Lost My Cookies emails:
My younger brother Brendan was in a bicycle accident on Saturday and from what I’ve heard he will have both of his arms in a cast for a while. […] he’s in London and about 5000 miles away from anyone he knows. Anyway, my other brother said Brendan was feeling pretty down. So I’m trying to cheer him up. I’ve set up a gmail account for him called and I’m encouraging people to mail in the dirtiest, most offensive jokes they can come up with, or you can just bust on him for not knowing how to ride a bike. […] Think of it as a sort of an email roast.
So let’s see—I’m supposed to rag on somebody I’ve never met, over a fairly serious injury, and I get to feel heroic for doing so? What’s not to like?
It’ll be like giving something back!
Additional details here.
Notes LMC, “Think of it as a sort of an email roast.”
Sure. Though the difference between a roast and your brother is that a roast is probably smart enough to figure out how to work a couple of fucking pedals and a banana seat.
It would be cruel to tell him dirty jokes if he’d broken his dick. At least he didn’t break his dick.
It’s too bad he doesn’t really know anyone over there to wipe his ass for him, though.
Endeothebicycleman – Brilliant.
“It’s too bad he doesn’t really know anyone over there to wipe his ass for him, though.”
Yes Dan I thinking the same thing, maybe mail him a blow up since his arm movement will limited as well….
I e-mailed him a bunch of jokes. Repeating the dirtiest and most offensive jokes I know reminds me what an awful person I am.
Banana seats? Banana seats are back? Crap, I haven’t seen one in years. I loved ‘em, even had an <i>Easy Riders sissy bar on my Schwinn.
Thanks guys. Feel no pity. That bastard took my mommy away!
Did he get a “murse” (man-nurse) ?
I’m not sure he’s home yet and if he is he’s probably pretty wasted he had surgery on his hand yesterday or today or whatever. I can’t follow the timechange.
A murse would be great.
You should get your brother a new bicycle helmet, but insist that he has to wear it everywhere.
It’s just like falling off a bike and breaking both your arms, you never forget how.
I hear West End girls dig casts.
Just get one and put it on him.
Who is gonna take it off?
I seem to recall from my middle school years, when we all had BMX bikes (Mongoose & Redline), that an Endo was a stunt where you did a wheelie with the back wheel coming off of the ground. Is that right?
I once had a motorcycle accident, where I layed down my crotch rocket (young and dumb), and broke my tailbone. When I got to X-ray, there was a rather attractive young lady there to take the pictures. So, I am laying there in one of those horrific hospital gowns, sporting full wood, which showed up quite clearly on the x-ray.
It was awkward, to say the least.
JD:
But did you keep the picture for, you know, posterity.
Just get one and put it on him.
Who is gonna take it off?
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We don’t know how immobile his arms are. He many have movement at either the elbow or the shoulder on at least one arm.
The obvious solution is to get him one of those inverted lampshade collars. Like they put on dogs.
And then you should pee on him. That’s always a hoot.
In my dirt biking years, endo was short for end over end, or a crash of the more spectacular variety.
What’s really funny is the entry below the bike story—check it out:
http://craigslist.org/about/best/nyc/333345372.html
Any story about a bowel movement that includes this phrase:
Is a winner in my book.
Okay, I sent the poor guy the sickest joke I know. The punchline is, “but you don’t understand; Chunks is my dog.”
Evidently I must reconsider my policy of not telling stories about bowel movements…
Nothing awkward about that, unless immediate female kin is present.
Otherwise, say it loud and say it proud brother.
Hell, some females might be interested to know that you can maintain a stiffy while suffering excruciating pain…
BJ – Yeah, I kept it. I used to break it out at parties. My better half put a stop to that, quickly.
Bike wrecks … my youngest brother is 8 years mmy junior. At 15, me and my friends dressed him in my entire football uniform, and sent him flying down a hill onto a ramp so steep that we were all afraid to try it. His front tire barely made it over the top of the ramp, which kind of catapaulted him forward. Good thing for the football helmet. I got grounded for a month for little bro’s broken arm though.
