Along with all the fun which I derive from providing you with the finest daily entertainment on the planet comes a Public Responsibility. This is my burden. One might call it “The Funnyman’s Burden.” This gigantic ironwood cross which I bear daily as I trudge to the office to pound out yet another jewel of jibber-jabber is the burden of responsibility to inform  as well as to entertain. After all, entertainment void of information is as empty as Britney Spears’ head. (Oh, I’ll get comments on that one! ).

Which causes me to momentarily digress to inform you that the two posts, out of 736 so far, which have drawn the most comments were one in which I showed an image of Britney Spears with my dog, Sheba’s, tongue hanging from her mouth and another in which I featured an astonishingly stupid product called “Yoga Toes” which had absolutely nothing  to do with yoga. (Justin Friend, do not  comment on this!). At the risk of offending you, gentle reader, this fact does not reflect well on the sophistication of my audience.

My first informational item, as have all the others, comes from the astoundingly classy The Atlantic Monthly  magazine, a rag which I study with religious fervor. This amazing offer allows one to acquire an entire stamp collection (1 collection per order, please) at no cost whatsoever:

You should probably note that the stamps shown, while not exactly pricey, are still a teesny bit on the collectible side and therefore are probably not  the ones you will receive. They also fail to mention that any decent hobby stamp store will have bins of thousands of 50+ year old stamps which you can purchase by the wheelbarrow load for one cent each. Nevertheless, if you know absolutely nothing about stamps and want to get the worst possible start collecting them, why pass up the offer. They’re free,  for pity’s sake! And, you’ll have hours of fun pouring over the “sucker” catalog of over-priced stamps which you will suddenly crave to “complete” your collection.

This one is, really, so funny that I’m nearly at a loss for words.

My understanding is that Crusty the Clown is the founder of the Bow Tie Club, but my recollection may be erroneous. I have, on occasion, worn a dead-black bow tie, but only with a black dinner jacket, cumber-bun, diamond studs and a Walther P-38 tucked snugly under my belt in the small of my back, just where the ladies can feel it when I tango them into a swoon.

Speaking of swooning ladies, lay one of these on your main squeeze and see what happens:

You can honestly tell her that it is a genuine Diamondmumble.  It’s very important to mumble the Aura  part, unless, of course you simply want to lie about it. I’d be a little cautious about that, however, in case she ever decides she needs some quick cash and takes it to her favourite pawn broker. Most hock-shops also sell pistols – the nice little nickel-plated jobs that fit neatly into a purse or a dainty hand.

By the way, you can click on any of these to read the fine print. It’s intensely amusing.

And now for The Smartest Stupidest Watch on the Planet:

Really, come on! US$945?

You know, I never wear a watch unless I’m in the USA where you can be shot for not doing so. Upon arrival in America, I march as fast as my short little legs can carry me to the nearest Wal-Mart and buy the biggest, flashiest watch that I can find for less than $10. I tell people that it’s a Rolex while conveniently scratching my head so that they can’t really see it. Nobody ever asks, “A Rolex, eh? Let me have a look.” I usually end up paying about $6.99. That seems to be the price point. When I’m on the way to the gate to board a plane leaving the U. S. of A., I get rid of the watch. I used to try to give them away, but people started looking for the nearest security guard. Now I just toss it into a trash bin. Perhaps I should mention that, in Papua New Guinea, a watch is one of the least essential bits of personal paraphernalia.

Oh, how I love it when companies in the business of making us money on our precious retirement funds tell us how wonderful they are:

I call this one The Train to Nowhere.  If I need to explain, then you obviously have been dead broke for the last five years, eating out of dumpsters and sleeping in cardboard boxes under railroad trestles and have therefore been mercifully spared the agony of seeing your life’s savings dwindle to “Dinner at McDonald’s” proportions. Lucky you.

Okay, I’m the last guy who should be making fun of old folks. But, the stuff they buy! I mean, look at this thing. Does it look safe to you? Thank heaven it’s battery operated. I wouldn’t want to sit in the bath in something that looks like this which was plugged into a power socket:

Does it eject you from the bath? If so, with what force? You know, I was water boarded three times in my former career about which I can say nothing (whoops, I may have just done so). The guys used a device which looked very similar to this, although somewhat more crude. It wasn’t  battery operated. They were remarkably humorful about the whole thing. I haven’t heard such uproarious laughter since the time I shot myself in the leg with a .38 Special. Now that  was funny!

There’s something else vaguely discalming to me about this ad. How old were you when adults stopped giving you a bath? I seem to remember locking the bathroom door by the time I was five.

I have to admit that this is my sentimental favourite. This poor bumpkin has been holding this box of Italian lessons and scratching his head for at least two years. Not to be cruel – he is a hardworking farm boy  and in the Great American Dream he richly deserves  to be intimately associated with all manner of supermodels,  especially with those who speak only Italian. If only he could speak Italian, he could have his big chance. It’s a terrible thing to waste a massive libido:

The folks at RosettaStone will, in  a matter of days, have him Skyping her and whispering sweet nothings into her shell-like ears (she’s wearing a stereo headset). His rich baritone voice, roughened by years of tractor dust to a masculinity exceeded only by the likes of Charlton Heston, the late and much lamented former President of the National Rifle Association, will melt her with his quickly acquired Tuscan accent.

She will arrive at the family farm. They will marry with much fanfare. He will give up farming to sell insurance. She will, in an astonishing short period, gain 80 Kilograms. They will live happily ever after.

Ain’t life grand?