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Are you one of the unlucky few dealing with the burden ofemployment? Do you need to shed the excess weight of a regular paycheck? Noproblem. I’m here with a few subtle ways to make you suddenly less attractiveto the people who’ve been paying your bills and/or supporting your drug habitall this time. Your parents? No. Pay attention to the damn title. - Introduce your boss’ spouse as your lover at the next holiday office party. There are many variations on this one. You can choose instead to refer to him or her by any number of inappropriate terms of endearment: honey, baby, sweetheart, sugar tits, etc. This is most effective if you accompany this with a sly, knowing wink and an elbow nudge. This should help to clear up any ambiguity in case your boss is a complete idiot.
- Answer the phones by asking callers to verify that they are not FBI agents. Eventually the FBI will call at the request of some freaked out client or whatever and you’ll have the distinction of being the person that hangs up on them and runs from the building with an armload of office supplies.
- Do you feel a monkey could do your job? Rent one from your local primate dealer and test your theory. Not only will this get you immediately fired, but you may also get the added bonus of watching your simian replacement fling his poop at your coworkers. Everybody wins! Except your sh*t-smattered coworkers.
- Bring a homeless person to work and offer to shelter them under your desk. Homeless people are a little like children: they enjoy box forts and candy and being exploited by total strangers for profit. If you’re trying to get fired, there’s no reason you can’t be altruistic as well.
- Refuse to shower. Do I really have to explain this one? Really? Because when you show up to work day after day reeking of B.O. and misery, someone is bound to tell you not to come back. But they’ll probably give you the number to the Body Odor Notification Hotline (631-960-7171) first.
- Create dolls in the likenesses of your coworkers and hang them from tiny nooses around your work area. As an added bonus to no longer having to go to work everyday, you may also score some free therapy in the process. And who doesn’t love free stuff?
- Touch yourself inappropriately and file a sexual harassment charge against the company. Make sure you have witnesses, though. These cases rarely hold up in court so you’ll want as many people as possible to see you blatantly molesting yourself on company property.
- Write a witty blog post about ways you’ve considered getting yourself fired and post it on the company website for all to see. If you’re anyone but me, this a guaranteed no-fail.
Until my meta-blogging jokes get misinterpreted by thehigher-ups, DeVon
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It was a Monday morning. As usual, I was sitting at my cubicle, quietly obsessing over the growth rates of my fingernails. They say that if they don’t grow at the same rate then you’re probably in the beginning stages of carpal tunnel syndrome! At least that’s what I heard from the webpage of my roommate’s best friend’s sister’s boyfriend’s cousin who is training to be a vet in Nicaragua. Anyway, I had just finished comparing the fingernails on my ring fingers when I felt a tap on the shoulder. Naturally, I assumed it was the shambling corpse of Ed McMahon come from the grave to award me the million dollar novelty check I’d been expecting since 1995. With a mix of pants-sh*tting terror and gassy anticipation (I really should have gone to the bathroom before I left home), I turned around to stare into the paint-smeared face of Michael, the other Humor Hotlines intern. “Do you have any Maalox?” I asked. He flailed his arms in a strange dance that didn’t come close to answering my question. “That doesn’t come close to answering my question,” I said. I hated charades. He frowned and pointed to his face which I then noticed was coated in thick white paint, like he’d passed out face first into a bucket of whale sperm after a night of Remy Martin and Quaaludes at Sea World. He continued to flap around as if what he was doing should have been obvious, but I still didn’t get it. “I still don’t get it,” I told him, going back to measuring my cuticle lengths. “I’m a mime!” he shouted. “Then you’re obviously not a very good one because mimes don’t talk,” I told him. He mumbled a few expletives and something about my not being able to appreciate art and went outside to terrorize passersby with his mute clown routine. Since the Humor Hotlines office is located on the border between the territories of two of the city’s largest street gangs, I didn’t expect him to come back anytime soon. I helped myself to his lunch…and his Macbook. Half an hour later, the UPS guy comes in with a fist smeared with white paint and a story to tell. But no one really listened to the whole thing. He’s the UPS guy. However, I did manage to catch a few key words while I signed for my Celine Dion