Tag Archives: Humor

The Absolutely True Story of the World’s Most Evil Veterinarian

I shamelessly stole this story from a friend who I will refer to for the purposes of this column as “Bo.”  This is because his true, accurate and legal name is Bo Mackey.  Bo told me this story in confidence, so please, whatever you do, keep it to yourself.  It is now my favorite story.  It has replaced my previous favorite story about my friend Chris Linn, and Chris finding himself in third world bathroom sans any toilet paper, and concludes with him walking out of said bathroom, sans his socks.  (Don’t worry, Chris.  You’re still hanging in solidly at #2 – for your #2).

Bo swears this story is true.  After hearing it, I felt a duty (a moral obligation, actually) to share it with you, my loyal subscribers.

A friend of Bo’s has a veterinarian who is a “mobile vet” – one of those veterinarians who works out of a van.  Bo’s friend schedules this vet to stop by and see one of his dogs.  I’m not sure what the dog’s problem was, but suffice it to say, I’m sure it was for a reason that most cheapskate pet owners (me) would never consider calling a vet for.

So the vet stops by and puts a Band-Aid on the paw of this dog, or whatever service he uses his seven years of higher education to perform.  Then he hops back in his van, and while he’s backing out of the guy’s driveway, he accidentally runs over the guy’s other dog.  And it’s not a pretty situation.  Apparently, he really nailed him.  Practically spit the thing in two.

But here’s where it gets really gross.  The dog is still alive.

Luckily for the dog, a veterinarian was immediately available.  The vet jumps into action.  He grabs one of those “go to doggy heaven” syringes, and dispatches the poor soul to his maker.

Now, any normal person would figure this is where the story ends.  But no.

Within a day or two, a bouquet of flowers arrives at the dog owner’s home with a heartfelt condolence card.  But no.  This is NOT where the story ends.

At the end of the month, the owner walks out to his mailbox, and what does he find?  A BILL for the cost of euthanizing the dog that the veterinarian ran over.

But NO, this is STILL NOT where the story ends.  Here is the end of the story–


Maybe I should have titled this column, The World’s Best Veterinarian Customer.


WAIT!  You’re not done yet.  Earn good karma!  Please comment and share on Facebook, Twitter or your other favorite apps.

And Subscribe!

It’s free and easy, and each new Jocularious column will arrive in your inbox.

It’s a Three Minute Vacation for your Brain.



Check out these great books:

The Lawyer’s Song: Navigating the legal wilderness


Seven Rules for the College Playground –


Seven Secrets You Need to Know to Hire the Right Lawyer –


The Secret to Keeping Your Family’s Mitts Off Your Stuff

My beautiful daughter bought me a Hydro Flask for my birthday.  I was touched by her thoughtfulness – for nearly 24 hours.  Then I realized that she had taken the saying, “When you buy a gift, buy something you’d like to have yourself,” a little too far.  It dawned on me that she had IN FACT bought herself a gift because every time I go looking for it, she has it.  (Okay, okay, I can hear her saying, “Not every time!” And yes, I am exaggerating.  It is only 97% of the time.)

At long last I have found a solution.  I’ve named it, the “Not over my dead body” solution, or NOMDB for short.

NOMDB is simple to use.  Here is an example:

I live in a Eugene, Oregon, or more officially, “The People’s Republic of Eugene.”  To put it mildly, Hillary got 105% of the vote here.  Any time there is a march or rally in Eugene, twice as many people show up than actually live in the city.  You know those pink hats that folks started wearing after the last presidential election?  The ones they refer to by that name that starts with a “P” and is a slang term for a popular part of the female anatomy?  A Eugene City Ordinance requires every household to own at least two.  I’m not saying they’d jail you if they discovered you only had one P**** Hat, but it would at least be a hefty fine.

But I digress.  The NOMDB method involves gauging the political climate in your area and then putting a sticker on the item you don’t want borrowed.  For example, it will be a cold day in H-E-double-toothpicks before my daughter borrows a Hydro Flask with an NRA sticker on it.  Or a Trump sticker.  Here is the rule when choosing your sticker: Would your loved one respond, “Not over my dead body”?  Bingo!

You’d like to try NOMDB but don’t have a sticker handy?  Order it on Amazon.  Here’s one for sale right now–You live in Dallas?  No problem.  Just put one of these in your Amazon “cart”–

If you ladies in Texas really want to keep your man’s mitts off your Hydro Flask, one of these stickers is going to do the trick.  Believe me, he’s not going to want to announce to his buddies at the shooting range that–I’m not saying the use of this technique is without risk.  Walking through downtown Eugene with an NRA or MAGA sticker could be extremely dangerous to you bodily health.  Someone with a COEXIST bumper sticker might become enraged and decide to shove it up your uncomfortable place.  But the world belongs to the bold.  “Speak your truth.”

