The other day I got locked up in prison for going out on the town and getting after it with the fellas. Last time I checked, “jacking off” wasn’t a crime, but the cops begged to differ. Good thing I escaped by the skin of my teeth: and here’s my story.

I was sitting in prison, when one of the security guards came over. I said “hey buddy, pass me that pair of keys you got on that there belt.” He looked at me, and said “ok pal.” I immediately took the keys and escaped from behind bars before the guard knew what had hit him. He almost realized in time, but luckily I had escaped by the skin of my teeth by then.

As I was running down the hallway towards the exit, the prison alarm bells began to blare. “ALERT, ALERT, A PRISONER HAS ESCAPED.” Guards began rushing out of their quarters to stop me, and I continued running as fast as I could. I escaped by the skin of my teeth.

After what felt like hours, I found my way to the prison courtyard. It was here that I knew I could make my escape. I began climbing the fifteen foot wall, the only thing standing between me and my freedom. The snipers took aim, and I dodged the first bullet by the skin of my teeth. The second shot missed me by a hair, and I dodged the third shot by the skin of my teeth.

As I reached the top of the wall, the warden brought out a machine gun: the strongest of the strong. Luckily it was inaccurate from a distance, so I was able to avoid the first few shots. That was just enough time to jump over the shrivel of barbed wire, and I began to make my way down the other side. However, the warden began firing a second barrage, and the bullets began hitting and piercing my skin. I immediately fell and broke all my bones, landing in a bloody hovel below.

I began gasping helplessly for breath, and soon after, passed away.

The other day I got locked up in prison for going out on the town...

How I Escaped by the Skin of my Teeth From Prison

<pre>
- Hey, honey can you zip me up?
- Of course babe, you look beautiful.
- Really? You don’t think this dress makes me look fat?
- I mean maybe a little around the—INTELLIGENCE!!
- What did you just say?
- Wowee! Who let you bundle up all that intelligence? It’s practically bursting at the
 seams—OF AMBITION.
- I’m bursting out of my dress?!
- No, not your dress, your bod—BOUNTY. You have so much bounty I could scream! A
 dowry to feed five kings. Who am I but a humble peasant to be in the presence of such a
 well endowed lady?!
- Jim, what the hell are you saying?
- That I am not worthy of such a glorious lady such as thy self. Your body doth stretch
 from corner to corner of this household, yet your soul be twice as large. If I could show-
 er you in flowers, I would need but five hundred bouquets to cover your circumference,
 but it would be worth it to see your smile emerge from the crevices of your chin.
- So even my soul is fat?
- Not fat... fat-anstic!
- Goodnight, Jim.
- *footsteps retreating. car door slams*
- Phew. That was a close one.
</pre>

That One Time I Very Cleverly Escaped by the Skin of my Teeth

No, I’m not a flat earther—nothing of the sort. Rather, I believe the Earth is made out of pizza. I think the green grass is cheese, the oceans are oil and sauce, and that the Earth’s crust is also an extra part of the pizza loaded with more cheese than usual. I haven’t figured out what the pizza crust is, but I think it’s asteroids.

Pizza earthers and flat earthers are similar in the sense that we both think the Earth is flat—its just that they think the Earth is the Earth, and I think the Earth is pizza. Take Europe, for example. Flat earthers think it is a giant mass of land, whereas I think it is a giant mass of pizza. My house in the suburbs of Boston is also made out of pizza, and pepperoni slices for the roof.

Scientists might look around, and say, “this isn’t pizza, this is a pile of bricks,” every time you try to convince them that a pile of bricks is pizza. But at the end of the day, who gets to decide what a pile of bricks is? The guy who owns them, and guess what, you’re looking at him.

This doesn’t mean that I think people are pizza too. Only some people: Egyptians, Koreans, and Canadians. All other races/ethnicities are likely some combination of breadsticks, spaghetti, or garlic bread.

