Let me paint a picture here: there’s a DJ in a cool shirt with flames blaring 2002’s hottest dance mixes as one single, Dave Chapelle look-alike in a tweed suit and straw hat dances robotically with monk-like focus.

A chunky, nine-year old Mexican boy with a full mustache is running a series of five or six “carnival games” by himself—all of them based on the put-the-ball-in-the-hole premise: kick the soccer ball in the hole; throw the football in the hole; toss the baseball in the hole; the one exception being launch the rubber tarantula in the hole by hitting a catapult with a hammer. I think Jayson wet his pants when he was that one.

Suddenly, the DJ gets on the mic and encourages a group of eleven-year-old girls to join him in the YMCA dance. They sheepishly decline. The dancing Dave Chapelle look-alike accepts, and removes his straw hat to don an Indian headdress. Black Thunder and White Lightning perform the entire song. No one—kids and parents included—is visibly delighted.

Blaring sirens reveal more popular attractions in the nearby parking lot: a squad car and city bus open for tours. Now, without intimate knowledge of the Milwaukee area, it may be difficult to appreciate the irony here, but this will certainly be the last time most of these kids sit in the front seat of a squad car.

The DJ resumes playing old club bangers very loudly. Thank God.

After ten minutes of sitting on a bench with his head in his hands, Nick calmly asks me to wake him up so he can get out of this nightmare. I promise him one of my kidneys if he ever needs one.

I call a group huddle with my nephews, who have been waiting in a series of lines to unknowingly play the same game over and over again, only sometimes winning shitty candy. “Boys,” I say, “Your Uncle Matt and his friend Nick need to get out of here before they have meltdowns.” Josh and Jayson both assume whining postures. “Now I know you think you’re having fun, but you’re not,” I say. “So we’re leaving, and we’ll find something else to do.”

“But I didn’t get a pencil from that lady like Josh did,” Jayson says. Sure enough, there’s a woman wandering around distributing yet more pencils, and the kids are swarming her like she’s handing out loaves of broad and they’re fucking starving.

“And there’s a game over there that we haven’t played yet,” Josh says. Sure enough, there’s a game by the entrance doors mere inches from DJ Dipshit’s coffin-sized speakers. All I can see from where I’m standing is a large, elevated plastic tub filled with water and rubber ducks. I look closer and there’s a six-year-old Mexican running this one, his face barely visible over the tub. He doesn’t have the mustache, which is probably why he got stuck on such a shitty beat. The Facial Hair Hierarchy, if you will.

So I bounce a couple pre-teens, grab some more pencils from The Pusherman, and head towards the tub game. “What’s this game?” Nick says. “Pick up the rubber duck?”

As we approach, the true nature of the game is revealed: pick up a rubber duck, hand it to Shorty, and receive a piece of shitty candy. Maybe I should review the rules one more time, for clarity: 1) pick up a rubber duck floating in the water; 2) hand the duck to the kid; 3) receive a piece of candy.

Josh watches two kids “play” before he turns to me and says, “Uncle Matt, let’s get the fuck out of Dodge.”

I have twin nephews, Josh and Jayson. They are not identical twins. In fact, they don’t look anything alike. Josh is long and skinny with fare skin, and Jayson is squat and bulky with olive skin. They also have two very distinct personalities. Josh is meticulous, articulate, and artistic, while Jason is “all boy” as my mom puts it, a little caveman; he’s dirty and loud and oft communicates with grunts. Josh is Greg Kinnear. Jayson is Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson. When it’s time to play army, Josh carefully prepares for the part, arranging his canteen and belt of fake bullets just so. Meanwhile, Jayson makes loud explosion noises and urges Josh to get on with it: “Come on! Let’s just run around and shoot each other.” More often than not, Jayson loses his patience and delivers a not-so-make-believe blow—which never fails to ignite a not-so-make-believe battle. Boys are awesome.

After eight years as an active uncle, I’m also privileged to know their differing fighting styles. Josh is much more cunning and patient. He prefers grappling and has a strong ground game. Jayson favors the “fists of fury” approach: he bulldozes in and unleashes an onslaught of punches and devastating leg kicks. I have coordinated several ill-advised gladiator matches, the most memorable being an armed showdown about four years ago: Jayson calmly swung a koosh ball (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Koosh_ball) on an elastic rope, not unlike a medieval flail (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Flail_(weapon)), as Josh ducked to avoid it and used the butt end of a plastic M-16 to bludgeon Jayson’s head and midsection. Ironically, no one was hurt until I intervened and accidentally slammed Josh’s head against the stiff arm of the coach. That Uncle Matt, he’s a real dipshit.

