Humor Hotlines
Bringing you the latest from Humor Hotline Headquarters (HHH)


Merry Christmahanukwanzaakah, everyone! I know there are lots of different people of different cultures and faiths in this country, so I want to try to be as inclusive of all of you as possible. December is a very festive time of year where we all come together in a multicultural display of holiday cheer and humanity! But, let’s not kid ourselves, America. We all know who the real winter-time gift-giving holiday winner is, don’t we? Sure, those other holidays have their virtues, but how many shopping malls are blaring the Dreidel Song in the middle of December? Malls that don’t have a Long Island zip code, that is.  And how much do you actually know about Kwanzaa? I mean, really? Is there a tree or something? I’ve been African American for 24 years (I was actually black for about three of those years) andI still have to Google the dates!

Anyway, we all know that Christmas is the star of the holiday season whether we admit it or not. You can gather all the dreidels and menorahs and Kwanzaa…candles (seriously, I know NOTHING about this holiday! WTF!) that you want, but you are NOT taking on Christmas. This isn’t even about religion. It’s pure, unadulterated, greed-fueled capitalism. And that beats everything. Especially religion. Imagine you were playing a friendly game of Rock, Paper, Nuclear Bomb with a friend. Christmas capitalism would be nuclear bomb. Nothing beats it. The only way to win is to keep using nuclear bomb on each other until one of you loses consciousness from sleep deprivation or stupidity.

If you think about it, it doesn’t make much sense: Hanukkah is eight straight days of gifts. Kwanzaa…well, let’s say it has eight, too. Who really knows? But Christmas is just ONE day. ONE DAY! Those other holidays should be EIGHT TIMES better (if I did my math right, that is)! But they’re not! Why? Because, unlike those other wannabes, Christmas has been whored out like a 15-year-old ladyboy from Thailand (It’s true! Look it up!). What was once a one day Christian celebration has become a jolly, month-long orgy by hundreds of godless corporations trying to milk your money tits the second you put down that turkey leg. And this is why Christmas pwns: sponsorship. Maybe if Hanukkah could get an endorsement from someone other than Adam Sandler, we’d be waiting for Hanukkah Harry (772-257-4489) to slide down our chimneys this season. But I wouldn’t hold my breath.

Until I meet an angry Kwanzaa celebrant,



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Halloween is a special time of year. It’s the one night a year you can ignore that time-old piece of advice and actually take candy from strangers and not piss your parents off. It’s also a night of costumed mayhem and destruction. If your costume is clever enough, you can get away with just about anything. Think of Halloween as living in a Mentos commercial. As long as you flash a smile and a thumbs up at the end of whatever misdemeanor you’ve just committed, everything will be fine. Just left a bag of flaming poop on your English teacher’s doorstep? Who cares? Just egged the house of that suspected child molester who just moved into your neighborhood? Big deal. Just killed your best friend’s little brother because his killer clown costume awakened some deep childhood trauma for you? That might actually be taking things a little too far. Fortunately, we can help with that. No, we can’t help you hide the body, but we can help to prevent the unnecessary deaths of other children this Halloween. Just call 413-497-0074 to hear tips on telling the difference between children and the creatures they imitate with foam, rubber, and plastic. Only you can prevent another disaster like this:
Child Slain because of Halloween Costume
Pandora Spox, AP

It was a fun-filled night that ended in a hail of bullets for young Jason Campbell. Witnesses say that Campbell, seen here in costume in a photograph taken earlier that same night, was trick-or-treating in his own neighborhood accompanied by an older relative when he approached the home of neighbor Wayne Stacey. Stacey spoke frantically to the young man through the closed door of his Birmingham-area home before appearing in the doorway with a firearm. Witnesses say the boy and his guardian thought it was a Halloween prank until the shots rang out. Stacey claims to have been under the idea that Campbell was an actual werewolf and threatening to disembowel him. A coroner’s report says that the slugs fired into Campbell’s body were home-crafted silver bullets that Stacey, a welder by profession, had made in his basement. An official search of the premises by authorities later turned up other home made weapons including a box of wooden stakes and a radioactive device believed to be an attempt at Ghostbusters-style ray gun. Stacey tested negative for controlled substances and his criminal and medical records showed no warning signs. In a statement from Stacey’s attorney, Stacey quotes that “the kid looked exactly like a real werewolf you’d see in the movies.” Campbell’s family will be pressing criminal charges.

