Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart shared a link “Charlie Schmidt’s Keyboard Cat! - THE ORIGINAL!”

Marilyn Monroe > John F. Kennedy: Happy Birthday, Mister President!!!

Edgar Allan Poe: The candy cane I had waited all day for just went spattering on the floor/ shattering on the floor/ my evanescent happiness is no more.

 Bob Hope: Why is everything you post so depressing?

Robert Frost: Lost in the middle of nowhere. I think I should have taken that other road.

Friedrich Nietzsche: What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger.

            Martin Luther King Jr.: [Insert generic inspirational quote here]

Karl Marx: Why do I only have 112 friends when others have over a thousand? We should all put our friends in a communal pot then redistribute them evenly.

George Washington Carver added 1,397 photos to the album, “Peanuts. YUM!!!!!!”

Alexander Graham Bell created the event, “Lost phone! Need Numbers!!!!!!”

Alfred Hitchcock: Feel so alone tonight :(

            Emma Jane Hitchcock: A boy’s best friend is his mother! Love you, Sweetie!

Amelia Earhart commented on Marie Curie’s photo:

Bitch, how the hell are you so tan in December?! I hope you’re staying out of those tanning beds; the radiation is bad for you.

Mohandas Gandhi: Always aim at complete harmony of thought and word and deed. Always aim at purifying you’re thoughts and everything will be well.

            Mark Twain: Purifying your thoughts. Your/you’re isn’t that hard to grasp.

Alexander Hamilton and Aaron Burr are now friends.

Napoleon Bonaparte listened to “Ni**as in Paris” by Kanye West and Jay-Z on Spotify.

James Dean: People need to drive faster or not be on the road at all! #GoBackToTheNursingHome

            Henry Ford: This isn’t twitter.

Karen Carpenter asked a question:

Am I fat?

-Yes

-No (I’ll still take this as a yes)

Edward “Blackbeard” Teach: Don’t be fooled by the “Pirate” language option, guys. It’s not an accurate translation at all and is in fact very hard to understand.

Sigmund Freud commented on Lucille Ball’s photo:

I didn’t know you fished. Wow, what a beautiful ass—I mean bass! Oops, slipped ;)  

Walt Disney likes Animation, Magic, and Universal Studios

King Henry VIII is in a relationship with Susan B. Anthony

            Catherine of Aragon: Good luck with that!

Ronald Reagan > Mikhail Gorbachev: I’m writing on your wall. LOL!

William Shakespeare: Surprised my love with a single red rose. With that my wondrous night comes to a close.

Christopher Marlowe: Surprised my love with a single red rose. With that my wondrous night comes to a close.

Mark “Deep Throat” Felt: I love Richard Nixon! Ha! Don’t keep your Facebook open, Mark, you make it easy to break in.  -Dick

Joan of Arc is attending ALL NIGHT DRUNKEN RAGER!!!!!

Jimi Hendrix: Everybody come listen to my band play at the battle of the bands down at Peabody’s! No cover!

Isaac Newton answered the question: 6/2(1+2)= ? with “Fuck you.”

Charlie Chaplin: ……………………(slapstick)…………………………..

Same freelance site as my Horse People post.

The job:

Humorous Writer with Gardening Experience Needed

I need 16 newsletters on quite simple topic. Please read the description.

The title doesn’t mean I need funny stories written. I need newsletters written on ‘Bonsai growing’ topic. You don’t have to be a bonsai master but you should at least know what it feels to plant a tree in your garden.

Why humorous writer? I want you to write in a friendly way. I don’t need scientific language this time. You’ll have to imagine you’re writing a letter for your best friend. If you’re reading this description start your proposal with ‘I love gardening’ thus I will know you’re a serious person that read my description.

I will give you a sequence of 16 topics about bonsai growing and details about each topic. Each letter should be 400-600 words long. Native, simple English language required.

I’m for quality. If I don’t like your work I won’t hesitate to ask to fix it.

That said, please serious offers only.

