During World War II, twenty-seven British soldiers escaped from a Nazi prison camp through a secret tunnel codenamed “Harry.” Unfortunately, this initially clever idea caused some unforeseen confusion during the escape:

Captain: Andrews! We escape tonight. Alert the men and make certain that “Harry” is ready.
Andrews: Actually, I’ve got Harry right here next to me.
Harry: Hello, sir. Ready to go.
Captain: This is not the “Harry” I meant. I want you to check on “Harry”… [leaning in] “Harry.” Understand?
Andrews: Ah, “Harry.” Yes, sir. Right away, sir.
[twenty minutes later]
Andrews: To be honest, sir, I still don’t entirely understand which “Harry” you were referring to. So to cover all my bases I brought all the men I know named Harry here to speak with you.
Harry 2: Hello, how can I be of service, sir?
Harry 3: Harry, reporting for duty, Captain.
Harry 4: I’m Harry, sir.
Harry 5: Hello, my name is Harry.
Harry 6: Harry’s the name and escaping is my game.
Harry 7: Please, sir, call me Harry.
Harry 8: We’ll escape from these Nazis, or my name isn’t Harry!
Harry 9: Harry here, pleased to make your acquaintance.
Harry 10: I spell my name with only one “r.”
Harry 11: You rang for a Harry, sir?
Harry 12: Private Harry Harrison here.
Harry 13: Harry, ready for action.
Harry 14: Hello, my name is Harry, and this is my brother, Harry.
Harry 15: Sir.
Harry 16: Good morning Captain, I’m Harry.
Harry 17: The name’s Eric– middle name, Harry. That’s the name I go by.
Harry 18: Harry.
Harry 19: All set to go, sir. I’m Harry.
Harry 20: No time for introductions, let’s escape! I’m Harry by the way.
Harry 21: ‘Allo! I’m ‘arry!
Harry 22: HARRY! HARRY! Sorry, I just wanted you to know my name…it’s Harry.
Harry 23: Ditto.
Harry 24: Sir, before we go through with this, I just want to say it’s been an honor for me. Me. Harry.
Captain: Anderson, am I to understand that all of these men are named Harry?
Andrews: Yes sir, it’s true. In fact, my name is also Harry. Harry Andrews.
Captain: Want to hear something weird? My name is Harry.

by Honus McCormick, 100-year old man

Presidents these days don’t know how good they have it. With all their secret services and bulletproof internets, there’s no need to worry about being killed. In fact, they wouldn’t know an assassination if it sniped them in the back of the head or put cyanide in their soda pop.

In my day, it was an honor to be assassinated. I’ll never forget the time President McKinley was shot point-blank in the face after being stabbed in all three of his livers – and that was just our way of electin’ him! Or the time some crazy man ran up to President Garfield hollerin’ and tryin’ to shoot his pistol at him. Garfield sat the man down and explained to him that his safety was still on and that you fire guns by pullin’ the trigger, not by shoutin’ “Pow!”  Garfield didn’t give much more advice after that – since he was killed five seconds later – but from then on people made sure to keep their safeties off.

Nowadays any Johnny Hopscotch or Tommy Twiddle-Thumbs can be president without even knowing how to load gunpowder in an 1856 double-barrel Flintlock musket. I bet presidents today can’t even sing the old Union fight song! I know presidents in my time weren’t the best with “international relations” or “respecting other cultures,” and sure they were usually made of straw and fabric, but they kept the crows away, and dag nabbit, that’s the way we liked ‘em.

Girl: Ever since that giant floating eye started following us around I don’t feel so comfortable anymore.
Boy: Yeah, me neither. I wouldn’t worry about it too much, though. They’re literally everywhere nowadays and they don’t actually do anything except look at things.
Girl: So you think it’d be okay if we…you know, do it…right now? It’s been so long.
Boy: I guess so. It’s still a little off putting that it follows us everywhere…and…watch this just for a second…no matter which way I look at it…or move…around it…are you watching this…it still…follows me…
Girl: It’s been over a week now and nothing’s happened. Do you really think they’re that bad?
Boy: No, I don’t. Only about one in twelve alien races these days is hostile. So, statistically speaking, it was just sent here to research our culture.
Girl: Hey, look, it found my mirror and now it’s just staring at itself. Do you think it’ll—
Boy: HEY YOU, EYEBALL!
Girl: It didn’t move.
Boy: Okay quick, get undressed.

Whenever I tell someone that I work for the Spanish Inquisition, they usually stare at me in shock. Then their face starts bleeding and they die. I feel pretty stupid when this happens because of course I work for the Inquisition—they can tell by the fact that I’m torturing them. It’s like when you’re eating an ice cream cone and you pass some girl and you say, “Oh hey, I just got some ice cream.” She knows. She can tell by the fucking ice cream cone. But you’ve got to laugh at yourself when something like that happens. You have to unload the body and just laugh and scream like a maniac because life is funny.

