Hello, My name is: Cunning Linguist - another JP Lindsey Production
Monday, November 22, 2010
Email Auto-Reply Prank May Have Gone Too Far
Irvine, CA – According to fellow co-workers, Frank Peterson, Sales Engineer at AutoTech, Inc reportedly “may have gone too far” with his prank on Project Manager Stanly Oswald when Peterson changed Oswald’s Outlook Express auto reply. The message read, “Auto Reply: I am out of the office right now at the gentlemen's club. Hopefully I will see Candy! Will be in tomorrow around noon. Or I may call in. Depends on the hangover lol!”. Oswald has yet to see the message.
Stealing Friend's Baby To Use As A "Chic Magnet" Best Idea Area Man Has Ever Had
Portland, OR – On Wednesday, November 17, after area resident Charles Langford struck out with area women for the fifth time on the same night, he decided that only immediate action could solve his self proclaimed “fuck funk”. According to Langford, “I have a decent body. That kind of indie look. You know? This is Portland! Chics dig that look. They love that Mac guy! I just don’t understand. I think ‘fuck funk’ is a good way to describe it.” He sat down at the pub table, ordered another drink, and proceeded to ponder his method.
Four lonely drinks later, the idea dawned on him like a lighthouse beacon appearing during a torrential storm. “I figured, hey, why not steal Adam’s baby?” He dismissed the idea at first but decided to run with it. “I always see these good looking guys … no homo … who sit outside at a little corner restaurant, eating lunch with their babies and I mean, you can tell the girls just eat that shit up. One day, Adam and I went out for breakfast. Great little place. He brings the baby, right, and in less than an hour three fine ass women tried to give him their numbers. THREE.! Babies are chic magnets. It’s a fact.”
Langford went home and grabbed the essentials. “I figured I would need my ski mask that I never use, the crow bar from the garage, and my trusty duffle bag. That bag has traveled thousands of miles and has hauled just about everything. Well, except for a baby. That will be a first for my duffle bag.” Thirty minutes later, Langford left his apartment and drove to Mr. Adam Griese’s house. He sat outside for fifteen minutes scoping the house. Langford continued, “I’ve been to Adam’s plenty of times. I knew that this would be a tricky operation. I figured that breaking into the baby’s room would be the safest route. I pried the window open, crawled in, scooped up the baby, put him in the duffle bag, dropped the bag out the window so I could safely exit the house, and then casually strolled back to the car. Piece of cake. I did run into a snag when I realized I didn’t have a car seat though. I just buckled him up in the front seat with me. We needed the bonding anyways if he was going to wingman for me.”
Langford was last seen with the baby leaving Paddy’s Pub with two women. Any information about his whereabouts should be directed to the Portland Police Department.
Four lonely drinks later, the idea dawned on him like a lighthouse beacon appearing during a torrential storm. “I figured, hey, why not steal Adam’s baby?” He dismissed the idea at first but decided to run with it. “I always see these good looking guys … no homo … who sit outside at a little corner restaurant, eating lunch with their babies and I mean, you can tell the girls just eat that shit up. One day, Adam and I went out for breakfast. Great little place. He brings the baby, right, and in less than an hour three fine ass women tried to give him their numbers. THREE.! Babies are chic magnets. It’s a fact.”
Langford went home and grabbed the essentials. “I figured I would need my ski mask that I never use, the crow bar from the garage, and my trusty duffle bag. That bag has traveled thousands of miles and has hauled just about everything. Well, except for a baby. That will be a first for my duffle bag.” Thirty minutes later, Langford left his apartment and drove to Mr. Adam Griese’s house. He sat outside for fifteen minutes scoping the house. Langford continued, “I’ve been to Adam’s plenty of times. I knew that this would be a tricky operation. I figured that breaking into the baby’s room would be the safest route. I pried the window open, crawled in, scooped up the baby, put him in the duffle bag, dropped the bag out the window so I could safely exit the house, and then casually strolled back to the car. Piece of cake. I did run into a snag when I realized I didn’t have a car seat though. I just buckled him up in the front seat with me. We needed the bonding anyways if he was going to wingman for me.”
Langford was last seen with the baby leaving Paddy’s Pub with two women. Any information about his whereabouts should be directed to the Portland Police Department.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Opinion: Being Born In a Toilet Harder Than You Think
By: Crack Baby
I don’t know about the rest of you out there, but being born in a toilet is much harder than you think. I mean, first of all, there’s the shock. I’m floating there, chilling in uterine juices, when all of a sudden the world just opens up through a ridiculously small vaginal canal and PLOP! out I fall into a bacteria infested environment. Really mom, was this the BEST you could do? I may have to take your word for it. Maybe I’ll understand when I grow up with my new foster family. I can’t wait for that talk.
