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Some of My More Memorable Memes
« on: 2004-06-06 17:38:09 » |
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Some of My More Memorable Memes:
Excerpts from “Humor for Adults
Who Can Handle Adult Humor:
A Len Kennedy Memeplex”
The following quips and squibs are from my web site:
http://www.geocities.com/lenkennedymemeplex
From “Quips & Squibs”:
’Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have known what it’s like to have sex with someone besides yourself.
Premature ejaculation is the sincerest form of flattery.
A democracy is a mediocracy in which mediocrity is king.
There should be more to education than the mere assimilation and regurgitation of mostly useless information.
You don’t know what you’ve got till your wife cuts it off and feeds it to the chickens.
Have you ever noticed that everything that supposedly tastes like chicken actually tastes more like human flesh?
There’s a social stigma attached to masturbation, whereas there should just be a stigma attached to social masturbation.
Obesity may increase a person’s risk of stroke, diabetes, and heart disease—but, on the bright side, it drastically decreases one’s chances of catching any kind of sexually transmitted disease.
“We’re all the same in the eyes of the Lord”? Is that supposed to be some kind of argument for bisexuality?
People mock what they don’t understand—and what they understand all too well.
Too many people think they’re refined and sophisticated when they’re really only priggish and prissy.
All too often, conservatism is merely a euphemism for cowardice.
Not only do a lot of ultraconservatives disbelieve in evolution—most of them don’t even participate in it.
The enemy of my enemy is still a douche bag.
It’s ironic that we call swearing adult language when it’s usually the “adults” who get offended by it.
The German philosopher Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz said, “This is the best of all possible worlds.” Leibniz was full of shit.
Most “self-evident truths” are neither self-evident nor true.
The apostle Paul said, in I Corinthians 13:11, “When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: But when I became a man, I put away childish things”—which just goes to show that if a monkey throws enough darts, he’s bound to hit the bull’s-eye eventually.
Most people’s idea of “freedom”: You’re free to believe whatever you want to believe—as long as it’s the same thing I believe.
It’s rather telling that the phrase “He has a mind of his own” is usually meant as an insult.
It’s ironic that, on the fourth of July, so many Americans celebrate their “independence” by marching to the fireworks display in one big fucking herd.
Americans are a notoriously un-American people.
Whoever said “Honesty is the best policy” was probably a compulsive liar.
Honesty and diplomacy are virtually antipodes.
Don’t you hate it when you write the pope a letter that’s filled with passion and pathos, and although he does respond, he does so with some backhanded compliment, like “Wow, what a moving missive—such verve and vim, such vivacity and vitality, such variety and versatility . . . I had no idea shit came in so many different flavors”?
“All men are pigs”? All men? Even the pope? Now, he may be an ass, but a pig?
God is love; love is blind; masturbation leads to blindness—draw your own conclusions. . . .
There’s a reason we call the “Age of Faith” the Dark Ages.
It’s hard for an atheist with a god complex to believe in himself.
Why do so many people insist that they’re Christians when they’ve never even read the New Testament? It’s kind of hard to play the role when you’ve never even read the script.
If most people truly believe that they’re going to heaven when they die, why does the thought of dying usually scare the hell out of them?
I remember the time I accidentally slipped into a manhole—since then, I’ve been very wary of cross-dressers.
From “Universal Rules of Etiquette”:
Never talk about your penis in the midst of strangers—especially if you’re a woman.
(For men only) It’s usually considered impolite to play with your erection at a party. The courteous thing to do is to coerce someone else into doing it for you.
(For women only) Never kick a guy in the balls just because he called you a bitch. Do it before he gets the chance.
Never use the word fuck in public. Don’t even write the word fuck for the sole purpose of telling people not to use it. Fuck is a very bad word.
Don’t ever be irreverent—just follow my example.
Drink wine.
Never fire a gun at a wedding—unless you’re the one getting married, and the person you’re marrying is your little sister, and you’re realizing that her big brother would never forgive you if you two screwed and had malformed babies with Picassoesque bodies, so you’re pointing the gun at your own head.
Never fire a gun in church, because, if you had any sense at all, you wouldn’t be in a church in the first place.
It’s only polite to say “Excuse me” after you’ve accidentally rear-ended someone because you weren’t watching where you were going. Especially if you’re in a bathhouse.
From “A Writer and His Hookers”:
It’s a little-known fact that the movie Scent of a Woman was originally titled Stank of a Ho.
My nastily bastardly neighbor was never a big fan of physical training—until fisting became an Olympic sport.
This morning, I awoke with a throbbing erection. Now, normally, that’s not a bad thing—but this time, it wasn’t mine.
It’s a little-known fact that there was a spinoff of the hit TV show “Married . . . With Children” that was set in San Francisco and titled “Single . . . With Gerbil.”
Though I normally miss a woman’s subtle flirtations, I had a feeling Miss Jones was hitting on me when she stuck her tongue up my ass.
It’s a little-known fact that Elton John’s song “Don’t Let the Sun Go Down on Me” was originally titled “Don’t Let the Sun Lick Me Where I Pee.”
