The Funniest Words in the English Language

In many professional situations that mask themselves as "social" settings, say at the office picnic or the winter holiday party (also known as the "drunk boss dances awkwardly in front of interns" party), you may find yourself in conversation that requires you to be warm and witty but still be able to maintain a healthy balance of propriety. You have to be able to engage your colleagues so as not to appear socially awkward or inept and thus avoid becoming the office pariah (read: Shit-breath Stan in accounting) but without over-engaging and relinquishing decorum so as not to become, say, the office slut (read: Shit-breath Stan has that breath for a reason).

Since I am both a master conversationalist and a master of magnanimous living, I wish to provide you a surefire way to simultaneously engage, entertain, and impress your work colleagues for all such occasions. The easiest and most efficient way to do this is to use words from the following list "The Funniest Words in the English Language." The title of the list is not an exaggeration. Insert these words carefully, gently even, into the conversation and you will surely captivate your audience. They'll approve with smiles and laughter, and you will remain carefully within the bounds of professionalism. Master this office conversation technique and someday you may be the boss that drinks a little too much and embarrasses yourself with the temp at the next work function.

The Funniest Words in the English Language:

cocksure

cockamainy

cock-a-doodle-doo

cocktail

peecock

poppycock

cockacola

cockaine

hot cockolate

coxswain

Hitchcock

Hancock

cockpit

helicockter

shuttlecock

caulking gun

cockroach

Words like "pussyfoot" and "titmouse" are good too but that may be pushing the envelope with HR.

Clearly these words are completely random and have no real correlation other than the fact that they'll get a good rise out of you. If you find yourself having a hard time getting these words into the conversation, try using some social lubricant and a have a stiff drink or two first. Now that you have these tools, straighten up, be direct, and thrust yourself into conversation with the confidence that you can engage anyone. Godspeed.

Join us tomorrow when I present the funniest words in the Sanskrit language.

Fossilitating Our History

As I'm sure you already know from your google calendar alert, July is National Dinosaur Month. Every year, we use the hottest month of the summer to celebrate the achievements, history, and struggle of these often forgotten behemoths. From PSA's featuring celebrities talking up the contributions of their favorite dinosaurs to free outdoor screenings of The Land Before Time to showcases of traditional dinosaur dancing (the "triceratop hop" is a favorite amongst young people), the month is filled with jurassic-sized learning opportunities that remind us that nothing is cooler than dinosaurs...except maybe robot dinosuars! Robo-sauruses (or is it Robo-sauri?) if you will.

As I sit here writing this, clad in my favorite sweater with a smiling stegosaurus on the chest (it reads "Dinosaur Picnic: I got the plates, you bring the cups."), I'm reminded of my childhood when these giant reptiles ruled my imagination. Other kids spent afternoons dreaming of playing in the NBA or flying to the moon, while I dreamed of becoming an actual brontosaurus. (Did you know that the brontosaurus' nostrils are located at the top of its head rather than beneath its eyes? I did.) I spent hours upon hours doing neck-stretch exercises and eating leaves off the plastic fern in our living room. I wrote emergency evacuation plans in case meteors struck the earth once again. I would tell my mom things like, "I need a bath' cuz I'm exSTINK!" I even dressed up the neighbor's dog like a T-rex and practiced running away from it.

But then, my world came crashing down like a pile of dinosaur bones at the Natural History Museum during an earthquake. In 1993, Steven Spielberg and Michael Crichton made a piece of anti-dinosaur propaganda called Jurassic Park. It's like Birth of a Nation to the dinosaur community. It depicted our Cretaceous friends as violent, savage beasts that threaten humanity with sharp claws, giant fangs, and an insatiable appetite for flesh. It was one of the lowest points in history (second to a certain meteor shower), but because of the outrcry that followed this hateful, ignorant, speciesist movie, the pro-dinosaur movement was truly galvanized. The movement blossomed instantenously just like a tiny capsule submerged in hot water that suddenly turns into a dinosaur-shaped sponge.

Millions took to the streets and demanded equality for dinosaurs no matter how large they were, no matter how small their brains, no matter how dead and extinct they remained. The outpouring of support was infectious. People everywhere wore Che Guevara-like t-shirts featuring a militant Iguanadon or they wore buttons that said "Tip the SCALES of justice for DINOSAURS" and "Spielberg, you'll be dinoSORRY!" The movement was victorsaurious when in 1995 then President Bill Clinton signed a bill apologizing for past wrongdoings against dinosaurs and declared July National Dinosaur Month.

Since then, dinosaurs have been woven into the fabric of our society. "Rex" is ranked number 2 on the most common baby names list. Toronto named their professional basketball team the "Raptors." And last November, we elected our first black/apatosaurus president Barack Hussein Littlefoot Obama. And the rest, as they say, is pre-history.

Happy National Dinosaur Month! Enjoy this clip of Dinosaucers, warring factions of dinosaurs from outer space!

And the winner is...

Dear World,

I regret to inform you that a tiny but very bright, shining light went out forever yesterday. At approximately 11:18 in the evening, Gadget, the brilliant and beautiful fast-talking, wrench-wielding cartoon mouse of Rescue Ranger fame, died suddenly and unexpectedly.

