Tag Archives: humor

It’s a meme!

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You never know what will take the internet by storm, only that every intellectual eddy has the chance of becoming a hurricane of the ludicrous. Case in point, the myriad variations on Star Wars’ General Ackbar and his sudden realization that “It’s a trap!”

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In the interests of short-cutting this process, I have tried to come up with a definitive list of variations of this meme for future use by one and all.

PS By the very nature of stating “definitive list”, you will immediately come up with others, so please feel free to add.

(I suck at graphic design, so I have not attempted to mock up any of the General Akbar memes I list below.)

It’s the clap! – Dr. F. Ackbar, family doctor

Use the flap! – Henry Ackbar, frustrated dog owner

There’s an app! – Simon Ackbar, computer nerd

Here’s your Pap! – Dr. G. Ackbar, gynecologist

Cut the crap! – Jodie Ackbar, frustrated wife

Mind the gap! – Eddie Ackbar, metro/subway driver

I played Hap! – Willie Ackbar, unemployed actor

Touch your lap?! – Candy Ackbar, stripper

Read the map! – Sir Edmund Ackbar, adventurer

Need a nap! – Old man Ackbar, old man

Want the wrap?! – Tootie Ackbar, waitress

Suck the sap! – Angus McAckbar, maple sugerer

Lick the strap! – Mistress Ackbar, dominatrix

Dis ma rap! – Big Daddy Ackbar, home boy

What’s on tap?! – Jessie Ackbar, Ackbarfly

Shut yer yap! – James Cagney Ackbar, mobster

It’s a snap! – Fast Eddie Ackbar, informercial host

Take a slap! – Jacques Acqbar, hockey coach

Please don’t….ZAP – the late Ensign Freddie Ackbar, red-shirted Starfleet cadet

Buffalo

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When I was a kid, there was a TV station in Buffalo that would start its evening news with a public service announcement:

“It’s 11 o’clock. Do you know where your children are?”

I always thought it a little odd. Were Buffalo parents really that bad that they had no idea where their kids were at 11 pm?

I imagined some fat, hairy father in a sleeveless undershirt, chugging a beer and waiting for the news.

“It’s 11 o’clock. Do you know where your children are?”

“Why? What’s the little bugger done now?”

Or a dowdy housewife, cleaning up the dinner dishes, suddenly thinking to herself:

“Oh shit! I left Billy on the mechanical horse at Wegman’s!”

“It’s 11 o’clock. Do you know where your children are?”

All these parents sitting home watching TV while thousands of kids run loose on the streets of Buffalo—taunting the homeless, looting Toys’R’Us.

“Oh my god! They’ve set fire to North Tonawanda!”

“It’s 11 o’clock. Do you know where your children are?”

They don’t start the news with that anymore. Do you think some guy at the TV station came into work one night and said: “Screw ‘em. They’re your kids. If you don’t care where they are, why should I?”

Of course, I guess the final joke is on us what with Alzheimers and all that.

“It’s 11 o’clock. Do you know where your father has wandered off to?”

Pride Week

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The last week of June each year, the City of Toronto explodes with colour and excitement as the fever of inclusion takes over the city. It’s another Pride Week.

Gay, straight, budgie…whatever you consider yourself, if you haven’t experienced the pageantry of Toronto Pride Week, you should consider your life cheapened. You should then get your butt to Toronto and party.

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Following on the success of Pride Week, however, the other Deadly Sins have petitioned for their own festivals.

Greed Week is slated to run over two weeks and its organizers are actively petitioning for a third.

Wrath Week got pissed at everyone and so plans to do its own thing.

Planning for Envy Week has been difficult as organizers keep asking for the date to be moved because they feel the other Sins got better dates.

Lust Week started slow and gentle but really built up a head of steam before petering out.

Avarice Week demanded the largest budget and still refused to control its expenses.

Sadly, Sloth Week just never really took off.

(Note: Photo is property of Pride Toronto and is used without permission.)

On Word, Ho!

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The things one thinks of:

What’s another word for “thesaurus”?

I need another thesaurus like I need/want/desire/have use for another/an extraneous/an alternative/a supplementary hole/gap/abyss/chasm in my head/cranium/brain carrier/noggin.

Is Roget merely the thesaurus author’s pseudonym?

Who first put the alphabet in alphabetical order?

Is it true that the letters of the alphabet, in order, spell out the name of a town southeast of Cardiff, Wales that even the locals can’t pronounce?

