Posted at 09:46 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)
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Patient: "Hey Doc, my knee hurts."
Doc: "Hmm, perhaps hitting it with a hammer will help."
Patient: "Oh, Ok, wait, what????"
THOCK
Doc: "Yep, bad knee they shouldn't make that sound."
Patient: "You had to hit me with a hammer to tell that my knee is bad??? Wait, what sound should my knee make?"
Doc: "Well, I was expecting more of a BLAMMO, then you would have been fine but a THOCK means you have manic depression brought on by bad shoes. Take two Dr. Scholl's® Orthotics and a Prozac and call me in the morning."
Posted at 07:29 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)
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Here we have another Uncle Walter walk into the past with "Sewing for Men and Boys," circa 1973 from Simplicity Pattern Co., New York. While I am sure this is an excellent guide, exploring the techniques of sewing and clothing fabrication, I feel that I must focus on the styles held within. They present us with the forefront of seventies clothing culture, which we will spend the next thirty years trying to forget. Collars that reach down to nipples, plaid in places plaid should never be, and the gratuitous bow tie. Here we have three models, Token Black, Wyatt Earp, and Token White. They will lead us through our journey (with a little help from their friends).
No yearbook of fashion would be complete without a class photo. Earp is sporting the "Tailored Traditionalist" look, otherwise known as the "Cheesy Banker." Next we have Ted Bundy in "Active Casual." I am assuming that his rust-colored suit jacket is "active" in the sense that it adequately hides blood stains. The book informs us that this outfit contains sins of the seventies such as corduroy, brushed denim, and suede -- which, when combined, create an outfit of pure evil, the likes of which the world had never seen before. Token Black chimes in with "Plaid Explosion." Worn over a tan vest, this outfit is nicely rounded off with the ever fashionable bow tie, an accessory that compliments any outfit, especially when over sized and yellow. Token White decided that formal wear was too... well... formal. He has opted for a tablecloth fashioned "Sound of Music" style into a suit with a massive lapel. What other treasures do they have in store for us? Let's turn the page and see...
Our next display is fairly neutral. Sure the lapels are large, but a basic red tie is always a winner. The super-sized collar on the shirt was standard for the era. No, nothing bad h... Oh. My. God. Would you look at those pants?! They look like those awful little tiles that used to be in bathrooms. And they are in some alien color pattern that no human would every willingly choose. Were the male models really so brainless that they would wear anything?
As I recall, the movie Zoolander mentioned something about them... "They're in peak physical condition. They can gain entry to the most secure places in the world. And most important of all, models don't think for themselves. They do as they're told." Must wear horrible pants.
...MUST KILL THE PRIME MINISTER OF MALAYSIA!!
Wait, where was I? Oh, yes. It's time for some garage work.
This concerned gentleman is clearly a garage owner, as you can see from his overalls. What is that you say? These aren't overalls? They are, instead, a synthetic suede suit? Well then. Maybe he thinks he is an airplane. With collars like this, with enough speed he could take off and that propeller neckerchief should keep him aloft. At least the striped shirt adds some flair to such a monochrome outfit. Turns it into an anaglyphic masterpiece.
Token Black has fallen victim to the vomitous "Plaid Beast." Very little has escaped its fearsome attack. The bow tie was all that protected him from being decapitated by the polyester shrapnel. After that near miss, he decided to play it safe, switching to a tamer red turtleneck with grey woolen pants. He kept the plaid jacket for camouflage. Should The Beast return to spread its multi-colored lines of doom, he'll appear to have already been marked. Unfortunately he still retains a single scar; but no one should wear a white belt. Ever. Especially after Labor Day.
Oh my, it looks as if the "Plaid Beast" has struck again. This time "Shaggy" has been caught in the criss-cross crossfire. Is no one safe??? Even saddle shoes cannot protect you!
Moving on to the Nambla sponsored section of our book: Nothing says "Hey there, I'm a pedophile. Let me put my arm around your velveteen-tunic wearing plaid-adorned boy" like a pink leisure suit. Modeled here for us by "Bundy" who was good enough to step outside his comfort zone to pose with a boy.
Just in time for summer, our star presenters return for the made-for-tv special "What happens on Fire Island Stays on Fire Island." Those are probably penises on Token Black's mini-kirtle. Phallic fashion has never been so hot!
While the boys are away, the women will play. The men may be "experimenting" in the surf, but don't think that the wives are left at home pining. Not when they have tennis instructors like this. Granted he kind of looks like he'd rather be on the Island, too, but one has to pay the bills somehow, mustn't one? He's explained away his leg-shaving tendencies, not by disclosing his Saturday night turn as "Priscilla, Queen of the Court," but as a necessity for the game -- wind resistance and all that. Women are pretty gullible sometimes.
