It’s that time of the week again.  It’s Funny Friday.  Do you want to play along?  Of course you do.  Here are the rules: 1. A minimum of roughly 80 percent of everything that you do today must a.) be hilarious, b.) incite hilarity or c.) pay the pickle man.  2. You may or may not do whatever it takes to uphold rule #1.  Also, third, don’t be annoying.  That has the opposite effect (save it for Over-the-top Tuesday).

If you’re having trouble deciding what to do on Funny Friday, then you’re over thinking the task.  Here are some things you can do, though, if you’re really having trouble:

Imitate a retarded person imitating a normal person

Sneak up on friend with one of your farts in a jar

Piss in something that’s not a toilet

Have a coffee drinking contest

Sleep with your fat neighbor but no kissing

Punch a bunny in the face

Push over a one-legged duck (quack!)

See how many grapes you can fit in your mouth

Spin your office chair until you fall out of it/puke

Hula hoop on a chair

Spend some allowance from your spank bank

Tape your hands together with masking tape and poke stuff

Pull your cat’s tail

Take a dump in a fitting room

Chew old gum out of the carpet

Fill a can with spit and drink it

Eat a cigarette

Tape your cube mate’s office supplies to a wall just out of his reach

Play dress up

Cut your own

Make a paper airplane and set it on fire before you throw it

Take your shirt off,  sit down and watch your stomach fat get fatter/paint your nipples white with white-out

Look at kittens/puppies/babies

Have a push-up contest with your friend Donny

When Donny wins, murder him (for fun)

Whatever it is you end up doing, have fun with it.  After all, it is Funny Friday.

My first thought was that he was working on some kind of age-old, rabbit fart, microwave technology.  I thought, “Maybe this rabbit likes his clovers warmed through and funky.”  I then considered what he was actually doing;  he was eating ass grass.  Gnarly/Far out.

That started me thinking about when people act similarly; where they touch their consumables with their groty ol’ butts and then eat.  It’s like when, after a coke mule gets through airport security with a bag of Colombian marching powder stuffed three inches up his rectum, he then relaxes by removing the bag and sampling his tainted goods.  (Keep in mind that the relaxation isn’t from removing the drugs; it’s the reinsertion that feels so good.)

That totally reminded of those times I drank all that pool water last summer.  I got so sick.  Was if from ingesting too much chlorine?  We’ll never know.

Oh, that made me think of when people get submerged in liquid to have their body fat inspected.  What if they used stuff other than water like chocolate sauce  or dollar coins to test body fat?  You know, like Scrooge McDuck?  If I had a tower of gold coins and I was made a toon by the great God Himself, I’d totally swim in that filthy, filthy, dirty, wonderful money.

What if instead of a vault of money, I had a vault of cool and refreshing mayonnaisse?  I would totally swim in that.   I would probably fart in it and watch/smell my bubbles as they gurgled to the surface (because that’s what you do when you go swimming).  And just like that rabbit in the grass today, I’d probably eat it.

Here’s the sitch.  Family’s away for a short while.  Spouse, parents, live-in life partner, master, whoever.  You’re alone.  You’re thinking, maybe I’ll have just a quick jerk.  (Ladies, maybe just a quick flick.)  Your fastest release…Internet PORN!

You strip down to your skivvies and, even though you know there’s no one around, you sneak your way over to the laundry hamper and grab an old sock for cleaning up.  You scurry to the bathroom and lotion up.  When you realize your wonderful circumstances, you instantly “perk” up.  You prance and spin and dance your way over to your laptop.  When you approach your laptop, you see that it is still in the computer bag.  “No problem,” you whisper dismissively, “I got this.”

And, in your complacent attempt to gingerly open the bag’s zipper without leaving a shred of evidence revealing the act of masturbation, you drop your clean-up sock.  As you go for it, you forget about the lotion on your hand and spill it all over the computer bag.  Now the zipper is slathered in Jergen’s and you panic.   You try and wipe it up by salvaging as much lube as you can.  Your hands occupied, you start wiping excess lube with your hardened penis.

You freak when the zipper proves to be too abrasive on your tender flesh. You yelp in pain. Instinctively, and as not to disturb anyone (as you would under normal rub-your-chub circumstances), you cover your mouth.  In doing so, you transfer lotion from your hand to your mouth, you look down to see your penis is bleeding.  You also see that in your frantic struggle you shed pubic hair all over your work files and fallen sock.

