A guy comes in to buy an airline ticket from a travel agency. The travel agent starts filling out the ticket form.

Agent: “Okay, what’s your name?”

Customer: “G. Youshudknow.”

Agent: “Why?”

Customer: “Why what?”

Agent: “Why should I know?”

Customer: (stares).

Agent: “Your name?”

Customer: “I told you, but you didn’t get it right.”

Agent: “What?”

Customer: “My name. It’s not Y. Shudiknow. It’s G. Youshudknow.”

Agent: “How can I?”

Customer: “What?”

Agent: “Know your name?”

Customer: “I just told you.”

Agent: “You did? How come I don’t know what it is?”

Customer: “I don’t know.”

Agent: “What is it?”

Customer: “What?”

Agent: “Your name?”

Customer: “It’s…G. Youshudknow.”

Agent: “Why should I?”

Customer: “What?”

Agent: “Know your name?”

Customer: “Because I told you.”

Agent: “No, you didn’t. You said, I should know.”

Customer: “It’s not I. Shudknow. It’s G. Youshudknow.”

Agent (waving him away angrily): “Get out of here. Get out! You’re nuts.”
Later, another customer walks in.

Agent: “Okay, I’ll fill out this ticket for you. What’s your name?

Customer: “Hy Watfore.”

Agent (nodding): “Hi. Because I need to process your ticket. What’s your name?”

Customer: “Hy Watfore.”

Agent: “Are you gonna tell me your name?”

Customer: “I did.”

Agent: “You did?”

Customer: “Yes.”

Agent: “How could you have? I don’t know what it is.”

Customer: “What?”

Agent (shouting): “Your name.”

Customer: “Watfore.”

Agent: “Because I can’t do this without it.”

Customer: “What?”

Agent: “Process your ticket! What is it?”

Customer: “Hy.”

Agent: “I already said hi. What’s your last name?”

Customer: “Whatfore.”

Agent (screaming): “Get out of here. Get out! And don’t come back.”

Another customer walks in.

Agent: “I better not have any trouble with you.”

Customer (looks around uneasily): “Trouble?”

Agent: “What is your name?”

Customer: “Joe.”

Agent (breathes a sigh of relief): “Thank God! Okay. What’s your last name?”

Customer: “Canttell.”

Agent: “What?”

Customer: “Canttell.”

Agent: “Can’t tell what?”

Customer: “Just Canttell.”

Agent: “What is your name?”

Customer: “Joe Canttell.”

Agent (rubbing his forehead): “Joe, why do you refer to yourself in the third person, Joe can’t do this, Joe can’t do that, and then tell me you can’t tell me your last name?”

Customer: “I did.”

Agent: “What?”

Customer: “Told you. It’s Joe.”

Agent: “I know. What’s your last name?”

Customer: “Canttell.”

Agent: “Why not?”

Customer: “Why not what?”

Agent (crying): “Why can’t you tell me your last name?”

Customer: “I did.”

Agent: “No, you didn’t. You said you can’t tell.”

Customer: “It’s not U. Canttell. It’s J. Canttell.”

Agent: “Who’s Jay?”

Customer: “I am.”

Agent: “You said your name was Joe.”

Customer: “It is.”

Agent: “What’s your last name?”

Customer: “Canttell.”

Agent: “Why not?”

Customer: “Why not what?”

The agent chases the customer out into the street and hits him several times. The agent is arrested and taken to jail. A policeman is in the office taking evidence from a woman co-worker of the agent.

Policeman: “Okay, ma’am, that will be enough for now. Let me get your name for the record.”

Woman: “Ida No.”

Policeman: “What?”

Woman: “Ida No.”

Policeman: “You refuse to tell me your name?”

Woman: “I did. Ida No.”

Policeman: “That’s a felony ma’am. Refusing to tell me your name.”

Woman: “What?”

