Boston Marathon fan wins Armchair Division

By John Breneman

The Boston
Marathon is insane, right? I mean just do the math.
Twenty-thousand runners times 26.2 miles of ankle-busting,
knee-crunching pavement from Hopkinton to Copley Square.

By my calculations that’s total 524,000 miles traveled …
on foot. I found that quite an impressive statistic until
I realized I could get that same mileage — without the estimated
40,000 blisters and umpteen cardiac seizures — from a couple
of old Toyotas.

I was actually planning on running this year because I could
really use the $100,000 grand prize. But I had to pull out
because of, uh, a ruptured flexor ligament in my, um, quadriceps.
Yeah, that’s it.

I’m kidding, of course. I could no more run 26 miles than
sneak into the papal conclave and cast a ballot for my favorite
Cardinal, St. Louis first baseman Albert Pujols.

Believe me I tried, and nearly died, at last year’s race.
Here’s what happened:

I got to Hopkinton real early to get a prime parking space,
then walked eight miles to the Main Street starting line and
waded into the scantily clad sea of humanity. The aroma was
a pungent blend of Ben Gay, Aspercreme and Triple-Action Gold
Bond Powder.

Just as I was elbowing my way into position, the starter’s
gun went off. Bam! I was instantly trampled by a pack of 9-year-old
Cub Scouts jogging for the Jimmy Fund and a contingent of
bald hippies raising money for bone marrow transplants and
medicinal marijuana.

Before I could even scrape the burnt wheelchair rubber off
my back, I looked up and saw a couple stringbeans from the
Kenyan junior varsity whiz by at approximately 35 mph. "See
you in Beantown fellas. I hope."

Once I found my stride, I was like Rocky charging up those
stairs in Philadelphia with that inspirational soundtrack
blaring in my head. I was able to keep that up for nearly
200 yards.

That’s when my right kneecap flared up as if I’d been stung
by a giant bee, but it was actually just my ACL snapping like
a dried-up gumband. No problem, I thought, I’ll just tough
it out. But by the time I reached the first mile marker I
had tripped over my shoelace, twisted my left ankle and tried
four different breathing methods, finally settling into a
sort of arhythmic "gasp-wheeze-gulp."

At around three miles, I narrowly avoided a 10-runner pileup
on Route 135. EMTs arrived on the scene within seconds, took
one look at the twisted heap of human wreckage and radioed
for the Jaws of Life.

Assuming the slow pace of that fabled long-distance champion,
the tortoise, I somehow made it to the five-mile mark in Ashland.
I swung my hand out to grab some water, but missed and accidentally
punched myself in the face. The force of the blow knocked
me into a motorcycle cop and, though the pepper spray clouded
my vision, I managed to scramble away before he could cite
me for resisting cardiac arrest.

By now my carbo-loading pasta dinner from the night before
was really paying off, but my Cuervo-loading experiment was
having the opposite effect. Pretty soon the acid reflux kicked
in, warming my esophagus with the tangy taste of peptic acid
and ravioli. Fortunately, I became distracted by what felt
like an ice-cream headache in my left lung.

I switched to kilometers for a while to make it seem like
I’d covered more ground, but got depressed at Mile 8 in Framingham
when a guy with a peg leg and a bandaged head marched by playing
a fife with two drummers close behind.

Around this time things were getting a little fuzzy, and
I really couldn’t say where I got that pony, but I rode that
little guy all the way to Natick — part Paul Revere, part
Rosie Ruiz — before a vigilant race official ordered me to
ditch my steed.

Was I there yet? Nope.

Shortly after I crossed into Wellesley, I was overtaken by
the Grim Reaper (with #17642 pinned to his long black cape).
I assumed he was looking for the tubby, crimson-faced guy
who blew by a few minutes earlier with a purple vein the size
of a Vienna sausage keeping time on his left temple.

Halfway up Heartbreak Hill, I was gripped by the sensation
that an angry falcon was trying to claw my heart out of my
chest cavity. But that was just a hallucination. What really
happened, an MRI revealed later, was that my aorta got plugged
up by a chunk of Power Bar that I found on the road.

Undeterred, I ignored the brush fire burning its way through
my innards, from my pancreas down to my bladder, and convinced
myself that the dark blood trickling from my right ear was
probably normal. But then one of my leg cramps began emitting
a high-pitched whining sound, something like a circular saw
cutting through a fibula or femur.

