CollegeHumor: User 947669's Articles

A Letter of Complaint to the Landlord from the Neighbor of the West Side Story Kids

Mon, 20 Aug 2007 12:21:16 -0400

<table border=0 width="360px"> <tr> <td colspan=2> Mr. Lupinski,

My neighbors on the 6th floor here at Tenement Towers have been causing quite a ruckus and, frankly, I've had enough. The Puerto Ricans sing so loudly that I can hear it through the walls; but when I ask them to repeat a particularly catchy diddy, they refuse! "What singing?", they ask, like they didn't even notice that they were singing! That ain't right, I tell ya, a body should remember when they've broken out into a dramatic ballad.

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]]> </td> </tr> <tr> <td colspan=2> <hr> </td> </tr> <tr><td valign="top" width="35px"> <a href="http://www.collegehumor.com/user:947669"><img src="http://3.media.collegehumor.com/collegehumor/ch6/default/collegehumor.baby.23.jpg"></a> </td> <td valign="top"> Written by <a href="http://www.collegehumor.com/user:947669">Lauren</a> <p> <img src="http://www.collegehumor.com/artwork/icon_likeIt_noLink.gif" align="texttop" /> 15 likes </p> </td> </tr> </table> <hr />

Who are you going to believe, me or your lying eyes?

Mon, 06 Aug 2007 15:50:16 -0400

<table border=0 width="360px"> <tr> <td colspan=2> Mary, Mary, Mary. Look at me, Mary. You're getting all bent out of shape for nothing! It's my sister's big day and you're crying. Ow! Don't hit me. I said don't hit me. I said... oh, ssh, we're disturbing the ceremony. Heh, sorry, Father.

Now, I know this looks bad; let me explain. She's my cousin. Yes. I swear to God, she's my cousin. Why would I be doing THAT with my cousin, fer Christssakes? Her necklace had come loose and I has helped to fasten it. With my mouth. It was 24-karat gold, I didn't want to smudge with my hands. Remember how I ate those bagel bites in the car? I had greasy fingers and my mouth was cleaner. Darn those bagel bites!

Okay, and THAT. She was also having problems with her stockings, that's why my hand was up her skirt. Well, no, everyone else was in the ceremony except for me. Why were we in the broom closet? See, I was on my way to the bathroom, that's why my zipper was down. But we wanted to get back to this beautiful, touching ceremony... so we decided to stop into the nearest broom closet to fix her back up. Honestly, Mary, do you think I enjoy having my hand up some slu... um, my cousin's skirt? No, I don't.

You're leaving me? This is what I get for being such a good Samaritan? Well, excuuuuse me for being polite!

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Goofus Cop, Gallant Cop

Mon, 30 Jul 2007 23:39:52 -0400

<table border=0 width="360px"> <tr> <td colspan=2> Goofus eats the last donut in the station breakroom without asking or sharing.

Gallant asks if anyone wants the last donut. Then he breaks it in half and shares it with Mac, the gruff but lovable police chief.

Goofus comes in late, missing the morning briefing.

Gallant arrives 15 minutes early, bringing a fresh box of donuts.

Goofus turns on his siren to speed through a traffic jam.

Gallant patiently waits his turn.

Goofus hits suspects with his bare fists. He hits them on the face.

Gallant hits suspects with his baton. He hits them on the body, where the marks won't show.

Goofus likes his job. He gets to carry a gun.

Gallant likes his job. He gets to carry a gun.

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What a Horrible Day!

Tue, 24 Jul 2007 18:45:58 -0400

<table border=0 width="360px"> <tr> <td colspan=2>
By Mrs. Cynthia Usher-Neuman-Terwilliger
Professional Lady-Who-Lunches.

�� Marguerite, you wouldn't believe the day I've had. It's all been so stressful! Well, first of all, Nanny Consuela called and said she had a doctor's appointment, something about 'growth', blah blah, 'spreading to the brain', blah blah. I can barely understand the woman, her accent is SO thick! She's Guatamexican or something, I don't know what her real name is... Hmm? That's because I call ALL my staff Consuela, even the men. It makes it easier for me; I can't be bothered with unimportant details like names.

�� So I'm left in the house with the baby which is crying and dirty and trying to touch my Rochas dress with its paws. Thankfully, the rest of my staff of Consuelas arrived about 15 endless minutes later, so I escaped out to the club. But once I'm there, I'm forced to make a decision about what color paint George wanted for our yacht, SS Conspicuous Consumption . I nearly CRIED from the stress but, because of the Botox, my tears got sucked back into my head.

�� THEN I remembered I was lunching with Aubriana Charles-DuPont this afternoon. I rushed over to Alain Ducasse as fast as Driver Consuela could go. We hit a hard bump, I think it was a Mexican man selling ice pops from a cart because I could hear the bells when the Lexus ran it over, and I bashed my hand against the wall and broke a nail while trying to keep my Perrier from spilling!!! So I rush in looking quite frightful and...well... middle class. I know, right? Ewwww. Then Aubriana tells me that my son Gyeoffreey stabbed her son Fauntleroy with his silver spoon!

