Still Funny After All These Years
Oh, hai! Did I mention I’m now on Twitter?
This Is a Painting of a Boy Fucking a Turkey
American School, circa 1930: Boy Fucking a Turkey. Oil on canvas. 14″ x 10″.
Well, you did it, didn’t you? Did you really think that a headline like “This Is a Painting of a Boy Fucking a Turkey” was some kind of elaborate clickbait to get you to buy V!@gr@? No. You read it and immediately clicked on the link because you wanted to see a painting of a boy fucking a turkey. Here it is. Congratulations. Are you happy? Does it meet your standards for domesticated-fowl-violation-themed art?
I mean, it’s just as advertised. A painting—not a sculpture, not an etching, not an impressive, improbably rude Lego construction. What you might have reckoned to be a colorful figure of speech is, in fact, nothing of the sort. “Fucking a turkey” isn’t mere coarse slang for a massive screw-up (“Hey Democrats, you really fucked the turkey this time!”); a difficult skateboard maneuver (“Did you see the way he fucked the turkey in that half-pipe?”); or an unfortunate culinary mishap (“Damn it, Lester, I told you to baste the turkey every fifteen minutes, and now it’s dry as shit, and you completely fucked the turkey, you fucking fuck!”) No; “fucking a turkey” is, as should now be obvious, the literal act of penetrating a turkey with one’s penis.
The question that immediately arises upon first seeing this turkey-fucking painting is, clearly: How can it be that the flowering bush at left is in full bloom? Contrary, perhaps, to conventional turkey-fucking expectations, the viewer is left to draw one of two vague conclusions: a) the turkey fucking is taking place well prior to Thanksgiving, during a more temperate season, or b) the turkey fucking is taking place south of the Mason-Dixon line, which, well, explains so much. Yet further examination only deepens the mystery. Are the boy’s rose-colored bedroom slippers somehow integral to the ritual, or simply a flight of the artist’s fancy? Did the turkey reciprocate? Was the boy using adequate protection against poultry-borne diseases? Were the models paid a fair wage? Is the frame of appropriate style to showcase and emphasize the turkey fucking to maximum advantage? In which room of the house is a turkey-fucking painting apt to be most effective from a decorating standpoint? Is a gratuitous reference to “stuffing” just way too easy?
In attempting to suss out a deeper meaning from this, well, rather atypical image, one might try to place this painting of a boy fucking a turkey into a larger art-historical context. From what tradition might have arisen such a provocative, decidedly vegan-unfriendly scene? One supposes that deep in the bowels of some museum must lie an ancient amphora ringed with a daisy chain of Greeks and Turkish fowl in flagrante delicto (or, as it was termed in the Lower East Side of ancient Athens, “shtupping”); an elegant Fabergé platinum and enamel turkey’s egg containing an exquisite automaton of the Czar realistically fucking Rasputin, who in turn is fucking a tiny, bejeweled bird; a long-forgotten study for a Butterball advertisement as conceived by Norman Rockwell in the parking lot of a Grateful Dead concert. Intriguingly, there seems to be little precedent for the artistic depiction of human-poultry carnal relations*. (In the course of investigation, one can only imagine the results of a Google Image search on “turkey fucking.” Go ahead, I’ll wait.)
In the apparent absence of a turkey-fucking heritage in the fine arts—at least as pertains to subject matter—it would appear that this painting of a boy fucking a turkey is the first of its kind. As such, it must be recognized, regardless of its humble thrift-store origins, as a priceless aesthetic landmark. But perhaps more important during these troubled, uncertain times, this turkey-fucking painting nourishes and uplifts the human spirit in the way that only great art can. It reminds us to pause and reflect that only in the act of turkey fucking may we truly appreciate the timeless maxim: That’s what (feathered) friends (with benefits) are for.
* “But,” you may be tempted to counter, “what about the chicken-fucking scene in John Waters’ Pink Flamingos?” True enough—Pink Flamingos is indeed the Citizen Kane, or perhaps the Police Academy IV, of poultry-fucking movies. However, the painting appears to predate this cinematic milestone by some decades—and, as virtually any red stater can tell you, fucking a chicken is not the same as fucking a turkey.