To this day, I have no recollection whatsoever of Miles 22-25.

I must have regained consciousness with about a quarter-mile
to go because I distinctly remember the ghost of the legendary
Johnny Kelley (#1 now and forever) tapping me on the shoulder
and yelling at me to "keep going, kid."

Reliable sources report that when I finally staggered across
the finish line, I guzzled four gallons of blue Gatorade and
hailed an ambulance.

The doctor said I would eventually regain most of the feeling
in my pelvis, but advised me to get used to the sandpaper
sound between my second and third vertebrae.

Later on, I would be disqualified for the pony incident and
for purchasing piggy-back rides through much of Brighton and
Brookline.

But that’s OK, because I actually have a small confession
to make. I never even tried to run the Boston Marathon last
year, and a ruptured quadraplexor tendon did not prevent me
from joining the field.

I was home watching the action on TV. Somewhere along the
line I decided to crown myself winner of the Armchair Division.
And you know those ceremonial garlands the winners get to
wear on their heads? Well, mine was made of guacamole Doritos.

You see, most of us can only imagine what it would be like
to run those 26.2 miles, to participate in a singular event
that symbolizes mankind’s capacity for not only endurance
and perseverance, but also for good will.

Twenty-thousand hearty souls logging half a million miles,
raising millions for charity. We salute them all. This concludes
our live coverage of the 109th running of the most patriotic
race in America.

Related story:
Rev.
Jesse Jackson mulls pope bid

Bush names Patriots football ambassadors

By John Breneman

President
Bush welcomed the New
England Patriots to the White House for the third
time in four years on Wednesday, then stunned the Super Bowl
champs by asking them to serve as U.S. ambassadors for football.

The president told Patriots coach Bill Belichick he has learned
that millions of people throughout the world refer to "soccer"
as "football." This could pose a potential threat
to national security "or something," he said.

"Football is an American game and people ought to play
it around the world, like democracy" said President Bush.
"We need to make sure we live in a world where football
means football. Soccer calling itself football is like communism
calling itself democracy."

The president explained that in many countries, young school
children are brainwashed with anti-American propaganda and
taught to love soccer instead of real football.

"In Texas we have a word for soccer — boring,"
said Bush. "There’s no action, no good-lookin’ women
in beer commercials, no pickup trucks, no Viagra. I guarantee
you’re not gonna see me choking
on a pretzel from watching soccer on TV."

By the time President Bush reached the climax of his speech
— "Either you’re with us or you’re with the soccer people"
— the Patriots had slipped out the back.

Hub fans bid curse adieu

By
John Breneman

Diamond rings the size of a baby’s fist. Fighter jets tearing
across the sky and soldiers in wheelchairs rolling across
the Fenway grass. A Red Sox championship banner billowing
from the Green Monster.

All of a sudden, 1918 doesn’t seem so long ago. Not when
Johnny
Pesky (circa 1942 Sox) is standing right there soaking
it all in with Dom
DiMaggio, Dewey
and Yaz
and the rest of us 35,000 lucky stiffs, all crammed into this
hallowed baseball artifact, swept up in the emotion of a shared
dream.

Everything is different this spring, right? The Sox made
history, choked the Yankees, broke the curse, swept the Cards
and made grown men cry. World champs. Aw yeah. It feels good.

What, you say the Yankees are back in town? OK, now that
another New England winter has frozen the exhilarating memories
of last October into Red Sox lore, it’s time to come out and
play once more. But first we have a couple small matters to
attend to.

You know, distributing gaudy and symbolic chunks of etched
gold. Singing songs to honor the glory of Red Sox past and
present. Unfurling gigantic World Series banners … in
your smug Yankee faces.

Or
cheering like idiots when the announcer calls out "Mariano
Rivera." You didn’t have to be at the park to
hear Fenway erupt with a standing O for the once-dominant
closer turned hapless tomato can.

"What can I say — just tip my hat and call the Red
Sox my daddy," Rivera said in my imaginary pre-game interview.
He scoffed at any suggestion that the tables have turned,
that perhaps now the Yankees will be haunted by the Curse
of the Splendid Splinter, and said, "Wake up Ted
Williams, I’ll drill him in the ah… frozen head
I guess."

We were almost done saluting our heroes of 2004, honoring
Red Sox warriors of games gone by and bidding farewell to
the ghost of Mr.
George Herman Ruth. Almost ready to ring in the new
year with an 8-1 Yankee spanking, a savory and immensely satisfying
Wakefield knuckle sandwich.

