CONTRIBUTED BY

ADDISON BENCH

(New York, NY)

Hi Shannon!

I’m really sorry I’ll be out of town when you get here. Argh! It kills me to miss you in my own city!  We would have had so much fun! 

Let me catch you up a little. Can’t remember what I’ve told you but let’s start with my job – still going gonzo for me. I’m pretty much barely at home during the weeks. I get up, shower, go to work, stay late. I get some food from drive-thru on way home or order pizza when I get here. Then get some sleep, do it all over! Busy!

 But also? Any free time I usually spend with Manny. He’s my new one – have I told you? At first I was like, He’s not that bright. But I didn’t care because I just wanted to get over Tim. Maybe I didn’t tell you about Tim breaking up with me out of nowhere? I was super, super surprised. I thought he liked me more than I liked him. When he dumped me, I was kinda hurt. Like, damaged. I couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, went to work and cried in the restroom every day, sitting on the toilet. Then I’d come home, lay down, cry some more! Terrible.

I got super skinny, which is good, but it wasn’t really, I guess, because I kept getting sick. Maybe had bird flu or something? And then SARS? Because they both gave me awful night sweats. Then, when over that, I caught this stomach bug. Shan, it really laid. me. low. So low! I was out sick for a week and had a fever and – plug your ears: shame story! – I kind of pooped the bed a couple of times. I woke up from one of those dreams where you have to pooh, and found out I’d already done it in my sleep.  Like, gross, watery, I’m-sick poop. Two different nights!  

Finally healed up, then was all, Look, did you even love Tim anyway? He didn’t support you emotionally, so just get over it!

So I did! That little talk with myself changed everything. I got strong, started kicking asshole at work again. Felt good about myself! And that’s when I met Manny. He’s pretty great. I mean, I always thought I’d get serious with a banker, you know? I saw myself meeting one, then getting married and then I’d stop working and we’d have kids. It was a good dream. Well, Manny’s not a banker, but he is super cute and he’s nice to me – nicer than Tim was, for sure! Plus, the sex is A-W-E-to-the-some. Remember how, in college sophomore year, I dated that lacrosse player Brett? You hated him, Shan, remember? Member how I told you he always said he was “in the crease” when we had sex, whatever that meant, and called his penis his “Game Stick?”  

 Well, Manny and I have the good sex without all that dumb sports stuff. Something about him – I can’t explain it. Maybe because he’s half Puerto Rican and I know my dad would completely flip if he found out. But fuck that, right?  Dads don’t know, and people are people and Manny’s super sweet.

This is kind of shamey, too, Shannon, but sometimes when we’re really going at it, I can hear all the fluids and stuff making squishing sounds down there. It turns me on, but also? I’m all, Can anyone else hear that?  

In my building, they probably can! Because I hear my neighbors all the time! Fighting over money, or shouting at the TV or teaching their birds swear words. But I guess they don’t have sex, because I never hear it. If I did, I’d be like, Gross. Someone call 911. 

The people in my building are nice, though. The other day I was going downstairs behind my neighbor – she takes sooo looong to get down the stairs with her two canes – and I was thinking, Ugh, she smells a lot like onions, or soup or something. But when we got to the bottom, she just turns and says, Go on by, Sweetie. 

See? Nice!

One more thing – I’m thinking about getting a cat. It was actually Manny’s idea. I was cleaning up some pizza boxes and soda cans in my little kitchen the other day and this mouse leaped out of a paper bag and ran right across my arm. I completely screamed. Then I called Manny to tell him about it, and he was all, Maybe get a cat, babe.

He calls me babe sometimes. Anyway, so thinking about getting one. But not before you come here, so don’t worry, you won’t need to feed it! I mailed you a key, so just take a taxi to my address and let yourself in. I hate I’m missing you, bestie!  Let’s make plans!

Margaret

NJ WEE REEDZ seeks a Writing and Reading Instructor to teach high-achieving students in 1st through 8th grades in an age inclusive setting. Some kids are “super high achievers” and might be younger than you would expect. But they are so smart!  Parents will occasionally sit in on sessions and critique your technique (maybe even participate – how exciting!), especially with the kids that have not completely acquired the necessary “potty skills” or muscle control. They’re just young! They want to read!