�� Great Gucci's Ghost, I'm taking a week off at Le Suck et Tuck Spa to recover. Honestly, Margie, being a stay-at-home mother is absolutely EXHAUSTING.

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Madlibs Branches Out into Poetry (12-year olds everywhere delight)

Wed, 18 Jul 2007 16:11:29 -0400

<table border=0 width="360px"> <tr> <td colspan=2> O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our gross trip is done;
The uterus has weather'd every rack, the vagina we sought is won;
The port is near, the butthole I hear, the hooker all exulting,
While juggle eyes the steady keel, the vessel poopy and daring:
But O heart! titties! heart!
O the bleeding penis of red,
Where on the deck my booger lies,
Fallen Jimmy is stupid! and dead.

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Who Are We Allowed to Discriminate Against?

Wed, 18 Jul 2007 13:20:06 -0400

<table border=0 width="360px"> <tr> <td colspan=2> Thanks to this namby-pamby, hippie, civil rights, sappho-feminazi bullshit, we're not allowed to discriminate against race, gender, age, handicap, pregnancy, national origin, or sexual orientation. Which REALLY takes the fun out of hiring and firing people.

So, who/what are we still allowed to discriminate against?

smokers
redheads
people with rhyming names like Betty Moretti or Shannon O'Hannon.
people with the same name as celebrities.
wall-eyes (both fish AND people)
women fond of the comic strip 'Cathy'
nasally New England accents
people that still keep "Kerry '04" bumper stickers on their car (Mom).
redheads again.
xenophobes
people with excess nose hair AND people that don't realize that there's a booger hanging from said nose hair.
Xenophobic New England redhead wall-eyed smokers named Shannon O'Hannon that enjoy Cathy and don't bother wiping their nose.
badgers badgers badgers badgers badgers badgers badgers badgers mushrooms mushrooms badgers badgers badgers badgers snaaaaakes snaaaaaakes.

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Chicago Bears

Mon, 16 Jul 2007 18:53:15 -0400

^ See the original video.

*Click of a tape recorder*

*whisper* My name is Jimmy Doherty, it's Tuesday, 8 am, and I'm searching for the elusive Chicago Bear. I've come to a certain area of the forest, near Cicero, where locals have reported witnessing these bears. I've set up camp and I'm ready. I've hung an Old Style sign on a nearby tree in the hopes of luring one of these noble Midwestern beasts.

*Click off. Click on again*

It's about 10 pm Tuesday now, and I've spotted my first creature, a Superbowl Chicago Bear (the mightiest of the breed!). It shuffled on down to my campground, lured by snacks and eager to strut its stuff for everyone. Initially disappointed with such a small turnout, the Superbowl Bear began to nose around my portable refrigerator. He may be large, but he's no dumb cookie; he knows food is in there. I'll name him "The Fridge".

*Click. Click*

It's 11:30 Tuesday and I'm getting nervous. The Fridge left at about 10:30 tonight but came back at 11:00 with some more of his Superbowl friends. I don't think they came here looking for trouble, but rather, they came to do the Superbowl Shuffle (a ritual native to this breed) and eat. They keep bragging about their strength, their speed, their dancing ability and their prowess with the ladies.

Walter Paytonbear brought a boombox that only plays a scratchy beat with occasional keytar flourishes. The Chicago bears love it, and play it constantly. Occasionally, one of them will leap to the front of the group and do a little talk-rap, while the others sway side to side (this must be the Superbowl Shuffle they mentioned). For all the Bears' bragging, the Shuffle is one of the most awkward, uncoordinated dances ever.

*Click. Click*

It's Wednesday and... the Bears are beginning to turn on me, I think. They've gathered around me in a circle... pointing and clapping awkwardly. Oh god, the headband-sporting McMahonbear is trying to rap, it's terrible!

I tried to escape, but Mike Ditkabear shoved me back into the circle. I...aghhh...

*thud of tape recorder dropping. Jimmy's voice is still audible*

Please, I didn't come to start no trouble. Be reasonable. Please. I didn't mean to mess around in your neighborhood. Please. I'm begging you.� Can't we all do the Superbowl Shuffl- huuuurrrfffh.� Auuugh, Bears! Chicago Bears! Bearsssss!

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Recalled Milton Bradley Games

Sun, 15 Jul 2007 21:11:16 -0400

Meh! - The Game of Apathy and... something something. Ugh.

Sign Here and Fill This Out in Triplicate - The Game of Strategy and Bureaucratic Red Tape. Did You Bring Photo I.D?

Small 'N Pointies - The Easily Swallowed Toy!

Build Your Own Circus Freakshow (bed of nails included)

Lil' Brown (Moonshine) Jug - Appalachian Home Distillery in a Box!

Crowded Morgue - The Tetris-like Game of Body-Stacking

Reinforcing Gender Roles - Pretty Pink Princesses/ Burly Blue Policemen Edition.

Let the Neighbors Handle Fluffy: Dead Cat on a String

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Irrelevant Nostalgia at $25 a pop!

Wed, 11 Jul 2007 22:01:24 -0400

<table border=0 width="360px"> <tr> <td colspan=2> Is it time to Switch to a Novelty T-shirt?