Jason Campbell in Costume

As some of you know, it’s hard being popular. So many people want so much of your time and there’s just not enough to go around. Split between going to all the hottest movies, hanging out, shopping, sports, and (ugh) school, your time is important and deciding who gets the majority of it is just one of those things you have to learn as you grow older. That’s why God gave us outsourcing. Now you can outsource some of those “I-know-this-person-but-not-well-enough-to-use-my-daytime-minutes” friendships to call centers in India in order to keep your busy social life moving at the most efficient pace possible. Our eager technicians are standing by to share some of the burden of your full social life. So go ahead, dump the dead weight with the Outsource your Friendship to India hotline at 267-436-5128.

Here’s what some of our satisfied customers had to say:

“I like Ashleigh a lot, but when she calls she whines for hours about how fat she thinks she is. I decided to outsource our friendship to India and now I have time to spend with my family again!”

-Melanie F.

“I used the Outsource your Friendship to India line to get my girlfriend to stop bugging me with retarded little details about her day. Now I don’t have to pretend to be interested in Ashleigh’s lip gloss selection because some guy in Bangalore is doing it all for me! Thank God for outsourcing!”

-David L.

“I was given the outsource number twice in the past two weeks and now Prakash Bhandankar is my new best friend and boyfriend and he’s a whole lot better at both than the other two a-holes that gave me his number.”

-Ashleigh C.


Number of the Week: Father’s Day Hotline – 202-629-9234

There has been a lot of controversy surrounding the word “motherf*cker.” Mostly because it simultaneously invokes the images of sex and your mom, a crime that will soon be punishable by death or castration (though I’d personally opt for death). But if you’ve ever had the talk about the birds and the bees, then you know that at some point, your mom got it on. It may even have been with the man you’ve come to know as your father. I don’t know. I haven’t seen the paternity test results on Maury yet. The point is that I don’t think “motherf*cker” is as bad a word as once believed. At its core, it means “one who f*cks or has f*cked a mother.” This happens to be an accurate description of most of our fathers. Obviously, if you’re one of the less than 1% of the population that was immaculately conceived (I’m looking at you, Obama), most of this doesn’t apply to you. Go put an end to world hunger or something. The rest of you, read on and call 202-629-9234 to get a better idea of where I’m coming from. Following this logic, we wouldn’t be here today if our dads hadn’t been motherf*ckers. So why do we consider this to be such a bad thing? Why cover our proud heritage with taboo? It makes no sense. Some of the most well-known modern users of this classic “swear word” have popularized the word’s negative meaning: Eminem calling Sasha Baron Cohen’s Bruno a motherf*cker at the latest MTV Movie Awards, Bruce Willis addressing terrorists as motherf*ckers immediately before placing them on a one-way express train to hell, and Samuel L. Jackson…well… in every aspect of his everyday life, I assume. I’m pretty sure he drops F-bombs when he’s picking up his kids from daycare. He’s Samuel L. Jackson. He doesn’t give a f*ck.

Pictured: Samuel L. Jackson not giving a f*ck.

Pictured: Samuel L. Jackson not giving a f*ck.

With this volcano of hot, molten negativity, how can you not think it’s wrong to use this word? And, yeah, maybe your parents told you it was wrong, too, but think about it: these are the same people who lied to you in the first eight to ten years of your life about Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, and trans fats. Are you going to believe them now? Hell no! So believe me when I say that the revolution is here. We can and will rise up to reclaim “motherf*cker” for the good of all mankind! Our first act of empowerment will be to rename Father’s Day to Motherf*cker’s Day since all fathers are, by literal definition, motherf*ckers.

 Until Dad Overhears me Using Cuss Words,



‘Tis the season of graduations. And come this fall, some of you will be leaving the nest and going off to college to learn to become responsible, mature young adults. So, in order to help you prepare for this, I  have been asked by the higher-ups to give you some advice based on my personal experience with the collegiate lifestyle. This is what I have to tell you: college is one of the best things you’ll ever experience. Think of it as a four year Mardi Gras before the lifelong Ash Wednesday of adulthood. If I had to sum up college in just one phrase it would be “sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll…and class.” But this seemingly endless party can easily go down in a flaming mass of twisted metal of shattered shot glasses. By failing all your classes, losing your scholarship, and being forced to drop out and dig out the shit particles that have been ground into the tiles of gas station restrooms for the rest of your life? Well…yeah, but that’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about the possibility of being stuck with one of these: the four people you’ll eventually room with in college!

 1) The Slob. Sure, everyone makes a mess at one point. You might leave some toothpaste in the sink, leave your gym socks on the floor, or forget to get that banana out of your desk drawer, but The Slob takes messiness to an Olympic level. Devoid of any detectable sense of smell or decency, The Slob will accumulate crap and mature it to garbage. Garbage that will ferment and emanate an odor so fierce that you will be forced to call in a forensic expert to make sure The Slob hasn’t become The Psychotic Collector of Human Body Parts.