Have a nice day

My proposal:

I love gardening

Dear Drew,

I just read your letter. I am so sorry you’re not handling the divorce well. How long were you two married? Twelve? Thirteen years? It was thirteen years, wasn’t it? Christ, I’m sorry. I can’t even imagine what that’s like. Look, you’re my best friend and you know I would do anything for you, but when I sent you that first letter asking how you were, I really just wanted to open up a channel of communication so I could discuss bonsai and bonsai cultivation with you. I in no way envisioned this kind of response. Gosh, I’m sorry. I feel strange saying this now, but they really are remarkable plants, Drew. They originated in 6th century Japan, you know. What you’re actually doing is taking a tree capable of growing to full size but restricting its growth so it takes on a miniature but mature appearance. Did she really get the kids AND the house? I thought I remembered you saying you would keep the house. My God, I’m sorry. I’m familiar with the apartment complex you listed as your return address, though. There should be more than enough room for a bonsai there. They’re potted plants, and they’re miniature. Of course, if you’re that far behind on rent payments you may not be there much longer. In that case, hold off on the bonsai purchase until your living situation is more stable. It’s not good to move them around that much. It upsets me to hear you’re still drinking heavily. I just thought enough time had passed that you would be in a better place emotionally. I’m truly sorry. Once you get your bonsai, please make sure you are in a clear mental state when trimming, pruning, and wiring it. You’re just not going to achieve Wabi-sabi otherwise, and trust me, you’ll be very disappointed. I hope you find a new job soon. Shit, man, you’re really in a tough spot right now, aren’t you? Well, you can still get a good bonsai for a relatively cheap price. If you grow it in an informal upright, or “Moyogi,” style, you can generate a beautiful bonsai for little money and effort. And there are such things as indoor bonsai; don’t feel like you need a backyard to grow one. Oh boy, I sincerely hope your situation improves.

Wishing you the best/happy growing,
Corey

There is a website where people want something written, you tell them why you would be a good person to write it, then they hopefully choose you to do the job. Here is my response to the post “Writer for funny horse stories.”

Writer for funny horse stories:

I am looking for a writer who is familiar with horses and horse people. I am looking to get a book written, about 400 words per page, roughly 40-50 pages. A book full of humour, relationships and drama. The book ideally would be filled with real life stories and relationship advice in a fun light style. Writers with good horse knowledge are essential, as you will need to understand the mind of a horse person.

My proposal:

I want you to know that you’ve touched on a very personal subject for me. I grew up on a farm in the Midwest United States. From a young age I’ve been around horses. I actually have a picture of my mom holding me while riding bareback the day after I came home from the neonatal ward. I would like to share a story of a day that changed my life:

One early morning in October of 1972 I found myself hiking through the woods by my house. It was a particularly chilly day. Frost covered the blades of grass with an icy glaze. I was nine years old. I enjoyed picking up sticks and hacking away weeds pretending I was an adventurer in the Amazonian rainforest. My arboreal expedition was interrupted abruptly when I heard the familiar sound of hoofs beating against the frozen ground. I cautiously made my way toward the ever increasing noise. I reached a clearing. The autumn sunrise lit up an expansive field with brilliant rays of light. The image is lucid in my mind. I will never forget the feeling of shock and horror that struck me next. A large group of fifteen to twenty strong, chestnut horse bodies stood no more than 25 meters before me. These were not normal horses, however. Far from it. Right above their front legs where their chest should be was not a horse chest. It was a horse/human hybrid chest. This horse/human hybrid chest transitioned seamlessly to a human head just like yours or mine. These were horse people. Men horse people, women horse people, children horse people. I stood wide eyed trembling ever so slightly as I watched these freaks of nature trot around for a good hour. What kind of sick God would create creatures of this ilk? It’s not right dammit! It’s not right! No being should have equine strength and human intelligence! After this hour I could not take the mental stress anymore and headed for home. My trip back started as a listless walk but soon turned into a frenzied run. I could not get back to my room and away from the horrors I just witnessed fast enough. For days I locked myself in my room eating nothing and pondering existence. The ordeal was a shock to my system I never thought I would encounter. But, as time passed, a weird thing happened. My fear turned into curiosity. I needed to see these horse people again. Every morning at sunrise for the next ten years I visited that field. It became an obsession. Sketches of these creatures covered my walls along with maps tracking their position and extensive lists of phonemes I believed made up their horse people language. Even after ten years, TEN YEARS, I knew next to nothing about these mysterious beings. I would have been happy studying these creatures for the rest of my life, but my parents made me attend college. They never believed my horse person stories. They just thought they were clever, fanciful tales. So I got a degree in accounting, married a grounded woman and started a family. I thought my obsession had met its end until today when I came across this post. Until now, I never met another human being aware of the horse people’s existence, or at least brave enough to admit it. I find it admirable that you wish to get the story out there in the open and shed light on this topic shrouded in uncertainty. You need to know, however, that there is no “understand(ing) the mind of a horse person.” One second they’re performing complex religious ceremonies and the next they’re munch munch munching on hay. The animals (people?) are living a perverted existence outside the grasp of human intelligence. I’m fighting against every fiber of my being that wants to leave this suburb, my wife, my kids, everything, and return to that Midwestern field to live amongst the horse people. But I know such a thing would be futile. I advise you to think the same way. If you do decide to make this book, though, please don’t make it in a “fun light style.” If you knew anything about the horse people’s existence you would know it is dark and morose. Anything but fun and light.

