Perky people tread a fine line between being a ray of sunshine brightening up a gloomy day, and being someone that makes you want to patiently wait while your fingernails grow long enough to live inside people’s dreams on Elm Street, even going so far as to take prenatal vitamins to assist in the nail growth, before using your new finger-cutlery to work your way through the flesh covering the belly and shredding the insides while grabbing hold of the intestines, ripping them out, eating them, then purging yourself in order to throw up the intestines so the last thing little miss or mister perky pants sees before they go to heaven is their intestines in a puddle on the pavement mixed with Sangria and Chalupa meat being slurped up by the Taco Bell Chihuahua for a morbid Cinco de Mayo tie in they’d never forget and would have to respect if they were still alive.

I’m sure there’s better ways to deal with those Perky people that reside in the land of the murderously annoying, but that was the first thing that came to mind.

The murder-in-a-box kits must have been sold out as they left holding a solitary piece of Jerky. I’m not sure how the edible redneck magic wand is going to help them pay homage to the Prince of Darkness, unless they planned on kidnapping a Long Island Jewish Princess then making her eat the Jerky without dipping it in cream cheese and not allowing a glass of wine to wash it down. If they made her do this in front of her friends, she would die of shame quicker than an anorexic being stabbed in the heart with poison laced dagger made from a frozen Snickers bar.

Hopefully they’ll target one of their own. A little cerebrally deficient population control never hurt anyone, except possibly the GameStop who will have to find another talking mullet to manage their store.

I’m not entirely happy that Easter lies on a Sunday, as I need to get up early for work tomorrow. Hopefully the Easter committee can make it a point of having the holiday lie on a Friday or Saturday next year. I like the idea of sleeping in the day after my charitable event so that I can make myself some waffles and Snickerdoodle cookies without worrying about doing stuff for homeless kids, or even worse, having them try to steal my assorted Snickerdoodliciously flavored treats, including the aforementioned cookies, as well as coffee and more than likely some Snickerdoodle flavored Orange Juice, so that I can load up on Vitamin C without having to consume anything missing the special holiday themed ingredient.

I don’t actually celebrate Easter, being a Jew and all, but I feel like I have an obligation to those who are less fortunate than Jews, and to a lesser extent, the rest of society. My people may not believe that Jesus has magical powers, but what kind of people would we be to criticize a holiday that celebrates the alleged youthful savior’s cute little bunny. I love animals and if I had a bunny I would hope that when I died, if my bunny was still alive, people would make it have eggs, then paint the eggs and hide them. It would be the right thing to do.

The Easter Egg Hunt will begin inside of an unlit tunnel underneath a bridge in Central Park in NYC. I’m not giving the specific location because I figure that if you can’t find the starting point of the hunt, you most certainly aren’t going to be smart enough to find the winning egg.

I will hide eggs under cars, inside of abandoned and currently occupied crack-houses, in a vat of mystery Easter juice located in a South Bronx meth-lab, in sewage pipes, bowls of dog food left for stray Pitbulls, in dumpsters, wells, hooker’s purses, and other fun places around town, including a half-dozen drug mules who were given eggs with instructions to put them in extra creative hiding places.

This will be an especially fun Easter Egg Hunt because there will be not 1, but 2 winning eggs. Whenever an egg is found, it should be cracked open without hesitation. One of the winning eggs will have a live baby chicken inside of it. The prize for finding this egg will be a new pet baby chicken. The other eggs will contain egg. These eggs must be eaten right away. The winning egg will be the one that does not contain salmonella. I will know who wins by eliminating all the homeless kids who get violently ill. The champion egg finder will receive half of a turkey sandwich and the sweatpants that I’m wearing at this very moment. They’re almost new, except for a couple of small holes and a smell that I don’t particularly like, but to the winning child they will smell of victory and most certainly will be an improvement over whatever his or her current pants smell like.

Homeless fat kids will find my hunt to be even more beneficial, as they’ll either end up winning, or losing weight after getting salmonella. So they end up winning either way.

I don’t want people telling me how wonderful I am for doing this amazing deed for the underprivileged kids of the street. The look on the face of the child who gets to eat my half-sandwich while wearing my sweatpants will be reward enough. And it feels good knowing that some lonely child will have the loyalty and companionship of an adorably little baby chicken.

Ok, since we’re on the subject of Japanese disasters… I’m not saying that I was chopping up Habanero peppers and touched my unmentionables causing a horrific burning sensation not felt since the first three minutes of the Hiroshima incident, but I’m also not saying that it didn’t happen. What I am saying, is that if indeed a burning condition needs immediate soothing, nothing works better than a frozen bag of tropical fruit. A little yogurt might be effective as well, but frozen pre-smoothie ingredients might be the best home remedy invented since the first toddler was held upside down to cure his hiccups.

If we’re gonna talk about self-inflicted hot pepper injuries that may or may not have happened to me or anyone else who looks and acts like me, I might or might not mention the Jalapenos on the Dominos pizza made by a rogue Indian pizza-maker which led to me, or someone like me, throwing up and having bits of Jalapeno flavored bile kick back into the general vicinity of the eye socket, causing temporary blindness. I’d apologize for being gross, but I won’t do any such thing since we’re delving into the magical land of make believe.

