Mr. Topper On Osama Bin Laden's Death



Ask Mr. Topper

 Dear Mr. Topper, Did you hear that Seal Team Six, snuck into Pakistan and killed Osama Bin Laden? Pretty cool huh?
  -  M. Cronce

Sure they did. That's what they want you to believe. Here's what really happened. The CIA called me last month and then I showed up at their secret base in Hollywood, that's where the money is. They had built a time machine. So then, I went back in time and fought off the terrorists with a paper clip and a stick of gum, that's all you can get through with in the time machine. So I killed all the terrorists but those guys that took down the trade center, it sucks but before I went back in time they blew up the whole city. But Osama had genetically engineered himself into a time travelling cyborg so I had to chase him through time, and then he joined up with Hitler and Stalin and they changed the course of history and enslaved all mankind and I had to fight them but I picked up a gun from a Nazi Zombie, (the first thing they created when they took over) but i removed his head with my karate death chop. And then I killed Stalin and beat Hilter to death with Stalin's big head, but Osama got away with a omega nuclear total annihilation bomb, so I had to follow him into Pakistan. But he jumped back through time so I only had my paper clip and my bubble gum again. But he didn't expect me to follow him so I made a crude slingshot with my gum and I shot him in the head and it shorted out his cyborg face and it blew up, which is why they say his face is destroyed, and then I disarmed the bomb, with the gum. Seal Team Six just swooped in to take me home. And we dropped the bomb in the water but Osama's body has been cryogenicaly frozen so they can study his cyborg weaponry.

    And that's what really happened.

Discovered a small paper from San Luis Obisbo, California.
I subscribed because it's awesome. All excerpts used without permission. 

The Amazing Cat Poop Patio.

Did you know that if you build a super amazing playset for your kids, and then build an equally amazing box around it, in which you put a load of sand, and you live in an area that has a bunch of cats, that said cats will turn the sandbox into a giant litterbox? You just shut-up, you didn't know that. Really? You did? Well I wish you would have told me.

     So now that you have a giant kitty box that your kids are playing in, what do you do? Ignoring the problem isn't a solution, child protective services and all that. Well, you could have a kitty barbecue. That would cut down on future contamination, and would be super tasty. But, it would do nothing for the poop currently in the play area. You could just get rid of your kids. But, the wife has put the kaibash on that. So, if you are a creative, think outside of the box type, here is what you do.

    Build a frame, next to the play area. Move the sand and the poop mixture into the new box. Lay some paving bricks over the sandy poop mixture. Something in a nice non-crappy design, like a lovely herringbone. Before you know it. Cat poop? What cat poop? Anyone for a barbecue? Oh, you'll get used to the smell.

Mr. Topper Kills Himself Way Better Than That Other Guy.

ASK MR. TOPPER

Dear Mr. Topper, did you hear about the guy who accidentally shot himself with a nail gun, decided it hurt so bad that he wanted to die and shot himself another 15 times in the head... and lived?!
  -  J. Meares

That's nothing. One time I was building custom house from some rich hollywood type, I can't tell you his name, but it rhymes with "Steve-in Freel-burg". The only tools I had were a hammer, a chisel and a piece of sandpaper. As I was re-creating the famous miracle stairs of the Loretto Chapel with handmade mortise and tenon joints, I accidentally biscuit jointed my ear to the wall. OW. It really hurt, I had to put myself out of my misery.
     But, I didn't even have any nails, and I didn't want to mash my brains all over the place. So I pulled out my chisel and carved a regulation 16 penny nail out of scrap lumber. Then I placed the nail in the back of the my skull where the Medulla Oblongata is, (I studied brain surgery for a while - then decided I didn't want to work indoors) and expertly killed myself by driving a nail straight through my head with a single blow.

     I got better.

Flip's, I'm Not Very Inspired, I'll Make A List, List.

I haven't written since last Thursday, partly because I'm uninspired and partly because I got sidetracked in The Coffee Shop, the bloggers support/help site. (Damn you blogger-ites; or is it philes?) All the "how to blog" sites say that lists are an excellent blog tool; that they are easy and interesting. I don't get it, but who am I to argue with the experts?

Grocery List

Santa's List

To Do List

Craigs List

 

Angie's List

  

FBI Most Wanted List



Twinkie's List of Ingredients



Parts List



Listerine



Listing Ship

Dave Lister

That was EASY!

Mr. Topper on 127 Hours

Last time I was in California, I found a little newspaper from San Luis Obisbo and I subscribed. This week it started running a column called "Ask Mr Topper",  I love it. I think you will too.

ASK MR. TOPPER

Dear Mr. Topper, Did you hear about that guy who got trapped by a big rock in the desert and had to chop his own arm off? I hear they made a movie about it. That guy must be pretty tough, huh?! 

  -   Sincerely, John B.

Dear John B., That's NOTHING. One time I was in a parking garage, after a day of back room poker, where I made 100K on one hand, (royal flush, baby) and I was putting the suitcase containing my winnings, in the trunk of my '65 Shelby Cobra, (Candy apple red; four hundred clear coats, it practically glows!) when a ninja, the mob had paid, sprang out and slammed the trunk on my hand.

