Category: Humor (Page 2 of 4)

From: Bill

Hello, Emerson…

(Can I just call you Ralph, or would you prefer R. Waldo?) You sound like a great gadget, and I’m definitely in the market for a good lightly-used micro; you’re even located walking distance from me; but I need more info. Do your owners have a photo, or any measurements? I realize that sounds a little personal, but don’t take it the wrong way…

—

Update, January 29: This person bought Emerson and reports back that it (he?) “works tremendously.” Enjoy, Bill.

Emerson is getting fan mail:

From: UserC6999

Baby, you have either to much time or your hands or have taken too many drugs.

But I did LOVE Emerson, I hope he finds love and a new, loving home.

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From: etie

Just came accross your ad in craigslist. I am not interested in Emerson although he sounds like a real fine micro and I hope he found a good home.

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From: UserC6999 (separate message)

Now, I’m starting to worry about him. What if no one buys him, will you abandon him, like an old Trojan wrapper….to the garbage…doesn’t he DESERVE BETTER?

I know some drug crazed woman who might offer him a home…..a warm and loving spot where he would become a “family” member….not just……garbage

—

Maybe my friend was right—I should have listed it under “pets.”

Cardhouse ran my all-time favorite GIF again this holiday season:

wertheimerdavid: So I just switched my paper from Times New Roman (Windows font) to Times (Mac font)

wertheimerdavid: And it jumped from 4 pages and 7 lines to 5 pages and 2 lines

wertheimerdavid: And now my paper is done!

jeffwertheimer: a lot of the great works in literature finished up that way

[Setting: in bed, TV on, doing nothing.]

She: “My head hurts.”

Me: “Did you take some Tylenol?”

She: “No.” [pouts] “I hope I don’t have a tumor.”

Me: “It’s not a tumor.”

She: [affecting Austrian accent] “It’s not a tumor!”

Me: “Oh my.”

She: [plaintively] “You didn’t say it right!”

Me: “You just complained so I would say that?”

She: [giggles]

Me: [cocks an eyebrow]

She: “Say it! Say it!”

Here.

New York’s Hunk-O-Mania on West 52nd Street is not the same place as Hunkmania on West 14th Street.

Walking the dog on a beautiful spring afternoon not long ago, I crossed the street into Union Square Park as a pretty woman strolled past me toward the subway. About 20 feet beyond us, sitting on the walls along the park stairs, were half a dozen young men, around 20 years old, holding sheets of white paper.

As the woman passed between me and the stairs, the boys cheered good-naturedly and held up signs: 9! 8.5! 9.5! The women continued to the south with a look on her face—somewhere between amusement and disgust—as I approached the stairs.

Of course, I couldn’t keep my mouth shut.

“Is that for me?”

The boys laughed and made faces. “No, man, that was for your dog!” one of them said, petting the pup as we walked by.

Charley did his thing in Union Square (tip for locals: don’t sit on the lip surrounding the perimeter of the interior grass. Just don’t) and we headed for home. The boys were still there, looking for someone worth ranking.

“Hey!” I called out as I got close. “Where’s the love?”

Among the laughter, one of them pulled out a sign. “Yo, this is for your dog,” he said, waving the sign at Charley, who trotted by happily. “He gets an 8.5.”

Not bad, but I think he deserved at least a 9.

Scene: Father and son, age 10, playing golf. The father is increasingly frustrated with his game; the son is running around and having fun.

Father hits another bad shot, rolling his ball 45 degrees to the left.

FATHER: Nice. Real nice.

SON: Dad, why do you keep complimenting yourself when you hit?

Later that same hole, after the father has given into the golf gods and picked up his ball, the son decides to try a Happy Gilmore-style running swing.

FATHER: Come on, play the hole like you know how.

SON (muttering): At least I finish the hole.

Me, I parred the hole.

Amy is in Los Angeles working on a television commercial. During the shoot last week, she was approached on the set by a teamster, who took note of her engagement ring.

“It’s beautiful,” he said admiringly.

“Thank you,” she replied. “My fiance picked it out.”

“He must really mean it!”

The buses on Madison Avenue at 5 o’clock on Friday afternoon were all running Limited service, which meant none of them were stopping at 61st Street, where I was waiting for one.

When a taxicab stopped in front of me, I decided to take it. I was not the only one: a man approached from behind me to take the cab for himself and a friend. In my best New Yorker mode, I shot him a look, and said, “Excuse me, but I was here first.”

“We’re just going up Madison,” he said, and inspiration struck: “Share a cab?” I said. The three climbed in and rode to 79th Street, where I got out. The meter read $3.50; my traveling companion said, “A dollar from you is fine.”

Instead, I gave a $5 bill to the driver, instructing him to use the difference on the remaining fare. “Have a good trip uptown,” I said to the man in the back seat.

“Thanks,” he said, then added with a grin: “Next time, it’s on me.”