That’s not even the worst of it though. Even after being birthed into a shit receptacle, you wiped your ass and LEFT me. I was practically strangled and dragged out of the toilet by my umbilical cord. For those of you who don’t know, I’m a glass half full kind of guy. Here I was, left in a pile of afterbirth, urine, and blood. My mother couldn’t lay down the crack pipe for thirty minutes just to go to the doctor. But I said, you know, it still could be worse. At least my mom isn’t a Scientologist.
But it did get worse. After my mother politely left me in the toilet, she realized she forgot to flush. For a second there, I got my hopes up. I thought she might have remembered the tell tale signs of pregnancy. Let’s look at the facts, shall we. She hadn’t had a period in nine months, her belly had enlarged to the size of an enormous, ripe watermelon, and the whole part of pregnancy involving my birth. But nooooooooooooooo, she came back and flushed me. Let me repeat. My mother came back and tried flushing me down the toilet. My legs dangled a bit but I was alright. Fortunately my size prevented me from being flushed down two holes in one day.
Although I wasn’t sitting in a pile of filth any longer (which is a plus), I did lose my placenta. I had grown quite fond of it while in the womb, and had planned to utilize its lifegiving properties while I was jammed in this ceramic shit hole. So here I sit. Waiting. I think I will just sit here ‘til Social Services comes to pick me up. Maybe they will give me a name.
I don’t know about the rest of you out there, but being born in a toilet is much harder than you think. I mean, first of all, there’s the shock. I’m floating there, chilling in uterine juices, when all of a sudden the world just opens up through a ridiculously small vaginal canal and PLOP! out I fall into a bacteria infested environment. Really mom, was this the BEST you could do? I may have to take your word for it. Maybe I’ll understand when I grow up with my new foster family. I can’t wait for that talk.
That’s not even the worst of it though. Even after being birthed into a shit receptacle, you wiped your ass and LEFT me. I was practically strangled and dragged out of the toilet by my umbilical cord. For those of you who don’t know, I’m a glass half full kind of guy. Here I was, left in a pile of afterbirth, urine, and blood. My mother couldn’t lay down the crack pipe for thirty minutes just to go to the doctor. But I said, you know, it still could be worse. At least my mom isn’t a Scientologist.
But it did get worse. After my mother politely left me in the toilet, she realized she forgot to flush. For a second there, I got my hopes up. I thought she might have remembered the tell tale signs of pregnancy. Let’s look at the facts, shall we. She hadn’t had a period in nine months, her belly had enlarged to the size of an enormous, ripe watermelon, and the whole part of pregnancy involving my birth. But nooooooooooooooo, she came back and flushed me. Let me repeat. My mother came back and tried flushing me down the toilet. My legs dangled a bit but I was alright. Fortunately my size prevented me from being flushed down two holes in one day.
Although I wasn’t sitting in a pile of filth any longer (which is a plus), I did lose my placenta. I had grown quite fond of it while in the womb, and had planned to utilize its lifegiving properties while I was jammed in this ceramic shit hole. So here I sit. Waiting. I think I will just sit here ‘til Social Services comes to pick me up. Maybe they will give me a name.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Man With Baseball Bat “Absolutely Positive” He Heard Something Downstairs.
Midlothian, IL - At 1:15 a.m. on Tuesday November 9th, Justin Walker was roused in the middle of the night by an ominous noise in his two story suburban home. He cautiously sat upright and listened for the faintest sound of footsteps in the house. “You have to be careful these days. Anyone can break into your house. You have to be vigilant. That’s why I keep a baseball bat under the bed.” Walker said. “And a loaded Glock 19 in my lock box”.
According to Walker, he then stood up and pressed his ear to the Brazilian cherry hardwood floor and listened very carefully. “Brazilian cherry hardwood is a great sound resonator. I can hear sounds for miles, or I guess in my case, from anywhere in the house.”
Martha Walker, Mr. Walker’s wife, stated that he returned to their Tempurpedic Queen mattress three minutes later unsatisfied. “He could just be standing still. Waiting for us to go to bed so he can spray paint the cats and murder us in our sleep.” Mr. Walker paused. “At least we wouldn’t feel it much. That is of course assuming that he isn’t a Jack the Ripper copy cat. Then we would definitely feel it.”
Pensive and holding his baseball bat, Mrs. Walker finally calmed him down a bit. “It was probably just one of the cats dear.” Unconvinced, he fell asleep quickly after stating “I am going to wait this fucker out .” Mrs. Walker was quoted the next morning as saying, “Justin is just a little high strung. He doesn’t even know how to use the Glock. Truthfully, I don’t know how he plans to use it if someone breaks in. By the time he got to the gun in the closet, remembered the combination he set three years ago, and opened the lock box, we’d probably already be dead.”