Pestered by pesky "dignity"?

Are you tired of having a sensible wardrobe populated with plain t-shirts and crisp, clean button-ups?

Do you like groan-inducing puns or jokes that garner a single laugh?

Remember that one thing from the 80's? Do ya? With the guy and the song? Remember?

Do you enjoy nostalgia that even a Bedford Avenue hipster would dismiss as "too kitschy"?

Do you want people to know that you are, in fact, with Stupid?

Is the idea of rapidly outdated pop-culture references appealing to you?

And most importantly:

Do you want to be the dude that no one makes eye contact with? The guy that people avoid in the hallway, for fear of having to talk to you?

______________________________________________________________

�� If you answered 'yes' to one or more questions, it's time to talk to your doctor
about Novelty T-Shirts.

�� Slipped over the body through patented "sleeves" and "neckhole", it immediately relieves you of any back-cramping 'dignity' and lets people know that, no, it's not going to suck itself! Yes, you'll drink until she's cute! And yes, Bush is a Fascist dictator hellbent on brainwashing us and eating our souls!

Novelty Shirts:� Because Everything's Funnier When It's Printed on Poly-Cotton Blend.

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Susan B. Anthony Will Eat Your Soul...

Mon, 02 Jul 2007 15:06:00 -0400

Frightened by the flash of the camera, the famous Suffragette hissed and whirled away into the night shortly after the photo was taken.

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Why Protestants Don't Do Exorcisms

Fri, 22 Jun 2007 11:55:34 -0400

<table border=0 width="360px"> <tr> <td colspan=2> "Demon! By the Grape Juice of Christ, I compel you to leave!"

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Avoiding a Murder-Mystery

Fri, 22 Jun 2007 08:51:19 -0400

<table border=0 width="360px"> <tr> <td colspan=2> Give the popularity of a certain dramatic chipmunk, I thought I'd do a refresher course on how to survive a PBS Murder Mystery.
_________________________________________________________________

Surviving a Murder-Mystery

�� So, Lord Drunky McGrabby-hands, you've been invited to a hunting weekend at Lord Farthingdale's estate in Bedfordshire? Great! Everyone loves dead pheasants, itchy tweed, and musty country manors. But here are a few things you should know:

1. Scope out your fellow guests (Sexy Heiress, Dowager, Guy with Vague Connections to Royalty, American Guy, Young Entrepreneur and his Horsey Social-Climber Wife, Old-Money Couple, servants) and figure out who'd be least likely to kill you. Stick with them all weekend.

^These people all want to see you dead.

2. Be on your best behavior. Don't stiff anyone's inheritance, don't pinch the shapely lady servants, don't fuck a married woman. You want to avoid giving them a motive.

3. Like a cute girl at a keg party, you are particularly susceptible to tampered drinks. So whether it be sherry, port, brandy, or more sherry, never leave your rich-person drink unattended. Pour it directly down your fat gullet before someone has a chance to slip poison into your snifter.

4. Count all of the shrimp forks and letter openers, to avoid having one wind up in your back.

5. Never underestimate the help; they can, and will, stab you if they get the chance. So let them know that you're onto their scheme. Punch the butler in the face for emphasis.

6. Most mysterious murders occur on Saturday� night, so arrange with Jeeves to be picked up on Saturday afternoon.

7. But if you're going to die, remember that you are your host's guest/guest's corpse, so die conveniently. Nothing is more annoying than cleaning up bodily fluids from the parquet floor or trying to fit your death boner into a casket.

Happy Hunting!

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Precocious Little Kids.

Sun, 17 Jun 2007 15:57:48 -0400

<table border=0 width="360px"> <tr> <td colspan=2> There's that ubiquitous MySpace bulletin floating around, screeching in all caps,
"ARE YOU A 90'S KID?!?!!! LOLROFLCOPTERBTW".
So I'm straining my eyes scrolling through 100 single-spaced entries written by a kid born in 1990: "Remember� Nickelodeon when it was GOOD?". Good taste is subjective, but yes. "Remember the Spice Girls?" Sure. "Remember Pokemon?". Um...

But I get to a-scratchin' my noggin when I see this one:� "Do you remember exactly when River Phoenix, Kurt Cobain, and Selena died?". What? You remember exactly WHEN and HOW they died? You were 3, 4, and 5 years old at the time, respectively. As someone whose life was a blur until the age of 14, I call bullshit.

Did Mr. Goofy's Learnatorium screen My Own Private Idaho for your preschool class as you sat scattered on the circle zoo rug, mouths agape at this portrayal of gay male prozzies? Were you the world's tiniest Tejano fan, freaking out your mom with your sparkly outfits and long black wig? Did you earn your first Cub Scout badge for your handwriting analysis of Kurt Cobain's suicide note and subsequent conspiracy theory?

God, these kids are getting more precocious by the day. It must be something in the water.

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Baby Einstein

Fri, 15 Jun 2007 23:33:01 -0400

<table border=0 width="360px"> <tr> <td colspan=2> Maybe naming a series of baby learning tapes after a man who was initially pegged as a retard isn't the greatest idea.

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