Make Your Own Jokes #2

Pull String Woody

Make Your Own Jokes

I was caught off guard when advertisements appeared on these pages screaming "Buy Gay-Friendly Autos."

What?! Cars can be gay?

Hummersexuals or homobiles or something?

One blurb asked:

"Does your ride reflect your Pride? Is your car out of the closet?"

Not only has my car never been in and/or out of a closet, but it also hasn't been in a parking garage or a carwash for eight years.

Manly.

Rugged.

Ram Tough.

Typo. Damn Tough! Damn Tough!

I plan to fight any Turtle Wax with shampoo and conditioner for extra silkiness.

Furthermore, if gasoline doesn't have a testosterone additive, we ain't pumping.

So, when did this vehicular phenomenon come about?

I've had gay friends and acquaintances over the years and I've heard quite a few lifestyle revelations, yet not one word concerning queer eye for the straight shift.

Well, okay, fine. I don't know about alternative wheels, but I do know comedy gold when I see it.

And the premise "Buy Gay-Friendly Autos" is definitely comedy gold, ready to be mined.

Nevertheless, I'm not going there. Nope, not me.

Sure, I have several dozen fall down funny, gaspingly hilarious, laughingly hysterical, standing ovation-inducing ad-libs loaded and begging to be told. It's just that sometimes jokes aren't worth the grief they may bring and I choose to avoid this slippery slope.

I'm biting my tongue.

That seemed wiser than backing on tippy-toes.

Good Evening, Ladies and Germs

I have progressed into the second month of the mindbogglingly stuffy head and chest cold that has become an international cause celebre. With the awards season in full swing (i.e., Golden Globes, Oscars), I'd like to thank the little people who gave me the taint.

Thanks, kids. Now, be on with you. Go sneeze on dinner.

I'd also like to thank our county officials for placing the commemorative plaque in my yard. I'll cherish it always.


I'm the first blocked on my block to be so honored.

Gosh, I'm getting the sniffles.

Cure Curve

I'm reading about this Prednisone prescription I've been taking.

It's a STEROID!


*sigh*

There goes the Baseball Hall of Fame...

The Swellboy

Anyone who has ever come in contact with me knows that for half a century my life's ambition has been to be just like Jerry Lewis.

It's been slowgoing.

Although, I do eat funny.

Now, back to my lingering cold. I'm epically congested.

I finished a week of antibiotics that didn't do much healing, so my doctor has put me on Prednisone, the prescription medicine that bloated Jerry to the extra 60 pounds of puffiness he amassed awhile back.

I'm just like Jerry!

Time to go inflate!

You'll never walk alone,

Mike

P.S. We're going to need a bigger house.

In Case You Came in Late...

I am better now, but a mean head and chest cold took up residence the day after Christmas.

Strep throat and fever gave me a violent reaction: hives in the shape of Charles Bronson.

My ears have been slow to return to clarity. I would estimate I heard 20% of normal levels due to the muffled sludge loitering in the auditory canals.

The good news is Rosie O'Donnell was filtered and I only heard the tender cacophony of a rabid nostril-flamed ogress gnashing a cuddlesome marmoset.

Ahh, heartening respite.

My annual medical physical occurred during the darkest slump, too, and it was good.

There was a bit of a scare with the appearance of unidentified spots on my chest x-ray. The doc said the marks were most likely due to me being "slightly off-center." I punched him slightly right onto the cookie jar of tongue depressors.

He turned. He wanted to fight. He took the glove off.

Days (and a restorative bopped nose splint) later, I underwent a special CT exam and celebrity photo shoot at the hospital imaging center.

My weakened condition caused difficulties when I tried to gulp in a deep breath and hold it during the snapping of the x-rays, let alone make my lungs say "Cheese!"

The lungs proved to be textbook normal, thank goodness, yet my raw throat and increased fiery swallow pain revealed I was in a period of epiglottal warming.

The CT procedure totaled $1100 in out of pocket expenses, marring the fun.

I was forced to pay all costs because our insurance deductible hadn't yet been met, however my next debilitating indignity is FREE!

'Grindhouse'

The new intentional schlock film, "Grindhouse," opening in April, is actually two, two flicks in one: Robert Rodriguez's "Planet Terror" and Quentin Tarantino's "Death Proof."

In the sly teaser movie trailer produced in a decades old style of sinister hyperbole, we're given the definition of the phrase "grind house."

"A theatre playing back-to-back films exploiting sex, violence, and other extreme subject matter."

Technically, the studio's explanation is misleading. The term means "continuous showings," rather than denoting cheap, slapdash action content. Most theatres were and are grind houses, regardless of their cinematic selections, "Ben-Hur" to "Bent Her."

I remember hearing the "grind house" lingo as early as 1963-64 during my adolescent years screening mainstream movies at the Emory Theatre in Atlanta, long before the R-rated era was unleashed. While today's multiplexes stop for intermissions due to operational considerations, they still grind the shows out all day and much of the night. A more exact title for "Grindhouse" would be "Exploitation."

Noted film historian Frank Thompson writes:

"You're right about the misnomer 'grindhouse.' They're misunderstanding what a grindhouse was, just as most people misunderstand what the term 'B movie' means -- they think it means 'b quality,' like meat, I guess."

I dunno nothing 'bout b-ing no meat.

Nevertheless, "Grindhouse" looks like a retro hoot, starring Kurt Russell and, as the compassionate Internet Movie Database refers to her, "a gun-legged woman named Cherry (Rose McGowan)."

I'm not a rabid fan of these demented genres, but I do enjoy the cheesy coming attractions previews. "Grindhouse" will present all-new fake-out trailers inserted before each part of the double feature. Their titles, one rumored to star Nicolas Cage as Fu Manchu, include: "They Call Him Machete," "Werewolf Women of the S.S.," "Thanksgiving," and "Cowgirls in Sweden."

Wow. It's 1975 at the gasping-for-one-last-breath downtown movie palaces all over again.

All that's missing are watered Cokes, stale popcorn, and an after-show liquor store robbery.

Dark Chocolate

Thanks to the online Become an M&M Character Creator, I've finally been able to check off another accomplished dream of life.

I have designed an M in my own image. You don't know what it means to me to get free monogramming.

All of my essence has been captured: my sweet, sugary-coated complexion, high-gloss green sheen, arms growing out of my ears, and that ever-mysterious lack of candy ass and manly bits. It's a great day.

I'd love to show you my creation, but the Mars, Incorporated legal department says, "Nuts to you."

I hope they melt.

Nevertheless, via About Humor, you can create your own M with those tools on Mars.