After mounting an impressive unanimous victory in The Get Down's lovefest contest "Who should I date?", Gadget left her tree domicile in a hollowed out toothpaste tube with wings and flew to Central Park to claim her first round prize, a nuzzle with me. She landed softly on on the west end of Sheep's Meadow, deboarded her vessel, and began to run towards me across the grass. I was dazzled by how refined and graceful she was, running on two hind legs rather than on fours, with her lustrous hair ebbing and flowing in the night wind. As she scurried through the field, time began to slow as if all the clocks in the world were taking a break.

In the corner of my eye, a black and white animated furball appeared out of nowhere and pounced on top of Gadget. I rushed to stop this feline attacker, but it was too late. She had already been swallowed whole. Her devourer turned and looked at me with brazen satisfaction as he picked his teeth with a claw. He extracted a pair of goggles from the back of his throat and flung them at my feet. "Suffering succotash sucka!" he yelled idignantly. With those words, he disappeared into the black night.

It was Sylvester, the cat not Stallone, that did this foul deed of eating a cartoon mouse. I thought he only had eyes for Tweety, but apparently his palate is not quite that discriminating.

But perhaps a conspiracy is at hand. Another attack in an ongoing war between two rival anthropomorphized and iconic woodland creatures with alliterated names: Bugs Bunny and Mickey Mouse. Bugs has always been jealous of Mickey's pants-wearing and Mickey, with his high-pitched voice, has always been envious of Bug's freedom to express himself in drag. Perhaps Gadget was another unfortunate casualty in this decades-old feud.


I dream of a day when Disney characters and Warner Bros. characters can sit down together at the table of brothersisterhood. I dream of a day when Donald Duck, Daisy Duck, and Daffy Duck can realize that they are related ducks and then fly away together in V-formation. I dream of a day when Speedy Gonzalez can visit the Mexico pavilion at Epcot Center and when Darkwing Duck can ride the Batman coaster at Six Flags.

Let us not allow Gadget's demise be for nothing. The best way we can memorialize her is to end the violence, end the needless suffering, and end this war. Just as she brought together old junk to form spectacular crime-stopping creations, so should we bring talking animals together to form spectacular knee-slapping collaborations.

Gadget is survived by a fat cheese-loving mouse and a pair of quarreling twin chipmunks.

Sincerely,
Boogie Brown

P.S. Because of Gadget's untimely swallowing, The Girlfriend Lap Pillow will proceed to the second round of the "Who should I date?" competition. In the meantime, I shall nestle my cheek in the grooves of her thigh cleavage and lubricate them with my mourning tears.

Hot or Not? A discussion on the shades of gray in superficial attraction

I find it quite insincere when someone calls another person "fucking ugly" when they usually have no intent or desire whatsoever to fuck said "ugly." Perhaps they should refer to such an eyesore of a person as "Keep it on! ugly" or maybe "virgin ugly." I think either of those terms would be easily more accurate and genuine. Interestingly enough, an "ugly fuck" on the other hand is not misleading at all because to fuck said "ugly" would truly result in an exhibition of ugly fucking.

Clearly though, the mere existence of the term "fucking ugly," which henceforth shall be renamed "Keep it on! ugly," implies that ugly is hardly uniform but rather operates on a scale of ugly with "Keep it on! ugly" ranking fairly low. A "butter face" serves as a counter example since such a person may still fall into the ugly category but can maintain an active social and romantic life by luring partners with their attractive bodies. "But her face!" potential targets cry out. It may pose as a deal-breaker for some, but for others, it may only pose a minor setback in a world riddled with shortcomings. Therefore, a "butter face" inches towards the hotness line while a "Keep it on! ugly" remains stranded miles away.

Conversely, there exist varying degrees of hotness (get it? degrees?...WORDPLAY!). For example, "sweatpants hot" is a commonly desired level of hotness in a potential mate. Such a person is "hot" even in sweatpants. But that's not to say said person gets hot in sweatpants because of course they do. That's what happens when one wears heavy cotton-poly blend apparel that is distinctly made to induce heat.

"Sweatpants hot" often holds a spot right below other highly coveted levels of hotness such as "flu hot" (I do not mean that such a person has a fever, but rather they look good even when they are disheveled, snot-covered and bed-ridden with the flu) or "manure hauler hot."
If one encounters a person that can maintain their hot even while getting knee-deep in a heaping pile of hot manure and smelling like cow dung, one should "holler" at this hot hauler.

At the opposite end of the hot spectrum is hotness specific to a region. "Philly hot" (a term renowned fashion designer and aspiring lawyer Michael Jacob knows plenty about) implies that one maintains a level of attractiveness that only seems high on a scale relative to the average person in Philadelphia. This proves to be quite misleading, however, because the city of Philadelphia ranks as one of America's ugliest and fattest cities. Not surprisingly, it is also the home of the much venerated cheesesteak. A person characterized as "Philly hot" unfortunately becomes "New York refuse" or "L.A. lonely" whenever they are a fish out of water. If ever a "Philly hot" is encountered, kindly inform them that leaving the city of brotherly love will only lead to their outcasting from society. Applying the adage "In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king" seems most appropriate.

