Tag Archives: jokes

Is Comedy Dying? – The Elevator Joke is Now a Complaint Worthy Offense

It’s a joke as old as “Why did the chicken cross the road?”

You get in an elevator, someone asks what button you want them to push, and you say, “Women’s lingerie.”

It harkens back to the old days, the 1940s and 50s when there were big city department stores with elevators and operators who would shout out the floor being stopped on, “First Floor, Dinner Ware…Second Floor, Hardware…”

Basically, you think of something funny that could be on that floor and usually the funniest is “Women’s lingerie.”

Read more in “The Chronicle of Higher Education” here.

Apparently, this joke was told at a professor’s educational conference.  A female professor offered to hit buttons for those on the elevator and when asked which button he wanted pushed, a male professor joked, “Women’s lingerie.”

Smartest joke to make in today’s ultra-PC environment?  Probably not.

Worth ruining his career over?  Absolutely not.

Come on, people.

Here’s the thing about the #metoo movement.  I know, an evil owner of a penis daring to mansplain about women issues.  The dreaded patriarchy strikes again.

But seriously.  While it’s great women are finding justice for inappropriate activities that otherwise would never have been heard about….it’s pretty ridiculous to string this guy up for making one of the oldest jokes in the world.

Let’s have some common sense.  Let’s use our brains.  Let’s be rational and reasonable.  You cannot, you just cannot, absolutely cannot take this man who was a professor for many decades, who makes a silly joke that millions have made for decades and lump him in with the likes of Harvey “Casting Couch” Weinstein, Matt “I Can Lock My Office from My Desk” Lauer and Bill “Slip ‘Em a Mickey” Cosby.

Sorry.  You just can’t.

I agree #metoo is, on the whole, a good thing that will clean out a lot of bad dudes from the world’s proverbial closet.

But just as it is important to recognize valid claims, so to is it important to call out bogus claims and to tell the people who make them these claims are dumb.

I’m sorry…but this claim is dumb.

3.5 READERS: “Oh you evil man, how dare you tell this woman how to feel…”

My penis doesn’t prohibit me from having opinions…just as vagina ownership has not kept women from sharing their opinions with me…and boy howdy, do they know how to share them.  I haven’t met a woman who was shy about that, let me tell you.

This is just silly.  It’s the rush to offense culture run amuck.

Further, I think the male professor should file his own complaint.   Hey Professor, if you happen to be one of my 3.5 readers, I wrote your counter-complaint for you:

I was outraged when the female professor assumed that I was asking to be led towards women’s lingerie out of some misguided belief that there was an underlying, inappropriate sexual connotation.  In actuality, I like to wear women’s lingerie and shame on this person for not realizing that the lingerie was for me!

Yikes.  Now there’s a cross complaint that would make the academic world’s explode.

Comedy is dying.  It just is.  Pretty soon, they’ll be coming after the chicken joke.  Animal rights activists will say it is none of your business why the chicken crossed the road because whatever the chicken was doing, it was between him and who or whatever was on the other side, so how dare you butt your nose in where it doesn’t belong?

On another note, it’s time to take a good, hard look at colleges, what courses are being offered, whether anything these navel gazers who can’t even think critically about a silly joke are worth the tens of thousands of dollars that students have to borrow.

Sigh.  In high school, I knew all these kids who became plumbers, electricians, carpenters, etc.  They skipped the navel gazing and they make bank.  Idiot that I am, I signed up for the navel gazing and all I have to show for it is copious debt and this blog that is only read by 3.5 people.

Speaking of, what say you, 3.5 readers?

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Top Ten Politically Correct Yo Momma Jokes


Ah, the Yo Momma joke.  What is it about a good Yo Momma joke that can leave an opponent fuming with anger?  Perhaps the strength of these jokes, in an ironic way, displays the love people have for their mothers.  After all, these jokes make people mad because people love their mothers.  You might disagree, but when was the last time you ever heard someone tell a “Yo Papa” joke.  Probably never.

