Devil-of-a-Digit

Posts on Funny Bone Laugh Lines can be compared to a Charlie Brown Christmas tree that has barely reached puberty status in the woods after being brought to its knees by the axe during the Holidays, and drug into the living room where it is forced to stand imitating that of a small child when guests have arrived and nervously sing off-key.  However, once the decorations go up, and the lights on the branches begin to flicker, it becomes a social benchmark where people stand in front of its makeover beauty and the POOF! of the flashbulb captures them relishing the Jos. A Banks-look for trees as a family—for a price, of course…

Extra costs have been known to set themselves up anywhere on the demand for payment like a kiddie lemonade stand, and without taking part in the revenue earning, lets its mooching/pick-pocketing characteristics trickle along the receipt like dog pee down a fire hydrant.  Furthermore, fees are the numbers who come to the platform of business transactions frontin’ like the Wizard of Oz’s Lollipop Kids as they sway, sing and woo with the exception of bearing a handful of Skittles laced with expenditures and in a seductive voice say, “Taste the Rainbow.”  Carl Sandberg once wrote that fog comes in on little cat’s feet, but really I think that fees could act as a stand-in during a rehearsal of that reenactment.  Unfortunately, consumers would boo these figures like Siberians to the performance of Amy Winehouse.  If “Tax” is the devil of numbers, then “Fees” are the spawn of Satan that hover around the fresh meat of paper currency just taken out of the Federal Reserve’s easy bake oven; our dollars melt in their mouths even before trippin’ out of our hands.  Answering the call to duty, they accept the prerequisite of being willing to travel from bill to bill like a gypsy soul with mannerisms comparable to the young barefoot bandit and leaving a bad taste in the mouth of the payer’s wallet.  Giving it a questionable glance, fees have the responsive demeanor of “I’m so glamorous I piss glitter”; followed by a finger-snapping “Z” formation which induces the high-definition effect on its introduction.  Occasionally modest like the silent “e” at the end of a word, and at times can be hidden like the shadow of Punxsutawney Phil during Groundhog’s Day; yet in your face without notice like a ninja.  Tagged as a sophisticated, upper class group of numerals wearing a Hugh Heffner-type smoker’s jacket, and sitting with duck-billed like lips like Donald Trump, the “surcharge” gives the bill a more politically correct, social elite persona with a Phd. education.   Notoriously, “additional services charges” dress themselves in black suits, drive black SUVs and “pants” the pocketbook subtly as if to say, “It’s all done out of love.” A quote taken from a closed-door meeting with ABC executives as they cut an up-and-coming poorly-written pilot from the lineup.

Always disputed, never appreciated, fees take on a thankless job of putting millions of George’s one dollar rears in the V.I.P. section know as the “assets” column on the balance sheet where accountants pad the books with these numbers giving the seats an ergonomic, posturepedic , telephone book-high-chair-effect.

The Language of Lure

I thought I’d keep a streak going when it pertains to visiting this blog.  Raising the ante to this deal, I thought that I would not only drop in more frequently, but also come bearing gifts—a lil’ something called a post.  How does it feel, Funny Bone Laugh Lines, to chow down on crow meat? If I do recall, you were the one imitating LeBron James as you counted the number of weeks I would be considered a no show.  “Not two…Not three…Not four…Not five…Not six…Not seven…”  No worries.  I once said that the Statue of Liberty was never going to wear pajama pants with the label “Made in China” on them, but she decided to class it up a bit and put something imported on those coppertone hips.  With that being said, it’s nice to see that this blog set an extra place at the table for me along with light compliments of the candle and a well-balanced meal of “See I told you so.”  Do I smell flirtation served on a hot plate?

  Pick-up lines are more identifiable in social situations than a “Seinfeld moment.” As a matter of fact, in the world of talk where Oral B is the “Norm” of Cheers, pick-up lines are Hallmark’s form of amateur night. These one-liners are the voice’s student-driver marked vehicles as they auto-parallel park in dysfunctional manner into a woman’s ear.  Written in the owner’s manual of lines to which assembly of wit is required, it is recommended that these phrases be used once and then destroyed—not to be confused with Miami Heat’s Big Three.  In fact, if found out that these wooing words from the Shakespearian short-bus tour had been verbally copied and pasted, the relationship would destined to be shorter than a pair of Daisy Dukes.   

