Category Archives: Comedy Article

Stories for Naughty Children

Guten Tag! My name is Professor Munchhausen of Duisburg University.

As you are aware, children – mewling, sticky-faced, rude little monsters they are- are the single greatest threat facing our country today. If we are to turn them into productive members of society, we must first cleanse them from their bad behavior. Laziness, excessive sweet eating and the desire for affection must all be purged before they reach maturity or else all is lost.

Fortunately, I have my doctorate in Children and I believe I can help. Through the liberal application of cautionary, fear-inducing bedtime stories, I can excise the ill habits of naughty children and turn them into moral human beings.

All of my tales have been laboratory tested and I am happy to report that each and every one made my experimental group submissively urinate by the close of the story.

Try this one out on your son or daughter today! I call it:

“The Tale of Little Glop-Face: The Boy Who Wouldn’t Pick Up His Clothes.”

Sit your heinders down! Or the Wolves That Eat Children who Won't Listen to Story Time will get you!

Little Friedrich was a naughty boy. Everyone in Duisburg thought so. At suppertime he would never eat his sup, and at recess he would sell weaponized smallpox to all the class.

At bedtime he would never go to bed. And at church, he once stole a minor saint’s lunch money – Saint Osgood, Patron Saint of Saturated Solutions.

This made God very cross.

But the worst thing, the absolute awfulest worst thing he ever did…

Was to make his poor Mother pick up his dirty clothes.

“Friedrich! Friedrich!” Mother cried one day, into her weather-beaten hausfrau apron. “If you don’t pick up your clothes I will die and go to my grave!

“Or God will send, to visit you in your sleep; Crusty, the Gnome Who Gives Bad Children Conjunctivitis.

“One of the two.”

Little Friedrich laughed at poor Mother, tossing more clothes on the heap as he did another line of blow.

This made Mother cry and cry and wring her hands into her filthy apron.

And God shook his fist and promised to get that little snot.

So at night, as Friedrich lay in bed, he heard some uncouth singing coming from down the hall.

He screamed and screamed for mother, who didn’t hear; so exhausted was she from picking up his dirty clothes, and pruning the family’s sausage tree.

Crusty kicked in Friedrich’s door with a muddy boot.

And stuck his stumpy finger in his swollen eye.

Friedrich screamed.

Crusty laughed.

And Saint Osgood laughed even more.

The next day Friedrich awoke, eyes frosted over like they were the Ugliest Cupcakes From the Royal Bakery of Yuck.

From then on Friedrich was known as “Little Glop Face.” And during the next Oktoberfest, he was run out of town- as is the traditional Oktoberfest custom- to go live with the other Pinkeyes in the Pinkeye Colony far, far away.

The end.

Advertisements’s Worst Christmas Gifts

Are you the kind of person who often ponders the immortal question, “WHY ISN’T ANYONE READING MY T-SHIRT!?” Do you reek of filthy bedsheets and household garbage that should have been cleared from the foot of your computer desk months ago? Can you name more actors that played Dr. Who than you can personal friends? If so, is the perfect destination for you and your unruly brood who have no doubt traded sex favors for Magic: The Gathering cards. Bad news: the Black Lotus might have been banned from tournament play, but those emotional scars will last forever.

Through copious amounts of research that basically boiled down to stealing a catalog from someone else’s mailbox, Garbage Duck has taken the liberty of highlighting the worst Christmas gifts from a site that dubiously claims to be for “smart” people. And we’ve posted it as close to the holiday as possible to prevent any more poor souls out there from having their remaining scraps of dignity ripped away through the simple act of opening a cardboard box. Enjoy!

Worst Use of Words on Fabric: The <sarcasm> T-Shirt

There’s no telling how these things are still being made. Did someone recently recover a sunken mall shipment vessel that originally launched from China in 1997? Whatever the case, this brand of geek apparel isn’t unique in its awfulness, but awful in its ubiquity. Who hasn’t dealt with someone whose shirt proudly snarked something their crippling social anxiety and self-loathing would never let them say? Bonus points if this happened before 2002.