Oh, the happy memories I have of gathering together with my fellow school chums as we made inappropriate jests about each other’s mothers.

But times have changed.  It is necessary to be politically correct now.  Safe spaces.  Trigger warnings.  All are necessary to be a woke citizen of 2017 (or current year.)

From BQB HQ in East Randomtown, it’s the Top Ten Politically Correct Yo Momma Jokes:

#10 – Yo Momma is So Fat…

TRANSLATION:  Sir, your mother is so obese that I considered referring her to a reputable weight loss program.  However, I realized that she’s perfect just the way she is and that I am the one with the problem for thinking otherwise.  Ergo, I will seek a support group for people who are literally Hitler who are trying to stop being literally Hitler.

#9 – Yo Momma is So Poor…

TRANSLATION:  Sir, your mother is so poor and personally, I blame this horribly oppressive capitalist society we live in, the one that, as we all know, is run by the top one percent.

#8 – Yo Momma is So Stupid…

TRANSLATION:  Sir, your mother’s lack of a formal education, though no fault of her own due to our failing public school system, which, by the way, the failure of which is no one’s fault but the top one percent who refuse to poor more money into our nation’s failing schools, is threatening her empowerment as a woman.  If she so chooses, I would gladly recommend a GED program, but I hope she understands I am in no way insinuating that she is somehow less than anyone else who holds a degree of any kind.  After all, we are all special in our own unique ways.

#7 – Yo Momma is So Ugly…

TRANSLATION:  Sir, your mother, while not bearing a strict resemblance to what society  deems to be, quote unquote, “beautiful,” should rest assured that beauty is nothing more than a societal construct, with no actual bearing in reality.  Beauty can mean many different things to different people and therefore, your mother qualifies as beautiful and should not be led to believe otherwise.

#6 – You Momma is Such a Ho…

TRANSLATION:  Sir, I’ll have you know that I heard a rumor that your mother is of a promiscuous character.  However, I shall have you know that I told the gossipy rapscallion that slut shaming is by far one of the most offensive trends to grip our nation and no reputable person of good character and moral decency should be engaging in it.  Promiscuity is a non-existent concept and your mother is of a sound mind and therefore, she should be free to exercise her own free will regarding her sexual needs without fear of judgment from others who have not had to walk in her shoes

#5 – Yo Momma is So Smelly…  

TRANSLATION:  Sir, it has come to my attention that your mother’s hygiene habits may be sub par.  Then again, let he who has never skipped brushing his teeth or taking a bath cast the first stone.  By the way, when I say, “cast the first stone,” I realize that some may construe that statement in a religious context.  I apologize to those who are offended by that interpretation and ask them to understand that I only mean it in a non-judgmental tone.  Further, I understand that one’s intent to offend or not offend should never be considered but rather, if someone was offended, then that is all that matters and an apology most be broadcasted immediately, regardless of a lack of ill intent.

#4 – Yo Momma is So Hairy…

TRANSLATION:  Sir, your mother is so hairy and I for one applaud her for not following traditional constructs of gender specific grooming habits, which as we all know, are perpetrated by the patriarchy, to make all women feel less than.  Women should never be hair shamed into shaving their legs or arm pits and all men who suggest otherwise should be thrown into reeducation camps until they change their insensitive ways.

#3 – Yo Momma is So Crazy…

TRANSLATION:  Sir, it has been brought to my attention that your mother suffers from a mental illness.  Please note that I am here for you and your mother in this trying time and I will gladly help her seek the requisite psychiatric attention required to help her either cure, treat, or otherwise live a functional life despite this mental condition.  Wait, please forgive me, as I now realize that I have offended you and your mother by implying that her mental condition is some kind of problem when instead, it should be considered a blessing because it makes her special and unique.  Please excuse me while I transport myself to a reeducation camp.

#2 – Yo Momma is So Flat Chested…

TRANSLATION:  Sir, some fellows that we are both acquainted with have implied that your mother’s breasts are small and not on par with women with larger breasts.  Fear not, for I informed these fellows that their statements were balderdash, and that it is an illogical fallacy to assume something as ridiculous as the idea that men actually prefer large breasts over small ones.  Everyone knows that love of breasts of any size is just a social construct and that men are fooled into believing they like breasts by an unfair society.  They don’t actually possess any inner desire or instinct to actually like breasts.