JWebb: The “I get drunk and blow chunks” joke is the best you’ve got? Oh shit, if that is the level we’re supposed to be going for, I might actually have offended him! =[
Banging your shin on that sissy bar as you tried to get on the bike, as you looked right at the damn thing, but still didn’t see it, hurt like hell didn’t it?
Do y’all know
“Is that Mother Green?”
That’s a classic.
OT but—any readers here in the Los Angeles area? I need a designated hitter to hold my signs for me at our weekly counterprotest in Studio City. I have to go back East for family.
The ANSWERbots start showing up around 6 but the crowd’s usually all there by 6:30.
We rally on the opposing corner, in front of the 1st Republic Bank on Laurel Canyon and Ventura Blvd.
We’ve been doing this since way before the ‘04 election. The group is mostly female veterans, soldier’s relatives and mothers. I started marching with them because they were having problems with the ANSWERbots being physically abusive when there were no men with the group.
Anyone who cares to show up is welcome. We can provide signs and flags or you’re welcome to bring your own.
Thank you for your time and we now return you to your regularly scheduled ragging on the bicyclist.
Oh, and Operation Gratitude will be shipping its 250,000th package to the troops this weekend if you want to donate or show up to help pack.
No, really, back to the dumbo Schwinn Schmoe now…
Oh, that’s this Friday (6/15), by the way…
Huh. Really? I find that hard to believe.
I wish I could help, but I’m on the wrong side of the continent.
GMG – That is good of you. I am visiting Pasadena right now, but will be leaving Friday afternoon.
I just had a great afternoon eating some of the best Vietnamese food I have had outside of VietNam and my mother-in-law’s kitchen. I also found some incredible deals on diamonds, which should make my wife and daughter happy.
Rob Crawford—Two assaults and one restraining order so far, that I am directly aware of.
Strangely, they’re not so heroic with grown men around.
OT – I don’t know if Jeff has seen this, and I know that Deb a la Frisch is a touchy subject in light of recent events, but I thought that this was too funny not to mention here at PW.
Maybe some of you will too.
It’s the coaster break that can get you into real trouble, though, when you stand on it and accidentally pedal forward instead. You tend to run head on into various immovable objects.
As someone who grew up in the mid-eighties–the last generation of kids who could go out to ride their bikes without helmets, pads, or scheduled “play dates” with adult supervision–I feel sorry for the youth of today. After all, they won’t experience the chipped teeth, concussions, broken bones, and gaping lacerations requiring ungodly amounts of stitches which we could claim as badges of honor.
The latter, especially, since I’m told that chicks dig scars.
My first incident of self-imposed unconciousness came in 1942 when I was eight-years old and dismantled my 1936 model Raleigh for repairs and renovation. Afterwards I took it for a test ride, and on the return journey executed my usual stunt: delaying braking until already into a full speed turn into the gateway of my home, normally resulting in a controlled skid, a cloud of dust and a timely halt two inches from the conservatory twenty feet into the back yard. As I hit the brakes, already into my 45 degree lean, the front brake pads popped out like Spitfire machine-gun bullets. The last thing I saw before I hit the six-foot Georgian oak gatepost was the side window of our house shattering into smitherines from the force of the improvised flak – the precursors of the modern day mob-control rubber bullets.
When I woke up from concussion 24 hours later, I was gently informed that forensic examination of the bike and the debris from the broken window had revealed that I had, during my cycle servicing session, inadvertantly switched the front brake blocks around so that the slide-in replacement rubber pads were facing the wrong direction. Quite obviously the forensic skills of my older brother, who had conducted the inquiry were more advanced than those of the Jamaican authorities who investigated the ‘murder’ of Bob Woolmer, the Pakistan cricket coach.