You tell yourself, “F*ck it, I started this and I’m gonna finish.”  You reach for the computer and manage to open it and turn it on with your non-lotiony hand.  The computer is password protected and you type out what you think it is.  You kick yourself as you remember inventing a password that not even the world’s top hacker could crack.  A breeze for you any other day but, in the chaos, you panic.  The letters alternate lower case and capitals.  A percentage sign?  You press the keys with your cleaner hand, using your tongue to press the shift key.

You finally log on and run the Internet with no luck.  The router for the internet isn’t working. You run into the other room and unplug the router, wait 30 seconds and plug it back in. Fully erect, you sprint back to the computer.  Realizing your alone time is diminishing, you grab your penis and single-handedly type the name of your favorite X-rated website (the only form of multitasking a man is capable of).  You scroll over a video clip and watching a random preview of two Russians prod and poke each other, you bust a load of your future’s best, brightest and whitest directly into your belly button.  No time for the clean up sock.

You relax and laugh at the mess you’ve created: The lotion covered computer bag.  The blood.  The semen.  The porn site.  You fall asleep. You wake up to your wife screaming at you for scarring her children for life.  “No child should see her step-father this way!” she screams.

Laptops are the worst.

What’s the best part about shrimp?  They’re American, dammit!  Those tiny sh*ts are plentiful and, as far as I’m concerned when you’ve got some of that delicious cocktail sauce, they’re tasty, too.  But something happened recently  that really puckers my barn hole.

Seven weeks ago (and counting), the oil and gas mogul, British Petroleum or BP,  “accidentally” collapsed an oil well in the Gulf of Mexico and is uncontrollably pumping its bubbly crude all over American shrimping waters.  Why we haven’t waged war against these f*ck sticks is beyond me.

What’s worse is that we (America collectively, except Lonny) have swallowed this grimy glob and will to continue to do so.  In a gesture to keep fishing and tourism industries afloat during this crisis, BP has done what any company does in a crisis situation; they threw money at it.  Big money, too.  It’s the kind of money that allows sick f*cks the opportunity to do sick f*ck things.

This is the kind of money that says, “Not only am I not going to fix this environmental catastrophe, I’m going to buy you, cut off your balls and make you my eunuch, remove your testicles from the hairy ball skin, staple, then duct tape the skin over your mouth and nose while I tickle you and watch you die to death you p*ssy.”

Thanks to cash reimbursements to support lost business caused by the oil spill, some fishing companies are generating more business than before the spill.

Instead of using this money to protect themselves from future oopsies, companies spend to reinvent themselves.  This unadvised spending creates illusions of market stability in uncertain times and opens the flood gates for struggling companies to venture into risky endeavors.

I can imagine the CEO from one of the aforementioned struggling fishing companies thinking, “This is the time we make a big move.”  And because he has new money to burn, he goes against all logic and fishes oil soaked waters.  After which, some greased wheel at a hackneyed advisory operation like the Louisiana Shrimp and Fisherman Council to okay some new product line.   All of a sudden, your kid is hooked on Red Lobster’s/Fishy Joe’s/Long John Silver’s/Generic non-seafood eatery’s Crude Dude’s Boily and Oily Super Duper Shrimp Poppers (try ‘em with tar ball dippin’ sauce!) which by some stroke has been pushed to market by a rejuvenated BP (British Prawns).

I’m really gonna hate that.

If  you got ‘em, you should just shoot yourself.  This is to say that even a dead and rotting corpse is more attractive than a smoker.  If you smoke, you’re dead to me.  If you don’t smoke, then we should hang out.  If you don’t hang out, then you should.  I’m a lot of fun.

By the way, don’t think that you can hide your nicotine addiction by chewing your smokeless tobacco around me either.  That’s gross, too.  It’s all spittooning your chaw into the empty water bottles in my car.  You don’t deserve bottles.  You deserve cancer.  If you chew, then you should put fire ants in your eyes and cayenne pepper in your pee hole.  That’s right.  Pee hole.

Oh, and another thing; pull my finger.  Smell that?  Old wet newspapers and canned, creamed corn.  You are that smell to me…completely disgusting.  If you’re going to insist on riding your premium, menthol-flavored cancer pony to your grave, please, count me out.  I don’t want anything to do with you.  Now will you have sex with me?