Of course, when you work for the Spanish Inquisition, you’re going to have some bad days too. A few weeks ago, my boss comes up to me and says, “We need a device that breaks all of a man’s tendons but keeps his blood vessels intact.” Easy enough, I thought. So I set to work, putting together a wheel and a bunch of ropes and spikes. It worked perfectly, and I got a raise. But when I left the workshop, I stepped directly into a pile of shit because Madrid is really unsanitary.

One time this guy said to me, “Hey, man. How’s it going? Cool. Hey, do you have any moral qualms about your work?” What a ludicrous question, I thought. I got pretty angry. “Listen,” I said, “Maybe I’ve invented a machine that extracts a man’s intestines through his mouth. But I bet you’ve invented a machine that rips off a man’s arms and shoves one of them up his ass and discards the other one.” And the second I said it, I knew I’d guessed right because he got really sheepish and sort of backed off.

I know a lot of self-styled philosophers that like to sit around and think about whether the Spanish Inquisition is immoral if it has tortured even one innocent man. Not me, though. I’d much rather think about how to invent a machine that slices off a man’s dick and shoves it into his own eye.

Dear Cindy,

We’ve been dating for nearly three months now and there’s something I’ve really been meaning to talk to you about. Don’t freak out – it’s not a big deal or anything. There are so many things I love about you and I want you to remember that first. For example, I love looking at you naked, undressing you so that you’re naked, and stealing all your clothes and burning them so that you have to be naked all the time.

But every time you get naked, I can’t help but wonder: why aren’t your boobs any bigger? I mean, they’re just normal, average-sized boobs. You used to want to be the best, Cindy. You wanted to be a star. In this day and age that means you’ve got to be the gal with the biggest boobs in town, and you’ve got to prove it by letting your boyfriend examine them with his mouth and hands.

Look, I know you probably like your boobs a lot. That’s why I’m only suggesting that you make them bigger. The way you act now, content with your medium-sized boobs, it’s as if you don’t even want to walk around with huge tits swinging back and forth, hilariously knocking down valuable antiques. When did you decide to give up on your dreams?

I know you’re in charge of your own body, okay. I mean, I’ve heard of feminism before. But wouldn’t it be really feminist to make your boobs so incredibly big that you could use them as weapons against men? I’m no expert, but I’m pretty sure feminism also endorses punishing your boyfriend by squeezing his head between two breasts the size of beach balls and then vigorously shaking them side to side.

Why say no to a chance to better yourself? Having bigger boobs will only make men listen to you more and pay you more money for whatever jobs women can do. This isn’t about me, Cindy – it’s about you. It’s about making your boobs so big that you get into the Guinness Book of World Records and I can brag to all my friends about my famous girlfriend.

Love,

Josh

People love getting gag gifts—but what gag to give? This simple guide to gag gifts is the perfect gag gift for anyone who enjoys giving gag gifts without any outside guidance.

For a person who hates gag gifts:

This one’s too obvious—a gag gift! It works on two levels. This gag gift will be a jar of jellybeans that says “Sex Pills.”

For a standup comedian:

This guy makes a living off gags (and talking about gags), so a gag gift would just be something he could use professionally. Instead, slash his voicebox. A silent comedian is a gag gift for the audience.

For a prisoner of war:

“That joker! This is the only gift I don’t need!” your friend would surely say about the gag you sent him—if he didn’t already have an identical gag stuck in his mouth!

For a diabetic:

A jar of sex pills. The label says “Jellybeans.”

For a prisoner of war contemplating suicide:

Smuggle him a fake gun. When the trigger is pulled, out comes a flag that says “POW!” Not only will you avert the suicide, but you’ll remind him of the state that drove him to attempt it. Gotcha!

For your wife:

Formally revoke last year’s gift (an official-looking piece of paper that says “License To Be a Bitch.”) A mistake.

For Dale Kupersmith, inventor of Viagra, the so-called “sex pill”:

A pen that gives you an electric shock. This is the ultimate gag gift.

Unit 4 Test

Please show your work

A name-brand bottle of rum costs $12.95. The generic brand sells for $7.50. If a math teacher buys 4 bottles of generic rum each week, how much does he save each month? How much does he save each year? How much money does the teacher save over the course of 11 years?

A math teacher’s new apartment is approximately 12 ft. long and 5 ft. wide and the bathroom takes up 50% of the apartment. A normal, human-sized bed is 6 ft. by 3 ft. Does he have enough room for a standard bed? Or will he have to sleep in some kind of dog bed?

By order of the high courts, a math teacher must keep a 1000 ft distance from his ex-wife at all times. Say, theoretically, she lives on 63rd and 1st, exactly half-way between his apartment and the school. How far out of the way does the teacher have to walk every morning just to keep from getting arrested?

A math teacher is frightened 95% of the time. How many hours a day is he frightened? What is he so afraid of?

After 11 years of service, a math teacher receives an $80 gift-certificate to Shaw’s Gas, in lieu of a raise. How much of that money will be left after taxes? Express in bottles of rum.