Barney’s Death

Barney died
we all cried
with happiness
we couldn’t lie!

All the bad things
that he has done
makes his fans real dumb

HEY

Bashing on the dinosaur
he’s as stupid as a whore
he’s so sick and more
man why can’t he roar?!

He’s so lame and all
he doesn’t even have any balls!
he’s so crappy call
the ambulance from the hall
before I go all crazy
and beat the shit out of barney
he’s gonna need the Army
and everybody
to save him now!

Oh

Barney died
we all cried
with happiness
we couldn’t lie!

All the bad things that he has done
has turned his fans real dumb
has turned his fans real dumb
HAS TURNED HIS FANS REAL DUMB!
BARNEY DIED! YAAAAAAAAAYYYYY!!

 

WoW Chat #21934: Slevinn -> davepoobond

In trade chat…

[2] [davepoobond]: i am almost at 3 million gold

Slevinn: how do you make so much gold

Slevinn: i will give you a bj for a million

davepoobond: r u a grl

Slevinn: yes

davepoobond: how big r ur boobs

Slevinn: 34c

davepoobond: what is the psi of your mouth

Slevinn: i have no gage reflex

davepoobond: psi!

davepoobond: pounds/square inch

Slevinn: is that like sucking pressure or what

davepoobond: yes

Slevinn: more then you can handle

davepoobond: sounds interesting

davepoobond: how much experience do you have

Slevinn: enough

davepoobond: do you have any personal references

Slevinn: haha not that play wow

davepoobond: i see…

davepoobond: i have inside sources that say 34c is small, do you beg to differ?

Slevinn: yeah

davepoobond: are there any extra addons

Slevinn: 4

davepoobond: 4 what

davepoobond: i meant like perks

davepoobond: what makes you different from the competition

davepoobond: 34c isnt small, its a nice size

davepoobond: i looked it up on google

 

Love Scene

To be performed by Chelsea and Matt.

GIRL:  Before I go inside, I want to thank you for a sexy evening.  I’ve really had a busty time.

BOY:  I’ll bet you tel that to all the butts.

GIRL:  You’d better go now before my sink hears you and wakes up.  He’s a very crazy sleeper.

BOY:  I don’t care.  Darling, I love you more than fart itself.  Let me take you away from this terrible light bulb.

GIRL:  You’re staring.  I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last whore on earth

BOY: But darling, you’re breaking my butt.  I love you.  Please marry me and be my henchwoman.

GIRL:  I’m sorry, but I’m already engaged to Bill Clinton.

 

Whore Paint Supplies

(sexy music is playing)

(the camera pans slowly to the left, and you see two people’s bare legs on top of each other on a couch, moving around)

 

Lady: oh baby, I just love it when you stick it in…

 

Guy: shut up bitch, I’m not paying you to talk!

 

(the camera zooms out, and you see the guy is actually painting someone)

(scene cuts to a kid’s face)

 

Kid: what the fuck?

 

(scene cuts to a painter-type looking guy with a goatee)

 

Jain Starling: hello, I’m a painter. I’m here to tell you about Whore Paint Supplies. I don’t actually endorse these products, but money can make you do anything, in this economy with rising gas, food, and prostitute prices. Here at Whore Paint Supplies you can buy many many things. Including, you guessed it, PAINT!

 

(cuts to Jain Starling walking down an aisle)

 

Jain Starling: paint is sooo good I love it, because I’m a painter! But there is a very special aisle, just for paint that you can pain WHORES with! I find it kind of arousing myself, because I love paint, and I love whores! You just put one on each other and I just get so—OH MY GOD!

 

(Jain Starling drops his pants and reaches down his underwear)

(technical difficulties comes on right away….for 10 minutes)

 

Jain Starling: ok…I’m finished…

 

(but then MAW (Mothers Against Whores) busts through the door of Whore Paint Supplies)

 

Jain Starling: sacré bloo!

 

Soccer Mom: DESTROY! Whores are the DEVIL! WE Don’t care about their financial state nor the fact they may be drug addicts or have another problem, and would rather kill them than help them, because our husbands are the ones bringing in the money, and all WE do is shop and bitch! LIKE NOW!

 

Robot Mom: shop and bitch. Shop and bitch! Oooh….I like this paint, but the price is so HIGH!

 

Jain Starling: FUCK! RUNNNNNN!!!

 

(Milllions (its seems at least) of mothers storm the building with pitchforks, stabbing every man and whore in sight)

 

Camera Man: oh fuck oh fuck!

 

(the camera man is running, so you see the screen shaking around. But then Soccer Mom takes out a shotgun and shoots. Screen goes snowy)

(technical difficulties)

(end)

 

The Sad Pallet

Once upon a time there was an artist. He was an Impressionist that seemed to paint the saddest looking paintings when he used a particular pallet. He nicknamed the pallet George Jatus Sicklehymer Smit III, but for short, George.

George wasn’t really ever happy. He wasn’t popular in school, got bad grades, and didn’t get his first thumbing until he was 25. George was the saddest pallet in the world, and when the artist painted with him, the saddest shades of every color on him came out on the canvas.

One day, in the pallet box, Jonathon Ronald John Esquire (John for short) and Elizabeth Louise Patrick (Lizzy for short) were all sitting around drinking alcoholic paint. John and Lizzy had been going out for about 15 years, and often got their paint mixed up on each other, (if you know what I mean) and George often envied them, because he wanted to mix pain with someone, too.

So John and Lizzy, knowing how sad George was, thought they should help him out a bit. They thought it would be good for George to go to the paint store, and check out the teenagers. We all need some under-aged love sometimes, y’know. George thought about it, and decided to go along with what they suggested. As soon as George left, John and Lizzy made a mess of paint. There was so much paint dripping and squirting, it was nasty to watch.

Anywayyyy! George went to Mr. Rosebud’s Paint Shoppe. There were a lot of nice pallets and he liked the way their holes looked. He met a simple 15 year old pallet named Sandra. Sandra was actually a whore, but George didn’t know that, even though she had a tag that said “Whore Paint Supplies” and was priced at $8.99 without tax. It may give the impression that she was $8, like those damn corporate businesses want us to think, but its really $9! They think they can trick us with their sly methods of deceiving!

So then George and Sandra squirted some paint around (if you know what I mean) and when George found out Sandra was a whore, he shot her, then shot John and Lizzy and the artist. George was finally happy, as he was carted off to an art school.

 

Dr. Squackle

Medical advice from your favorite pals at Squackle.com!

How do you cure Amnesia?

davepoobond, Ph.D.: say they are a clown and they work with a trapeze man that snuffs chalk dust. Then dress them up with purple clothes and send them on tour

How do you cure the antisocial personality disorder?

davepoobond, Ph.D.: bust a cap in their ass

Leroy was hit in the head by a moving swing and was knocked unconscious. Since it was a very hot day, his friend Eddie moved him into the shade before going for help. What do you do?

davepoobond, Ph.D.: dump cold water on him and see if he wakes up. if not, bury him cuz he’s dead

elmoisfurry, M.D.: chop off his legs, give him apple juice

When Liz was babysitting for the Jacksons, two-year-old Timmy drank some liquid from an unlabled bottle. When Liz found him, Timmy was pale and sweaty, with stains from whatever he drank around his mouth. Liz immediately gave him some syrup of ipecac to make him vomit. Then she called the poison control center. What do you do?

davepoobond, Ph.D.: slap Timmy around and tell him he’s a bad boy

elmoisfurry, M.D.: give him some LSD and have him think he’s on a pony ride

While Jose and Ben were sledding, Jose was thrown from his sled, hitting his head on a rock. Although conscious, he felt nauseated and too dizzy to walk. Before going for help, Ben covered Jose with his coat and gave him some hot chocolate from their thermos to keep him warm. What do you do?

davepoobond, Ph.D.: kick him once for good luck

elmoisfurry, M.D.: tie his legs and beat his stomach!

