Surprise Pregnancy Cartoon

Surprise Pregnancy Cartoon

This pregnancy cartoon shows that magical moment when a man learns that he’s going to be a father, and his priceless reaction to that news.  You can learn a lot about a man by observing his reaction to unexpected news.  This man is obviously not ready to be a father, and in this case he’s lucky – the baby isn’t his.  So his incredibly unmanly reaction of yelling and running away is nothing more than an overreaction to ovary action.

If you have any thoughts on unexpected fatherhood or any comments on this pregnancy cartoon, leave a reply below!

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Automatic Flush Toilets: Enemy of Earth

How to save the world from the wasteful nature of automatic flush toilets

Solution to Automatic Flush Toilets

I don’t want to pee into someone else’s used poop-water. Source

Dear Ely:  I’ve got a big problem with automatic flush toilets.  Especially the one at my work.  I step in front of it to urinate, and before my piss even splashes the bowl it flushes.  Then when my flow is exhausted and I’m zipping up it flushes again.  And then when I step away from the toilet it flushes yet again.  That’s three flushes for one piss session, and it happens every single time.  It’s so wasteful!  I don’t know if the auto-flush toilet manufacturers realize this, but there’s a limited supply of fresh water on this planet.  And their crappy products are needlessly flushing so much of it away.  Is this progress?  Is this making the world a better place?  Hell no!  We have to stop this water waste!  What can I do to bring attention to this major environmental issue?

Sincerely,

Flushmaster Phil

******

Dear Flushmaster Phil,

I’ve also experienced overly zealous automatic flush toilets, but I’ve never considered the environmental consequences.  But you’re right – these auto-flushers are unnecessarily wasting a precious natural resource, all so that squeamish germaphobes don’t have to touch toilet handles with their delicate prissy fingers.  It doesn’t seem right.  Here’s something you can do to combat this super-serious world-threatening problem.

All automatic flush toilets have a manual flush button.  You’re going to force people to use this button.  How?  Print up a ton of business cards that say “Auto-Flush broken.  Please use flush button.”  Then go to every restroom you can find and affix these cards to every automatic flush toilet you encounter.  When you do so, cover up the auto-flush sensor with the card.  Use superglue so the cards can’t be removed.  This will effectively disable the wasteful auto-flush system and save untold bowls of fresh water.

I know it seems dishonest to tell people that the automatic flusher is broken when it isn’t, but it’s ok to lie to people when you’re smarter than them, when you know what’s best for them, and when you’re doing something for their benefit.  Hell, some would even call that kind of behavior noble.  You’ll be an American hero, traveling the countryside spreading the seeds of water conservation.  Kind of like Johnny Appleseed, only borderline psychotic.  I mean what kind of person cares so much about toilets?

Peace, Love, and Ending the Tyranny of Automatic Flush Toilets,

Ely North

PS.  If you have any advice on automatic flush toilets for Flushmaster Phil, leave a reply below!

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Sweaty Armpits Solution

How to turn your sweaty armpits into big profits

Sweaty Armpits

Sweaty armpits: spreading unhappiness everywhere you go. Source

Dear Ely:  You know what I hate?  My armpits.  You know why?  They’re sweaty freaks, continuously oozing stank juices.  It’s like a sticky, stinky, God-forsaken swamp in there.  I was putting on deodorant the other day and I swear an alligator tried to bite my fingers off.  My sweaty armpits are so powerful that they’re totally impervious to antiperspirants.  Even the military-grade stuff my armpit doctor prescribed me had no effect on my underarm sweat fountains.  All my shirts have grotesque pit stains, and my overwhelming odor is offensive to everyone I meet.  If I could I would have my sweaty armpits surgically removed, but unfortunately that medical procedure hasn’t been invented yet.  What should I do?

Sincerely,

Sweaty Pits Pete

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Dear Sweaty Pits Pete,

I feel bad for you.  Your sweaty armpits are a constant source of embarrassment for you, and a constant source of discomfort for everyone around you.  I feel even worse for them.  They’re the ones who are forced to look at your salty pit stains and smell your funky body odor.  Anyone who’s ever ridden a bus or subway in the summertime knows perfectly well what a noxious biohazard sweaty armpits can be.  So I’m going to help you, not so much for you but more for those poor nostril-owners who have to deal with you.

