If you have ever been to a Texas chili Cook-off you will be able to relate to this! See if you can read the whole thing without laughing! > Notes From An Inexperienced Chili Taster Named FRANK, who > was visiting Texas from the East Coast: > > "Recently I was honored to be selected as a judge at a > chili cook-off. The original person called in sick at the last moment, > and I happened to be standing there at the judge's table asking > directions to the beer wagon when the call came. I was assured by the > other two judges (Native Texans) that the chili wouldn't be all that spicy, > and besides, they told me I could have free beer during the tasting, > so I accepted. Here are the scorecards from the event: > > Chili # 1: Mike's Maniac Mobster Monster Chili > > JUDGE ONE: A little too heavy on tomato. Amusing kick. > JUDGE TWO: Nice, smooth tomato flavor. Very mild. > FRANK: Holy shit, what the hell is this stuff? You could > remove dried paint from your driveway. Took me two beers to put the > flames out. I hope that's the worst one. These Texans are crazy. > > Chili # 2: Arthur's Afterburner Chili > > JUDGE ONE: Smoky, with a hint of pork. Slight Jalapeno tang. > JUDGE TWO: Exciting BBQ flavor, needs more peppers to be taken > seriously. > FRANK: Keep this out of reach of children! I'm not sure > what I am supposed to taste besides pain. I had to wave off two > people who wanted to give me the Heimlich maneuver. They had to rush > in more beer when they saw the look on my face. > > Chili # 3: Fred's Famous Burn Down the Barn Chili > > JUDGE ONE: Excellent firehouse chili! Great kick. Needs more beans. > JUDGE TWO: A beanless chili, a bit salty, good use of red peppers. > FRANK: Call the EPA, I've located a uranium spill. My nose feels like > I have been snorting Drano. Everyone knows the routine by now, get > me more beer before I ignite. Barmaid pounded me on the back; now my > backbone is in the front part of my chest. I'm getting shit-faced from > all the beer. > Chili # 4: Bubba's Black Magic > > JUDGE ONE: Black bean chili with almost no spice. Disappointing. > JUDGE TWO: Hint of lime in the black beans. Good side dish for fish > or other mild foods, not much of a chili. > FRANK: I felt something scraping across my tongue, but was unable to > taste it, is it possible to burn-out taste buds? Sally, the bar maid, > was standing behind me with fresh refills; that 300 lb. bitch is > starting > to look HOT, just like this nuclear-waste I'm eating. Is chili an > aphrodisiac? > > Chili # 5: Linda's Legal Lip Remover > > JUDGE ONE: Meaty, strong chili. Cayenne peppers freshly ground, > adding considerable kick. Very impressive. > JUDGE TWO: Chili using shredded beef; could use more tomato. > Must admit the cayenne peppers make a strong statement. > FRANK: My ears are ringing, sweat is pouring off my forehead > and I can no longer focus my eyes. I farted and four people behind > me needed paramedics. The contestant seemed offended when I told her > that her chili had given me brain damage. Sally saved my tongue from > bleeding by pouring beer directly on it from a pitcher. I wonder if I'm > burning my lips off? It really pisses me off that the other judges > asked me to stop screaming. Screw those rednecks! > > Chili # 6: Vera's Very Vegetarian Variety > > JUDGE ONE: Thin yet bold vegetarian variety chili. Good balance of > spice and peppers. > JUDGE TWO: The best yet. Aggressive use of peppers, onions, and garlic. > Superb. > FRANK: My intestines are now a straight pipe filled with gaseous, > sulfuric flames. I shit myself when I farted and I'm worried it will eat > through the chair. No one seems inclined to stand behind me except that > slut Sally. She must be kinkier than I thought. Can't feel my lips anymore. > I need to wipe my ass with a snow cone! > > Chili # 7: Susan's Screaming Sensation Chili > > JUDGE ONE: A mediocre chili with too much reliance on canned peppers. > JUDGE TWO: Ho Hum, tastes as if the chef literally threw in a can of > chili peppers at the last moment. I should note that I am worried about > Judge Number 3. He appears to be in a bit of distress as he is cursing > uncontrollably. > FRANK: You could put a grenade in my mouth, pull the pin, and I > wouldn't feel a damn thing. I've lost the sight in one eye, and the > world sounds like it is made of rushing water. My shirt is covered with chili > which slid unnoticed out of my mouth. My pants are full of lava-like > shit to match my damn shirt. At least during the autopsy they'll know what > killed me. I've decided to stop breathing, it's too painful. Screw it, I'm not getting any oxygen anyway. If I need air, I'll just suck it in through > the 4 inch hole in my stomach. > > Chili # 8: Helen's Mount Saint Chili > > JUDGE ONE: A perfect ending, this is a nice blend chili, safe for all, > not too bold but spicy enough to declare its existence. > JUDGE TWO: This final entry is a good, balanced chili, neither mild nor > hot. Sorry to see that most of it was lost when Judge Number 3 passed > out, fell over and pulled the chili pot down on top of himself. Not > sure if he's going to make it. Poor Yank, wonder how he'd have reacted to a > really hot chili? > FRANK: --------------(editor's note: Judge #3 was unable to report)
Here's one that had me laughing for hours! George and Osama decided to settle the war once and for all. They sat down and decided to settle the whole dispute with one big dog fight. They agreed that they would have five years to breed the best fighting dogs in the world and whosever dog won would be entitled to dominate the world. Osama and his dog handler Mohammed found the biggest, meanest Dobermans and Rottweilers in the world, then bred them with the biggest, meanest Siberian wolves they could find. From the litters, they selected the biggest and strongest puppy and trained it day and night to fight to the death. After five years Osama and Mohammed came up with the biggest, meanest dog the world had ever seen. It's cage needed steel bars that were five inches thick and nobody could get near it. When the day came for the dog fight, George and his dog handler Boudreaux, showed up with a nine foot long Dachshund. It was the strangest looking dog anyone had ever seen. Boudreaux said it was a Cajun Dachshund. Everyone felt sorry for George and Boudreaux because they knew there was no way that this poor excuse for a dog could possibly last 10 seconds with Osama's big, mean animal. When the cages were opened up, the Dachshund slowly came out of it's cage, wagged it's tail, then waddled over towards Osama's dog. The doberman/Rottweiler/Wolf snarled and leaped out of it's cage, then charged the poor Dachshund. But when it got close enough to bite the Dachshund's neck, the Dachshund opened it's mouth and ate Osama's dog in one bite. there was nothing left at all of the snarling beast. Osama came up to George and Boudreaux shaking his head in disbelief. "We don't understand how this could have happened. We had our best people working for five years with the biggest, meanest Dobermans and Rottweilers, and the biggest, meanest Siberian wolves in the world. How did you do this?" "Da's easy", said Boudreaux, the Cajun. "We 'ad our bess plasic surgins workin' fo' five year for to make dat allimagator look like a weenie dawg."