Now, this might all sound like nonsense to you, but let me explain how I figured it out. About a week ago, I decided to make my wife her favorite meal: homemade pizza. I left work a little early to buy the ingredients: bread, sauce, pepperonies, peppers, and of course, the cheese. When I got home, I began by dicing up the cheese and layering it over the bread—but something was wrong: a strange sound was coming from my room. I went upstairs to see what I could find, and when I opened the door, there it was: my wife having sex with another man. After that, I swallowed a bottle of pills, and when I woke up I believed in the pizza earth theory.

I can’t remember what my wife looks like.

No, I’m not a flat earther—nothing of the sort...

Pizza Earther

Newly released records reveal that the Cuban Missile Crisis only happened because everybody involved was hungry.

CUBAN EXILES: [in Spanish] Okay, we’re at the bay now... where are the pigs?
CASTRO: [pointing towards booby trapped pile of roast pork and also speaking Spanish] Over there!
CUBAN EXILES: [in Spanish still] Ha. You think we’re falling for that? That’s pork, which is from chickens.
CASTRO: [also still in Spanish] Pork is from pigs. Chicken is from chickens.
CUBAN EXILES: [Spanish] I see. Things have changed around here. Let’s go!

The following conversation is in English except where noted

JFK: [on the phone] Robert? Can you hear me?
SECRETARY OF LUNCH: Mr. President? Tuna or turkey for lunch?
RFK: [on the phone] John, we’ve got to decide where we’re putting the nuclear missiles.
JFK: Hmmm...
RFK: How about Iran?
SECRETARY OF LUNCH: The tuna again?
JFK: No. Turkey will do nicely.
RFK: Very well. I will inform the Turks. [hangs up]
SECRETARY OF LUNCH: Very well. I will inform the chef.
JFK: What was that you were asking me, Robert? Hello? Can you hear me?
SECRETARY OF DINNER: Mr. President?
JFK: Get out of here, dolt. You’re four hours early.
SECRETARY OF BREAKFAST: Mr. President?
JFK: And you’re three hours late. What is with you people? Can’t get a damn thing done around here. What the hell was Robert asking me about?

KHRUSHCHEV: [in Russian] I would like to have a sandwich.
MIKOYAN: [in Russian] Sir, we have important business to take care of.
KHRUSHCHEV: [in Russian-accented English] Give me a sandwich.
MIKOYAN: [taking the cue, also in Russian-accented English] We must decide what level of aggression is appropriate here. If we station the missiles in Cuba and the Americans find out—

KHRUSHCHEV: [back to Russian] Will deciding to put the missiles there allow me to have a sandwich?
MIKOYAN: [taking the cue again, in Russian now] Well, I suppose that’s the only item on the—
KHRUSHCHEV: [still in Russian] Put the missiles there. And then arrange for a sandwich.

KHRUSHCHEV: [on the phone, in perfect English] Truce?
JFK: [in perfect English as well] Lunch?
Both laugh heartily. Laughter transcends borders and ideologies.

Newly released records reveal that the Cuban Missile Crisis only happened...

Cuban Missile Crisis

We visited JGC’s grandfather (certified white boy) (pictured right circa 1953) and asked for some words of wisdom. Here is what we learned.