© Copyright 2009 by SammonSays.com

by Jason Love,
Syndicated Humor Columnist

The Wide, Wide World of Competitive Eating

Ever since curling found its way into the Olympics, our concept of sport has so devolved that ESPN is now televising darts. Call me old-fashioned, but when I turn on ESPN and people are throwing darts, they had better be aiming at each other.
Where could they possibly go from here? Steam room endurance? Tiddlywinks? …
Answer: competitive eating.
In 2007 ESPN will broadcast four eating contests, including Nathan’s International Hot Dog Eating Contest, which this year I watched with keen interest … beside my barf bag.
Nathan’s is sanctioned by the International Federation of Competitive Eating, which also handles, among other foods, crab cake, baked beans, butter (just butter), spam, tiramisu, and-brace yourself, PETA-cow brains.
At least with cow brains you know what you’re getting. Scientists still don’t understand what holds a hot dog together. Right now they are focusing on a reaction between shoe polish and tripe.
Of course, one cannot talk hot dogs without mentioning undisputed champion of the world, Japan’s greatest pride outside of Mount Fuji, Takeru “The Tsunami” … Kobayashi.
In terms of consecutive world titles, you’ve got Lance Armstrong, Martina Navratilova, the ‘59-’66 Boston Celtics, and Takeru Kobayashi, who not only wins every year but often laps the competition (and by that I mean lifts them up with his tongue).
Yet Koby could pass as a wrestler: stony biceps, trim waist, that orange-blonde hair that looks so natural on Japanese men. Certainly this wasn’t the record-holder for hot dogs, lobster rolls, hamburgers, bratwurst, rice balls, and cow brains.
IFOCE president George Shea, who promotes his events the old-fashioned way-in a straw hat-stomached my questions.
“We’re seeing a changing of the guard,” he said. “The older, heavier eater is being replaced by athletes like Koby.”
Enter femme phenom Sonya Thomas, who, for her Tinkerbell physique, can eat ten percent of her body weight in a sitting. Sonya has outgorged 300-pound men to win titles in tacos, ravioli, chicken nuggets, jambalaya, and pulled pork sandwiches.
Having seen frankfurter sludge ooze out of eaters’ nostrils, I can only shudder at the thought of pulled pork sandwich.
I had to get closer, but not so close that I lost a finger.
“Crazy Legs” Conti received me like a professor … wearing dreadlocks. Conti has gobbled his way onto The Today Show, CNN, The Sopranos, Emeril, Good Morning America; and he even beat David Letterman in an oyster-eating challenge (459 to 3).
Stay tuned for the 2007 documentary, “Crazy Legs Conti: Zen and the Art of Competitive Eating.”
“So how does one eat 459 oysters without spewing on national TV?”
“The stomach can fill up,” said Legs, “but the mind never can.”
I could just see Crazy Legs training in a swamp next to Yoda: “Hmm, the bile strong with this one is.”
Tim “Eater X” Janus, who competes in face paint to intimidate the others, actually sees a sport psychologist. Sure, you laugh, but do you hold the world record for cannoli and tiramisu?
Sonya Thomas takes a more bare-bones approach: “I just focus, focus, focus.”
Needless to say, none of these people are welcome at Home Town Buffet.
Every food poses it own challenge (example: butter is made of butter), but hot dogs are eaten in one of three ways: 1. The Solomon Method, breaking the dogs in half; 2. Tokyo Style, eating wiener and bun separately; and 3. Dunk ‘n Dip, soaking the meat in what appears to be sewer water.
I’m not sure which method is favored by Miss Manners.
By IFOCE policy, regurgitation-”remnants”-amounts to disqualification. Koby’s 2005 victory was stained by controversy over remnants, a clear-cut cry for instant replay.
“And here, Bob, you can see the projectile splooging out of Koby’s ear and-stop the tape-yes, bouncing on the table.”
Some say that Koby lines his intestines with aloe; others suggest that his stomach was surgically altered by the Japanese government, still sore for losing ground in car production.
Koby’s translator just acts like he doesn’t understand the questions. So it goes.
The only American to keep up with Takeru Kobayashi is Joey “Jaws” Chestnut from San Jose, California. Joey actually led Nathan’s 2006 hot dog contest by two links until, in the tenth minute, he got the “nitrate sweats” and convulsed in a way that made you look around for an ambulance.
Koby, in contrast, found his rhythm, at which point you just had to sit back and let the man do what the good Lord intended him to do. But with 30,000 people chanting his name, Joey pushed to the end, clinging faithfully to advice from a friend … “The stomach can fill up, but the mind never can.”
By the twelfth minute, Joey could only shake the meat down seagull-like, falling short by 1¾ franks. And as hard as it must be to finish second, Joey could take comfort in the fact that he was not the guy measuring the ¼ hot dogs.
My favorite part was the six-foot mascot Frankster, who kept massaging the backs of the eaters. Can you imagine eating 30 hot dogs and then, in a swoon, turning around to find a giant hot dog rubbing your shoulders? Bad trip, man.
When the horn sounded, Koby and Joey raised their fingers in the universal vomit gesture before Kobe wiped his nostril sludge and lifted his shirt for the belly shot. It looked like he had a bun in the oven. 53¾ buns, to be exact.
Frankster waved goodbye to the scattering crowd, which would never eat again. The contestants were free to slink back to their tents and discharge bodily gases. Koby would let go a belch, Joey would burp a little louder, Sonya would break wind, and before you knew it ESPN would be there with television cameras.

