Tag Archives: hilarious

A Money Hole, Stupid

Image

* For a brief explanation of this weird project please click here.

What do you think it is?

Uhhh….a money hole.

A money hole? That’s stupid.

You’re stupid, stupid.

I’m not stupid, stupid. You’re a stupid stupid face.

……..No I’m not.

 

Let’s get a stick.

Where?

From a tree dummy.

Stop being mean to me!

Okay, I’m sorry. Go get a stick.

What’s the magic word?

 

Thank you.

If you find any money then it’s mine since I was the one who said it was a money hole.

That’s not how it works.

How does it works then?

I keep the money because I found it. You get the stick.

If you find money and don’t give it to me I’m telling.

 

I think I feel something!

Lemme see!

No!

Hey! I’m telling! Let me see!

You’re too little, stupid face.

Shut up! I wish you were dead.

 

Hey, come back. I’m sorry. Tyler I’m sorry.

No you’re not. You’re a big fat stupid meanie.

If you stop crying and don’t say anything to mom, I’ll give you half.

Half of what?

Half of all the money we find.

Promise?

 

Okay, I think I hooked something! It’s probably a tweny or fifty!!

Quickly quickly pull it out!!

Oh….

What is that?

I don’t know, it’s…it smells like…ewwwwww!

That’s it! I’m telling! Mom!!!

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A Bit of the Ol’ Feng Shoo-ee, like

The fuckin' hoose.

The fuckin’ hoose.

* Warning, written entirely in Scots.  For a brief explanation of this project please click here.

Me and big Debs pure hud it out the other day. Jesus man. Like throwin’ fuckin fire baws at wan another. I hud tae get hur telt tae calm doon else some cunt wid ring the polis, then that’d be me, parole gubbed and an away fir the wee man’s Christmas again. Anyway, the dippit wee coo was tryin’ tae tell me that the hoose needed fixin’, and than everyhin was aw in the wrang order an that. I takes this as a personal dig like, given that this cunt wis the cunt that hoisted aw the fuckin’ furniture in.

‘We need a change’ she says, ‘Ah’ve been thinkin’ that we’ve goat fuck all ay that Feng shoo-ee like,’ she says.

Well, Christ in a fuckin’ Cosworth. Feng Shoo-ee she says!? We live in fuckin’ Kirky, nae Bay-jing like.

I says, ‘You’re fuckin’ wrang love, take a wee peep in the bin, I had Feng Shoo-ee fried rice a couple a nights ago! Fuckin’ magic by the way!’

She goes, ‘Ho you! That’s fuckin’ racist, and goes well against ma new frame ah mind by the way. I’m a changed woman.’

Fuckin’ changed woman she says?! She thinks I think she doesnae take a pish in the shower. I know hur inside fuckin’ oot. And she’s packed full a shite.

‘Whit fuckin’ programs have you bin watchin’? Givin’ it aww that fuckin’ feng shoo-ee shite.’

‘Actually ah went tae see a spiritualist yesterday, and he telt that ma chi was aw gammy an aff tae fuck, an that it was probably on account ay the sofa bein’ in the rang place or sumthin.’

Ah wis fuckin’ speechless. Ah just, ah didnae know wit tae say. Here’s me just tryin’ tae watch a bit a Jeremy Kyle and she’s tellin’ me I need swap the TV wi the fridge and drag the fuckin’ bed oot ontae the landin’. No chance.

‘So who was this fuckin’ spiritualist then?’

‘You don’t know him.’

‘How don’t ah know him?’

‘Coz he’s a pal ah Leslie-Ann’s.’

‘Leslie-Ann aye? You ridin’ him?’

‘Ah um tae fuck ya cheeky basturt!’

‘Awright awright! Sorry love, just, I wis just fuckin’ askin’! Awright? So, where am I stickin’ the fuckin’ couch then?’

She looked aroon the room and I knew she hadnae a fuckin’ clue whit she was bangin’ oan about. You kin fuck off wi your fuckin’ chinky feng shoo-ee shite. This is fuckin’ Scotland. In this country the couch faces the telly, and everyhin’ else just gets fuckin’ dumped somewhere aroon it.

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The Tree

The Tree

Myself, and The Tree and the deeds to The Tree.

* For an explanation as to what this project is all about please click here.

I bought The Tree in May of 1959. A Wednesday it was. I recall there being an oppressive, sweltering heat pressing down from above, but it was soothed, consoled, by a delicate ocean breeze that smelled so faintly of a final moment in bloom. It was the perfect weather to cut the ceremonial red tape of a successful agriculture transaction.

