Lexophiles!

1. A bicycle can't stand alone; it is two tired.

2. A will is a dead giveaway.

3. Time flies like an arrow; fruit flies like a banana.

4. A backward poet writes inverse.

5. In a democracy it's your vote that counts; in feudalism, it's your Count that votes.

6. A chicken crossing the road: poultry in motion.

7. If you don't pay your exorcist you can get repossessed.

8. With her marriage she got a new name and a dress.

9. Show me a piano falling down a mine shaft and I'll show you A-flat miner.

10. When a clock is hungry it goes back four seconds.

11. The guy who fell onto an upholstery machine was fully recovered.

12. A grenade fell onto a kitchen floor in France resulted in Linoleum Blownapart.

13. You are stuck with your debt if you can't budge it.

14. Local Area Network in Australia : The LAN down under.

15. He broke into song because he couldn't find the key.

16. A calendar's days are numbered.

17. A lot of money is tainted: 'Taint yours, and 'taint mine.

18. A boiled egg is hard to beat.

19. He had a photographic memory which was never developed.

20. A plateau is a high form of flattery.

21. The short fortuneteller who escaped from prison: a small medium at large.

22. Those who get too big for their britches will be exposed in the end.

23. When you've seen one shopping center you've seen a mall.

24. If you jump off a Paris bridge, you are in Seine.

25. When she saw her first strands of gray hair, she thought she'd dye.

26. Bakers trade bread recipes on a knead to know basis.

27. Santa's helpers are subordinate clauses.

28. Acupuncture: a jab well done.

29. Marathon runners with bad shoes suffer the agony of de feet.

30. The roundest knight at king Arthur's round table was Sir Cumference. He acquired his size from too much pi.

31. I thought I saw an eye doctor on an Alaskan island, but it turned out to be an optical Aleutian.

32. She was only a whisky maker, but he loved her still.

33. A rubber band pistol was confiscated from algebra class because it was a weapon of math disruption.

34. The butcher backed into the meat grinder and got a little behind in his work.

35. No matter how much you push the envelope, it'll still be stationery.

36. A dog gave birth to puppies near the road and was cited for littering.

37. Two silk worms had a race. They ended up in a tie.

38. A hole has been found in the nudist camp wall. The police are looking into it.

39. Atheism is a non-prophet organization.

40. Two hats were hanging on a hat rack in the hallway. One hat said to the other, 'You stay here, I'll go on a head.'

41. I wondered why the baseball kept getting bigger. Then it hit me.

42. A sign on the lawn at a drug rehab center said: 'Keep off the Grass.'

43. A small boy swallowed some coins and was taken to a hospital. When his grandmother telephoned to ask how he was, a nurse said, 'No change yet.'

44. The soldier who survived mustard gas and pepper spray is now a seasoned veteran.

45. When cannibals ate a missionary, they got a taste of religion.

46. Don't join dangerous cults: Practice safe sects.

www.bouldertherapist.com

Why taking a dump in a Kohl’s is NEVER a good idea.

 

I went to Kohl’s today to pick up a couple new pairs of pants and just happened to stumble bass akwards into the second funniest thing to ever happen to me in a public dressing room.

The funniest thing, by the way, involved me, a rogue zipper, and two well-placed and well-needed stitches. I’ll just leave it at that.

 

So I walk into the Kohl’s dressing room and start trying on my regularly-priced-$79.99-now-on-sale-for-$23.99 pants and hear that someone is entering the dressing room adjacent to mine. I think nothing of it and continue to try to squeeze my 38-inch waist into a pair of 36-inch Dockers.

But a mere few seconds later I can hear this individual — clearly a large man by the grunting and groaning — taking off his belt. The noise a belt makes is quite distinct and it sounded like this guy had a belt buckle the size of a trash can lid. It sounded like he was taking off a parachute with all the clasps, buckles, and snaps he was undoing.

 

I chuckle to myself and take a deep breath to buckle my own pants when I hear this guy — I’m going to start calling him Dirty Randy from now on — make a couple additional grunting noises.