I appreciate my nephews’ differences. I can play sophisticated card games with Josh, and then chase Jayson with a hockey stick until he runs into a tree. It’s nice to have the yin and the yang in one convenient package. However, there are some things all eight-year-old boys agree on, and that’s “festivals with carnival games and prizes are fun.” Shit, I’m twenty-four and I would have agreed with that perspective. Until last Saturday…

The Dudes—Josh and Jayson—had harangued my dad since Monday about a festival at their school on Saturday. Apparently, there would be games and prizes and food, and it was all free. My dad said he’d take them, not knowing that he was already committed to a trip to Platteville for a graduation on that day. My nephew Josh does not take oral commitments lightly, so the responsibility fell on Uncle Matt. I didn’t necessarily mind because I figured I’d get bombed on Friday night and work off my Saturday hangover eating corndogs and playing that sledgehammer game until I owned a stuffed, purple panda the size of VW Beetle. I even roped my buddy, Nick, into coming: “It’s a nice day out. It will be fun.”

It wasn’t fun. It was a Fuckin’ Freakshow.

I was, as planned, brutally hung-over. And it was finally a nice day in this Godforsaken climate. So you can imagine my delight when the first “attraction” at this “festival” was a dank gymnasium full of poster-board displays presented by the likes of Milwaukee’s City Health Department. When I was eight-years-old, I would’ve broke wind once and immediately headed for an exit. But alas, everyone at the displays were giving away pencils, which must be what eight-year-olds use as gambling currency these days—like cigarettes in prison—because my nephews scoured that gym until they had enough pencils each to hand-copy War & Peace. In hieroglyphics.

Fifteen minutes in that gym and my buddy Nick was already calling someone else for a ride home. And this was before he knew what awaited us on the playground behind the school…

To Be Continued…

By now I’m sure everyone has heard of wikiHow - I love it. Yesterday I learned how to make an origami samurai helmet and tomorrow, who knows!

If you’ve been hanging under a rock - here’s what it is: wikiHow is a collaborative writing project to build the largest, highest quality how-to manual.

Today, I stumbled on How to Make Chuck Norris Jokes - ummmm….sweet! Here’s a little blurb on what you’re getting into with this, “Have you ever heard a Chuck Norris joke? If you have, you shouldn’t have. They are simply facts, nothing more. Chuck Norris has the power to kick your butt into not next week, but the next life. Remember that. With this article, you will learn how to express Chuck’s awesomeness.”

Here’s a great tip from the article:

Chuck Norris is ultimate. Never forget it. Here’s a common joke.

• One day Chuck Norris visited Virgin Island. Now it’s just an island.

I was talking with my mom the other day about something I had to get done, but that I didn’t want to do at all. She said she knew doing “it” would be a “bitter pill for me to swallow,” but that I had to do it because … blah blah blah …

I soon found myself staring at the opening and closing mouth as she dispensed her sage advice, which went in one ear and out the other. The problem was, you see, I couldn’t stop obsessing on the figure of speech she had just used.

A bitter pill to swallow!? Hmm …

It makes little sense when you think about it. In fact, the only way this oft-used saying makes sense is if we rephrase it to “A bitter pill to chew.” But who chews a bitter pill? Exactly! Nobody chews a bitter pill. That’s why we swallow pills—because they are bitter!

Then later that day one of my neighbors commented on another neighbor’s newborn baby. She said the baby was “Cute as a button.” Well, what’s so cute about a button?

Here is a picture of a button. This is cute?

Then you’ve got people who are “worry warts.” What does worrying about things have to do with warts? I think warts are totally disgusting and I certainly do not want one, but I don’t spend all my time worrying about getting them.

“Who let the cat out of the bag?” How about, “Who put the cat in the bag?” And why? Did they get scratched while putting the cat in a bag? I hope they did because forcing a cat into a bag—or a hat—is mean.

“A little bird told me that …” A little bird told you something? You need psychological help.

“A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle.” Fine, but let’s see a bicycle take a fish out for dinner and a movie!

“Beware of Greeks baring gifts.” Or, sorry Mr. Papadapolous, but I can’t accept this present.

“I have nothing to declare but my genius.” Well, if you’re a genius shouldn’t you have the sense to not be such a braggart?

Anyway, this is the type of stuff I think about when I know I should be working.

