Tag Archives: comedy

SIP CHUG!

Posted by Piscis on

SipChug

 

Do you want to do your part to cut down on resource consumption, but still want to look like you take your beverages from disposable aluminum containers that you could, at any moment, crush against your skull and toss onto the sidewalk as you walk by with a satisfied belch?

Do you want to drink from a reusable metal mock-pull-tab can?

Why?

I mean, you can – look at the picture – you can, but why?  Why, though?

Why do you want to do that?

Do you want to put your drink into a metal soda/beer can, but then use a straw anyway?

Even more why?

Is this–is this a good idea?

Why does one of the straws have a gasket on it?

 

Bene scribete.

RUFFWEAR!!!

Posted by Piscis on

GripTrex
 

Dog shoes are a thing.  I think, on some level, we all know this.  But there’s something about the presentation of these ones in particular that stands out.

Is it the needless naming of them “bark’n boots” or the even more needless trademarking of said name?

Is it the casual classification of them as “paw wear” as though that were an everyday product category?

Is it the perfectly fashion-shot close-up of a dog paw model (and the realization that that’s also a thing)?

Is it that the packaging designer forgot about capital letters?

No.  I think it’s the mascot’s opinion on all of the above.

 

Ruffwear

 

Just look at that sass.  “RUFFWEAR?  Are you kidding me?”

Mascot dog, I salute you.  You don’t have time for all that nonsense.  You just want some little booties for your paws.

 

Bene scribete.

EEEEEEE

Posted by Piscis on

EEEEEEE

 

This car is…very excited to be a Prius.  Not a single E was spared.

Or maybe it’s an acronym?

Exuberantly ensuring environmentally endangered ecosystems exist eternally?

I don’t know, but like to imagine that’s the sound it makes when it’s zipping down the road, blissfully enraptured in the fact that it’s a car and can go faster than any cheetah, and never has to know what Pepperidge Farm Goldfish Mac & Cheese tastes like.

 

Bene scribete.

Buyer’s Fee

Posted by Piscis on

BuyersFee

 

I’m sure we’re all familiar with the sleazy but time-honored practice of shunting off portions of the cost of an item or service into a miscellany of arbitrary fees that are inseparable from the cost of trading in said item or service – and thus have no reason not to be factored into the sale price – in order to deceptively advertise a false, lower cost.

When the local K-Mart was closing down and selling off their fixtures, however, I saw what has to be the most blatant, lazy, and absurd example of this I could possibly imagine – a “buyer’s fee.”

Let me say that again – a “buyer’s fee.”

I mean, is there anything more inherent to the cost of buying an item than, you know, buying it?  It’s practically a parody of itself.

“See, this shelving unit costs $50, but the privilege of actually buying it will run you another $7.50.  You can avoid the buyer’s fee if you just want to pay the fifty bucks and let us keep the unit.”

Way to go, K-Mart.  You’ll be the envy of ISPs everywhere.  (>^-‘)>

 

Bene scribete.

Dincton Flatt and the Heavy Taco

Posted by Piscis on

I’m going to be honest – this is not worth reading.

 

Taco

Dincton Flatt shuffled ponderously down Bendstrom avenue, eyes darting suspiciously at everyone he passed by.

“It’s far too small a day for bacon,” he muttered.

“I wouldn’t know,” said Featherby, trotting alongside him.  And he wouldn’t, for in addition to being a coyote, he was a robot, and could not eat bacon in the slightest.

Flatt stopped a short, round man coming from the opposite direction, placing his hands to his shoulders and leering into his beady eyes.  “You.”

“Me?” the man sputtered.

“Yes, you.  The very one I am accosting.  How long have you had that hat?”

The man reached up and grabbed at his driving cap.  “This one?”

“Yes, that one.  Out with it, man.”

“Er–a couple years, I imagine.”

“And how long have you been wearing it?”

“All day – what is the meaning of this?”

Flatt sighed and released him, waving him off.  The man gave a distrustful glance, but went on his way.

“Sir,” offered Featherby, “perhaps you shouldn’t be attempting to track down our hatleaver on an empty stomach.”

Flatt wiped a hand down his face.  “Yes, I suppose you’re right.  But what could possibly satisfy my hunger for justice?”

“There’s a newspaper-and-taco stand just over there.”

“Why on Earth is there a newspaper-and-taco stand on Bendstrom?”

“A question for the ages, sir.”

“Never mind.  It’ll do in a pinch.”  Flatt made his way over to the stand and got the attention of its attendant – an oily teenager with lank brown hair in his eyes (which could only serve to obscure his taco-related perceptive capabilities).

“Good afternoon, sir,” said the vendor.  “Would you like a taco?”

“As it happens, I would.”  Flatt looked the boy up and down.  “I see you’re not wearing a hat.”  He narrowed his eyes.  “Have you murdered anyone lately?”

The vendor got to work on the taco.  “I don’t think so.  I’m not really one for murderin’.  Mum would be none too pleased with that.”

Something on the front of the day’s paper caught Flatt’s attention, and he snatched up a copy.  Depicted in the side column was an all-too-familiar face.

“Cleben Render.”  A fart of a man if ever there was one, and there was one, and his name was Cleben Render.  His fiery red hair and leaf-green suit said it all.

Featherby nosed at another copy.  “What do you imagine he is doing back in Danesbury?”

“Who could say?”

“Likely the story written about him in the very paper you’re holding, sir.”

“There’s no time for that, Featherby!”  He slammed the paper back into the stand, and in the following moment, was handed a fresh, sizzling taco.

It smelled appetizing enough, but as he tested it out in his hand, he noticed an unusually generous heft.

“This taco is rather heavy, isn’t it?  Is the shell made of solid gold?”

The vendor shrugged.  “I think that would be cost-prohibitive, sir.”

“How much is it?”

“Two quid.”

“Lead in the beef, then?”

“Maybe if the cow was shot to death.”  The boy fired off a pair of finger-guns.

Flatt bit into the taco.  The flavor was loud, and it hit his gut as though his esophagus were punching him in the stomach. His colon began to rumble, and his eyes reached out in desperation for the nearest establishment with plumbing.  “Pay the man, Featherby.”  He began to backpedal.

“Sir?  You have given me no funding.”

Flatt turned and broke out into a sprint, calling back, “Oh, Featherby, why did I build you?”

“For good times, sir!”

 

Bene scribete.

Busy Buddy

Posted by Piscis on

BusyBuddy

 

This…this panda is so happy at the prospect of being a dog’s busy buddy / mouth friend.

That face.  That reality-piercing gaze.  It’s hypnotic.  It’s terrifying.  It’s sheer, unrestrained joy contorted into a caricature of soulless delight in its own impending destruction.

Don’t you dare try to tell me that’s its nose.

Don’t you dare.

 

Bene scribete.

Rude Bugs

Posted by Piscis on

 

snail2

 

Around the corner there’s a snail
Who only wants to see you fail.
So grab that slimer by the shell
And softly whisper, “Go to hell.”

Inside the pantry there’s an ant
Who’s apt to tell you that you can’t.
So sweep it underneath the table.
Show it that you’re more than able.

At the window there’s a fly
Who’d kind of like to have you die.
So swat the silly thing away
And tell it that you’re here to stay.

Among the flowers there’s a bee,
But this one wants to set you free.
So drink its honey, blaze a trail,
And don’t let ruder bugs prevail.

Do not listen to the snail.

 

Bene scribete.