If verbage could prostitute themselves, these words—property of the playah commonly referred to as the Y2K compliant Romeo—would be the hos pimped-out on the street corner better known as the bar scene.  With the sincerity of Mother Nature’s love taps during her “time of the month” and legit as the leather feel on the seats of a classic base model Ford Taurus, pick-up lines play on the heart strings like Jimi Hendrix to an acoustic guitar.  Pick-up lines—one-liners in which words themselves puke a little in their mouths due to them being lamer than a Christopher Reeves replica bobble-head doll and original as a Hollywood remake from Tristar Pictures.  The Spike Lee of the English language (a professional evil twin of “Gotcha Journalism”) as they heckle during the orientation of on-site dating, and causes the potential for “Bow Chicka Wow Wow” to fail like the glitch-filled computers at United Airlines and become clipped out like a coupon.

Basically, if pick-up lines are attempted, prepare to have the sexcapade cruise out in a hearse because these words will strikeout (worse than Lady Gaga’s attempts to be normal) during the conversation.  Also, plan on having “A Date” along with “First Base” viewed open casket and the smooth operatah act as pallbearer once these lines strut their stuff like an out-of-work-porn-starred-cupid with a dim-witted arrow.   

Flower Power

I haven’t paid a visit to Funny Bone Laugh Lines in a few weeks, yet the ol’ Internet Explorer could still navigate the information highway and decipher the exact path en route to this blog—with a little help from a scent called “lack of maintenance” that permeated from its front yard of course.   The ever-so-present tall grass occasionally reaping the benefits of an interest bearing deposit in the form of dog pooh that randomly fertilized parts of the lawn by giving it a greener/richer look, debris and the dreaded Devil in disguise called the Dandelion were all well-known landmarks to helping in the search of this site seeping with sarcasm—but now to topic “A” on the discussion list.

The Dandelion is the acne breakout to what was better known as a well manicured lawn.  An offspring of the flower turned white trash.  They can blindside grassy plain properties and come dressed as an entrée consisting of a five-fingered-fist punch with indigestion; simply defined as nature’s way of kicking the yard in the ovaries.  It’s the high school dropout of flowers with a face like Sally Jesse Raphael, tacky as customers portrayed on peopleofwalmart.com and obnoxiousness similar to Ed Schultz on the airwaves.   A bad rash to the lawn—its acquisition of an STD—or compatible to the ABC network picking up a bad pilot episode and succumbing to its failure.  They’re a flowered version of an annoying set of in-laws that get stormed-in during a holiday get together.  Has the annoying equivalence to the voice of PBS’ character Lamb Chops, and keeps coming back after cuts like the “Song That Never Ends” sung by Sherri Lewis’ hand puppets.  The quantity of this flower outside house fronts is representation to the number of times Harold Camp will predict the world is going to end with his miscalculations.  Nicknamed Tiger Wood’s revealed many mistresses due to the way Dandelions pop-up on a homeowner’s grassy yard like a cheap University of Phoenix internet ad.  Weeds of the yard dressed in summer-casual clothing that was attained only through its bargaining at garage sales and shop-‘til-you-drop thrift store purchases.  Elderly plants of this genre turning the lawn into a Del Boca Vista senior retirement living premises, with their symmetrical fuzzy heads, imitating a hairdo comparable to that of the famous Prairie Public Television painter Bob Ross, give the front yard the “growth spurt with a walker and social security check” look.  And when deceased, these ghetto hand-picked flowers symbolize the skeleton in the closet of the yard—kind of like Newt Gingrich’s life set to lawn.

Spring time gets tangled by the fraudulent fellow of the flower each year, and each year this Dandelion returns to the lawn and defiles it like a dog returning to its vomit and chows down like a Thanksgiving meal.   I guess you could say in a way that this plant is like the Cadbury bar when it told Naomi Campbell to move over ‘cause there’s a new diva in town.  Since Kobe was not informed of the Lakers’ hiring of a new head coach, did anybody get his opinion if this was alright?

When the Tables Are Turned

People tend to waist more time doing nothing in public places.  In fact, it has ranked right up there with being as American as apple pie and baseball.  Along the lines of this ideology comes a statement more stale than the candidates of the Republican Party running for President which is: “I have more time than money.” I believe that line was once coined by the sweet baby Jesus when he was told by the photographers at a JC Penney photo shoot to wait patiently in the manger with the “fam” because the Three Wise Men were caught in traffic and running late on their way to partake in the family photo called the Nativity Scene. It’s amazing how the minutes of the clock get drained like a snotty running nose to an infant, along with the settings to which this action takes place.

