What the hell was that council on family focus-pocus commercial that I heard was supposed to be for the anti-abortion—the one where the uber-Christian college football star out of focking Florida, Tim Tebow, mistook his mother for a tackling dummy? Cripes, my buddy Little Jimmy Iodine was over by me to watch the game, and neither one of us could exactly figure what the message was supposed to be—granted, we weren’t paying the strictest of attention, after all, it was a goddamn television commercial, not a judge reading the jury verdict at your murder trial.
On his way to the can to take a leak, Jimmy thought to bring closure to our perplexity and mentioned that maybe the ad meant that’s its OK to administer a blindside smack-down on a female family member as long as she’s not pregnant ’cause if she were, she might need to go to the hospital and have an abortion for health reasons, except there’s no mention of hospitals in the Bible, what the fock.
But I’ll tell you, if some righteous organization or group is interested in a snappy commercial to have for the Super Bowl, I offer the following for the drink-responsibly crowd:
Three late-20s dickweeds are in a lively sports bar talking about how wasted they got the night before at a party that served beer in cans. First guy says, “I drank so much of that good beer last night that I got pulled over on my way home. I couldn’t recite the alphabet backwards while trying to walk a straight line with one thumb on my nose and the other up my ass; so the cop arrested me for a DWI, or maybe it was a ‘poc’ and I got a ‘IWD,’ fock if I know.”
Second guy says, “That’s nothing. I drank so much of that good beer that when I was driving home I picked up a prostitute, my wife caught us in bed and then she wouldn’t join in even though I asked her all nice-like, the bitch.” Third guy says, “Big focking deal. I drank so much of that good beer last night that when I got home, I blew chunks ’til the sun came up.”
Cut to a shot of a big ol’ bad-ass German shepherd standing in front of a backyard doghouse. Camera pans up to the top of the doghouse where there’s this nice, homey sign that says “Chunks.” Ba-ding!
Now, tell me that’s not focking funnier than a bunch of high-chaired babies with big-people voices telling you how you ought to invest your hard-earned dough in a corrupt and unregulated stock market. I dare you.
Then there was the half-time show featuring the remnants of The Who, whose Magic Bus transports the two surviving members no longer to self-administered heights of consciousness but rather to the Country Garden for the early-bird special.
Jeez louise, when it comes to these Super dinosaur-rock half-time shows, who’s next? They already had the Rolling Stones—one-dead original member—the other year. This year, The Who—two-out-of-four dead original members. Maybe next year it’ll be Lynryd Skynyrd ’cause I’m guessing somebody in that group must still be alive. “That Smell,” you betcha, it’s the Super Bowl half-time show after all. And the year after that, how ’bout Otis Redding? “Oh she may be weary” as a half-time show goes, but nothing so weary that the “King of Soul” who’s been dead for 42-focking-years can’t liven up, ain’a?
Anyways, I hear that Valentine’s Day is upon us. And I’ve read that the ladies really go for a guy with a sense of humor. So gents, how ’bout you try a little humor with your gal when you go out for the fancy-schmancy dinner on Valentine’s, especially if you don’t know her too well. For that reason, I include the following story—to be memorized—so that you don’t get caught with your pants down in the humor department:
This guy goes to the doctor’s the other day ’cause he’s having trouble putting on the big ol’ honking woodie for the ladies. After the exam, the doctor tells him that he’s got a problem with the muscles “down there” and suggests a new experimental treatment for the problem. So the guy goes back the next week and the doctor takes the muscles from the trunk of a baby elephant and implants them in his noodle de la limp.
Couple weeks later the doctor gives him the green light to try out the new equipment. So the guy takes this gal to a fancy restaurant for Valentine’s and right during the middle of the meal, he gets this stirring in the genital groin area that keeps going on to the point of pain, I kid you not. So to release the pressure, he unzips his fly and lo and behold, his schwanz shoots out of his trousers to the top of the table, grabs a dinner roll and returns to his pants.
The gal could not focking believe it. She says, “Wow, do that again!” And the guy says, “I would, but I don’t think I can fit a second roll up my ass.”
Good luck and God speed with your love and romance for the Valentine’s. And don’t forget what the Greek philosopher Anonymous said about that: “The ideal relationship can only be achieved when one partner is blind, and the other is deaf,” you betcha, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.