My Turn. And, my apologies to all my Italian friends out there in the FICOsphere... Here's my SECOND favorite story ever: (This one is funnier the SECOND TIME you read it, and each time thereafter.) A bus stops and two Italian men get on. They seat themselves and engage in animated conversation. The lady sitting behind them ignores their conversation at first, but she listens in horror as one of the men says the following; "Emma come first. Den I come. Two asses, dey come together. I come again. Two asses, dey come together again. I come again and pee twice. Den I come once-a more." "You foul-mouthed swine," retorted the lady indignantly. "In this country we don't talk about our sex lives in public!" "Hey, coola down lady," said the man. "Ima just tella my friend howa ta spella Mississippi." And here is my NUMERO UNO favorite story ever: (This is best read out loud. Trust me.) Inna Italiano (sort of) One day Ima gonna Malta to bigga hotel. Inna morning I go down to eata breakfast. I tella the waitress I wanna two pissis toast. She bring me only one piss. I tell her I wanna two piss. She say goa to the toilet. I say you noa unnerstand. I wanna piss onna my plate. She say you better no piss onna you plate, you sonna ma bitch. I don´t even knowa the lady anna she call me a sonna ma bitch. Later I go to eat at the bigga restaurant. The waitress shea bring me a spoon and knife buta no fock. I tella her I wanna fock. She tella me everybody wanna fock. I tella her you noa unnerstand. I wanna fock onna the table. She say you betta nota fock onna the table, you sonna ma bitch. So I go backa to my room inna hotel anna there is no shits onna my bed. I calla the manager anna tella him I wanna shit. He tella me to goa to the toilet. I say you noa unnerstand. I wanna shit onna my bed. He say you better not shit onna you bed, you sonna ma bitch. I go to the checkout anna the man at the desk he say "Peace on you". I say piss on you too, you sonna ma bitch. I gonna back to Italia.
Another of my all time favorites, This item first appeared in Tom Blair's column in San Diego Magazine, July 1996, pg 212. HEAD OF THE CLASS: Officials at New York University say they canâ??t confirm or deny the story, though they seem to give it some credence. And so we can only hope itâ??s true. The story came to my office over the transom, and left me in something close to convulsions. â??This is an actual essay,â? it began, â??written by a college applicant to NYU in response to the question below: 3A. In order for the admissions staff to get to know you, we ask that you answer the following question: Are there any significant experiences you have had, or accomplishments you have realized, that have helped to define you as a person?â? The would-be studentâ??s answer, in part: â??I am a dynamic figure, often seen scaling walls and crushing ice. I have been known to remodel train stations on my lunch breaks, making them more efficient in the area of heat retention. I translate ethnic slurs for Cuban refugees; I write award-winning operas; I manage time efficiently. â??I woo women with my sensuous and godlike trombone playing. I am an expert in stucco, a veteran in love, and an outlaw in Peru. I play bluegrass cello; I was scouted by the Mets; I am the subject of numerous documentaries. When Iâ??m bored I build large suspension bridges in my yard. I am an abstract artist, a concrete analyst and a ruthless bookie. â??Critics worldwide swoon over my original line of corduroy evening wear. I donâ??t perspire. I am a private citizen, yet I receive fan mail. I have been caller number nine and have won weekend passes. My deft floral arrangements have earned me fam in international botany circles. Children trust me. â??I once read Paradise Lost, Moby Dick and David Copperfield in one day and still had time to refurbish an entire dining room set that evening. I know he exact location of every food item in the supermarket. The laws of physics do not apply to me. â??I balance, I weave, I dodge, I frolic, and my bills are all paid. Years ago, I discovered the meaning of life, but I forgot to write it down. I have played Hamlet; I have performed open-heart surgery; and I have spoken with Elvis. But I have not yet gone to college.â? (By the way, the story goes, the author was accepted and is now attending NYU)