Not pictured: Your indignation

Not pictured: Your indignation

2) The Alcoholic. Drinking is an integral part of college. On most campuses, games of beer pong and Edward 40 Hands are more popular than Badminton and Ultimate Frisbee combined so it may take a while to recognize The Alcoholic. But, much like the quiet plea for help in Lindsay Lohan’s eyes, once you’ve seen it, you’ll wonder how you ever missed it.

Somewhere in there is a frightened little girl...chugging a Corona.

Somewhere in there is a frightened little girl...chugging a Corona.

It may start off small with a few drinks at parties to ease the tension of meeting new people, but eventually The Alcoholic will come to rely on Devil’s water to get through a few less notable occasions. Like showers. Since this roommate will spend most of his or her time unconscious or looking for a party, the only real issue here is knowing when to call the ambulance and when your roommate is just sleeping.

3) The Sex Robot. The Sex Robot’s name is self-explanatory. Sex is its primary function and everything else is secondary to getting more of that sweet, sweet lovin’. It eats only to fuel its boot-knocking ways. It goes to the gym only to prolong its shelf life. It studies only to discover new ways to screw. It wipes its ass only to… well, you get the point. Living with The Sex Robot, you will come to be familiar with the correct usage of many obscure, sex-related terms such as the rock climber, the double-breasted baboon, the Muddy Ramirez, poodle balling, and, the term you will be most intimately familiar with, sexile. Yes, The Sex Robot will spend many a long night grinding away at premarital bliss in your tiny dorm room (and probably in your bed) while you spend hours furiously masturbating in the library bathroom fantasizing about the touch of another human being.

4) The Neat Freak. One of the perks of going to college is not having your mom tell you to pick up your underwear anymore. The Neat Freak suffers a tragic internal malfunction that doesn’t allow for such “responsibilities” to slide. Please note that you will NEVER be clean enough for The Neat Freak. There can be no compromise. You must simply learn to tolerate a certain level of bitching that you will return to every night until you’ve either moved away or choked The Neat Freak to death with a pair of your dirty gym socks. Consider it practice for being married.

I hope you’ve found this useful. And if you haven’t then you’re probably type number five: The Ungrateful Snob.

Until someone in my personal life recognizes themselves in this post and pushes me out into traffic,



            Mother’s Day is here again. Time to thank the woman who gave birth to you, clothed and fed you, fought the monsters in your closet, took you to prom… Okay, forget I said that last thing. You get the point, though. You have to go all out for mother’s day. No Olive Garden gift cards or homemade potholders decorated with finger paints. Save that crap for Father’s Day. This woman gave birth to you. Have you ever seen a live birth?? It’s a Lovecraftian horror fest that’ll leave you hunched up in the corner, crying in a puddle of your own piss! Sure, maybe she was able to regain her figure, but that vagina is eternally wrecked. Just do a size comparison: you, the newly born version of you, the size of a ripe spring watermelon, forcing your way through an opening the size of a very frightened lemon (depending on your mom’s social life, of course). That’s like shitting a bowling ball with legs!

So, to repay this woman for the pain you’ve caused her before, during, and long, long after birth you’ve got to present her with something special. (Warning: shameless plug ahead) Like a phone number. Specifically one of these: 202-629-9227, 202-629-9229, or 202-629-9231. They’re all made for Mother’s Day, but some may be funnier than others. Just let me know which one you like more by adding a comment or two. Or you can comment just to say hi. It gets lonely here in this cold, empty corner of the internet…

            Anyway, I know what you’re thinking: “You practically just told me to go into bankruptcy to repay Mom for being my prom date…er…caretaker. Now you’re telling us to just have her call some phone number?? WTF??” First of all, the gift of laughter is the most precious gift of all…according to our guys in marketing. Secondly, I didn’t tell you to only give her a phone number. I just didn’t mention anything else… How about a hug? Flowers? Maybe some breakfast in bed? A day without having to shoulder the oppressive burden of the rest of her family? Unless your mom is a frigid ice queen, she’ll appreciate these small tokens of affection. Of course, as I’m sure she’ll quickly let you know, she would appreciate some new jewelry even more. Oh, yeah. She’d appreciate the hell outta that. So dig deep, people.