And the response from the poster:

Hi Corey,

Thank you for your interest.

I think you may have a miss understood me. when I said horse people, I meant people who love horses. I didn’t think there was another kind. I have never seen the kind you are referring to. 

You seem very passionate about your experience and you after all are a writer. Have you thought about writing the book for yourself. You can put your name to it or not. Nothing in life is by chance, so have a think about what it is you need to do for yourself. The answer will come to you. If you think the truth is too revealing write the story as a fiction, it would appeal to more people that way. You will know in your heart what to do.

Kind regards

Sue-Ellen

Moments before giving final approval on the back panel design of breakfast staple Raisin Bran, head of Kellogg’s Box Art division David Morgan realized he was on the cusp of making a catastrophic mistake.  For a full six months prior to this fateful day, the entire Box Art division worked nonstop on a design peppered with enjoyable breakfast diversions.  Included in the mock-up set for production were a section of sun trivia, a list of Raisin Bran inspired puns, and a word search including all Raisin Bran related words consumers have grown to love over the years.  Said Morgan, “It’s a shame all our hard work has to be thrown out like this.  Now Raisin Bran consumers will never learn that  one million Earths can fit inside the sun, or giggle to themselves alone at the breakfast table as they read about the sun ‘raisin’ the temperature, or scour a word search for classics like ‘two’ and ‘scoops’ and ‘of’ and ‘raisins.’  But we here at Kellogg’s made a promise many years ago that healthy cereals would have mind numbingly boring boxes.  It came to my attention this morning that one serving of Raisin Bran is a source of seven grams of dietary fiber.  In all good conscience, I can’t send this entertaining box into production knowing that.”  Morgan added that despite narrowly missing disaster, fixing their blunder will be easy.  They’ll just throw blurbs about each Raisin Bran variation Kellogg’s produces on there and that will be that.  The much trickier task in store for the Box Art team is fixing its design for Frosted Flakes.  Thanks to a mistake in understanding Frosted Flakes’ nutritional value, the current design is Tony the Tiger reading a book next to the fireplace surrounded by his grandkids with the line “100 percent of your daily recommended frosting intake” printed above him.     

Playwright’s note: This was for my Theater 101 class and was basically an excuse to fit as many groan-inducing one liners and questionable pop culture references into 6-8 minutes as I could.

(Hail to the Chief plays as President enters bedroom.  The President and First Lady begin talking after a long day as they get ready for bed.)

President: What did I tell them about playing that whenever I enter a room?  It was cool the first six months, but now it’s getting old. I want it played only when I make my morning constitutional.  How was your day, honey?

First Lady: It was awful.  I forgot my coupons at Whole Foods and had to pay full price for Reese’s Puffs.  Then when I got home I turned on your speech.  And I gotta say, for being first lady, I don’t feel like I come first in your life.  Forty five minutes and you didn’t mention me once.

President: But the topic was political unrest in the Middle East.

First Lady: Even Brad Pitt thanks Angelina Jolie during his speeches and she’s not even his wife.

President: Well I’ll mention you next time.

First Lady: It’s always next time with you—like when you didn’t share my idea for reducing unemployment by making sure job applicants give firmer handshakes during their interviews.