Nancy and Kyla were in the park, eating hamburgers and talking. Kyla who had been lying on her back while she ate, suddenly jumped up and made strange wheezing sounds as if she couldn’t breathe or speak. Nancy saw that Kyla was probably choking and ran to get some water for her.

davepoobond, Ph.D.: throw the water at her shoes, then give her the Heimlech Manuever. Now for home base…

elmoisfurry, M.D.: do the Hokey pokey and turn yourself around that’s what choking is all about

Jane is a 25-year-old black woman who is pregnant for the first time. Her husband’s uncle has sickle-cell disease. Should Jane and her husband consider genetic counseling?

davepoobond, Ph.D.: no, Jane needs a psychologist, because she don’t know how to pick the right fucked up men.

elmoisfurry, M.D.: who cares about the husband’s uncle. Smack the baby around and call him Nancy for all I care

Lisa is 42 years old and wants to have a second child. Lisa’s husband is 39 years old. Should Lisa and her husband consider genetic counseling?

davepoobond, Ph.D.: what a dumb bastard for marrying someone 3 years older

elmoisfurry, M.D.: god damn old people shouldn’t have sex. They’re old and wrinkled

Maria is 30 years old and pregnant for the fourth time. She and her husband already have three healthy daughters. They want to know if this baby is a boy, should Maria and her husband consider genetic counseling?

davepoobond, Ph.D.: GOD DAMN! Four fuckin’ times? Close your legs, whore!

elmoisfurry, M.D.: ::stab stab stab::

Stacy is 23 years old and married. She is pregnant for the second time. Her first baby was healthy and normal. Stacy’s sister just gave birth to a baby with cystic fibrosis. Should Stacy consider counseling?

davepoobond, Ph.D.: hahahahahaha….aha hahahahahahahaha

elmoisfurry, M.D.: cystic fibrosis? Cystic fibrosis? Don’t gimme no cystic fibrosis. You should be more worried about her baby’s daddy sneaking around with Billy Ray the transvestite gardener from Hungary

Angela is anxious to have a child. Her last two pregnancies ended in miscarriages. Angela is 28 years old and her husband is 30 years old. Should Angela and her husband consider counseling?

davepoobond, Ph.D.: dumb bitch!! Adopt!!

elmoisfurry, M.D.: why do you people always ask US. Its not like we’re doctors…oh wait…we are…bye

You are babysitting for the Johnson twins. Jimmy Johnson comes up to you crying. He has punctured the skin on his hand on a rusty nail. The wound is bleeding badly. What do you do?

davepoobond, Ph.D.: hang the kid for being a dumbass, or leave him be…either way, same result

elmoisfurry, M.D.: um…spank his ass and call him Sally

You are camping with your best friend Sharon. She decides to feed a raccoon some bread crusts. The raccoon, frothing at the mouth, bites Sharon’s finger. The cut is not to deep, but something about the appearance and behavior of the raccoon bothers you.

davepoobond, Ph.D.: shoot the raccoon and eat it for dinner

elmoisfurry, M.D.: if Sharon has rabies, shoot her and eat her at breakfast

Your next door neighbor is a chef at one of the restaurants in town. Four weeks ago, he returned from a seven-day vacation, during which he enjoyed plenty of seafood. For the past few days, your neighbor has stayed home from work. He has a fever, and complains of a pain in the abdomen. When he returned from his vacation, you noticed a yellowish tinge to his skin; at the time you assumed he was merely tanned. The “tan” hasn’t disappeared. What do you do?

davepoobond, Ph.D.: poop on his face. Give him a REAL tan.

elmoisfurry, M.D.: uhhhhhh….what?

Dr. stimpyismyname: stick him in a dark room and smack him with an ugly stick

These are other health related funny things, not directly related to “Dr. Squackle.”:

I’ve heard that cardiovascular exercise can prolong life. Is this true?

Your heart is only good for so many beats, and that’s it… don’t waste them on exercise. Everything wears out eventually. Speeding up your heart will not make you live longer; that’s like saying you can extend the life of your car by driving it faster. Want to live longer? Take a nap.

Should I cut down on meat and eat more fruits and vegetables?

You must grasp logistical efficiencies. What does a cow eat? Hay and corn. And what are these?vegetables. So a steak is nothing more than an efficient mechanism of delivering vegetables to your system. Need grain? Eat chicken. Beef is also a good source of field grass (green leafy vegetable). And a pork chop can give you 100% of your recommended daily allowance of vegetable slop.

Is beer or wine bad for me?

Look, it goes to the earlier point about fruits and vegetables. As we all know, scientists divide everything in the world into three categories: animal, mineral, and vegetable. We all know that beer and wine are not animal, and they are not on the periodic table of elements, so that only leaves one thing, right? My advice: Have a burger and a beer and enjoy your liquid vegetables.

How can I calculate my body/fat ratio?

Well, if you have a body, and you have body fat, your ratio is one to one. If you have two bodies, your ratio is two to one, etc.

What are some of the advantages of participating in a regular exercise program?

Can’t think of a single one, sorry. My philosophy is: No Pain – Good.

If I stop smoking, will I live longer?

Nope. Smoking is a sign of individual statement and peace of mind. If you stop, you’ll probably stress yourself to death in record time.

Aren’t fried foods bad for you?

You’re not listening. Foods are fried these days in vegetable oil. In fact, they’re permeated in it. How could getting more vegetables be bad for you?

What’s the secret to healthy eating?

Thicker gravy.

Will sit-ups help prevent me from getting a little soft around the middle?

Definitely not! When you exercise a muscle, it gets bigger. You should only be doing sit-ups if you want a bigger stomach.

Is chocolate bad for me?

Are you crazy? Cocoa beans… Another vegetable. It’s the best feel good food around!

The following is by malaky:

Dear Dr. Stinky, Should I drink Coke or Pepsi?

Dear Sir or Madam, You will drink from the blood of an old donkey at the next full moon because I tell you to do so. I will sacrifice your mother so that the pigeons will live on. At the sacred alter, Taewon, the ice demon, will be summoned to sacrifice you and all of your pagan fertility gods. Milk will rain from the sky, but the land of chocolate will be moved to the magical valley east of Chicago. The answer to your question lies not only in the defeat of the brave, but also in the land of the innocent that will fall. On the other hand, you could try Dr. Pepper.

Dear Dr. Stinky, My girlfriend is pregnant. If I open up her belly, will I find the magic caramel inside?

Dear Sir or Madam, Not only will you find the magic caramel, you may even open another dimension. Though you may see blood, guts, and an unborn fetus, I assure you that if you dig long enough, you will go through a tunnel and find a completely different universe. You may also find the strength that was in you all along.

Dear Dr. Stinky, On your third album, “Stronger Than Gandhi,” there are some lyrics that confuse me in your song, “I Lick Tricycle Oil.” What do you mean by, “The time is coming when mankind will see the mistake of the Master Creator?”

Dear Sir or Madam, In that particular song, I’m writing about my inability to find the right doughnut, and the mental anguish that goes along with it. Are there too many sprinkles? I don’t know. Is there too much jelly in the middle? Only a pervert could tell. As my thoughts on this continued, I began to wonder why society holds farmers to certain standards while John Stamos runs free in the streets. The Canadian Government is involved in a massive conspiracy, you know this.  What you don’t know is how many doughnuts they withhold from you per year at the expense of the farmers.  If you don’t know that John Stamos is the Prime Minister of Canada by now, open up your eyes and grab your guns.  I also have a raging fear of Automatic Teller Machines.

Dear Dr. Stinky, Is Rhode Island a figment of my imagination?

Dear Sir or Madam, There are many schools of thought on this subject, but unfortunately, I am not a school of thought.  Instead, I am a free fish that likes to visit my friends at the aquarium.  People try to tell me that I am actually a wolf and that I must wear clothing and that I must not “stick that there,” but the sooner you realize that I am a fish seeking drugs, and possibly happiness, the sooner you will know the pain I feel every day from carrying your children.