Price: $18.99          Loss of Dignity: -10

Worst Use of Bacon: Every Goddamned Thing with Bacon in It

Unfunny people, did you get the memo? Bacon is the new thing you’re supposed to run into the fucking ground! Pirates, robots, and zombies had a good run, and for a while it looked like pimps were going to be the next big thing, but no; this specific pork product is beloved by everyone who lists The Big Bang Theory as one of their favorite shows. Clearly, the possession of bacon-themed items tells the world “I am a down-to-earth individual with a relaxed attitude about a delicious-yet-deadly food item. And if you use my bathroom your  hands are going to smell like a godforsaken Denny’s all day and stray dogs might attack you.”

Price(s): Various/Too Much          Loss of Dignity: -25

Worst Food-to-Mouth Delivery System: Marshmallow Guns (Various)

Be honest: how many marshmallows do you eat in a year? If you answered “more than one,” then you’ve just committed the socially-permissible act of lying to a blog. This is because marshmallows are a terrible turn-of-the century foodgoo that only serve a useful purpose as a binding agent in candy sandwiches. So why in the name of all things holy would you pay up to and including $34.99 for a device which fires this roofing industry byproduct into your mouth through what can only be described as the world’s most action-packed choking hazard? Even if you’re self-medicating with food, there has to be a better, more efficient way of doing so that doesn’t involve eating marshmallows. Garbage Duck recommends a gravy funnel or perhaps a cake tarp if Christmas ends up giving you a case of the Mondays.

Price: $19.99 – $34.99          Loss of Dignity: – 50

Worst Use of a Valuable Metal: Starfleet Academy Spork Combo

Nothing says “I will soon murder you in my personally built sex dungeon” than handing your guests Star Trek-branded sporks with their delicious pudding cup dinners. I once lived near a used bookstore that contained an entire bookcase shelved with hundreds of Star Trek novels undoubtedly obtained from the estate sales of dead shut-ins; maybe one of these tomes explains just how this KFC-popularized abomination became the standard eating utensil in Gene Roddenberry’s humanist future utopia? Finding out would cost upwards of 25 cents, which would be better spent paying the sales tax on something far more interesting, like shoe polish.

Price: $22.99 per Spork          Loss of Dignity: -100

Worst Repurposing of a Snuggie: The Slanket

I’m not quite sure how the Slanket differs from the Snuggie, except the former apparently comes with its own Suicide Girl? So you can enjoy your backwards robe together as you pretend to enjoy The Corpse Bride and later try to score some heroin or something. For some ThinkGeek customers, the slanket will be a comfortable winter retreat soon to be smeared with dust produced from the Frito-Lay company; for others, it will be the most form-fitting garment available on the market. In either case, they’re still paying three times the street value of a fucking Snuggie.

Price: $29.99          Loss of Dignity: – how do i make the infinity symbol on this

Skeleton Car Wash


There was a new car wash in town. A skeleton car wash. It was called “Skeleton Car Wash” because it was a car wash run completely by skeletons.

It was Saturday. I was in the car with my stepmother, and she asked me, quite bluntly, “Would you like to go to the Skeleton Car Wash?” I asked, “You mean, the one run completely by skeletons?” She nodded. The other Skeleton Car Wash was run by the Skeleton family who were not skeletons.

We pulled up to the Skeleton Car Wash, and a skeleton in coveralls walked over to the driver’s-side window. “What’ll it be, ma’am?” My stepmother asked for a normal wash; the skeleton walked over to my window, rapped on it, and stuck the ten dollar bill my stepmother had given him right in his eye socket. It popped out of his mouth and I guess it would be scarier if we hadn’t just shopped at the Skeleton Supermarket (they have a skeleton in the back that works in the deli).

My stepmother drove into the car wash, and the lights went out. It was just like a regular car wash, except you were supposed to tune your radio to a specific frequency and they would play spooky sound effects. Except I guess the skeletons weren’t paying attention because there was just a bunch of jungle sounds.