#1 – Your Momma’s Glasses are So Big…

TRANSLATION:  Sir, your mother’s glasses are large.  I am glad to hear it, for everyone with vision problems deserves nothing less than quick and convenient service from a reputable neighborhood optometrist.

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My Mother of All Bombs (MOAB) Joke really upped my stats

Apparently people are searching the inter webs a lot for info about the MOAB.  So, sorry to be a shameless self-promoter but hey, in this game, you got to do what you got to do.

MOAB!  MOAB!  Mother of all bombs!  Information about MOAB!  My blog is so terrible that I think it might be the mother of all bombs…

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The Prognostications of the Astounding Nerdstradamus – Robot Hookers, Unsavory Acts with Hobos and Orange Sherbet Monsters

And now, from Bookshelf Q. Battler Headquarters in Fabulous East Randomtown, the Astounding Nerdstradamus shares his confounding prognostications of the future of nerd kind…


Come forth, 3.5 readers and bask in my all seeing glory for I, the Astounding Nerdstradamus, shall open your eyes so that you might peer deep into the future of nerd-dom:

  • Humanity will come to an end in the year 2105, due to a sharp decrease in worldwide reproduction.  Will it be a coincidence when cheap and affordable robot hookers are invented in 2030?  Maybe, maybe not.
  • Nerds of the future shall one day invent a time phone that will allow your present self to call your past self.  However, due to concerns about the integrity of the space-time continuum, you will only be able to ask your past self if he or she has Prince Albert in a can.  For an extra fifty dollars, the time phone company will allow you to ask your past self if his/her refrigerator is running.  Under no circumstances will you be able to finish the joke by telling your past self to catch the running fridge.  If you were too lazy to catch the running fridge in the past, you’ll only screw up world history if you try to fix that past mistake now.
  • The good news about video games of the future?  You will be able to be a character in one of them.  The bad news?  Only an asshole would want to smash bricks with his head and murder poor, defenseless turtles.
  • Doctors will invent an anti-flatulence pill that causes the body to store farts and save them until later.  Unfortunately, the entire Western Hemisphere will go up in flames when Esther Thompson of Phoenix, Arizona lets her anti-flatulence pill prescription run out and lets out ninety years’ worth of gas at once.  Whoa nelly.
  • Pez will become an international currency.  Alas, many will be murdered in the ensuing war over who can collect the most plastic cartoon character dispensers.  Also, politicians will fight each other with phrases like, “The top 99% of all Pez owners need to share their Pez with the rest of us” and “What is this, Communism?  If you want Pez, you need to jerk off hobos at the bus station for Pez like the rest of us.”
  • That reminds me:  in the future, all jobs will be performed by robots.  The only means of income for humans will be jerking off bus station hobos in exchange for Pez.
  • “That’s What She Said” will become America’s official motto.
  • President Robo Trump will step down from his rule in the year 2782 in order to spend more time doing what he loves: grabbing hot ass robot supermodels by their fuel injectors.  He will hand dominion over his kingdom to Queen Ivanka, First of Her Name.
  • Note that President Robo Trump will not still be ruling in 2782 due to any dictatorial actions but rather, because Robo Hillary Clinton will never, ever, ever stop running for Emperor of Earth and literally no one, not even Robo Bill Clinton, will be willing to pull her aside and tell her that it is time for a fresh robo face.
  • Not gonna lie – Robo Bill will also be totally into the aforementioned robot hookers.  Then again, who won’t be?  They will be programmed to perform wild acrobatics in the boudoir…and then bake you a pie afterwards.  Word peace through artificial sex and delicious pie, because literally no one will have time to fight, what with all of the robot sex and robot baked pie and all.  Ah, the robot sex pie era shall truly be a magnificent time period to live in.
  • “Yo Mama” jokes will be considered a serious art form.  Nelson Chatsworth of Scranton, PA will win a Pulitzer for telling a friend that said friend’s mother is, and I quote, “So fat her blood type is rocky road.”  Alas, Nelson will be forced to return the award when it is determined that a) this joke has been told for centuries and b) it is scientifically impossible for someone to bleed rocky road ice cream.  However, by the year 4102, it will be possible for people to bleed orange sherbet, but I don’t want to keep you up at night with tales of the half-human/half orange sherbet monsters that will be created.  Let’s just say, “Oh it’s ok.  You can eat me!  Technically, I’m not ice cream so its not really cheating on your diet!” will take on a whole new meaning.
  • Bloggers will beam their posts directly into the minds of their readers.  Alas, BQB will only be beaming his posts to 3.5 minds.