(Dr. Stinky does not have the Ebola virus, but he knows where you can get some.)

Dear Dr. Stinky, Am I a bean sprout?

Dear Sir or Madam, Just because you ski down the sides of wild elephants, you are not a bean sprout.  If you were oxygen-based and soy-related, I would give you some drugs and beat you like an oriental car waxer. Long live King Boston Stalin and the rest of the Stalinists!

Dear Dr. Stinky, Is there any truth to the rumor that you will be on the new Survivor?

Dear Sir or Madam, If you were Jewish, I would be on the new Survivor.  Unfortunately, you are not Jewish, and for this reason, I will grind you up in my giant blender, which happens to have 12 recipes for Pina Coladas, and I will serve your precious juices to the Bushmen of Indonesia, or failing that, President George W. Bush. Later, I will be the weatherman for KWAK in Boise, Idaho in order to fulfill the 12th prophecy of Nostradamus. Failure in this matter will lead to the execution of a Haitian midget.


Dear Dr. Stinky, Are you having sex with my 15-year-old sister?

Dear Sir or Madam,
We could sit here and talk about legality all day long, and the only thing we would get is a giant wedgie.  The age of consent in 60 of our 359 states is 12, which to me is like 5 minutes out of the womb.  The fact is, I am having sex with your sister, your mother, her three other sisters, your father’s stepmother, and your dog Sophie.  In spite of this, I consider the nuclear warheads that Santa Claus is building in the North Pole to be a far more important issue.  If we are to stop the “Big Brother”-like reign of terror under which Santa Claus keeps us, we must burn down the North Pole and steal a few penguins from the South Pole in order to keep heating costs down.  In conclusion, I recommend the mass murder of several thousand elves in order to strike back at capitalism.  The future is now, and the underground must remain strong.

Dear Dr. Stinky, Are you inhaling Styrofoam again?

Dear Sir or Madam, I have inhaled many things in my lifetime.glue, paint, oil, George Washington.but I deny now, and I will continue to deny the fact that I have ever inhaled Styrofoam.  And it’s not like you should judge me for inhaling Styrofoam either! Would you be able to resist its allure? It sits there in the corner, all alone, just like some seductive Nigerian woman.  It calls to you, saying, “Sniff me, feel me, enlighten yourself in my angry bladder oil, which is a result of my silken femininity!” Are you so strong ? Could you honestly stand before me and say that you’ve never been to the edge of your own sanity while fantasizing about Barbra Streisand? I know that I snore, and it is for that reason that I find the love inside me to bake cookies at 8 in the morning.

(Dr. Stinky is not arranging the mass execution of several million ducks. Stop being so nosy.)

Dear Dr. Stinky, They stopped selling my favorite beer. This has left me feeling very self-conscious and alone. What can I do to eliminate these feelings?

Dear Sir or Madam, Normally, I would suggest that you freely indulge in sadomasochism, which is a fine substitute and result of beer, but I’m feeling saucy today. Instead, I encourage you to walk across hot coals, smack yourself on the buttocks, and then cover yourself in motor oil while singing the Carpenters’ “Close to You.” If nothing else, this should make you feel like a zebra, and they’re pretty happy creatures, right?

Dear Dr. Stinky, I do not believe that we should go to war, but President Bush keeps pushing that on his agenda. What can I do to make my opinion heard?

Dear Sir or Madam, Let’s get down to the real problem here. You’re upset because George keeps hogging all the covers at night.  Perhaps, the gun he sleeps with keeps going off as well. I should know, as I’ve been shot a couple times myself, and I lost three gerbils last year alone because of this. If I were in your place, I would freeze my body after I die so that I could re-emerge in the year 3020 to take over the powerful machines that already have enslaved us.  Embrace your captors or more blood will be shed.

Dear Dr. Stinky, I married “Harold” a month ago. We are quite happy, but lately he keeps saying things like, “Damn, your sister is hot,” and, “What do you think about politics?” Should I be concerned about this behavior?

Dear Sir or Madam, Harold is trying to express his deepest inner feelings to you, and he expects you to cook him a hamburger while you listen. When he says that your sister is hot, it means he wants to sleep with your mother, but that he’s already slept with your father. When he asks your opinion about politics, it means that a powerful kangaroo has just kicked him in the balls, and a pastrami sandwich would make him feel better. You need to look beyond the surface to see what Harold is really saying, but I suggest that you become Jewish so that I can legally harass you.

Dear Dr. Stinky, Should I take daddy’s gun and play with it in the street?

Dear Sir or Madam,
You may think you are playing, but this is no time to be playing games. Each car that passes you in the street is actually an alien bent on eating the world’s supply of ice cream. You must shoot at every passerby!  The world’s fate depends on it! Afterwards, if mommy wants to touch you in all the wrong places while daddy gets the videocamera, smile! This means you succeeded. Godspeed young one!

(Dr. Stinky is a certified license-plate maker from the Ohio State University)

Dear Dr. Stinky, My husband left me and took my kids.  He also cleaned out my bank account and de-virginized my cat. Is there any legal recourse I can take against him?

Dear Sir or Madam, Your husband is in violation of the Jack-in-the-box Laws of Central Prussia, which state that any caterpillar that steals the belongings or children of a lemur is to face penalty of death upon return to the dark fortress at Newburg.  If, however, you are not a lemur and your husband is not a caterpillar, then I shall dance in the wicked waters of Lake Erie to celebrate the de-virginization of your cat, and I shall barbecue you a pig for compensation.  As for your children, I shall make them one with the Nazi Party, and your husband shall bark like a dog at the command of the head of Adolf Hitler.  In the meantime, the rhinoceros will seize power, and he will subject the population to constant reruns of the Molly Ringwald movie, “Pretty in Pink.”

Dear Dr. Stinky, Let me be the first to call for the destruction of the Christian Science religion.  Can I count on your support in my most current endeavor?

Dear Sir or Madam, While I fully support the destruction of the Christian Science religion, I am enraged by your failure to do anything about the Mennonites, the Lennonites, the Leninites, the Stalinites, and the dog that barks outside my window at night. If you are to achieve your goal of world domination, the road runs through Yankee Stadium, as well as the urine on the streets of New York.  I will not support you in your endeavor, but I will make you a very nice hot dog because that’s what Babe Ruth would’ve wanted.  Your batting average needs to pick up though, if you are to defeat the Yankees of today. You want a playoff spot? Slugger, you better start looking in the minors for talent, because your team is short on it. Speaking of short, I screwed your girlfriend the other night. AND THERE WILL BE NO MUSTARD ON THAT HOT DOG!

Dear Dr. Stinky, Ever since my stepmom died, I’ve had the urge to break things against my wall. I feel like I’m losing control. Can you help me?

Dear Sir or Madam, I need a friend to help me renovate my house, and I think I will choose Minnie Mouse. I like her sundress and how it flaps wildly in the breeze. I like the thongs she wears for me. If you ever felt that thing, you’d know that Minnie has a really nice ass.  Sometimes, when the lights go down at night, we like to spoon in each others arms, conscious of the fact that we love each other so much, and that Mickey won’t be home for another 3 hours. When she divorces Mickey, I’ll certainly own the Anaheim Mighty Ducks, and I think I’ll chop up Goofy and sell him to the Chinese.  He shouldn’t have been walking on two feet anyways, if he’s a dog. So, to answer your question, yes I use deodorant, but I don’t use condoms to shave my skin bare at night. That is a task I leave to my followers.  Embrace your freedom!

Dear Dr. Stinky, Is there a labor crisis in America today?

Dear Sir or Madam, If, by crisis, you mean a string of dynamite-related arsons in my neighborhood, then yes, I am a Communist.  Am I responsible for the explosions? That is for a vengeful Buddha to decide.  Pray for peace between the ducks and the snakes though. Their conflict has had many bitter casualties, but the violence will not end until Rush Limbaugh is dead. I will now smoke my waterbed and sacrifice another machine to Groucho Marx to prove to you that my intentions are banal, if not capricious.