The word “onomatopoeia” was really an etymologist drunk-dial, right?

Why use a short word when you can use a perfectly viable polysyllabic etymological variant?

Eight Simple Steps to Counting to Seven

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1. Say “one”.

2. Say “two”. (not going too fast for you, am I?)

3. Say “three”. (don’t try to anticipate me!)

4. Say “four”.

5. Say “five”. (out loud! don’t just think it in your head)

6. Say “six”. (not “sex”, it’s important to enunciate“six”)

7. Say “seven”.

8. Repeat Steps 1-7 without reading them.

Congratulations, you can now count to seven (or you have failed miserably and have to be held back…either way, I get paid).

Tune in tomorrow when we work on self-esteem issues in a lesson I like to call: “You don’t count”.

Today’s lesson was brought to you by the number OF THE BEAST and by the letter “Dear Penthouse, I always thought these letters were made up, but…”

You might be a writer

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(Inspired by a post on The Writing Corp blog and of course, Mr. Jeff Foxworthy)

If you’ve ever freaked out because your partner loaned your pen to someone and neglected to get it back…

If you own 17 notebooks and still have a house littered with random pieces of paper containing ideas…

If your friends won’t tell you anything anymore for fear it’ll end up in your next novel, screenplay or comedy sketch…

If you’ve heard voices in your head and your first thought was grab something to write with…

If you go on a tropical vacation and only the back of your neck gets sunburned…

If you’ve developed the skill to write coherent notes to yourself without removing your eyes from the person sitting across from you…

If every jacket you own and every room in your house contains a writing pad of one size or another…

If you instinctively know what inks will smear and which pens write upside down…

If you’ve ever found yourself looking forward to a long bus or train ride…

If reaching a crisis is as satisfying as achieving a climax…

(Personally, I’m still working on the writing while looking someone in the eye, otherwise, I’m good.)

I said that out loud, didn’t I?

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Several years ago, when I was first starting out as a professional writer, I received the opportunity to work for a couple of monthly science magazines published by the American Chemical Society. Eager to impress and excited at the thought of seeing my name bylined, I dove into every project with relish…and apparently very little forethought.

A regular ritual at the magazines was for the entire editorial staff to sit down every couple of weeks and hammer out the best headlines for each of the next issue’s articles. Rather than leave the job to the individual writers, my Editor felt this was the best way to get the best ideas. In principle, I agree with him, although you also have to be wary of sliding into group-think, where the lowest common denominator wins…but I digress.

In the first such meeting in which I was invited to participate—second week on the job—we were trying to come up with a title for the health article, which discussed the sexually transmitted infection chlamydia and the fact that many women with the infection didn’t know they had it. After listening to a couple really boring titles, I decided to show how clever and punny I was, and chose to riff off the title of a movie that was popular at the time.

Chlamydia. A quiet killer. It was obvious.

Silence of the Clams!

Silence of the editorial meeting, more like. My Editor looked at mean, turned his head sideways, and said “You’re serious.”

Oh, oh. Something’s gone wrong. Something doesn’t make sense. Why is everyone looking at me like that? Why is…? Oh, shit.

Luckily, everyone in the office thought it was funny, probably more because of the look on my face rather than any inherent amusement. But that’s the point. I kept the job and wrote much better headlines—or at least more acceptable ones—for several more years.

Since that day, I have instituted (if only for myself) what I call “the 12-year-old boy rule”.

Basically, if you want to print anything, you should always say it out loud in front of a 12-year-old boy, and if he even so much as smirks, there is something salacious in your idea and you really need to rethink it.

Still, every once in a while, I wonder if I couldn’t make that title work (other than for porn).

And of course, I am still addicted to puns, much to the chagrin of most people who know me.

When I am gone

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When I am gone to join the dead,

I only hope it will be said

That I was quick if but with tongue

And from each word I too much wrung

A meaning lost or malaprop

If by the speaker a hint did drop

About something that was not said

But close enough to turn them red.

With words did play and contradiction

To turn your fact into my fiction,

And from one end of what you spoke

Would I reword to make the joke.

But whether you bethought it funny

Or at most insipid pun, I

Cared not truly if you laughed

Nor bothered if you thought me daft

But smiling delved at my own leisure

For another verbal treasure

But when I’m gone, and games have ended,

Please check with those I have offended,

For as it seems to be my lot,

I was much more than likely shot.Image