A Taiwanese businessmen has put up more than 3bn Taiwanese dollars ($103m; £65m) to establish what are being dubbed the “Asian Nobel prizes”.

— http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-asia-21235618

The newly established Asian Nobel Prizes reward the best in sustainable development, biopharmaceutical science, China studies, and “rule of law”. Americans are eligible to apply, but have about a Chinaman’s chance in hell of winning, unless, of course, they are Asian-Americans, who are way smarter than regular Americans.

Quick to respond was Vladimir Putin who revealed that the recently created “Russian Nobel Prizes” would reward vodka drinking and ostentatious consumption. No one, and we mean NO ONE, said anything at all disparaging about Mr. Putin’s idea. In fact, when asked if they thought it was a good idea, all Russians said, “Da.”

Not to be outdone were the French, who announced plans for a “French Nobel Prize” that would be awarded to the Frenchman who did the least amount of work, not including the month-long vacation most Frenchmen take during August because, technically, they were there to work on their tan. French of Algerian descent are, obviously, not eligible for the prize.

Mexico announced their own “Mexican Nobel Prize” to be awarded to any citizen who invented a legal way to attract as many American dollars as the drug trade, but which did so without also bringing American tourists into the country, who, it turns out, are a real pain in the ass.

Canada announced that the newly created “Canadian and French-Canadian Nobel Prize” would be awarded to anyone, anywhere, who can convincingly explain why anyone wants to live in Canada, other than getting out of Michigan.

Cuba added its voice to the cacophony of prize forming countries with its soon-to-be-awarded “Fidel Castro Nobel Prize.” The prize will be awarded annually to Fidel Castro, and will be awarded to him posthumously as well, for the next 100 years, in recognition of Fidel’s many contributions to the country of Cuba, and to annoy Cuban-Americans in south Florida.

Donald Trump declared that he would be organizing an “American Nobel Prize” reality show, to be filmed, Apprentice-style, in his headquarters, with The Donald having final say as to who is worthy of the prize. The criteria, prize, and eligibility requirements had not been revealed, but Mr. Trump seemed confident that it would be way awesomer than anything anyone anywhere else ever created.

Finally, the King of Sweden announced they would award a “Swedish Nobel Prize” to any non-Swede who knew the name of the King of Sweden without using Google.

About This Post

I try to be funny, especially here on this blog. I also try to publish some pieces I think are funny, but, as I described over at my other site, I sometimes fail spectacularly. When I wrote the piece that follows, I was certain it was hilarious. I was certain the way Ralph knew his theme would convince his teacher that he, Ralph, deserved a BB gun. I don’t even think what I wrote earned a C+.

I am publishing it here with the hope you will help me. Please let me know what you liked or what might have been funnier. If you hate it or just think it is not funny, let me know that too. Either leave a comment or use the contact form.

Thanks.

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Game of Recliners

They are idiots, all of them. My family started watching “Game of Thrones” two years ago, and now they are addicted. I was not allowed to watch because, back then, I was too young. As if I hadn’t seen beheadings, petty squabbling, and gross sex before. My parents obviously have no idea what the Disney Channel uses to attract the 8-13 year old demographic.

My older brother was allowed to watch. From what I glimpsed, my brother would have fit in nicely with most of the hapless fools wandering around Westeros, if only because of his poor complexion.

During the first season, which entails clans vying for position around some dumb-old iron chair, my parents used “Game of Thrones” to improve their social position. They invited neighbors and relatives and former friends to the house to join them as they watched, as if they were the only people with HBO and DVR service.

A few dumb old-people fell for it and started hanging around every Saturday, and what had been merely embarrassing now became ridiculous and pathetic. During the opening credits, they reviewed previous episodes and speculated on what might happen next like a bunch of fifth graders in the sex education portion of biology class.