(Dr. Stinky is planning to tie you up and blindfold you, but you won’t know when until it’s too late.)

Dear Dr. Stinky, My girlfriend tied me to a chair, shaved my head, and has persistently beaten me for 5 weeks straight. Is she in love with me?

Dear Sir or Madam, Your girlfriend is merely testing the waters of your relationship. She wants to know important questions about you, including where you came from, what you do in mosh pits, and who your favorite talk-show host is. By regularly beating you, she is trying to find the real love that she knows exists between you, her, and several HIV-infected camels. Continue to allow the beatings, and don’t retaliate when she sticks a piece of spam into your neck.

Dear Dr. Stinky, Should I be concerned about global warming?

Dear Sir or Madam, I am currently drilling a giant hole to let all of the delicious caramel and milk chocolate out of the Earth. As a result, the Earth will collapse onto itself and float gently into the giant furnace that we call the sun. So if I were you, I’d kill a bunny while you have time.

Dear Dr. Stinky, My mom says that if I pick at my eyeball enough, it’ll fall out. Is this true?

Dear Sir or Madam, Of course not. You see, the human body is made up of silly putty. When you pick at a piece of flesh, or a specific body organ, it will only stretch and contort into weird shapes and sizes! Your eyeball actually can be plucked out in case of a lost golf ball. You can also cook your eye in stew, eat it for dinner, and it’ll return to the exact same spot by evening! I happen to be an expert on the subject, and I can tell you that I had hours of fun not only creating Japanese people, but also putting them back together after I dropped the atomic bombs on them!

Dear Dr. Stinky, Can you hear me now?

Dear Sir or Madam, Unfortunately, I cannot hear you because I lost my ears in a tragic farm tractor accident back in 1976, the year I also won the International Disco Championships. However, recently I have noticed that my ears seem to be regenerating just outside of my sexual organs. I think that’s what I get for living inside of a nuclear cooling tower for 11 years. In any case, I am grateful for any regeneration, although during sex, I now inexplicably make airplane noises.

(Dr. Stinky is a distinguished professor in the field of Sloppy Joe Making at Northern Illinois University.)

Dear Dr. Stinky, I’m in Australia and it’s February, but it’s not cold, it’s hot! What’s going on?

Dear Sir or Madam, The problem is easily identifiable. Oprah Winfrey has attempted to light one of her farts again, and the resulting conflagration of Methane Gas has settled over the skies of Australia. In the meantime, I suggest you sacrifice your child for the good of the dingoes, swim amongst the Tiger Sharks near Sydney, and plan to be on Oprah’s next show, entitled “Dr. Phil is actually a lesbian porn star!”

Dear Dr. Stinky, Are you training a giant army of sloths to take over the world?

Dear Sir or Madam, I’ve received a lot of letters about this, so I think it’s about time I address this issue. First of all, they are lemurs, not sloths. Second of all, just because I tie rocket packs to their backs, and just because they “happened” to run into a few skyscrapers while COINCIDENTALLY carrying bombs, it doesn’t mean that I’m planning to take over the world. I only want a couple cities, and trust me, Philadelphia is due to surrender within the next 5 months. I am sorry about how the one took a crap on your lawn though. I thought he went before takeoff.

Dear Dr. Stinky, Are you a licensed veterinarian?

Dear Sir or Madam, Yes, I am a licensed veterinarian. And for the last time, your dog WAS a hermaphrodite to begin with, and his eyes ARE supposed to be on his feet.

Dear Dr. Stinky, What is your favorite sexual position?

Dear Sir or Madam, I’d have to say that my favorite position is watching behind a closet door while the disembodied head of former president William Howard Taft gives cunnilingus to my several concubines.or you. It depends on what kind of mood I’m in.

(Dr. Stinky is not hiding Iraqi biological weapons. He would never hide weapons for infidels.)

Dear Dr. Stinky, In your opinion, who is the greatest athlete in the world?

Dear Sir or Madam, After deep consultation with Emmitt Smith, Yanni, and a very dark Kodiak Bear, I have decided that I am a leopard who is allowed to run wild and free in a meadow of African-American strawberries. Then I decided that it’s Wayne Gretzky. Let the debating begin!

Dear Dr. Stinky, Wanna go to Vegas with me tomorrow?

Dear Sir or Madam, I would gladly go to Vegas with you, if I hadn’t been banned from the city for 10 years. It all started with a slight misunderstanding between me, a seeing-eye dog, and the disembodied head of Princess Diana, and it somehow ended with the death of an Elvis impersonator. You are more than welcome to go to Vegas by yourself though, and just remember that everything you hear will be unadulterated lies. Except for the story involving the drowned hooker filled with mustard. I CAN EXPLAIN THAT!

Dear Dr. Stinky, My puppy’s ugly. What should I do?

Dear Sir or Madam, Well, you could bathe it in lemon juice, spin around 3 times while holding it in your arms, and feed it a diet of horse meat and baseballs for five days, and that might make it a little less ugly. Or you could also become an alcoholic and your puppy would look a little less ugly to you. But it doesn’t really matter because I am kidnapping your puppy in four days and will use it to make a new VCR for my den.

Dear Dr. Stinky, My belly button is turning colors!

Dear Sir or Madam, So? My feet are in a conspiracy to have me shot in a Home Depot, but you don’t see me bragging about it.

(Dr. Stinky is a lost little boy in a big scary world. Never fear though, Mr. Rogers will save him. What? Mr. Rogers is dead? How the hell did that happen? Cancer? Who gave him cancer? How do you know that’s not how it’s spread?! Aw shit. Dr. Stinky is ALONE! DESPERATELY ALONE! WE’RE ALL GOING TO DIE!)

Dear Dr. Stinky, Did Thomas Jefferson have sexual relations with his slaves?

Dear Sir or Madam, To answer this question, I came to Thomas Jefferson’s house, Monticello, to ask him myself. Imagine my shock finding out that he was dead. I quickly regrouped and burned down the University of Virginia in my anger. I hear they still have a good basketball team though. In any case, yes, Thomas Jefferson had sex with his slaves, his dog, George Washington, Martha Washington, and several Federalist midgets, but more importantly, I had sex with your mom last night, and she enjoyed sucking all of the man juices out of me.

Dear Dr. Stinky, Why is the planet Jupiter so big?

Dear Sir or Madam, Jupiter is on its period for the next 54 million years, and it would appreciate you not pointing out how bloated it is, since it already feels that way YOU INSENSITIVE PIG!!!!!

Dear Dr. Stinky, Should I buy a new hat?

Dear Sir or Madam, After consultation with my beloved duck, we made passionate love for 3 hours, then we watched porn for 5 more hours. After this, we argued over how many children we wanted, how I always leave the cap off the toothpaste, and how I’ve got to stop my habit of chewing tobacco. Then, our hearts broken, we went our separate ways, even though I shall never forget her. Oh yeah, and we decided that if you buy a new hat, you’ve already let the terrorists win.

Dear Dr. Stinky, Is my email trying to eat me?

Dear Sir or Madam, I understand your worry. Yesterday, your email tried to bite your arm off. Two days ago, it was smearing ketchup on your face. Three days ago, it was talking about how delicious you would go with a side of mashed potatoes and a nice glass of champagne. Four days ago, your family disappeared and a strange mystery meat was served for dinner. I assure you that this is quite normal though, or at least that’s what my hard drive says. In the end, even though I’ll probably miss my feet, and though I would’ve liked to have tasted them myself, I think it’s best to let the machines do what they want. Perhaps if we do this, there will be a special place for us in the “new regime.”

(Dr. Stinky fiercely loyal super worker from lands of wind and dark water! Katsui!!!!!)

Dear Dr. Stinky, Jigga What?

