Chomp. Chomp. Dead. The Online Comedy Community

Citing the affect of global warming, the World Wildlife Fund and the American Kennel Club jointly placed Pugs on their endangered species lists today, claiming that the lovable animal is under siege in its natural habitat. Deforestation, increasing migration distances, human encroachment, and competition with the Boston Terrier are all to blame, according to a joint statement.

Originating in China over two thousand years ago, the Pug has in recent years become one of the most lovable pets in homes worldwide — its wild forbearer, however, has seen its ecological niche trampled on by a conspiracy of environmental circumstances. Known for its cunning pack hunting, aggressive breeding positions, and ferocious eating habits, the Wild Pug’s natural range has collapsed into a pocket of protected jungles and forests.

“The Wild Pug’s worldwide population today is dwindling to numbers not expected until at least 2050 just a few years ago,” said State University of New York Ecologist Ralph Nader. “If you remember, they were hunted mercilessly in Africa in the 19th Century for their curly tails, which were used in necklaces as quite a fashion statement in Victorian England. Global Warming and human intervention have cooperated to send this natural icon to the highest threats of extinction.”

Scientists estimate that there may only be 170 individual Wild Pugs left in the wild. 18 are currently being held in captivity in zoos worldwide, with 15 of those on loan from the national government of Albania. Wild Pugs are notoriously hesitant to breed in captivity, as they usually bark at eachother’s feet and lick the ground for extremely odd periods of time. Videos portraying other Wild Pugs mating have been shown, but participating animals tend to stare at the screens blankly, before running into adjacent doorways.

The WWF is calling for governments worldwide to protect the Wild Pug by law, along with the following recommendations to encourage their numbers to grow:

1. Hiring a horde of retarded clowns to traipse through the countryside to keep the Pugs happy
2. Planting thousands of aid packages in the wild, consisting of human-worn underwear and socks
3. Hiring social aid workers to train Wild Pugs in marketable skills, like word processing and photocopying
4. Organizing a Pug-only ‘Superdog’ touring show, where their only discernible public skills would be urinating and falling over at top speed

Even with these measures in place, experts predict that the Wild Pug’s chances of replenishing their numbers to reclaim their original natural range are startlingly bleak. “There’s only so many pig ears to go around,” suggests dog clairvoyant Cesar Milan.

I had just missed my flight back to Vancouver because a of a debilitating hang over and a sister who refused to run red lights. After arranging a standby flight I cleared security by breathing on the guy with angry, beeping stick. The Edmonton airport being the vindictive bitch it is was mocking my pain with P.A. announcements, metal detectors and what seemed to be the loudest revolving door on earth.

I was considering filling a bathroom sink with 20, Tim’s Ice Caps and drowning myself when general boarding for my flight was called. Gate 12 was closer then the Tim Horton’s so picked up my luggage and headed to the plane. As I stepped into the cabin I gazed down on row upon row of ridiculously good looking people. It was like I had left Edmonton and been dropped into the middle of an Old Navy commercial. All eyes were on me as made my way to the back of the plane with my track pants and mismatched, carry on luggage. All eyes watching. All eyes judging. One of those things was not like the other and that thing was me.

My seat was was in the very last row, there wasn’t even window. I can only infer that I was being hidden away just in case another plane or perhaps a shallow bird happened close enough to look in. What had I stumbled onto? Proof of two tiered air transit system, a mass migration of models or a universal alignment of near perfection? Across the aisle was another rather average looking fellow who was slowly rocking back and forth with his eyes closed and fingers in his ears. We weren’t supposed to be on that flight that fateful yesterday and I may never know exactly what happened but for an hour and a half I got a chance to peak behind the curtain, and it was beautiful.

I have lied for comic effect in writing this article. I don’t own a pair of track pants.

Apparently lasers have many uses. Hair re-growth, hair removal, scar removal, tattoo removal, eye surgery, pointing at presentations, annoying high school teachers and many other lame, useless procedures. That’s right. All this shit is lame. Is it just me or do some of you out there find yourselves asking the same thing? “When are they just gonna fucking kill some dudes?”

For years before we had the technology to realize the laser, it existed only in science fiction. However, in science fiction, it existed only as a FUCKING GUN! Do you remember Han Solo or GI Joe curing their baldness or removing some old ex-girlfriends name from their arm? No, they were fucking killing bad guys!

Watching that shit got us all so pumped: “Man I can’t wait, the laser’s gonna kick some ass!” What are we doing? There are evil doers out there prancing around, fancy free, eating cotton candy and drinking tea, and the greatest potential weapon of the twenty first century is helping bald guys get laid.

