Duck. Duck. Noose. (deathwasonsale) wrote,
Duck. Duck. Noose.
deathwasonsale

Catch up


New Rule: You can't go out and play until you finish your war.
President Bush kicked off another baseball season with a high, inside ceremonial first pitch. Come to think of it, the president's pitching style is a lot like what he's exhibited in Iraq: a lot of balls, with no real plan to get anybody out.

New Rule: Angelina Jolie must adopt Britney Spears' baby.
Britney Spears was recently blessed with a drooling, helpless, little dependent.
And after marrying Kevin Federline, they had a baby. Since then, that baby's been dropped and misplaced more often than a set of car keys.
First, Britney blamed the nanny, then she blamed the high chair, then she blamed the media.
Hold on, I think we've found a replacement for Scott McClellan!

New Rule: Sending someone a birthday e-card doesn't count.
If you can't get your s*** together enough to go to Sav-On and pick out an actual physical birthday card, don't bother.
I'm not expecting Hallmark. I know you don't care enough to send the "very best," but just don't send the very worst.
Or else, when you die, I'll be forced to deliver an e-eulogy.

New Rule: When you marry Charlie Sheen, don't be surprised when he turns out to be Charlie Sheen!
We are talking about a guy who paid hookers by check.
Marrying Charlie Sheen and getting mad he's a freak, is like electing two shills from the oil industry and getting mad when the price of gas goes up.

New Rule: Instead of the White House hiring Tony Snow away from Fox News, the White House and Fox News should just merge.
Republicans should also admit that they secretly picked the judges on "American Idol" to reinforce their three favorite stereotypes: a black guy who doesn't do anything; a woman who doesn't know anything; and a foreigner who should go home.

New Rule: Supermodels should not speak to flight attendants.
That's what supermodel May Andersen did, and she was deemed unruly and got arrested upon landing.
Look, supermodels, it doesn't matter what you're saying: "Can I have a pillow?" "I like your shoes." What the flight attendant hears is, "I'm a supermodel and you're not. Let's fight!"
You're natural enemies like the snake and the mongoose. The postman and the Rottweiler. Pat Robertson and reason.
Haven't we learned by now that sometimes the best relationships are the ones where you don't speak at all? [photo of Bill and Hillary Clinton shown]

New Rule: Drug companies have to stop making up diseases!
I don't know - I don't know what the terrorists are planning next for America, but if I had every problem they talk about in medicine commercials: breathing, lifting, walking, sitting, sleeping, crapping, not crapping, getting a boner and male pattern menopause—I would welcome death. Bring it on! Deadly nerve gas? Please, I've got seasonal allergies!
I mean, it seems like every time I turn on the TV these days, I see some ad for some drug I never heard of, to treat some disease I never heard of.
That's not a stomach ache you have from eating the chili-cheese fries at Johnny Rockets, it's Irritable Bowel Syndrome. Or I.B.S. Or as I call it, "B.S."
Which would also apply to the dreaded "Social Anxiety Disorder." Or as we used to call it, "shyness." And we treated it with an old home recipe: scotch and water.
Your wife doesn't get turned on? Well, it couldn't be because you're a snowman-shaped sausage casing--so full of beer you sweat hops. It's because she has "Female Sexual Dysfunction."
And before they came up with "Restless Leg Syndrome," did that even exist? Did you ever hear someone say, "Sorry I couldn't make the party, Bill." "The old restless leg was acting up."
You know, next time you have an uncontrollable urge to move your feet, maybe you should just...move your feet!
Your feet are trying to tell you the same thing your dog is trying to tell you when he's been cooped up in the house all day: "I want to go for a walk!"
But be careful. There's a Tasmanian Devil living under your toenail.
I am waiting for the ad that tells me that my morning hard-on is actually "Superfluous Rigidity Syndrome." Or S.R.S. And there's a cartoon bunny who says, "Are you bothered by morning stiffness?" "Try Flaccidix." "Flaccidix is specially formulated to make your penis shiny and more manageable." "Side effects: you bleed from your pores and then explode and die." "And/or dry mouth."
Now, just in the last two years, the "medicines" that have made the headlines under the category, "Take two and call me in the morning if you're still alive," include Vioxx, Ambien, Zyprexa, Ortho Evra, Prempro, Zoloft, Paxil, Ephedra, Celebrex and Fosamax.
And yet it was marijuana last week that was declared by the FDA to have no known medical value. Actually, what marijuana has is no known lobbying value.
And, yes - yes, back in 1999, when we still believed in science, the National Academy of Science said what millions already knew from practical use, that weed is useful in treating pain, nausea and weight loss.
And that lab rats exposed to it were 38% more likely to forget the maze and just kick it old school.
Folks, drug companies are pushers, and Congress and the FDA are the cop on the beat who's been paid off to look the other way.
New drugs used to have to go through a rigorous process of testing. Now they just give it to Courtney Love, and if she lives, it's approved.
And by the way, just to prove who has the power in this country, that fake FDA report about marijuana having no medical value was issued - on purpose, I am sure - on April 20th - four-twenty. And that joke only makes sense to stoners.
So, mom and dad, if your kid just laughed, you might need to search his room.