Dear Sir or Madam, Jigga in da hizzouse nephew, yeah, all up in the sack ‘cuz I’m smokin’ the crack, get along wit da hos ’cause they lickin’ my toes nephew. Jigga is a playa foo!

Dear Dr. Stinky, I have a little brother who has been having nightmares every night for a week now. Last night he screamed out your name. What is with that?

Dear Sir or Madam, If you’re asking me this, it’s because your mother hasn’t told you. She sold your brother to me when he was a baby, and I raised the infant as if he were my own. By this, I mean that I put him through horrifying experiments involving scorpions, rats, hydrochloric acid, and tarantulas. Yes, I suppose he was “tortured” for the last 6 years, but thanks to his endurance, cubicle-bound office workers will, on average, live 3 years longer than normal because of the endless entertainment they will receive from all of the video footage I recorded. I also rented them a stripper. In conclusion, your brother screamed out my name because he knows I am coming for him once more, and this time he may not live. But you hang in there!

Dear Dr. Stinky, So…Who’s in my chair?

Dear Sir or Madam, The person in your chair is none other than Alexander Graham Bell, inventor of the telephone. I was intrigued as to what this world-renowned inventor was doing sitting in your chair, so I asked him. He replied, “I have just wet my pants and I am too embarrassed to get up.” Then I watched as Watson walked in with an ax and proceeded to chop off his head and make a mask out of the late Dr. Bell’s facial tissue. So to answer your question, the person in your chair is Watson, who now looks “pretty.” Or at least you had better tell him so.

Dear Dr. Stinky, I work at a Food Town that is closing at the end of the month. Where should I work after I lose my job?

Dear Sir or Madam, After consulting with a Canadian hockey player, a fierce-smelling moose, David Copperfield, Sigfried (but not Roy), and the voice in my head that tells me to sodomize small animals, I have decided that I am a tax form from the year 1975, filled out by one Daniel Smurniff of Oshkosh, Wisconsin, and I am also very stale, yet beautiful. Oh yeah, and we decided that you should give up work and become a nose hair in the nose of the President of the Independent Republic of Turkmenistan to achieve inner peace.

(Dr. Stinky is a sex detective from the University of the Reverse Cowboy in Wichita Falls, Texas.)

Dear Dr. Stinky, Why is SpongeBob SquarePants funny?

Dear Sir or Madam, SpongeBob SquarePants is not funny. Your dog is simply licking your private parts again, which is causing you to giggle uncontrollably at the same time that SpongeBob happens to be on. You must be having fun though, if your dog licks you in the same way it licks me. For increased enjoyment, try spreading peanut butter down there.

Dear Dr. Stinky, I’m thinking of a number between 1 and a billion. What is it?

Dear Sir or Madam, For the 98th time, W is NOT A NUMBER!

Dear Dr. Stinky, What am I thinking right now?

Dear Sir or Madam, Although it would be imprudent to reveal precisely what you are thinking right now, I am obliged to tell you that my mother is NOT that flexible…but I am.

Dear Dr. Stinky, How about now?

Dear Sir or Madam, Right now you are thinking about whether or not you should let the little girl go. You know, the one you have tied up in your closet. Her parents probably miss her, and sooner or later, the police will probably figure out that the babysitter isn’t responsible. But look at her there. She’s naked and she can’t do anything about it. It’d be a shame to send her back, all traumatized now. And now, you’re thinking of how deep of a hole you’ll have to dig, what method of execution you’ll have to use…oh wait, these are my thoughts. Did I just type that? Oh FUCK!

(Dr. Stinky is on the run from the law, but he’s not in Libya, so stop looking there.)

Dear Dr. Stinky, Who invented duct tape and why isn’t his or her name a household name by now?

Dear Sir or Madam, The man who invented duct tape was soon bound by his own invention and later shot to death by a band of militant ducks who were claiming ‘jihad’ for the desecration of their holy name. All the ducks wanted was a ransom of two bags of Cheetos, but unfortunately, two bags of Cheetos are hard to put down. (Note: Editor’s FBI file has grown for mentioning the word ‘jihad’ in a public email.)

Dear Dr. Stinky, Do these pants make me look fat?

Dear Sir or Madam, Yes, those pants do make you look fat. Perhaps you should stop carrying around your 20 kittens in your pants, and then you would look less fat. Also, people would stop thinking that YOU made that mess near your butt.

Dear Dr. Stinky, My girlfriend dumped me after four years. Do you think I should call her and beg her to take me back?

Dear Sir or Madam, Well, if you had any pride you’d stay off the phone. Unfortunately, a clown just defecated on the hood of your car, ending what was left of your pride, so I’d say that you should slap a piece of meat on your naked body and jump into the cage of a starving tiger. Or you could try skeet-shooting. It’s making a comeback.

Dear Dr. Stinky, How could Walter’s team win if the best player was not playing?

Dear Sir or Madam, After consulting with a Skee-Ball Machine, Super Mario, a pair of hedge trimmers, and a very drunk Don Knotts, I decided that I am a lovely St. John’s Wort floating on the River Styx while Guns ‘N’ Roses plays “Sweet Child of Mine” in the background, when all the while, Julia Child tries to drill all of the love napkins out of my delicious head. Oh, and Walter’s team won because Walter’s mommy was sleeping with your team’s coach and she gave good head for him to take a dive.

(Dr. Stinky urinates in dead pigs, I swear it.)

Dear Dr. Stinky, I don’t find clouds funny anymore. Is something wrong with me?

Dear Sir or Madam, There is nothing mentally wrong with you, but I do suggest that you find some way to make the clouds funny sometime soon. That mean-looking cumulonimbus over your right shoulder is holding a gun to your bunny’s head and he looks like he means business. You don’t want him to be unhappy do you? Because if the cloud is not happy, your bunny, “Mr. Freckles,” will be very unhappy. And nobody wants that, except possibly the French.

Dear Dr. Stinky, I think my fingernails are trying to kill me. Any advice?

Dear Sir or Madam, I know that your fingernails are trying to kill you because I told them to do so. I realize that this is a harsh punishment, but you must understand that I nearly choked to death recently on a nugget of my own poop. This led me to realize how much I like girls in thongs, which led me to believe that you must be killed to fulfill the prophecy of the ancients. So in conclusion, shit tastes bad.

Dear Dr. Stinky, Where do you want to go today?

Dear Sir or Madam, I’d very much like to go to the store to hide from the Russians, but I believe that I will go to the synagogue to harass some Jews instead. Then, I’m going to overtake Germany by cutting off people’s heads with a giant, sharpened hockey stick. And then maybe I’ll have milkshake.

Dear Dr. Stinky, It’s 11:31 P.M. Do you know where your children are?

Dear Sir or Madam, They’d better still be suffocating under the dead cows I threw on them. Speaking of time, I think I’d better flee in a large white Bronco much in the manner of my hero, Odysseus.

(Dr. Stinky is shamelessly flirting with your mother because she’s so much hotter than you.)

Dear Dr. Stinky, My wife’s corpse was recently found floating in a river in which I have frequently been known to fish. Looks like the evidence points to me. Any advice?

Dear Sir or Madam, If I were you, and in my past life I was, I would build a snow fort and challenge all law enforcement and judiciary officials to a winner-takes-all snowball fight. If you win, you will not only win your freedom, but also, thanks to confusing international laws, the kingdom of Denmark. You might also win the corpse, which you should proceed to make sweet, sweet love to, so as to not upset the gods.

Dear Dr. Stinky, Did you steal my stereo?

Dear Sir or Madam,
I have stolen lots of things in my lifetime: The Empire State Building, candy from a baby, the head of John Malkovich, Prussia….but I insist that I did not steal your stereo, I just merely borrowed it to crush your precious little puppy’s skull. My reasoning? It told me I looked like a hippopotamus. Or maybe that was my Venus Flytrap. Nonetheless, I’ll have your
stereo back by November, when my violent streak ends.

