Google+ swCj71E42RfqfgWx3JOogUovB8w Dumbass News : o77OwPu8GHYudT_bxY1ohX-tzdw

Tuesday, March 3, 2015

Disease at the Dumbass Dome: Puking In the School Lunch Room Drama!

Things are swirling around the ol' Porcelain Pony these days at the Dumbass Dome.

Literally.

Over the last week, each member of the First Family of Dumbassery has/is/is again experiencing symptoms of The Crud.

The Crud is a debilitating disorder that manifests itself with any or all of the following maladies, individually or in sadistic combination with one another:

  • A "croupy" cough that sounds like a flock of caffeine-laden Canada geese with emphysema.
  • A headache that feels like someone is pounding you about your skull with 16 pound sledge hammer.
  • Sounds resembling a Mack Truck diesel engine eminating from the stomach-ular region.
  • Nausea of the kind you would get if you chugged a quart of Liquid Plumber.
  • Chunky Style Projectile Puking.
  • Anal emissions that mirror a rancid chocolate milk-battery acid milk shake. This is known as Ass Effects.

In short, that is The Crud.

I have been battling The Crud for seven or eight days, but the currently most-afflicted member of the First Family of Dumbassery is my 12 year old daughter, Issy.

I got call from the Nurse at Issy's school Friday after noon informing me that Issy had just completed an exemplary demonstration of Chunky Style Projectile Puking.

I went and picked her up from school and brought her back to the Dumbass Dome.

After much rest and a bunch of Motherly TLC from Mrs. Fearless Leader, plus the requisite bitchin' and moanin' that accompanies a case of The Crud as experienced by a 12 year old girl, Monday morning arrived and Issy declared that she was feeling well enough to go back to school.

Until just after lunch.

One bite of a cheeseburger and a gulp of milk later, Issy's tummy told her otherwise. By "told her
otherwise" I mean that Issy spewed chunks into her lunch tray!

One of Issy's Alert-and-Sharp-as-a-Ball-Peen-Hammer friends took quick notice of the unfolding drama.

Here's the scene as I understand it:

Issy: Raaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaallllllllllllllfffffffffff!!!!!!!!!!!! eleventy!!!!!!

Alert-and-Sharp-as-a-Ball-Peen-Hammer Friend: (Very Loudly) My homie's throwing up!

Issy: Baaaaaarrrrrrrrfffffff!

Alert-and-Sharp-as-a-Ball-Peen-Hammer Friend: (787 Jumbo Jet Air Bus Decibel Level) Yo! My Homie's heavin' here!

Issy: Blllllleeeeeeeeeeeeecccccccccchhhhhhhhh!!!!!

Alert-and-Sharp-as-a-Ball-Peen-Hammer Friend: Hey, motherfuckers! My homie is Projectile Puking Chunky Style ovah heah! <---said accent.="" maine="" noticeable="" p="" very="" with="">
OK...I made up the "motherfuckers" part, but the rest of the story is pretty much verbatim as it was told to me.

Issy was taken to the School Nurse, again, who in turn called me, again, and I went to get Issy, again, brought her home and Mrs. Fearless Leader is once again doing a bang-up job of Mommy-ing our Little Girl back to health.

I do think Issy is feeling better now. The Little Shit just ate a large serving of Extra Spicy Hormel Chili (with beans), or as it is now known Ass Effects In a Can.

Raaaaaaaaaaallllllllllffffffffffffff!!!! eleventy!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Dumbass.


Monday, March 2, 2015

Dumbass Car Theft Tip: How Not to Use a Brick (VIDEO)



Karma is a brick.....




Dumbass.

Proud Dumbass, Proud Texan: What It Means to Be a Texan by Coach Bum Phillips

Home: Colors Provided by God

What your about to read is something that every Texan should dust off and read every once in a while. We often take for granted what a special place God gave us as a Home and this story will remind and humble us at the same time.

I think as a Texas ex-pat living in New England, I see Texas from a different perspective than those of you still living there. Maybe not being able to go fishing in my beloved East Texas or see for the first time ever the raw beauty and magnificence of Big Bend will do that to a guy. Although I choose to live here, I miss Texas terribly, but she is always in my heart.

God has blessed her, but he has blessed me infinitely more by gracing me with privilege, nay Honor, of being a Texan.