Golf season is finally upon us and the Comic Wonder members are getting in the spirit by signing in and telling their favorite golf jokes. I put together a list of my favorites - if you’re a golfer, I think you will definitely get a kick out of these:

• A woman gets stung while golfing by Tommyboy
• The barn and the ball by grandpa bob
• Perfect golf by wellsy
• FORE!!!!!!!! by sideshow1331
• A hole in one by captainhilariousness 
• Slow golfers by Adubya
• Par for the course by sideshow1331
• Long golf game by RareBlueMonkey
• A Rabbi, a Priest and a Minister by trouth2o
• Golf with the boss by Adubya 
• Jeff and Mike are golfing by RareBlueMonkey

Being a woman working at a company that reaches a demographic of 18-34 year old males, I’ve been hearing a lot that I have a “different sense of humor” than my male coworkers. Sometimes, I wonder why they think this…

Is it because I’m a woman? Probably. Do they think I can’t handle the dirty jokes they tell? Probably. Do they think I don’t find bodily noises and secretions fall on the floor funny like they do? Well, no that one is true, most women just aren’t as into body function jokes, including me. Although, I did tell a blonde joke about “going to the bathroom in a carbarator.”

Judging from the number of *spicy* jokes coming in from men vs. woman on our site - I would say the men here do have a little raunchier (which in saying this is why I hear the aforementioned comment) sense of humor. Although, there are some women on Comic Wonder that fight to tip the scales. For more info on my rationale behind dirty vs. clean jokes, click here.

So what exactly is humor and how can we improve our “senses” of it (beyond my turning into a boy, scratching myself and telling my coworkers dirty jokes)?

According to Websters, the definition of humor - related to this - is:

• temperament <of cheerful humor> : an often temporary state of mind imposed especially by circumstances <was in no humor to listen> : a sudden, unpredictable, or unreasoning inclination.
  
• whim <the uncertain humors of nature>: that quality which appeals to a sense of the ludicrous or absurdly incongruous : the mental faculty of discovering, expressing, or appreciating the ludicrous or absurdly incongruous : something that is or is designed to be comical or amusing.

eHow suggests 6 steps to improve your sense of humor. Here’s the shortened version (check out the site for more info):

1. Lighten up (they really could have stopped here)

2. Read the comics or a humorous column every day

3. Hang out with funny people (be a member of Comic Wonder!)

4. Keep funny things close at hand

5. Watch sitcoms or comedy festivals, rather than heavy drama

6. Share the laughter

And - don’t forget, any type of humor makes you healthy!

Here’s something that happened to me at Borders that I found so odd, and yet so funny. I was shopping for a gift for my nephew when a guy came up out of no where and started talking to me. He began the conversation by asking where the music section was - it being late and my not being in the mood, I told him I didn’t work there and no, I didn’t know. Although, I’m pretty nice so it probably came out in a high, soft, sweet tone. He said he knew that I didn’t work there and there was a long…awkward pause while I waited to see why he wasn’t leaving.

He then went on to ask me questions & talk about things clearly in line for the “I’m going to ask you out” moment. Such things as: what music do you like? Where do you go out? Why do you keep your curtains closed at night? Ok, not the last one. Mind you, I’m sitting way back in the corner of the store (I don’t even know how he found me) in the children’s section next to two very little girls, drinking coffee and clearly trying to display my wedding ring…waiting for him to notice. No such luck. It happens - he asks, “If I were a puppy, would you keep me?” Actually no, what he said was, “I’ve heard sex is a killer, wanna die happy?” Ok, not that one either. Anyway, he finally does ask if I would like to go out with him and I tell him no, I’m married.

His response, “well, would you go out with me if you weren’t?” What?! Seriously?! Yes, our .5 second conversation was so stimulating that I would definitely have gone out with you, heck, had I only met you before my husband, who knows? What?! I still find it hilarious, he really wanted to know my answer and continued to ask me more questions after I gave no response and stood there in shock & awe. Luckily, my phone rang and this strange person that found me went running - yes, running away. It was all very Napoleon Dynamite revisited now that I look back.

I guess the moral of my little story is that it’s great to have the confidence and gusto to ask someone out, but - you may want to have talked to him/her for I don’t know - a minute - before doing so (with some interest coming back from the other side beyond a blank, scared stare), or it’s just creepy and you leave the person feeling dirty and watched. yikes.