I have a revolutionary (i.e. crazy) idea that will not only relieve your sweaty armpits problem but will also make you stinking rich.  First, you’ll need to hook up some kind of catheter / colostomy bag gadget to your sweaty armpits.  I don’t have the proper training in medical engineering to help you with the design, so you’ll have to figure this out for yourself.  If you construct the bag(s) out of a material that seals in the odor then this sweat-harvesting contraption will solve the dual problem of pit stains and body odor.

Perfume bottle filled with juice from sweaty armpits

Jus de Aisselle, $69.98 per bottle. Oh yeah, people will buy it. Source

But what to do with all that stank sweat you collect?  Pour it into small decorative glass bottles and sell it as a snooty new brand of perfume!  If you offer a product in ornate packaging, give it a fancy foreign (preferable French) name, and slap an expensive price tag on it, stupid people will see it as a sort of status symbol.  They’ll most certainly buy it, no matter how disgusting it is.  (This partially explains why foul-tasting Heineken beer is so popular.)  With the right marketing strategy and a little luck, you could have legions of idiots paying you good money so they can smell like your stinky sweaty armpits.  Just let me know when you’re about to drop your product so I can invest in a good nose-plug.

Peace, Love, and Sweaty Armpits for Sale,

Ely North

PS. If you have any advice for coping with sweaty armpits, leave a reply below!

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Self-Importance Dies by Air Guitar: Words of Wisdom

How my self-importance was defeated by two old men, a Meatloaf song, and a dangerous car trip

Blinded by Self-Importance

Self-importance blinds you to your connection with the rest of the world. Source

“Now we are concerned with losing self-importance.  As long as you feel that you are the most important thing in the world you cannot really appreciate the world around you.  You are like a horse with blinders, all you see is yourself apart from everything else.” ~Don Juan Matus

It was a beautiful early autumn afternoon in Trenton, New Jersey, but I had shut myself away from the world, a bitter ball of self-pity sulking in the shadows of my empty house.  I was struggling with life and (thanks to my powerful sense of self-importance) feeling supremely sorry for myself.  I had recently lost my job.  I had also recently lost my girlfriend, probably because I no longer had any money to buy her things.  My self-importance kept telling me that I deserved better out of life, mostly (I suspect) to suppress the emerging realization that I was loser.

In the middle of my pity party, unexpected visitors arrived.  It was Larry, the owner of the house, and his friend George.  Both men were in their late 50s, divorced, unabashedly free-spirited and boisterously fun-loving.  Exactly the kind of people I wasn’t in the mood to meet.  They had come to take a bike ride along the nearby Delaware Canal.

When I (so seriously) told them why I was feeling down they proceeded to tease me about being unemployed and without a woman.  My self-importance forced me to feel offended by their jokes, and when they tried to cajole me into joining them on their bike ride I indignantly refused.

After they shared a joint with me I relented and threw my bike in the back of their pickup truck.

A joint to overcome self-importance

“I don’t want to go.” – “Smoke this.” – “OK, let’s go.” Source

We drove a few miles up the road to Washington Crossing Park.  The bike ride was uneventful.  The guys continued to crack jokes and act silly, and though I was stoned I was still wrapped up in my own self-importance.  I ignored them; in fact, I ignored everything except my own problems.  I was completely oblivious to the beautiful day that I was finally (partially) taking part in.

When we returned to the pickup truck and climbed in for the ride back to the house, something frightening and wonderful happened.

George was driving, Larry was in the passenger seat, and I was wedged in the middle between them.  George turned on the radio and we found ourselves smack in the middle of that epic ode to teenage lust, “Paradise by the Dashboard Light” by Meatloaf.  Within seconds, I noticed that George was managing the steering wheel with the crooks of his elbows, leaving his hands free to bang the shit out of his dashboard like a cheap set of drums.  His head was tilted back and rhythmically shaking side to side, his eyes were mostly closed, and an ecstatic smile lit up his face.