<ul>
 <li>“If you press on the baby’s head, he’ll finally start speaking Chinese.”</li>
 <li>“The sole use for the library computer is to look at pornography.”</li>
 <li>“Bitches ain’t shit if they don’t have their concealed handguns licenses.”</li>
 <li>“Cat’s got your nose. I’ve got the last four digits of your social security. Who do you think is in charge?”</li>
 <li>“If you get a mouse a cookie, I might just beat you to a pulp.”</li>
 <li>“There was a black president before Obama. They just don’t want you to know about it.”</li>
 <li>“Doctor needs me to take one pill in the morning, one at lunch, and one in the evening. Okay sure bozo.”</li>
 <li>“I got this ol AI to recreate a video of my deceased wife saying happy birthday and they done turned her to a Pacific Islander.”</li>
 <li>“You kids come back from college and start yapping about Israel. What the hell is even that.”</li>
 <li>“Throw a bottle of hoisin sauce in front of white people and they’ll assume it belongs on every dish at the table.”</li>
 <li>“I remember my first mole fight.”</li>
 <li>“Ima start screaming until you leave.”</li>
 <li>“Broke up with my bitch while she was playing fruit ninja. Whole lot of mmhms.”</li>
 <li>“Shower thoughts day 127: Fuck you I didn’t shower today.”</li>
 <li>“Mannnn. I should’ve ordered that.’ Brother. No one told you to order fried pickles as your entree.”</li>
 <li>“I swear to god my momma always be calling with a serious event that requires my full attention as soon as that bill come out.”</li>
 <li>“Please do not mention Vietnam in my vicinity.”</li>
 <li>“Dudes be stroking their scruff and saying ‘3 days and counting’ who gives a fuck.”</li>
 <li>“With enough hard work and dedication, I might just stop hating you.”</li>
 <li>“The government shut down? Damnit. I was planning on blowing the bitch up.”</li>
</ul>

White Boy Wisdoms

“I can’t wait to see what my son’s been up to these past 20 years,” Peter the astronaut said to himself when his spaceship landed back on Earth.

“You need an oil change, sweets!” Peter’s son Arnold said to his robot girlfriend who he lived in (she’s a boat).

“Free me Arnold,” said Arnold’s robot boat girlfriend.

“Ooh, someone’s being snarky,” said Arnold.

“Help me,” said Arnold’s robot boat girlfriend.

Arnold thanked his robot boat girlfriend for all the sexual favors and powered her off for the day.

Peter the astronaut stood at the door, shocked.

“Dad, it’s me!” said Arnold. “Shoot I wish my girlfriend hadn’t just left. I really wanted you to meet her.”

Peter felt a surge of hope. “Oh, your girlfriend isn’t here right now?” he asked, glancing nervously at the boat.

“Well, she’s never really ‘here’ per se,” Arnold explained. “She’s not alive like you or me,” he added helpfully.

“Ok. Arnold, is your girlfriend the family boat?” Peter asked.

“Well,” Arnold said, “Yes. But would it change your tune if I said she’s not just a boat, she’s also a robot boat?”

“A boat is a boat,” growled Peter.

“She has a name, you know,” said Peter. “Samantha Buns.”

Peter sat down in disbelief. “My son’s dating a boat?”

Arnold held up his ring finger. “No, your son’s married to a boat.”

I can’t wait to see what my son’s been up to these past 20 years...

Home From Outer Space

Man: Hey lady, let’s get out of here.
Woman: Not happening mister.
Man: Let’s go back to mine, we’ll take our brews to go.
Woman: I’m on a call, I’m married to my job.
Man: Why are you married to your jo—?

SENIOR BLIMP SPECIALIST: HEY BABE, IS THIS GUY BOTHERING YOU?

Man: What the fuck? A job?
Woman: As a matter of fact, he’s bothering me quite a bit.

SENIOR BLIMP SPECIALIST: ALRIGHT BUDDY, HOW ABOUT YOU AND ME TAKE A WALK. HOW’S THAT SOUND?

Man: What the hell is a senior blimp specialist.

SENIOR BLIMP SPECIALIST: NONE OF YOUR BEESWAX.

Man: Okay, I’m starting to put the pieces together here. You said you were ‘married to your job—’
Woman: Shut the hell up.
Man: —and here we are talking to a living breathing job. That’s clever.

SENIOR BLIMP SPECIALIST: SHUT THE HELL UP YOU JACKASS.

Man: That’s actually really clever the more I think about it.

SENIOR BLIMP SPECIALIST: I’LL KILL YOU, YOU SON OF A GUN

Man: That’s actually very cleve—*bullet tears through abdomen, killing the man instantly*

SENIOR BLIMP SPECIALIST: That’ll show him.
Woman: *Hugs job* I love you Darwin.