Dan and furriskey will no doubt attribute the bizarre nature of some of my commentary on Bloody Scott blog to this historical incident; they may well be justified in so doing. Moreover I am a firm believer that life proceeds in good and bad cycles, but we usually contribute to our individual misfortunes.
“Is it about a bicycle?”
Is a Raleigh a good cycle or a bad cycle?
Time to seek out some filth for the armless one.
I had to google it, that is a great one, right up there with “Damn, brother, I don’t believe Idda told that!”
I won’t send it, but someone can:
A rabbi and a priest go camping, have a wonderful time, and are sitting around the campfire.
Priest: You know what would make this day end perfectly?
Rabbi: No, what?
Priest: If we had an altar boy.
Rabbi: What the hell for?
Priest: Well, you know, to screw him!
Rabbi:
Rabbi: Out of what?
Nice one jon!
That is a good one, I’ve got him on the phone now.
How does he get it to his ear, LMC?
Dan,
He’s got four fingers free on his left hand and one on his right. His left elbow is free, so he’s kinda using both arms.
He finds out who his home health aide is tomorrow.
Somehow he’s got some girl helping him out…
And the phone number of the waitress in the restaraunt he hit.
How does one get that game?
I don’t know, but I imagine it’s hard finding fur-lined handcuffs that fit around a cast.
Ok, here’s the deal for those that ..heh…care.
Riding down a hill in London his flywheel locked up and started spinning his peadals which launched him over the handlebars and onto his head. He had his arms up and they took most of the damage. He’s got a pin in his left thumb, torn ligaments in his right wrist and shoulder and a broken right elbow. the right wrist may be broken as well, but they can’t cast it because that would put too much strain on the shoulder so he’s in splints. He’s got major road rash on his hands. He was wearing a helmet and that probably saved his life.
He said he woke up in terrible pain with some woman he didn’t know crying over him. In other words, the only way he could tell it wasn’t a normal Saturday morning was that he was outdoors.
He’s conned someone into taking care of him, and the cafe he landed in is holding his bike.
He can’t type and hasn’t seen this yet, so I read it to him and he said, and I quote, “is that all they got”?
Many years ago, my youngest brother kissed the street rather abruptly when he did a wheelie on his bike. Evidently someone loosened the nuts that were supposed to hold the front wheel on.
Knowing my brother, I’d bet on retaliation over forgiveness. I don’t know who did it. Nor do I know where to find the body. This is all heresay. I had been out fo the country for years and can prove it.
Here is the version of Mother Green as I heard it orginally from this guy.
So this country guy wins the lotto and he’s blowing his money in New Orleans had been going to ALL the whorehouses. For a while. And he’s tried all the diffrenet kinds. The spanky mistress, the one-legged lady, the other kinds of whatall (I don’t even want to get into it). He’s tried it all, but now he’s bored.
So he goes to the Madam, and says, “I tried it all, I want the weirdest dirtiest one that you have I have never tried.”
“Oh,” says the Madam. “You want Mother Green.”
Okay so right away the gut is having second thoughts. Just the ominous of the name. Mother Green.
But he’s screws his courage, and says, “Yes, give me the Mother Green.”
So the Madam, says, “Come with me” and she leads him through the whorehouse, and they pass through one door, down a hallways, then another door, passed a bunch of offices, and flithy kitchen, down about three flights of steps, to another door at the end of another hall. To this bare room. There’s only two doors, the one they came in through, and another at the far end. And along both of the other walls two long wooden benches running down either side. The walls are just bare cinderblock like a jailcell, and one flourescent flickering bulb at the ceiling.
“Sit.” says the Madam, and she points at a bench. And so he sits down, and then she shuts the door and leaves. Waiting.
And then he waits a while, nothing is happening, and he’s thinging about getting up to leave, when the Madam comes back. With another guy.
“Sit,” she says and the guy tries to sit on the bench across form our portagonist, but the Madam says,” “No, on that bench.” So the new guys sits down on the same bench as our guy. And they are not even looking at each other (awkward).
For a long time. That passes. Nervous.