This semester’s History of Cinema seminar, “Sex and Violence in the Films of the Coen Brothers,” may include images of sex, violence, and Steve Buscemi.
Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar. But this time IT’S NOT.
This Barbie doll may trigger harmful, lifelong body-image issues, including but not limited to an aversion to nipples, inability to pee, and a nagging desire to brand “Malaysia” on your ass.
The white nonpareil covering on Sno-Caps is not intended as a metaphor for The Man trying to keep a dark, chocolatey brother down.
The white “crème” filling in Oreos is not intended as a metaphor for actual dairy cream.
Axe Deodorant Body Spray may trigger unpleasant associations with Lizzie Borden and/or Paul Bunyan.
Your repeated insistence to your waiter, while gnawing on a breadstick, that you must not, under any circumstances, consume any gluten, may trigger the launch of a big glutinous loogie into your minestrone (which you requested with all of the pasta removed).
White Men Can’t Jump may trigger distress in white men who are able to jump but uncomfortable being pressured into doing so. Also in the kneeless. Also, your taste in movies may be called into question.
Some customers may not actually patronize Hooter’s “for the ribs.”
Oscar Meyer Bun-Length Wieners may trigger feelings of inadequacy in individuals who HAVE A SMALL PENIS, YES YOU, DON’T CHUCKLE NERVOUSLY AND LOOK AWAY AND PRETEND THIS ONE ISN’T ABOUT YOU BECAUSE IT’S ALL ABOUT YOU.
The texture of waffles may trigger the image of thermal underwear, which may trigger the memory of your horrible 11th birthday present, which may trigger the memory of a half-melted, grotesquely disfigured Carvel “Cookie Puss” ice cream cake smushed against the side of the box, which may trigger an irrational fear of boxes, which may doom your career at UPS and send you into a tailspin of binge drinking and late-night trips to IHOP, since they’re the only place still open, except you hate pancakes, and the waitress says, Sorry, you gotta order more than just coffee, and hash browns trigger memories of the Potato Famine, and what the fuck is up with crepes, so you order waffles.
This humorous low-budget porn parody of Sex and the City may be vastly superior to the original franchise in every respect.
These oyster crackers may trigger traumatic flashbacks in victims of childhood bullying by mollusks.
Trigger is not for food use. May poison food. For decorative purposes only. Do not mix trigger with household chemicals such as bleach or ammonia. Use trigger only in a well-ventilated space. Trigger contains chemicals known to the state of California to cause cancer and birth defects or other reproductive harm. Trigger is not a toy. May cause suffocation. Keep trigger away from babies and children. Trigger is not a safe alternative to cigarettes. Trigger can cause gum disease and tooth loss. Trigger is for external use only. Trigger is not a substitute for medical advice. Trigger may cause abdominal cramping and loose stools. Test trigger on an inconspicuous area before use. Trigger emits showers of sparks. Use only under close adult supervision. Trigger may cause severe tire damage. Trigger does not protect against sexually transmitted diseases. Trigger not to be removed, except by the consumer, under penalty of law.