The Tree in question was my first, and indeed my last, business venture. I’d been on the market for one like it for several months. I’d been a perfect horticultural pervert about the whole affair. I’d peer through hedges, scale fences under moonlight, consult district planning records and frequent the ghostly corridors of the grand Central library, searching earnestly for the barky creature I so desired.

I came within a half whisker of finding what I needed on several occasions. I would locate a handsome tree, thoroughly scrutinize its potential under the cloak of night, and deem it a good tree. But the problem came when I would attempt to badger the owner into parting with the frivolously bushy accessory to their land.

‘I’m not going to do anything seedy with it,’ I would say, ‘If you’d be so gracious as to allow me that pun.’

That was my line. It would never fail to arouse at least a residual snigger, or a short, nodding nose breath. However they would then stare at me with arms tightly locked and a hard-boiled look of suspicion etched all over their faces. And then they would inevitably ask:

‘Why?’

Of course I couldn’t possibly divulge. They wouldn’t sell me their tree if they knew its darkest secrets. No, no. I would explain that I simply really liked trees, but that I lived in a condo. I would then lie and say that I’d tried discharging my sapling lust with a bonsai tree, but that it was far too small to climb. I never did think of a bonsai tree pun.

The lady that eventually sold me The Tree was an old crow who was more than a tad senile. And in truth, I wondered if I might be guilty of committing a lewd act of shady commerce on her. She explained that she was very fond of The Tree indeed, but that it had cats in it. She said that I was more than welcome to buy the tree for $30 if I took the cats away. We spat the viscous bond of American agreement onto our palms and duly sealed the deal.

Two blissful weeks after this transaction the old lady died of time, and The Tree, allegedly part of the property on which it sat, was taken from me and given to the unsuspecting mailman referenced in her will. I tried to make a terrible stink, but was swiftly informed that a verbal agreement and a spit-moistened handshake between two parties is not recognized as contractually binding in the state of California, and particularly not when one or both of the parties are certified as mentally handicapped. And just like that, my days as a rag and bone and tree man were brought to an abrupt yet poignant conclusion.

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Daily Warm-Ups – A Mouthful of Banana

This is the first in a lengthy series of creative writing pieces based on photographs of dead people. I have been known to frequent estate sales and purchase neglected photographs of the recently department. They’re very good mental stimulants for my writing, and I love the idea of a memory that was saved from the abyss, and interpreted without prejudice or any sense of context beyond its own borders.

I know that it’s weird, but to me there is something endearing about giving fresh life to an expired thought.

Bill and Carson

‘Bill,’ said Carson as he peeked his head around the door, ‘is now a good time to chat?’

Bill looked up from the piece of paper on his desk and turned to Carson, who was now standing in the open doorway. He’d been staring at the same sentence for the last two minutes, and the same piece of paper for the last ten. His eyes gave a clumsy flutter, as if his eyelashes were sweeping the text away. He nodded to the old man in the doorway, and smiled.

Carson walked through the office, taking in all of the jumbled piles of paper and scattered half-thoughts that decorated the surfaces. Bill carefully slipped the piece of paper into his drawer and snapped it shut. Carson gestured to the empty seat across from Bill’s seat. Bill smiled and shook his head.

‘Uh, okay. Bill, this uhm,’ started Carson, shuffling awkwardly from side to side as he looked at the piece of paper in his hand, ‘this uh, request, you made for changes in office policy. You obviously understand that this is grossly unacceptable right? I mean, you understand that right?’

Bill smiled and leant back in his chair. Carson looked to the door. He fumbled again with the paper. He moved towards the desk.

‘Listen, is everything okay at home Bill? I mean, I don’t mean to pry, but you can tell me. I’ve known you for, God, going on eleven years. This,’ he said, holding up the piece of paper in his hand, ‘this isn’t you Bill. You’re a good man. Is Marcy okay? And what about little Lewis? Is everything okay at home?’

Bill held his stare as he leant back further into his chair. He slowly put his hands behind his head, and raised his bare feet up and rested them on his desk between a pile of documents and coffee cup filled with rum. Carson let out an awkward cough. He ruffled the paper and looked back towards the door. Harold, the aging security guard peeked his head around. Below the desk Carson held out his hand to halt Harold from coming any further.

‘Bill,’ he said as he took a deep breath and puffed out his chest, ‘you’re my friend and all, we go back, but we’re gonna have to suspend you with immediate effect. Like, immediate effect. Do you understand?’