What prognostications do you have of the future, 3.5 readers?  Share them with the Astounding Nerdstradamus in the comments!

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Update on Harvey Smotchenbocker, East Randomtown’s Olympian


Hey 3.5.

Bookshelf Q. Battler, Mayor of East Randomtown here.

Just an update on East Randomtonian Harvey Smotchenbocker, who is participating in the 10K Flatulence Competition at the Olympic Games in Rio.

Flatulence is one of the lesser known games but every gold medal counts.

Harvey has checked in. He is reporting that he is getting in some last minute training for his big day later this week.  Filling up on all sorts of gaseous foods.  I have nothing but faith in him.

Stay tuned for more updates.

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Discussion – Tina Fey Won’t Apologize

Tina Fey declares she will not apologize for jokes, that there’s an “apology culture” on the Internet and she’s opting out of it.

Should comedians apologize to someone offended by their jokes or should they stand by their jokes?


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Pop Culture Mysteries: Case File #005 – Smeller vs. Denier (Part 11)


Part 1


“Two heinous misdeeds have occurred this evening,”  I said.  “The theft of my poker moolah and an expulsion so ghastly that it not only drove my wife mad…”

“Grandpappy Guilliaum, is that you?”  Muffy asked.  “Come back to me, Grandpappy!”

“…but it also rocked the stability of the Allied powers.”

“He who expounded it, pounded it,”  Rupert said.

“He who deceived it, retrieved it,” Charbonneau replied.shutterstock_71510056

“SILENCE!”  I shouted.

The room grew quiet.

“Two offenses,” I said, “And not one of you will come forward to claim either or both of them.”

“Are they even connected?”  Fremont asked.

“An astute question, Professor,”  I said.  “If either action was not a reaction to the opposing action then that is quite a coincidence and my detective’s intuition always mandates that I must never assume a coincidence has occurred until two events are proven to be unconnected to one another.”

“I am surrounded by idiotas,”  Signora Bellavenuti said.

“Motivation,”  I said.  “Though a circumstantial lens through which to view a case, motivation, more often than not, provides the first glimpse of the true culprit.  Though a person had a reason to do something does not mean he or she did it, determining who had the most reason to do it is a necessary exercise in any investigation.”

“Then exercise away,”  the Count said.

“I will,”  I replied.  “And Count Rickard, I will start with you and the Countess.”

The Countess’ monocle popped off yet again.

“How dare you?!”

“Hatcher,”  the Count said.  “Why would one of us ruin our own dinner party?”

I thought about it.

“You wouldn’t,”  I said.  “You are a couple of leisure and you enjoy consorting with the various celebrities and beautiful people who make their way to Monaco in the summer.  Pardon the pun, but one whiff of what happened here this evening will lead to your social calendar being very empty.  Neither of you would have done this.”

The Count was furious.

“Then stop wasting time and tell us who did it!”

I spun around and pointed at the would be big game hunter.


Collective gasp.


“Yes you!”  I said.

I walked over to the corpulent self-proclaimed Safari master and got right in his face.

“Stereotypically speaking, you’re the prime candidate to pin the evil excretion on!”

The Lord’s eyes shifted back and forth.  He looked exceptionally nervous.

“I am?”