I’m paying homage to Dirty Randy from “The League.” Great show.

 

It sounds like this guy — I think to myself — is trying to take a shit instead of trying to take a shirt.

This incredibly crazy idea is only made more plausible by the next thing that happens: Dirty Randy absolutely uncoils a five-star, MVP-caliber fart. It was one of those epic sonofabitches that gets a second wind halfway through and grows louder. It sounded like he was trying to start an old tractor.

At the time I had one leg into my own pants and the commotion in the next dressing room sent me tumbling against the wall laughing hysterically. Here I was busting a gut while this guy was busting ass.

 

“Son of a bitch,” Dirty Randy mumbles matter-of-factly. And I don’t know exactly what it was about the way he said it, but it sounded like he was saying “Son of a bitch” not as a result of what happened but as a precursor of what was yet to come.

 

To keep prices low, please don’t shit in the dressing room.

 

And sure enough Dirty Randy lets loose a second fart, this one somehow even more repulsive than the first. The noise was a cross between an old creaky door opening and a Beluga whale. If you don’t know what that sounds like, check out this YouTube video.

 

Seriously, did this guy think he was walking into the men’s room instead of the dressing room? Is he squatting over a pile of discarded clothes that didn’t fit the last guy who was in there? The image playing out in my head was hysterical.

 

But the hysterics turned into hysteria when a visitor entered my dressing room. In the interest of full disclosure, I did lock the door before I went in there. But what came into that dressing room cannot be turned back by a $5 door bolt from Home Depot. It came in through, under, and over the door. It seeped through the cracks in the walls and tumbled down from the ceiling.

I’m here to tell you ladies and gentlemen, it was an actual mist.

 

Like in that Stephen King movie. I half expected a monster to come out of it and eat me.

 

But that would have been the painless way out. Instead, what came out of that mist was a stench so horrific that eight hours later it’s still burned into my nostrils.

 

“My bad, buddy,” Dirty Randy says from the room next door, real casual-like as if he accidentally walked between me and a TV I was watching instead of purposely filling my dressing room full of Agent Orange. I gasped for air, trying to breathe through my mouth instead of my nose. But all that did was give me a big ole’ taste of whatever it was he ate that caused such a travesty in his lower intestine. It was as if he consumed a whole bucket of sea water and bad Thai food.

I texted my wife and told her I loved her.

 

This is probably the end.

 

And then as I began to pass out I hear a voice from afar.

 

“How’s it going in there, Dirty Randy?” It’s his wife, she’s outside the dressing room now. And she didn’t really call him Dirty Randy but it sort of ruins the story if I tell you his real name.

 

“It’s too big.”

 

Too big, I think. Is he talking about whatever he’s trying on or whatever he’s trying to get out?

I laugh at the thought of my own joke. It’s starting to pull me from my own haze.

“Randy, pass it under the door and let me take a look at it.”

 

Now I’m actually laughing out loud. Is this really happening to me? The guy who writes funny blogs just has this fall into his lap.

 

Or, more appropriately, fall out of the lap of the guy next to me.

 

“Jesus, Randy, did you just shit yourself?”

 

Mrs. Dirty Randy echoes my thoughts exactly. Not only do I think he shit himself, but he shit herself and myself and every other self in the Kohl’s men’s section.

 

“No,” he replies timidly, “I think it was the guy in the room next to me.”

 

My mouth drops. But then I can taste a wicked combination of burnt lasagna, sulfur, and Skoal. For some reason, in this moment Dirty Randy and I connect. It’s as if I can tell this guy’s wife is going to spend the rest of the day busting his balls for busting his ass. In the spirit of true brotherhood, I decide to take one for the team.

 

“My bad,” I say.

 

“Gross,” Mrs. Dirty Randy says and then I hear her leave. What follows next could not have been predicted. Dirty Randy doesn’t thank me, he doesn’t say sorry, but instead he lets loose the third and final blow, a low rumbling noise that sounded like he sat on a fog horn.

 

“Thank God she left,” he says, “I was trying to choke that one off.”

 

Needless to say, I didn’t end up buying the pants.

