It was one of those weeks where I'd been doing my best to laugh, because if I'd stopped and thought about things for a while, I'd have started screaming. Fortunately when the going gets tough, the comedians among us start posting things on the Web for our edification and amusement. Coming up: a sample of the new and noteworthy.
Flying the Friendly Skies
This comes from humourist Dave Barry's blog. An employee of a not-to-be-named US airline wrote to Mr Barry about recent doings at the airline. Seems a flight attendant was reprimanded because she insisted that a passenger put her dog back into its carrier during the flight. As it turns out, it's now OK for passengers to bring aboard an 'Emotional Support Animal' if the animal is no bigger than a small child. The new regulations even specify that it's OK to bring aboard a pig or a small horse.
Waitaminute. A small horse? I realise many Americans are now the size of aircraft carriers, but I don't know anyone who could fit a horse onto his or her lap. Thanks to post-9/11 security measures, we're just about flying buck nekkid, but we can bring livestock aboard? And what happens if the Emotional Support Animal gets antsy? Anybody who lives with pets knows what happens when they get nervous, and I do not want to be around a nervous horse of any size.
The idea of an Emotional Support Animal reminds me of one of my sister's co-workers who had never flown before and was scared silly when she had to fly to a conference. She took along her stuffed teddy bear Pooky, much to the amusement of her sadistic colleagues who gave her nothing but grief the whole time. As luck would have it, the flight encountered turbulence and, when the plane suddenly dropped, one of the sadists grabbed the poor woman's leg. She let out a screech and got poor Pooky in a head lock, literally squeezing his gizzards out. (They never did find Pooky's eyeballs.) Just imagine a terrified passenger squeezing the daylights out of someone's Emotional Support Badger.
Badgers?! We don' need no stinkin' badgers. From now on, I'm driving.
Depressed About Politics?
Various blogs have reported this item. A popular series of children's books features a character called Captain Underpants. In one of the books, Captain Underpants and the Perilous Plot of Professor Poopypants, the evil professor Pippy P Poopypants forced everyone to assume new names based on the letters of their first and last names. Some enterprising soul realised that George W Bush would become — wait for it —
And Vice President Dick Cheney is Buttercup Wafflechunks. Of course there is a name generator on the Web (probably more than one by now — these things are metastasising). I will leave it to loup.dargent to give this particular name generator his inimitable touch. In the meantime, here's a description to play with (see the entry for Wednesday, 3 November).
Everybody say it together: Goober Chickenshorts.
For our poor computer-bedevilled editor and anyone else who has been battling Windows XP Service Pack 2, check out the following Icon's Story. It's cute enough without sound but much better with it.
(I heard that. No, Service Pack 2 is not supposed to behave like that.)
George W Bush died and was met at the Pearly Gates by Saint Peter. Saint Peter tells him that he has a choice about whether he wants to go to Heaven or to Hell. George looks down into Hell and sees a bunch of people playing golf, sitting around in fancy restaurants eating fillet mignon and drinking fancy wines, driving expensive cars and generally whooping it up. Then he looks around Heaven and sees a bunch of sombre-looking people standing around discussing mathematics and philosophy, and others singing religious hymns in the choir.
George says: 'You know, I never thought I'd say this, but Hell looks a lot more appealing, so I think I'll go there.'
POOF! He finds himself in Hell, surrounded by moaning people chained to burning rocks. George asks a nearby demon: 'What's going on? I saw people playing golf and having a wonderful time!'
The demon replies: 'That was just a campaign ad. Now you voted for us.'
Words to Live By
You can laugh, or you can cry. Laughing is a lot more fun.
Youth is fleeting but immaturity can last a lifetime. (My life's work is proving this theory.)
From some study somewhere: children laugh 146 times a day, adults laugh only four times a day. OK, my fellow Humourless Old Poops and Poopesses: let's see if we can improve those statistics! Say it one more time: Goober Chickenshorts.