Bill’s smile came apart and his teeth appeared, glinting between his lips. He leant forward in his chair and opened his desk drawer. Next to the piece of paper was a banana left over from his lunch. He grabbed the banana, closed the drawer and reclined back again. He peeled it and took two large bites, devouring the entire fruit, leaving only the little heel and the flaccid yellow skin. He tossed the peel onto the desk between them.

‘Go fuck yourself Carson’ said Bill, with a mouthful of banana.

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Minutes From North Korean Meeting – Wikileaks Exclusive

Committee Meeting for the Democratic People’s Republic of North Korea

Members present: Rhee Ji Woon, Park Tae-Eun, Kim Soo Wan, Choi Bum San, Jin Soo-min, Ban Tae Wan, Lee Tae Hyun, Park Jo Yeong and Lee Min Sook

Minutes from Previous Meeting

The issues of idle foot soldiers and the abhorrent lack of statues to the Dear Leader in certain rural areas of the country were resolved by administering the Army with the task of building more statues.

The minor issue of poverty and starvation amongst certain communities within the Great Nation remains. The Radiant Comrade Dr. Rhee Ji Woon has mooted at several solutions to the problem but admitted that they have yet to bring any success. Adjourned until further notice.

 

Purpose of Meeting: Discussing details of press release announcing Dear Leader Kim Jong Il’s death.

Points of discussion:

1 . How the Dear Leader departed this life and details of death.

2. The Dear Leader’s Final words

3. How the Dear Leader spent his final day

4. Tributes and Organization of mourning

Formidable General Park Tae-Eun commenced the meeting with a two hour tribute to the Dear Leader, paying his sincerest respects and offering the committee general some choice anecdotes about how the Dear Leader single-handedly brought around thirty-two thousand American pig soldiers to justice from his gun turret during the Wonderful War of 1950.

The committee paid tribute to the Dear Leader with a meal of live Lobster boiled in Champagne and sieved through cloth weaved from Lion’s mane. Meeting commenced.

  1. 1.       How the Dear Leader departed this life and the details of his death.

Upon receiving the Dignified coroner Kim Soo Wan’s report that the Dear Leader suffered a coronary heart attack, the committee agreed that amendments were to be made to the report, and discussions regarding cause of death commenced.

The Willful Adviser Choi Bum San put forward the suggestion that the Dear Leader died wrestling a shark-bear hybrid in the foothills bordering China. The group was unanimous that no animal, hybrid or pure bred, could defeat the Dear Leader, and they opted against this as a possible cause of death.

The Effervescent Commander of Communications, Jin Soo-min, suggested that the cause of death was not a heart attack, but that his heart was ruptured beyond repair because he loved the comrades of the Republic too much.

A vote was had and the committee voted 8-1 that the Dear Leader did in fact die because he cared too much for the people of North Korea.

 

  1. 2.       The Dear Leader’s Final words

The Distinguished Warrior General Ban Tae Wan was at the Dear Leader’s side at his death and suggested that the public were told that, rather than collapse on the floor and choke on lobster and cognac, he gave a dignified speech explaining his imminent elevation to the throne of the Gods before his heart broke under the weight of his adoration for his fellow comrades.

The Distinguished Warrior General Ban Tae Wan suggested using some choice lines of divine inspiration from some of the Dear Leader’s previous speeches, with the Dear Leader using his death bed as a podium to encourage stability and subservience among the population. The committee agreed that this would be the most appropriate course of action.

 

  1. 3.       How the Dear Leader spent his final day

The committee brainstormed possible activities and/or world records that the Dear Leader was breaking on the day prior to his death.

Possible suggestions were as follows:

  • Breaking the world hop scotch record
  • Teaching a crippled child how to load a canon and point it towards Tokyo.
  • Stood in as midwife and administered a cesarean in the back of his jeep. The mother tried to insist that the child be named Kim Jong Il, but the Dear Leader, in a typical showing of humility and modesty, begged her not to subject him to such flattery.

The committee was completely divided on which challenge the Dear Leader was overcoming on the day of his death, and so opted to go with all three.

 

1.  4.       Tributes and Organization of Mourning

As expected, the committee was unanimously in favor of declaring Monday December 19th as the beginning of the official Great Month of Glorious Mourning. All non-hard labor would be suspended for the month and all hard labor workers would be forced to triple their output as a mark of respect for the Dear Leader and as a testament to joys of Socialism.