One thing I surely never did many imaginary years ago was to make Jalapeno poppers, taking a bite out of one fresh out of the oven. The deliciously potent innards couldn’t possibly have been hotter than the 8^th level of hell, otherwise the murder juice would have shot out onto my chin like I just squeezed a sea cucumber who just spent the night eating most of his more intelligent friends at a seafood buffet. If this make believe incident did occur, the scalding homemade lava would have left a burn mark that didn’t go away for weeks.

I’ll never admit to any of the previous incidents, and I won’t not admit to them either. Regardless, I’ll definitely be staying away from hot peppers, at least until I attempt to conquer the super hot roast beef challenge that’s been prodding me since I saw it at the deli earlier today during my quest to contribute towards Irish pride by gobbling up the corned beef St. Patty’s day special.

Fri Feb 26, 2:56 pm ET

DAYTON, Ohio – Law enforcement officers in southwest Ohio were chugging down alcoholic drinks this week as part of a training exercise on how to give field sobriety tests. Several police officers and deputy sheriffs in Montgomery County volunteered to drink so colleagues could practice conducting the tests given to suspected drunk drivers.

How did they ever manage to find police officers willing to volunteer their valuable time to get drunk in the name of better police work? Especially since they have to get drunk after work as well, and for most of them, before work too. Soon they’ll be mixing up other aspects of their lives by having them abuse their partners and plant drugs in their kid’s backpacks. Oh, the confusion…

Dayton officer Will Wright says officials wanted officers to drink until they had slurred speech, glassy eyes and a lack of coordination.

Upon entering the “training facility”, the Irish officers in the study were told “job well done”, given a pat on the butt, and allowed to leave, whereupon the proud officers decided to continue the training exercise on their own time.

One test required intoxicated officers to walk heel-to-toe down a line and then hold up one leg to demonstrate balance.

An extra 10 points were given for a proper Nazi salute.

Wright says he hopes the exercise at the Dayton Police Academy helped officers gain a better understanding of how to deal with impaired drivers.

The first step was to make better use of confiscated alcohol that would previously have been poured onto the ungrateful pavement. Using the confiscated alcohol for more training exercises was an obvious choice for step number two. The third step was to drink the confiscated alcohol before beating the impaired drivers instead of afterwards in order to add a little enjoyment to an otherwise stressful job. Step four is a toast to a successful study before repeating steps one through three.

Tuesday, March 17, 2009

A British family of four, who receives more than $30,000 a year in benefits because they are “too fat to work,” says they deserve more money, London’s Daily Telegraph reported.

Why don’t they open a pizza shop? I’ve never seen a pizza shop owner who didn’t look like they ferociously gobbled up all the pizzas that people didn’t pick up, or that dropped on the floor. They could market themselves as the first human bouncy castle and go to children’s parties to have kids jump up and down on their formerly unemployed tummies, with candy popping out their pockets like four giant inflatable British piñatas.

The Chawners, who live in Blackburn, England, have a combined weight of 1,160 pounds.

Wow! That’s as much as a little yellow school bus, or a fully-grown brontosaurus.

“What we get barely covers the bills and puts food on the table,” Philip Chawner, 53, told the newspaper. “It’s not our fault we can’t work. We deserve more.”

Call me stupid, but maybe that’s the problem. Put a little less food on the table and you’ll be millionaires in no time at all, like 2 or 3 weeks at the most. And with millions of dollars, imagine all the chocolate dipped fish n’ chips you can stuff your faces with. You definitely deserve more, just as the unemployed hippie stoner family down the road deserves more money to buy a new gold plated hookah and the most impressive Direct TV package that state money can buy.

Philip and his wife Audrey, 57, weigh 336 pounds each. Daughters Emma, 19, and Samantha, 21, weigh in at 236 pounds and 252 pounds, respectively.

Sounds like they named their kids after cows, or maybe it’s the other way around. That would make sense if the family developed their own language to make it easier to talk with a mouth filled with countless types of food. The new language would more than likely sound like moos.

Audrey Chawner, who has epilepsy and asthma as a result of being overweight, told “Closer” magazine her family’s weight is genetic and they cannot afford to eat healthier.

At least they take responsibility for their situation, otherwise I’d lose some respect for them. I don’t know what genetic means, but I’m assuming it has something to do with fondue and chili cheesy waffle fries.

Philip Chawner has Type 2 diabetes and was eligible for gastric band surgery until he developed a heart condition.

Maybe he should eat more. If he can elevate his blood sugar level to that of a living, breathing snickers bar, then he can progress to the elusive, nonexistent Type 3 diabetes, which is relatively harmless due to its lack of inclusion in the Big British Book of Diseases. The Big in BBBD was added after the much-publicized lawsuit by Michael Bivins.

“I’m a student and don’t have time to exercise,” Emma Chawner said. “We all want to lose weight to stop the abuse in the street, but we don’t know how.”

If you call your street abusers names in response, quite possibly they’ll throw rocks and caramel apples, which in turn would force you to run, either away from the rocks and apples, or towards the caramel. That would solve the exercise dilemma. Don’t thank me, just send me some of your well-deserved money to help me pay for my fruits and vegetables.