New Rule: Anna Nicole Smith can't get pregnant until Britney's baby grows up.
There are just not enough investigators at Child Family Services to keep these two infants alive at the same time.
Anna Nicole, if you're that desperate for a toothless human who can barely speak and cries every time he sees your breasts, find yourself another husband. But that went too far. I love that.
After all the things we talked about. But Anna Nicole, that's too far.

New Rule: Men are supposed to have hair.
Norelco has introduced a men's shaver designed to shave all body zones, including armpits and the groin area.
Oh, good, just what I've always wanted: hundreds of tiny, vibrating, steel blades on my nutsack.
But, go ahead, all you metrosexuals. Shave your pits, trim your groin. And then when you've removed all traces of masculinity, use the handy knife attachment to cut off your penis.

New Rule: Keep Jesus out of strip clubs.
A former dancer from Las Vegas has founded "JC's Girls," a ministry that brings the healing power of the Lord directly to America's strip clubs and adult businesses.
Do you people have to ruin everything? You've got the White House, the Congress, the Supreme Court. Can't you leave us heathens a couple of titty bars out by the airport?
The only good news a guy wants to hear in a strip club is, "Sure you can touch me there." Or so I've heard.

New Rule: If you want to live the American dream, move to Europe.
According to a new study, climbing up the economic ladder in this country is much harder than in just about every other wealthy nation. If you're born poor here, you pretty much stay that way. And fat-cat catering Republicans get poor people to vote for them because they get them to vote their dreams, not their self-interests.
That's why lots of people of modest means are all for getting rid of the estate tax, a tax which affects one percent of us, the richest one percent of us. You know, the ones with estates. A category also familiar by the name, "Not you."
You know, America has a lottery mentality. We think we can party till we're 40, fail in business after business, and then somehow wind up as president of the United States.
Okay, bad example.
But our philosophy does come from the lottery.
Hey, you never know! Yes, I do. In America, if you're not born rich, you'll die tryin', bitch. Because you're not going to win the lottery. You're not going to inherit a fortune from a distant relative. Or marry a prince. Or get that call from Hollywood saying they're making a movie out of your MySpace page.
Oh, yeah. According to a recent survey, 98% of college freshman agreed with the statement, "I am sure that one day I will get where I want to be in life."
I'm sorry. You have yourself mixed up with the Asian kid.
You know, I have never understood how Americans can talk so much about dreams, how great it is to have a dream, but make absolutely no judgments about what the dream is!
Does it matter that your kids all want to be rockers and rappers and ballers and divas?
Watch MTV for a day. You'll see. Your kid's dream is to be on "Cribs," living in a 50-room mansion with a shark tank and a Whitney Houston "crack nook."
It's a dream about being able to spend your life pigging out on ego and money and attention in the way only this wonderful business of our allows.
So, fine. But do we have to admire it? Do we have to treat that dream the same as if it was a dream to teach, or join Doctors Without Borders? Do we have to...do we have to honor our kids for wanting to go from rags...to bitches? For wanting to live out an eternal weekend that never turns to Monday, snorting caviar off their Bentleys and air-guitaring their way to the cover of US magazine?
Sadly, yes.
Or they'll refuse to teach you how to clear the porn trail off your computer.
So I'm not saying, "Stop dreaming." I'm just saying, "Wake up."
Because no one is ever going to give you half-a-billion dollars for sitting around like a lump. They can't. They've already given it to this "bastard." [photo shown of Lee Raymond]

