Central Snark

ABBA FABBA* by Snuppy
Monday, 23 July 2007, 9:11am
Filed under: funny..., music music | Tags:

DID we say Abba Fabba? Heh, actually, that’s not right. Even tho’ it kind of is. Allow us to explain: FRENCH and SAUNDERS (Dawn and Jennifer, respectively) created the show, AB FAB, which is absolutely, um, fabulous. Not to mention hilarious. These two brilliant comediennes also did the following parody of a song by ABBA, which is as good as anything we’ve ever managed to pull out of our sorry asses whimsical collection of “odd-ball” tune parodies, in an effort to provide a little “musical opposites/cheap laughs” to DJ LAMPSHA’S wonderful Saturday Spins. Mostly because, by our pathetic peculiar quirky way of thinking, ABBA-anything counters the Swedish based group, Peanut Butter and Jelly. No, wait… PB & J didn’t stand for that, now, did it? Because, if it had, we’d have offered THIS RIDICULOUS SONG, instead of the following slice of musical hilarity.

NEEDLESS to say, we’re in hopes you kids won’t mind the fact the aforementioned following slice of musical hilarity features our aforementioned favorite funny ladies, the aforementioned French and Saunders. Actually, we could care less if you mind, because we happen to think those two are (and/or this video is) pretty darn clever. Not to mention, laugh-out-loud funny. Ah well, whether you like them (and/or it) or not, c’est la vie. Which, by the way, is not to be confused with qué será será — something we suspect happened in this song, tho’ we can’t be sure, because we don’t speak French. Or Saunders, come to think of it, but that’s another weird rant for another “musical opposites/cheap laughs” Monday**.

*some of us got into a not-very-heated discussion as to this song and whether or not it had been posted here before and/or heretofore. After an intense search through our “music music” archives, that took well over 3 minutes, we are happy to report we have not. That’s not to say we haven’t featured a hefty number of other hilarious French and Saunders parodies, because we have, but, as far as we know and/or you’re concerned, THIS video is new(ish) to you(ish).

** for those of you new(ish) to this blog, this incredibly clever-yet-not-really feature was created on the heels of Lampsha’s first “Saturday Spin”. For those of you curious(ish) and/or bored(ish), you can read/watch/listen/roll your eyes at the first “Musical Opposites for the Sake of Incredibly Cheap Laughs” HERE.


It’s laughin’ from yer belly time! on Humor-blogs.com. (that will be funny if you clicked on the above “ridiculous” link — otherwise, probably not so much)

Saturday, 21 July 2007, 7:44am
Filed under: Lampsha Spins

Have we heard from any Swedish acts yet?

Well then it’s about time for Peter Bjorn and John (hey – they leave the commas out) a Swedish indie rock band. I was listening to a short “take 5” interview with them on the radio just the other day while driving and they sounded like cool fun down to earth guys. PB&J (if I may be so personal and no, I did not coin that) just decided to go by their own first names because when they came out in 1999, there seemed to be so many “The” groups which they felt limited them to a “yes I am a punk/funk band” or whatever mode. They have about three albums under their belts and I think they’ve got a few more good ones to go.

Anyway, this will be short and sweet – just the way you like it. Except, I have thrown in two videos because, well I just couldn’t decide. If you like the first, listen to the second – you’ve got the whole weekend. Couldn’t leave out the first one, Young Folks, could I now LBP? Mostly, because it’s quite fun.


Now if that wasn’t enough to make you go “yah-yah”, click on over to their MySpace.

Have a great weekend – in Sweden, in Canada, in the US or wherever you are!


ps: Head on over to Humor-blogs.com where I hear they’re giving out Swedish fish all weekend!

The Pharaoh Moans by littlebluepill
Friday, 20 July 2007, 7:28am
Filed under: LBP's Rx, Sex, Ed?

jenna's avatarPheromones: they make the other person look good because they smell good. Or so says science. Maybe. Whatever. I didn’t exactly look it up. That’s, like, research. Pah. I don’t need no stinkin’ (hahahaha. Get it? Did you get it? I crack me up) research. Clearly this word was derived from the Ancient Egyptians. Go on…say it.. Pheromones. Pharaoh Moans. It’s all about the head honcho getting laid all the time and the peons were jealous (and who wouldn’t be with the head honcho getting lots of, uhm, head so to speak) so they killed off the Pharaohs then wore their clothing. Then the “essence” of the Pharaoh rubbed off on the peons and soon everyone was getting horizontal. “Hey baby you smell good.” “Sugar, it’s the Pharaohs.” Sweeeet. I wouldn’t’ mind going to see Egypt. If for no other reason then to ask around about why their pyramids didn’t make the 8 Wonders of the Worlds list. Maybe it was all that sand getting into cracks. Then again the beach has sand and also didn’t make the Wonders list. The beach has surfers. And surfers are just sublimely yummy as they’re all tanned and buff and half naked and wet. Not to mention that they smell like the ocean and I do so love the smell of the ocean even though I live far far far far far far far far away from any large body of water.

