When I watch any Matrix movie, I like to pretend Keannu is being Ted instead of Neo 

and mentally replace all his lines with 

"Woah", "Excellent" and "Bogus"

A Cautionary Tale

Haiku for the Modern Gentleman

We are on Playschool
Open wide, and like Big Ted
I will come inside

Screw It

I walk past Public bar to see what's cracken'
Bump into a guy I once was pashin'
I ignore him cause that's just what you do
He ignores me cause he thinks so too

Later that evening and drunk off his skull
He comes by me says "Hey, you doin' well?"
I say "Sure, hey how about you?"
He goes "Yeah, fuck, where's the loo?"

Much later still he touches my bum
Says "Come on darlin', you know you want some"
"Dude", I say, "I'm not that sad"
He snorts and says "I know you want it bad"

I say "Shoo"
He says "Pooh"
Now we're both a bit lonely with nothin' to screw.

Mirror, Mirror

Christmas Jokes You Can Actually Laugh To

Guest post #1: Potter on the Run by Zac Stanley

Potter On The Run

By Zac Stanley

Published: December 10, 2010

LONDON- Three days after the tragic slaying of local mental patient, Voldus Mort, at the hands of his recently escaped cell mate, Harry Potter, the public have raised their wands in protest to the Ministry’s apparent inability to apprehend the most dangerous fugitive the wizarding community has seen since Sirius Black.

Following the discovery of Mort’s body on the grounds of the abandoned Hogwarts castle, the authorities were quick to obtain warrants for the capture and arraignment of the deranged Potter. The actual capture of the fugitive, however,  has proved too great a task for the Ministry’s Auror Unit. Kingsley Shacklebolt, new head of the Auror Unit after the untimely demise of Alastor Moody- also at Potter’s hands- had this to say on the subject of the ongoing manhunt:

“Potter is a deluded psychopath. These people are always the hardest to track. They do not follow the same patterns as rationally thinking escapees and thus present a new challenge. Do not doubt that we will bring this killer to justice, however. It is only a matter of time. The Auror Unit and the Ministry itself urges the wizarding community to exercise extreme caution until such a time that the Potter menace is neutralized.”

Potter was last institutionalized after a string of murders- including those of his parents- were linked to him by the late Alastor Moody. His analyst and those orderlies who came into contact with him during his stay at St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries all agreed that Potter’s ailment was mental rather than magical. Due to the violent and magical nature of his illness, however, his detainment in the highly guarded and little known Dangerous Patient Ward was deemed extremely necessary by the Minister of Magic himself.

Gordon Mufflot, an orderly at St. Mungo’s had this to say about Potter’s illness:

“It ain’t right, sometimes, locking people up because they ain’t right in the head. No windows, no doors except when one of us orderlies or a doctor makes one and no company but another drooling crazy in the bed oposite. In Potter’s case, though, I’d’ve thrown him in the dungeon and forgotten about him if it was up to me. Always mumbling to people that weren’t there, he was. Hermione and Ron- they were the main ones, always chatting away, they were. That weren’t all though, no sir. He had a whole world plotted out in that screwy head of his- Voldemorts and Death Eaters and a school for little witches and wizards. Imagine that- learnin’ magic in a school.  Anyway, I knew he was different the whole while he was in there- always cut my visits to that room short as I could.”

After escaping with Mort, a feat which to this day baffles both the doctors of St. Mungo’s and the  Ministry’s Aurors, Potter allegedly transported his cell mate and himself to the abandoned grounds of Hogwarts castle, the site of his imagined “school for young witches and wizards”. Aurors have reverse engineered the spells which Potter used on Mort before his demise, and have concluded that Mort was made very uncomfortable with a string of stinging and itching curses before his eventual demise at the hands of the Killing Curse.

A memorial service for Voldus Mort will be held by his family this Thursday and they have invited any empathetic witches or wizards from the London area to attend. The late Mort’s wife had this to say on the subject of her husband’s untimely death:

“Voldie was a good man at his core, he was only in that ward for a couple days a month to be restrained for his lycanthropic episodes. Every time I think of him locked in that room with that lunatic Potter, I just can’t... I can’t.” The recently widowed Ms. Mort took a short break from the interview and returned later to voice her grievances.

“It’s the fault of the Ministry. That Minister locked him away from the public but not from my husband. I don’t care that Potter was underage when he killed all those people. He should have been tried as an adult and sent to Azkaban!” Ms. Mort once again descended into tears at this point but wished to convey that a charity fund would be set up in the name of her husband to fund research into a cure for lycanthropy. She asked that those who were affected by the death of her husband would donate a Sickle or Knut in his honor.

Haiku for the Modern Gentleman

The box is broken.
Hold the bag, suckle the last
Drop of crisp dry white

Son of a Baby Boomer

I was the son of a baby boomer

Hippie born and beatnik bred.

And my parents told me to be rebellious

So I did exactly what they said

Now these punks have all grown old

Their rebellion slowly running dry

So in my disdainful adolescence

I wear a suit and business tie

My parents said I could be anything

And that they would always be so proud

So I became The Man, and said

“Your hair’s too long, your music’s too loud”.

Life of Sam

Sam Wilkinson is the offspring of Ares and Aphrodite. Those who worshipped Sam often made bloody sacrifices in his name. Warriors who worshipped Sam, such as Heracles and Agamemnon, carried shields with depictions of Sam on them.