Meanwhile, my daughter’s birthday is coming up.  I’m thinking of getting her something she’d really like.  Something soft and frilly.  Something a teenage girl has always dreamed of having.  I’m thinking of a cordless nail gun.


WAIT!  You’re not done yet.  Earn good karma!  Please comment and share on Facebook, Twitter or your other favorite apps.

And Subscribe!

It’s free and easy, and each new Jocularious column will arrive in your inbox.

It’s a Three Minute Vacation for your Brain.



Check out these great books:

The Lawyer’s Song: Navigating the legal wilderness


Seven Rules for the College Playground –


Seven Secrets You Need to Know to Hire the Right Lawyer –


How Oregon Wildlife Officials are like Drug Dealers

By Jack Edwards

We’ll get to the disturbing similarities between wildlife officials and drug dealers in a moment, but first, the background:

Every year, the Oregon Department of Fish and Wildlife holds a “Free Fishing Weekend.”  This is the one weekend of the year that people can fish without a license.  Now, let it be known that when veteran Oregon anglers hear the words, “Free Fishing Weekend,” they all think the same thing, “RUN FOR YOUR LIVES!”  The notion of free fishing has kids and their cheapskate parents swarming over Oregon waterways like cats in a sardine factory.  It’s not pretty.  On the other hand, we must afford the unwashed masses some sympathy, because this “free” excitement is all part of an Oregon Fish and Wildlife officials’ Ponzi scheme.  For those of you who, like me, survived the Alsea public school system, let me explain:

As you know, the best method for a drug dealer to build a lucrative customer base is to let folks try the product for free.  “The first one’s always free.”  Well, Oregon wildlife officials have taken a play from the drug dealers’ playbook.  This “free” weekend is nothing less than an attempt to lure (no pun intended) young fisher-people to the water so they will develop an irresistible urge to fish, to develop a “habit.”  It’s truly diabolical.  Why would these officials stoop so low?  Because an Oregon fishing license now costs as much as a brand new Bentley.  Okay, not quite that much, but it’s a noticeable investment.  An adult annual fishing license in Oregon is now $38.00.  Gulp!  But wait, here’s an option – If you only want to fish one day, you can get a one day permit for the bargain price of $19.00.  Nineteen Dollars!  Now, I know what you’re thinking.  You’re thinking that for this price it must include a professional fish guide, transportation and meals.  You would be wrong.  It only includes the professional guide.

So getting back to drug dealers… I mean, Oregon wildlife officials, yeah, the first one’s free because they’re trying to hook you (this pun WAS intended).  And let me warn you, that the picture you have now painted in your mind of Oregon Fish and Wildlife officials sitting back in their offices laughing and spooning copious mounds of caviar onto imported crackers is all wrong.  They use local crackers.

Top Three Funny Things About Being the Victim of a Smash and Grab

By Jack Edwards

I know what you’re thinking.  With all the humor that a smash and grab creates, why limit the list to three?  Well, I’ve got to draw the line somewhere, and I need to reserve time to sweep up the glass and get the repair estimates.  So here’s the story-

My daughter, who I will refer to as Emma for the purposes of this column, because her name happens to be Emma, parked in front of our house last night.  Because she is a teenager, 92% of her brain is dormant.  (This issue will not be resolved until she gets her real job after college when she is shocked to find out the landlord actually wants to be paid the rent on time each and every month.)  But I digress.  Emma left her purse on her front passenger seat  before dutifully locking the vehicle.  We live in a very nice neighborhood, a very non-smash and grab type of neighborhood.  She was, therefore, lulled into a false sense of security.

Fast-forward to this morning when I go out to get the morning paper and discover her passenger side window smashed in and her purse missing.

Humor Point #1  (And I swear to you that I am not making this up.)

One of Emma’s first comments was, “At least they only took my purse.”  She was factually correct.  Perhaps because the thief was so blinded by the credit cards and cash in her purse, he neglected to spot the candy bar wrappers and dirty socks sitting IN PLAIN VIEW on the floorboard, which he so foolishly left untouched.

Humor Point #2

After weighing whether to call the police, I gave a ring to the non-emergency number of the local police department.  “Do you even come out for something like this?” I asked?  The nice lady answered that unless we had some way to identify the thief, like he dropped his cell phone or his wallet, or perhaps used a grease pen to write his name and phone number on the windshield, “No.”