See how I got back to smelling? Will you pay attention? Oh you want proof about the efficiency of pheromones. Gotcha.

So apparently pheromones attract the opposite sex or fish. How? I don’t know. That’s science. I don’t do science. Ask somebody sciency. Do I write science fiction? No. I write about sex. Well…I did. Lately I’m not. But this isn’t about my lack of sex…err…writing. This is about sex and sexy smells and so on so forth. I saw on t.v. (some sex show on The Learning Channel…huzzah!) that women are more attracted to sweaty men than unsweaty men. Err…Uh-huh. That’s because they’re oooooooooozing pheromones. I think they’re just ooooooozing sweat and need a shower. I don’t retain much information. I could look it up but…hello? Research. I mean I’ve never seen a sweaty guy, tackled him then rubbed my face in his stinky arm pit then yell out “Do me baby!” Wait…would that work? I could be wrong. This could require research. Blast.

So these pheromones are the babe magnets and thanks to science I you can buy pheromones. Sex in a bottle. Sweet. I was dragged (kicking and screaming) to a passion party where one of the products was (sec…let me pull my container out of my purse. What? You don’t carry around your pheromones? Why the hell not?!?) “Pure Instinct®”. “Pure® Instinct” according to the website*: Inspires desire and attracts the opposite sex! This unisex scent is a powerful attractant, communicating your sexual readiness and heightening your partner’s desires. Apparently it adapts to your body chemistry so everyone has a unique scent: I learned I smelled like strawberries and mangoes. There’s nothing I love more than strawberries and mangoes and less it’s strawberries AND mangoes plus it attracts the opposite sex? How could I, a single gal, pass up? I didn’t. I plunked down my $15 something and waited and waited and waited for my sex in a bottle. It arrived. Then I waited some more for my friend to remember to deliver it to me. Just in time for us gals to go out drinking Saturday night.

* link provided in case, y’know, you want some pheromones or to host a passion party. (As an aside: at my friend’s passion party (that I missed because I was a good girl babysitting her nephew) when they put on the “Pure® Instinct”, her dog was making eyes at one of the girls, his head in her lap…proof is in the pudding. Works on dogs. Watch out Doug!)

So us gaggle of females slathered up and I sat back (with the only other single gal) to wait for the guys to drop at my feet. They didn’t. This was vexing. Maybe, we decided, we needed to waft our pheromones around the bar. So…we raised our wrists and made circles in the air in an attempt to beckon all this sex to us. None came. The only ones who snagged onto my pheromones were a trio of drunk teenagers at the c-train station (it was an early night (home by 11 pm…what the fuck? I was pheromoning man!) and I decided to use my transit pass instead of paying for a cab. Good decision…I could waft my pheromones around the crowded c-train thanks to the Stampede!) who were spraying each other with Off. Perhaps they should’ve used pheromones? One guy said “You sprayed me.” The other kid said: “No I didn’t.” “I smell strawberries.” (Wait…did I just refer to a teenager as a kid? Shit.)

Perhaps my pheromony goodness didn’t work because every single gal I was out with Saturday night slathered themselves in the stuff. (It’s not sad that when I wear this stuff I turn myself on is it? Nah. Just proves it’s efficient.) How could any guy find my pheromony goodness when there was so much bloody competition? Damn those married chicks screwed me over! I shall have to try this again. And if nothing else I’ll smell like strawberries AND mangoes. Not like fish…or Zoidberg. Unless that will work for a guy then Zoidberg me up!

little blue pill out (doesn’t that sound like a new prescription is needed? oh yeah…fo’ sho’)

Everything smells funny on Humor-blogs.com.

Sometimes… by Snuppy
Thursday, 19 July 2007, 9:51am
Filed under: d'oh!

not feelin' it…you feel like a post. Sometimes you feel like a post-it. Sometimes you feel like a Post Toastie — but only after spending copious amounts of time outside, under the hot hot sun. And sometimes, you feel like ramming your head into a post. Especially when you’ve got nothing to post.

Sometimes you feel like a ghost. Then you look in the mirror and wonder why your hips don’t disappear. HAHAHA.


