There’s a new game on Capitol Hill, inspired by the popular FMK. The game is IHB — Irony, Hypocrisy, or Both. With few exceptions, today’s performances by Republican officials qualify as “Both.” For the first time since the election, lawmakers who cried foul over the election results have called for unity and healing. Several also called for an end to a double standard in the treatment of protestors.

Even Donald Trump joined the rally, imploring Americans for the first time in his presidency to “to overcome the passions of the moment and join together as one American people. …

No matter how well you write the directions, they’ll be lost on people who never bother to read

The Hicksville High Hornets were 1 and 2 as they prepared for league play, with their quarterback Jeb Steed finally returning after a helmetless head-on collision with the metal side of a blocking sled. His elusive speed and laser accurate throwing arm promised to shred opposing defenses like sharpened shears on satin.

The only obstacle between the Hornets and a Class 1A division championship was a silly rule. A rule called “No Pass No Play.” Which in most schools wouldn’t have been a problem, but Hicksville High’s math teacher Mrs. …

If there’s no accounting for taste, then why do so many people who have none teach art?

Art sucks. And nobody knew it more than Tucker, who learned the hard way, in Mrs. Hartkase’s tenth grade art class which, when combined with his enrollment in senior level computer classes, was enough to paint “torture me” on his back every day as he hustled past the boy’s restroom where — unable to avoid capture — the juniors turned him ass over head and thrust him into a toilet like a plunger in a shit clogged bowl. Luckily for Tucker, his tormentors were too unimaginative to take a dump in the toilet first.

Which didn’t change the fact that art sucks. …

”Remember my Alamo or you’ll regret it,” Drumpf declared from the Alamo, Texas border wall. He made the declaration six feet from the latest patch in the wall which immigrants had cut through with Home Depot chainsaws over the weekend.

After suffering more than a week of setbacks following his failed coup attempt last week, Drumpf fled to Alamo, Texas to stage his final call to battle. Only to discover that the Alamo is in San Antonio, not the town of Alamo.

“It was an easy mistake to make,” said B.G. Kizzazz, assistant to Chief of Staff Mark Meadows. “Most people would think that the Alamo was in the town of Alamo if they never paid attention in geography, or bothered to read.” …

Never doubt the willingness of the desperate and irresponsible to cough up their life’s savings for instant success pills

Brad squeezed his eyelids tighter than the legs of the bookworm freshman he was only trying to nail to win a bet, and, while his lids were closed he prayed that when he opened them this fabulous, no, phenomenal dream wouldn’t be a dream but the real test papers with answers to Professor Summers’ organic chemistry final. The final she accidentally left on her desk for a course he was failing. Not just failing, but failing with a grade of 35. …

The best way to prove you’re not a loser is to stop following the examples of your friends

Mort locked the men’s room door, ignored the no smoking sign, fired a Bond cigarette and leaned against the automatic flush box to practice his smoke rings. And his visualization. The name is Bond. Mort Bond. Men cower and women wet themselves at the mention of my name. His buddies smoked West Fusions, also a cool name, but fusion didn’t say ‘manly’ the way Bond did.

Someone rapped on the door. “I’ll be out in a minute,” he lied. He rolled the cigarette between his fingers, watching the smoke drift toward the vent.

“Put that cigarette out, Bumbox. …

It doesn’t matter how firm your resolve, it will never withstand your teenaged children

Every New Year Sue debated which was more embarrassing — her record for breaking New Year’s resolutions (all of them) or her record for the speed with which she broke them. …

Never underestimate a slacker’s resolve to resolve nothing at all

When Bruno Junior stumbled from his bedroom at ten p.m. on New Year’s, his mother Ascella zipped her lips and returned to her book. When he asked why she hadn’t made coffee, Ascella paused before stating the obvious (which would be it’s ten at night, where the hell were you when I made coffee this morning, and you’re a twenty-six-year-old man who dropped out of college to “chase your dreams” so why don’t you dream a plan to make your own?). She told him where she stored the coffee beans.

“You expect me to make my own goddam coffee?”

Ascella reminded herself of her New Year’s resolution to not let her useless son push her buttons. “You want coffee, I explained your…