We pulled out of the Skeleton Car Wash onto the main road. We both felt empty, somehow. Suddenly, my stepmother looked at me and asked, “Wasn’t that car wash supposed to be $8.50?” At that point I realized that my stepmother was a ghost all along, and we didn’t get our change back and things were scary.


Common Sense About Taxes with Chuck Guntly

Hey, all. Chuck Guntly, here. Wish I could be writing this on happier terms, but Obummer’s depression has certainly taken its toll on the Guntly clan. Ever since those GOVERNMENT FATCATS took away my driver’s license for plowing through a VFW during one of my “dizzy spells,” I’ve had to walk three whole blocks just for a simple trip to the liquor store! And walking more than 20 blocks a day… boy, are my dogs barking! See, this is why we need to dismantle oppressive government agencies like the DMV — who are they to decide that a veteran’s time on this earth hasn’t expired? I’m sure that 84 year-old tail gunner is looking down from heaven in gratitude for releasing him from this Orwellian nightmare known as life in America.

It shouldn’t surprise any of you that, as a firm believer in common sense, I’m a proud member of the Tea Party movement. In fact, you might have seen me on CNN; I made sure my anti-Obungle rally sign had the most swastikas (33 at last count). Though I’ve always been proudly seated at the tea table of Rationalism… even back when I was a little spud, Grandpa Guntly would speak proudly of those golden years before a cripple Demoncrat made it so part of my hard-earned disability check had to pay for some preteen’s crack baby… that I don’t even know! He also did this trick where he removed his glass eye and whipped it as hard as he could at my mom’s ass… sigh… Miss you, Gampy.


Oboner's kinda like the guy you invite over who steals all the beer from your kiddie pool and then has sex with your wife while you're busy trying to pull car parts out of the sewer. I'll never forgive you, Rusty.


Anyhow, it looks like Kommisar Obumble and his Captial Hill Cronies have cooked up a new scheme to pay off the national debt– and no, it’s not eliminating that overfunded hydra known as public television. No, Obama’s gonna squeeze our cheeks the hardest: we regular Joes in the middle class. As part of the lower ceiling of this group (I made $13,000 last year, not counting the water cooler reservoir full of pennies I found in that ditch), I’m not looking forward to finally becoming rich, only to see hundreds, if not thousands, thrown into a roaring fire of programs like wheelchair ramp funding and asbestos removal from insane asylums. And in case you were wondering, I’ve decided I’ll start being rich when I’m in my 60s… that should give me plenty of time to work on my fly fishing until mother nature decides it’s time to wash this old salmon downstream. I’ve already arranged for my nephew, Steven, to fish my corpse out of the river when this happens. Thanks a million, Steve-o, and don’t forget to bury me in my Terry Bradshaw jersey.

But who knows if my dream of dying face-down in a pool of murky water will ever become a reality? As the owner of a local business, Obozo’s Marxist class warfare hurts people like me the most. Guntly Copper Corp (GCC) has been a family industry throughout the past five decades, tasking we Guntlies with the dangerous job of removing harmful, valuable metals from abandoned houses that sit like ticking time bombs full of raccoon-infested antique furniture. If business starts picking up like I know it will — there’s a wave of deadly influenza ripping its way through neighborhoods on “the wrong side of the tracks,” if you catch my drift — I might as well slow down productivity, save myself the tax burden, and send my son back into his old line of work: successfully trying to win America’s Funniest Home Videos’ $10,000 prize. The doctor said if that boy falls off another trampoline, he’s going to need a new hip.

So the next time you find yourself in a voting booth, do what my old pal Thomas Paine always says: “Use some common sense.” Tom’s an old buddy of mine down at the gun club, and he’d really appreciate it.

What’s wrong with this Ouija board?!