The duration of the position is undetermined. We just don’t know, so we can’t let you know. Suspense! The position includes room and board in a communal but highly comfortable, energy efficient wooden barn  plus a weekly stipend of $200*.

The position is located in Breezewood, Pennsylvania (on the campus of the Breeze School, a new boarding school just beneath the underpass on a lovely plot of formerly state tended greenery, that now we’ll ask you, as part of the position to help tend.

Applicants must have extensive experience teaching expository writing at the high school level or above and at least five strong references including one from a spouse or former spouse. Must pass clean bill of health including mandatory drug and STI (that’s VD/venereal disease/STD – whatever you call it, it’s the same, and you better not have them!) testing.

Must be over 30.

Must hold advanced degree (no MFAs – that’s not a real degree. That’s just useless!). Credit check required. Preferred bilingual. Fetish friendly ok.

Three men stranded on a deserted island find a lamp.  They rub it and a genie pops out.  The genie grants them each a wish.  The first man wishes for a home entertainment system because of all the dvds that washed up on their island.  The second man wishes for a power source so they can actually plug it in and watch their favorite movies.  The third man wishes their whole collection was Steel Magnolias.

Three men stranded on a deserted island find a lamp.  They rub it and a genie pops out.  The genie grants them each a wish.  The first man wishes the third one was a woman so he can marry her in the Catholic church he built from palm fronds.  The second man wishes he was a Catholic Priest so he can perform the marriage.  The third now woman wishes she was Jewish because she wants to get married in a synagogue and she will not budge until her man converts.

Three men stranded on a deserted island find a lamp.  They rub it and a genie pops out.  The genie grants them each a wish.  The first man murders the genie because he’s delirious with malnutrition and then they all eat his magic genie skin and use their genie magic to punish the cruel world that left them stranded and alone.

Three men stranded on a deserted island find a lamp.  They rub it and a genie pops out.  The genie grants them each a wish.  The heavens close and we are not privy to their wishes. Elsewhere, every bird in the world gets AIDS.

Three men stranded on a deserted island find a lamp.  They rub it and a genie pops out.  The genie grants them each a wish.  But what is a wish?  And what is a man? And aren’t we all genies?  Aren’t we our own wishes?

Three “men” “stranded” on a deserted “island” find a lamp.  They rub it and a “genie” pops out.  The “genie” “grants” them each a “wish”.  The men decide the genie’s wish granting is presumptuous.  They’re not defined by anyone else.  Their “situation” and whether they are “stranded” is for them to interpret.  They decide the world is an “island”.  The genie is a false god.

1) I have no idea what you are talking about! I did not have relations with that Palestinian!

2) I would say I’m right about here with acting on my feelings with that Palestinian with whom I did not have relations. That said, I’m as curious as anyone about what might occur when we get to “final stage.”

3) Yeah, alright. Fuck it. You caught me.

10. The post-election slump hit us hard.

9. Human voices woke us, and we drowned.

8. Really thought we’d be more widely read (read: internationally famous and/or having a book on the Urban Outfitters 75% off table) by now.

7. We saw how quickly Shit My Dad Says went from “we’re in TV show talks with Shatner” to “I can’t even get a reservation at Waffle House anymore,” and, like, you can’t lose what you don’t have.

6. There was this internal power struggle that got totally ridiculous and there were legal ramifications and we’ve only just come to an agreement about who could post what and when and we’re not really allowed to talk about it in that the case is ongoing and certain parties who shall here remain unnamed* were pretty dickish about it all and there’s been a lingering sense of resentment and like undergarments bundled in certain peoples’ buttcracks, and it’s kind of left a sour taste in certain other here-not-to-be-named persons’ mouths, if you want to know the truth.

5. We drove our Chevy to the levy, but the levy was dry, if you know what we’re saying.

4. We just found out that Della Reese isn’t dead. We’d thought she was, and went through an extended period of mourning, and if you’ve ever had to unmourn, you know where we’re at right now.