Are we the first generation to be teased and tortured like this? Was it like this with gun powder?

“Alright everyone, we’ve done it. It’s taken us a long time, but we finally have it. Gun powder. We know what you’re all thinking….. MAKEOVERS! This new gun powder is a great exfoliant. It really livens up the skin. It’s also an excellent foot powder. Gather round all, clean faces and feet await. Umm, how about we make some bullets? Anyone? Bullets? No?”

All I want is a little destruction. A laser beam that can destroy a plane or vast armies equipped with laser canons, wiping out alien scum. Until then, I guess us carnage craving folk will have to settle for our enemies getting mild irritation of the bikini area. Yeah, that much we can do. Dammit.

They say that a picture is worth a thousand words. I plan to see if that is the case. I have a beautiful picture and I want to see if it is even possible to capture the feelings and emotions involved.

The picture was taken on a trip to Vancouver, it is a goose, it is a bucket. They are surrounded by a chain link fence that not only contains them, but also their love, their woe, their triumph and despair.

Hobotech Productions proudly presents: When Goose Met Bucket.

Not since the day of Shakespeare has there been such a touching yet tragic tale of forbidden love. A tale of a young, rebellious bucket from the wrong side of the tracks and the idealistic goose that dared to love her.

Angela: “This just isn’t going to work. We are from two different worlds…you don’t understand how I feel. You don’t understand why I am the way I am.”

Tony: “What do you mean?”

Angela: “C’mon Tony, you know what I mean. You come from a lake and I was manufactured in a factory in Burnaby. You can never understand what it’s like to be me.”

Tony: “Maybe I could understand if you opened up to me more. We never talk.”

Angela: “I don’t think so Tony, this just isn’t going to work out.”

Tony: “Why not?? Is there someone else?”

Angela: “No, I only love you”

Tony: “What about that duck? I’ve seen him poking around here a couple times”

Angela: “You mean Bruce? He’s just a friend.”

Tony: “C’mon Angie, I’m not a fool. Do you let all your ‘friends’ peck your lid?”

Angela: “I’m sorry you had to find out like that…I didn’t know that you were watching…I thought you had already migrated.”

Tony: “Well, I hadn’t…but I will now. Goodbye Angela, thanks for holding all my stuff when I was gone.”

Huh, it appears that a picture is actually worth only 235 words…235 beautiful words.

I believe the method of calculation that was used previously may have been flawed.

After a hundred years of being banned in every civilized nation on the planet, the Green Fairy has managed to make a comeback in a half empty bottle in nearly every teenagers liquor stash. I visited the room of Tyler McAndrews, a young man who
informed me that he managed to pull some strings and find a source for the forbidden drink, which is widely available in every liquor store in the country.

“Have a seat!” Tyler said, gesturing towards his unmade bed. “Let me grab the shit, it’s in my wet bar in the closet. Hang on a sec!”

Tyler rooted through several imaginary bottles of alcohol before emerging with the only thing he actually had: half a bottle of absinthe.

“This shit will FUCK you up!” Tyler says while shooting his hands around obnoxiously, putting some Linkin Park on to set the mood. “It gets you high AND drunk at the same time! Get fucking ready!”

Tyler made a very theatrical display of opening the bottle, as if he was handling the most dangerous compounds known to man. After a generous amount of absinthe was in each of our noticeably dirty coffee mugs, Tyler pulled a couple of forks and sugar cubes out from underneath his bed.

“Man, ALL those French artists used to do this shit!” remarks Tyler while setting his sugar cube on his fork and dipping it into his drink, oblivious that the flaming sugar cube ritual was a marketing gimmick invented somewhere around 1995. “Isn’t it awesome that we’re doing what the most famous artists ever used to do? Dammit, I wish I had some PAINT!”

I informed Tyler that famous artists also take a dump much the same way he does every day, but all of his attention was focused on his now burning sugar cube, which was starting to smell very badly.

“Now, drop the cube into the absinthe and stir!” Tyler said while stirring up a storm in his Dilbert mug. “Mix it all together and slam it!”

No amount of mixing would blend the caramelized sugar into the blue-green mixture, so I drank it as quickly as possible. The absinthe had a bouquet of inner tubes and ear medicine, and went down as smoothly as an angry cat. Tyler’s eyes quickly welled up with tears; I imagine the grimace on his face was a carbon copy of mine.

