Deep Thoughts & Piss Shivers
You're in intensive care in the hospital and somehow the tubes in your nose get hooked up to a wet/dry vac being used to clean up a colostomy spill.
I hope if dogs ever take over the world, and they chose a king, they don't just go by size, because I bet there are some Chihuahuas with some good ideas.
I guess we we're all guilty, in a way. We all shot him, we all skinned him, and we all got a complimentary bumper sticker that said, "I helped skin Bob."
If you define cowardice as running away at the first sign of danger, screaming and tripping and begging for mercy, then yes, Mr. Brave man, I guess I'm a coward.
You have an incredible fear of heights. You're on the edge of the bungee jumping platform, and just as you fall off, you hear one operator say to the other, "Hey don't that hook go somewhere?"
You're completely naked except for a mailman's hat, and fenced in with a thousand, toothless dogs.
You're in one of those things that steam hot dog buns, you're wearing itchy contact lenses and reading things that were clipped out of the newspaper by your grandma.
Someone is taking a cheese grater to your shins, chlorine is dripping in your eye and it won't cease until your absent-minded aunt has described the history behind her favorite ceramic figurines.
Four feet of your colon is hanging out, you're being chased by hungry wolves and you're wearing platform shoes.
You're laying face down and naked on an innertube, being pulled by a tugboat through piranha infested waters and you've got a woody.
You're hurtling towards earth, fumbling for the ripcord and suddenly you realize it's not your parachute, but a Welcome Back Kotter backpack.
When you go in for a job interview, I think a good thing to ask is if they ever press charges.
To me, boxing is like a ballet, except there's no music, no choreography, and the dancers hit each other.
What is it that makes a complete stranger dive into an icy river to save a solid gold baby? Maybe we'll never know.
We tend to scoff at the beliefs of the ancients. But we can't scoff at them personally, to their faces, and this is what annoys me.
You're scuba diving near the Great Barrier Reef, you're hiding from a great white shark and your girlfriend is mouthing what looks like the word "Tampon".
Somebody has pumped your scrotum full of helium. You're floating 12 feet off the ground, and you're the lead float in a parade to honor the invention of the BB gun.
You're sitting in the bathtub watching Jeopardy and the T.V. gets nudged closer towards falling in everytime Alex Trebek smugly pronounces anything in French.
Your fever is giving you the chills, you're in a meat locker, sitting ona block of ice, and you can't leave until you win a Slurpee drinking contest.
You're kayaking pantsless down the Colorado river, your helmet weighs 500 lbs, the kayak is filled with rats and you're sitting on a peanut buttersandwich.
A funny thing to do is, if you're out hiking and your friend gets bitten by a poisonous snake, tell him you're going to go for help, then go about ten feet and pretend that *you* got bit by a snake. Then start an argument with him about who's going to go get help. A lot of guys will start crying. That's why it makes you feel good when you tell them it was just a joke.
You're on the Space Shuttle, you've just entered a zero gravity area, and out of the corner of your eye, you spot a fellow astronaut masturbating.
Too bad when I was a kid there wasn't a guy in our class that everybody called the "Cricket Boy", because I would have liked to stand up in class and tell everybody, "You can make fun of the Cricket Boy if you want to, but to me he's just like everybody else." Then everybody would leave the Cricket Boy alone, and I'd invite him over to spend the night at my house, but after about five minutes of that loud chirping I'd have to kick him out. Maybe later we could get up a petition to get the Cricket Family run out of town. Bye, Cricket Boy.
To me, clowns aren't funny. In fact, they're kind of scary. I've wondered where this started and I think it goes back to the time I went to the circus, and a clown killed my dad.
A distant relative has left you a million dollars in their will, but to collect, you have to get laid at a lesbian poetry reading, by quoting Norman Mailer, wearing a "Pat Robertson for President" T-shirt, and a cologne called "Monkey House".
Most people don't realize that large pieces of coral, which have been painted brown and attached to the skull by common wood screws, can make a child look like a deer.
I guess I kind of lost control, because in the middle of the play I ran up and lit the evil puppet villain on fire. No, I didn't. Just kidding. I just said that to help illustrate one of the human emotions, which is freaking out. Another emotion is greed, as when you kill someone for money, or something like that. Another emotion is generosity, as when you pay someone double what he paid for his stupid puppet.
I wish outer space guys would conquer the Earth and make people their pets, because I'd like to have one of those little beds with my name on it.
You're drowning, the only person who can save you is Michael Jackson and just as he's about to dive in, he hears the help cries of a naked boy.
If you're in a war, instead of throwing a hand grenade at the enemy, throw one of those small pumpkins. Maybe it'll make everyone think how stupid war is, and while they are thinking, you can throw a real grenade at them.
I hope life isn't a big joke, because I don't get it.
Many people think that history is a dull subject. Dull? Is it "dull" that Jesse James once got bitten on the forehead by an ant, and at first it didn't seem like anything, but then the bite got worse and worse, so he went to a doctor in town, and the secretary told him to wait, so he sat down and waited, and waited, and waited, and waited, and then finally he got to see the doctor, and the doctor put some salve on it? You call that dull?
You've got a canker sore, you're drinking grapefruit juice, and you're stuck on the ride "It's a Small World" with Marge Schott.
I'd like to see a nude opera, because when they hit those high notes, I bet you can really see it in those genitals.
Too bad you can't buy a voodoo globe so that you could make the earth spin real fast and freak everybody out.
You've got incredible cotton-mouth, you're eating wheat thins and Sandy Duncan is singing show tunes without her eye in.
If I lived back in the wild west days, instead of carrying a six-gun in my holster, I'd carry a soldering iron. That way, if some smart-aleck cowboy said something like "Hey, look. He's carrying a soldering iron!" and started laughing, and everybody else started laughing, I could just say, "That's right, it's a soldering iron. The soldering iron of justice." Then everybody would get real quiet and ashamed, because they had made fun of the soldering iron of justice, and I could probably hit them up for a free drink.
The crunchberries in your cereal have been replaced by the balls of "sleep" in your dog's eye, you find yourself laughing at the comic strip"Nancy" and picking the wet Gummi Bears out of your uncle's hairy back.
Anytime I see something screech across a room and latch onto someone's neck, and the guy screams and tries to get it off, I have to laugh, because what is that thing.
You're strapped to the hood of the lead car in the Daytona 500, your mouth and eyes have been propped open and it's the season of the 17-yearlocust.
I remember that one fateful day when Coach took me aside. I knew what was coming. "You don't have to tell me," I said. "I'm off the team, aren't I?" "Well," said Coach, "you never were really ON the team. You made that uniform you're wearing out of rags and towels, and your helmet is a toy space helmet. You show up at practice and then either steal the ball and make us chase you to get it back, or you try to tackle people at inappropriate times." It was all true what he was saying. And yet, I thought something is brewing inside the head of this Coach. He sees something in me, some kind of raw talent that he can mold. But that's when I felt the handcuffs go on.
You're sitting in the glass bin of a recycling center, dangling from your nostrils are two Q-tips soaked in Old Spice and you're eating a bratwurst that was warmed in the crack of a plumber's butt.
It takes a big man to cry, but it takes a bigger man to laugh at that man.
You're in a Motel 6, Tom Bodett is clipping his toenails in the nude and he didn't leave the light on.
You're wearing nipple rings that are tethered to quarter horses, you're watching the Def Comedy Jam and the horses have been trained to gallop whenever they hear "Motherfucker".