President: Really, dear, I’m sorry.  Can we just drop it?  I’ve had a hard day.  I was trying to sign a bill, and all of the pens were twisty-bottoms.  It took me twenty minutes to figure out how to use them.  It was so humiliating.  And for lunch, I took the Israeli prime minister to the presidential cafeteria and the special was pulled pork sandwiches.  Then I was giving an old friend a tour of Washington today and kept referring to the Pentagon as the Hexagon.  It was just awful.

First Lady: How about the talk with the school children?  Did that go well at least?

President: Yes and no.  They were impressed when I told them about the presidential movie theatre and bowling alley, but I didn’t realize I would be talking to foreign exchange students.  The only buttons I had to pass out said, “When I grow up I can be President.”

First Lady: Well tomorrow will be better because it’s Friday! Friday! Gotta get down on Friday!  Partyin’, Partyin’—

President: (President fist pumps) Yeah!

First Lady: Speaking of partyin’, I got a new dress for the State Dinner this Saturday.

President: Is that this Saturday night?  But I always watch My Date With the President’s Daughter the second Saturday of every month.

First Lady: You can just watch it on Friday.

President: Psshhh!  That’ll be the same.

(Goes to get dress, then shows it to President)

First Lady: Here what do you think of the dress?

President: Whoa! The whole world doesn’t need to see your Washington Monuments.

First Lady: You think it’s too revealing?

President: I think it’s revealing more classified information than Wikileaks.

First Lady: Alright I get the point I’ll return it.  Have you thought any more about our vacation?

President: Yeah, let’s go to Disney World.  We have to check out the Hall of Presidents.  I specifically asked them to make my animatronic look like a cross between myself and George Clooney and have the voice of Morgan Freeman.  I hope they followed my request.  But I don’t want to go to Epcot.  I’ve seen more than enough of France and Mexico in real life; I don’t need to visit a re-creation.

First Lady: Alright, as long as we see the Country Bear Jamboree.  There’s just something I love about woodland creatures playing guitars, banjos, and fiddles.

President: There is something endearing about it.  That’s why I always love watching your mother play the guitar.

First Lady: Hey!  Don’t talk about my mother like that.  At least she has a talent.  Your mom’s greatest talent is managing to find the one piece of furniture that doesn’t match white walls.

President: That’s not true at all.  Interior design runs in our family.  Wait until you hear about the ideas I have for the Lincoln Bedroom. 

First Lady: You’re going to put wallpaper with a top hat pattern up aren’t you?

President: You’ve been reading my diary again.

First Lady: You hide it in the cabinet underneath the sink in the bathroom.  Whenever I need toilet paper I find it.

President: Then you’ve read about my ideas for a puppy.

First Lady: I have, and I’m not too crazy about them.  I honestly don’t even know what a German Shepinscher Collabradoodle is.  The sketch you made next to it didn’t really help.  I’m pretty sure you just drew the three headed dog from Harry Potter.

President: It would be the coolest breed ever, and that was just an artist’s rendering.

First Lady: Dogs need a lot of attention and I don’t think you can give it to him with all of your traveling and obligations.  You’re not going to be around to House-train him, let alone Senate-train him.

President: Can’t the Secret Service just do that?

First Lady: The Secret Service couldn’t even manage to keep Commander-in-Reef alive, and he was just a fish.  We can get a dog after your term is over.

President: But I really need a dog.  My approval ratings are in the gutter.  The entire country blames me for the economy being in shambles.  Everywhere I go I feel like a public enemy.  And every night I lie in bed and think about the young men serving overseas and dying every day.  I’m in charge of those soldiers.  I’m the reason families are torn apart.  Then sometimes I come home and you tell me how you don’t feel like you come first in my life.  There are times I feel like not a single person on this planet likes me.  But a dog will love me no matter what.  It’ll always wait for me at the door with its tail wagging, tongue out, and ears perked.  I need that dog, I just need it…

First Lady: I had no idea you felt that way.  I’ll always love you no matter what, but if a dog will make you feel better then of course we can get one.

President: Thanks, dear, I knew you’d understand.  Trust me, you’ll love Lord Barksworth.  Hey, did you hear they want me to throw the first pitch at a Nationals game?

First Lady: Well that’s exciting.

