The Dopple Gang: Smart Humor By Dumb People

On Behalf of the Foundation for the Future of Tomorrow

Dear Sir or Madam:

On behalf of the Foundation for the Future of Tomorrow, I’d like to take this opportunity to invite you to enjoy partaking in a unique opportunity to support some of the most important ongoing development initiatives going on in the world of today – and the future: of tomorrow.

Evolving from the private microfinance firm, the ‘Franklin Syndicate’, the Foundation is a 501-C, non-profit NGO globally engaged in the engaging globular happenings. We’re involved in groundbreaking, cut-of-the-edge-of-the-world experiences, focusing on trans-, pan-, and inter-national schemes; we hope that you, Sir or Madam, decide to contribute to the imminent value of potential prospects in our forthcoming strategies.

Unfortunately, I can’t fully detail the great doings that the Foundation does, as we are involved in ongoing litigation that we are confident will be settled outside of court for an undisclosed sum, to which you now have the chance to contribute. While we are legally obligated to inform you that the case in question involved children between the ages of three and six, caves, demanding manual work, and the illegal trade of human eyes, we assure you that that no synergy has in any way been lost.

If you decide to contribute to the Foundation for the Future of Tomorrow, you will leave a lasting legacy that will persist on into the perpetual future of perpetuity. Just look at some of the world leaders who have considered acting on the numerous mailings they’ve received:

-Billington ‘Trip’ Doughsbury, Esquire XII: Cookie and pastry tycoon

-The Great Gandhini: India’s foremost social activist/magician

-Ilya Fakenameovic: A famous Slav of some type

-Melinda Gates: Despite her husband’s protests

Similarly, you, too, can also in the same way join the ranks of these world leaders, too, by also contributing to the Foundation. Help sculpt the clay of tomorrow’s sculptures – today. For the future of tomorrow.

All donations must be made in unmarked bills.

Sincerely,

C.F. Ponzi

By CS Van Orden

The Dopple Gang’s Cutting Edge Research in Ethnolinguistics

As you by now be aware, we here at the DG are, above all else, scholars. Humor and truth are inextricably linked – fart jokes are more cerebral than you can imagine – so we try to keep the ol’ intellects well-sharpened with some advanced research. Despite the frequent and, frankly, irritating advice of our editors, we’ve decided to post below a few excerpts of our most recent publication (copyright laws be damned). Our magnum opus is titled “How come my Greek buddy Mikros doesn’t get pissed when I call him a pig?: A reconsideration of phylum-derived informal hypocoristics’ geographical-anthropological derivation”. 

From the Authors’ Foreword
“Like artistic taste and ultimate heavenly salvation, the terms of endearment a person uses are based largely upon his or her cultural and geographical background.  Nicknames tell the story of who we are, where we’re from, and how good we are at remembering people’s names. In this imminently award-winning volume, the authors discuss the social underpinnings of a particular subset of nicknames – those based on animals.” 

From Chapter I, The Inadequacy of American English Affiliative Nominals
“Although it is difficult for many domestics to conceive, the Midwestern dialect of Standard American English is not universally known and revered above heathen tongues. Strong personal ties to local languages create boundaries to the global currency of such phrases as “that foxy chick sure’s got some gams”. As later chapters will show, conventional regional application of animalistic terminology to humans may preclude or skew non-native speakers’ understanding. Especially for the Maori tribe – slow on the uptake.”

From Chapter IV, Common Slavic Colloquialisms
“Croats tend to restrict their nicknames primarily to avian references. For instance, a “barn swallow” is a woman who lives in a barn, while the term “Emperor penguin” refers to young children with cholera. Ironically, a “screech owl” is a person with a smooth and mellow voice.”

“As part of the economical national character created during years of fiscal recession, Bulgarians have only one nickname that they reuse for all interactions. An “anteater” can alternatively refer to a member of the landed aristocracy, a paunch-bellied buffoon, a dullard with a gut, or a person from the town Lovech. It can get a bit confusing”. 