But wait, what first-ever Red Sox defending world champion
Opening Day extravaganza would be complete without a special
appearance by the president of Rwanda? From up in the bleachers
I couldn’t see whether or not President
Paul Kagame brought his mitt but it looked like he
had finally ditched Mitt Romney.

After three innings on the mound it was clear Wakefield
had stepped forward as one of the Yankees’ new daddies. Wake
had the Yanks shooting blanks with his 54 mph fistball and
his knee-buckling knuckler, leaving a breeze of whiffs and
nicks in his wake. After the game, Wakefield declined to comment
on his role on the 2016 Sox pitching staff.

Fans from around the region flocked to Fenway for the mind-expanding
’05 opener, high price of gasoline be damned. High price of
beer be damned too, while we’re on the topic. According to
my crude calculations, Sam Adams premium unleaded carries
a ballpark pump price of roughly $72 per gallon. (Psst, we
smuggled in our peanuts. My friend only paid a couple bucks
at the grocery store, but the nuts have an estimated Landsdowne
Street value of $50-$75.)

Yes, it is definitely good to sit in the Fenway bleachers
with a cold brewski while Tedy Bruschi of the three-time world
champion New England Patriots throws out the first pitch alongside
Richard Seymour, Bobby Orr and all-time undisputed ring king
Bill Russell.

The
true significance of what this all means to the generations
of people who have placed hope in something called the Red
Sox cannot be captured in words (though the Boston Herald
headline "Joy of Sox" comes close).

For me, it is all in the emotion of the thing. It’s the way
you feel when the Sox do it — when they battle back from
so far down and really finally do it — while you’re screaming
at the TV with your family and friends.

It might be that shiver you feel when the scoreboard on Opening
Day flashes a giant black-and-white of young Johnny
Pesky, looking like the kid Moonlight Graham in "Field
of Dreams." It might be remembering when your dad took
to that first game and there he was, Roberto
Clemente. Or Yaz.
Or Mickey.

I think loving the Red Sox — sorry, I mean the world champion
Red Sox — is all of that and much more. It’s a whole Zen,
Ken Burns, Pudge, Cooperstown, Cy Young, Tony C., Babe, 1918,
Impossible Dream kind of thing. You know what I mean.

Today’s story can also be found on the website of my new
employer, BostonHerald.com

Rev. Jesse Jackson mulls pope bid

By
John Breneman

Dissatisfied with the amount of attention he received by
poking his nose into the Michael Jackson and Teri Schiavo
media events, the Rev, Jesse Jackson is said to be talking
with his advisers about a possible campaign to become the
first black pope.

When informed that he can’t be pope because he is not Catholic,
Jackson reportedly became infuriated and vowed to "fight
the racism that oppresses non-Catholic, African-American adulterers
by saying they can’t be the Dalai Lama, an ayatollah, or even
pope."

A source close to Jackson’s massive ego said he formed an
exploratory committee after being encouraged to run by such
influential figures as P. Diddy, LaToya Jackson and the Rev.
Al Sharpton. Father Guido Sarducci has also thrown his full
support behind the "Jackson for Pontiff in 2005"
movement.

Jackson, who ran for president in 1984 and 1988, said his
qualifications for the Vatican position include his "brotherly
love for all mankind, even the Hymies" and a "God-given
ability to pontificate with the media."

"Plus, I gotta lotta words that rhyme with ‘pope’,"
said Jackson, 63. "Rope. Dope. Yeah, rope-a-dope like
Muhammad Ali. That pope could float like he’s beatified and
sting like a bee."

Political analysts speculate that since he has no realistic
chance to become pope, Jackson may just be angling for a Cabinet
position in the next papal administration, like Secretary
of Vatican Affairs or Under Secretary of Magniloquent Pomposity.

Humor us with this foolish questionnaire

In
order to better serve YOU, the reader, I have compiled this questionnaire
as part of my work in the cutting-edge field of humor column research.

My bosses are pressuring me to provide 8-10 percent more laughs
in each edition of the Humor Gazette. I’m hoping the data you provide
here will help me tap into the very marrow of the human funny bone.

The first 100 respondents will be eligible to win a gold-embossed
collector’s edition copy of my new best-seller – "Blah Blah
Blah, Etc." (Offer void in parts of South Berwick.) To ensure
optimum results, I must request that you please hold your laughter
until the end of this column.