WHAT IT MEANS TO BE A TEXAN
by Bum Phillips


Dear Friends,

Last year, I wrote a small piece about what it means to me to be a Texan. My friends know it means about damned near everything. Anyway, this fella asked me to reprint what I'd wrote and I didn't have it. So I set out to think about rewriting something. I considered writing about all the great things I love about Texas. There are way too many things to list. I can't even begin to do it justice.

Lemme let you in on my short list.

It starts with The Window at Big Bend, which in and of itself is proof of God. It goes to Lake Sam Rayburn where my Grandad taught me more about life than fishin, and enough about fishin to last a lifetime. I can talk about Tyler, and Longview, and Odessa and Cisco, and Abilene and Poteet and every place in between.

Every little part of Texas feels special. Every person who ever flew the Lone Star thinks of Bandera or Victoria or Manor or wherever they call "home" as the best little part of the best state.

So I got to thinkin about it, and here's what I really want to say.

Last year, I talked about all the great places and great heroes who make Texas what it is. I talked about Willie and Waylon and Michael Dell and Michael DeBakey and my Dad and LBJ and Denton Cooley. I talked about everybody that came to mind. It took me sitting here tonight reading this stack of emails and thinkin about where I've been and what I've done since the last time I wrote on this occasion to remind me what it is about Texas that is really great.

You see, this last month or so I finally went to Europe for the first time. I hadn't ever been, and didn't too much want to. But you know all my damned friends are always talking about "the time they went to Europe." So, I finally went. It was a hell of a trip to be sure. All they did when they saw me was say the same thing, before they'd ever met me. "Hey cowboy, we love Texas." I guess the hat tipped em off.

But let me tell you what, they all came up with a smile on their faces. You know why? They knew for damned sure that I was gonna be nice to em.  They knew it cause they knew I was from Texas. They knew something that hadn't even hit me. They knew Texans, even though     they'd never met one.

That's when it occurred to me. Do you know what is great about Texas? Do you know why when my friend Beverly and I were trekking across country to see 15 baseball games we got sick and had to come home after 8?  Do you know whyevery time I cross the border I say, "Lord, please don't let me die in_____"?  Do you know why children in Japan can look at a picture of the great State and know exactly what it is about the same time they can tell a rhombus from a trapezoid?

I can tell you that right quick. You.

The samespirit that made 186 men cross that line in the sand in San Antonio damned near 165 years ago is still in you today. Why else would my friend send me William Barrett Travis' plea for help in an email just a week ago, or why would Charles Stanfield ask me to reprint a Texas Independence column from a year ago? What would make my friend Elizabeth say, "I don't know if I can marry a man who doesn't love Texas like I do?" Why in the hell are 1,000 people coming to my house this weekend to celebrate a holiday for what usedto be a nation that is now a state?

Because the spirit that made that nation is the spirit that burned in every person who founded this great place we call Texas, and they passed it on through blood or sweat to everyone of us.

You see, that spirit that made Texas what it is is alive in all of us, even if we can't stand next to a cannon to prove it, and it's our responsibility to keep that fire burning. Every person who ever put a"Native Texan" or an "I wasn't born in Texas but I got here as fast as I could" sticker on his car understands.

Anyone who ever hung a map of Texas on their wall or flew a Lone Star flag on their porch knows what I mean. My Dad's buddy Bill has an old saying. He says that some people were forged of a hotter fire. Well, that's what it is to be Texan. To be forged of a hotter fire. To know that part of Colorado was Texas. That part of New Mexico was Texas. That part of Oklahoma was Texas. Yep. Talk all you want. Part of what you got was what we gave you. To look at a picture of Idaho or Istanbul and say, "what the Hell is that?" when you know that anyone in Idaho or Istanbul who sees a picture of Texas knows damned good and well what it is. It isn't the shape, it isn't the state, it's the state of mind.

You're what makes Texas. The fact that you would take 15 minutes out of your day to read this, because that's what Texas means to you, that's what makes Texas what it is. The fact that when you see the guy in front of you litter you honk and think, "Sonofabitch. Littering on MY highway."

When was the last time you went to a person's house in New York and you saw a big map of New York on their wall? That was never. When did you ever drive through Oklahoma and see their flag waving on four businesses in a row? Can you even tell me what the flag in Louisiana looks like? I damned sure can't. But I bet my ass you can't drive 20 minutes from your house and not see a business that has a big Texas flag as part of its logo. If you haven't done business with someone called AllTex something or Lone Star somebody or other, or Texas such and such, you hadn't lived here for too long.