Pick up a FREE box of Cheerios at Humor-blogs.com.

Dear David Milch by Snuppy
Wednesday, 18 July 2007, 9:54am
Filed under: funny..., tube sucks

hump in the roadWHOA. That was some funny crummy hump-in-the-road related letter NOT-SO-CRUMMY JOEL wrote for us yesterday, wasn’t it? Why yes, yes it was. Trust us when we tell you we laughed and laughed and laughed. Mostly because the letter made perfect sense. Pot holes? Seen ’em. Crappy American made cars? Had one. Disdain for a city government incapable of helping crank up it’s image to any thing worthwhile, hoping the words: “Drive as fast as you can through this metropolitan nightmare and pray to whatever god you have that you never find yourself living here” might score points with tourists? Hey, we lived in Fresno back when it was the “Least Livable City in the US“, and that was its motto.

NATURALLY, none of that has anything to do with today’s post. We just wanted to take a moment to nod vigorously in the general direction of someone capable of writing in a fashion both coherent AND entertaining, before offering up one of our own “crummy” letters to someone who seems to have lost that skill. Please bear with us while we attempt to get this off our chest. But don’t look, because once this is off our chest, our chest, which was rather ample once upon a time, will be bare. Maybe droopy. Whatever our chest is, we don’t want the likes of you staring. We’re nothing, if not modest. If any of that made sense to you, chances are you “get” the show we’re about to bitch slap, and will be excused from reading further. If the word fuck offends you, you should have stopped reading one sentence sooner.

***             ***             ***             ***             ***             ***

Dear David Milch (if that’s your real name):

We may not be your biggest fans, but we have been great admirers of your work over the past several years. Heck, we were glued to our sets each week, during your NYPD Blue heyday. Well, we were until you killed off Bobby, that is. After he “died”, we were pretty upset. Oh, we tried to watch during the “Rick Shroder” phase, but we kept seeing him as that kid in the film about a man who hit other men really hard until he died, and we had to stop. Besides, all that death, alcoholism, and destructive behavior? Truth be told, eventually NYPD got a little too NYPD-pressing for our tastes, if you catch our drift, and we’re guessing you don’t.

Then you came out with one of the best shows ever. And by “best shows ever”, we mean, DEADWOOD. David (may we call you David?) that was just fanfuckingtastic television. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. We were horribly and/or fuckingly disappointed when it was cancelled. Did we say “fuckingly disappointed”? Make that fuckingly verklempt. Then we realized the words “fuck” “fucking”, “fuckingly”, and/or “fuckilicious” were sneaking into our everyday vocabulary on a more regular fucking basis than was proper and/or fucking acceptable, so we decided the cancellation was a fucking blessing after all, and we let our fucking anger go. The fact that we knew we’d be treated to not one, but two 2 hour “movies” fucking softened the fucking blow, but that’s beside the fucking point. The point, which was fucking with our mood a minute ago, is that Deadwood was fucking awesome.

duke kanahamokuNow, David, as your new best friends, we feel it’s our right and/or duty to ask you a small editorial question regarding your newest creative effort, currently featured on HBO, i.e. JOHN FROM CINCINNATI. Uh, David? WHAT THE HELL IS THIS SHOW ABOUT? Wait… perhaps it would help if we shared a few things about this surf-related “television of the absurd” program that we know and/or wish we knew, but don’t:

1. John. From Cincinnati. Crosses the border from Mexico into California. Looks for Butchie. Maybe for directions on how to take a world class dump. Parrots the words spoken by everyone else. Might be an alien, might be an angel, might be a retard. Has “magic” pockets filled with money and/or credit cards.

2. Huh?

3. Bruce Greenwood levitates while wearing a wet suit.

4. Dead bird and/or surfer boy — both not so dead, after all.

5. Good actors who can’t surf. Bad actors who can surf. Show set in a fictitious So Cal beach town with at least one funkified surf shop, owned by main characters. NO extended scenes involving the actual sport of surfing.

6. HUH?

7. NYPD and/or Deadwood-esque dialog. In Southern California. Dude.

8. Luke Perry is a conniver. And he’s, like, old.

9. The guy who played Al Bundy plays a guy named Bill who talks to a parakeet named Zippy. John (From Cincinnati) manifests himself in 3 or 4 different places, in order to sermonize to the entire cast — whether they’re in the scene, or not — about circles, lines, zeros and ones, walls, boning, dumping, and/or the Father. The Father who is not their Father, but may be John’s Father, who may or may not be in Cincinnati, even as John sermonizes. Cassie’s camera, Cissy NOT teaching her son how to masturbate, Shaun parented by his porn-queen mom over a tuna sandwich, someone coming on someone else’s face, and so forth and so on.