Warning:
The following questions are "multiple choice," so respondents
will need a working knowledge of the "alphabet."

Questions
1. When is your favorite time to read humor columns?
A. During an intimate moment with a loved one.
B. While speeding down the freeway and chattering on the cell phone
in heavy traffic.
C. After the weekly liposuction treatment.
D. In those peaceful, solitary moments just before flushing.

2.
Do you prefer humor columns that are:
A. side-splitting
B. knee-slapping
C. rib-tickling
D. windpipe-constricting

3. What is your favorite snack to nibble on while reading humor
columns? (select up to 6)

• kippered herring
• tofu jerky
• lima bean pizza
• Meat Whiz
• refried chitlins
• Oysters Rockefeller
• Venezuelan caviar
• animal by-products
• Spam-flavored lollipops
• Tender Vittles
• Pepto-Bismol smoothies
• that nasty brown stuff that Grandma used to make

4. What is your current employment status?
A. pencil pusher
B. suit
C. dot-com geek
D. brown-collar slop jockey

5. What is your current family status?
A. single
B. double
C. disowned
D. married, divorced, remarried and living in squalor with 3.5 kids,
6.5 cats and an incontinent gerbil named Petey.

6. What is your current financial status?
A. mo’ money
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D. assets not sufficient to maintain the lifestyle to which you
have become accustomed.

7. How much would you pay for this column if it was not provided
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8. What are some of your favorite humor column topics? (select
up to six)
o society’s seamy underbelly
o squirrel terrorists
o philandering politicians
o humpbacked sperm whales
o humpbacked politicians
o porcelain fixtures
o the role of monkeys in U.S. foreign policy
o algebraic equations
o machine gun-wielding gnomes
o blonds
o Polish sausages
o the mating rituals of the indigenous North American loser.

9. What is your greatest fear?
A. fear itself
B. snakes
C. George W. Bush
D. missing an important final exam because you have no clothing

and can only run in slow-motion.

10. What is your favorite name to call those idiots who cut
you off in traffic?
A. idiot
B. @$*#% jackass
C. nincompoop
D. road rage victim

Congratulations. Now that you have completed the questionnaire,
you are eligible to enrich your life by reading the Humor Gazette
as often as you like. However, I know your time is at a premium
so before you just jump onto the bandwagon, I’m sure you’ll want
all the facts.

Consider:
? Humor Gazette columns offer
24 percent more insipid punch lines
than the other leading brand.

? Each week, we will print a generous
supply of comical words like "beancurd," "whimwham"
and "government."

? Special bonus columns will be peppered
with rib-splitting words like "putty," "angstrom
unit" and "Jello-brand gelatin."

? We also offer exclusive special
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"The Trouble With Genetically Engineered Raisins" and
"Youth Violence: Friend Or Foe?"

? And finally, this column has been
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National Water Pistol Association.

Humor Gazette editor John Breneman is:
A. almost as funny as gangrene
B. a pathetic little man
C. a veritable comic juggernaut
D. no longer allowed to play with weapons of mass destruction.

John Breneman

Bin Laden hat trick won’t fool CIA

By
John Breneman

The CIA has announced a major break in the hunt for Osama
bin Laden. New intelligence indicates the wily terror kingpin
has ditched his traditional turban look in favor of a jaunty
straw hat he found at Wal-Mart.

The lanky hate-monger seems obsessed with his new chapeau
and "won’t leave the cave without it," according
to a source who said bin Laden is convinced the hat makes
him more attractive to "the ladies" (terrorist lingo
for "goats and camels").

The source added that bin Laden saw Martha Stewart’s release
from prison on TV and has lately been seen flouncing about
in a knit poncho.

Meanwhile, the U.S. Department of Homeland Security has issued
a videotaped "news segment" for broadcast on local
stations. In the piece, several Arab-looking gentlemen reading
from scripts call bin Laden "a spineless scumbag"
and George W. Bush "the greatest guy ever."

In other news: A West Coast intelligence source says there
is emerging evidence that bin Laden was spotted in San Francisco
drinking a pina colada at Trader Vic’s. His hair was perfect.