3. Our respective careers as an inner-city wet nurse, a wise-cracking building superintendent, a small town factory worker with a ha-ha-crazy family, a cynical ex-relief pitcher cum womanizing bartender, and a guerrilla playwright/corporate shill/meta-novelist/James Best have kept us plenty busy of late, believe you us.

2. We lost a bet. And the stakes of that bet were our fingers. And we have been learning to type with our toes. And our tongues. And James Best.

1. We’ve been in the throes of a strong case of Northeastern Winter Anomie, highballed with a lot of Springsteen.

A lot of Springsteen.

*But his initials are James Best.

Let’s get it together ladies. It’s time to O-V-U-L-A-T-E. Fire up the YouTube. Join hands and let’s make a collective noise that sounds like SQUEEEEE. There’s no reason to cramp alone. We’re in this together. Gimme and O. Gimme a V. Gimme a U. L-A-T-E. Where are the dairy-based snacks? We need something salty and/or crunchy and/or available to be snacked on ASAP. Get as many videos with kittens and ducklings and baby wombats together in a cardboard box ready in that queue. Find the puppy with tape on his paws. Yes! We want to watch the little boy napping on the bulldog. OOOOHHH find that one with him coming home from the dentist. We can’t wait to have one of our…even better if he’s wearing a snow hat with little piggy ears! OMG and if they yawn simultaneously with their little baby mouths, I’ll drop an egg right here. Maybe two! Please some one find that essay about true love that comes in unexpected little packages, like caramel wrappers or even medium sized containers like empty Hagen Daas. What do we want? To see cute tiny things falling asleep. What do we need? To get this over with! Someone quick find us a photograph man with a baby strapped to his chest in a baby bjorn looking capable or just as good bring a live one here, or if not that, then a larger animal holding a smaller animal of a different species, preferably in multiples so we can just look at them and then talk about how we think two dozen roses and a candlelit dinner is just a thing but it actually makes us go BLURK.

Dear Small Internet Humor Site That Published Me,

First off, I am very grateful.  I have no idea how many hits you get to your site but I imagine it’s in the gazillions.  I know you’re just my stepping stone to internet immortality but thank you for letting me step on you.  We can’t all stand on the shoulders of giants, can we?  Some of us just need to be those dumb brute giants.

Saying that, and hoping it did not go over your head, I want to direct your attention to a few things I would love changed in my entry.  My name seems to be in a smaller font than your other contributor’s names.  Or is it just in Arial?  Would you mind changing it?  I just think my contribution was equal to your other contributors if not vastly superior.  Maybe you could just change your whole site and all past entries to Garamond.  Have you seen Garamond?  It’s God’s font.

Also, what’s with my indents?  They just feel a little much for what I was going for. Have you guys talked about your current indents? It just feels a millimeter too far, you know? It’s like my eyes have to do a long jump before they can even dig into the high quality beef I’ve got waiting for them.  Oh, and that wasn’t a mixed metaphor.  That was called complexity. Something your site could use.

And your ads on the sidebar aren’t really jiving with my tone.  Consider new sponsorship.  Maybe a whole new format, too.  I don’t want to say “Geocities-ish” but if the URL fits, am I right?  And the name of your site.  It’s so “Trying Too Hard.” Have you considered “JokesDotCom.com”? It works on a lot of levels.  I can’t believe I’m just giving that to you hacks.  You’re lucky I deigned to send you my comedic masterpiece.  This angel from Ha-Ha-Heaven.

Well, back to writing Groupon copy.  Later, chumps.  And you’re freaking welcome. Don’t choke on my hit count.

The Future of Funny,

Mike Beazeltown

Contributed by D. Huskins

(Susquehanna, GA)

Dear Murky Fringe,

Let me start by saying how much I enjoy your site. Very entertaining, and even thought-provoking at times, although I have noticed that the posts aren’t as regular as they used to be.

I have a little somethin’ you might be interested in.  Now, I realize this ain’t your normal type of post–no time crystals or whatnot, and I don’t recall seeing any conspiracy theories on your site–but danggit, my typin’ fingers are twitching, so here goes:

I have  a couple of conspiracy theories  involving aircraft contrails/chemtrails.