“You are,”  I said.  “Pardon my impropriety, but these are desperate times, so I must point out that you are the fattest person in the room, and thus if we are to remain true to our default mindset, then you are the one to blame, for one of the oldest stereotypes in the book is that the obese have no ability to control their bowels!”

“Yes!”  Signora Bellavenuti shouted.  “It was the fat man!  Take him away!”

“I didn’t do it I swear!”

“Didn’t you?”  I asked as I studied the man’s eyes.  “You consume more food than the average man…”

“I do not!”  Lord Blackburn interrupted.  “It’s glandular!”

“That’s what they all say!”  I screamed in the Lord’s fast as I grabbed him by the shoulders and continued my interrogation.  “You eat more food than the average man and therefore, you have a greater propensity to produce an emission!”

“LIES!”  Lord Blackburn cried.  “ALL LIES!”

“Hatcher,”  Yakubovich said.  “Of course the overweight Westerner did it.  All you capitalist pigs do all day long is stuff your faces and pass gas with nary a thought of the rest of the world.”

“Did you do it?”  I asked.




Lord Blackburn broke out into tears and made an impassioned plea.

“All my life, I have struggled with my weight.  And all my life, whenever the source of an odor is in question, the finger is immediately pointed at me.  I bathe early and often, multiple times a day just to avoid suspicion for I know the world is full of cruel, callous people and false accusations of odor production will always be my lot in life.”

My heart sunk.  Sometimes being a jerk is part of a private dick’s job.  It’s necessary, but it’s also the one aspect I despise the most.

“I assure you sir, it was not me.  I can control myself just as well as any man.  I was once chased by rabid cougar and not once did I expectorate through my sphincter.”

“Hmm,”  I said.

I patted the big galoot on the shoulder.

“I believe him.”

I was derided throughout the room.  “Oh come on!”  and “He did it!” and so forth.

“No,”  I said.  “People, please.  The only thing that separates us from the animals that Lord Blackburn claims to murder so often is the ability to make deductions based on reasoning and not preconceived notions about a man just because he’s part of a certain group or class.”

“Your heart is bleeding, comrade,”  Yakubovich said.

“Yes,” I said.

I crossed over to the other side of the table.

Now it was my turn.

“Stand up!”  I ordered Yakubovich.

“You’re insane!”

“Please do as his says, Mr. Yakubovich,”  the Count said.  “We must get to the bottom of this.”

Yakubovich rose up.

“And it was out of your bottom from which this entire evening came, isn’t it Yaku-bopper?”

“Watch your tongue before I cut it out.”

“Earlier, you came to me and asked me to stand up,”  I said.  “I expected that you were going to throttle me but instead you gave me a hug.  It was most out of character for a man suspected of being one of the  world’s most notorious black market arms dealers!”

“I am legitimate businessman!”  Yakubovich said.  “And I wished to apologize for being a poor sport but now I wish I hadn’t it.”

“Or perhaps you never did?”  I asked.  “Perhaps when you hugged me and squeezed me with the muscles you formed while toiling your youth away in a Siberian gulag…”

I reached into the man’s jacket pockets.

“…you were merely distracting me just long enough to stick a hand inside my coat and swipe the check for the winnings you were not man enough to admit that you lost fair and square!”

I turned his pockets out.


They were empty.

“Oh,”  I said.

“What a moron,”  Yakubovich said.  “Hatcher, you are making a spectacle of yourself.  Your check probably fell out somewhere around the house.  You should retrace your steps for it.”

“Should I?”  I asked.  “Or should I…check your pants pockets?!”

I turned those inside out too.  Nothing.

“Damn it!”

“Fine!”  Yakubovich said as he angrily unfastened his belt.  “You want to inspect everything?  Here we go!”

The Russian dropped his drawers to reveal a pair of red polka dot boxers.  He ripped off his coat and shirt for good measure, but left his undershirt on.

He stood there in his skivvies staring at me.

“Are you happy now?!”

“Good news, Sergei,”  I said.  “You’re in the clear!”

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