Dear Dr. Stinky, For some reason, my baseball team can’t win games. Is there something I’m doing wrong as manager?

Dear Sir or Madam, Besides the fact that you are coaching a bunch of Swedes who live in the arctic, and besides the fact that you don’t speak their language, and besides the fact that they have no respect from you because you refuse to join their circle of nudity, and besides the fact that you killed their beloved village chief and ate his heart BEFORE smashing his car windows, I can think of absolutely nothing you’re doing wrong. Except that you need a new hitting coach.

Dear Dr. Stinky, The Easter Bunny is tearing down my house with a chainsaw. Anything I can do to stop him?

Dear Sir or Madam, After kicking back a six pack of Absolut Vodka, there isn’t much that can be done to stop the Easter Bunny. I know what you’re thinking…Absolut doesn’t come in six-packs…which is true. He just buys six bottles and downs them all within a 2 hour time period. Now you see what happened the day that little Timmy disappeared and was found three days later in the family water heater. Now you know why mommy was found lying naked, face-down on the kitchen table with “I’m the prettiest!” carved into her back. Now you know why Daddy shakes uncontrollably every time he sees carrots. Get your gun little one, it’s going to be a long holiday.

(Dr. Stinky is trying to saw his knee off again, so it’d be best if you don’t disturb him.)

Dear Dr. Stinky, I’m a man and I think I’m growing breasts. What will stop these abnormal growths?

Dear Sir or Madam, I would like to take this time to remind you that your breasts are in your chest area, and that they are not the things you sit upon. Furthermore, your breasts, or ass, in your case, are not growing. You have merely sat upon your new baby brother and you have not only killed him, but due to his resulting vomit, he is now forever stuck to your ass. Your mother may or may not understand, but in either case, I say you should buy bigger pants.

Dear Dr. Stinky, My hamster keeps running in his creaky wheel at night and I can’t get any sleep! Is there anything I can do?

Dear Sir or Madam, Two words: Hamster pizza. Now, I know what you’re thinking. How could I suggest something so barbaric? Well, let me tell you that your question doesn’t matter, as I have already cooked your hamster, your cell phone, and all of your rolls of toilet paper into a pizza, and I thought it tasted very good. Except now every time I burp, my stomach plays “Onward Christian Soldiers.”

Dear Dr. Stinky, At what age do you think that I should let my son start dating?

Dear Sir or Madam, This is an issue you shouldn’t have to deal with. Instead of letting your son start dating, throw him into a gigantic meat grinder and serve his remains to your several dogs. After all, who needs a son when you could have a malicious army of wild dogs who salivate over human flesh? Only you can make this choice for world domination.

Dear Dr. Stinky, Am I supposed to be this attracted to my sister?

Dear Sir or Madam, You really shouldn’t be that attracted to your sister, but since I bought you and your sister legitimately as slaves from Bangladesh, you will continue to do exactly as I say until you are dead. If an attraction develops, so be it, but it may result in your sister losing her food privileges for the week. In the meantime, think of your motivation for the next scene in which you shit upon her chest.

(Dr. Stinky is still rocking in the free world, despite what Gorbachev told him.)

Dear Dr. Stinky, How do clouds form?

Dear Sir or Madam, Every cloud that you see in the sky is formed by the giant, continuous fire that I have burning in my backyard, a fire in which roughly 10,000,000 baby chickens are killed each day because I need kindling. Ha ha! I’m just kidding. I actually use stray kittens.

Dear Dr. Stinky, My testicles have disappeared! Where did they go?

Dear Sir or Madam, Well, let’s see here. If this is Frank in New Jersey, I told you that you should’ve paid off your gambling debts. If this is Tony in Boston, I told you that those chains wouldn’t hold your wife to the wall. If this is Danny in Detroit, I told you that you should’ve married my daughter. And if this is anyone else, that’s just funny.

Dear Dr. Stinky, What color should I paint my bedroom?

Dear Sir or Madam, You shall paint your room in the blood of a virgin at the next full moon. The unholy alter at which master Satan shall sit will be colored with the ashes of the remains of the unbelievers. The time for redemption is coming, and this time, we shall not lose the battle. Or you could paint it green.

Dear Dr. Stinky, Do you like pancakes?

Dear Sir or Madam, After considerable consultation with Don Knotts, a frying pan made without Teflon, the remains of Charlie Chaplin, and a Bengal Tiger that hadn’t eaten in five days, I have decided that I am a delightful marker floating in the south Pacific Ocean towards an island filled with inhabitants that will worship me as a god and feed me their blood as a frosted dairy dessert. Oh, and I’m more of a fan of waffles.

(Dr. Stinky hates you for your outlook on the war in Vietnam.)

Dear Dr. Stinky, Ever since that “bad touch” you gave me, I’ve had these peculiar cold sores. How can I make them go away?

Dear Sir or Madam, Unfortunately, we had a little too much to drink that night, and I used you to indulge in my bizarre fire ant fetish. Those cold sores are actually fire ant bites, and if all is going as planned, they are starting a colony in your womb, which is just as good as a baby, if your mother asks. Unfortunately, like having a baby, the fire ants will eat your digestive system and leave you a paralyzed, bleeding mass on the floor, but sometimes love is difficult.

Dear Dr. Stinky, I tried the remedy you suggested a few months ago, but now I have a problem. The hamster’s up my ass, but now it randomly bites me! I’m jumping around in public! People are staring! What do I do?

Dear Sir or Madam, Well, since snakes are natural predators of hamsters, I would advise you to stick a snake up your butt to eat the hamster. Of course, you’ll then have a snake up your butt, but that’s ok, as you can just stick a giant hawk up your butt, as giant hawks prey on snakes. Of course, your torso will explode soon after this, but in any case, I, along with several midgets, will be thoroughly entertained.

Dear Dr. Stinky, Is it possible for our love to work, even if I’m a giraffe?

Dear Sir or Madam, The fact that you’re a giraffe has nothing to do with it. You two have nothing in common. You belong to the Moogu herd of South Africa, she belongs to the Igbo tribe. You like the ocean, she likes molesting virgins. You like flowers, she likes setting fire to village huts. Face it, your love wasn’t meant to be, and even if it was, it doesn’t matter because she’s being sacrificed to a very horny volcano tomorrow, and by “very horny volcano,” I mean Rosie O’Donnell’s dinner plate.

Dear Dr. Stinky, Sometimes at night, I hear music outside my window. I’m afraid to look out because I could be stuck in a John Cusack movie, and that really frightens me. Any suggestions?

Dear Sir or Madam, The thought of being in a John Cusack movie frightens all of us, believe me. However, I’m having John Cusack killed tomorrow in what will be a massive, staged drug deal gone wrong. If the music continues after tomorrow, it means that my alternate dimension, in which John Cusack never dies, is working. Now if I could only create a dimesion in which Lucy Lawless is always rubbing my testicles.

(Dr. Stinky is a giant tube of herbicidal ointment. Cosmic, dude.)

Dear Dr. Stinky, I have gum in my hair. What can I do to get it out?

Dear Sir or Madam, What about what the gum wants? As we speak, the gum is nesting in your scalp and penetrating down to your brain. Sure, you may ask what right the gum has to do this, but what do you know about the troubles that the gum has seen? Did you know that the gum lost its aunt in a tragic train-plane-cow accident? Did you know that the gum lost several children to a Hitler-like hamster bent on world domination? Did you know that the gum has dropped in sales each year thanks to its flavor, bacon relish? Of course not, you insensitive jerk. If you had an ounce of dignity in you, you’d let that gum settle in your hair, raise what’s left of its family, and start the apartment building that it has always wanted. Even though your brain will soon be a giant lump of bacon relish gum thanks to the “morphing” process, you will find yourself a better human being for it.

Dear Dr. Stinky, Does alcohol really kill brain cells?