1. The government has actually figured out how to control the weather (the HAARP complex in Gakona, Alaska) but not the way other conspiracy theorists claim.

Those theories don’t account for the secret substations situated around the globe.

Released in the contrails are  tiny magnetic threads that are used to alter the flow of the jet-stream. The substations, along with the main complex, push and pull the magnetized threads, changing the jet-stream.

This also explains Morgellon’s disease. When the threads come in contact with a magnetic fluctuation, it results in the “crawling under my skin” many of those afflicted speak about.

This also explains the concentrated numbers of Morgellon’s cases in Texas, California and Florida. Texas is currently experiencing drought, California has had record rainfall and, well, take the Florida white trash out by any means necessary, hell or high water.

Or

2. Much like crop dusting, the government is weeding us out before the harvest for their evil alien overlords.

Name Withheld For Obvious Reasons

CONTRIBUTED BY

THOMAS ISRAEL HOPKINS

(KINGSTON, NY)

What do we want? Shoulder-nipple justice! When do we want it? Now!

We, the people, the people who self-identify as men with nipples on their shoulders but who really want to have actual nipples on their shoulders someday, in order to form a more perfect League of Men with Nipple Shoulders, establish justice in San Francisco and the Bay Area in general and anywhere else that good men gather who either have nipples on their shoulders or who know in their hearts that they, too, will someday be men with nipples on their shoulders, do hereby—wait, I lost my place. Here’s my main point: we want justice, okay? Shoulder-nipple justice.

What do we want? Full membership in the League of Men with Nipple Shoulders! When do we want it? Well, if Now! doesn’t work, then soon, definitely soon!

Like all men, we have shoulders. Like all men, we have nipples. Nipples that just sit there, doing nothing. Except feel good when you touch them. Nipples of shame! Like all men—okay, like many men, but really, if we’re being completely honest, probably not all men, exactly—we want to have fully functioning nipples connected to completely operational mammary glands surgically implanted in our bodies so that we, too, might know the joy of nursing a baby. We are years beyond those early days when the brave men who went before us merely had their birth nipples altered to be functioning nipples; we are a generation past the observation that what babies find most convenient, what they love even more than a bio nipple, is a good, solid, strategically placed male shoulder nipple. Or two. Or more. In a word, we want equality. Also, again, we really, really want more nipples. But the big thing? Equality. Nipple-nursing equality.

What do we want? We simply want the ability to nurse a baby through artfully grafted shoulder nipples connected by surgical shunts to actual mammary glands, swollen with the nourishing human milk that beautiful babies need to flourish and grow, tucked into our subclavicular cavities by the world’s best shoulder-nipple surgeons! When do we want it? Soon-ish! Soon-ish would still possibly work, if Now! and Soon! aren’t really going to work. Again, Now! would really be ideal, if you happen to be looking at your calendar.

But in the short term, please, we just want to be able to come to league meetings. Which we cannot. Because of a simple, basic, disgraceful oversight: the charter of the League of Men with Nipple Shoulders states that league membership shall only be open to men who already have nipples on their shoulders, and not men who self-identify as men with nipples on their shoulders. Is that forward-thinking? No. Is that cruel? Yes, it is. Is that in keeping with the original spirit and purpose of the League of Men with Nipple Shoulders, which was to create a place for men with nipples on their shoulders to congregate and feel safe, to provide resources for men with nipples on their shoulders and access to services for men with nipples on their shoudlers, and to generally advance the cause of men with nipples on their shoulders? I think not. Is this why our forefathers left their homelands and came to these shores? Is this why Washington crossed the Delaware? Is this why King marched from Selma? So that men who are weary, men who don’t have extra money lying around for what their insurance companies choose to call “unnecessary invasive surgical procedures,” men who are just really, really tired of wearing one of those fake breasts full of baby formula across their torsos—breasts of shame!—can be left standing out in the cold by their brothers, huddled together, longing to breathe free within the comfortable, tastefully decorated, and exquisitely catered members’ lounge of the League of Men with Nipple Shoulders?