     When the trunk slammed on my hand I dropped my keys, under the next car. I went to get my authentic folding Japanese Katana out of my shoulder holster, (It's ceramic so I can carry it on planes, I pity the terrorist who tries to hijack a plane I'm on), so I could fight off the ninja and pull my keys to me, but just then the mob boys showed up and attacked me, en masse. I killed, like 50 of them, but they eventually overwhelmed me and took my keys, and my katana, then they started up the car and started dragging me out of the parking structure.

    So, I used my Kung Fu (10th level Midnight-Black belt) and chopped my arm off at the wrist. Before I let go of the car, I cauterized my wrist on the tail pipe, so I didn't bleed to death. Then I ran back to the pile of dead guys, and chopped a guys hand off, whose hands were about the same size as mine. Then I ran to the nearest sporting goods store, it was about 5 miles away, and grabbed some fishing line and a hook and then I sewed that dead mobster's hand onto my arm. And now you can't even tell. And if I ever catch those mobsters, there is gonna be hell to pay, I can tell you that. 

Dreaming With Ancient Enemies, A PC Nightmare.

This last weekend my family and I toured Bandelier National Monument (somewhat by accident - blog to follow). We toured the ruins of some ancient Native Americans. And then last night I had the strangest dream. It started out with me walking along the ruins with the crying Indian guy from the classic 70's littering commercial. He looks at me and says,

"I need you to get a message out to the world for me."

"Oh, is this about all those cigarette butts I threw out the window? 'Cause, I'm sorry"

"Nah, I understand, ashtrays stink, I throw mine out too."

"Then is it about my carbon footprint?"

"Not really, I drive a Hummer and eat at McDonalds every day. Love me a Big Mac."

"What is it then?"

"The name they have given our people"

"Indians? Well it's like this, Columbus thought..."
"No moron, my people. From here, the ruins here at Bandelier."
"Oh that. Anasazi, let's see. That means "Ancient Enemy" in Navajo right? That does suck."
"Yeah those A-Hole Navajos; you shoulda' heard what we called them."
"What?"
"The A-Holes."
"Oh, and what did you guys call yourselves?"
"The Fabulous Thunderbirds."
"Impressive, so you want me to tell people to call you that instead of Anasazi?"
"Nah, we like that name too. It's cool and fierce."
"I thought you said you didn't like the name."
"Not that name. Now people are calling us Frijoles. Spanish for beans. Beans. What is that?"
"Ugh. That's awful."
"I know, huh?"
"Mr Fabulous T-Bird, I am a writer and I will do my part and get the word out about your plight."
"A writer? That's a stretch. You have a droll little site, but..."
"Hey! That's not very nice. Who's writing this bit anyway? By the way, what ever happened to your people?"
"Well, after one particularly bad winter, a condo salesman came up from Mexico and convinced us to move to the beach. Sun, sand, and waves; what wasn't to love? Plus, they had chocolate and mezcal."
"I love the beach. How did it work out for you all?"
"Well they made us sit in a hot room and listen to their time share spiel all day, and then they sacrificed us to Quetzlquatl."
"Bummer."
"And to add insult to injury, people started calling us beans. You need to at least restore our good name. Help us Obi Wan; you're our only hope."
"huh?..", and I woke up as my 4 year old smacked me in the face with a lightsaber. And now I'm appealing to all you people out there, respect the Ancient Ones, don't call them Frijoles. You see, I know and share their pain; I was also called a bean. In high school our mascot was a Pinto. They claimed it was a horse, but we all knew the truth. Oh, the humiliation.

Our Hipster Goes To Eleven.

Oh you, droll little people with your indie bands and your foreign cinema and your alternative whatnot. How pedantic. "Oooh, I found this little band out of Rhodesia that no one has ever heard of; they are the next big thing... until they record something, and then they are sell outs, and I hate them." When you have reached the Nirvana of Ultra-Coolness, as I have, you will realize how misguided you have been. The secret is to go right past indie, alternative, and counter culture and come full circle back to pop culture, just enjoy it in a much more sardonic way than the ignorant masses could ever hope to.
     Don't shop at that little hole in the wall record store for some unknown punk band; instead buy a Justin Beiber album at Wal-Mart. The subtle genius of you buying drek like that, why it's too clever to pass up. And don't go to the local farmer's market and buy organic fair market free range soy micro brew IPA. That's so trite. Go to the local Super Center (conveniently located near you) and buy a 30 pack of Budweiser cans. Nobody would expect that from you, and if being a hipster isn't about keeping people off-balance, I don't know what it is about.
     Watching a Japanese web-toon of a zombie geisha ninja schoolgirl isn't fresh or sophisticated. Buying a box set of "Friends"; now that's complex. (Season 1-4, now on sale in electronics department for $19.99. Shop Smart. Live Smart.) And do you really think that getting a tattoo of your favorite BBC science fiction show is fresh, original, incisive, novel, or flippant? (Thesaurus at Wal-Mart.com) No, it's just cliche. And sad. It is much more ironic to buy T-shirts emblazoned with the beloved icons of years gone by. Captain Crunch, Kid Twinkie, Kurt Cobain, and other fictional characters from your youth, available in a variety of sizes on a 100% cotton/polyester blend in the men's department. (Buy one, get one, while supplies last.) What I'm telling you is; buying stuff makes you subversive and cool.

     The preceding message was brought to you by the disembodied soul of that ultimate hipster, Andy Warhol, official paid spokesman of Wal-Mart brand after-life.