Happy Valentine’s Day from Malcolm Gladwell
Star Wars: Not Just a Movie
Star Wars: Epic Lunch Box Advertisement
Star Wars: Affectless Action Figure Delivery System
Star Wars: A Riddle Wrapped in a Mystery Inside an Enigma Tucked into a Happy Meal
Star Wars: Two-Hours-Plus Dramatization of a Bumper Sticker
Star Wars: Raison d’être for Legions of Basement-Dwelling, Hygiene-Casual Man-Children
Star Wars: Cinnamon-Bun Coiffure Popularizer
Star Wars: Reckless Mark Hamill Enabler
Star Wars: Metaphorical Latter-Day Career Comb-Over for Harrison Ford
Star Wars: Pernicious Promoter of an “Alternative” Droid Lifestyle
Star Wars: Ewok-Infested Bosch Painting
Star Wars: Malignant, Inoperable Disco-Era Holdover
Star Wars: Insufferable Nostalgia-Generation Device for the Insufferable Children of Insufferable Baby Boomers
Star Wars: Cacophonous Prescription-Strength Soporific
Star Wars: Chernobyl-Grade Multiplex Pollutant
Star Wars: Periodic Herald for the Inexorable Decline of Western Civilization
Star Wars: Neither Holy Nor Roman Nor an Empire
Star Wars: Elbow-Throwing Ball Hog
Star Wars: The BFF You’re Desperately Trying to Figure Out How to Dump
Star Wars: Cinematic Five-Tiered Wedding Cake Made of Sawdust and Rat Turds
Star Wars: Vending Machine Filled Entirely with $1.25 Packs of Generic Fluorescent Orange Peanut Butter Crackers
Star Wars: Three-Day-Old Cup of Rewarmed K-Cup Decaf Forgotten in the Microwave
Star Wars: Lingering Cloud of Lysol in a Port-a-John in August
Star Wars: The Murky Liquid That Comes Out When You First Squeeze the Mustard Bottle
Star Wars: Bloated Macaroni Elbow Left in the Sink Strainer for All Eternity
Star Wars: In a Galaxy Not Far, Far Away Enough
The Ten Commandments (Passive-Aggressive Version)
Thou shalt have no other gods before Me. Not mad, just saying.
Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image, or any likeness of any thing that is in heaven above, or that is in the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth. Thou shalt not bow down thyself to them, nor serve them: for I the LORD thy God am a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generation of them that hate Me; and showing mercy unto thousands of them that love Me, and keep My commandments. Or whatever, LOL.
Thou shalt not take the name of the LORD thy God in vain; for the LORD will not hold him guiltless that taketh His name in vain. But yeah, no, go ahead, it’s fine.
Remember the sabbath day, to keep it holy. Six days shalt thou labor, and do all thy work: But the seventh day is the sabbath of the LORD thy God: in it thou shalt not do any work, thou, nor thy son, nor thy daughter, thy manservant, nor thy maidservant, nor thy cattle, nor thy stranger that is within thy gates: For in six days the LORD made heaven and earth, the sea, and all that in them is, and rested the seventh day: wherefore the LORD blessed the sabbath day, and hallowed it. No biggie. Though I was kinda wondering, since thou slept in and went to the monster truck rally last Sunday, but really, you know what? Let’s just move on.
Honor thy father and thy mother: that thy days may be long upon the land which the LORD thy God giveth thee. Or not. Whatever makes thee happy.
Thou shalt not kill. :-\
Thou shalt not commit adultery. [Long pause] Welp, I gotta get up early tomorrow, so.
Thou shalt not steal. The Stouffer’s French Bread Pizzas were on my side of the freezer, but I guess it’s My fault, since I forgot to put My name on them.
Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor. Did I mention that? I thought I mentioned that. Maybe not. But I’m pretty sure I did.
Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s house, thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife, nor his manservant, nor his maidservant, nor his ox, nor his ass, nor any thing that is thy neighbor’s. What? No one’s accusing thee of anything.
Vladimir Putin: I Want to Help You De-Gay and “Butch Up” the 2014 Sochi Winter Olympics
Because of the problematic connotations of “flaming,” the Olympic torch will no longer be lit at the opening ceremonies, but instead will be rigged to expectorate tobacco juice over the crowd.
Concerns over safety—and, more to the point, manliness—mean that goalie masks during hockey games may no longer consist solely of soothing mud packs and cucumber slices over the eyes. Fights on the ice must include the landing of actual punches, not just flailing slapping motions and hair-pulling.
The cross-country prancing and mincing events will be eliminated and replaced by stomping and interpretive stomping.
The disturbingly effeminate image of male figure skaters can be attributed largely to their wardrobe. However, this problem can be ameliorated with a few simple, tasteful modifications, including but not limited to: 1) requiring skates with mudflaps and underbody neon; 2) replacing matchy, sequin-spangled spandex costumes with cut-off shorts and sleeveless “wife beater” t-shirts studded with spent bullet casings; 3) sewing to the rear end of each competitor a large embroidered patch reading “Exit Only” with a comic-strip Calvin pissing on a pink triangle, which in turn is pissing on a Ford logo.