There are homeless kids on my lawn. Hey, get off my lawn! They are all hopped up on cough medicine and energy drinks. And they’re peeing. And they seem to be in a great deal of pain as they pee. And they’re distracting me from practicing my speech for the rally. Still, I understand the point I think they’re trying to make, which is that it is our right to self-actualize, whether it is as a homeless kid who dreams of urinating itchy, burning pee on a lawn, or as a future transnippled man, a man who dreams of his right to nipples, nipples, and more nipples. Whoever we are—part alien or all human, cyborg brain implant or regular brain, transarmed or old-fashioned armed—it remains true what they say: the shoulder-nipple arc of the universe is long, but it bends towards me.

No! Stop- Stop shouting!  I get it! I don’t like shouting. Yes! Y- No!  I am aware!  Is my smeller busted? Do I not know what an alarm signifies? I know there’s a fire! Just calm down!  Stop. Stop. Stop! Stooooop!

Okay. That’s better.  See? We’re not personally on fire. Just the building is.  Or if I’m smelling the direction right the apartment of Tony the Lonely is on fire.  And I’m guessing, don’t freak out because I really can’t take more yelling, Mr. Tony the Lonely, is barbecuing himself.  That’s the hamburger and pineapple smell you’re smelling.

How do I know? Because I work at a crematorium, Sandy.  You think I can unsmell that?  Our American diet turns us into sugared meat.  That’s just the reality.  That’s why I, if I was ever in a Have-to-Go-Cannibal-To-Survive scenario, would eat the Americans first.  Because they’d taste the best.  I bet Brits taste like their unseasoned blah-food and Germans taste like old sausage and historical regret.

Now let’s just look at this logically.  Because we have an interesting opportunity.  That hypothetical question: What would you save if your house was on fire? is now a real life situation for us.  We get to truly explore it.

First off, know that I would save you.  And I will.  You’re not kissing me but that’s okay.  I know I nailed the romantic thing-to-say for the day. We should grab out laptops.  Sure.  That’s an obvious. It’s the twentieth first century.  We’re tech slaves.  Phones and laptops.  And powercords.  Geez.  Can you imagine that? We’d have to buy more.  And we’re already losing so much.

Ignore that screaming.  That would be Ingrid.  She probably sees flames shooting out of Tony’s place.  She’s not being rational like us.  Ol’ Tony the Lonely got himself whiskey soaked I’m sure and when he fell asleep on his ancient mattress, which I bet was more dust mites than stuffing, he smoked into himself into a flame broiled Tony patty.

Let’s grab those scrapbooks. Even though we have the jpegs, we printed that crap out and put it into books we bought together at a Michael’s Crafts.  That was when I knew I wanted to live together with you forever in our soon to be shell of an apartment.  Those have emotional resonance.  Throw them in the nice duffel bag.

Catch these things!  Pillows! Favorite books!  Signed concert shirt! Expensive wine! Sexy teddy!  Journals with Firefly reboot ideas!  Thermal socks!  Nice suit!  I don’t know how you’re going to fit it all, get a rolling suitcase!  Geode!  Real Prada bag!  Fake Prada bag!  Ironic typewriter!  Han Solo blaster! Ship in a bottle!

I do not care about my stuff more than yours! If I did, why would I be tossing your shoes into the street so we can save the ones that aren’t scavenged by the street people?  Baby, watch out for where the floor is crumbling in fire.  We are saving the most valuable stuff in the apartment and frankly, I’ve spent a lot more money on movie replicas than…are you listening to me or are you coughing?

No! You can’t say it first.  I was about to say moving in with you was the worst decision of my life!  You have done nothing but belittle my Battlestar mobiles and make fun of my art.  A lifesize version of me frozen in carbonite is going to make me in the art world!  Yes, my hoodie hood is smoldering…I know how to stop, drop, and roll, Sandy!  Don’t tell me about basic fire safety!  I’m a crematician!

Fine.  Just hide behind a wall of flame!  Are you seeing this symbol, Sandy?  Because this has always been between us!  Are you still there?  Did you take our stuff down?  Baby?  My jean cuffs are real hot.  Could you throw me a screwdriver and a seltzer?  I need to dismantle my lifesize R2D2 so I can lower it out the window in our duvet.