Humor Point #3

This space will remain vacant for future humor expansion.

In conclusion, if anyone knows a drug addict who has an aversion to dirty socks and candy bar wrappers, please contact me immediately.  I’m pretty sure that with that type of lead the police would jump on this case like stink on a monkey.

Why Alaskan Moose Don’t Attend Kindergarten

Every word of this story is true.  Well, almost every word of this story is true.  Okay, part of this story is true.  Okay, okay, this story was inspired by a true story (that someone told me about).  Let’s call it, “Hollywood true.”

It involves a man being abducted by aliens who conducted a series of disturbing experiments involving his….  Wait.  No. That’s not the story I was going to tell you about.  The story I was going to tell you about involves a moose.  Actually, several moose.

Dan Joling, a writer for the Associated Press, recently penned an article warning Alaskans about “grumpy moose.” One moose kicked a woman in the head while she was out feeding her chickens.  (If you’re keeping track, this is reason 185 why you should never own a chicken).  Another moose charged at some folks at an Alaskan ski resort – twice.  (Say what you will about moose – they’re persistent.)  The “take-away,” if you will, from Joling’s article is that if Alaskan moose attended kindergarten, they would come home every day with notes saying that they didn’t “work and play well with others.”

On a related note, my wife’s family has a cabin in Montana.  Here is how you get there:

Step 1.  Drive to the state of Montana.

Step 2.  Continue driving into the state at Montana’s legal speed limit of 500 miles an hour.

Step 3.  When you  reach The Middle of Nowhere, make a sharp right turn at a sign that says Fish Creek Road.

Step 4.  Continue driving for several more hours, and after bouncing along on a gravel road for three full eternities, you finally arrive – at a location where you need to continue driving for several more hours.

Step 5.  When your kidneys finally unionize and demand humane working conditions, you reach the cabin.

The cabin sits in a valley where no electronic communications exist, nor will they ever exist.  People in the darkest, most remote corners of the jungles of Borneo will have four full bars of wifi before any electronic communication penetrates this valley.  What do exist in this valley, however, are moose.  Now, I would love to tell you that these Montana moose are not grumpy like those rude Alaskan moose who keep kicking women in the head as they feed their chickens.  However, I am not in a position to do so.  This is because WE STAY AWAY FROM THE MOOSE.  My wife’s family is very large (to be precise, after the last baby was born, including cousins – the number stands at 1,383,052).  All of us, at one point or another, visit the cabin, AND THIS KEY, none of us is clinically insane (Well, there is…  No!  I’m joking!  Not a single one of us is clinically insane).  So we stay away from the moose.  We exercise a Zero Tolerance Moose Policy as it pertains to moose and all moose-related creatures.  The nuances of their personalities, therefore, remain a mystery to us, unlike, may I point out, the Chicken Lady of Homer, Alaska.  So that’s the point of my very true story.

However, now that I’ve told my moose story, on second thought, maybe I should have told you about the alien abduction instead.

I Hit a Pothole on My Rosetta Stone Road

I began studying Korean four weeks ago by optimistically learning the sentence: “Please speak Korean very slowly.”  After putting in this time, one thing has become abundantly clear.  As a result, I have learned a new sentence.  This new sentence will be instrumental during my trip to Korea this fall.  Here is my new sentence: “I am very sorry; I do not speak Korean.”  After saying this, any Korean words I manage to cough up will  be impressive.

True story-

Last week, I told someone at work that I was studying Korean.  Now, keep in mind that for the prior three weeks I had been devoting a minimum of 30 minutes each night, often longer, studying Korean.  She said to me, “Say something in Korean.”  I paused for a moment and reached back deep into the recesses of my mind, trying to find the perfect word or phrase.  Then I said, “I can’t think of anything.”  And this was true.  I drew a blank.  I couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

Through the magic of Rosetta Stone, I have learned to say the following:



Bad (Actually my wife taught me that one.  And, no, don’t ask.)

I am sure there’s a method to the madness of Rosetta Stone, and I’m in it to the end.  However, so far I’ve learned a lot about cats and dogs.  I’ve learned how to say the basic colors, including the word for black.  However, when I told my wife the word for black, she told me, yeah, that’s one word for it, but everybody uses a different word.  So that was a little irritating.  I told her that I was going to be loyal to Rosetta Stone and use their word.  She shrugged.  I’ve also learned a lot about, for some reason, eggs.

In the meantime, I have decided that I will have a sentence ready for the next person who asks me to say something in Korean.  It will be on the tip of my tongue.  I’ll have it in the chamber ready to fire.  I will tell them:   “I am very sorry; I do not speak Korean.”