Finishing up in winter, Earp and his rainbow scarfed tennis lady friend reclaims the child from Bundy. Sure, she's had some fun on the court and the kid's spent some time... with Bundy, but they always come back to Earp. No one can resist a 'stash of such power, majesty and magnitude, especially when mated with such an impressive butt-chin. In their quilted jackets, they are prepared to push forward. And perhaps, one day, escape to the eighties.
Now it's time to say goodbye to all the fashion pains we have witnessed today. Remember them. For those who forget the past are doomed to repeat it. Please, God, let's not repeat it!
-Uncle Walter
Posted at 07:28 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)
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Because, as you are about to see, Danny is hooked. Uncle Walter Presents "Danny and the Pancakes"
As we can see, Danny is a fan of pancakes. Yet the tell tale signs of addiction are clear. The squinty eyes, the red cheeks, the fact he is holding an iron pan without noticing the burning in his hand. Yes, Danny loves pancakes and they love him right back.
Here we learn of the factors that led Danny down the road of pancake addiction: The Dealer, Mrs. "Mary Jane" Green; Mr. Green "The Boss;" the gateway foods such as cake and pie; the car that delivered his vice; and numbers, because drug addled brains think about numbers... a lot.
Our tale begins innocently enough, as Mrs. Green brings in a fresh batch of highly addictive "cakes." Dan (Danny) can't be late. The icy hooks of addiction are deep within him and withdrawal would surely kill him. He is at the mercy of Mrs. Green.
Danny revels in his addiction, shunning traditional "foods" in favor of his "cakes." "I could eat a hundred pancakes," Danny boasts. Even his dealer doubts he is foolish enough to consume such a high quantity. But Mr. Green senses Danny may be just junkie enough to pull it off and decides to let Danny craft his own. In the drug lab provided he consumes what he makes.
Danny leaps at the chance once the others wander off aimlessly on another pancake high.
The moment they are out of sight, Danny races to the lab and begins his plan to get so high he couldn't get any higher... off pancakes. 100 should do it, he thinks.
He quickly dons the outfit of a baker (slang for drug maker) and locates the secret formula for the "cakes."
Working carefully, in measured quantities, he mixes and stirs until his concoction is ready.
His carelessness begins to show as his cravings increase. The dog gets a taste of some of the special white powder and is instantly turned into a bloodthirsty addict.
Heating to the appropriate temperature, his mixture is turned into a highly addictive product.
Already the cravings are driving young Danny mad. He gives in and prepares to OD on 100 "cakes."
His poor dog, hooked on the stuff, begs. But Danny won't share. He is determined to down the entire batch. Yet as his craving is fulfilled he begins to panic.
He finds cannot finish the batch. If Mr. & Mrs. Green see the left over "product" they will surely beat (and possibly kill) him. He thinks of the dog, now addicted to the stuff, and tries to force him to eat it all.
The dog took a few, then the jitters of the high kicked in and he ran off, leaving Danny with a batch of 80 "cakes" remaining. There had to be something he could do.
Finally it hit him! He could sell the surplus and pocket the cash! But where would he find junkies? Simple: make them. He started handing out tastes for free... then the price got steep.
Dealer Dan, as he is now known, is wanted in 15 states for illegal possession of "cakes" with intent to distribute. Do not approach. If you spot him contact the authorities immediately.
-Uncle Walter
Posted at 07:27 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)
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Posted at 07:25 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)
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Guess what? Everybody poops. It's true. There's not a person on the earth that doesn't. And, as one who doesn't like to poop in his pants, I use the magical device known as the "toilet," which works well in devouring my rear excretions. These fantastic devices have been around for over 100 years. Everyone should know how to use them right? Wrong.
First of all there is a toilet seat which confounds scores of men. It has two positions, up and down. Down is for pooping, and up is for boys and men to go pee pee standing up. Seems simple enough, yet every day I see these seats covered in little yellow drops. It appears a seat is too hard to move or perhaps men think they have a rifle between their legs. Well, they don't.
This all goes back the the penis, or "Pee Shooter." This is the little "NOT RIFLE," that men use to direct their stream of liquid refuse out of their bodies. In theory a well trained "Pee Sniper" could fire a precision burst and take out a foe with yellow smelly death, but that isn't how this stuff works. You see, men do not usually have a long barrel between their legs (and I have yet to see a sight for one). It's more like a fleshy silly straw with a spray nozzle. While streams can be fairly well focused, there is still some scatter. So, when you try to take a refined shot through a toilet seat, your shotgun splatter will coat the seat: and sit there waiting to moisten some poor dude's derrière.
Most who feel the intestinal urge to poo look before sitting, but if they are in distress they plop on the seat quickly only to blast away half the water with a massive disruption in the force. It is then that they notice that some dick has pissed on their ass. Not fun, pretty gross, and not acceptable. My six year old makes this mistake on occasion and The Wife and I correct it. Where are these men's parents? I think I need to have a word with them, and school them on proper potty training because their kids never learned.
-Uncle Walter
Posted at 07:25 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)
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