New Rule: The head of the CIA should be scary looking.
[photo shown of Michael Hayden]
I don't care — I don't care that he's a general. I care that he looks like this guy.
[photo shown of "Chicken Little"]

New Rule: Airplane black boxes must now be made out of Keith Richards.
The man, who has taken more drugs than Whitney Houston, Rush Limbaugh and Robert Downey, Jr., combined, recently fell out of a tree, and then crashed a jet ski. And yet, somehow, that cigarette never fell out of his mouth.
What is this guy still running on?
I've got to know. Because I'm beginning to think the future of medicine isn't injecting stem cells, it's injecting heroin.

New Rule: George Bush has to stop laughing at himself.
When you're incompetence literally costs lives, giggling at it isn't cute or funny.
You know, there's a guy who's been running around the country pretending he's the president, and I believe his name is George Bush. And he wants everyone to know that he doesn't take himself too seriously.
Which is working out great, because now nobody else in the world does either.
You know, if the Republicans really want to joke around, I've got one for you.
Knock, knock.
AUDIENCE: Who's there?
MAHER: Hillary.
Now, this is our last show of the season, and I'm rather proud that we've gone all 13 weeks without once making George Bush the subject of our show-ending editorial. Because I didn't want to start sounding like a broken record. Or, to you kids, a degraded MP3 file.
Oh, there may have been a stray George Bush punchline here and there. But, come on. I am a comedian and he is a retard.
But, fuck it, this is our, this is our last show. This is our last show for a while and I just want to say that when we come back on August 25th, the week of Bill Clinton's 60th birthday, and a great time for him to do the show.
Wouldn't you love to see him do the show, folks?
Bill Clinton, everywhere I go.
So, your move, Mr. President.
But when we come back, I hope we're only months away from the beginning of impeachment proceedings.
But, wait. But not for what you think. Now, of course there is a laundry list of valid reasons for impeaching this president. But George Bush and his nest of vipers don't deserve to be impeached with dignity for transgressions involving lofty affairs of state.
They deserve the far worse state that Clinton got: being impeached for absolutely nothing at all!
And that's why I want to impeach Bush over the fact that he lied about that fish!
He said he caught a perch twice as large as any perch that's ever been caught! And that's a lie about a fish!
In a time of war! A
nd if he will lie about a fish, then...something, something, something, what do we tell the children? What do we tell Mrs. Paul?!
That perch was as American as a McDonald's fish sandwich. Assuming for the sake of argument that a McDonald's fish sandwich contained fish.
So, Mr. President, don't laugh at yourself, because breaking the law is not cute. Having Americans torture people isn't adorable. Leaving poor people to drown wasn't enchanting. And WMD's wasn't a shaggy dog story.
So, I'll make a deal with you. We won't impeach you if you just stay on your estate — I mean "ranch" — and fish on your man-made lake. For perch.
Maybe you'll beat your own record.
But, for the next three years, just don't touch anything.
I was wrong when I criticized you for taking too much vacation time. It couldn't be more the reverse. Take all the "me" days you want. But if you get any big ideas and try to do something, you know, like go to Mars or put the Ten Commandments on the flag, or turn the ports over to the Amish, then we're going to have to put you in the only place we can be sure we can be safe from you. And it looks like this. [photo shown of David Blaine's water-filled Plexiglas globe]
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