I pulled up to the drive-thru of a fast-food restaurant and ordered coffee. I asked the clerk to put some ice cubes into the cup so that I could drink the cool coffee quickly.
At the window, there was a delay. Finally, a teen-aged girl came to the window looking frustrated.
“I’m having a problem,” she announced. “The ice keeps melting.”
Barbie’s Letter To Santa:
Dear Santa,
Listen you fat troll, I’ve been saving your ass every year, being the perfect Christmas Present, wearing skimpy bathing suits in December and dressing in fake Chanel at sappy tea parties. I hate to break it to ya’, Santa, but it’s pay back time. There had better be some changes around here, or I’m gonna call for a nationwide meltdown, and trust me, you don’t wanna be around to smell it. These are my demands for Christmas 2004:
Sweat pants and an oversized sweatshirt. I’m sick of looking like a hooker in hot pink bikinis. Do you have any idea what it feels like to have nylon and Velcro up your butt? I don’t suppose you do.
Real underwear that can be pulled on and off. That cheap-o molded underwear some genius at Mattel came up with looks like cellulite!
A REAL man… I don’t care if you have to go to Hasbro to get him, bring me GI JOE. Hell, I’d take Tickle-Me-Elmo over that pathetic bump of a boy toy, Ken. And what was up with that earring anyway? HULLO!?!
It’s about time you made us all anatomically correct. Give me arms that actually bend so I can push the aforementioned Ken-wimp away once he is anatomically correct.
Breast reduction surgery. ‘Nuff said.
A jog bra. To wear until I get the surgery.
A new career. Pet doctor, school teacher and make real money.
A new, more 90s persona. Maybe “PMS Barbie,” complete with a pint of cookie dough ice cream and a bag of chips.
No more McDonald’s endorsements. The grease is wrecking my vinyl complexion.
Mattel stock options. It’s been 40 years – I think I deserve a piece of the action.
Considering my valuable contribution to society and Mattel, I think these demands are reasonable. If you don’t like it, you can find yourself a new bitch for next Christmas. It’s that simple.
Yours truly,
Barbie
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Ken’s Letter To Santa:
Dear Santa, It has come to my attention that one of my colleagues has petitioned you for changes in her contract, specifically asking for anatomical and career changes. In addition, it is my understanding that disparaging remarks were made about me, my sexuality, and some of my fashion choices. I would like to take this opportunity to inform you of issues concerning Ms. Barbie, as well as some of my own needs and desires: First, I, along with several of my colleagues, feel Ms. Barbie DOES NOT deserve the preferential treatment she has received over the years. That bitch has everything. Neither I, nor Joe, Jem, nor The Raggedys, Ann & Andy, have dream houses, Corvettes, dune buggies, evening gowns, and some of us do not even have the ability to change our hairstyle. I have had a limited wardrobe, obviously designed to complement but never upstage Ms. Barbie.
My decision to accessorize with an earring was immediately quashed, which I protest, for it was my decision and reflects my lifestyle choice. I would like a change in my career to further explore my creative nature. Some options which could be considered are “Decorator Ken,” “Beauty Salon Ken,” or “Broadway Ken.” Other avenues which could be considered are: “Go-Go Ken,” “Impersonator Ken” (with wigs and gowns), or “West Hollywood Ken.” These would more accurately reflect my interests and, I believe, open up markets that have been under served. As for Ms. Barbie needing bendable arms so she can “push me away”, I need bendable knees so I can kick the bitch to the curb. Bendable knees would also be helpful in other situations of which you are aware. In closing, further concessions to the Blonde Bimbo from Hell, while the needs of others within my coalition are ignored, will result in legal action to be taken by myself and others. And kindly tell Ms. Barbie she can forget about G.I. Joe… he’s mine, at least that’s what he said last night.
Sincerely,
Ken
One of my friends works in the customer service call center of a national pager company. He deals with the usual complaints about poor pager operation, as well as the occasional crank caller demanding to be paged less often, more often, or by more interesting people.
The best call came from a man who repeatedly complained that he was being paged by “Lucille.” He was instructed that he would have to call her and tell her to stop paging him. “She never leaves a number, so I can’t call her back,” he said. After three such calls, someone thought to ask how he knew it was Lucille if she didn’t leave a number. “She leaves her name,” was the reply. After establishing that the customer had a numeric-only
pager, the light bulb came on. “How does she spell her name?” the service rep asked.
“L-O-W C-E-L-L”
Rep. Henry Hyde is the son of Damyer Hyde and Jan Ewainne Cow Hyde.
The elder Hyde was in the dam construction business and married the daughter of the Cow family who were in the leather goods business. Henry married Tanya Goddam who became Tanya Goddam Hyde.
The congressman and his spouse had three children; a son named Seymore Hyde and two daughters – Jeckylanne Hyde and Nowareta Hyde.
Seymore Hyde and his wife Notta Thinkta Hyde started a company manufacturing bikini swimwear.
Jeckylanne suffered from dual personality, she married Upton Ward Bound and soon hyphenated her name becoming Hyde-Bound.
