Original article posted by Cuerpo_de_Muerto:

The Dairy Association, taking their “got milk?” campaign to Mexico translated their slogan into Spanish. Unfortunately, it came out as “are you lactating?”

Johnson Wax. When Johnson introduced their furniture cleaner Pledge in the Neatherlands, they disn’t know that, in Dutch, “pledge” means “piss”.

…the worse is yet to come

Gerber Baby Food. When Gerber used the same packaging strategy in Africa they used in America–a picture of the Gurber baby on the label–they apparently disn’t realize that since many Africans don’t read, it’s standard practice is to put pictures of the contents on the jar labels.


Orginal comments:

Nickname: Dyistar
Re: wipe out
I’ve heard those before. It’s funny stuff! There were a few more but I can’t remember them.


Original article posted by Soft_Pen:

A one-time apostle in my church said: “If I had to choose between living in St. George, and living in Hell, I’d sell the house in St. George”.

I recently read an article in the NG (that’s the National Geographic to you, Mr./Mrs. uninitiated) relating the story of one of the biggest mysteries of American archaeology. It was the discovery of ancient indian ruins near Phoenix, Arizona. What amazed the archaeologists was the ominous paucity of air-conditioning units. To quote Dr. Theobold Skullduggery (what a pun!): “We have criss-crossed this valley a thousand times, and the only device we found capable of producing a cool, soothing breeze was a tanned cat hide (complete with cuddly little face still attached) stretched across a matrix of sticks in the shape of an oriental fan. It’s no wonder these people are extinct- they melted to death, along with the dinosaurs and Dick Clark. Well, we can’t prove that about Dick Clark, but we’re working on it”.

I don’t know about you folks, but that ain’t gonna happen to me! Before I go the way of the summer snowman, a wonderful thing will happen. Now, if I tell you, don’t go blabbing it to the whole wide world, cause there isn’t going to be room for everybody, and the last thing we need is a global panic. As early as the summer of 2011, and certainly no later than 2012, I will be launched into space, to meet up with the intrepid crew of the Satellite of Love. While the rest of the world burns up that summer, I will be cruising the galactic highways, cool and comfortable, with Joel, Tom Servo and Crow. My only worries will be micro meteorites, alien aggressors, and the repeated attempts on my life by that diabolic duo, Dr. Clayton Forrester and TV’s Frank.

Like I said, can we keep this between us? I might be willing to let you come along, provided you can prove you have something useful to offer in humanity’s ultimate expedition. Like the ability to darn socks, for example.


Orginal comments:

Nickname: Edward_Nigma
Re: “In the Not Too Distant Future…”
Just remeber you can party with Torgo, but he doesnt take American Express.

Original article posted by Olorle:

Once upon a time there was a beautiful fairy. Her job was to go through the land showing people the joy of coherent sentences and useful grammatical construction. Then, one day, she came across a terrible place where people viciously and mercilessly butchered her beautiful language into incomprehensible chunks of non-sense. In fact, it was so very bad that after someone used the word “physicist” instead of “psychiatrist” that she went into a horrible seizure and had to be rushed off to the emergency room. Fortunately, modern science was able to repair the damage to her body. Less fortunately, they could not repair the damage to her fragile fairy psyche.

Upon her release from the hospital she snapped her glittery fairy wand in half and replaced it with an old rusty scythe. No longer will she spread joy through the land. No longer will she spread flowers over thoughts put coherently into words on a page. Instead she flies through the night hunting those that would so horribly mangle and torture her beloved language, turning it into a weapon against those who would attempt to understand the wielder. Now she teaches in the only language these people seem to understand.

Orginal comments:

Nickname: ravenpaine
Re: The Written Word Fairy
I hear that in secret godless places she has recruited a number of straight shooting suits that visciously murder bad grammar in all of its vile forms. Tales of their brutal and swift methods have been told in the darkest corners of the seediest bars for a decade, but as of yet, I have not met them.

Although recruitment is always open few survive the harsh intensive initiation rituals.


Nickname: Chellee
Re: The Written Word Fairy
Oh, the beloved Written Word Fairy is indeed gone. Many a colleague she had shown the way. Now there are only horrifyingly stupid people wandering around forming deformed sentences that must be translated, transcribed, and transformed into something a bit more “coherent”. I’m positive that although the scythe looks rusty, it’s really covered in coagulated, dried blood.