Near the end of the first season, my father hurt his back installing a new fifty-five inch television, and he was unable to sit in the recliner that sat opposite the television. It was the best place in the room to view the television. Everyone wanted to watch “Game of Thrones” from that recliner.

My brother claimed the right to sit on the recliner, which my mother encouraged and defended because he programmed all of her shows for her on the DVR. My brother basically controls the remote for both my parents, because my father doesn’t know how to scroll to the future or delete anything.

The old people are all giddy and stuff about the upcoming third season, but I hope that my father’s plan falls apart. At this point, the only thing going for him is how expensive it is to subscribe to HBO (because that’s what their dumb-old friends complain about), and that their dumb-old friends don’t know how to illegally download movies and stuff (try Google, dumb-old people, and when you find a site that offers the recording you want, click through all the gross porn ads).

I have news for my parents and their dumb-old friends: the recliner is not what matters. The remote control is the seat of power, and I know how to get it. My brother is in the habit of keeping the remote control with him at all times, but often forgets it in the bathroom after pooping. I will brave the stink and stuff one of these days, and secure the remote. Then, while people search the house for the remote, I will password protect “Game of Thrones” on HBO and set up the DVR to record every Disney show so that everything else is thrown away.

My father, dumb old-guy that he is, is about to be schooled in politics junior-high style. When Disney is the only channel to watch, he and his fake friends won’t have to wonder what will happen when the wildings arrive. The landscape will have already been buried under an avalanche of beheadings, petty squabbling, and gross sex. Winter is coming.

A study published Wednesday in the New England Journal of Medicine found that fecal transplants cured 15 of 16 people who had recurring infections with Clostridium difficile bacteria. Meanwhile, only seven of 26 patients in two control groups were cured with antibiotics. Physicians and researchers believe that fecal matter transplanted from a healthy person restores that normal balance of bacteria. — http://www.stltoday.com/lifestyles/health-med-fit/study-fecal-transplants-cure-serious-infection/article_d2c69d21-ad6f-5099-8639-8fd777f14c79.html

I was thrilled that the fecal transplant cured my Clostridium infection. It was a disgusting procedure, but two things convinced me to attempt it: first of all, my doctor explained that I could perform it myself in the privacy of my home; secondly, the replacement feces does not have to be ingested orally.

It didn’t cure me the first time out of the chute. Or into the chute, such as it was. I blame my wife. She was disgusted with having to assist me, and I think she has inferior feces. I performed the procedure a second time with some premium poop from my doctor, who was only too happy to oblige, and gained a great deal of flexibility in my lower back by doing it myself. My doctor was pleased because he was able to bill me for his time on the toilet.

There was a tremendous side benefit: once the good doctor’s feces had a chance to assert its biological powers, it cured me of both the infection and my fear of blood. Also, I acquired full knowledge of the human gastro-intestinal tract, my doctor’s specialty.

Next I tried the feces of my butcher, John Borzi. Nowadays, when meat is bought wrapped and frozen in plastic, it’s unusual enough to even know your butcher’s name. But it helps to use someone’s name when you are asking them for a sample of their feces. Once I had injected his feces into my colon, I found that my chronic gall bladder problems were gone. Also, my thumb suddenly weighed three pounds.

Buoyed this success, I asked for a feces sample from my golf pro. This request was easier than the others because my golf pro has been giving me shit for quite some time. With his sample safely injected, I finally cured my slice.

It occurred to me then that I might be able to correct any number of my flaws. I have astigmatism, carpal tunnel, and male pattern baldness. All of these are in my past.

I thought my biggest problem would be the last to be cured, so sensitive is the issue, but my erectile dysfunction was really not a challenge. George Clooney sent me a small sample (autographed) but it was plenty to restore my vitality.

With all those things corrected, I realized I wanted one more thing: my youth. But that seemed impossible to correct, even with feces. And wouldn’t it seem odd to ask of a youngster. Might I be arrested for such a request.