In order to reinforce and preserve traditional gender roles, only men will be allowed to “throw” curling stones. Women will, of course, handle the sweeping, just like at home, and also make sandwiches for the men at the end of each round. In deference to custom, curling matches will remain unwatched by anyone but straight Canadians.
Men’s singles competitors will no longer be permitted to skate to “It’s Raining Men” unless actual men are pushed from the rafters as part of the routine.
The biathlon will be renamed the heteroathlon. Men’s skiing events will take place under the rubric of “mascu-sliding.”
All promotional materials will make it perfectly clear that, contrary to reports from previous Olympics, the Nordic combined event will not consist of a “three way” among a charismatic trio of buff, blond, blue-eyed men named Lars, Sven, and Hjörvard.
The provocative visual impact of male speed skaters’ smooth, shiny crotch bulges will be reduced by making competitors stuff their jockstraps with Legos, for which purpose the bricks will be renamed “cock blocks.”
It has long been a subject of concern that the uncomfortably close “nuts to butts” contact fostered by traditional bobsled design practically ensures that even the most virile of sledders will emerge hopelessly and irredeemably man-crazy. Therefore, all bobsleds will now be configured with a running board, so that a nun armed with a ruler can strictly enforce a “six inches of daylight” rule in the midst of competition. The “six inches of daylight” rule must never be mentioned out loud, however, as the phrase “six inches” may prove too suggestive for weaker-willed athletes.
It’s “luge,” to rhyme with “huge,” not with “zhoosh.” In fact, any competitor found with zhoosh will be forced to wear beige, to rhyme with “page.” All beige. From Walmart.
Sounds of exertion and “victory” gestures are restricted to deep-throated grunting and fist-pumping. Prohibited: giggling; squealing; finger-snapping; voguing; tossing a sultry look backward over one’s shoulder; and rapid clapping while keeping the heels of the hands pressed together. Obscene gestures are acceptable as an expression of disapproval towards one’s opponents, but competitors must not under any circumstances purse their lips while slowly wagging their vertically extended index finger back and forth.
No French—athletes, fries, bread, toast, horns, doors, slicing of green beans, expelling cigarette smoke from the mouth while simultaneously inhaling it through the nose, kissing. No French. Except to fill out the bleachers during the broadcast of curling events, in which case they are forbidden from speaking to the straight Canadians.
Coming Soon: The Chick-Lit Massacre (and Mystical Fuchsia Zoozypants Knitting Circle)
Everything Bagel: Asshole of the Bakery
Yeah, that’s me. Asshole of the bakery. The Antonin Scalia of bread and pastry. The Donald Trump of this flour-dusted, godforsaken shithole. You got a problem with that, glazed doughnut? Kiss my ass. You think I give a shit what you think, baguette? Fuck you, you French faggot.
Number-one asshole among baked goods, and proud of it. I even look like a sphincter. Like phyllo dough is such a big fucking deal, with all those layers. I’m such a huge fucking star you gotta cook me twice. Boil, then bake, then douse me in everything you got in your spice rack. That’s how I roll. You think that fuckface corn muffin is some kind of hot shit? More like lard-ass cupcake wannabe with a fake tan.
Right now you’re thinking, Oh yeah, this guy thinks his shit don’t stink. Well, guess what? It does stink. It stinks plenty. Like salt, garlic, onion, poppy seed, sesame, and caraway. I got it all. Or maybe you didn’t know what an “everything” bagel is, if you’re an idiot. Which you probably are.
Maybe you think I only get along with my own kind, that I got no problem with the other bagels. That just goes to show you don’t know fucking shit. Plain bagel? Please. [In mocking girly voice] “Ooh, ooh, I’m so smooth and golden brown and pret-ty, I don’t put out on the first date, I love kittens and pudding and not having sex, I’m a plaaaaaaaaaain bagel.” Raisin bagel? A raisin ain’t even a fruit. It’s a grape that couldn’t hack it. Pumpernickel bagel? Yeah, I guess, if you want a bagel that’ll steal your car. Egg bagel? What the fuck is that? It looks like a plain bagel that pissed itself. Spinach bagel? You have 14 flavors to choose from and you pick spinach? I hope your stomach tells you to go fuck yourself and busts through your gut like that nasty little fucker in Alien.