And all I can say is, “Amen, sista!!!”

Original article posted by Olorle:

On my way to class today I was drawn by fate down the path leading me through the Student center on campus. In the living room, new furniture was being brought in. In and of itself, this means little to me. I spend a small enough portion of my life sitting in that living room that the comfort-factor of the chairs means rather little to me. On the other hand, the love-seat sized boxes that furniture was delivered in intruiged me, to say the least. But, being a good little student I instead hurried off to buy treats to help me survive the over-sized history class full of enough inatentive morons to harm any right minded, intelligent human being.
Anywho, class was survivable and, as is inevitably the case, the first moment the proffessor let up, the class started packing and that was it for the day. To avoid being in the cold for any longer than is absolutely neccessary Rodney and I cut through the Sharwan, as is par for our standard sweep away from history. The furniture was no longer filling the precious precious boxes.
Now perhaps not everyone still mantains my child-like fascination with over-sized cardboard cubes, but I tell you that anyone who wasn’t at least tempted by the stack of over-sized boxes is a fool. Fortunately, between Rodney’s promptings and someone else happening to be offered a smaller box I was able to convince myself to ask for one of the boxes before they could be thrown out. With that, Rodney and I each grabbed an end and marched off out the doors. Well, tried to anyway. The smaller single door had no desire to assist us. It’s about time that the double doors were usefull.
Of course, transporting a large box across campus draws even more odd looks than walking across campus as the guy with cat-ears and the man-in-a-hat. You’d think people would become more jaded over time. Perhaps desensitizing is more difficult than the media pretends.
The two more notable reactions were the man who attempted to not clear off the side-walk to let us through, and the old guy across the street. The first person was forced to give way as we refused to yield, as carrying an over-sized box obviously gave us the right of way. The old man was much nicer, offering to give us a wheel-barrow full of snow to fill our box. We were forced to decline, as the water-proofedness of the box was still in question.
Our way-point at Hastings’ house once agian pointed out how unlikely it was that our box would fit through a normal sized door. We set it up behind the house instead, where Rodney noted what prime realestate we would have if this were a larger city. A shame it’s not. I could use the extra money.
After our visit we decided it was time to get the box to Rodney’s house and set off down the street. With some quick thinking, Rodney determined that putting the box on our shoulders would make the walk a lot easier. Being at the tail end of the box, I decided standing underneath it and letting the box just rest on my shoulders was the best way to travel. So was born our cardboard submarine. Far more effective than having to find wheels and a hill to create our cardboard auto.
There was a brief moment when our poor ship scraped heftily against some tree-branches, but we pressed through and made it to port… er… Rodney’s. With excelent timeing, as fate would have it. We stashed the box and stopped the man who was there to shut off the power.
Now, I regretablly have to go sit through another class. Once it’s over, though, I’m off to find a big magic marker so I can properly turn our box into a variety of useful objects.

Original article posted by Greg:

My first thought was that she was one of those waitresses who has been doing it for so long that she’s just kinda ‘eh’ about it all. You know, like she’s been serving so long that it’s all automatic.

I was very. Very. Wrong.

I think what we finally decided was that she was some sort of pod-person. Although I, personally, have not yet ruled out Morlock. We figure there must have been some sort of accident, so she had to be sent in to replace the real waitress before the pod-waitress had fully developed her motor-skills and human-interaction abilities.

Our first clue should have come when we walked into the steakhouse. There were 2 occupied tables, and no music. It was eerie. There was no sound. Our bald-headed guide, Jon, stood in front of us – smile affixed firmly – gesturing towards a lonely table in the center of the room as if saying “Please bring forth the Kool Aide With Arsenic so that our membership might partake and become one with the bliss that awaits us in the new Irish Themed Space Heaven.” It was like some sort of steak-oriented church with leprechauns on the wall. But we were committed by then. We went forward into Dante’s Steak House.

Then we met our waitress, the pod-morlock. She did the following:

1. Brought water. Good. Done.
2. Asked if we wanted anything else to drink. Good. Great.
3. Everything went horribly horribly wrong. Yes.

After dropping off our drinks, she left again without saying a word. No “Are you ready?” No “Would you like an appetizer?” Just walked off. As she was walking away I said “Could we have an order of mushrooms?”