Until Mom says I can’t play on the internet anymore,



How’s it going, guys? I’m writing you today from an empty office. Seems that all my coworkers are afraid of Swine Flu and are using it as an excuse to vacation in Antarctica or Siberia or Canada or some other barely habitable, non-English-speaking country. If you’ve been keeping up with the news lately, you’re probably a little put off by this newest apocalypse scenario as well. But you shouldn’t be. And why not? Because it sounds like it was named by a group of fourth graders at recess. Seriously, “swine flu” sounds only slightly less frightening than “cooties.” Ok, ok, I know cooties didn’t kill about a hundred people in Mexico (unlike our government, but we won’t get into that in this blog), but it’s just the fact that this deadly illness is named after a backyard barbecue staple that makes it seem harmless.

Throughout history, man has given his deadliest diseases some of the most terror-inducing, make-you-wanna-shit-your-pants names he can think up. Diseases like the Bubonic Plague, the Black Death, Syphilis, and Scarlet Fever strike fear into the hearts of millions in free clinic waiting rooms throughout the world. If I’d come up to you in 1995 and said I had the bird flu you probably would have chuckled and told me to eat less KFC. Or had I confessed to having swine flu, you may have said you had it too and we would have gathered all our unpaid parking tickets, tossed them into the nearest bonfire and sang 80s rap songs about shooting cops.* Again, this is because these sicknesses lack the PR spin of the classics. Instead of naming them after petting zoo attractions or giving them acronyms that stand for some scientific jargon relating to what it does (nobody’s afraid of science!), we should return to naming them like heavy metal hair bands. Who wouldn’t want to get tickets to a Scarlet Fever reunion tour? Sounds fucking awesome!

So I have a few proposals: “Swine Flu” shall henceforth be known as “War Hog Fever.” It’s simple, memorable, and, most importantly, gets respect when its name is spoken.

You don't catch War Hog Fever. It catches you. Then it throws you to the ground and makes dirty swine love to your naughty parts. And it never calls!

Also, from now on, “SARS” is “Godzilla Disease” (because it’s fearsome and Asian and “General Tso’s Syndrome” sounds a little delicious). Now let’s get back into our excellent time traveling phone booth and repeat our conversation in 1995 where, instead of saying I have “bird flu,” I tell you I’ve caught the “Raging Dragon Plague.” Imagine the clouds of terror falling over your face as you make the sign of the cross and run like hell in the opposite direction leaving a trail of warm piss behind you. Eventually, after you’ve reached the nearest state border, you’ll slow down long enough to wonder what exactly the Raging Dragon Plague is. Then you’ll realize that you don’t care because with a name like that, it’s gotta be badass. And that’s where prevention begins, folks: with pure, nut-tingling terror.


Until I’ve pissed the irony gods off enough to kill me with swine flu,



*I have never knowingly destroyed a parking citation or opened fire upon a police officer. I neither endorse nor condone this behavior. Unless I’m playing Grand Theft Auto. Then it’s cool.


I’ve just realized that I haven’t properly introduced myself. You, my dozens and dozens of readers/people who came across this blog accidentally in a Google search, do not know who DeVon is. Well, I feel pressed to tell you. When I’m not participating in any of my numerous extracurricular activities (AA, anger management, sensitivity training, or court-ordered community service), I like to hang out in my local bar and participate in a rousing game of dwarf tossing and end the night with a good old-fashioned, bare-knuckle bar fight. But don’t get me wrong. Sometimes I like to relax quietly at home, curled up on the couch with a cup of hot cocoa and my favorite bootlegged S&M porno in the DVD player.

One of my favorite charities is SAP, the Stupidity Awareness Program. My work with SAP has led me to all corners of the internet in order to show other people the caterpillar of their own stupidity and developing it into the butterfly of my own knowledge by correcting them in such public arenas as Youtube video commentaries, Wikipedia entries, and any number of newsgroups or informational forums. SAP is definitely one of those organizations that truly works to make the world a better place one website at a time. You may even recognize it’s initials from the button on your television remote control. Years ago, SAP introduced that feature to televisions throughout the country in order to give viewers a way to silence the idiotic bulls*** spewing from their televisions. This was shortly after the creation of the FOX News network and just before the Flavor of Love hit the airwaves. Talk about great timing, huh? Anyway, I encourage all of you to devote some time to SAP in your everyday lives. Unless you’re a complete f***ing moron. In this case, I urge you to allow SAP to help you realize and overcome your assbackwardness so you can become a halfway useful member of society as opposed to the resource-draining money sink you are now.

 I also highly endorse the recreational use of Vodka as it is the closest thing to a fountain of youth that we are going to get. Not only does it promote positive body image in teenage girls, but it also solves the problems of hunger, poverty, and even war by helping you to more easily forget about the places where those things are happening. This truly is a miracle tonic! To learn more about Vodka, you should call 772-257-4492.