Extreme Vetting: Family Pet Edition

I am OFFICIALLY calling on the United States Commerce Department to launch an “all out investigation” into the devious and patently unfair marketing strategy (i.e. “scheme”) of one of our nation’s preeminent industries.  I think you know what industry I’m talking about.  I also think you agree with me that this industry has been “coddled” by Washington Insiders far too long.  I am, of course, referring to the “Dog Industry Cartel Kerfuffle.” (No, I will not use this group’s acronym.  This is a family friendly column.  Get your minds out of the gutter).

This industry is using a blatantly unfair marketing advantage in promoting its brand, to wit: Puppies.  By unfairly exploiting puppies, pictures of puppies, and stories about puppies, et cetera, the average American is placed at a gross disadvantage.  This outfit even stoops to marketing to children.  Walk into the children’s section of any library and what do you see?  Picture books about puppies.  And not a balanced view of puppies.  No.  It’s all one-sided.  It’s all Pro-Puppy.

This all leads me to a friend of mine.  For the purposes of this column, I’ll refer to her as, “Janene,” because her name happens to be Janene.  Janene is an “industry insider.”  She has two dogs.  The first dog her family got was Peanut, a Chihuahua-King Cavalier designer dog.  (The whole industry is becoming high-tech – Another unfair advantage).  We all thought Peanut was a small dog until Janene got her second dog, Paparazzi.  Now, compared to Paparazzi, Peanut looks like an aircraft carrier.  Paparazzi is a Yorkshire terrier.  He weighs slightly less than your average cotton ball.

As his name suggests, Paparazzi has a certain flair.  He has caught the attention of the owner of a female Yorkie who is interested in him breeding (or in today’s dog parlance, “hooking-up”) with her dog.  Janene would get the pick of the litter, and she asked me if my family might be interested in a Paparazzi Junior.

Here’s the rub.

I’m married to someone whom you might not characterize as a “dog lover.”  Her list of concerns include: 1. They are dogs, 2. They tend to shed hair, and finally, 3. They are dogs.  If my wife were Superwoman (which in many ways she is), then dog hair is Kryptonite.  Well, guess what?  Yorkie’s don’t shed.  So that takes care of her number 2 concern.

Now, I just need to solve problems 1 and 3.

Ken Kesey Owes Me $5.20

Yesterday, I accidentally ate a hamburger the size of a Greyhound Bus.  Only it didn’t go down so smooth.  This was all Ken Kesey’s fault.  Yeah, I know he’s dead, but that doesn’t make it right.

I live in Eugene, Oregon, where author and Grateful Dead groupie Ken Kesey is revered.  He’s like a white Buddha.  In fact, the city dropped a bronze statue of him reading to kids smack down in the middle of town.  The “disenfranchised” use it hang their clothes to dry and/or display their valuable home-crafted trinkets for sale.  Drop by to visit it sometime.  Go in a group.  Take a can of mace.

But I digress.

Kesey wrote a book called, Sometimes a Great Notion.  It’s supposed to be really good.  I haven’t read it, of course, but I saw the movie starring Paul Newman, which was filmed in Oregon.  It was really good, and I cried when Paul Newman’s character drowned.  Anyway, I’m certain that’s where the tragedy of this hamburger nightmare started.

The McDonald’s Worldwide Conglomeration of Death (because there’s something seriously wrong with that outfit), recently came up with their own “Great Notion.”  They named it the “Gran Mac.”  It’s like the classic Big Mac, only several stories taller, and the diameter of a sewage drain lid.

The saying goes that it’s not how many times you fall down that matters, it’s how many times you stand back up.  Well, I fell down yesterday.  I tripped and fell face first into a Gran Mac.  I didn’t want to do it.  But this beast was an artery-clogging siren calling me to her rocky shores.  Polishing off that monstrosity of a burger (if you can call this aircraft carrier-sized block of carbohydrates and fat a burger) was backbreaking, or I should say, jaw-breaking.  My mandibular muscles are still aching.  And the carcass of that thing is still rolling around down in my lower intestines.  It’s churning away like a muskrat caught in a whitewater river sinkhole.

The entire experience is my shame.  And before you ask, “no,” I haven’t gotten back up yet.

So, Mr. CEO of McDonald’s Worldwide Conglomeration of Death, I only have one comment for you: “Sometimes it’s NOT a Great Notion.”