 

If you enjoyed this piece, you can find others like it on his blog at bigfunnyblog.com. I’d appreciate if you stopped by some time.

 

You can also like hisFacebook page at facebook.com/bigfunnyblog. He put lots of funny dump-related posts on there.

The 10 Commandments of The Grocery Store.

1. Thou shall not leave your cart in an empty parking spot. There are two kinds of people in this world: 1) those who return carts to the cart corral and 2) assholes. Leaving a cart to find it’s own way home often results in the cart camping out in a parking spot someone will inevitably pull halfway into before realizing the cart is there and angrily backing out, pissing off people behind them. The carts have a home. Help them find their home.

2. Thou shall not walk down the center aisle of the parking lot. You do not have super-human pedestrian powers that override people in their cars trying to get past or around you. Pick a side—any side—and no one gets hurt.

3. Thou shall travel up and down the aisle like a civilized person. Up one side, down the other. If you’re barreling down the middle or the wrong side like a linebacker and clip my cart, I am not above throwing a shoulder. Also, try to refrain from doing a 180 halfway down a jam-packed aisle only to amble along as if you’re taking in the sights of the Louvre. It’s soup. Not the Sistine Chapel.

4. Thou shall obey the express line rules. The sign says 15 items or less. It does not say, “Everything you can stick in the small-ass cart you chose instead of regular cart.” That does not refer to the number of item types, but the actual item count. For example, those 75 cans of soup that took you 15 minutes to pick out does not count as a single item. You are not a special snowflake. If everybody ignored this rule, it would just be a regular line.

5. Thou shalt not decide against the frozen pizza you picked up in the frozen foods section and then place it on the shelf next to the shampoo. Really? Come on now, people.

6. Thou shall respect the invisible checkout line bubble of personal space. Regardless of how close you creep up or how many items you throw on the belt, you will be next—after me. If you continue to creep up, I will pretend to go through my coupon keeper for an extraordinary amount of time and chit chat with the cashier…unless you would like to pay for my produce. In that case, you have a deal.

7. Thou shall treat the cashier with respect. This means not chatting on your phone while she’s ringing up your groceries or getting ticked when she won’t accept the four expired coupons you thought she’d ignore. If you get caught trying to sneak in an expired coupon, just let it go. It’s 35-cents off of dish soap. You’ll survive.

8. Thou shall not stop at the exit to go over your receipt. Once given your receipt and all 300 extra pieces of paper that get pumped out of the printer with it, do not stop and read the receipt like it’s a treasure map. There is nothing on that paper that is that important that you need to throw on the brakes and cause a backup. Move it along.

9. Thou shall reconsider the self-checkout. Know your limits. Can you find a bar code on a product? Match the picture of bananas on the screen to the bananas in your cart? Flatten paper money to insert into a slot? If you answered “no” to any of those questions, don’t be a hero. Go through the normal checkout.

10. Thou shall not stalk for a parking spot. Finally, do not slowly drive behind me at 5 mph impatiently waiting for my parking spot that is often only two down from another available spot. Unless you’re going to get out and help me unload my groceries into the back, your insistence on sitting there, impatiently revving the engine on your minivan, will force me to do a full vehicle check—interior and exterior—before getting back in and leaving 5 minutes later.

Thank you for shopping with us.

Have a nice day.

Where the HELL have you been?

You.....yeah, you.......

How's it going?

Come back again. A revamp of The Daily Skid Mark is taking place.

I miss you all. :)

Where has the time gone?

So, this is 2014. Meh.....

Look for MUCH more from my blog this year. More stories, more laughs, more crying and more pictures of dirty socks. I promise.

So, let's kick off 2014 by simply saying, thank you for sticking with me.

Even though I have been slacking. :)

-Mark

What would YOU wish for?

After the last 2 weeks I have had, I needed a good laugh. I know I have not wrote my blog for a while now, but I promise I will get back to it ASAP. In the meantime, here is a great joke I read the other day. I hope you enjoy it as well.

A man walks into a bar, and his head is an orange.

