Humor for Adults
Who Can Handle
Adult Humor

— by Len Kennedy, Esq.

Drivel, Blather,
Prattle, and Twaddle

I’ve never said, “Not tonight, Mom, I have a headache.”

I’ve never gone to a movie theatre, sat in the second row, and in the middle of the movie, started singing “Singing in the Rain” as I peed on the people in front of me.

I’ve never heard anyone refer to a pocket pussy as a virtual cockpit.

I’ve never known a farmer whose wife’s husband had an affair with his twin sister’s twin brother.

I’ve never fallen in love with a dildo.

I’ve never heard a supermodel say, “Does this skin make my skeleton look fat?”

I’ve never heard an all-too-typical American woman say, “Does this fat make my fat look fat?”

I’ve never had a Black Widow lay its eggs in my urethra while I was sleeping, so that a few days later, when I took my morning piss, I ejaculated legions of baby spiders.

I’ve never had my heart broken by a cardiologist.

I’ve never run out of gum and chewed, instead, a flap of foreskin I’d found on the floor.

I’ve never had a girlfriend who could write her name in the snow.

I’ve never shrieked, “Quick!  Somebody get me a tampon — I’m bleeding all over the place!”

I’ve never heard a cardinal say, “When I die, I want to be cremated and have my ashes dissolved into the pope’s morning coffee.”

I’ve never heard a theologian try to argue the following thesis: “Contrary to popular superstition, Lot’s wife purposefully looked back on Sodom and Gomorrah, as the Lord rained fire and brimstone down on those sinful cities — you see, she actually wanted to be turned into a pillar of salt . . . because, she figured, maybe then her husband would finally lick her.”

I’ve never known a dyslexic who etched a notch into his bedpost every time he didn’t get laid.

I’ve never gone to Spanky’s Saloon and ordered a double Scotch on the rocks only to find, after consuming the contents of the glass, that I’d been “mistakenly” served a double shot of pure liquid LSD.

I’ve never contracted Tasselitis — a disease, common among detasselers of corn, in which the victim suffers from an overwhelming urge to stick tassels up his or her rectum.

I’ve never been banned from the Vatican in Rome for pilfering the pope’s personal vibrator.

I’ve never known a guy who thought about baseball every time he started to get a boner in a public place — to try to quell his untimely erection — for so many years that, not only does it no longer work in preventing him from popping a woody . . . now he can’t even watch a baseball game anymore without getting a hard-on.

I’ve never mistaken a woman’s labia (or, as we sophisticates prefer to call them, cockpit doors) for beef jerky.

I’ve never been fellated by a fire-breathing dragon.

I’ve never had to say to one of my friends, “Oh, I forgot to tell you — the other day, after I shit in your sink, I couldn’t find any toilet paper, so I just used your toothbrush.”

I’ve never tried ironing the wrinkles out of my foreskin.

I’ve never told a homophobe, who had accused me of being gay (since I have absolutely no interest whatsoever in sports — with the obvious exception of women’s beach volleyball), “You wouldn’t know a heterosexual if he fucked you in the ass.”

I’ve never said to a used-car salesman, who was shaking my hand just a bit too firmly, “Whoa, easy there, big guy — I masturbate with that hand.”

I’ve never walked up to a ninety-year-old man who was out taking a stroll with his nine-year-old granddaughter and said, “Hey, ain’t she a little young for ya there, chief?”

I’ve never said, “Hey, Grandma, this asparagus makes your pee taste funny.”

I’ve (somewhat surprisingly) never seen an NYPD squad car with a bumper sticker that read, “Tailgaters will be sodomized with my rusty tire iron.”

I’ve never dreamt that I was eating chocolate pudding only to wake up with a spoon in my ass.

I’ve never seen his assholiness the pope begin High Mass by scratching his balls, belching, and then bellowing, “Boy, that Satan sure sucks a mean cock.”

I’ve never known anyone who was so megalomaniacal as to write a book entitled God: An Autobiography.

I’ve never known a nymphomaniacal nun from Nantucket who was so riddled with guilt — from “incessantly swimming in the sinful seas of sexual licentiousness” — that she took a handful of sleeping pills, slit her wrists, drank a gallon of lye, and then jumped off the roof of a sixty-six story skyscraper, while shooting herself in the head.

I’ve never ended any of my writings with the phrase until now . . . until now.

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Home | LenKen Photo Essay | Part I: Quips & Squibs | Part II: Intermezzo: Bad Poetry for Bad People | Part III: Weird Stories for Weird People | Addendum: The Slapdash Mishmash: A Legacy | Appendage: Short Essays on Long Topics | Preamble: A Brief History of Me | Preface: Freedom of Speech versus Freedom from Speech | Prelude: Maturity versus Immaturity | Prologue: Strength versus Weakness | Prolusion: The Period: Dickens Redux | Quips & Squibs | Universal Rules of Etiquette | A Writer and His Hookers | The Sadistic News Network | Books That Cause a Tingling Sensation in My Left Testicle | Alternative Uses for a Brick | A Calm and Rational Analyis of Winter | Odium | Drivel, Blather, Prattle, and Twaddle | Bad Pick-Up Lines | Bilge, Dreck, Tripe, and Schlock for Schlemiels, Schlimazels, Schmucks, and Schmegegges | Arizona | Chickens | If You Make a Girl Snicker, She May Let You Lick Her | A Lesbian’s Lament | THC | Ode to the Paperboy | Sesquipedalian Love Song | Interview with a Petulant Old Shrew | Interview with a Persnickety, Pugnacious Pedant | A Freak Like Me | I Have Weird Dreams | A Long, Hard Look at Gun Control | Readings in the Cassandra Times | The Infamous Stickflipper | Keeping a Kennedy Tradition Alive | The Stalker | Lucy in the Sky with Dysentery | Beyond God & Devil | Pile of Nothing | How to Quit Smoking and Die Anyway | Epilogue: Quirky Colloquy: A Play in One Act | An Introduction to the Slapdash Mishmash | Poppycock? | Der Klusturfuk der Katzenjammer | The Cowardice of One’s Convictions: Cognitive Dissonance Theory in a Nutshell | Controlling Your Emotions before They Control You: Rational-Emotive Behavior Therapy in a Nutshell | Why We Should Be Dying to Live Rather than Living to Die | About the Author | Sign My Guestbook