The Secret to Hiking with Grizzlies

By Jack Edwards

I take deep pleasure in hiking through the great outdoors.  At the mere suggestion from my wife that we go for a hike, usually at gun point, I hop right off the couch.  So I guess you can call me an “outdoor enthusiast.” This is why I was riveted by news that the National Park Service is considering restoring grizzlies to the “North Cascades Ecosystem.”  I read this in an article in the Seattle Times, by Phuong Le, titled, “Grizzly bears in the North Cascades? Feds release plan to restore population.”

Because I’m working on being a more “positive thinking” person, I decided to make a list of how this might enhance my life, and the lives of others – both adults and children (or as grizzlies refer to them, snack-size people).  (Sorry!  “Positive, Jack, stay positive!”)

The first thing you have to remember is that while these majestic creatures may seem “scary” or “intimidating,” Le’s article notes that, “grizzly bears tend to avoid areas of human activity.”  So it seems that we are unlikely to see a grizzly slipping into to a Seattle Starbucks for a half-caf vanilla latte after a long hibernation.  On the other hand, they enjoy a well-groomed hiking trail as much as the rest of us.  My brother-in-law, Tucker, and his wife, Jan, ran into a grizzly years ago while hiking in Montana.  They’re still trying to scrub the undies they were wearing that day back to their original white.  (“Okay, STOP with the negative, Jack!”)

Here are three benefits of hiking with grizzlies:

  1. Le reports that the grizzlies will “be radio-collared and monitored.” Talk about a silver lining. This means that whatever particular body part (or if he’s really hungry, “parts”) of your hiking buddy are missing, rangers can quickly locate and recover them.  (Presupposing the grizzly is willing to give it back.)  A funeral director can sew it back on in no time – probably at no extra charge (who are we kidding, he’s a funeral director.)
  2. According to Wikipedia, grizzly bears weigh no more than 900 pounds. So if you hike in groups of five to ten people, you’ll match his weight, and have at least a fighting chance. In the alternative, you can walk toward the back of the group, if you get my drift.  What’s the old saying? “You don’t have to outrun a grizzly, you only have to out run your friends.”


  1. I don’t want to get all religious, or “controversial,” but life in heaven is supposed to be significantly more enjoyable than life on earth.

In conclusion, I look forward in great anticipation, to the return of these magnificent creatures to Northwest hiking trails.  I want to continue to enjoy the great outdoors, and now that I think about it, I want to help my friends and relatives, my elderly friends and relatives, enjoy the great outdoors with me.  #NeverHikeWithoutGrandma

My Rosetta Stone Road to Korea

By Jack Edwards

I’m traveling to South Korea this fall, so I’ve decided to be fluent in the native tongue when I arrive.  You may be thinking, does he already have a basic proficiency?  The answer would be, yes.  I mastered how to say, “Where is the bathroom?” in Korean, quite some time ago.  I also know how to say, “That’s too expensive.”  So, with this solid foundation, I figure I should need no more than three and a half weeks to “come up to speed” to complete fluency.

I went online to Rosetta Stone.  My wife suggested that I order the first level and pace myself.  This made perfect sense; so after due consideration, I ordered everything Rosetta Stone had.  The whole shebang.  Every “level,” including one, that upon completion, should allow me to obtain a position as a professor of Korean linguistics at Seoul University – teaching post-graduate students.

I hit my first roadblock when I openned the Rosetta Stone box.  It contained several DVDs and a “Quick Start” booklet.  To truly “master” the language, I figured that I’d need to devote at least 20 or 30 minutes several times a week.  Unfortunately, after an hour, I was still trying to figure out how to download the program using the “Quick Start” guide.  I had a heck of a time deciphering the instructions, but what most concerned me was  that the instructions were in ENGLISH.  I’ll admit it; this caused me to begin to doubt my ability to master the Korean language by October.

I have tried to learn Korean before.  My wife is Korean, and not just Korean, but the Real McCoy.  She grew up in South Korea, and as you might suspect, a very popular pastime in Korea is speaking the Korean language.  Sadly, each time I have started studying Korean, I have ultimately abandoned my pursuit.  But as they say, “The 253rd time’s the charm.”

This time, I have a special weapon.  His name is Caleb.  Caleb is my nephew who is learning Japanese.  We have decided to become “accountability buddies.”  I only have one concern about Caleb as an accountability buddy – Caleb is nice.  He’s a really nice well-mannered young man, and I don’t think he has it in him to, for example, call me up and threaten me with severe bodily death if I don’t get my butt “back with the program.”   I may need more of an Arnold Schwarzenegger type accountability buddy, or maybe even Hannibal Lector.

Well, I better get back to my Korean studies.  Remind me again, what is Korean for, “Where is the bathroom?”