In the immortal words of the great Spanish philosopher José Ortega y Gasset, “Me gusta queso—me gusta queso muchisimo.”
From “The Sadistic News Network”:
A recent Gallup poll asked whether adultery should be a punishable crime. 51% of the respondents said yes. The men, however, disagreed.
Sex psychologists have found that, rather than making the heart grow fonder, absence leads to compulsive masturbation.
As many of you know, oral sex is a great way to pass the time when there’s nothing on TV. And, as all you nannies know, sometimes it’s the only way to get a kid to shut up.
Earlier this evening, an unidentified prostitute drowned in a pool of quicksand on the corner of Fourth and Commercial, in downtown Cassandra. You may want to give your mother a call and make sure she’s all right.
From “Readings in the Cassandra Times”:
HELP WANTED: Night watchman needed. Apply at Len Kennedy’s Church of Naked Ladies Who Are Always Bending Over to Pick Up Their Change Because It Keeps Falling Out of Their “Pockets.”
PORNO FOR SALE: Contact Father Cockburn at the Sacred Heart Church.
FREE: Declawed gerbil—slightly used. Contact Father Cockburn at the Sacred Heart Church.
Disillusioned priest seeks God-fearing altar boy who is willing to learn a few of the more painful Bible lessons—most of which require some form of lubrication.
From “A Calm and Rational Analysis of Winter”:
I’d rather be a vegetarian who’s so devout he won’t even eat the bearded clam.
I’d rather plan on writing a self-help book entitled How to Effectively Put Off Procrastination but never get around to it.
I’d rather be a man with a three-pronged plug for a penis who’s married to a woman with a mere two-pronged outlet.
I’d rather that my doctor tell me I’ll feel a little prick when he injects me with the anesthetic before surgery, but within minutes, I won’t even feel a big prick—at least, I didn’t last time.
I’d rather be a door-to-door salesman trying to sell vacuum cleaners to people with dirt floors, or condoms to conservative Catholics, or Catholicism to sensible people.
From “Odium”:
I hate it when I get a really good idea when I’m sitting on the toilet—because, although I have plenty of paper, the only thing I have to write with is a big brown crayon.
I hate parasitic politicians who perpetually pander to popular prejudices.
I hate it when schoolchildren can’t remember the words to the pledge of allegiance and instead say, “I pledge allegiance to this rag of the United States of America and to the plutocracy for which it stands, one nation, under greed, with arrogance and hypocrisy for all.”
I hate it when I’m in my car at a stoplight, trying to twist the cap off the bottle of Jägermeister between my legs, while I’m ogling some zaftig young woman in a bikini who’s crossing the street, and I accidentally twist the head off my penis.
I hate it when I think I’m dating a mermaid but find out later that she’s just some chick with a dolphin jammed up her ass.
I hate it when a Hindu guy from India moves into the apartment next to mine, and he truly believes that his cow is the current incarnation of his wife who died six years ago, and—well, you know what husbands and wives do. . . .
I hate religious nuts, because they’re always too busy praying to produce any sperm.
I hate it when I wake up on a New Year’s Day with a really nasty katzenjammer, and in my haste to make a pot of coffee, instead of grabbing the coffee can, I unthinkingly grab the urn that contains my grandmother’s ashes.
I hate it when red-assed baboons give nihilistic poetry readings on open-mic night at the Café Dada—the underground coffeehouse-cum-brothel in downtown Cassandra—and then, about halfway through the reading, start nonchalantly pelting the audience with pennies, nickles, and shurikens, as they blithely cast aspersions on the character of all the fine, upstanding citizens who attend the First Baptist Church of Second-Rate Minds.
I hate it when I go to Spanky’s Saloon, after a truly exasperating day at work, to have a few drinks and relax, but two guys at the corner table start arguing about something, and pretty soon, they’re shouting at each other—and then I realize they’re arguing about whether Ludwig Wittgenstein’s early philosophical work (his Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus, for example) was more compelling than the latter Wittgenstein (e.g., his Philosophical Investigations) . . . and, of course, when everyone else in the bar hears what the dispute is about, they all get involved, and before too long, it escalates into a barroom brawl.
From “Drivel, Blather, Prattle, and Twaddle”:
I’ve never heard a supermodel say, “Does this skin make my skeleton look fat?”
I’ve never heard a theologian try to argue the following thesis: “Contrary to popular superstition, Lot’s wife purposefully looked back on Sodom and Gomorrah, as the Lord rained fire and brimstone down on those sinful cities—you see, she actually wanted to be turned into a pillar of salt . . . because, she figured, maybe then her husband would finally lick her.”
I’ve never known a dyslexic who etched a notch into his bedpost every time he didn’t get laid.
I’ve never been banned from the Vatican in Rome for pilfering the pope’s personal vibrator.
I’ve never seen the pope begin High Mass by scratching his nuts, belching, and then bellowing, “Boy, that Satan sure sucks a mean cock.”
I’ve never known anyone who was so megalomaniacal as to write a book entitled God: An Autobiography.