He sits down, orders a drink. The bartender eyes him warily, but gets him what he wants. The man sits sipping the drink, idly watching the soccer game on the bar television. After a while, he runs dry and orders another.

"Tell you what," says the bartender, "this next one's on the house -- but you've got to tell me what happened to your head. I don't mean to be rude there, but..."

The man smiles. "No, not at all. I get this all the time.

Well, it started with the Gulf War. I was a young kid fresh out of high school, but I was poor. I needed money for college, and the Army looked like a good way out of the ghetto. But then they shipped me over to Kuwait. My platoon took some heavy fire during Desert Storm, and I was separated from them.

I wandered the desert for days, with only the contents of my pack to sustain me. I ran out of water, I ran out of food. I was desperate, on the edge of death -- when suddenly, I saw a glint of metal in the distance...

I forced myself onward, hoping the shining brightness was a glint of gunmetal from my platoon, or a city on the horizon, or anything. When I finally reached it, it was a piece of metal half-buried in the sand. I dug around it and excavated what appeared to be an old Persian oil lamp.

There was an inscription on the lamp, too covered in dust to read. I rubbed at the embossed lettering -- and then, a swirl of smoke and light surrounded me. Suddenly, before me, stood a ten-foot tall being, dressed in traditional Arabian garb, arms crossed.

'I am the Genie of the lamp,' said the entity. 'For releasing me, I shall grant you three wishes. What is your first wish, my master?'

I was incredulous, of course. I deduced I must be hallucinating, that this was desert madness. I decided to test the mirage. 'Alright,' I tasked it, 'I wish for a wallet with a million dollars in it, that I can never lose, and whenever I take any money out of it the sum is immediately replenished.'

'Your wish is granted!' boomed the Genie. I felt a bulge in one of my uniform pockets. Reaching in, I pulled out a new wallet, stuffed to bursting with crisp, new American bills. I counted them -- sure enough, it was a million dollars. I ripped up the bills, cast them to the four winds, and threw the wallet as hard as I could. The moment it was beyond my sight, it teleported instantaneously back to my pocket, refilled with another million dollars.

'What is your second wish, my master?'

I pondered the notion for a long moment, assessing my needs. 'Genie,' I said, 'for my second wish, I want to be transported to a cool, abandoned palace, into a harem room with a hundred beautiful young virgins who will all fall madly in love with me at first sight, before a buffet table set with a feast fit for a king.'

'Your wish is granted!' Poof! I found myself in a royal harem, escaped from the heat of the desert. All around me, nubile girls eyed me with keen interest. In front of me, every conceivable type of meat was roasted to perfect tenderness, set with all the appetizers, side-dishes, salads, soups, and desserts of the four corners of the globe.

I dined until I was near-bloated. Several hours later, laying upon a bed of feathers, brown and blonde and red haired beauties cuddling with me, the Genie stood before me, looking down in satisfaction at his work so far.

'What is your third wish, my master?'

I thought long and hard. Truly, this last wish tasked the very limits of my imagination, my beliefs, my ethics, my philosophy. Hours passed in silence, save for the gentle snoring of the ladies surrounding me.

At last, I spoke.

'Genie, for my third wish, I want a big orange head.'

It's not me, it's YOU!

Reprinted, but I thought this HAD to be shared.......

I could have taken a picture of you and posted it here to publicly shame you, but I didn't. That's because I am not trying to be vindictive, ma'am. I'd merely like to answer that question you posed. This can be what the politicians call a "teachable moment" for you and everyone like you.

See, I was in line at that particular fast food establishment yesterday. You probably didn't notice me -- I assume you didn't notice any of us from the way you blatantly barged to the front. I was about to tap you on the shoulder and politely explain how lines are supposed to work in a civilized society, but I could tell you were in the throes of an ungodly rage. I figured this must be an emergency. My God, you were practically foaming at the mouth. I thought maybe someone at the counter had killed your dog, or framed you for a murder you didn't commit, or urinated in your oatmeal this morning.

Obviously something serious was going on.

Then you suddenly screamed, "NO ketchup! I said NO ketchup!"

