Last week, Jasper and Beth Daniels ended their fifty year marriage, citing each other’s blindness as the main reason.

                         “I hate his face,” said Beth.  “And although I’ve never really seen his face, I have touched the skin and contours of his grill, and it reminds me of a volcano surrounded by a McDonald’s, surrounded by two dumpsters.  And the dumpsters are full of decomposing Big Macs and Quarter Pounders with Limburger Cheese.   And… Mayor McCheese is doing something in one of the dumpsters, without his clothes on, that would be considered illegal in forty states, insane in nine states, and performance art… in Kentucky.”

                        “I hate her face,” said Jasper.  “And although I have never actually seen her face, I have fondled the likes of her nose, lips and eyes with my fingers… and lately with my 3-D Powerpoint Braille Etch A Sketch.  And her face reminds  me of the under side of an armadillo… after it’s been run over by covered wagon hauling frozen armadillos.”

                             Beth and Jasper met fifty-one years ago today when they were both members of a group called the Solar Eclipses Watcher’s Club.  Apparently, the group only had one gathering and then the club disbanded due to a precipitous drop in membership.  Attempts to form a shadow group called the Lunar Eclipses Watcher’s Group failed as well.

                       “I hate the way he makes love to me,” said Beth.  “Three minutes and he’s done.  It’s so frustrating… mainly because he’s so blind that he often mistakes the folds in his Bomber Jacket with the folds in my honey pot.”

                       “Well, at least my Bomber Jacket occasionally has an orgasm,” said Jasper.   “She’s so dried out, that last month, I saw a tumbleweed roll out of her vagina.  That’s an image I can’t get out of my mind… and I’m blind!”

                 “He’s like Mr. Magoo on steroids,” said Beth.  “If only he were like Mr. Magoo on Viagra, then we might not be having this conversation right now.”

                 “What do you want from me?  I’m eighty-seven and blind,” Jasper said.   “Sometimes my performance might not spectacular.”

                   And then Beth closed with, “Well… maybe your understudy can finally bring down my curtains.”

 

 

                                  Two weeks ago, Julius Caesar got a new, adjustable, Sleep Roman Numeral Bed to help alleviate his back problems and insomnia.  “My old bed was made of straw mats, strings and the hopes, dreams, and necks of the Roman plebeian class, “Caesar said.  “I was hesitant at first, but I decided to give the adjustable bed a try after I heard some of the testimonials.”

                And here is some of what actual Sleep Roman Numeral Bed customers had to say.

           “I spend a lot of my time sitting in colosseums, watching the Christians and slaves being feed to the lions.” said Marcus.  “It’s terrible and tragic… how uncomfortable those seats are… and I’m talking box seats.  And sometimes I suffer back aches because of it.  So, I put my Sleep Roman Numeral Bed on the IV extra soft setting, and after witnessing a long day of glorified violence and human carnage passing as entertainment, I tend to forget how awful those colosseum seat really are.”

                   “I work construction, so at the end of the day, my whole body aches,” said Titus.   “First, I take a long bath in the Tiber River, where I use animal fat and wood ashes to replenish my rawhide skin.  Then I get in my Sleep Roman Numeral Bed and adjust the setting to medium XI for a restful sleep.  The next day I’m refreshed and ready to go back to my back busting, non-union job, as a brick mason on the Pantheon construction project.”

                   “I’ve had my Sleep Roman Numeral Bed for about two weeks now,” said Caesar.  “I’ve used multiple settings from an extra soft II, all the way up to an extra firm XXIII.  It’s been great.  I no longer suffer from insomnia, although sometimes I do wake up in the middle of the night when I hear Cicero off in the distance, giving rhetorical speeches about whether Rome could be built in a day if we just took shorter coffee breaks.   And my lower back sciatica has gone away completely.  Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to find the right Sleep Roman Number to alleviate the stabbing pains I sometimes have in my upper back.”

 

                Unfortunately, last week, our creative team was hit by Covid-19 and we will not be posting today.  Hopefully, we will be able to post sometime before the end of this week.   Stay with WormHole Square, as we look forward to producing the crazy content, and low polyunsaturated stuff we love to make.   Thanks for understanding.    Best regards, MW

                                    Last week, biblical scholars discovered a controversial event that transpired long ago, outside the manger in Bethlehem, on the night that Christ was born.

                                “A newly discovered document proves, with almost one hundred percent certainty, that Frankenstein attempted to visit the manger on that first Christmas night,”  said biblical scholar and part-time sandal repairman, Jeremiah Cross.  “However, according to this document, which was an ancient visitor’s log written in Hebrew, Aramaic and Egyptian Ebonics, Frankenstein was denied entry into the manger because of a big misunderstanding.”

                         The ancient visitor’s log showed that the Baby Jesus was visited by Three Wise Men on Christmas night, who brought gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh.  Another entry in the log also showed visits from Four WiseGuys, who also brought gifts of gold, frankincense, myrrh… and cannoli’s.

                                 “According to the log, the misunderstanding centered around Frankenstein mistaking his name with frankincense,” said Mr. Cross.   “Frankincense, although no one was really sure what the hell it was at the time, was widely accepted as a gift item… along with ear muffs and a gift certificate from Bed Bibles and Beyond.   Frankenstein, however, was not accepted, due to his reputation as a reanimated, cobbled together corpse, and his penchant for regifting.”