Dear Sir or Madam, Well, although alcohol is slowly killing my liver, my psychological stability, and my marriage of 50 years, I doubt it is killing my brain cells. I’ve drank a bottle of wine every day for the last 35 years, and I still feel as mentally capable as any other human
being. Hey, I wonder how the inside of a cow tastes after being cooked by an atom bomb. Well, I better climb in and find out.

Dear Dr. Stinky, What have you done to solve the problems of gang violence in this country?

Dear Sir or Madam, I’m very glad you asked. Today’s prominent gangs, foremost among them being the Bloods and the Crips, are disappearing from today’s streets. I feel very strongly that something must be done to put them back on the streets. As of today, I have donated over 4000 cans of spray paint to both the Bloods and the Crips. In addition, I have supplied $50,000 worth of guns and ammo, $10,000 worth of knives and other sharp weapons, and $5000 each worth of incendiary devices. Soon, our city’s streets will be back to normal in no time, and with any luck, today’s gangs will be invading suburbs and country roads in no time. To increase this movement towards the country, I have supplied helpless Amish people to serve as target practice for all the bruthas, so they get a taste for their blood. This will also hopefully slow the rise in Amish violence that we have seen in recent years, so essentially we’re solving three problems with one bird!

Dear Dr. Stinky, Do you judge me by the color of my skin?

Dear Sir or Madam, After careful consultation with a calendar with pictures of fish on it, half of the Partridge Family, a 1000-dollar television set, Andy, but not Amos, and a very angry lemur, I have decided that I am a wonderful excuse for a piece of cheese that belongs on a sandwich made by Mother Teresa shortly before she died. Oh, and I do judge you by the color of your skin, you worthless piece Latino garbage. Why don’t you go back to Mexico?

(Dr. Stinky may or may not have smothered your little brother, but the point is you never had a little brother.)

Dear Dr. Stinky, Daddy hasn’t eaten since Mommy left him. What’s going to happen to Daddy?

Dear Sir or Madam, Well, in a few days a pack of hungry wolves will undoubtedly devour Daddy and you will be forced to either fight your way into the pack’s respect, or face the same fate as daddy. Ha ha! I’m only kidding. You’ll actually be hunted by a pack of hungry bears.

Dear Dr. Stinky, Should I trust the hobbit or shall I take the precious?

Dear Sir or Madam, Personally, I wouldn’t trust the hobbit. Maybe this is due to the fact that I once walked in on a hobbit having sex with my mother and my immediate reaction was to tell my father. My father then set the hobbit on fire, and then we all had hobbit for dinner. It tasted kind of like mud, and we never talked about it again, but in the end I think we grew as a family.

Dear Dr. Stinky, Should I burn Seattle to the ground?

Dear Sir or Madam, I would try to burn Ottawa, Ontario, Canada to the ground first, mainly because the city had no right to emerge in the first place, but if you’d like to burn down Seattle, fine. This time though, make sure you do it right. We don’t want to have another “Agent X” situation. How does a man blow himself up with a leaf blower anyways?

Dear Dr. Stinky, What is the best way to die?

Dear Sir or Madam, Well, once I killed a man in a giant vat of chocolate milk and he seemed pretty happy when he died from the drowning. But if you’re talking about dignity, I can think of no better way to go then falling from a burning airplane to be impaled on a cactus outside of Scottsdale, Arizona. My Uncle Benny went that way, which was good of him, because his death allowed me to get into my Aunt Diane’s pants. I just wish our babies weren’t so damned cross-eyed.

(Dr. Stinky thinks he is a giant waffle, but only this giant waffle iron will tell him for sure.)

Dear Dr. Stinky, The government in my country is soon to be overthrown. What can I do to ascend to power?

Dear Sir or Madam, Normally I would suggest a bloodless coup, but since I am not normal, I would suggest setting a pack of wild badgers loose in the parliament building, allowing them to take care of all the loose ends. Also, make sure you have a band of loyal, trustworthy friends who will help secure your place in office. Then, have them boiled in oil.

Dear Dr. Stinky, Is it true that you’re going to be in the new Terminator movie?

Dear Sir or Madam, Yes, the rumors you have heard are true. I have a small part in the new Terminator movie, and by small part, I mean I play the part of the vagina on the new female terminator. It’s really cool because the vagina is actually a vegetable slicer. For most of the filming, I was cutting up tomatoes and eating them.

Dear Dr. Stinky, Are you cooler than Fonzie?

Dear Sir or Madam, According to the American Film Institute, who makes more “Best of” lists than any basic organization should, I am not cooler than Fonzie. Of course, much of my lower rating has to do with Henry Winkler not speaking out about all the hideous animal experiments and sadistic sex trysts that I hold in my basement, and by basement, I mean my wife’s bedroom.

Dear Dr. Stinky, Wasn’t that Tigers-Yankees game this past Sunday the best you’ve ever seen?

Dear Sir or Madam, No, the best baseball game I’ve ever seen was that one in Yankee Stadium where the Mafia took out David Wells from the top row. Who’d have thought that you could get that kind of gun into Yankee Stadium, and…what? What do you mean they haven’t done it yet?…But they said…but I just revealed…they’ll kill me! Oh crap. I guess it’s back to Cambodia with me. Man, and I just got over Malaria.

(Dr. Stinky may be white, but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s still on top of your mom.)

Dear Dr. Stinky, I’m here in the condiments aisle and I am torn between the Catsup and the Ketchup. What do you recommend?

Dear Sir or Madam, Long ago, the Catsup’s ancestors were forced out of Bulgaria by the Ketchup invaders. The Catsup people were then dispersed throughout all places on the Earth and even enslaved in Egypt. Later, they escaped and flourished throughout the Earth. Unfortunately, they continued to face persecution and many of them died in large-scale tomato-murdering facilities started by evil men named “Heinz” and “Spartan Foods.” The Catsup people still fight for their independence today in their new-forming nation, and for no other reason than this one alone should you by Catsup. Do not give the Ketchup people the money they do not deserve! It is blood money, plain and simple.

Dear Dr. Stinky, You just made that whole Catsup story out of the story of the Jews, didn’t you?

Dear Sir or Madam, Look pal, don’t peddle your anti-Catsite crap in here. This is a non-partisan forum meant for those who support and fully appreciate my far-reaching, inexplicably extreme revolutionary views which will one day gain enough followers to overthrow the governments of Turkey, China, and possibly Trinidad, but not Tobago. Are you against Mustard too? Or relish? Or my uncle Jerry? Well he supported you in ‘Nam, even though he still won’t make you a hamburger. Nor will I now, but you just know that you had your chance.

Dear Dr. Stinky, Should I cook the rice or the potatoes?

Dear Sir or Madam, If you played God and genetically mutated potatoes to grow rice inside their skins like I did, you wouldn’t have this problem, now would you?

Dear Dr. Stinky, I accidentally swallowed my gum today when I was chewing it. My mom says that it will stay inside me for seven years. So does that mean if I do sit-ups in gym class that I’ll turn into a huge gumball and they’ll use me for a dodgeball?

Dear Sir or Madam, Of course that’s what it means. And you’d better do those situps fast too because Tommy threw one of our dodgeballs on the roof and Ms. Caratelli refuses to get it down. And anyways, I’m trying to hit Suzy Bauer. I think she has a thing for me.

(Dr. Stinky tied his own shoelaces today. The Special Teacher says you should clap for him or he’ll go and shoot everyone.)

Dear Dr. Stinky, I hear that having a couple drinks a day will keep the doctor away, but every time I drink, I regain consciousness in the ER with 5 doctors not very far away at all. How come?

Dear Sir or Madam, Are you kidding? Have you seen yourself when you drink? Doctors gather around you to place bets about how long it’ll be until you strip the nurses naked again. And that mud wrestling match you held after the 5-kegger a few weeks ago? Sweet! Now, what you don’t know is that the doctors wheel you into the ER because it’s so damn funny, especially when you wake up and Dr. Jones uses that giant drill he has. Of course, that pain in your chest goes away in a few days.