Just before the summer break, politicians in Washington held sessions forfeiting restful night sleep, debating intensely and put to two-thirds of a majority vote the fact that the park bench of the 21^st century is the table of a restaurant.  These stomping grounds are convenient because they are located indoors out of the cold or in a cool atmosphere away from the sun’s pelting heat rays, and when you take advantage of its comfortable setting for long periods of time you get served as if your last name was Bin-Laden.  This becomes true once the God-given, made-from-scratch fanny pack known as the rear-end has been situated in the booth and fails to leave—much like the annoying cat hair that straps itself on furniture and clothes that even the Great Houdini can’t make disappear.  Have you ever walked into an eatery where a sign was placed in the entry way that stated, “Please Wait to Be Seated”?  This is the table’s screening process which delegates the task of interviewing guests to the hostess giving her the full authority to funnel customers who use the dinner table location as its return address on mailed envelopes.   Perhaps you know somebody of this class; that whenever they walk into the restaurant, the reserved seating area throws the tablecloth over itself with speech more graphic than a Sony Playstation 3 in order to disguise it from clingy chow citizens as if it’s a scared child pulling the sheets over themselves after seeing scary mirage objects.  When the table says a prayer and does the sign of the cross in hopes that the length of time you eat your meal would not be equivalent to the amount of timed protection offered by Colgate Total in a day, you have a problem.  When the gap in time between visits lasts as long as one of Oprah’s diets, you have a problem.  If the table bets with you a point spread on sporting events so much that it’s nicknamed “Pete Rose” and the stakes are annulled visitation rights, you have a problem.  When converting the table into an office complex because you expense its visit often to the IRS, and when ordering, the table responds by saying to the server, “From the desk of…” you have a problem.  If the amount of time you spend at the table supersedes the amount you spend at the restaurant, therefore, causing its posture to hunch over and lean more than a political view of Rush Limbaugh, you have a problem.  At night when the chairs are set upside down on the restaurant’s table top, and the upward pointing legs serve as an “I” vote in order to have your presence blacklisted, you have a problem.   Yes, it is a free country.  And yes the signers of the Declaration of Independence had you in mind when they penned their “John Hancock” on the document making it possible for you to freely plant your booty at the restaurant table for an extensive period of time as if it’s a parked R.V. at a campground, but when the booth compares your butt imprint to that of a movie star’s hand print on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, you then need professional help.

So tonight when you say “Grace,” say a little prayer for the table to which you sit. Ask that its guest would be quick and few like the number of episodes it took for ABC to realize that “The Middle” was a ticking time bomb to its network. 

'Little People, Big World'

During the Easter egg scavenger hunt last week, Funny Bone Laugh Lines found a few “deposits” left by the Easter bunny as it dispersed traditional gifts.  (Lab tests have shown that the “beanie babies” originated from a male 2009 model of the wannabe rodent family)  A stiff budget must have paralyzed the spending habits of the rabbit this year because of the clipped out coupon surplus that were left enabling this blog to be thrifty by saving 99 cents on Glade air fresheners.  Apparently, when the icon of the spring holiday drops a hint that writing has a scent of amateurism to it and leaves incentives to purchase sweet smelling refurbishments, better consider following through on its advice. 

This week’s discussion puts the spotlight on members of the sentence that come with strings attached, coined the nickname “stipulations” and could easily audition as a roadblock in reading if given the opportunity.  Let’s give a nice warm welcome that’s been smooched-to-death by sarcasm to the man of the hour in this blogged roast named Small Print. 