10. HUFUCKINGUH????????

David, David, David. Have you lost your fucking marbles? Or have we??? What were we doing with your fucking marbles in the first place, David? Our head hurts, and that’s never a good thing. In closing, David, we’re begging you to please, for the love of Bobby (may he rest in peace), surfersexplain to us, once and for all, what’s going on. And, David, if possible, it would really help if you could do so before next week. Believe it or not, David, we plan to keep watching John From Cincinnati, but we’re convinced it would be a hell of a lot more entertaining and/or fuckalicious, if we knew one thing: WHAT THE HELL IS THIS SHOW ABOUT?

Thank you for your time, David. And so forth, and so on.


PS: David, don’t think we weren’t more than a little chagrined to learn those 2 Deadwood “movies” were, in fact, someone’s sick-ass idea of a joke. Well, look at our faces, David. Are we laughing?

PPS: David, it recently occurred to us that HAHAHA is nothing but a bunch of oddly connected straight lines, to someone who can’t read Humor-blogs.com.

Dear Crummy City by crummyjoel
Tuesday, 17 July 2007, 7:51am
Filed under: crummy letters

Dear Detroit;

Hi. You don’t know me, but I recently had the displeasure of driving through the southeastern section of your city on Highway #75 of Eisenhower’s Interstate System. I say “driving”, but what I of course mean is “dodging potholes, slaloming around orange barrells, and riding the random concrete moguls I found strewn about the highway.”

Look, I get it. I know the American auto industry isn’t performing very well right now. I get that “The Big 3” automakers are the heartbeat of your city. But I hardly think that organizing your highways to purposely destroy people’s cars is any way to improve your economy. People whose Japanese or Korean cars fall apart due to the incessant rattling and shaking that your interstate provides are only going to go out and buy other Japanese or Korean cars. So, you see, your plan is backfiring.

Perhaps you are trying to increase the value of automobile parts, by causing them to be in extreme high demand. I honestly have no idea how anyone in any other part of the country can ever purchase shocks or struts, as the demand for them in the Detroit area must be phenomenal. Or is the city perhaps purchasing stock in rubber, in the hopes of destroying enough tires to make it a rare and valuable commodity?

Here’s the error in that way of thinking: In order for people to want to spend money on car parts, their cars must be salvageable to begin with. I passed countless dazed citizens stumbling about southeastern Detroit, nothing but a steering wheel clutched in their still white-knuckled hand. Their automobile was undoubtedly shattered into millions of pieces at the bottom of some cavernous abyss that passed for a pothole. Those people aren’t going to purchase replacement parts. They will purchase a new car instead, and we’ve already covered how and why it won’t be a car from Detroit.

So, if you are determined to go about with this “interstate that could pass for a Cambodian minefield” plan (and given the fact that it has been like this for the last 16 years of me driving this stretch of highway, that’s a pretty strong assumption), allow me to offer an alternative way to bring Detroit’s economy back from the brink: You should re-train many of the automobile workers as dentists or chiropractors, then station them at rest stops and truck stops along the interstate. Anyone who dares traverse Detroit area highways will be in desperate need of their services, and the money spent there can help revive the struggling economy.

There’s no need to thank me. As a former resident of the land mass across the river from you (“Canada“), I only want what’s best for you.


PS: As an aside note, Humor-blogs.com suggests that you don’t call yourself “Hockeytown” if you can’t sell out an NHL playoff game.

Doo Dah Doo Doo by Snuppy
Monday, 16 July 2007, 7:58am
Filed under: funny..., music music

SOMETHING something something. Monday’s are so yada yada… blah blah blah. One or two more brilliant and hilarious one liners that will surely cause everyone to fall into fits of laughter, Shirley. Or was that a groan? HAHAHA… never mind.

WHATEVER. We’re just looking for a way to hippity-hop into a new week, so and so and thus. Our kids say the darnedest things, but once in a while they share silliness we like. No better time to share such silliness — which is also, in our humble opinion, 180 degrees opposite to our dear DJ LAMPSHA’s dreamy Saturday Spin — than now, with a parody of a children’s “How to Dance ” instructional video so completely dumb we don’t know what else to say. Enjoy?

DID that guy really say he wants to meet that dad? Who’s dad? Our dad? Was this song supposed to be called Doo Dad Doo Doo? Is it us, or is that terribly wrong? Why the hell are we asking you?


Doo dah doo doo on Humor-blogs.com. Just stay away from the rotten meat.