Nowarta married a criminal type named Ididen Dewit Dammit and became Nowarta Hyde Dammit. After a crime spree they made the FBI’s ten most wanted list.
You forgot to mention his sister, the chemist who invented the toothpaste additive which bears her name – Flor Hyde.
I understand the family has gone into the tuxedo and evening gown business. They call their store Formal De Hyde.
And their nephew, N. Augie Hyde, is in the automobile upholstery business.
Let’s not forget:
Then there was the branch of the family that went into journalism, specifically the advertising end of it. They had to learn the biz first, so they hired a tutor. They were known, of course, as The Class of Hydes.
Did you know that one of the Hyde family plans to attend the Arabian Ball we talked about here? Yes, he plans to play a game of Hyde and Sheik.
There was the entrepreneur member of the family who built a retreat for dieters up in the mountains called The Hyde a Weigh.
If the Beverly Hills Madam married into the clan she’d be Heidi Hyde Ho.
Oh, and let’s not forget the brother who went into the business of manufacturing poisons. He hated to be in such a gloomy line of work and was forever emitting despairing sounds over his lot in life. He was known, of course, as Sighin’ Hyde.
The son who stayed up all night cramming for a final: “Red” Hyde.
The grandfather who, after retirement, watched so much TV that he injured his vision: Pop Hyde.
The daughter whose beauty was so great that she was idolized: Dee F. Hyde.
The tall brother who was so much under the moon’s influence: “Height” Hyde.
The daughter who was easily appeased: Molly F. Hyde.
The cousin whose membership in the family was challenged, but who proved his authenticity as a relative. Because he had little fat on him, he was known by his nickname: “Bony” F. Hyde.
The sister who chose the wrong side in an argument: Miss L. Hyde.
If you wonder who fathered Ms. Dittle, little kitten, the fiddler reports that Hyde Diddled Diddle.
I was wondering why nobody had remembered that most glorious track star, now so shamed by the Salt Lake City Olympic scandal that he’s in hyding, and nobody in the family knows how to get into touch with Runnin’ Hyde.
And don’t forget the more pastoral branch of the tree–that sweet li’l girl with her goats, innocent young Hydi.
Cohen’s Hyde-Ntally, I shouldn’t C-Hyde you for not mentioning the following family members:
Mike McGovern, a writer, objected to having a destructive hurricane named after his sweet niece, Emily. So in next day’s NY Times, he submitted the following list of more appropriate hurricane names and how these storms might behave:
Now you’re ready to sing the blues!
REVEALS LOVE TRYST WITH GILLIGAN, PROFESSOR
The diary of Eunice “Lovey” Howell was sold at Christie’s auction house today to a representative of Professor Roy Hinkley, Ph.D., during a sealed bid.
Hinkley, known as The Professor, was trying to keep the stories of his love affair with the wife of Thurston Howell III while shipwrecked on a deserted island a secret.
But investigators for Fox News and the Jerry Springer Show blew the lid off of the steamy memoirs. Page after lurid page of secret meetings with “My Bendy Boy, sweet Gilligan” and “Rocket Man”, an obvious reference to the Professor.
Reached at the Pacific Bay Retirement Home, Willy Gilligan was asked about his affair with “Lovey”. “She was a wild woman. Thurston couldn’t handle her. She was too much woman for him. We used to sneak off down to the lagoon when everyone else was asleep. Everyone thought I was doing Mary Ann, but, it was the Skipper she had the hots for. Go figure.”
Gilligan admitted Mrs. Howell had used some of Thurston’s own money to set up a trust fund for Gilligan so he could live out his days in comfort once they returned to the mainland. He confesses that he was angry when he found out about Mrs. Howell’s additional affair with The Professor, but has come to grips with it.
“You see, all Thurston thought about was money. Stock markets. I was her lover because I had youth and stamina. The Professor, though, he taught her things. He showed her how to build a nuclear reactor from a coconut. He taught her how to extract gold from seawater using nothing but a papaya. That always got her hot. The more I think about it, the more I truly believe the reason the Professor could never fix the boat was because he was boning Mrs. Howell.”
If you remember the Original Hollywood Squares and its comics, these tidbits may bring tears of joy to your eyes!
Before the Battle of Agincourt in 1415, the French, anticipating victory over the English, and proposed to cut off the middle finger of all captured English soldiers.
Without the middle finger it would be impossible to draw the renowned English longbow. English soldiers, therefore, would be incapable of fighting in the future.
This famous weapon was made of the native English Yew tree, and the act of drawing the longbow was known as “plucking the yew” (or “pluck yew”). Much to the bewilderment of the French, the English won a major upset and began mocking the French by waving their middle fingers at the defeated French, saying, “See, we can still pluck yew! “PLUCK YEW!” Since ‘pluck yew’ is rather difficult to say, the difficult consonant cluster at the beginning has gradually changed to a labiodental fricative ‘F’, and thus the words often used in conjunction with the one-finger-salute are mistakenly thought to have something to do with an intimate encounter.
It is also because of the pheasant feathers on the arrows used with the longbow that the symbolic gesture is known as “giving the bird”.. And yew thought yew knew everything.