Small print, you’re the creeper in the world of literacy driving an old conversion van that hides out behind the bushes of words and stalks what has already been written.  A thug that positions itself at the end of a dark alley known as the sentence, and classified by readers as the Debbi Downer of phrases.  Your speech is muffled by legal slurs and often shrugged off like a professional team from the state of Minnesota.  It reclines in the prostrate position like an old man on the bottom bunk of passages, yet frisky as a poodle in heat with its impersonation of the “gotcha journalism” that McCain once accused a news anchor of having during an interview with Vice President hopeful Sarah Palin.  In the world of written English, it’s the “tool”, douche bag and deadbeat boyfriend to the drop-dead gorgeous woman of words.  (Funny Bone Laugh Lines begins to play a slideshow of Frank Gifford pictures)  The parasite in paragraph form at the bottom of a two-for-one discount that sucks the blood out of written enthusiasm—latter often mistaken for the watching of Katie Couric presenting the news at the end of the day.  A second-hand serenade of statements that has a monotone voice, no personality, the prude put to vocabulary—a grammatical look-alike to Speaker of the House John Boehner without the eye raindrops.  Fine print is like a sting operation set to words—not to be confused with the Elliot Spitzer biography.  With looks blander than Denny’s eggs-over-easy and dressed in clothed language more boring than the Royal Wedding, small print makes Michelle Obama think she is seeing her reflection in a mirror when reading it.  Due to the brushing-off effect readers may offer it, fine print has frequently been dubbed the “comb over” of words with sentence follicles that barely cling at the end of scripting.  Not everybody has time on their hands like the eliminated San Antonio Spurs from the NBA playoffs to read legal jargon as if it’s Johnny Cochran reincarnated into writing.  The antagonist of words that sits in the background with arms crossed killing the moment like an infant gracing the public with “Terrible Two’s” stage of life. Disguised as Dr. Jekel whose philosophy throughout the end of an advertisement is “Livin’ the dream” with “giving the bird” as its peace sign.  Small print is known as the Emmanuel Lewis of writing due to height the size of Mary-Kate Olsen’s meal portions in grammatical society.  It carries a persona that spits on you at the end of an ad as if to say, “Over my dead sentence-structured booty are you getting a good deal!”  

This blog signed a deal with the above-described devil and let small print pull down the curtains by saying, “Read this post of lesser or equal value and lose your sanity .  Not valid at any blog outside of Funny Bone Laugh Lines.  Only good through the moment you finish this statement.”

S.O.S. Ingrained in the Membrane

I’ve begun to make it a habit to do the ol’ pop-in at least once a week to this blog as a sort of courtesy visit in order to see that the heat is adjusted, the mail picked up and the pipes haven’t burst.  You know, that artificial presence that’s like the ghost-writer of habitation.  It says to the neighborhood “I’m not here right at this moment but feel free to make an appointment with the receptionist up front.”  Regularly stopping by, though, has given some complexion back to Funny Bone Laugh Lines because for a while it looked a little sickly and bore a slight resemblance to Charlie Sheen in combination with a flaring temper like that of the race car driver Danica Patrick.  For a period of time, it was even caught shuffling through the newspaper “want ads” looking for work and posing like the U.S. government as it threatened to shut down and put up the “Page No Longer Available” (which is really the “We’re Closed” sign of the ‘net).  My comeback to this little publicity stunt was to have it sandbag around its perimeters to ward off any floodwaters if Fargo North Dakota’s Red River would have reached forty plus feet during its flood fight.   

Look around society today and you’ll be more rattled than the dance pad of “Dancing with the Stars” after Kristie Alley takes the dance floor as you see all the individuals that can’t think on their own.  In fact, their mug shot is often mistaken for that of the famous baby face that is synonymous with the sold Gerber infant dietary product line.  The makers of this goo goo gah gah gourmet base their sales on the motto:  “Spoon fed for life or your money back—that’s the Gerber Baby challenge.”  No worries.  Just keep sucking the life out of that expense-paid-for pacifier (action that can be equivalent to watching the top golfers play on this year’s Masters Tournament) and linger aimlessly around like the annoying “Seven Year Itch.”  I don’t mind carrying you on my shoulders like a poorly put together back-to-school clearance-shelved back pack as you sit and cry like Tom Brady during his interview of being drafted into the NFL.  It’s no skin off my nose.  And that’s saying a lot since I can legally lease its space and collect rent from tenants who choose to make its quarters their home.

Somebody once coined the phrase:  “Think Big.  Think for yourself!”  Obviously, after people watching for a short period of time comparable to when American Idol was on top in the ratings after the absence of Simon, there’s a select few who’ve decided to give up that 11^th commandment for a lifetime of Lent.  Now instead, holding of these people’s hand is the poor ghetto man’s power of attorney –“the DH of the helpless “in the bottom of the ninth with two outs and bases loaded.  They’re the Great and Wonderful Oz behind the curtain of quadriplegic  gray matter and we’re the puppeteers behind the scenes pulling the strings.  Having to pack a sack lunch due to the long wait behind you in line is shrugged off easily.  It’s become more of a dinner theatre-like atmosphere once the hands of time begin to do shadow puppets after the sun has set because I’ve completely wasted a 24 hour block in my schedule due to your mind’s-eye stigmatism and your brain nodding off to sleep like a recent FAA air traffic controller. Even automated phone systems lose their patience and put you on their “Do Not Call” list because your competence was short changed as the Care Bears when they were up against the Teletubbies for the “Most Believable Fantasy Character in a Dramatic Feature” award.  I’d advise you to join a self-help group, however, that would be like the proverbial blind leading the blind, and the seeing impaired would rather not have mashed potato minds pollute their walk of life. 