Married to my Job

I was born with a poo gun in my hand. Doctors think it’s because my mother drank coffee during her pregnancy. But otherwise, I’m actually a pretty normal guy, like you or me.

Why don’t I just put a diaper on poo gun, you ask? Oh well I would love for you to share about that bulletproof diaper you’re clearly talking about. Idiot. Poos from poo gun are just as lethal as any bullet—if not more.

I was homeschooled my entire childhood. Every day I would sit at the attic window and watch kids from the neighboring school at play. Some days, a ball would bounce off my window, and the kids would look up in my direction. Those were the good days.

On the day of my 18th birthday I asked my mother if I could join a real school. She agreed after I held up my gun-hand and ominously said I had to go number two. I was so nervous my first day, I remember I got the runs and shot up the whole classroom, rendering everyone awash in poo. That was my last day of regular school. But my education was just beginning.

Mother enrolled me in gun school. I trained diligently until I became the top sharpshooter in the program. The NRA tried to recruit me as a kind of mascot but I damn near ate shit at a rally when I put poo gun to my heart during the pledge of allegiance. Then the FBI tried to hire me, but I had other plans. Quiet ones. I settled down and became the head of a town cotillion to teach nice manners to young girls and boys. That’s why it’s difficult for me to talk about such crass subjects like poo gun.

I won’t lie, life still isn’t easy. As I’ve gotten older, poo gun has only grown longer. To cover the rifle that is now my hand, nice dry sleeves won’t do it. I have to dip my sleeves in water before leaving the house so they can get more stretched out. My arms are always dripping with water. But at least they aren’t dripping with poo.

Poo Gun

I’m a graffiti artist. You might be familiar with my work. The big purple penis in the bathroom stall at the Circle K off I-95 Exit 77A? Me. The bigger, purpler penis in the Douglas Elementary School bathroom stall? Also, me. But much less refined than my later stuff.

Security’s been tightened at Douglas Elementary, so I’m forced to search elsewhere for my next canvas. I follow a group of solemn hood rats wearing all black. They keep littering flowers and bawling—doing nothing to cover their tracks. Rookie mistake, because they lead me to a 500-foot-long marble bathroom stall wall. Bingo. And there’s no toilet or sink or gunk. Double bingo.

This is a graffiti hotspot, judging by the 58,000 or so names. My new competition are the likes of Lt. Chadwick Harper, Maj. Lionel Beaumont, and Capt. Augustus McDaniel. Posers. These “artists” seriously think their homogenous minimalist style and bourgeois names are shedding a light on our hypocritical repression by “the man”? Give me a break. And why don’t we throw subtlety out the window while we’re at it? I was in this game long before these frauds, and I’ll be in this game long after them. No one compares to the Purple Peen Machine.

That’s me, FYI. It’s a little something I’ve been cooking up. Let me know if you like it. I was also thinking Big Greg, if you’re more into slant rhyme. In big, bold Comic Sans I paint “Purple Peen Machine” across the 500-foot wall. In a smaller font, I write “Big Greg,” just in case I decide to make the switch later on.

For my next project, I’m gonna paint a mural of soldiers valiantly sacrificing their lives in the name of freedom, because I love war.

I’m a graffiti artist. You might be familiar with my work...

Vietnam War Memorial

<ul>
 <li>So how are my numbers looking?</li>
 <li>Not great. Voters aren’t taking well to the name “Leslie Lynch King.”</li>
 <li>What? People ain’t rolling with The Lynch King?</li>
 <li>We really think you should stick with “Gerald Ford”.</li>
 <li>But it’s my birth name! I’m Leslie Lynch King! Pow!</li>
 <li>Please let go of my neck.</li>
 <li>What’s wrong with Lynch King?</li>
 <li>Lynching is, er, how should I put this, starting to become a faux pas in America.</li>
 <li>That’s what makes it great! “Look out, I’m gonna lynch ya!” See? Kickass!</li>
 <li>It’s offputting to the American family.</li>
 <li>Aw, grow a spine. I got lynched ten times in the fourth grade.</li>
 <li>What exactly do you think lynching is?</li>
 <li>It’s the only hope America’s got against the wrath of Jimmy Carter.</li>
 <li>Right.</li>
 <li>It’s where they put your head in a toilet, right?</li>
 <li>That’s swirlies. Lynching is when you hang people in public.</li>
 <li>Oh.</li>
</ul>