When you ask a man from New York what he is, he'll say a stockbroker, or an accountant, or an ad exec. When you ask a woman from California what she is, she'll tell you her last name or her major. Hell either of em might say "I'm a republican," or they might be a democrat. When you ask a Texan what they are, before they say, "I'm a Methodist," or "I'm a lawyer," or "I'm a Smith," they tell you they're a Texan.

I got nothin against all those other places, and Lord knows they've probably got some fine folks, but in your gut you know it just like I do, Texas is just a little different.

So tomorrow when you drive down the road and you see a person broken down on the side of the road, stop and help. When you are in a bar in California, buy a Californian a drink and tell him it's for Texas Independence Day. Remind the person in the cube next to you that he wouldn't be here enjoying this if it weren't for Sam Houston, and if he or she doesn't know the story, tell them.

When William Barrettt Travis wrote in 1836 that he would never surrender and he would have Victory or Death, what he was really saying was that he and his men were forged of a hotter fire. They weren't your average everyday men. Well, that is what it means to be a Texan. It meant it then, and that's why it means it today. It means just what all those people North of the Red River accuse us of thinking it means. It means there's no mountain that we can't climb. It means that we can swim the Gulf in the winter. It means that Earl Campbell ran harder and Houston is bigger and Dallas is richer and Alpine is hotter and Stevie Ray was smoother and God vacations in Texas. It means that come Hell or high water, when the chips are down and the Good Lord is watching, we're Texans by damned, and just like in 1836, that counts for something.

So for today at least, when your chance comes around, go out and prove it. It's true because we believe it's true. If you are sitting wondering what the Hell I'm talking about, this ain't for you. But if the first thing you are going to do when the Good Lord calls your number is find the men who sat in that tiny mission in San Antonio and shake their hands, then you're the reason I wrote this night, and this is for you.

So until next time you hear from me, God Bless and Happy Texas Independence Day.
 
Texas is the damnedest Lady you ever saw - John Wayne.

Amen, Duke. Amen.

***Thanks to texfiles.com***

I Don't: Guy Calls in Bomb Threat to Halt His Wedding!



Best of Dumbass News

Planning a wedding is a difficult proposition.

You've gotta line up rings, tuxes, a wedding gown, bridesmaids' dresses, a caterer, music, a Priest/Minister and most importantly, booze.

Tradition, as I understand it, has the Bride and her chosen co-conspirators helpers doing the heavy lifting on most of these matters.

Sometimes, the Groom takes responsibility for some of the necessary components of the wedding.

This is a bad idea.

very bad idea.

How the hell is a Guy supposed to deal with shit like this? I mean, his mind is probably a thousand miles away from actually taking part in something of this nature. A Groom's thoughts meander aimlessly from "It would be a great day to go fishing" to "How the fuck am I gonna sober up in time for...for...what was I supposed to be doing today?"

You can see why assigning Necessary Wedding Tasks to a guy who is about to go from a life of drinking beer for breakfast, running around the house in his underwear and scratching his nuts whenever he wants to, to a life of being married and drinking beer for breakfast, running around the house in his underwear and scratching his nuts whenever he wants to, may not be in the best interest of a couple's nuptials going off as planned, no matter how meticulously things have been strategerized for The Big Day.

Explosive Wedding

A Groom-to-be in London had at least one very simple but very important Necessary Wedding Task to perform.

It was his Sole Responsibility to book the venue for the wedding.

He forgot.

Now, this is not the End of the World or even the End of the Meticulously Planned Prim and Proper English Wedding.

While it was certainly a Major Pain in the Ass and presented a Large Logistical Problem, a solution to this dilemma could have been (relatively) easy to come by.

Except for The Bomb Threat!

Yes, Dumbass Horde, rather than face the consequences of his actions like a man, the Groom called in a bomb threat forty-five minutes before the ceremony!

This was not a wise thing to do.

While the British may be known for keeping a Stiff Upper Lip, they are also known for being extremely fond
of protocol and etiquette. And calling in a bomb threat hoax less than hour before your wedding is to take place is, to the British mind, bad form, Old Boy.

A judge in Liverpool agrees. He sentenced the Groom to a year in prison.

At this point of the story you would think that all the weirdness would have been put on full display for all to see, wouldn't you?

You'd be wrong.

After doing his time in the British Big House, other than having a poop chute the size of a silver dollar, the Groom's life won't really be that much different than it was before this incident.

The Bride, you know the one left waiting at the altar when the Groom called in the bomb threat hoax, will be waiting for him upon completion of his prison sentence!

Knock me over with a crumpet.

Dumbasses.
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