President: I’m really nervous.  I haven’t thrown a baseball since my days playing Little League.  But I do spend hours throwing peanuts at squirrels whenever we go to Camp David, and those little buggers are quick.  Pitching a baseball to a stationary catcher can’t be harder than that.

First Lady: See you’ll do fine.  Isn’t being famous amazing?  Like, before I was first lady Krispy Kreme would always serve me old donuts when I asked for a dozen glazed.  Now I’m always served 12 fresh off the conveyor belt.  I love having that kind of pull.

President: That’s nothing.  Whenever I go to Krispy Kreme, they let me lick the glaze out of the bottom of the bowl.

First Lady: You know my ex-boyfriend from high school used to work at a Krispy Kreme.  He was actually voted most likely to be president.  He’s an actor now.  He played “Reporter #1” in an episode of L.A. Law.  He added me on facebook the other day.

President: You accepted him as a friend?  What’s his name?

First Lady: Of course I did, it’s been over 25 years.  His name is Kevin Roberts.  He wants to come visit the White House sometime.  It would be nice to catch up.

President: That sounds terrific!  Maybe I can call up my ex-girlfriends and we can all play board games together.  If Kevin makes any passes at you we might get a real life game of Clue going.  Spoiler alert: it was me with my bare hands in front of everybody.

First Lady: Oh stop.  If an ex-girlfriend of yours wanted to visit I would be fine with it.  So which one do you want to invite over?  The girl with the lazy eye or the one with lots of cats?

President: Watch yourself; Mandy and Rita were respectable women…just not as good as you.

First Lady: Good save.  I’m the best woman in the world for you.  Do you still remember the day we met?

President: Of course.  We were at a Neil Diamond concert.  Do you remember what song was playing?

First Lady: Of course.  Sweet Caroline!  Do you remember where we went afterward?

President: Of course.  Denny’s!  I got the Grand Slam and you got the—

First Lady: Moons over my Hammy!

President: And we shared a Root Beer float.  Good times.

First Lady: Great times.  I remember it like it was yesterday.

(President’s cell phone rings)

President: Hello?

Hi mom.

Yeah I got your email.

I’m sorry, I’ve been busy.

Yes you’re more important than the country, Mom.

Yeah she’s right here.

What do you mean?

No she didn’t do anything, she’s always looked that way.

Ok, Mom, I’ll let her know that’ll help.

I’ll talk to you later.  Bye.

I love you too.  Bye.

First Lady: What was that about?

President: Oh she was just talking about how your face looked funny on TV the other day and she thought you had some work done.

First Lady: What do you mean looked funny?

President: Oh never mind.  You know how she is.  Always thinking she knows best.

First Lady: Will she ever stop ragging on me?

President: Well no one is ever good enough for her son, you know that.  But it doesn’t matter what she thinks, you’re perfect to me.  You’re my first lady, second to none. 

First Lady: Good.  So what’s on the agenda for tomorrow?

President: Well I have to get briefed in the morning, then I have a meeting with the press secretary, and I’m addressing congress after that.  When I get home I have to get in touch with a breeder to see if we can get Lord Barksworth to happen.  What about you?

First Lady: I have to book a room for our Disney trip, I guess I have to return my dress, and I have to meet with the event planner to put the final touches on the State Dinner.

President: Busy days for both of us yet again. Well, I guess we should be getting to bed.  Good night, First Lady.

First Lady: Good night, Mister President.

THE END

Researchers at the University of California, San Diego have concluded a two year study with findings that small talk, any talk at all really, with even a marginally attractive member of the opposite sex will leave a male with a throbbing erection in his pants.  One thousand men from the ages of 18 to 45 with varying levels of hormones were tested throughout the study to see what topics of conversation incite a sex response in males. No matter the conditions, the men almost never ceased to get a hard-on when faced with talk about the weather, current pop culture fads, the workplace, or virtually any other subject in the minutiae of human life.  Said lead researcher Dr. Wu, “An unbelievable 99.9 percent of men appeared to be smuggling a banana in their pants just moments after receiving verbal cues from a person with two X chromosomes.  It didn’t matter if she said she believes Legally Blonde 2—Red White & Blonde was the finest movie of the century, told the man that she’s having trouble finding a high quality sweater that looks good on her Yorkie, or presented an illogical argument for why there shouldn’t be a twenty minute time limit on tanning beds, if it appeared she had a vagina then he had a boner.  I mean the only reason there’s even the .1 percent that didn’t get wood was because a eunuch somehow got into the subject pool.  I didn’t even know those existed anymore.”  According to the researchers, halfway through the study attention turned to finding topics of conversation that didn’t cause an instant stiffy.  While the physiological process is still shrouded in uncertainty, talk of kids or marriage appears to be the only viable way to stop a man from jousting his trousers.  In fact, the broaching of such matters is capable of causing life threatening stoppages of blood flow in the body.  When asked what has been gained from this study, Dr. Wu responded, “Not much.  We just further proved that men are massive horn dogs.  But we did come up with a PSA centered around the slogan, ‘Don’t get a penis riled, talk about your child.’”