Related stories:
Bin Laden
releases latest tape on his own label    (April
19, 2004)

Gay
newlyweds Saddam and Osama adopted baby ape    (Oct.
28, 2003)

Jacko
reclaims control of media spotlight

By
John Breneman

After a brief tussle with Terri Schiavo and Pope John Paul
II, embattled pop star Michael Jackson today reclaimed control
of the media spotlight with a videotaped message to the millions
around the globe in search of moral and spiritual guidance.

Sporting a sequined "Pope Rocks!" armband and appearing
next to a shrine festooned with pictures of Macauley Culkin,
Jackson issued a plea for world peace and heightened tolerance
of well-meaning albino pedophiles.

Jackson promised "the faithful" that he will be
acquitted of molestation charges and likened his suffering
to that of Pee-Wee Herman. He also shared his belief that
stem-cell research is "icky" and that the death
penalty should only be used to punish "meanies."

In other news, Jacko denied accepting kickbacks from the
United Nations oil-for-food program and danced around allegations
that he has flip-flopped on Social Security reform.

President ‘punked’ press, public with
Iraq gag

By John Breneman

President Bush today responded to a new report investigating
the bogus pre-war intelligence scam that led to war in Iraq
by admitting that the whole thing was nothing more than a
big prank.

"Gotcha. Heh-heh," Bush said to a slack-jawed pack
of media jackals assembled for the April 1 press conference.
"You been punk’d.
Heh-heh."

"The
whole weapons of mass destruction thing, the stuff about Saddam
being linked to al Qaeda… I mean we even had FOX News
telling people Iraq had to pay for Sept. 11. It was classic,"
said Bush, barely able to control his glee.

"And I couldn’t have done it without all you guys,"
Bush told the assembled media. "It was Rummy’s idea but
everybody was in on it Condi, Wolfie, Cheney, the whole gang.
Special thanks to the White House press corps. Everybody except
that Colin Powell guy, of course. We punk’d
him too."

"Uranium yellowcake, aluminum tubes; that was Condi.
And when George Tenet came up with that ‘Slam dunk’ bit, I
swear I thought Cheney was gonna have an aneurysm," Bush
snickered. "I’ve gotta take credit for ‘Mission Accomplished’
though. You had to love me in that flightsuit, right?"

The president said he almost blew the gag just over a year
ago on March 26 when he did a standup
routine at the Radio & Television Correspondents Association
annual dinner. "Those weapons of mass destruction
must be here somewhere," the commander-in-cheek said
at the time, while showing a photograph of him looking under
a desk.

Despite some good-natured cajoling from the press, Bush said
the nation will have to wait until April 1, 2006, to learn
the punchline of his Social Security reform prank.

Related stories:

President
in-your-faced the nation    (April 14,
2004)

Rumsfeld
offers proof of link
between Saddam Hussein and … Rumsfeld

Much Abu
about nothing    (May 25, 2004)

Fistful
of Jelly Beans    (June 16, 2004)

Rebuilding
Afghanistan

More
Bush exclusives

Burger King intervenes in Schiavo case

By
John Breneman

A Florida man has been arrested for trying to bring Terri
Schiavo an Enormous
Omelet Sandwich, the controversial new 730-calorie
breakfast gut-buster from Burger King. The man, later identified
as Dagwood Bumstead, was blocked by a police officer, who
clubbed him to the ground and then consumed the massive blob
of food.

The new sandwich, which has drawn criticism from health advocates,
contains half a dozen eggs*, a brick of melted cheese*, and
two or three pounds of steak*, bacon*, sausage* and hog jowl*,
all served on a tasty bread-like bun.

A spokesman for the family pleaded with authorities to allow
Schiavo to have the sandwich, saying she had once confided
that if she ever went into a vegetative state for 15 years
AND a fast-food chain introduced a new product containing
more than two pounds of meat* and/or 400 milligrams of cholesterol
that she would want to try it.

House Majority Leader Tom
DeLay urged Congress to enact legislation giving federal
courts jurisdiction over fast-food, right-to-die cases and
President
Bush was awakened from his afternoon nap to be ready
to sign the bill into law.

* Product may contain up to 92 percent lard, wombat feces,
pus and pus by-products, partially hydrogenated cornhole oil
and/or human flesh.

* Also contains chicken beaks, e. coli, red dye #2, uranium
yellow cake, monosodium gluttonate and high fructose ass droppings.

* Not available in Ethiopia or The Sudan.

Related stories
Lose
up to 452 lbs. with Humor Gazette Diet    (Feb.
25, 2005)
Man sues
McDonalds for making him fat    (July
30, 2002)