Okay, so maybe this wasn't a dire situation. It was a condiment situation. Not exactly life or death, but close enough, I guess. The girl at the cash register looked confused. I don't blame her, some irate middle aged woman just barreled in the door yelling about ketchup. She asked you for some clarification, which was reasonable, but apparently you didn't think so.

"What's wrong with you people?! I just sat in the drive thru for ten minutes and now I have to come in here because you guys can't understand f*cking English! I ordered this burger with NO ketchup but of course I get it with gobs of ketchup. Unbelievable. This happens every f*cking time!"

Wait, it's unbelievable yet it happens every time? Hmmm. And your ketchup specifications are this important to you yet you continually come to the one place in town that apparently has a ketchup obsession? There are literally six other fast food joints within a two mile radius, but here you are at the one place that screws up your order "every f*cking time." Interesting. Logical thinking isn't exactly your forte, is it?

The poor girl at the counter, who likely had no hand in this ketchup fiasco, offered to give you a new burger, plain and dry, just as you prefer. But that wasn't good enough, was it? Their failure to obey your demands must be punished.

"No, I don't want a new burger. Give me your name and the number to corporate. I'm sick of this sh*t. Give me my money back and the number to your corporate office! Why can't I ever f*cking get good customer service?!"

And the exchange went on from there. You of course handled yourself like a woman of culture and dignity, while the fast food employee and her manager tried everything to find a remedy for the Tragic Ketchup Calamity. It ended with you promising to get them all fired as you stormed out. Then I finally had my turn at the counter. I ordered a burger. With extra ketchup.

Now, I replay this back to you because I realize you probably scream profanities at minimum wage customer service representatives every time you run an errand or grab a bite to eat, so you might not recall the specifics of this one incident. And that brings us to the possible answer to that query you posed in the midst of your ketchup rant. You asked: "Why can't I ever f*cking get good customer service?" Well, ma'am, that might have something to do with you being a vulgar, miserable, malicious person. Maybe you get bad customer service because you're a bad customer. Did you ever consider that possibility?

I get it. "You're the customer so you're always right." They work here so they have to bend over backwards for you "because that's their job." Well, you're partially correct about that. Yes, you are a customer and, yes, they do work here. But it's actually not their job to deal with psychopaths. They aren't hostage negotiators, they're fast food workers. And even if the powers that be at these corporate chains push this "customer is always right" crap because they've decided it's good business to placate horrible jerks, in the real world, outside the land of plastic chairs and soda fountains, adults who throw temper tantrums in public are never right about anything.

I'm sure some people might take your side. They might come to your defense by telling their own horror stories about all the times when customer service has failed to live up to their standards. Those folks are under the same delusion as you. They think their hallowed "customer" status somehow gives them the right to treat everyone with a uniform and a name tag like garbage. They think their past encounters with sub-par service makes it acceptable for them to fly off the handle about ketchup every once in a while. They think the rules of basic decency and respect come second when they are
The Customer. And they're wrong.

Do you ever wonder why we have so many atrocious politicians in Washington? Well, you shouldn't wonder. Just look in the mirror. Bad politicians are generally bad because they can't handle power. It goes right to their head and they become narcissistic, petty, controlling sociopaths. But at least it's a lot of power so the temptation to be corrupted by it is almost understandable. You, on the other hand, become a maniacal tyrant when society hands you temporary and meaningless power over 17-year-old fast food cashiers. I shudder to think what you'd do if you had an army at your disposal.

We all get a little unwanted ketchup every now and again, and we are all expected to handle it like mature and decent adults. Some of us manage to make it through our whole lives without ever feeling the need to berate restaurant or retail employees over some small and fixable mistake. Other folks, such as yourself, seem to get into a customer service Battle Royale every time they step outside their house. Maybe it's because the universe is against you guys. Or maybe -- just maybe -- it's because you behave like selfish obnoxious bullies.

Just something to think about.

Oh, and I'm betting you actually forgot to say "no ketchup" when you placed your original order. Wouldn't that be a totally expected twist to this captivating saga?

This post originally appeared on Matt's blog: themattwalshblog.com