By Jason Love

Population

We’ve heard some bleak reviews of the human race, but deep down I think that people are generally… everywhere. Especially during rush hour.
It’s not that people are bad; we’re just a little bit squished. Remember sixth-grade science?
“See, Jimmy, as the rat population grows too dense, the animals start to abuse each other.”
Meanwhile, in the parking lot, someone was breaking into teacher’s car.
The TV people remind us to carpool, recycle, chew ABC gum, etc., and while I’ll do my part, we could trade in all of these PSA’s for one overriding memo: Quit having so many children.
Remember the show “Eight Is Enough”? Eight children is not enough; it’s way too friggen many. I live by a dock where every day new cars, still in their wrapper, drive off the boat and into gridlock. That’s their first experience in the U.S.
How long till we have yo-yo girls working the freeway? “Cigarettes… Candy… Soda…”
If California falls into the sea, it won’t be from earthquakes but from sheer human tonnage. Seriously. When Californians say we have a front yard, we mean it literally: three feet.
How come you need a license to drive and fish and style hair, but anyone, even Rosie O’Donnell, can bear an unlimited number of children? My cousin has a baby every time she needs attention.
“Look what I made!”
“That’s nice, honey. Put it in the crib with the others.”
I know a man whose parents had 20 children and don’t know where half of them are. Trapped in gridlock, presumably. Maybe it’s time for some kind of child-bearing parameters. One baby per 30 I.Q. points? If you can’t spell “vasectomy”… ?
Consider that I myself come from a large extended family, people who don’t use birth control because it isn’t “natural.” Of course, they’re also so old-fashioned, they still believe the world is flat. So it goes.
When the Iowa couple had septuplets, we called it a miracle, but the woman was freebasing fertility pills. She could have gotten pregnant being downwind from sex.
Is anyone else uneasy with Dr. Moreau in the lab? Rumor has it that humans have already been cloned and that zombie-like creatures with heavy brows and crude worldviews await their turn to run for office.
I once attended a meeting for in vitro fertilization. The doctor wielded his lab coat as one might a cape.
“And once we transfer the embryo, aspirate the follicles, and align your ovulation with my golf schedule-voilà, nature’s little miracle.”
In days agone, we had lots of children to ensure our survival; now we have to stop having lots of children for the same reason. If nothing else, think about Santa Claus. You know he’s campaigning for zero population growth.
It’s just that if we go on like this, it’s going to lead to more pollution, more rat brutality, and ultimately a land rush in Arizona, where people will fight like crazy over their new beachfront property.
* * *
Jason Love is an award-winning humor columnist, stand-up comedian, and author of “Snapshots: The Big Picture,” available at Amazon.com. Check out more of his work at www.jasonlove.com.

Dog Lickers

My mom is a dog-licker. That’s someone who thinks highly enough of her pet to accept French kisses (and we DO know where those dog lips have been).
Max is a mini black poodle. Full name: Emperor Maximus. No, really. It’s engraved on the doggy bling that Mom creates herself from Swarovski crystal.
Max receives full emperor treatment, too. In the hallway you’ll find portraits of him front and center, in the space normally reserved for religious icons.
It’s not that my mom worships her dog. Well, yes. It is. It’s exactly like that. But people get weird around their pets. A woman once asked if I’d like to see her goldfish, then returned with a laminated carcass.
“Um,” I said. “Um.”
Read the rest of this article »