She looked confused for a while, but then said something like “Yes….. Mushroomsss….. Sure…”

About ten minutes later she came back with the mushrooms. She dropped them off, then walked away again. Still not taking our order. I think it was at this point we started speculating.

Five minutes after that she came back again asking “Can I take your order now?” I make it sound like she was being snotty, but really it was just a question. Like a backwards, podlike way of saying “Would now be a good time to take your order?” Or the preternaturally complicated, “Ready to order?”

So we ordered. Somehow, she thought that Ryan’s pasta dish came with his choice of rice or potato. Though confused by his sudden increase in choices, Ryan managed to order a rice pilaf. She finished taking our order, then walked off saying that she would be bringing us salad plates for the salad bar. She had apparently not noticed Ryan’s empty soda glass.

Time passed. I can’t be sure how much, because Rodney, Ryan, and I were in the midst of contemplating what kind of nether-realm we had wandered into. Rodney insisted that it was actually a virtual reality being blasted onto our retinas. I was not convinced – as no virtual reality I know of contains ironwrought leprechauns pinned to the walls and the drone of a vaccuum cleaner coming from the other room.

A second order of mushrooms arrived. For no apparent reason.

Happily, despite not noticing that we already had an order of mushrooms and yet no salad plates, she noticed that Ryan needed a refill. Which refill he recieved with only minor confusion. (She, upon returning with the drink, asked who it goes to – not noticing the two half-full glasses in front of myself and Rodney.)

A manager kind of guy showed up and was hailed to bring us some bread. She brought the bread out to us. We recieved 2 rolls and 1 half roll in a basket. She did notice that we were out of water by now and suggested that she bring some more. Which, of course, she never did. I got the half roll.

After our food arrived she asked if we need anything else. I asked for butter for my baked potato. She offered to bring us more bread, to which we said yes. And just before she started to walk away without having asked about our empty glasses, I asked for some refills. She got this kind of panicked look. Like her brain had some sort of error message for us. I made sure that I supplied her with “Two Dr. Peppers and one Coke.” before she tried to wreak her podlike vengance upon us. She picked up our glasses and walked away.

Ryan did not in fact ask for the pasta that he was expecting to get with his “Chicken Parmesean with pasta.” He felt it might have been hurtful to her feelings. He did manage to share with us that there was something horribly, horribly wrong with the rice he recieved.

Aside from the rice, the food was good. It was a shame about her not ever coming back with refills, bread, or butter.

She did, however, walk out of the kitchen with an order of mushrooms a few minutes later.

There’s this thing that, if you’ve ever served, would recognize. It’s called the “Oh #$*%” maneuver. It’s when you’re carrying something out to your table, and you realize they’ve already got one, so you make a sudden turn to another table and ask them how they’re doing while surreptitiously holding a superfluous appetizer.

She tried the maneuver, but did it by saying to her only other remaining table “Here, you get free mushrooms.” To which they replied, “Really, we’d just like our check and a box.” As they had been done for a while. Nobody was fooled. She said okay and carried off some of their plates and the mushrooms. All of which she dropped on the floor.

She brought them a box and check. Our check.

Once that was sorted out, we managed to convince her that we really deserved our refills, which she managed to bring right off. She seemed almost on the verge of saying “But you didn’t have any drinks, did you?” It was from this that Ryan learned the adage that life is like soda, which perhaps he will share with you.

To end the suspense: No, we never did recieve our salad plates.


Orginal comments:

Nickname: jaddes_green
Re: Pod-Person, or Waitress-on-Mushrooms? on the next Sick-Sad World.
Working at applebees so long as ruined you.

By the way, this is Acey.

Nickname: ravenpaine
Re: Pod-Person, or Waitress-on-Mushrooms? on the next Sick-Sad World.
I have to say that I speculated more, but Greg, the descriptions of Irish theemed church/cult nonsense makes you the clear winner of the “event” description.

Nickname: -soma-
Re: Pod-Person, or Waitress-on-Mushrooms? on the next Sick-Sad World.
The question on my mind is.. How much did you tip the poor woman?…monetarily speaking.

Nickname: Greg
The answer is: Quite a bit. I actually didn’t want to leave her much of anything, but the night was one of the most hilarious I’ve ever had eating out – and it was all her fault. So I figured I had better leave her a good tip. It ended up being about 20%, which is about ‘average’ for me – since I like to leave big tips in the hope of Kismet Retribution.