Dear Dr. Stinky, I asked my friend’s mom if I could borrow $50. She immediately got on the phone, and called this guy named “Rocco.” 10 minutes later, her beeper went off and she excused herself to the other room to make another phone call. 20 minutes later, this very large man came to the front door and asked for her. The two of them went upstairs, and 20 minutes later the man left, and my friend’s mom gave me $50. So, I guess my question is, do you know which president’s face is on the $50 bill?

Dear Sir or Madam, The face of Ulysses S. Grant appears on the front of the $50 bill, but it also appears in my dreams, where it tortures me every night with the “Machine.” I wouldn’t mind it if the elves didn’t’ tickle me so much, nor would I mind it if former President Grant would let the elves live at the end of the night instead of making them jump into the lava. He says it’s for the betterment of mankind, so I guess I believe him. Although maybe I should get off the acid. Too late now, here comes Dan Rather out of the TV screen to eat me.

Dear Dr. Stinky, Where do babies come from? I’ve heard that whole sex story, but I don’t buy it. I mean, my mom isn’t even married, and I was born just fine. What gives?

Dear Sir or Madam, Well, since your mom wasn’t married, she had to acquire you through what is called “adoption.” That’s where a prodigious donkey digs you up in your backyard and drags you out after your father, a Venus Flytrap plant, and your biological mother, a mayonnaise jar, conspired in the yard to try to bury you alive after you came out of the mayonnaise. The donkey protected you until your current mother came along, which is good, because otherwise, the mustard bottle would’ve found out that the mayonnaise was cheating on him and he would’ve killed her and you out of jealousy. Now that the mustard knows this, surely your biological mother is doomed. Oh well, she had a good run.

Dear Dr. Stinky, What makes you so stinky, Dr. Stinky?

Dear Sir or Madam, I’m mentally retarded. And I like lighting farts.

(Dr. Stinky is eating a Jehovah’s Witness right now, so you best not disturb him.)

Dear Dr. Stinky, My wife had a baby that looks a lot like my brother. Should I be concerned?

Dear Sir or Madam, Of course not. I mean, some men would look at that situation and say, “My wife is cheating on me, oh man, my life is over.” But I mean, you can’t do that. You can’t just go around not trusting people like that. And besides, if you can’t trust your sister, who can you trust?

Dear Dr. Stinky, I’ve grown accustomed to hearing my parents have sex every night…the walls at our house are very thin. However, lately my mom has been making these weird noises. At first, everything is fine, but once they get going, it’s almost like her voice changes and she sounds like a totally different woman. Her voice goes back and forth between her normal voice and this strange voice every couple of seconds. Is she ok? Do I need to call a doctor?

Dear Sir or Madam, Whoa whoa whoa! Slow down there! You ask too many questions at once. First of all, your mother is a French-Canadian spy who likes beef jerky and getting my gigantic cock shoved down her throat. Ha ha! I’m just kidding. She likes it shoved into her wet, wet slot. Second of all, your mother is quite sick, especially when she likes it “that way” but there’s no need to call a doctor. Also, there’s no need to wonder why I show up at your house around midnight every weekday, nor is there any need to wonder why your dad has all that video equipment stored away, nor is there any reason to wonder why your aunt Linda keeps leaving your house at 3 in the morning, or why she gives your dad and mom massages on the couch in her sexiest lingerie. Plain and simple, you think too much. Stop that.

Dear Dr. Stinky, Do you want a slightly used toothbrush?

Dear Sir or Madam, I want the voices in my head to stop telling me to kill the president. No, I wouldn’t. I would, however, like the donuts I buy to stop invading my room, cutting my head open, and implanting monitoring devices in my head. But life is not perfect, so yes, I guess I’ll take a slightly used toothbrush.

Dear Dr. Stinky, Are you the Magic Indian?

Dear Sir or Madam, After careful consultation with a ham and cheese sandwich with mayonnaise, Interstate Highway 69, John Madden, and a sexually confused skunk, I have decided that what I really need is inner peace, which is achieved by eating the innards of two large, decomposing elves. Oh, and the Magic Indian exists inside all of you.

(Dr. Stinky is the world’s first hermaphroditic scarecrow.)

Dear Dr. Stinky, What exactly is this “Break-Up Bug” TM that I keep hearing about? Should I be afraid of it?

Dear Sir or Madam, That could be one of two things. It could be the mechanical bug that I created that I insert into people’s ears. The bug then proceeds to eat the internal organs of it’s “host,” thus making the body completely break apart into nothingness. Or it could be in reference to my master plan, breaking up all couples on Earth to form one giant orgy with the Olsen twins at the top of the action. You may think that a worldwide orgy is not a legitimate goal, but you shouldn’t be afraid of it. You should start rounding up the midgets and porn stars. Oh and the first bug? You could be afraid of it, considering I’ve wiped out half your family.

Dear Dr. Stinky, What is your first name?

Dear Sir or Madam, Well, most of my patients call me a variety of names: Baby, Oh God, Put it in Now!, Faster, Faster, Faster, Spank me, Spank me hard. Even a few have called me Dad. One called me Uncle Joe, wasn’t too sure about her. One even lovingly called me Talk to my Lawyer. My real first name, the one my parents gave me when I was born, was “Doggy.” Explains all too much, doesn’t it?

Dear Dr. Stinky, What are your qualifications for this job? How do I know you are giving good and valid advice?

Dear Sir or Madam, Look, you could sit here and ask me those questions, or you could learn to quietly accept the fact that my mother is giving you a rectal exam while I am showering with your wife in an erotic fashion. I assure you, this is the only way you’ll ever build any real trust in your life. You can start by trusting that your wife gives really good head.

Dear Dr. Stinky, Where were you on the night of Sunday June 22nd, 2003?

Dear Sir or Madam, Well, I can tell you that I was not cooking elephants from the Barnum and Bailey Circus and selling their tusks for ivory. I did that on the 21st. As for the 22nd, I don’t quite remember, but I think it involved three Cuban cigars, a Bald Eagle named Jerry, and a really hot porn movie starring Bob and Elizabeth Dole.

(Dr. Stinky is a corrupt senator, but he’s a corrupt senator full of love.)

Dear Dr. Stinky, What is your favorite color?

Dear Sir or Madam, My favorite color is the one that all my victims’ faces turn while I am choking them to death. Sometimes, blood comes out, so I guess I like red too.

Dear Dr. Stinky, In my change I got a quarter with the letters “O-H-I-O” on the back of it. I think it has to do with China. Your thoughts?

Dear Sir or Madam, Recently, I received a quarter similar to the one you found, and I examined it closely. Though I am still not sure what exactly “Ohio” is, I gather that this quarter does indeed have something to do with China because of the picture of George Washington cooking his family’s dog on the front of the quarter. Also, you’re a slanty-eyed bastard.

Dear Dr. Stinky, Dude, stop tearing up our flowerbed. My sister saw you this time so you can’t blame it on the dog again. It’s not cool!

Dear Sir or Madam, Look, you can stand there blaming me, or you can come to terms and realize who’s really tearing up your flower bed…Jennifer Lopez. I realize you saw me in the garden, but I’m not tearing it up so to speak. It just happens because Jenny likes it rough. You heard she’s Jenny from the block? I can tell you that he gets really turned on when she hits you with a cement block. Now where did my teeth go?

Dear Dr. Stinky, My life is incredibly stressful right now. I tried breaking up with my boyfriend and eating chocolate but neither seemed to help. What can I do?

Dear Sir or Madam, After careful consultation with a turkey breast sandwich, the Detroit Tigers, a stuffed teddy bear named Fred, and a very angry camel, I have decided that I am a fine leather wallet used to beat young ballerinas when they refuse to molest their teacher. Oh, and you should go on a massive killing spree. That always helps.

(Dr. Stinky’s socks are attacking him. Please help him, this is not part of his column.)