Dear Milton Bradley,

I guess I should address this letter to either Milton or Bradley (whoever can read this first!!!). I’m in quite a pickle because of your faulty Ouija board product and I am very cross with both of you ! 😡

About five or six years ago, I was going through a rough patch in my life and needed some advice from the other realm. Now, I don’t know what you heard, but I don’t use phone psychics any more. Not since that “Jamaican” lady got bored with my calls and started answering me in her deep, surprisingly throaty Brooklyn accent. That kinda ruins the mood.

But I remembered the swell times I had with your Ouija board products. I have many fond memories of using them in the White House. George Bush and I used to have sleepovers and ask it questions. It was so much fun! We’d light candles, talk about boys, and then George would put on his special robes and pronounce “Hastur” and laugh and laugh and laugh and laugh and laugh.

But that doesn’t seem to be the case with this new model!  I was feeling a little lonely a few years ago and bought another board, remembering all the good times I used to have with it.

I brought it home and the board spelled “H-E-L-P-M-E” no fewer than three hundred times.

My word, Milton! Your Ouija board put me in touch with the ghost of one of those Cadillac-driving welfare queens my husband was always going on about. I crossed my arms, sternly shook my head (It’s the only way you can deal with those people) and gestured in the direction of that nice “God Helps Those Who Help Themselves” cross stitch sampler Margaret Thatcher gave me last Christmas.

That got it to stop with the all the help me’s but after that the board would only spell out what I think is the phonetic spelling of uncontrollable sobbing.


But that’s worlds better than what the board is telling me now! Horrible things about lava and oceans of splinters and being frozen solid in blocks of human excrement. Just yesterday I got this sunny message: “O-H J-E-S-U-S I-T-S C-*-M-M-I-N-G S-P-I-D-E-R-S A-L-L O-V-E-R M-E!”

Excuse me but THAT’S DISGUSTING!

I was going to ask that you send one of your finest Ouija board technicians down here to fix it, but now I’m not sure I want to use your product any more. This morning the board told me it would “drag me down here with him” and I don’t know what that means but no thanks! not interested!

*Sigh* if only everything in life was as dependable as my husband, God rest his sweet soul.

– Nancy

Cecil the Bear Baiter’s Child Emporium

I'm Cecil the Bear Baiter and I'm madder than hell!

I’m in a bad way, folks.  The economy of the entire Northern Kingdom has been completely hosed ever since King Longloins bought into that investment scam he saw advertised on late night  dude-screaming-in-the-street.

So Bear Baiting isn’t paying as well as it used to. After forgetting about my emotions and taking a good, honest look at the industry, I decided I have no choice but to hang up the muzzles and call it a day.

I love my job. I love my job more than I love my goodly wife, who at the time of this writing is contentedly chewing her cud in the corner of the hut- the hut I bought with the the money I made on my first big bear baiting spectacle.

And though I love my job, the number of economic hardships facing the industry seem insurmountable. Baiting, it seems, is done, over, finished or — heh heh — bruined as we say in Baiter lingo.

I’ve tried to make it through this most recent bear shortage with cost-cutting measures but there’s only so much you can do with a spectacle like bear baiting. Trust me, the men in my family have been bear baiters going all the way back to Cecil “MangleMeister” III and bear baiting is about as refined as it’s ever gonna get. There aren’t a lot of ways to switch things up in there. I mean, my grandfather came up the idea of feeding the dogs gunpowder before the fight, so when the bear hit the dog, the dog went explode, but that was only ever done during a certain type of harvest festival and ever since the you-know-whos moved here and started influencing local politics, it’s no longer legal to worship that sorta god.

I’ve tried cutting out the bears altogether, and running a baiting spectacle in which I set vicious dogs upon one of the town’s peasants. Only, in a village like Pigsnot Marsh it’s not much of a “spectacle” when a pack of wild animals dismembers a serf in public. We call that kind of thing “Tuesday” around here.

But I’m not giving up! We have an ancient saying in Pigsnot Marsh: “When the Plague kills your wife, the pigs eat for free.”  I’m putting that maxim to work  in my own life.