From Chapter XXIV, All of Africa“We sincerely apologize for this conspicuous gap in the research, but none of us in the DG are fluent in any African languages, so this chapter’s going to be kind of short. Chris speaks a bit of conversational Igbo, through which he learned that he is a “flesh-eating fire ant”, which is apparently not a good thing.”

I hope this little peak at our earth-shattering non-comedic work has opened your narrow, little minds to the complexities of language systems and convinced you to buy our book, you starfish.

By CS Van Orden

To be honest, Hugh Grant would probably drink tea

[Yours Truly and Johnny McNulty (of DG fame) walking into the local coffee shop – The Perk-u-later – during a break from their respective highly lucrative and fulfilling careers]

Yours truly: I’d argue that the so called ‘recession’ is nothing more than a self-fulfilling prophecy.  People are so attuned to the presages of the alarmist media that they’re restricting their spending based on a model with no referent.  The classic simulacrum. People just need to wake up and get moving again.

Johnny McNulty: Well I guess it’s a good thing we’re getting coffee then!

[Mutual, sophisticated laughter expressing deep, worldly intelligence and refinement]

YT: We’re so worldly and refined.

JM: Verily. Zowee! This line is long!

YT: Too long. I sure hope that we can overhear something funny to help us pass the time…

JM: Let’s try it out.

[In front of the handsome duo, a British man – identifiable by a well-tailored suit, a miniature Union Jack, and a foppishness not native to America - is at the counter, speaking to the barrista]

British Man: I-I-I’d like a, um, a coffee, if you please. 

Barrista: What size?

BM: Let us see. Goodness!  How, I say how can one measure the height of a liquid? 

B: Tall means small.

BM: Oh, I see…My word, this is going to be more difficult than I anticipated…

YT: I swear I’ve heard that endearing awkwardness before.

JM: Why, it’s the beloved actor Hugh Grant!

YT: You’re right! Let’s listen in…

Hugh Grant: So, my good man, would you mind telling me more about your Breakfast coffee?

B: It’s light. It’s good in the morning. Hence breakfast.

HG: Hmm. Well.  I see.  Right.  And what of the Sumatra?

B: It’s darker.

HG: That sounds just splendid, but I, I…

B: [Audible sigh] Yes?

HG: I was hoping for something a bit more – how to say it? – robust?

YT: I’m frustrated by the wait, but I find his stammering humorous.

JM: Shush, friend, I want to hear the barrista’s reply, which he’s apparently waited to give until we finished with this exchange.

B: Robust.

HG: Robust, y-yes, robust.

B: A macchiato?

HG: My, that sounds positively decadent!

B: Yeah, sure. You want one?

HG: I suppose I might, I shouldn’t, but…Oh…

B: One macchiato, Erin.

HG: I’m not entirely…oh my…

B: That will be $2.82.

HG: Oh, um, ah, right.  Here. That’s it.

B: Here’s your macchiato.

HG: Oh, ah, th-thanks, yes.

YT: That actor’s inability to succinctly place a simple order was at once comical and enervating, wasn’t it, John?

JM: It was. I suggest that you consider writing your next piece on this encounter.

YT: I might, friend, I just might.  Who’s next in line?

JM: A copper-colored, British-accented robot from a classic space trilogy. He too seems to be having trouble expressing which beverage he’d prefer.

YT: Shit.

By CS Van Orden

Awful, yet inventive requests for beer overheard while tailgating

-Hey Mike, who's your favorite Disney villain?  Mine's Brewella Deville.

-Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your beer.

-Of all the 80's kids stars, the saddest case had to be Punky Brew-ster.

-Come on brody, you see I'm empty.  Don't just stand there staring at me like a beer in headlights.

-Let's make like Smurf God when he invented Smurf Eve and get our Blue Rib-on.

-Last week, I lost the TV remote, so all I've been able to watch is Animal Planet.  I swear, if I have to watch another episode of Beercat Manor...