I’m glad we’ve had this time to get to know each other a little better. I hope I’ve answered all the burning questions you’ve had about me all this time. If you have any more, feel free to ask. I will certainly feel free to ignore them.

Until my book deal comes through,



Hi. DeVon here again. I’m writing today with a cause, a definite altruistic purpose. No, I’m not writing out against pirates because pirates are cool. I’m writing in favor of the legalization of marijuana. With all of our green being burned up in the roaring blaze on Wall Street, isn’t it only right that we should be able to blaze our other greens as well? Don’t get me wrong. I’m not in favor of this just so I can have something more to do on Friday nights than wax my back hair. No, I’m in favor of legalized marijuana because of the billions that can be generated in government revenue. And that means lower taxes. Which further means that I can start getting a professional to wax my back hair instead of bending in unnatural ways to reach that spot in the middle. You know, that spot that you can never scratch? Well you can’t really wax it, either. Not comfortably.

Anyway, there’s this economist from Harvard, Jeffrey Miron, who says the U.S. can make somewhere between $10 and $15 billion a year on marijuana taxes and saved expenses for such silly things as arresting, prosecuting, and incarcerating marijuana offenders. If you can’t imagine what $10 to $15 billion looks like, just think of the most money you’ve ever seen and multiply that by a shit ton more. But don’t think about that for too long, because, if you’re like me, you’ll orgasm in your pants and that will be really difficult to explain to the people around you.

If you’ve read this far, you’re probably wondering how you can make a difference. And if you weren’t then, you are now. Isn’t it funny how that works? I have complete control of your thoughts as long as you’re reading this! If I told you to think of a field of singing pink unicorns, you would! Oh, the power!! But…um…getting back to what I was saying: if you want to make your voice heard on this issue, just call the Marijuana Legalization Hotline at 781-452-0647 to make your opinion known. The results will be presented to Congress if we get at least one million endorsements. So don’t do this for me (not that you would), do this for yourselves. Do this for your country. Let’s make America green again. Oh, and pink unicorns, my mindslaves! Dance!

 Until I get fired for gross incompetence,




Hello faithful readers, Michael here to update you on what’s been happening at Humor Hotline Headquarters over the past week. As you may have noticed, Easter was celebrated last Sunday as children all over the country dirtied up their pastel suits and sundresses in pursuit of candy-filled eggs. DeVon’s good friend The Easter Bunny (who can still be reached at 973-409-3313) spent his big day scaring the hell out of everyone at the annual White House Easter Egg Roll, which I would imagine is about as exciting as it sounds.


Also this weekend, President Barack Obama made good on a campaign promise by adopting a Portuguese Water Dog. In related news, the dog, named Bo by the Obama children, has now surpassed tea-bagging as the least significant person/place/concept to have its own Wikipedia entry.

 [editorial rant]

While Rush Limbaugh might argue otherwise, I would have to say that Obama’s biggest rookie mistakes as president thus far have to do with the naming of this dog. 

 Rookie Mistake #1: Never EVER allow anyone under the age of 15 to name a pet. It just never works. This is coming from someone who was allowed to irresponsibly name numerous pets throughout childhood (favorites include a cat named “Girl” [age 3. Limited vocabulary] a puppy named “Super Shredder” [age 7. Obsessed with TMNT] and my gold fish “Swammy Sosa” [age 13. Very into baseball. Still think this name rocks]).

Rookie Mistake #2: Why on earth would you name a dog anything that sounds like “no”? This just leads to confusion. Imagine clueless Bo thinking Michelle wants to play when she really just wants him to stop making brownies all over the Lincoln Bedroom. It’s a real no win situation for everyone involved.

Rookie Mistake #3: Mr. President, we all enjoy naming things after ourselves, it’s in our nature. But just because your initials spell a name doesn’t mean that it’s okay to give that name to your dog. Seriously, be patient and work hard, and one day you’ll have all the middle-schools you could ever want named after you. Until then, I’d recommend delegating naming duties to someone more qualified.

[end of editorial rant]

As far as the home front goes, things have been nuts around here as massive storms caused widespread power outages throughout the southeast effectively knocking us off the grid for two days. Thankfully, all of our phone lines held up, and business resumed as normal. Lucky for you, we have all sorts of new stuff coming your way in the next few weeks starting with our brand spanking new “Marijuana Legalization Endorsement Line.” Give it a call at 781-452-0647, and make like a joint and pass it along. After we receive 1,000,000 calls, we will send a petition along to President Obama and Congress. So, get on the phone and show Washington what real change looks like!

Until next time,