In conclusion, I would like to enforce a team of security workers around this blog in case of a possible egging.  I feel that the points previously mentioned created tempers to flare like a bad ‘roid, but the truth hurts—like watching a rerun episode of “The Middle.”  That alone would make you rethink your motives and live a “Do it yourself” lifestyle as you quickly flipped the channel.

Grand March

I surfed by this blog a couple of days ago and heard a devil-of-a-noise coming from its content; much like a “clanking” or “chink, chink, chinking.”  At first, I thought maybe Funny Bone Laugh Lines was replaying the NCAA Men’s Basketball Championship game between Butler and UCONN to which each of their shots bricked off the rim causing the round cylinder to have intense episodes of hiccups that could only be cured if the players held their talent and instead ink another tattoo on their arm.  Apparently, this had not been the case because in so doing it would have required the use of TiVo which this site does not obtain the assistance of such a technical device.  Its monthly budget does not allow for this luxury.  Perhaps, I should have taken a garbage dumpster, tipped it upside down and trashed this place with thousands of ads—because all those endorsements and ALL that commercialized clutter would have paid for itself-obviously.  With that being said, turn your online windshield wipers to “high” because the sarcasm is coming down in sheets and according to MY radar more is on the way…  And the noise first described in the introduction was that of this blog typing up its own obituary due to the lack of material presented. 

With Prom season high on the batting order, I thought it was both fitting and proper that I title this reading as I did.  My intention is to compose this made-from-scratch passage, follow the recipe precisely, add a few secret spices that Julia Child left in the pantry and have it flare a punch that exclaims “Down goes Frazier!  Down goes Frazier!” to the following class of society’s birth defect:

People who make a scene each time they enter a room need to be redirected to Priceline.com and purchase a one-way ticket to this section in cyberspace where I can proceed to mop the floors of Funny Bone Laugh Lines with their personas and nickname them Mr. Clean.  Unaware that we’re living in a real-life day time drama, the red carpet even rolled its eyes at this person and delegated the job of cushioning the walkway to another.  I’ve decided that a side gig could profit my bank account so I have accepted the position of being the floor mat to these folks; my booty was dedicated at birth to be a collage of footsteps by the so-called “Queen Latifahs and grown versions of the “Sweet Baby Jesus’” of the world.  With this action in mind, please forgive my unwillingness to rise respectfully to your LIVE appearance; contrary to one’s thinking, it is not due to the fact that my legs were not familiarized beforehand with your “Title” in life—ultimately leading my limbs to be friendly as a DMV employee.  If you’d like, I can multi-task and play “Look At What the Cat Drug In” as the soundtrack in Dolby Surround sound to prime the moment of gracing us with your presence.  Unfortunately,it is with sorrowful remorse that I inform of the paparazzi ‘s absence.  To my knowledge, they were ecstatic on arriving; however, the flash bulbs to their cameras are currently on a collective bargaining agreement much like the NFL’s.  Your fan base fell apart like a Southwest Airline plane as wedding-like invitations which had been sent requesting to gravel at your feet were returned with a big VETO across them looking like the Final Four pics belonging to Obama.  Apparently, being in your presence is like attaining a bad cold that takes a tour—like Brittney Spears—through the body for weeks on end.  You think that your demeanor is as refreshing as a bottle of White Diamonds perfume from Elizabeth Taylor, but your scent couldn’t even be accepted as a charity gift to a person of poverty level.  Subtly you come to open check-out lanes and sing “Innie, Minnie, Miny, Moe” calling attention to yourself and the many purchases your about to walk with out of the store.  Thanks for stimulating the economy.  Your ONE item investment can finally bring the business out of the red.  Hopefully it didn’t break your budget too badly.  Doormen were wise to strike and choose to be unemployed as opposed to making your entrances more convenient.  I’m sure that they long for the moments to swing open the doors of your constantly late arrivals.  As a matter of fact, I believe that the only entries that open for you are the handicapped accessible, and even those don’t bow voluntarily without a push of a button. 

I could go on and on, but my hand is cramped from the cranking of this subject over the rotisserie, but there’s enough meat on this bone exhibited in the blog to slice, reserve for leftovers and possibly make a sandwich or two from it. In conclusion, I make reference to Julia Child one last time as I say, “Bon Appetit!”