boxed set (don’t judge me!): “mime,” “demand,” and“restraining order.” It was like a lightbulb clicked on over my head. And not one of those ridiculous twisty ones that are just as bright as the regular kind but you hate them anyway because those condescending eco-pricks accuse you of going around and beating baby seals with brass knuckles if you still use normal light bulbs. No, this was a good, old-fashioned, public school fluorescent. I immediately ran to my desk and banged out a script for a “Demand a Restraining Order on all Mimes!” hotline and sent it to our creative director and creator of the Original Rejection Hotline, Jeff…who subsequently sent it off to some hotshot L.A. writers who turned it into this: 781-452-2659. The creative process is fascinating isn’t it, folks? Until I get jumped by a gang of disgruntled mimes, DeVon
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As some of you know, it’s hard being popular. So many people want so much of your time and there’s just not enough to go around. Split between going to all the hottest movies, hanging out, shopping, sports, and (ugh) school, your time is important and deciding who gets the majority of it is just one of those things you have to learn as you grow older. That’s why God gave us outsourcing. Now you can outsource some of those “I-know-this-person-but-not-well-enough-to-use-my-daytime-minutes” friendships to call centers in India in order to keep your busy social life moving at the most efficient pace possible. Our eager technicians are standing by to share some of the burden of your full social life. So go ahead, dump the dead weight with the Outsource your Friendship to India hotline at 267-436-5128. Here’s what some of our satisfied customers had to say:
“I like Ashleigh a lot, but when she calls she whines for hours about how fat she thinks she is. I decided to outsource our friendship to India and now I have time to spend with my family again!” -Melanie F.
“I used the Outsource your Friendship to India line to get my girlfriend to stop bugging me with retarded little details about her day. Now I don’t have to pretend to be interested in Ashleigh’s lip gloss selection because some guy in Bangalore is doing it all for me! Thank God for outsourcing!” -David L.
“I was given the outsource number twice in the past two weeks and now Prakash Bhandankar is my new best friend and boyfriend and he’s a whole lot better at both than the other two a-holes that gave me his number.” -Ashleigh C.
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Number of the Week: Father’s Day Hotline – 202-629-9234 There has been a lot of controversy surrounding the word “motherf*cker.” Mostly because it simultaneously invokes the images of sex and your mom, a crime that will soon be punishable by death or castration (though I’d personally opt for death). But if you’ve ever had the talk about the birds and the bees, then you know that at some point, your mom got it on. It may even have been with the man you’ve come to know as your father. I don’t know. I haven’t seen the paternity test results on Maury yet. The point is that I don’t think “motherf*cker” is as bad a word as once believed. At its core, it means “one who f*cks or has f*cked a mother.” This happens to be an accurate description of most of our fathers. Obviously, if you’re one of the less than 1% of the population that was immaculately conceived (I’m looking at you, Obama), most of this doesn’t apply to you. Go put an end to world hunger or something. The rest of you, read on and call 202-629-9234 to get a better idea of where I’m coming from. Following this logic, we wouldn’t be here today if our dads hadn’t been motherf*ckers. So why do we consider this to be such a bad thing? Why cover our proud heritage with taboo? It makes no sense. Some of the most well-known modern users of this classic “swear word” have popularized the word’s negative meaning: Eminem calling Sasha Baron Cohen’s Bruno a motherf*cker at the latest MTV Movie Awards, Bruce Willis addressing terrorists as motherf*ckers immediately before placing them on a one-way express train to hell, and Samuel L. Jackson…well… in every aspect of his everyday life, I assume. I’m pretty sure he drops F-bombs when he’s picking up his kids from daycare. He’s Samuel L. Jackson. He doesn’t give a f*ck.  Pictured: Samuel L. Jackson not giving a f*ck. With this volcano of hot, molten negativity, how can you not think it’s wrong to use this word? And, yeah, maybe your parents told you it was wrong, too, but think about it: these are the same people who lied to you in the first eight to ten years of your life about Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, and trans fats. Are you going to believe them now? Hell no! So believe me when I say that the revolution is here. We can and will rise up to reclaim “motherf*cker” for the good of all mankind! Our first act of empowerment will be to rename Father’s Day to Motherf*cker’s Day since all fathers are, by literal definition, motherf*ckers. Until Dad Overhears me Using Cuss Words, DeVon