You see, when the economy collapsed after Longloins spent the treasury on gold-gilt tableware, his political allegiances that were held together by cash money, of course, dissolved. His thanes got pissed off and we had BUTTLOADS of war. Ol’ Cecil here didn’t have to go. Ol’ Cecil got himself  a deferment. Pilonidal Cyst. You know how it is.

And what does war mean? Heaps and heaps and heaps of crying, screeching orphans. They’re literally the Northern Kingdom’s most plentiful natural resource right now. I’m ready to put them to work for me!

Though, I have to admit, I’m still in the exploratory phase of this moneymaking scheme. I have about 40 orphans and believe me they DO NOT cage well. And I can’t really let them out without them doing something mischievous like tying a string of cans to my wife’s tail or dying of the plague.

But while the children are bad, the babies are by far the worst. I’m still trying to figure out what I’m actually going to do with all of these babies. I had the idea once to chain one of them to a dais and have a pack of littler babies attack it, but that spectacle didn’t really go as well as I hoped. One of the babies went “brr-brr-brr” by playing with his fingers in his mouth, but that’s about as menacing as things got in there.

Maybe my dreams of baiting spectacles have gone the way of the mythical Louse that Laid the Golden Nits. Maybe I need to just give up and move on. I’m still left with all of these screaming, hungry children and my wife is just about milked out by now.

So I’m leaving it up to you, the consumer, to decide what to do with these little guys. Chain six of them together and make them row the world’s most adorable galleon! Sew a couple together at the back and make your very own Pushmepullyou! Amuse yourself for hours when you tie one to a fishing line and dangle it in front of your village abbot! HE JUST KEEPS CHASING IT! Hilarious!

The choice is yours when you visit Cecil The Bear Baiter’s Child Emporium!

Craigslist Prank: The Half-Albino Fox

From: Michael Sheppard (
2/18/10 4:38 a.m.

Hello fellow fox enthusiast,

I am writing in response to your recently posted Craigslist ad. I am so happy to have found it! I recently came into possession of an absolutely beautiful fox, and while I thought it would work out at first my wife was not happy with me adding a new member to the family without her prior consent. I thought she would grow to love him, but a few weeks have passed and my back is getting sore from sleeping on the couch!

I am not sure of the fox’s scientific name but I am sure it is some sort of rare breed due to it being half-albino. While you may think that sounds strange, please hear me out. Unlike a fully albino fox, which would be completely white, this fox is jet black with vibrant white stripes. At first I thought this might simply be how the fox looked, but his albino heritage can be confirmed by inspecting the “whites” of his eyes, which are actually quite red. This, of course, is a very common trait of albinism.

Although this fox is in perfect shape I will outline the few small problems I have had with him in the interest of full disclosure. First and foremost, he has not had much contact with humans outside of my kids and me and can be a little skittish. If you are looking to pet or feed him I would definitely recommend wearing oven mitts, long pants, and a thick sweater. Also, while we are working on housebreaking him he has yet to fully grasp the concept. I have found that he very much likes to relieve himself on piles of women’s clothes, so if you have some of those lying around the house I would definitely recommend picking them up or at least leaving them contained to one area of your home. I was going to try to housebreak him by leaving some of my wife’s clothes in the yard but she was not very receptive to the idea.

Finally, he is a little excitable so you must be mindful to always approach him from the front. If you scare him by sneaking up on him he tends to lift his tail and spray urine all over everything and everyone behind him. In my research Apparently the urine a fox produces can be quite repugnant when it is scared – several times stronger than the urine they make when they just have to go, in fact. Just be sure not to sneak up behind him and you should be fine.

While this is a once-in-a-lifetime find for a fox enthusiast my wife is not very happy with me, and thus I must price the fox to sell. I am willing to let him go for $175. I will also throw in a carrying case and a few fox toys. I look forward to hearing from you soon!


From: Cindy Lawton (
To: Mike Sheppard (
2/18/10 1:37 p.m.



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