Alarmed that our driver was being so reckless, I looked to Larry for help.  I didn’t find it.  He was hanging halfway out the window like a dog, singing into the oncoming breeze at the top of his lungs, “Do you love me/ Will you love me forever/ Do you need me/ Will you never leave me…”

Panic struck.  I was surrounded by madmen!  My self-importance nearly exploded: how dare they put my life in jeopardy with their irresponsible behavior!  I envisioned the pickup truck hurtling off the road into the canal and all three of us dying because these two were too busy rocking out to notice that we were drowning.  Still stoned and faced with impending death, I irrationally decided to join in their madness and at least die with a smile on my face.

But how?  My self-importance held me back.  How could I act like a fool in front of these grown men?  And what if someone in a passing car saw me?  Death would be preferable to such embarrassment.

Air Guitar to Overcome Self-Importance

Playing air guitar in a public forum is a great way to overcome self-importance. Source

Then something snapped in my brain – my self-importance finally gave way.  I shrieked “Screw it!” and closed my eyes, started banging my head, and played the meanest air guitar you’d ever want to see.  And before I knew it, I was back home safe and in a much improved mood.

These days, whenever I feel my self-importance threatening to assert itself, I think back to that ridiculous ride on that beautiful day as a reminder to just get over myself, enjoy life, and appreciate the world around me.

******

Share your thoughts on self-importance or any other ideas for activities that help us overcome our self-importance by leaving a reply below!

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Stubborn People: Divorce over PBJ?

Dealing with stubborn people and their PBJ preferences is easy if you keep the end in mind

Stubborn PBJ Sandwich

Pablo the Anti-Stubbornness PBJ says: “Don’t be stubborn, kids!” Worst mascot ever. Source

Dear Ely: My husband is a stubborn bastard. So am I. And therein lies our problem. We have a strong, loving, caring marriage, but it’s beginning to unravel because of one silly argument that keeps flaring up repeatedly. An argument about a sandwich. You see, I make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich by spreading the jelly on one slice of bread, the peanut butter on the other slice, and then delicately combining them. This is clearly the smartest way to produce the neatest, most properly ratioed, best-tasting PBJ. My husband, on the other hand, spreads the jelly on one slice of bread, then spreads the peanut butter on top of the jelly like a damned maniac, then places the second virgin slice of bread atop that sloppy catastrophe. I mean, can you imagine a messier, less efficient way to make a sandwich? And the worst part is, he won’t admit that my method is better! His unwillingness to see the truth and change his views drives me crazy. Should I just divorce the stubborn son-of-a-bitch?

Sincerely,

PBJ Paige

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Dear PBJ Paige,

Reading your letter may have just extinguished my last bit of hope for humanity. Think about it: if two loving people in a stable marriage are too stubborn to reach a compromise on something as stupidly irrelevant as a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, what hope do the rest of us have to settle our differences?

I need to pause here and take back something I just said. I did not mean to utterly dismiss the peanut butter and jelly sandwich as “stupidly irrelevant.” We all know that PBJ is the Sacred Sandwich, the undisputed King of Things to Spread Between Your Bread. Please forgive me for speaking out of turn.

Even still, in the grand scheme of things a peanut butter and jelly sandwich is not that important. Certainly not something to get into a stubborn argument over. Most certainly not grounds for divorce. Rather than stubbornly clinging to your view and refusing to consider alternatives, try to see the truth: that no matter how expertly or ineptly the PBJ is made, in the end it always just turns into shit.

So it is with all the petty – and even the rather important – things that stubborn people all over the world argue about. None of it really matters – it all turns into shit in the end. Each of us will die and our bodies decay into waste material. Likewise with all the things we collect and build. Even our social institutions and our nations will someday crumble and become the fodder for something new to grow out of. All these things we think are so important, all these things we stubbornly argue about – it’s all just shit. So drop it.

Peace, Love, and Shitting on Stubbornness,

Ely North

PS. If you have any advice on dealing with stubborn people, or on how to make a great sandwich, leave a reply below!

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