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‘Tis the season of graduations. And come this fall, some of you will be leaving the nest and going off to college to learn to become responsible, mature young adults. So, in order to help you prepare for this, I have been asked by the higher-ups to give you some advice based on my personal experience with the collegiate lifestyle. This is what I have to tell you: college is one of the best things you’ll ever experience. Think of it as a four year Mardi Gras before the lifelong Ash Wednesday of adulthood. If I had to sum up college in just one phrase it would be “sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll…and class.” But this seemingly endless party can easily go down in a flaming mass of twisted metal of shattered shot glasses. By failing all your classes, losing your scholarship, and being forced to drop out and dig out the sh*t particles that have been ground into the tiles of gas station restrooms for the rest of your life? Well…yeah, but that’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about the possibility of being stuck with one of these: the four people you’ll eventually room with in college! 1) The Slob. Sure, everyone makes a mess at one point. You might leave some toothpaste in the sink, leave your gym socks on the floor, or forget to get that banana out of your desk drawer, but The Slob takes messiness to an Olympic level. Devoid of any detectable sense of smell or decency, The Slob will accumulate crap and mature it to garbage. Garbage that will ferment and emanate an odor so fierce that you will be forced to call in a forensic expert to make sure The Slob hasn’t become The Psychotic Collector of Human Body Parts.  Not pictured: Your indignation 2) The Alcoholic. Drinking is an integral part of college. On most campuses, games of beer pong and Edward 40 Hands are more popular than Badminton and Ultimate Frisbee combined so it may take a while to recognize The Alcoholic. But, much like the quiet plea for help in Lindsay Lohan’s eyes, once you’ve seen it, you’ll wonder how you ever missed it.  Somewhere in there is a frightened little girl...chugging a Corona. It may start off small with a few drinks at parties to ease the tension of meeting new people, but eventually The Alcoholic will come to rely on Devil’s water to get through a few less notable occasions. Like showers. Since this roommate will spend most of his or her time unconscious or looking for a party, the only real issue here is knowing when to call the ambulance and when your roommate is just sleeping. 3) The Sex Robot. The Sex Robot’s name is self-explanatory. Sex is its primary function and everything else is secondary to getting more of that sweet, sweet lovin’. It eats only to fuel its boot-knocking ways. It goes to the gym only to prolong its shelf life. It studies only to discover new ways to screw. It wipes its ass only to… well, you get the point. Living with The Sex Robot, you will come to be familiar with the correct usage of many obscure, sex-related terms such as the rock climber, the double-breasted baboon, the Muddy Ramirez, poodle balling, and, the term you will be most intimately familiar with, sexile. Yes, The Sex Robot will spend many a long night grinding away at premarital bliss in your tiny dorm room (and probably inyour bed) while you spend hours furiously masturbating in the library bathroom fantasizing about the touch of another human being. 4) The Neat Freak. One of the perks of going to college is not having your mom tell you to pick up your underwear anymore. The Neat Freak suffers a tragic internal malfunction that doesn’t allow for such “responsibilities” to slide. Please note that you will NEVER be clean enough for The Neat Freak. There can be no compromise. You must simply learn to tolerate a certain level of bitching that you will return to every night until you’ve either moved away or choked The Neat Freak to death with a pair of your dirty gym socks. Consider it practice for being married. I hope you’ve found this useful. And if you haven’t then you’re probably type number five: The Ungrateful Snob. Until someone in my personal life recognizes themselves in this post and pushes me out into traffic, DeVon