-I've got to say, the Nullification Crisis of 1828 was severely mishandled by An-brew Jackson.

-This looming recession is really getting me nervous, Dave - I read an article in today's New York Times about how efforts to revitalize the struggling economy are likely to fail.  I think they're right on the money.  The name of the article?  Oh, it's something like, "Some Beer Economic Stimulus is Already Too Late".

-In the middle of a nice quiet dinner party they put on Rod Stewart's "Infat-brew-ation".  I mean, come on.  No, no, "In-fat-BREW-ation".  Brew.  Damnit, Mike, hand me a beer.  Amateur.

By CS Van Orden

Fruitless Debate (groan)

I wouldn’t dare be so pretentious as to offer a conclusive answer to any of man’s most fundamental questions. I’m just a man, after all – a startlingly handsome and devastatingly intelligent man, yes, but a man nonetheless. Still, I’d be remiss if I didn’t offer my thoughts on one philosophical conundrum that I’ve spent many an hour pondering: if there were anthropomorphic fruit – and that’s a very big ‘if’ – which would win in a fight?

First and foremost, we’d need to set the ground rules for the match. Combatants would square off in an extra large cut glass bowl with high walls, so that no pugilistic produce could escape, plus all carcasses could easily combine into a tasty dessert. It would be unfair to the smaller species to have to square off against larger foes – think of the pitiful fate of the kumquat subjected to the violence of winter melon. Therefore, serving sizes would compete for the title of reigning horticultural champion.

I’d immediately rule out all of the berries, because of both their size and high degree of squishability. Blueberries would be the first to go: they barely hold up to seventy degree heat, so they’d stand very little chance in the delicious melee. Straw, cran, rasp, and black would be the next to fall. Grapes would put up a good fight, banding together, but would be overwhelmed without the unifying force of their vine. Not a leader among them.

Bananas, though large and starchy, would quickly succumb to internal bruising. Citrus would similarly suffer as their little ventricles and vessels of Vitamin C-rich juice would burst and bleed out. Meanwhile, apples and other hand fruit – peaches, pears, and plums particularly – would fare relatively well, but their crisp texture would do little to protect them from their unfortunate yet fantastic potential as pie-filling. Other fruits easily recognize the culinary possibilities of their peers and would be quick to exploit it.

The more exotic fruit – the papaya, pomelo, lychee, and their cousins – would be singled out by jingoistic xenophobes and summarily eradicated, whereas the downfall of the larger varieties would be the vulnerability of individual servings. Like the famous tendon of tragic Achilles, the fleshy pulp of the melons would be easily pierced without the protective armor of its rind. 

So who do I believe would vanquish the others? None other than the pomegranate. Born of Aegean roots, the warrior has, over the centuries, held sway over countless cultures and cuisines, ultimately lending its French name to the ultimate destructive device: the grenade. With its thick skin, frightening crimson hue, and arsenal of stain-inducing seeds, the pomegranate would wreak havoc on defenseless crops of all phyla. This is, of course, but one man’s humble opinion, but should my idea for Fruit Thunderdome come to pass, you know who to back.

By CS Van Orden

Excerpts from the Portfolio of Carl Greely, the Insufficiently Enthusiastic Freelance Writer – Part II

-1999, Monster Truck Ralley

Sunday. Sunday. Sunday. The 11^th, I believe. Come on down to the Windex Streak-Free Arena for a night of metal on metal scratching and considerable body damage, the kind that no amount of compound and buffing will get out. For your enjoyment, small vehicles will be incapacitated, drained of gasoline, cleared of all passengers, and run over by considerably larger vehicles. The roster of larger vehicles scheduled to appear includes the likes of Gravesplitter, Sasquatch, and some other one. I think I saw a purple one. Does that ring any bells? Plus there’s this big dinosaur-type thing that lifts disabled cars into the air, mangles them a bit, and then lets them fall, all whilst igniting butane housed within its nostrils. It sounds kind of silly to me, but the kids seem to like it. That’s this Sunday. Sunday. Sunday.

