When you’re watching a preview for a new comedy film, do you still laugh at the “Man getting hit in balls” joke? Do you chuckle when the Director adds the obligatory shot of onlookers grimacing? Are you that one guy in the packed theater that yells “OOOH!! That had to hurt!” and gives your buddy a high-five? If so, then you might want to stop reading this. I’m only going to further insult your intelligence.
“Man getting hit in balls” has become the Gold Standard. Every Comedy that Hollywood craps out must have a preview that shows a man getting injured in the crotch region. Hollywood is constantly hard at work creating unique contributions to the art of ball slamming.
Here are just a few examples from previews of recent releases.
1) The Hot Chick – Man kicked in nuts by Rob Schneider.
2) Just Friends – Snow ball hits man in groin.
3) Bad News Bears – Baseball hits boy in family jewels.
4) Cheaper by the Dozen 2 – Steve Martin falls on log and injures groin. Makes funny face.
5) Big Mamma’s House 2 – Big Momma kicks man in crotch.
6) She’s the man – Girl pretending to be boy gets hit in groin with soccer ball.
7) Benchwarmers – Ball shot out of lawnmower hits David Spade in the crotch.
8) The Wild – Koala Bear (yes, Koala Bear) lands on fence and injures groin
9) Larry the Cable Guy – Man throws soccer ball at wall, it bounces back and hits his nuts.
10) Munich – Man kicked in nuts by Rob Schneider.
Okay, so I made the last one up. But you get my point. It would be easier for me to list the comedy previews that DON’T have someone getting clocked in the balls. It only took me a few minutes to find these nine examples. If you can add to the list, please do.
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My daughter has a red Teletubby that stands about a foot tall. It sings and dances and lights up. I’ve wanted to kill it for months now. I can’t tell you how often I’ve planned its demise. One such method involved duct tape, a linen sack and the San Francisco bay.
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So last night I heard it singing like it was possessed. Very deep, slow voice. Either the batteries were low or the Devil was telling my daughter to puke in my shoes again. It stopped mid-song. My daughter began sobbing quietly. She picked it up and brought it to me. Kids think Daddies can fix anything. She’ll figure out what horse crap that is by the time she’s two.
This one was easy. Just a battery replacement. The compartment was located on the doll’s back, and I used a screwdriver to pry the 3 AA batteries from inside. I pried too hard and sent the batteries flying all over the floor.
Three batteries out, three batteries in. But wait! Isn’t this the opportunity I’d been waiting for? Why put them in? Kill it. Tell her you can’t fix it. Tell her you’ll buy her a new toy that sings better songs and doesn’t fill your heart with bloodlust every time you see it.
But then I looked down at my daughter and saw the sadness in her face. How could I kill her favorite toy? Such sorrow in those eyes…until I realized she was sad because she was having trouble chewing one of the batteries I’d dropped on the floor. Sigh.
Bottom line, I did the right thing for once. I put in the new batteries. The Teletubby showed its gratitude by singing my least favorite song. If it had a human hand it would have flipped me off. If it was anatomically correct, it would have pissed in my face. Someday, you son of a bitch. Someday. The kid isn’t going to want you forever. You’ll get yours. My mind immediately went back to planning the toy’s untimely death.
I gave the doll back to my anxious daughter and said, “Here you are Elena. What do you think of that?”
I didn’t need her to tell me what she thought of that. I could smell it. She’d taken a giant crap in her diaper. Hmm, maybe I could get even with that little bastard after all…
I have a 7 pound mini-dachshund. She would fit nicely in a hot dog bun with relish, mustard and several diced onions.
When I put my daughter down for a nap each day, she feels the urge to bark. I shall boil her with potatoes and carrots.
In the evening, the dog informs me that her dinner is late by puking. The food must be served at 5pm sharp. Most days, the vomit commences at 4:55 in protest. I will bake her in a nice lemon sauce and serve her with mandarin orange slices.
During the night, she barks and wakes up my child. Perhaps I can sprinkle her with Shake n Bake.
If I leave the front door open, she runs into the street. Time to prepare a stew with moist corn bread.
Alas, not worth more than an appetizer really. I do love her, and it would be a shame to eat her all at once. In the winter she keeps me warm by sleeping on my lap. Perhaps I will remove her innards and replace them with a hot water bottle.
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My weekly jaunt to the Grocery store occurs on Friday mornings. Kiss the wife goodbye as she leaves for work, drink a cup of coffee, and I’m ready to go. I grab the kid, throw her in the car seat, jam a few Cheerios in her mouth and hit the road.
When I get to the supermarket, I grab the most functional cart I can find. This is no easy task. Most off them look like they were parked in front of a house during a drive by shooting. Eventually, I find a cart, throw the kid in and head inside.
Okay. time to pull out my Grocery List. One dozen eggs. No problem. Pick up the first carton and get yolk on my hand. Set that one aside. Pick up the next carton – hmm, six broken eggs. Okay, grab the next one…date on the carton is last Tuesday. Another – 6 broken eggs. 6+6 = a Dozen, right? Okay. I Frankenstein together a carton with 12 good eggs that didn’t expire last Tuesday. Perfect.