According to Walker, he then stood up and pressed his ear to the Brazilian cherry hardwood floor and listened very carefully. “Brazilian cherry hardwood is a great sound resonator. I can hear sounds for miles, or I guess in my case, from anywhere in the house.”
Martha Walker, Mr. Walker’s wife, stated that he returned to their Tempurpedic Queen mattress three minutes later unsatisfied. “He could just be standing still. Waiting for us to go to bed so he can spray paint the cats and murder us in our sleep.” Mr. Walker paused. “At least we wouldn’t feel it much. That is of course assuming that he isn’t a Jack the Ripper copy cat. Then we would definitely feel it.”
Pensive and holding his baseball bat, Mrs. Walker finally calmed him down a bit. “It was probably just one of the cats dear.” Unconvinced, he fell asleep quickly after stating “I am going to wait this fucker out .” Mrs. Walker was quoted the next morning as saying, “Justin is just a little high strung. He doesn’t even know how to use the Glock. Truthfully, I don’t know how he plans to use it if someone breaks in. By the time he got to the gun in the closet, remembered the combination he set three years ago, and opened the lock box, we’d probably already be dead.”
Man Fails 11th Suicide Attempt
Chicago, IL
By JP Lindsey
Only minutes before the Super Bowl officially began this weekend, Chicago resident Scott Adams tried, for the eleventh time, to take his own pitiful life. Adams was watching pre-game commercials when his third wife, Anita Adams, declared that he was a “miserable and depressed sack of shit not worth giving a single solitary fuck about”. Adams, who was not prepared for this, and was, in fact, in a quite sensible mood, broke down and began sobbing immediately. According to Anita, Adams started crawling on the floor like a little bitch. “I honestly think that if I said, ‘Bark like a dog and I won’t leave you’, that he would totally do it.” The medical team at Lutheran General Hospital who treated Adams noted that this is now his eleventh suicide attempt. Doctor Saranjaleep has dressed Adams’s many wounds throughout the past several years and cannot, for the life of him, understand how Adams is such a failure at life. “He sucks so much at life that he cannot even properly, or effectively, terminate it. I just don’t understand. It is so easy.” In a pathetic interview with Adams, who was still sporting the bloodied bandages on his wrists, he explained his terribly uneventful life, spending two hours describing the sappy, typical tale of the hundreds of times that his drunken father beat him for no reason. Adams’s father died at the age of 36, when Adams was only twelve. “As I was slitting my wrists I was thinking, Dad, why did you beat me? Was it my fault? Now I’ll never know.” He also went into detail regarding his ten previous attempts at suicide, saying that, for whatever reason, he couldn’t aim the pistol correctly, take the appropriate number of pills, jump in the right direction, or throw himself in front of a semi trailer that wasn’t moving the speed of an ice cream truck. Anita commented that he copes with the problems of his childhood by “jerking off” as soon as he returns home from his job at the local library. “The douchebag [Adams] lived with his mother until he turned twenty-five. Scott isn’t going anywhere. He just should have followed simple protocol and gone up the highway and not across the street.”
By JP Lindsey
Only minutes before the Super Bowl officially began this weekend, Chicago resident Scott Adams tried, for the eleventh time, to take his own pitiful life. Adams was watching pre-game commercials when his third wife, Anita Adams, declared that he was a “miserable and depressed sack of shit not worth giving a single solitary fuck about”. Adams, who was not prepared for this, and was, in fact, in a quite sensible mood, broke down and began sobbing immediately. According to Anita, Adams started crawling on the floor like a little bitch. “I honestly think that if I said, ‘Bark like a dog and I won’t leave you’, that he would totally do it.” The medical team at Lutheran General Hospital who treated Adams noted that this is now his eleventh suicide attempt. Doctor Saranjaleep has dressed Adams’s many wounds throughout the past several years and cannot, for the life of him, understand how Adams is such a failure at life. “He sucks so much at life that he cannot even properly, or effectively, terminate it. I just don’t understand. It is so easy.” In a pathetic interview with Adams, who was still sporting the bloodied bandages on his wrists, he explained his terribly uneventful life, spending two hours describing the sappy, typical tale of the hundreds of times that his drunken father beat him for no reason. Adams’s father died at the age of 36, when Adams was only twelve. “As I was slitting my wrists I was thinking, Dad, why did you beat me? Was it my fault? Now I’ll never know.” He also went into detail regarding his ten previous attempts at suicide, saying that, for whatever reason, he couldn’t aim the pistol correctly, take the appropriate number of pills, jump in the right direction, or throw himself in front of a semi trailer that wasn’t moving the speed of an ice cream truck. Anita commented that he copes with the problems of his childhood by “jerking off” as soon as he returns home from his job at the local library. “The douchebag [Adams] lived with his mother until he turned twenty-five. Scott isn’t going anywhere. He just should have followed simple protocol and gone up the highway and not across the street.”
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