Fire Training

I’ve been attracted to fire from an early age, when dad caught me “mowing” the lawn with a blowtorch.
“I don’t care if it is a controlled burn; you get your butt inside.”
Only recently, when firemen trained in my area, did I learn what dad already knew: Fire is evil.
Training took place at five houses condemned to burn because they were built sometime during the Mesozoic Era. The battalion chief, who oversaw the drill with a stoic air, Constantine at war, said something about PSI, GPM, NFL. From all accounts, they’d be burning things.
The men paired off for assignments: ventilation, support, and—gulp—lying down inside a house WHILE IT BURNED! That person was properly called the “dummy.” So it goes.
The captain’s face turned grim: “It is not macho when someone melts their helmet. Injuries do not impress me. I want you on your bellies.”
You can see why Prometheus, having stolen fire from the gods, was sentenced to have his liver eaten out daily while Mariah Carey played in the background. And why did Prometheus take the blame when, in the same book, we see fire-breathing dragons? I hate plot holes.
Some years later the hippies would set fire to just about everything: draft cards, bras, dolls, several metric tons of controlled flora.
And let’s not forget the Keebler Elves Incident of ‘98: “I don’t know what we were thinking, baking inside a tree!”
Zeus had seen it all coming.
Back at our drill, Constantine praised the men who had worked overtime to prep the location, and they all marched off to their posts. I made like a tree and stood there.
After 30 minutes of bullhorn, they finally got to the good part: “Fire in the hole!”
I plugged my ears for an explosion while the Ignition Group calmly walked inside and dropped a flame on the “class A combustibles”—haystacks, plywood, U.S. currency.
I wonder if an incense factory has ever burned down. Could you see the eleven o’clock news? “And while this fire has caused millions of dollars in damage, the city smells terrific!”
Captain Phil waved me over to House Three. I looked around to make sure he wasn’t crazy. Yes, he nodded, come on up. Did I mention that the house next-door was on fire? I climbed the ladder with that giddy feeling you get on your first field trip, only this blew away the post office.
Across the street, commoners gathered like moths at Lamps Plus. The fire truck blasted three times: last call to get the hell out. I took in the blaze a moment longer, knowing I would never again, with any luck, be so close. The dragon crackled and hissed, spitting cinders our way.
“Once it gets like that,” said Phil, “we just surround and drown. It’s all over.”
Until then, I always imagined that I could run into a burning house and save someone’s life. Now I’m not so sure. I would at least have to know what kind of person it is. See a resume or something.
The firemen de-sooted over Gatorade and smeared charcoal on their faces every time they wiped. You have to admire people who, for our safety, put themselves in a position to die regardless of their plans for the rest of the day.
Constantine applauded his troops for a job well done. A few stayed behind to babysit the hot spots, which could smolder for a week if left unattended. Don’t worry, dad. It’s a controlled burn.
* * *
Jason Love is an award-winning humor columnist, stand-up comedian, and author of “Snapshots: The Big Picture,” available at Amazon.com. Check out more of his work at www.jasonlove.com.

Guys will do anything for a rush: jump out of airplanes, skate on handrails, ride animals that clearly prefer to be left alone. Boys will spin in circles until they black out and collapse (nature’s way of preparing them for keg parties).

Some turn into junkies. You’ll find them on the bungee bridge pleading with management: “Come on, man, one more jump. You know I’m good for it.”

I live near a kitesurfing zone, where people get their kicks with sky bonnets. Here I found kitesurfing champ Wes Matweyew with his bone-deep tan. Wes is always taking off for Costa Rica or Mammoth or some other place where the X-gamers go to risk their lives. It’s a thin line between crazy and courageous. Read the rest of this article »

My folks had me the old-fashioned way: on accident. It didn’t come as a total surprise because they were both taking a fertility drug called Budweiser.

“Warning: Consumption of alcohol may cause and subsequently complicate pregnancy.”

Mom strollered me around as one might the Stanley Cup, announcing my age to strangers: “He’s 52 months, 3 days, 42 minutes, and 12 seconds … 13 … 14 …”

You can imagine my separation issues down the line. We lost our fourth and final babysitter when I threatened to stab her with a fork. Plastic. Mickey Mouse. Read the rest of this article »

Is it just me, or do “special occasions” happen every week? Parent’s Day, Valentine’s Day, National Pet Week. Here’s one: Boss’s Day. Isn’t that Monday through Friday?

And the birthdays just keep comin’. My nephew starts the countdown two months in advance: “Fifty-four days till my birthday. Have you started savin’ up?” Read the rest of this article »

Last time I scrapped was the fourth grade, when Benji Leva spat on my sister at the bus stop. I pulled the bully’s raincoat over his head, kicked him in the backpack, and bolted to school as fast as I could.Would you believe I had no formal training?