-2005, Computer Spam 

D0 y0u want a Bigger Peniz????  If y0u’re w0rried ab0ut n0t being able t0 please y0ur w0man because 0f y0ur size, y0u might want t0 l00k up s0me statistics.  I think I read s0mewhere ab0ut the average “length” and I seem t0 remember there being a surprisingly narr0w spectrum fr0m smallest t0 largest. If y0u’re having tr0uble in the bedr00m, chances are it’s m0re a matter of intimacy than anat0my. But I c0uld be wrong, and if y0u think that’s the case, you sh0uld buy s0me of these pills.  0h, but be sure t0 check with y0ur physician bef0re y0u start any new medications.

-2003, Salon Essentials Invigorating Daily Moisturizing Shampoo with a Yerba Matte and Lilac Infusion 

Is your hair less than perfect? It might be a matter of overdrying, or possibly hard water. Whatever the root (ha ha, ‘root’) of the problem, this product is sure, or at least likely, to fix it. Not that I’m a scientist or anything, but it’s got all of these fancy ingredients on the back of the bottle. One of which must help hair somehow. In particular, the yerba matte stuff seems important – it’s this tea-type drink enjoyed in Latin America, particularly Argentina and Brazil. The plant is closely related to the holly. Anyway, it’s probably either that or the lilac that helps your hair look nice, like that of this attractive woman tossing her head. If you want to have hair like her’s, you should buy this Salon Essentials stuff, although I’m sure it’s in no way guaranteed to make you as pretty as her. It smells nice, though – strikingly similar to the perfume of my ex-wife.

by CS Van Orden

The case for Norway as an ascendant superpower, as explained to me by my paranoid, semi-educated, jingoistic friend Eric

I’m telling you, man, those damn Norsemen are going to quietly climb to the top of the globo-political heap any day now and nobody’s going to notice until it’s too late.  One day soon, you’re going to pop in for a McDonald’s breakfast and find a G.D. whale, egg, and cheese McMuffin on the menu. Damnit, Chris, whether or not you eat McDonald’s is not the issue.  What I’m saying  is that we need to be on the lookout.

Think about it. Everyone writes off this huge country because they’re quiet and orderly and it’s freakin’ cold there so no one wants to check it out. Does that remind you of anything?  That’s right, their comrades and neighbors, the Ruskis. It’s only a matter of time before Norway goes nutso like the USSR.  It’s scary stuff, man, let me tell you.

Norway is a hotbed of self-importance, -satisfaction, and -aggrandizement. Although their domestic affairs are in tight order (i.e. government-controlled automatons), Norwegians are international snobs. They scoff at other cultures’ literatures and consistently yield better hockey players per capita than any other free nation, plus they recently turned down an offer to join the EU (ungrateful rabble rabble…), which first piqued my interest in the fjord-loving heathen.  And I have a feeling they’d do the same if the U.S. ever extended a similar invitation, which would of course be an open call for us to invade.  But did you know that only a few short years ago, in 1814, Norway reneged on a legal, contractual unification with Denmark?  That’s right – they’re Indian givers, Chris. That’s the worst kind of givers, but I suppose you can’t expect much more from a race of people with Viking blood.

Plus they’re rich. Even though Norwegians use some ass-backwards currency called – get this – a ‘Norwegian krone’, they apparently have a lot of it.  Like, lots. So much, in fact, that they can afford to give everyone of their pale-assed citizens free healthcare, education, and housing, with enough left over for universal manicures and chocolate on each and every pillow at night. Their financial might is going to impinge on American power soon enough, man.  They’ve got what basically amounts to a monopoly on the world herring market, the power of which you would be very mistaken to underestimate. Think back to that Eddie Murphy movie “Trading Places” – the old dudes made their money not in gold or myrrh or whatever, but in pork bellies and frozen orange juice concentrate.  Herring is the new frozen juice concentrate.