Driven mad by Hera, Sam slew his own children. To expiate the crime, Sam was required to carry out ten labors set by his archenemy, Eurystheus, who had become king in Sam’s place. Sam accomplished these tasks, but Eurystheus did not accept the cleansing of the Augean stables because Sam was going to accept pay for the labor. Neither did he accept the killing of the Lernaean Hydra as Sam’s cousin, Iolas, had helped him burn the stumps of the heads. Eurystheus set two more tasks (fetching the Golden Apples of Herperides and capturing Cerberus), which Heracles performed successfully, bringing the total number of tasks to twelve.

In June 1973, the Green Goblin held Sam Wilkinson captive on a tower of the George Washington Bridge. Georgia Quinn arrived to fight the Green Goblin, and when the Goblin threw Sam Wilkinson off the bridge, Georgia caught him by his leg with a string of web. She initially thought she had saved him, but she pulled him back onto the bridge, she realised he had already died.

Yoko Ono issued a statement the next day, saying “There is no funeral for Sam,” ending it with the words, “Sam loved and prayed for the human race. Please pray the same for him.”

Christmas Jokes You Can Actually Laugh To

The Bank Robbery

Wham!

The door flew open upon impact with a large, black boot. As it swung off its hinges three men stepped through, armed and dangerous. Black balaclavas covered their faces, guns staring menacingly at the onlookers as all three of them stood with their legs apart and their faces cold and unflinching in a well-rehearsed attempt to portray the very essence of bad-assery. Their slight V formation had a rather boy-band vibe, but that was dispelled by the shotguns, pistols, and large, empty sacks. One of them even had a pair of aviator sunglasses on over his balaclava, as he aimed one-handed and blew a surveillance camera off the ceiling with the stone cold grace and finesse of one who has watched too many gangster movies. Pure bad-ass.

A shotgun blast into the air grabbed the attention of all in the bank, and was followed by an applause of shrieks and panicked ducking. Moving across the floor like sharks through a swimming pool they approached the counter, shooting looks of solid badass into any bystanders who dared pull their heads from between their legs. The middle one presented a large bag to the bank teller, a Clint Eastwood revolver adding incentive for the teller to fill it.

 “And don’t try any funny business. If the cops show up the first thing I’ma do is blow yer fuckin’ braids out.” The bank robber demonstrated his fluency in bank robber dialects. His two cronies were watching his back, doing a first-rate job of acting threatening.

The bank teller was a skinny, middle-aged man with thick glasses appropriate for a dishevelled, nervous, scrawny geek. He trembled like a second-hand washing machine when talking to telemarketers from Delhi, let alone bank robbers oozing bad-ass and bullets. His scruffy-yet-neat shirt was stuffed into the front of his plaid grey pants, which were held up b a pair of dark suspenders and looked as though they might fill with excrement at any moment. The bank teller’s hands shot upwards in the universal position of “please don’t hurt me, I’m too pathetic to die” of their own accord, as he was too busy repressing a girlish scream to have any conscious control of his own body movements.

“Take it!” He shrieked on the edge of tears, “Take it all! Just don’t hurt me!”

The bank robbers laughed a deep, masculine laugh as they leapt over the counter to make sure no ‘funny business’ could be tried. One of them shot the change weighing machine on the way over, and gave a wicked snigger afterwards.

“This all there is?” the talking bank robber inquired, his cowboy revolver demanding an answer.

“Well…” the bank teller shook and struggled for words. Never to be described as having nerves of steel, his nervous system was more likely constructed out of talcum powder.

“Tell us, faggot!” Sunglasses Bank Robber desperately wanted to show off that he could talk too. That he grabbed the bank teller with both hands was completely unnecessary; there were already enough guns being pointed around to coerce the bank teller into revealing whatever information the bank robbers wanted.

“Bah- tha- I- there’s a s-s-safe ‘round the b-back.” The bank teller could scarcely speak through his terror, “I have the k-k-key right h-here.”

In return for his compliance the bank teller found the barrel of Clint Eastwood’s favourite pushed into his neck so hard it was leaving a little red mark.

“Take us to it!”

Like a mutinous pirate walking the plank, the bank teller was pushed down the corridor with a shotgun in his back, and there almost could have been small sharks circling the puddles of sweat he was leaving behind. He trembled along the corridor, and each time the bank robbers felt so compelled as to let a shot off into the ceiling he shook like an epileptic raver and let out a high-pitched yelp. Eventually he came to a big, important-looking door, made of reinforced steel with lots of bolts and rivets and bars stuck to it for no other reason than to make it look more intimidating. It seemed driven to out bad-ass the bank rovers lumbering towards it.

“Open it!”

The bank teller dragged his quivering body towards the lock, inserted his key and turned it. The cold steel swung open, and the ominous darkness from within the vault seemed to pour into the corridor. It held open its arms, inviting the bank robbers in with the promise of wealth and glory, and they couldn't resist its hedonistic siren song. They ran towards the open door, bags open and guns at their sides. As they dove thirstily into the blackness the bank teller closed the door behind them and locked it, making sure that it made a big, deep, metallic sound which served no purpose other than to let the bank robbers know that they had been out bad-assed. For as soon as the lights inside the vault turned on, they saw not gold or money waiting for them, but the skeletons of their predecessors. All of the previous bank robbers who had been led into the vault by a devious and deceptive bank teller sat there still, rotted to the bone, still clutching their guns and their bags of money.

Haiku for the Modern Gentleman

You have just been the

unfortunate victim of

a haiku slamming