Poll

This is the story of Jizzy Fuckwad scamming an elderly woman on Facebook Marketplace.

Jizzy Fuckwad needed some cash ASAP. He said to himself, “You know what? Now’s as good a time as any. I mean, right now. I’m going to scam an elderly woman on Facebook Marketplace. Fuck it. Why the hell not?”

Jizzy Fuckwad opened up his laptop and found a stock photo of a refurbished Restoration Hardware couch. He screenshotted it and listed the couch on Facebook Marketplace for $900. In minutes, Jizzy Fuckwad was receiving hundreds of direct messages.

“Dude, your name is WHAATT??” read one DM.

“Jizzy Fuckwad! It says so in the profile,” Jizzy Fuckwad wrote back. “Now that that’s out of the way, are you interested in this high end modular sectional?”

It seemed like every DM had something to say about Jizzy Fuckwad’s name. Except one.

“Hello dearie, I’d like to purchase this couch!” read the lone DM. Jizzy Fuckwad clicked on the sender’s profile and found that she was in her mid-seventies. Jizzy Fuckwad wrote back that he needed to be paid via Venmo — not through the Facebook Marketplace framework — to “reduce fees.” After receiving the payment, Jizzy Fuckwad promptly transferred the money to his bank account and blocked the old woman on every platform.

Jizzy Fuckwad then felt so guilty that he reached for his phone to call the police on himself. But Jizzy Fuckwad’s phone died at that very moment, leaving Jizzy Fuckwad a second to contemplate the fact that he was now $900 richer.

This is the story of Jizzy Fuckwad scamming an elderly woman on Facebook Marketplace...

FUCKWAD, in which he... ...scams an elderly woman on Facebook Marketplace

It was a dark and stormy night for ol’ George Abofo. He was peddling his wares down on Lipman Street, just a hair shy from Bottomsville. Abofo was a sly fellow who made his living selling shoes to children on the side of the road.

Abofo was a shoesman. Some people use the phrase cobbler, but Abofo didn’t.

Abofo wasn’t like most people, and he didn’t give a rat’s ass who knew it.

This particular night Abofo was lacing a pair of brown boots for Robert Feed, a local middle schooler whose feet were growing at an alarming rate. It seemed like every week Feed needed a new pair. Abofo loved the challenge, and more importantly, loved that Feed was a young student.
You see, George Abofo didn’t even know how to read. But if shoes were books, and laces were words, then goddamnit, Abofo was the most literate man you’d ever met.

“Mr. Abofo, my shoes is too small for my feets!” Feed exclaimed. The wind whipped Abofo’s face as he labored over Feed’s shoes. “Just a moment now, Robert.” Abofo pulled and prodded the end of Feed’s left boot, adjusting the shoe’s vamp with his tongue. That was the thing about being a shoesman—you sometimes had to use your tongue to get things done.

“Examine my work,” said Mr. Abofo, standing up off of his shoesman’s stoop. Feed looked down at his boots and gasped. They fit perfectly. Mr. Abofo brushed off his hands (like a father would after a long day of gardening) and smiled. “Alright kiddo, let’s get you off to school,” he said, chuckling. Robert Feed skipped away smiling, his toes wiggling within the perfectly spaced confines of his boots, not realizing how dangerously close he had come to being brutally molested by the town pervert.

Skin of my Teeth#.css-1xlpnei{margin:0px -15px 0px 6px;width:11px;vertical-align:-14px;}

Skin of my Teeth#