“Dude, don’t worry! It’s fucking WORTH it! We’re going to get so fucked up! It’s like being drunk, but a “different” sort of drunk! Hells yes! Hang on!”

A few minutes passed, and the aftertaste of Old Spice soon dissipated from my mouth. A sudden wash of relaxation came upon me, similar to the effects of downing a large shot of 150 proof alcohol.

“Do you feel it yet? Are you feeling it?” Tyler mumbled while acting like reality was dissolving around him. “Holy shit, I’m tripping BALLS!”

Tyler grabbed a Staind CD off of his desk, and seemed momentarily mesmerized by the cover art. He then turned his attention towards his Guitar Hero controller, which he began trying to play like a violin for some reason.

“I fucking…” Tyler mumbled, suddenly looking very frightened, “I fucking see her! THE FUCKING GREEN FAIRY! She’s right THERE!”

Tyler pointed at his Math 36 textbook before collapsing to the ground, rolling around and breaking several of his Xbox games. I watched Tyler thrash around for ten minutes, muttering things such as “my brains are bleeding”, “I’ve got an assignment that’s due” and “can you get my mom, please?” I grabbed my coat and left, the young man still reeling in his imaginary mind prison as I left.

Tyler informed me that although he was grounded and suffered a hangover the next day, it was definitely a “different” sort of hangover.

However, the grounding was still fairly standard.

September 11th, 2003. They say it’s like my generation’s Kennedy assassination. I remember exactly where I was when I heard the news. I was at home, watching television. Angrily, I switched past an airing of the made for TV abortion “Stay Tuned,” and landed on CNN. That’s when I heard it. John Ritter had died.

Some people call it “the day that laughter died,” but for me, laughter didn’t really die. Rather it finally noticed an odd growth on its skin that it thought might be cancer, then quickly had it removed. That’s how I remember John.

I can still hear it like it was yesterday, the deafening silence of it all. Millions of people shrugging in disinterest. How did this happen? What events led up to his demise? Only those few souls who where with John that day know for sure. Only they can know the whole pain of it all.

“I knew something was wrong,” remembers Joe Fedder, a camera man and long time co-worker of John. “It was actually really funny to see,” he chuckles. “That’s when we knew.”

You see, though he’d attempt to be, with an annoying, almost super human persistence, John Ritter had never actually been funny. Not once in his entire life until that moment. In a cruel twist of fate, it actually did “kill John Ritter to be funny,” as so many critics asked if it would.

It’s childish, I know, but I like to believe John is up there, somewhere, walking around with shoes on his head and a hat on one foot, trying to get laughs from the angels. Is it within their power to banish him to hell? I guess we’ll never know.

I was playing in the park with my kids early Tuesday afternoon, just before all the stay-at-home moms had to get back for nap time. One lingered a little later and we struck up a conversation. My boys knew to start playing with her kid, and we went back to my place for coffee. One thing lead to another, and “I’ve never cheated on my husband before!” While the kids nap, the DILF strikes again!

I don’t have it quite as easy as MILFs - I mean, they bang a fifteen year old and people say “tsk tsk”, but the kid who’s dipped his wick walks around with a smile on his face and his social status goes through the roof. If a DILF tried that, he’d be tossing salads inside for the next ten years. Us DILFs have a different target market: married moms. (Single moms are a risky business.)

The secret is to be completely involved with the kids. Don’t pay any attention to the ladies as you roughhouse, pretend and play. Don’t watch them noticing the beads of sweat collecting on your shirtless chest. And above all, don’t look at them after you have poured your water bottle over your head and shaken off the excess! (By that time, they will be competing to be the last one left to talk to you…)

Use a condom, snap a picture and jot down her name, the kids names and one pertinent detail. It will save you a lot of grief in the future. It’s like shooting fish in a barrel, since you give them what they don’t get at home without strings attached and all while seeming like a nice guy who is committed to his children. Pull from the same group until you notice them fighting among themselves, then move on to a different park.

Enjoy.

Ever had plain yogourt? I haven’t, but if you have you’re probably really old, or an oblivious hermit. Why eat plain anything anymore when you can have so many enrichments and fortifications in all of your favorite foods. Calcium fortified orange juice gives you horrible heartburn and tastes like someone dropped butt loads of chalk in it. Who cares hippie!? It’s got calcium! New super enriched wonder bread turns every sandwich into a graphing calculator. They’re called logarithms grandma, look it up!