The Lord works in mysterious ways, however, and one evening my doorbell rang, and there, on the front step, was a paper plate filled with a fresh sample of feces. No doubt the work of teenage vandals, the steaming prank could not have been more welcome had it been served on a silver platter.

I thought I had I would enjoy this new lease on life, this second chance. But now I fear I have developed a great problem for which a feces transplant won’t help. I am constipated.

“Candlelight Vigil Held For Slain Elk — A candlelight vigil was held Sunday night honoring the lost life of a Boulder elk. Residents have been outraged over the elk’s death, which they claim was cruel and unnecessary. Boulder Police Officer Sam Carter shot the elk, which had been wandering the Mapleton Hill neighborhood over the past couple of weeks.”

http://www.kktv.com/news/headlines/Candlelight-Vigil-Held-For-Slain-Elk-185870561.html

The small town of Lynbrook, Ohio, just outside of Cleveland, was outraged this week when a police officer shot and killed a pantomime horse who had spent the previous several weeks visiting the town. Residents were outraged, and have begun a vigil in front of Lynbrook City Hall, demanding an explanation and an apology. The pantomime horse had become a popular fixture in the downtown area, often speaking to pedestrians, and entertaining local children after school, solving math problems for them by clopping his foot.

The officer, claiming he acted under orders, pointed out that the pantomime horse was a public nuisance and had been defecating daily on the Police Department front lawn, and urinating against the building. “It was getting out of hand,” said the officer, who agreed to speak only if his name was withheld, pending the official investigation of the incident.

When asked about the legality of shooting a pantomime horse, the officer insisted that it’s a gray area of the law, at least in this part of Ohio. “If someone pretends to be an animal, and is treated as an animal, whose fault is it?” the officer asked.

The officer had no comment when asked if he thought there was any chance the investigation into the shooting may focus on the fact that the pantomime horse was, in fact, a man in a horse costume, and that shooting and killing a man in a costume, whether he was a horse or any other animal, might constitute murder. “You certainly can’t call it manslaughter,” the officer said. “Not when he was dressed like that.”

The pantomime horse’s arrival was a cause celebre in the community. His faithful presentation of horse behavior won the hearts of residents who seemed happy to ignore the fact that it was a man in a horse costume; many fed the pantomime horse carrots, apples, and sugar cubes. He would whinny to show his appreciation, and often neighed contentedly when its neck was stroked or patted.

Donald Stevens, whose home is near City Hall and who witnessed the shooting, explained that the creator of the pantomime horse was long-time resident, Syd Bleck, familiar to most of Lynbrook as a homeless alcoholic. “He was the town drunk. Had been for decades. I went to highschool with him here, and he was a drunk in high school, and then kept right on going. I used to buy him drinks, and had quite a few laughs with him, but then, at a certain point, you have to quit doing that stuff, maybe raise a family and at least try to make something of your life. But not Syd. He would stagger from one end of town to the other, begging for drinks, collecting bottles to return, and scrounging pennies until he had enough to buy some booze. Then it was off to the bar.”

“What what I don’t get,” said the officer who shot him, “is that it wasn’t even a good costume.” Admittedly, the pantomime horse costume consisted of a paper mache head painted brown with shoe polish, a discarded broom head for the mane, and tattered brown blanket draped over his shoulders to form the body. Because Syd worked alone, there was no rear end, and no tail. Still, people were drawn to his rendition of a horse.

Donald Stevens, the appreciative neighbor, attempted to explain Syd’s popularity: “Everything he did as a pantomime horse he had originally done as the town drunk: he’d shit on your lawn, piss in your garden, and steal whatever wasn’t tied down. He would even hang around the schoolyard begging lunch money from the kids. He probably deserved to be shot. But once he put on that horse costume, he became more gentle, somehow, like a majestic beast that shared his majesty with the whole town, even as he crapped on our lawns. I really enjoyed him. So no, they shouldn’t have shot him. Maybe just put him out to pasture.”