The Breathtaking Minister for Social Affairs Lee Tae Hyun suggested that on Monday December 19th 2011 all nouns would replaced with ‘Kim Jong Il’. He offered an example of how this would work:

“I’m just going to the Kim Jong Il to buy some Kim Jong Ils, some Kim Jong Ils and a couple of Kim Jong Ils for Kim Jong Il tonight”.

The committee voted in favor of this suggestion.*

Conclusion

The meeting was adjourned by The Righteous General of Freedom Park Jo Yeong. He led the comrades in a seven hour prayer for the Great Leader.

Points for Next Meeting:

  • Minimum volume of tears shed per household in tribute to the Dear Leader.
  • Possible female suitors for the sixteen plus liters of the Dear Leader’s sperm housed in his underground laboratory.
  • Solution to poverty spreading further, although the Radiant Comrade Dr. Rhee Ji Woon has insisted that it is not a matter of priority when compared with the minimum tear allowance. The committee unanimously agreed.

Meeting closed.

 

The Translucent Secretary Lee Min Sook

*Note: For the remainder of the Great Month of Glorious Mourning it was decided that all superlatives would be replaced with the words ‘Kim Jong Il’.

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The New Video

Please post it on your social network medium of choice and order your minions to do the same.

Thanks guys! I appreciate your eyes 🙂

Ross x

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Anyone but England

In Scotland we have a saying, ‘A.B.E.’. This stands for ‘Anyone But England’. A.B.E. is not a mentality held by every resident in Scotland. There are in fact, despite some aggressive rural movements, some English people hiding amongst us. This term applies mainly to sports, and most commonly to football (soccer), where petty bigotry and racism is a staple part of the game. Due to Scotland’s deplorable showing at almost every sporting event besides curling and beer pong, we tend to get jealous of the English and their successes, regardless of how meager they actually are. We don’t like to see them win. At anything.

The Clachan Arms, Achnafachel. June 2006. England reached the quarter finals of the World Cup. They were playing Portugal. Scotland didn’t qualify for the World Cup. We, one of the founding nations of the sport of football, failed to make it into the top thirty-two teams in the world. But being a nation of football fans, we had to unite together and support someone. That team happened to be A.B.E.

Now, I grew up in an area which people don’t tend to leave. They tend to stay in the village, have kids in the village, die in the village. But the jobs in maintaining the quality of life in the village usually pay reasonably well. So the young guys have money. Enough money in fact to make a trip to the nearest town every few days to buy a football shirt for whatever team England is playing against. During the 2006 World Cup, the boys managed to find a Sweden shirt, a Paraguay shirt and even a Trinidad and Tobago shirt for the group stage matches. Wearing the colors of countries they couldn’t point to on a map, they would strut into the pub proudly declaring to everyone inside that they were not supporters of that country, but that they hated the English more than anyone else. As Scotsmen, it was their only chance to win at something football related.

Their problem came when England met Portugal in the Quarter finals. A lot was riding on this game for the English. They had reminisced about their triumph in 1966 for as long as they possibly could. The commentators had been wheeling their geriatric victory out at every opportunity and force feeding it to the viewers at home. In this particular game it took the commentators thirteen seconds to mention 1966. Their words were met with a resounding “Fuck off you English cunts!” by a roomful of drunken, bitter Scots. But the boys in the Clachan Arms needed a Portugal shirt to visualize their disdain.

When they got to the local town on the day of the match, the sports shop had sold out. Clearly because this idea of playful racism was shared by other local people and the shop had not foreseen such prejudice in their patrons. The boys didn’t know what to do. They understood that merely walking into the bar clad in a Scotland shirt or a red t-shirt would not be enough to prove their inherent, uninformed hatred for the English. But as they trudged back to their van, they passed a costume shop. And they had an idea.

Five minutes before kick-off, the doors of the Clachan Arms swung open like a western saloon. The two boys walked through the door. The bustling, eager pub fell silent and all eyes looked away from the TV screen and towards them. The boys held their heads high as they strutted through the pub. They were wearing ponchos, sombreros, fake moustaches and each carrying a nylon strung acoustic guitar. They arrived at the bar and ordered two Coronas. With Lemon. An elderly gentleman looked them up and down as he turned away from the screen.

“What the fuck have you boys come as?” he asked.

The boys looked at each other, taking in their image.

“We’re Portuguese,” they said in unison.

“You’re fucking Mexican!”

“I know,” said the shorter one, “we just didn’t know what Portuguese people looked like.”

 

 

That’s a true story.

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