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Mother’s Day is here again. Time to thank the woman who gavebirth to you, clothed and fed you, fought the monsters in your closet,took you to prom… Okay, forget I said that last thing. You get thepoint, though. You have to go all out for mother’s day. No Olive Gardengift cards or homemade potholders decorated with finger paints. Savethat crap for Father’s Day. This woman gave birth to you. Have you everseen a live birth?? It’s a Lovecraftian horror fest that’ll leave youhunched up in the corner, crying in a puddle of your own piss! Sure,maybe she was able to regain her figure, but that vagina is eternallywrecked. Just do a size comparison: you, the newly born version of you,the size of a ripe spring watermelon, forcing your way through anopening the size of a very frightened lemon (depending on your mom’ssocial life, of course). That’s like sh*tting a bowling ball with legs! [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xath6kOf0NE] So, to repay this woman for the pain you’ve caused her before,during, and long, long after birth you’ve got to present her withsomething special. (Warning: shameless plug ahead) Like a phone number.Specifically one of these: 202-629-9227, 202-629-9229, or 202-629-9231.They’re all made for Mother’s Day, but some may be funnier than others.Just let me know which one you like more by adding a comment or two. Oryou can comment just to say hi. It gets lonely here in this cold, emptycorner of the internet… Anyway, I know what you’re thinking: “You practicallyjust told me to go into bankruptcy to repay Mom for being my promdate…er…caretaker. Now you’re telling us to just have her call somephone number?? WTF??” First of all, the gift of laughter is the mostprecious gift of all…according to our guys in marketing. Secondly, Ididn’t tell you to only give her a phone number. I just didn’tmention anything else… How about a hug? Flowers? Maybe some breakfastin bed? A day without having to shoulder the oppressive burden of therest of her family? Unless your mom is a frigid ice queen, she’llappreciate these small tokens of affection. Of course, as I’m sureshe’ll quickly let you know, she would appreciate some new jewelry evenmore. Oh, yeah. She’d appreciate the hell outta that. So dig deep,people. Until Mom says I can't play on the internet anymore, DeVon
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How’s it going, guys? I’m writing you today from an empty office. Seems that all my coworkers are afraid of Swine Flu and are using it as an excuse to vacation in Antarctica or Siberia or Canada or some other barely habitable, non-English-speaking country. If you’ve been keeping up with the news lately, you’re probably a little put off by this newest apocalypse scenario as well. But you shouldn’t be. And why not? Because it sounds like it was named by a group of fourth graders at recess. Seriously, “swine flu” sounds only slightly less frightening than “cooties.” Ok, ok, I know cooties didn’t kill about a hundred people in Mexico (unlike our government, but we won’t get into that in this blog), but it’s just the fact that this deadly illness is named after a backyard barbecue staple that makes it seem harmless.
Throughout history, man has given his deadliest diseases some of the most terror-inducing, make-you-wanna-sh*t-your-pants names he can think up. Diseases like the Bubonic Plague, the Black Death, Syphilis, and Scarlet Fever strike fear into the hearts of millions in free clinic waiting rooms throughout the world. If I’d come up to you in 1995 and said I had the bird flu you probably would have chuckled and told me to eat less KFC. Or had I confessed to having swine flu, you may have said you had it too and we would have gathered all our unpaid parking tickets, tossed them into the nearest bonfire and sang 80s rap songs about shooting cops.* Again, this is because these sicknesses lack the PR spin of the classics. Instead of naming them after petting zoo attractions or giving them acronyms that stand for some scientific jargon relating to what it does (nobody’s afraid of science!), we should return to naming them like heavy metal hair bands. Who wouldn’t want to get tickets to a Scarlet Fever reunion tour? Sounds f*cking awesome!
So I have a few proposals: “Swine Flu” shall henceforth be known as “War Hog Fever.” It’s simple, memorable, and, most importantly, gets respect when its name is spoken.
You don't catch War Hog Fever. It catches you. Then it throws you to the ground and makes dirty swine love to your naughty parts. And it never calls!
Also, from now on, “SARS” is “Godzilla Disease” (because it’s fearsome and Asian and “General Tso’s Syndrome” sounds a little delicious). Now let’s get back into our excellent time traveling phone booth and repeat our conversation in 1995 where, instead of saying I have “bird flu,” I tell you I’ve caught the “Raging Dragon Plague.” Imagine the clouds of terror falling over your face as you make the sign of the cross and run like hell in the opposite direction leaving a trail of warm piss behind you. Eventually, after you’ve reached the nearest state border, you’ll slow down long enough to wonder what exactly the Raging Dragon Plague is. Then you’ll realize that you don’t care because with a name like that, it’s gotta be badass. And that’s where prevention begins, folks: with pure, nut-tingling terror.
Until I’ve pissed the irony gods off enough to kill me with swine flu,
DeVon
*I have never knowingly destroyed a parking citation or opened fire upon a police officer. I neither endorse nor condone this behavior. Unless I’m playing Grand Theft Auto. Then it’s cool.
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