brutally murder all opposition to me, but that’s beside the point. The point is I was at a NASCAR race this past Sunday, as I had the privilege to direct traffic on one of the track entrances. From my orange barrel stationed in the middle of the action, I got the true NASCAR experience, and though people kept trying to knock me out by hitting me over the head with beer bottles, I am here to tell you my story, as well as its moral, which is, don’t fuck with rednecks. Ha ha! I’m just kidding. The moral is to never fuck rednecks’ sheep.

But enough about the moral, let’s get to the story. The day started at 3 AM when I stumbled into the shower and accidentally turned on the icy cold water. Then I realized that I had been dumped in the Arctic Circle by my friends in the Romanian Mafia again, and I started back home. Those jokers! In any case, the U.S. military owed me a favor and dropped me off over at my house, then they proceeded to blow up my next door neighbor’s house. Last time the bastard steals a chainsaw from me. Before fire and rescue crews could arrive and accuse me of something, I was off to the race. On my way, I passed an old cemetery where Tom Cruise was shooting a new movie where he eats what’s left of the flesh of dead people. Should be a good movie. Wait a minute, there weren’t any cameras.

Anyways, I parked my car outside the speedway gates and went to sleep for a few hours. Then a speedway worker knocked on my window and told me to get to work directing traffic. There wasn’t much traffic to direct at first, so I mainly watched the campground area, where people had literally been partying all night. Some of these people hadn’t slept in days, so I decided to have a little fun with them while I wasn’t busy. In one camper, I released a pack of hungry dogs after I poured Tabasco sauce all over the drunken inhabitants. They thought I was giving them a sponge bath. To be even more cruel, I released a thousand bumblebees into another camper after I gave their dog and two cats baths in honey sauce. I thought that the campers would be upset, but they called it the best damn show they ever saw. Then they gave me a beer. Dissatisfied, I made my cruelest move of all by releasing Jeff Gordon into another camp. I heard a lot of screaming, a lot of chainsaw noises, and a lot of hole digging, and Jeff never came out. Next time, maybe I won’t forget to use the Jeff Gordon Tackling Dummy (copyright 1998 Hasbro Toys). I heard that the dummy placed 4th in the race though.

When I headed back to my post, a lineup of cars had formed, so I started letting them through. Of course, if a car came to me, it was headed in one of two directions: inside the speedway or left to handicap parking. The majority of the cars at first were headed inside the speedway, mainly because they were the pit crews and families of the drivers. I stopped
a few pit crews and made them do four tire changes on their vans. Then I proceeded to shake my head and tell them that the sort of times they put up were “winning times.” Of course, they did the best they could without any tools. I had fun with the families of the drivers too. I told them that during the race, I would kill their daddy. Then I laughed, saying I was just joking, that I’d find him AFTER the race and kill him. They seemed unhappy, but I think eventually they got the joke. Soon, actual cars started piling in, though some of the cars with handicap stickers didn’t appear to be filled with handicapped people. Does anyone else think that morbid obesity is not a handicap, that these people should just get the frickin’ liposuction and get it over with? Is it so hard for some of these people to ride an exercise bike while watching the race? These people notwithstanding, the “handicapped” problem got worse. One of the other parking attendants saw a couple walking away from their handicapped-stickered vehicle and noticed something strange. He told the couple that one of
them had to work on their limp a little. The man then proceeded to act like he was limping. The saddest part of all this is that I am not making it up.

Throughout the day, I saw many interesting people walk by me. Earlier in the day I saw a husband and wife arguing. Let me tell ya, some people are dead serious about their arguing. I mean, the guy didn’t even think twice about killing the wife. Then he asked me to help him dig the shallow grave. Then he hired Johnny Cochran. This happened in the span of about an hour. I hope his “The police are out to frame violent, sex-crazed lunatics like my client” argument holds up in court. Good luck Johnny! A number of people also came over to me and asked me if the train that ran to the other end of the speedway was running today, this in spite of the fact that it was running DIRECTLY BEHIND ME. I happily pointed the people in the right direction, although the morbidly obese people were more than a little upset about having to walk the 50 feet to the nearest train. I guess it’s pretty bad when you can hear their feet screaming for mercy. The t-shirts were really cool though. Give NASCAR fans this: They know a good t-shirt when they see it. One t-shirt advertised a new brand of M&Ms, called S&Ms. I didn’t know that the yellow peanut liked it rough, or that the green M&M looked so damn good wearing leather and holding a whip. The best t-shirt of the day though had to be the one that said on the front, “Drink ‘Til You Want Me.” The spirit of NASCAR lives on.