Onto the milk…first one I grab expires three days from now. So all of a sudden I’m that schmuck on the floor in the middle of the aisle – the guy pulling carton after carton of milk out trying to find one container that doesn’t turn sour in 3 days. I find it all the way in the back where I can see into the Storage Room. Some douchebag is sitting on the other side of the fridge smoking a cigarette. He gives me a nod. Thanks for the help, dude.
Next, I stroll up the Baking aisle to get some flour, corn meal and sugar. Make sure I flirt with the hot mom buying seasoning. Say something cool: “That tastes great in a Burgundy sauce.” Oh yeah. Still got it.
Grab some beer. Same hot mom that was giving me the “Eye” back in the baking section just shook her head and walked away. Hmm. Guess she saw me put the Hamms 24-pack in the cart next to the kid.
Finally I’ve filled the cart with a week’s worth of groceries and it’s time to check out. This is where the fun begins. I get all the individual items onto the conveyer belt. Above the cashier is a sign that reads: “If I fail to 1) Greet you, 2) Offer you today’s special or 3) Offer you help getting the groceries to your car, then please inform the manager and you will receive a free loaf of Garlic Bread.”
It might was well have the words “Please excuse our cashiers. They are mentally challenged.” written on it.
Okay, every week I test them on these 3 simple courtesies. They are running at about a 75% success rate.
1) Greet me – “(Mumble mumble) or plastic (incoherent sound)?” In the middle of the greeting, one of the pimples on his face bursts. I guess that’s a greeting. Strike One. Two more strikes and no garlic bread.
2) Offer me today’s Special – (Mumbling under breath) “Today we are offering these celery flavored toothpicks for $2.99 a box.” Honestly, it was such an uninspired delivery that I don’t remember what the product was. Before I can open my mouth to respond, he gives me the total amount due and asks how I would like to pay. Still, he did offer me the toothpicks. The fact that he didn’t actually intend to sell them is irrelevant. Strike Two.
3) Ask me if I need help getting the groceries to my car – All of the plastic bags are piled in my cart and my purchase is complete. This is the part of the experience I call the “Egg Hunt.” It’s similar to an Easter Egg hunt, only a lot less rewarding. Chances are, if I wasn’t watching closely, the bagger put the eggs on the bottom of the cart and piled all the groceries on top of them. While I am searching, the checker mumbles “Would you like some help out to your car, sir?” Searching feverishly, I turn to ask him where the hell my eggs are only to find that he’s already ringing up the next customer. Oh well. He still asked. Strike Three. No garlic bread this time.
Inevitably, something falls off the cart on the way out. I can’t imagine why. Maybe it’s because they stack the bags in the cart like they’re stacking Jenga pieces. Thank you unnamed Grocery store chain. You’re doing a great job!
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I enjoy reading books to my daughter, but man am I getting tired of the same crap over and over again.
There are many books that I take pleasure in reading to Elena, but alas, these are not her favorites. My daughter loves Elmo. You know Elmo, right? He’s that red puppet with ratty red fur – Looks like some chick used him for feminine hygienic aid one too many times.
If I have to read “Elmo is SOO Big” one more time, I’m taking a trip down to Sesame Street with a shotgun looking like Michael Douglas in Falling Down – just a bigger waistline. “Do you know the way to Sesame Street you little red bastard?”
On the way, I’ll stop in Tele-tubby land, take away their welfare checks and tell them all to get real jobs. Four retarded midgets and a possessed vacuum cleaner living together with no supervision and a “Magic Toaster” as the only source of food. Shameful.
Then its on to 64 Zoo Lane where I can remind all those stupid zoo animals that they are natural predators and don’t have to let an 8 year old girl make them tell stories all night. She is meat, you morons. Next time she slides down the Giraffe’s neck, tell the Lion to be waiting with his mouth open at the bottom.
Goodnight moon, goodnight room, goodnight old lady whispering hush – finger and paw-berry, my berry your berry – and the driver on the bus says “Get your ass on the floor and nobody gets hurt!” Brown bear, brown bear what do you see? I see deep in the 100 acre wood, that’s what I see.
Yes, I’ve gone quite mad. I’d like to see you read “Brown Bear, Brown Bear, what do you see?” forty five times a day and still maintain your sanity. In the immortal words of Elmo in “So Big!” – a delightful classic that grows on you with each reading – “Baby Elmo drinks from a cup. Baby Elmo takes a bite. Baby Elmo stands up tall. Baby Elmo holds on tight. ” Strong words. Valuable words. Heed them well and they will provide comfort and direction in your life.
But, if you can spare a moment in your day, please shed a tear or two, knowing that I have been beaten – my spirit, broken – by a talking tampon. I think it broke somewhere around the 545th reading of “So Big!”. Not sure now. I grow numb.
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