From “Bilge, Dreck, Tripe, and Schlock for Schlemiels, Schlimazels, Schmucks, and Schmegegges”:
I’ve never known a nymphomaniacal nun from Nantucket who was so riddled with guilt—from “incessantly swimming in the sinful seas of sexual licentiousness”—that she took a handful of sleeping pills, slit her wrists, drank a gallon of lye, and then jumped off the roof of a sixty-six story skyscraper, while shooting herself in the head.
I’ve often wondered whether a thousand chimps plinking away on a thousand typewriters could eventually come up with a play as good as Shakespeare’s Hamlet—until Lynyrd Skynyrd somehow managed to write the song “Freebird.”
I’ve known a sociobiologist who wants to test the nature/nurture issue by taking one group of people who only have genes and another group of people who only have an environment and seeing how they differ.
I’ve been told by my cousin Kathy that I needed to work a bit on my parallel parking, only to find out later that by parallel parking she meant sex.
I’ve attended a press conference in which the pope accidentally opened with the following Freudian slip: “Good evening, labias and genital men. . . .”
I’ve gotten so drippy-drunk on a rainy afternoon that I stumbled into a Catholic church, ambled over to the confessional booth, and mumbled, “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” to which he boisterously replied, “Hell, you think you’ve sinned? I just got done molesting a little boy!”
I’ve seen a dainty Muslim girl, imported from Abu Dhabi, sit down at the table next to me, in a five-star restaurant, and order a big bucket of bloody pork.
I’ve seen the pope saunter into a gay bar and stumble out three hours later, naked, slathered in semen, and flossing his teeth with another man’s pubic hair.
I’ve mistaken the pope’s mouth for a urinal on more than one occasion.
I’ve heard a middle-class white guy named Ed mis-translate the sentence “Arizona’s hotter than a motherfucker” as “Arizona’s hotter than a guy havin’ sex with his mother.”
And, finally, from “Books That Cause a Tingling Sensation in My Left Testicle”:
¡Viva la Vulva! Dining Out “Below the Equator”
I Left My Gerbil in San Francisco
Striving for Mediocrity: A Primer on Democracy
How to Juggle Fat, Flatulent Midgets While Masturbating Monkeys Fling Poop at You
Everything a Kennedy Says Is a Lie—by Len Kennedy
23,672 Things You Should Do to Simplify Your Life
How to Waste Years of Your Life Losing Over a Hundred Pounds Only to Find That You’re Butt Ugly
If You Are What You Eat, the French Must Be Eating an Awful Lot of Pussy
If Ignorance Is Truly Bliss, Why Aren’t More Americans Happy?
Neo-Nietzschean Quasi-Existentialism for Dummies
The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Being a Fucking Moron
One Man’s Rectum Is Another Man’s Vagina: An Informal Introduction to Friedrich Nietzsche’s Perspectivism—by Apollo-Dionysus Overman
Just Because a Maxi-Pad Has Wings, That Doesn’t Mean It Can Fly: Still More Logical Fallacies
Premature Ejaculation: Sexual Dysfunction or Good Time Management—You Decide
Never Underestimate the Ubiquity of Schadenfreude: A Cross-Cultural Exploration into Why We Take a Mischievous Delight in the Misfortunes of Others—by Dick Trickle
How to Be Erudite without Being Obfuscatory: A Prolegomenon to Penning Prolix Prose
Gods of a Feather Die Together: A Brief History of Greek Mythology
Slaughtering Sacred Cows for Fun and Profit—by Len Kennedy
Allah Must Be Spinning in His Grave—by Salman Rushdie
“Mama la Verga, Puta” . . . and Other Common Latin-American Greetings
God Loves You Unconditionally—Unless, of Course, You’re a Gay Homosexual Faggot-Ass Queer—by Pat Robertson
Unlubricated Sodomy Is a Pain in the Ass: The Confessions of Mississippi Senator Trent Lott
A Fat, Fatuous Fuck’s Forays into Fingerfucking, Fisting, and Felching—by the Reverend Jerry Falwell
Good, Clean Jokes for Dull, Boring Folks: Humor for the Weak and the Stupid
I’m Sure Book Reviewers Love Their Families and Wouldn’t Want Anything Bad to Happen to Them
BTW: This micro-memeplex is just the tip of the iceberg. My web site is essentially an e-book comprised of a little more than 70 web pages—the equivalent of approximately 130-150 pages in a traditional book.
P.S. You may have noticed that I’ve added a picture to my profile. And what could possibly be more fitting than a picture of Leonard Nimoy, since he’s the person I was actually named after (seriously—and it wasn’t so much because of his acting as it was his singing; yes, he’s actually recorded a few albums). And, besides, I really do hope you all live long and prosper.
P.P.S. You may have also noticed that I’ve changed my signature. I was forced to do so for legal reasons, since it’s an election year. Damn these new laws. Why do they have to make it so hard for wankers like me to run for president?
But mark my words: Some day Kennedy will be a household name. Of that I am certain.
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