Don’t even fucking think about putting anything on me. Cream cheese? Keep that nasty toe jam to yourself. Don’t even come near me with lox. I get one whiff of that low-tide funk and someone’s gonna end up bleedin’ on the floor. Butter? You know what butter is for? Scones. Because scones are pathetic little turds. Watch this. [Throws fake punch at scone; scone flinches] See? [Punches scone hard on upper arm] [Scone: “Ow!”] [Everything bagel, to scone] Get lost, shithead. This is my show.
I own two vehicles. Guess what they are? Right. A Harley and a Hummer. Chrome truck nuts on the Hummer. Confederate flags on both. Know what that apple fritter over there drives? A used Prius with a “Life is Good” bumper sticker. Sounds like he’s the asshole, right? It’s lame jackoffs like that who give us hardcore assholes a bad name. I don’t just text while I’m driving, I eat corn on the cob and play sudoku at the same time. I cough in public without covering my hole. I lose DVDs from Netflix and claim they never showed up.
Crispy and seedy on the outside, all motherfucking stud inside. You better believe that underneath my tangy, circular awesomeness, I’m all eclair, if you catch my drift. See that cruller over there? Knocked her up. Nine months later she squeezes out twin doughnut holes. Hey, not my problem, right? Got shitfaced last Saturday and had an orgy with a whole rack of danish. Woke up two days later with some massive motherfucking hangover, smelling like Jägermeister and prunes. Messed around with a hot cross bun last year and ended up with a nasty rash. Didn’t slow me down one fucking bit. Ended up giving it to a macaroon. Sorry, baby, but I don’t wear a bakery tissue for nobody.
Well, dickheads, smell ya later. The retard clerk is about to put me in a bag with some blueberry bagels so I can make ’em all taste like shit.
“And I love pancakes!”
“Now say it without using the sock puppet.”
[Extended pause] “Does this mean we’re not gonna screw?”
“Please submit all declarations of love in writing and allow four to six weeks for processing.”
“It’ll never work. I’m a Sagittarius, you’re an asshole.”
“Cool. Do you have your half of the rent?”
“Everyone loves me! Except me. I hate myself. And you.”
[Quizzically cocks head to one side, like a dog hearing a high-pitched sound]
“Not when you find out what I did with your toothbrush.”
“You didn’t say ‘Simon says,’ Simon!”
“That’s just the chloroform and ball gag talking.”
“What is this thing called love? Seriously, it’s been sitting on the porch for a week and I’m tired of stepping over it.”
“You sure have a funny way of showing it, what with both hands around my neck.”
“At ease, private!” [They begin making out]
“Yes, but what about my pizza? I phoned almost an hour ago.”
“Would you be willing to state that under oath?” [Calls in notary public from next room]
“You’re the sorriest excuse for a dominatrix I ever dropped two hundred bucks on!”
“Prove it. Let me use your 10% employee discount at Walmart.”
“Prove it. Clean yourself up and swear off drugs and get a job and … nah, just pass me the bong.”
“Prove it. Move to Greenland and never contact me again.”
“I’m still taking half of everything, and the dog, and the kids have to live with you.”
“You’re the sorriest excuse for a panhandling mime I ever dropped a buck on. Also, you need to stop screaming, ‘Let me out of this goddamned transparent box!’ ”
[Leaning in and pointing at other person’s nostril] “Booger.”
“Sorry, Axelrod, but the warden says we still gotta electrocute you tomorrow.”
“I don’t think you understand how haiku works.”
“What do you want, a medal?” [Pulls out heart-shaped platinum medal with “Love” emblazoned in rubies] “Here you go.”
“Shut the fuck up, E.T.! I’m trying to watch the CHiPs marathon!”
“Go fish. Do you have any jacks?”
“That’s it? I thought you were going to tell me that you forgot to bring the coupons.”
“Danke, mein Führer. And may I add that your English is excellent!”
“Now you tell me!” [Holds up empty pill bottle, slumps to floor]
japecake 