Original article posted by Greg:

Today, Slobodan Milosevic drove up to Applebees on a motorcycle. We didn’t know it was Mr. Milosevic at the time, or else maybe we would have turned him away. You know, like our own little way of getting revenge for all those poor little dead ethnic Albanians.

“And serves you right for all those ethnic cleansings! What did they ever do to you, I’d like to know.”

Work was once again unusually busy for this time of year. Like last night, we became busy just before closing time which kept everybody at work cleaning up until about 1AM. That’s too bad, not only because nobody wants to be at work for that long, but also because it means tomorrow I will probably not get out of work as early as I would prefer. I mention this, not because it’s pertinant to the story, but because I like attention.

Slobodan came in at about 15 minutes before closing time. Which goes to show that Genocidal Madmen are also inconsiderate of workers who want to go home early. I believe he had the Cowboy Burger and a side of cole slaw. Perhaps there’s meaning to be had in that. His server, John, took the credit card offered by the man whose name we had not yet learned and brought it to the credit card machine. As is John’s habit, he looked at the name.

And paused.

Then John asked me, “Does that name look familliar to you?” I had to admit that it did right away. It’s not often I don’t recognize the names of infamous men suspected of crimes against humanity who have been bombed by the USA and NATO in 1998 and then sent to the Hague while awaiting trial. I thought, It must be a fake card. The back said “SEE ID” so I sent John to check his ID.

Slobodan displayed his Iowa drivers license. One of the people sitting with him for dinner said “Oh, hey, aren’t you that guy from the Hague?”

Yeah. Iowa.

Can you imagine being this guy and trying to get a passport or something?

Well, all of us co-workers made photocopies of the credit reciept so we could show our families and friends that Slobodan Milosevic came in to Applebees. And the punchline of the story is this:

Who knew a genocidal madman would be a 20% tipper?


Orginal comments:

Nickname: ravenpaine
Re: An Encounter with a Genocidal Madman
Most madmen are wont to leave large tips out of a jilted need for karmic retribution to visit one of their buddies first.

Original article posted by Greg:

This actually did happen to a real person, and the real person is me. I had gone to catch a train. This was April 1976, in Cambridge, U.K. I was a bit early for the train. I’d gotten the time of the train wrong. I went to get myself a newspaper to do the crossword, and a cup of coffee and a packet of cookies. I went and sat at a table. I want you to picture the scene. It’s very important that you get this very clear in your mind. Here’s the table, newspaper, cup of coffee, packet of cookies. There’s a guy sitting opposite me, perfectly ordinary-looking guy wearing a business suit, carrying a briefcase. It didn’t look like he was going to do anything weird. What he did was this: he suddenly leaned across, picked up the packet of cookies, tore it open, took one out, and ate it.
Now this, I have to say, is the sort of thing the British are very bad at dealing with. There’s nothing in our background, upbringing, or education that teaches you how to deal with someone who in broad daylight has just stolen your cookies. You know what would happen if this had been South Central Los Angeles. There would have very quickly been gunfire, helicopters coming in, CNN, you know… But in the end, I did what any red-blooded Englishman would do: I ignored it. And I stared at the newspaper, took a sip of coffee, tried to do aclue in the newspaper, couldn’t do anything, and thought, What am I going to do?

In the end I thought Nothing for it, I’ll just have to go for it, and I tried very hard not to notice the fact that the packet was already mysteriously opened. I took out a cookie for myself. I thought, That settled him. But it hadn’t because a moment or two later he did it again. He took another cookie. Having not mentioned it the first time, it was somehow even harder to raise the subject the second time around. “Excuse me, I couldn’t help but notice…” I mean, it doesn’t really work.

We went through the whole packet like this. When I say the whole packet, I mean there were only about eight cookies, but it felt like a lifetime. He took one, I took one, he took one, I took one. Finally, when we got to the end, he stood up and walked away. Well, we exchanged meaningful looks, then he walked away, and I breathed a sigh of relief and st back.

A moment or two later the train was coming in, so I tossed back the rest of my coffee, stood up, picked up the newspaper, and underneath the newspaper were my cookies. The thing I like particularly about this story is the sensation that somewhere in England there has been wandering around for the last quarter-century a perfectly ordinary guy who’s had the same exact story, only he doesn’t have the punch line.

-Douglas Adams, The Salmon of Doubt

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