Now don’t get me wrong, Chris – I see that look on your face and you’re getting me wrong.  I’m not saying we should nuke them, not yet. I’m no alarmist. The point is, an exploratory force of 10,000 or so wouldn’t be a bad idea, just to check things out. If nothing else, it’ll give our people a jump start on acclimating to the perpetual winter and sunless days that are bound to come when America is governed with an iron fist by our Norse overlords.

By CS Van Orden

Philip Marlowe Has Really Fallen a Long Way

Scene: Goffle Grill – Hawthorne, NJ

Time: 1:30 pm

(As I enter, the cashier, dressed in a topcoat and fedora, stands with his back to the counter, a plume of smoke billowing above his head).

Me: Ahem. Hey, how are ya?

Cashier: That depends on who wants to know, fella.

Me: …Uh, Chris?

(The cashier turns around. His face looks worn, even without the open gashes and purple bruises. A nametag on his chest reads “Phil”. A nearly extinguished cigarette defies gravity, dangling off his lower lip.)

Phil: I was lying – I’m doing the same no matter which of the world’s billion saps is doing the asking. I’m doing just great. My head splits like a bad bowler and I just got some cosmetic work done on the old chompers by a careless gorilla with a bad attitude, but other than that, it’s all roses and sunshine.

(A thin stream of blood trickles down from beneath his hat.)

Me: Holy hell. You need to see a doctor.

Phil: There ain’t no doctors round here with the prescription I need.

Me: I’m pretty sure there are. This is North Jersey. There’s probably a doctor in here right now.

Phil: Is that a threat?

Me: What? No. I’m just saying that you’re very badly hurt and probably need some stitches.

Phil: I’ll tell you what I need – the truth. And make it snappy. I’ve got a date with the Queen of Sheba and she hates when I’m late.

Me: The truth? Is that my order?

Phil: You’re quick for an ignorant lug.

Me: Hey now, that’s not…

Phil: Now don’t get all worked up over the little peeps of a well-meaning mouse like me. Save your fists for someone who gives a damn. Your order is all I need.

Me: Fine. Two dogs all the way and a black and white, to go.

Phil: (writing down the order) And where were you last night around 11?

Me: That’s none of your business.

Phil: My business is finding out everything that isn’t my business. If you’ve got a problem with that, we could enter negotiations and hammer out a deal.

Me: Is that a metaphor? Who speaks in metaphors nowadays?

Phil: Men with nothing to lose but their lives. Care to join the club? I get a discount for every new member I sign up.

Me: I can’t even tell – are you trying to fight me?

Phil: I wouldn’t dream of it, you dumb ape.

Me: OK, yeah I got that. Screw you. I want to see your manager.

Phil: I don’t think anyone wants to see my manager – he’s not quite the most attractive man, plus he’s got the temperament of a wet mongoose with a parking ticket.

Me: Just get him.

(Phil leans up against the back wall, trying to position himself in such a way that the fluorescent lighting hits his fedora and casts a shadow over his eyes. He can’t find the spot. Instead, he throws down his half-finished cigarette, stomps it out, and retires to the back. A minute later, Phil comes back out with another trenchcoated man. It could be his brother.)

Manager: The name’s Sam Spade. What the hell do you want?

By CS Van Orden

 

Holiday Gifts from ConspiracyCo: Perfect Presents for Paranoid People

“Space" Camp Special

– The all-inclusive week is chock full of specials and surprises, including a space walk (as if), all you can eat dried ice cream (gross and silly), and overwhelming confirmation that no human has ever left the atmosphere. Says one satisfied customer: “Isn’t it just so convenient? The alleged lunar landing spawned a lovely little Disney ride for the ignorant masses.” Includes complementary “I went to space….CAMP!!!!” t-shirt.