Had he used one of these pick-up lines, things might have worked for him:

• Baby, I’m like Taco Bell - I’ll spice up your night
• You have an onion butt - it makes me want to cry
• If you were words on a page, you’d be fine print
• I’m not really this tall, I’m sitting on my wallet
• If I could rearrange the alphabet, I’d put U and I together
• I’m just a love pirate looking for some booty
• Oh…you’re lookin’ fine. Not in the good way, in the “you’ll do” way

If only…

One of the benefits of my job is that I get to work in the comfort of my home. If I want to take a break I can just kick back and relax on the sofa, I work in my sweats more often than I probably should and I don’t have to deal with sitting in traffic trying to get to an office. I typically sit at my kitchen table (which causes me to eat way more than I should) and work while watching the neighbors mow their lawns and walk their dogs. It’s a pretty nice gig, I must admit.

That is until something like today happens…I look out my window and see a neighbor’s dog doing his business in my yard and the guy DOESN’T pick it up! And let me tell you friends, it was no small dog – if you get what I’m saying. What am I supposed to do, run out there and say something? Offer up a baggie? I don’t have a dog for the very reason I don’t want to deal with this situation, let alone a strangers dogs. Is there dog poo etiquette? Maybe I should post it in my yard…yeah, that won’t make me look crazy.

I read a while ago that some cities where dog poo-ing and lazy owners live, people have come to the point where they put peanut butter on the poo so the dogs then come back and eat it. But, I don’t think I can torture the dog for the owner’s stupidity and I don’t think I want to come that close to the poo. Yuck, I would probably gag. Being that I’m not very confrontational, I haven’t yet gone running out to yell at the people I see doing this, or I mean letting their dog do it. What really is the difference though - they might as well be the ones poo-ing. Actually, that’s a pretty bad image - scratch that thought. Instead, I think one of these days I’ll follow them to see where they live and the next time we have a summer bash, my husband and all his friends can go relieve themselves on their lawn. They really can’t get mad, can they?!

So - if you have a dog and you walk it to do its business – don’t forget people do work from home and can see you!

Speaking of dogs, there are a lot of great dog jokes on the site, click here to check them out!

It’s that time of year, golfers are hitting the greens and golf jokes are starting to come in on our site. I am not a golf expert, actually I have never even played golf. But, I live with a golf pro whose motto is if there’s no snow on the ground, it’s open season to golf.

The funny thing about golf for me is that everyone gets excited to go out and golf, “let’s get some beer, some cigars, and have a great time on the course,” I hear the guys say. My husband will wake up early, go through some pretty bizarre pre-game stretching rituals and heads to the course smiling, prepared to have one hell of a day and golf better than all his friends, I’m sure. But, it always sounds like something very different happens when they actually get to the course.

This sounds more like their golfing days…after the first shot is fired the first f-bomb is also fired into the air, and soon after that the first club is tossed further than the last shot traveled. They all stop talking, and my husband’s most mile mannered friend turns into the incredible hulk and every shot sends him into more and more rage. Often times the words “I hate this game” or “why did we even come out here” are muttered. Now, maybe I’m just not getting it, but this doesn’t sound like much fun to me. But, one thing seems to always save the day for them - just when they think the day could not get any worse, from the distance comes the beautiful sound of a cart headed the wrong way up the fairway. Now when this happens I’m sure their eyes get wide, the smiles come back, and they begin to salivate. The cart brings the only thing that could possibly calm them down and that, as we all know, is an ice cold beer from the cart girl. Then, when the first beer is cracked they begin talking about the 19th hole. Regardless how bad they played that day, they sit back, relax, and drink the bad shots away and say their what-ifs…what if I didn’t hit that one out of bounds, what if I would have made that putt, what if I just wouldn’t have chucked that one. Ahhh, the 19th hole.

Then, even if they played awful they begin to think about the next time they can get together and do it all over again. So stressful and yet so fun.

For some great golf jokes, click here.

Living in WI you can see your fare share of beer bellies - or…are they?

Check this out - the beerbelly - a device that looks like a true blue beer belly, when it’s actually a beer, well -you name it - dispenser. No kidding! This is perfect for taking beverages into your next ball game, roaming the mall with your wife, sitting in a boring class - wherever!

Here’s what the site says:

“Made up of an insulated neoprene sling and a polyurethane bladder connected to a drinking tube, the Beerbelly® holds over a half gallon of amber nectar and it will stay cold for hours with the optional freezer pack. Amazing, right? Okay, so you’ll look a little chubby when wearing it, but who gives a XXXX when you can stealth swig your favorite brew wherever you may roam.”

What does this have to do with joke-telling you might ask? Nothing - I just thought it was pretty sweet and wanted to share the good news.