Then all of a sudden the OTHER door opens. And in walks the BIGGEST. FATTEST. PERSON (of color) that they have ever seen. Maybe 6 foot nine in heighth. AT least 600 pounds. Rolls of fat, just dripping and drooping off in all directions. And its hard to tell if what sex this person even is, because of the breasts, but also the little mustache. But he/she is wearing nothing but a gargatuan tutu, and sits down on the bench across from the two guys. The bench creaks a deathly groan, and then the BIG person, unsmiling, cracks his/her knuckels, and SPREADS those fubbery giant legs as wide as they can go to a full view of all the glory’s within.
Then nothing. A silence on the air.
So, finally, the guy, are hero, says, to the other guy, his voice tremulating a little under his breathe,: “Is that Mother Green?”
And the other guy whipsers. “I don’t know.” Pause. “Maybe it’s just the light.”
Did he read my e-mail yet? Does he want more? I have more. Nothing fit for posting here though.
Q : How do you keep Gleen Greenwald from drowning?
A : Take your foot off of his head.
Q: How do you keep Glenn Greenwald from going out?
A: Put more gasoline on him.
Man, they do work. All you do is replace a racial epithet with the name of someone you dislike.
Q: Gleen Greenwald and Andrew Sullivan decide to jump off a building. Who lands first?
A: Who cares?
Q: How can you tell when Gleen Greenwald is lying?
A: His lips are moving.
Q: What’s the difference between bigfoot and a honest argument by Gleen Greenwald?
A: Bigfoot has been spotted
Q : Why does Gleen Greenwald cry during sex?
A : The Mace.
Q: What drives Gleen Greenwald nuts?
A: “Drives”…?
Q: Why did Greenwalds marry the dung beetle?
A: He had to.
Q : What is the difference between Gleen Greenwald and a rooster ?
A : A rooster says cock-a-doodle-doo. Gleen says any-cock’ll-do.
Q: What do you call Gleen Greenwald in a Volkswagen?
A: FARFROMTHINKEN
Q: What do you get when you cross Gleen Greenwald and a lawyer?
A: I don’t know, there are some things even a lawyer won’t do.
Q: What happens when Gleen Greenwald gets Alzheimer’s disease?
A: His IQ goes up.
Q: What did Gleen Greenwald get on his IQ test?
A: Saliva
Q: Why is it good to have Gleen Greenwald as a passenger in your car?
A: You can park in the handicap zone.
Honestly, I think these were better as racial jokes. So much more offensive (funnier) that way. But why stop a good thing?
Q: What do you have if you have Glenn Greenwald up to his neck in cement?
A: Not enough cement
Q: What do you do if you see Glenn Greewald with only half his head?
A: Stop laughing and reload your shotgun.
Q: Why will Glenn Greenwald have only two pallbearers at his funeral?
A: Trashcans have only two handles.
Oh, man, I’m going to get us in trouble, aren’t I? Oh well, it is always fun to watch them piss and moan. At least when we mention someone on the other side of the aisle dead we’re joking. And it is funny. That counts for a lot, to people with a sense of humor. And really, what more fitting measure of humanity is there?
TRUE STORY
I was walking out of the liquor store, when a guy pulls his car into the handicapped spot, and gets out, obviously with no handicap. I should add that there were numerous non-handicapped parking spaces available.
Sez I, pointing to the “Handicapped Parking Only” sign: “Oh you misunderstand: that means PHYSICALLY handicapped.” And while he stood there with a puzzled look on his face, I walked to my car and drove away. He may still be there for all I know.
Perfect
One time I was walking out of a little pub where I drank lunch whilst court was in recess for the afternoon. Two doors down, right in front of the crosswalk was a sex shop. The shop had a sign that read “NOW OFFERING RENTALS,” which struck me as odd. A woman saw me reading the sign with great interest (and certainly a misunderstanding regarding my intent), so I turned to her, pointed casually at the sign and said, “God, I hope they mean movies.”