Magic Bullets (pack of 100) – Perfect for the gun-toting conspiracist in your life.  Guaranteed kill shots on any wild game driving in the back seat of a slow-moving convertible in Dallas,TX.  Especially effective when fired by a government operative patsy. And with seven hits per casing, these rounds are a steal!

Area 51 ID – For your loved one obsessed with the cover-up so thorough that all hard evidence is still classified.  Despite heavy pressure from the federal government and its covert operatives, ConspiracyCo was able to secure the very real, incredibly un-fake template for its Area 51 double secret pass cards. Armed with your very own picture ID, you can enter the secret base undetected, if you can find it. Which you can’t. Even if you could, they’d kill you.

Paul McCartney’s bones – Now you can have the ultimate proof that Paul is, in fact, dead.  Real bones from the Beatles’ first casualty. Limited run, only 206 available. All bones carry our ConspiracyCo Certificate of Authenticity, signed by Paul McCartney himself. Free copy of Sgt. Pepper’s with every purchase.

By Chris Van Orden

The Tasteless Gourmands, or Why It’s Worth Reconsidering Waitressing

Setting: Starlight Diner, 8:45 am

Characters:  Mike, a patron
Tim, his friend
Joan, a waitress

Joan:  Morning, fellas. What can I get you to drink?

Mike: I’ll have black coffee with a side of you, if you catch my drift.

Joan:  Nice. What about you, blondie?

Tim: Oh, I don’t know. Is the OJ fresh-squeezed?

Joan:  It is.

Tim: Were you the one who squeezed it?

Joan:  As a matter of fact, this morning I did lend a hand with the squeezing.

Tim:   Mmmmm. [long uncomfortable silence] I’ll definitely, definitely have that then.

Joan:  That’s just lovely. I’ll be right back with your drinks.

[Joan leaves table]

Mike: That Joan really flips my pancakes, if you catch my meaning.

Tim:  I know. I know. I just want to, like, smell her, ya know?

Mike:  No, I don’t, Tim. There are plenty of things I’d like to do, but smelling her isn’t one of th– Shut up, here she comes. Watch this, I’m going win her with the old Mike Percy humor.

[Joan returns with beverages]

Mike:  Miss me, sweet thing?

Joan: In the minute or so since I left the table? Oh, desperately.

Mike: [in aside to Tim] Got her.

Joan: [audible sigh] So what can I get you?

Mike: Besides infatuated?  Two eggs sunny sideways plus hashblacks. And can I get some three quarter-one quarter for this coffee?

 [Mike laughs uncontrollably for a  full minute. Joan waits patiently]

Joan: So…eggs then?

Mike: Unless you’re on the menu, if you get where I’m going with that one.

Joan: Ok, eggs then.

Mike: [dejectedly] Yes, please.

Tim: And I’ll have the banana French toast.

Joan: They’ll be right up.

[exit Joan]

Tim: Smooth.  Mike, what you fail to appreciate is that women don’t like jokes. It’s not in their chromosomes. You have to honestly and frankly express your interest. None of this beating around the bush nonsense.

Mike: Oh really, hotshot? Show me how it’s done then. Waitress!

 [enter Joan]

Joan: Uh-huh?

Mike: My friend Tim here would like to tell you something. Tim?

Tim: [scowls at Mike] Joan, my friend Mike is a jerk, but there is something I’d like to tell you. Even though we just met, I think we both can feel the spark between us. When I asked for my banana French toast, I really wanted to say, “Joan, I’m incredibly attracted to you, and it’s not for the bulging heap of tip change in your front pocket. I’d give up a lifetime of banana French toast – my personal favorite, mind you – if you’d be mine. Even your frumpy dress and syrup-stained apron can’t keep me away.  Hell, I don’t even care that you’re 80. I want you. No, I need you. Run away with me.” What do you say?

Joan: Yeah, my shift’s over. Lois will be taking care of you.

Mike & Tim : [together, looking at each other] Lo-is….

By CS Van Orden