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At the Pro Bowl practice, New York Jet Jamal Adams tackled the New England Patriot mascot sending the guy in the costume to the hospital.

That story again: a New York Jet actually was able to tackle someone.


At the Pro Bowl practice, New York Jet Jamal Adams tackled the New England Patriot mascot sending the guy in the costume to the hospital.


That is shocking. A New York Jet is in the Pro Bowl? 





Roger Stone was arrested by the FBI and released on a $250,000 bond. Or as Donald Trump calls $250,000, almost two porn star payments.

Since you asked:

(Have told this before, but I was reminded of it)


So the snotty neck-beard hipster in front of me at the grocery store with his equally snotty girlfriend has 20 items in the 12 items-or-less line. And he is even joking about it.

So I say to him, 

“Math is not my strong suit, but even I can figure out that is eight too many.”

He sneers, 

“Well, if it makes you feel better, it is ten items for each of us.” So I reply,

“Well, if it makes you feel better,  you’re an asshole.” 

His face goes blank and he looks me up and down and I can see him doing the math in his head that my 225 pounds was more than his 160 pounds. So he shuts up and they slink out of the store in a hurry.

Apparently, he was not as bad at math as he first appeared.

Russell Baker, rest in peace, was so great, he helped inspire me to try and make a living making people laugh through my writing. 

Maybe someday I will forgive him.






At a posh ski resort in Colorado, a moose chased skiers and snowboarders down the slopes. 


"Gosh, it would be so awful if the moose hit a skier," said a skier.

In one scary moment, the rutting moose caught up to a wealthy divorcee skier in her fur and gold lamé jumpsuit and, well, long story short, they're engaged.

"That's the last time I get stoned before snowboarding," said a snowboarder lying to himself. 




A man attempted to relieve his chronic back pain by injecting his semen into his arm. For the love of god, get some help, Louis C.K. 


Since you asked:

Mo and the Gorilla

The passing of the great writer Russell Baker - plus my joke about the moose and divorcee - have me reminiscing about the humor I ran into working as a bond broker on Wall Street in the mid ’80’s. 

It was top notch. Top notch. (Yes, even if much of it was derived from "Caddy Shack") The people on Wall Street were as funny as anyone I've met in comedy. Maybe funnier because the traders and brokers and back office workers weren’t trying to make a living being funny. They just were funny. 

Wall Street was a pretty fair meritocracy. Blue-blooded Ivy League former lacrosse stars named Chip worked shoulder to shoulder with street-savvy Brooklyn and New Jersey types named Vinny and Tony who worked their way up to the trading floor from the back office. 

One thing the traders and most brokers had in common was a quick wit. By definition, traders and brokers have to be fast to react to a massive amount of information. 

As a broker, we offered all kinds of services to our traders. Not only timely bond trading, but lavish dinners, Broadway shows, limos and also humor. 

Charm and wit were commodities. 

One of my assets as a broker was the ability to tell a good joke. Not only can I do accents, but the odd impression like the easy targets, Jack Nicholson, Bill Cosby, Christopher Walken and Jack Nicholson. (Yes, I said Jack twice. That is how good my impression of Jack is) 

In retrospect, Wall Street was my first foray into comedy. Telling jokes was an asset I provided the entire firm. The thinking was if someone at your firm could tell a timely joke, their brokering skills were timely too. 

And there was a ton of downtime. Entertainment was at a premium.

If you made a mistake as a bond broker, your trader would "put you in the penalty box."  No calls or trades for a day or two. They would do the same thing if you told a lame joke. 

The way it worked was, during one of our endless lulls of mind-crushing boredom, I would tell a joke to the bond desk. If it got a laugh, I would be asked to tell it to a brokers' client/trader over the phone. 

One of the few women who worked with us was nicknamed Mo. She was a niece of the company’s owner and founder, Hilliar Farber. Mo has to be in the Good Sport Hall of Fame. The things we said to Mo, in bored jest, would have landed people in prison during the current Me Too movement. Rightfully.

One day Mo tells me to pick up line six and tell her top trader/client my gorilla joke. 

The way I told the joke, I incorporated Mo as the victim: 

Mo was enjoying a day at the Bronx Zoo when a gorilla grabbed her and pulled her into his cage. The gorilla savagely had his way with poor Mo. 

Later, recuperating in the hospital, Mo’s sister, Bettie, asked Mo how she was doing. In a faint whisper, with her arms and legs in traction, Mo replied, 

“How am I doing? Are you kidding me? He doesn’t write, he doesn’t call. I haven’t heard one word from the rat bastard.”

There was no laughter from the trader, I could hear he just took a long drag from his cigarette, exhaled and said,


“In Mo’s case, the gorilla ends up in the hospital.”

In Ireland, a man attempting to relieve his chronic back pain injected himself with his semen. He collected and injected his semen. 

Authorities are at a loss to explain how this did not happen in Florida.