Also at the low end of the stick is "club hot," a frustratingly deceptive hotness level that goes hand in hand with "outdoor ugly." Or in some alcohol-laden situations, "morning after ugly." One must always remeber that dark lighting, loud music, and a claustrophobic's nightmare of a dancefloor teeming with pheromones can heavily skew one's senses and sensibilities. "Club hots" should be approached with caution as they often represent a real gamble. It is in these situations, one should be prepared to employ the flashlight application on their iphone.

Academics and other scientific researchers continue to measure and classify these varying levels of attractiveness. In recent years, the hotness field has branched out as new studies have emerged carefully examining oxymoronic phenomena such as "fat hot" and "model ugly." Hotness studies continues to grow exponentially, but ultimately always remains one step behind a population and society constantly reimagining what constitutes hotness. Perhaps one day even uglies will be fucked.

Who should I date? Part 7 (minutes in heaven or some other shoe-closet equivalent)

Ah, here we are again, faced again with the eternal question: Who should I date? (or for you snobbish grammaristas out there, Whom should I date? Definitely not you.) This is the seventh installment of our first-round matchups for matchmaking. Unlike past competitions for coupling which there were many a ridiculous competitor (16th seeds if you will), this round features two very serious candidates who will need every single vote to make it to the next round. It's do or date time! Let's get it on! So, dear reader, who should I date??

Gadget
Why I like her: I've watched this petite hottie of an inventor/grease-mouse for some years, since around the age of 6 to be exact. After all this time, I've come to the cumclusion that this wrench-wench is the only blonde I'm interested in sharing my nuts and bolt with (Scarlett Johansson, you've officially been demoted!). Not only is her butt-length hair way hot, but she's got the smarts to match. That's like combining MIT with U of Miami. Who else could create an all-terrain vehicle out of plungers and rubberbands while rocking an hour-glass figure? McGeyver, consider your number taken. And she handles tools like no other mouse this side of Anaheim, and guess what? There's no bigger tool than yours truly. I'm the Black & Decker all-in-one power drill in the toolshed of life.

Also on the plus side is the fact that the only competition in my way is an overweight mouse with a bad Sean Connery accent more interested in getting it on with a hunk of gouda than with a female, and two chipmunks, one of which wears a Tommy Bahama I'm-an-obnoxious-tourist-in-Hawaii shirt everyday of the year and the other who dresses up as Indiana Jones on the regular, thus demonstrating his unwavering grip on reality. Plus their voices are higher than Mike Tyson's on helium. Not exactly Don Juans in the treehouse. Not to mention, I'm at least 60 times the size of these misguided vermin. Don't get it twisted, size matters and I'm a god among ants in this scenario. (Normally, I'm the needle in a haystack or the shoe-string on a plate of crinkle cuts. FAIL)

Did I mention she's a mouse? Getting some tail takes on whole new meanings with her. Gadget puts the FINE back in redefine. Check her badass self at 7:29 of this clip:



OR

The Girlfriend Lap Pillow
Why I like her: For some reason, when she introduced herself to me one winter evening, her name immediately made me think "girlfriend." I admit I couldn't help but stare at her legs all night, but a person's best attribute always stands out and this was her only attribute. I couldn't resist the urge to lay my head upon her supple legs. It was like resting my head against a cloud or a cotton ball or a woman's thighs. I felt like a babe in me mother's lap. Is that weird? Probably. But The Girlfriend Lap Pillow doesn't judge. She only welcomes. She let me sleep there all night and not once did she complain that she was "losing circulation to her legs" or that I was "snoring so loudly I caused an avalanche in the Swiss Alps" or that I was "sucking my thumb like a little bitch that misses his momma and really needs to cut the cord already because he should be a grown ass man but his infantile ways are starting to make him look more disposable than yesterday's newspaper." But no, she did not utter a single complaint, or a single word for that matter. There was only tender, love, and care in her silence...and in her legs. To top it off, she also comes in a black skirt.

One caveat though, I worry that I may cheat on her with a snuggie.

This race is a dead heat (kind of like a zombie fart), so cast your vote now!

Rave About the Machine, Renegades of Junk

When I was a wee lad (today, I’m a full grown leprechaun), my beloved psychotic aunt would often take me to the Liberty Science Center, a hands-on, interactive playground of a museum that purported to make learning FUNdamental. At the center of LSC stood this impressive structure made up of coiled metal, wooden chutes, pulleys, wires, and brass metal balls. It was a Rube Goldberg machine according to the handy placard beside it. Wikipedia describes such a machine as “a deliberately over-engineered apparatus that performs a very simple task in a very complex fashion, usually using a chain reaction.” It’s kind of like that board game Mouse Trap or that rudimentary alarm system you once fashioned to protect your valuable stash of comic books and Ninja Turtles. In any case, I was fascinated. Its inherent duality of complexity and simplicity just tickled my imagination…tickled it with a broad quill feather. Oh yes, that’s the spot…

For the rest, jump to PINKRAYGUN.COM! Huzzzahhh!