Once the race started, allegiances were evident. The Jeff Gordon fans collected under the grandstands for fear of oppression. I think it was a little much of them to believe that the Holy Gordon Spirit was coming to give them bravery enough to sit in the grandstands. I also think it was a little much for Jesus to be standing there not letting them out. The Dale Earnhardt, Jr. fans were everywhere in the stands, though you couldn’t understand them when they talked, mainly because every single noun was “Dale,” “Earnhardt,” or “Junior.” Here’s a sample conversation:

Redneck 1: So Dale was down at the Junior the other Earnhardt.
Redneck 2: Oh really? Did Junior buy the Dale?
Redneck 1: Nope, Earnhardt thought Dale’d be better off with the Earnhardt.
Redneck 2: Well, Junior’s a Dale. Guess Dale’d better go with the Earnhardt.

And they all knew what the other was talking about. I tell ya, with Dale Earnhardt Junior, it’s like hero-worship. They cheer him when he wins, they cheer him when he loses, the threaten death upon anyone who causes Dale pain (I was flooded with about 420 death threats after I typed this paragraph, and I didn’t even send it out immediately. How did they get my email?) I do, however, think it was a little much for them to make Junior keep his father’s corpse in the back of his car.

Well, after being showered with rubber from being so close to the track, and having had to throw water on driver Ricky Rudd as he tried to climb the grandstand fence while on fire (although I still think it was funny to shoot out his tire), I left the race. I learned a lot that day, the best lesson being that girls, when sprayed with a hose and doused with
alcohol, always show their breasts. It is a lesson I will cherish always. Well, now I’m sunburned and my skin is trying to slowly crawl away, so I better be going. But take it from me, always wear pants to a NASCAR race, even if most of the rednecks aren’t wearing clothes at all. They sold the clothes to buy tickets for this race. This happens, I’m serious. I already bought 5 kids off of 3 different couples.

(Dr. Stinky knows you aren’t a race car, but he’ll still ride you any day.)

 

Joke #18493

The district attorney was cross-examining the murderess on the witness stand.

“And so after you had poisoned the coffee and your husband sat at the breakfast table partaking of the fatal dosage, didn’t you feel any qualms? Didn’t you feel the slightest pity for him knowing that he was about to die and was wholly unconscious of it?”

“Yes,” she answered. “Come to think of it…there was just a moment when I sort of felt sorry for him.”

“And, when was that?”

“When he asked for the second cup.”

 

Joke #18468

While I was working in the men’s section of a department store, a woman asked me to help her choose a white dress shirt for her husband.

When I asked about his size, the woman looked stumped at first, then her face brightened. She held up her hands, forming a circle with her forefingers and thumbs.

“I don’t know his size,” she said, “but my hands fit perfectly around his neck.”

 

The Badger’s Dam

One day there was a badger and this badger was hired to make a river dam.  Well, this fucking badger was an illegal and he came over from that other fucking river and took the beaver’s jobs away from them.

That god damn badger thought he was so good with his cheaper cost wood that he thought he could make a dam for 15 Fish while beavers charged 20 Fish to make a high quality dam.  Considering the quality and the long-term benefits of having a high quality dam as opposed to a low quality dam, the beaver’s dam would survive like five floods or whatever, while the badger’s wouldn’t even survive two.

So the beavers held the badger and his illegal badger family hostage, put them into boxes and shoved them down the waterfall.  Then the beavers detonated that no-good badger’s dam and that forced the Dam-Making Corporation to hire more illegal badgers from the other river to make another dam.  Basically, the hard-working, honest beavers were put out of business and their economy took a shit on themselves after a few of their river banks needed to be bailed out by the government.

Moral of the story:  You may think you can solve the illegal immigration problem yourself, but it is really up to the government to make a real stand on the issue.