A band from New Jersey has created the saddest song to ever be heard by human ears, weeping sources report.  Fans and critics alike were shocked by the underground death-metal band Autopsy Bloodbath foregoing their usual songs full of distorted guitar, blast beat drumming, growling vocals, and lyrics referencing satanic worship and necrophilia for an acoustic song with orchestral and choral accompaniment and lyrics covering an eclectic mix of complex emotional topics that collectively create an auditory sensation sure to rip the listener’s heart out and force him to sob uncontrollably for hours.  In the past, honors for “World’s Saddest Song” have been debated between hits such as “Concrete Angel”, “Cat’s in the Cradle”, “Nothing Compares 2 U”, and “If You’re Reading This”, but now the debate is over.  This new song, whose title just appears as desperate, abstract scribbling in black crayon and charcoal, contains references to child abuse, father-son relationship issues, brutal breakups, and atrocities of war among every other depressing quality known to human life.  A noticeably shaken Newark resident Kim Reynolds reported, “After regaining my composure, I went through the lyrics thinking they must have missed some cause of human sadness, but no they covered them all.  From getting fired, to the death your dog to losing yreo prtb [approximately 30 minutes of unintelligable sobbing].  Oh God, I’m sorry. They got it all.”  Rolling Stone writer Robert Adams said, ”Following the two and a half minute segment of newly widowed women crying, I didn’t think it could get any worse.  But then the chorus of poor orphan children singing about not having toys or parents for Christmas made me doubt there was any good in the world at all.  Lord, I thought “The Christmas Shoes” was bad—excuse me I have something in my eye.” 

Clocking in at an agonizing seventeen and a half minutes, the song is sure to have any listener, even those who just got engaged or landed the big promotion, to be an empty, hollow shell of his former self.  Talks of making a music video of the song are already in the works.  Preliminary ideas include showing beaten puppies, twenty-one year old women kneeling over the graves of their deceased soldier husbands, and a repeating loop of planes crashing into the World Trade Centers and the subsequent shock and panic that ensued.  While the world is sure to become a dark, hopeless place in lieu of this song release, New Jersey residents took solace in the fact that that’s how they viewed the state already.

Mr. Fluffington, the stuffed bear and all-knowing night guardian of local 6 year old Jimmy Garners, was exposed this past weekend as nothing more than a giant pussy who is just as scared as, maybe even more scared than, Jimmy himself.  When it came to dangers of the night, Mr. Fluffington served as a fearless warrior ready to protect and defend Jimmy for three years.  At the first sound of a monster shifting under the bed, a dark creature turning the door knob from inside the closet, or that menacing entity living in Mommy and Daddy’s room occasionally slamming the head board against the wall in a rhythmic manner, Jimmy was able to invoke Mr. Fluffington’s unrivaled power of protection by simply squeezing the bear tightly in his arms.  Immediately, an impenetrable barrier would form around his bed assuring an almost magical refuge.  When approached to explain how he was able to keep his nerves in check long enough to come through during these trying times,  Mr. Fluffington responded, “Shit!  I’m supposed to be protecting him?!  Have you seen the shadows that tree outside casts on the walls in here?  And heard the creaks the doors and old floorboards in this house make?!  Oh God, I’m gonna need an Ambien.”  Mr. Fluffington was last seen perched on the windowsill staring wide eyed at the setting sun, rocking back and forth in the fetal position, and repeating the Lord’s Prayer in an unending loop.