That all changed when I met welterweight champ George Sylva, who taught me the ropes (and how to stay off of them). I had a few things working against me. One, I am skinny; two, I’m white; and three, my HMO is so weak that it covers only an apple a day. So it goes. Read the rest of this article »

My mom has always been creative. A long time ago-back when “Saturday Night Live” was funny-she’d decorate cakes to look like soccer fields, pyramids, women endowed with Hostess Sno-Balls.You lost your innocence early in my home.

Mom works for the bank-THE bank-so her creative urges surface through cracks in the sidewalk. She mostly takes it out on the holidays.

At Christmas her tree is so burdened with ornaments that it leans to one side like Joe Cocker and children place the star on top without even stretching. Read the rest of this article »

Got a cat recently.When you announce that you’re having a baby, everyone applauds and cheers. Tell ‘em you got a cat and they’re like, “Oh, I’m sorry. I-I didn’t realize it was that bad.”

So it goes.

When I got the cat, the owner said that he, the animal, talks a lot; and I thought, “Hey, cool, like Garfield.”

Turns out that talking is more like nails on chalkboard: MEEEOW. MEEEEOW. But then you reach down to pet him, and he runs away.

That’s the difference between a cat and a dog: A dog wants your attention; a cat wants you to be “less neglectful.”

My Sam likes to sniff his butt-and you would too if you could-but when he looks up, he’s got this crazed expression like he’s sniffing a totally different kind of crack. I asked a local vet what it meant and he said, “How should I know? I fought in a war.” Read the rest of this article »

Someone suggested that I take a long walk on a short pier…

“You need to lighten up, man.”

That was Yahaira. She used to be my wife; now she’s my best friend (she got demoted after our divorce). Yahaira lives down the street, and we gossip through the night about our love lives.

“Let’s have an adventure,” she said.

And what made more sense than overnight camping for two people who don’t own a tent. We borrowed supplies from an over-trusting neighbor and arrived at the campground shortly after eleven … p.m.

“We got a little lost,” said Yahaira. Read the rest of this article »

It was a typical day—chop wood, carry water—when I got a pop-up from Symantec: “Your Norton virus definitions are about to expire. Renew now?”

I thought virus definitions went on forever like the giant tortoise or Dick Clark. Evidently, they have to be renewed any time Norton demands “payment.”

The Internet was such a good idea on paper. Now we tiptoe through the day afraid of spyware and macros and worms—oh, my. It’s enough to make you become a plumber.

What do hackers get out of the virus anyway? They’re not even around to enjoy their evil. It’s like ordering a pizza to someone else’s house:
“I’ll bet they’re opening the door right now … I’ll just bet …” Read the rest of this article »

Due to technical difficulty, I scheduled with Dr. Klope a sperm count. Talk about tedious jobs. Can you see that poor guy over the microscope?
“1,634… 1,635… wait, did I count that one?”

Dr. Klope had one opening, eight a.m., which is way too early for sperm. A man might wake up with driftwood on his beach, but that doesn’t mean he’s ready to make a fire. It’s usually noon before I can swing a French kiss. Read the rest of this article »

Every year I look forward to the Super Bowl, and every year it’s like eating a TV dinner—always looks better in the picture.

Nothing, not even Armageddon, could live up to the hoopla. The pregame show begins three weeks before kickoff, when neckless men begin dissecting the games, going backward week by week till they finally get to the beginning…

“Football dates back to the 1800s, when a soccer player decided, on a lark, to pick up the ball and run. Opponents tackled him to the ground, beat him silly, and gave birth to the sport we love today.” Read the rest of this article »

I come from a long line of cheapskates. Our family crest looks like the flag of Japan, only with a big, anxious rear end.

The curse, legend has it, started with a sorceress who appeared as a beggar at the door of my great, great grandfather…

“Dear steward, have ye any spare change for a weary drifter?”

“Spare change?” he said. “You mean MONEY I DON’T NEED ANYMORE?” Read the rest of this article »

I live by a dock where cars are dumped off daily. Hourly. Mercilessly. They pass my street like I-Robots, half-wrapped, en route to Processing.

It’s starting to feel like an elevator full of sumo wrestlers.

“Let me ooouuut!” Read the rest of this article »