“If you eat plain, you are lame.” Thats the slogan of this brave new world and no other product better exemplifies that than yogourt. First it was fruit on the bottom. Then, the fruit got stirred in. Then there was Danon Danino with DHA. It’s a fatty acid found in some magical cave dwelling fish that turns children’s hair white and gives them extra sensory perception and telekinesis. That’s all well and good, but danino is kids stuff. How can today’s super yogourts help me.

Probiotics! You need probiotics. If you don’t have probiotics in your yogourt, throw it away. What a waste! Probiotics make you poop instantly, which as adults, we need. Television tells us that adults have a lot of trouble pooping, and the only cure is probiotics. What about prebiotics? Yeah, thats another good word that makes the yogourts that have it, better than yours. Yep, probiotics, and prebiotics. You must have both, but does this combination alone really make it the best yogourt science can provide? Incredibly, not anymore.

Tonight, at a press conference in Cosmellerchoichzeniagovitz, Switzerland’s capital, Yoplait will introduce it’s latest creation. Yoplaidium Extreme. New Yoplaidium Extreme has: stirred in exotic fruits, DHA for the kids, probiotics, prebiotics, shmeeshmiotics, and gunggadin. All great things, but that’s not all. New Yoplaidium Extreme has something even better, something truly amazing. The new, extremely volatile alloy for which it’s named. Yopladium.

Yoplaidium is the newest and greatest substance ever created by man to be ingested though yogourt. It’s a super strong alloy that coats the bone and soft tissue cells, making every person who eats it invincible. It not only makes you super strong, but it’s hyper technological robotic microbes will make you live forever. It kills virus’, and bacteria, and it rapes the signs of aging.

I was given a free sample before the release, which I ate this morning and let me tell you, I feel great. I was doing yard work outside today with my shirt off, my skin was glowing, and I looked hugely ripped. I mowed the lawn with my teeth and pulled out two large trees with my bare hands. Then I punch tilled the soil in my garden, and stared down the plants seedlings until they grew large, and strong, and produced fruit. Can your yogourt do that? LIAR!

Eventually yogourt will be all humans need, to live and thrive, rocketing us up the evolutionary latter. All activities, leisure, or otherwise will be replaced by eating yogourt. Yogourt will become currency and the most evolved of us will start to be able to produce their own yogourt using energy from the sun. This process will be called yogursynthesis. History itself will be measured by the rise of the new yogourt. Tonight, at the press conference, we will all witness the dawn of a new mankind. Thanks to the wonderful people at yoplait.

I can’t be the only person who has had enough of luxury goods being watered down to the point of uselessness in order to be turned into low cost plastic packaged consumer shit. I don’t believe that this is my being an elitist snob [though I probably am] I’m actually trying to comment on how pointless the whole process is. The epitome of what I’m talking about is the Costco platter of prawns. Prawns are awesome, especially the mutant sized lobstery ones. Go visit somewhere near the sea and buy some real ones, fucking brilliant aren’t they?

Now try the Costco ones, they look like prawns pink and everything, but when you actually sink your teeth into one they seem to be constructed from a strange rubbery paste. At least they don’t taste of rubber, but then they don’t taste of anything at all. In these ‘platters’ [the word seems to evoke embassy banquets rather more than limp dead sea-creatures] the prawns seem to have been reduced to the role of tortilla chips, they don’t taste of anything so some suspicious looking red sauce was included as an afterthought for you to dip the things into.

Now this might seem a little too close to Michael’s rant against the Angus ‘Burger’ from McDonalds, and though I’m not past a bit of plagiarism my point is something different entirely. The idea of luxury goods is that they are, well, a luxury. If somebody invents a new way of producing Beluga Caviar at $.99 a can and it doesn’t involve the immediate killing of every fish in the Black Sea then I’m all for it, but I’d be a good deal less enthusiastic if Superstore suddenly launched ‘President’s Choice Caviar Style Jello Nuggets.’

Why do so many people prefer a fake, pre-packaged version of ‘the high life’ to simply buying something that is inexpensive and nice?

I’ve also noticed that fat people do the same thing. They prefer roast chicken that has been bombarded with helium nuclei [or something] to remove any trace of fat or flavour, to say sushi or most Mediterranean food or pretty much anything which is naturally low in fat and doesn’t taste like shit.

I’m not wholly against all shitty plastic goods either; I wouldn’t be able to afford stuff like a freezer or a washing machine if it wasn’t for mass manufacturing. My point is that cheap stuff made by faceless companies is fine, up to a point; but some things can’t be mass manufactured without spoiling them completely. Sometimes it’s better to have the real thing on special occasions, rather than a cheap imitation every day.