 

                                            There has been growing concern at the North Pole that Christmas may have to been cancelled this year because of Santa’s reported crystal meth addiction.

                          “Santa started experimenting with substances that would give him the energy boost he needed to keep up with the growing demands of the holiday season,” said Joey, Assistant Elf in charge of North Pole Logistics.  “Santa was also looking for something to help him lose weight.  He tried a lot of things including, coffee, energy drinks, and putting three gerbils with ADHD up his ass.  Those things didn’t help increase output all that much.  He also tried low latency faerie dust and high potency angel dust, but they didn’t worked out too well either.”

               And then everything changed for the better and unfortunately… the worst.

                    “Santa tried crystal meth back in November of last year,” said Joey.  “And the results were incredible and immediate.  Santa increased his Christmas presents deliver rate from 10,000 packages an hour to over 500,ooo packages per hour while he was on the meth.  So… combined with Amazon, he was able to meet last season’s holiday demands.   That was the good news.”  Joey sighs deeply, continues.   “Unfortunately, Santa became addicted to the crystal meth somewhere around March of this year.   He started acting erratically and started making bizarre business decisions like, getting rid of all the senior elves and replacing them with garden gnome temps.  He also moved our main warehouse from the North Pole to Baltimore.   Then he started selling all his stuff to feed his meth addiction.  I mean, he sold workshop tools, eggnog by the barrels, laptops, and even lap dances.  He started selling off tons of Christmas presents at rock bottom prices.  He sold most of his reindeer, except the slowest two, Donner and Vixon.  He sold his sleigh, and darn near everything else… down to even his Santa boots.”

                 Joey shakes his head, continues.   “He has lost over three hundred pounds.  He’s no longer fat and jolly.  He’s now skinny, frail and can barely function.  If Santa can’t get straight, I don’t see Christmas happening this year.”

                  So, Santa’s reported crystal meth diet was merely a byproduct of his need to increase his holiday season production output.  As of this writing, Santa Claus was last seen still slumped up against a tree, eating handfuls of yellow snow, with three dead gerbils up his ass.

                                Yesterday, by proclamation, the Mayor of Munchkinland was officially charged with multiple counts of corruption in association with his duties as Mayor in the county of the land of Oz.

                        “He’s facing some serious allegations including, wire fraud, tax evasion, influence peddling, and embezzlement of thousands of dollars from the Lollipop Guild,” said Oz’ State’s Attorney, Peco Bines.

                  In the charging document, it has also been alleged that the Mayor of Munchkinland accepted fifty thousand dollars in bribes and awarded a ten million dollar no-bid contract to Gulch Construction Company for the Yellow Brick Road twenty mile expansion project.  The Mayor has also been charged with multiple counts of nepotism.

                         “He has two hundred and forty-nine members of his own family on the county payroll,” said States Attorney Bines.   “And none of these employees have real jobs as far as we can ascertain.  All they do is dance and prance around all day, singing songs with very high pitched voices.  And they hide in the bushes when faced with any type of difficult civil servant duties like, directing traffic, cleaning graffiti, or confronting wicked witches.”

                 The list of charges against the Mayor goes on and includes accepting gifts in return for political favors.   Some of the gifts include, hundreds of dollars of free perms at several hair salons, and dozens of free, front row  tickets to a sold out TOTO concert last spring at the Oz Pavilion.

             “This type of corruption is unacceptable and the Mayor will be held accountable for all of his misdeeds,” said Mr. Bines.  “No one is above the law.  Not nobody, not no how!”

 

 

                                              Last week, The International BeeKeepers Consortium, put out a statistic showing an alarming rise in the theft of bee’s knees.

               “It’s not just an expression that Laverne & Shirley would say back in the day,” said Detective Ian Wilbanks.  “Today there are international crime rings who traffic in the theft and black market sale of bee’s knees.  Because bee’s knees are flexible and strong, they make perfect replacement parts for the joints of priceless, collectable, vintage, action figures like, G.I. Joes and Barbies.  Bee’s knees are also used to replace the ball joints in the front suspension of Barbie’s Dream Camper.  Additionally, the bee’s knees are also used in the hinges of expensive eyeglass frames.”

                The epidemic of thefts of bee’s knees has reached epidemic numbers.  Driven by greed, the crimes have left countless bees… knee-less, and unable to contribute to the hive in a productive manner.  These knee-less bees have been demoted to part-time workers, and/or assistance drones.  Others are forced to rely on disability payments from the Queen.  And a sad, tragic, few live outside of the hive where they panhandle for donations of pollen… while they sing anguished renditions of Bohemian Rhapsody… in B flat minor.

                     “The criminals are ruthlessly efficient in their pathology,” said Detective Wilbanks.  “They attack their unsuspecting victims with a specially designed ax that has two blades on it.   Whap!  Just like that the double ax has severed the appendages just above and below the knee.   This double ax technique, which requires quite a lot of talent and skill, should not be confused with a double axle, which is a figure skating manuever.”

                  Yesterday, an emotional support dog named Franko, failed to show empathy or concern for his owner, Doug, who was depressed because Doug’s girlfriend, Susan, had recently passed on.

              “I’m sorry, but I can’t support this guy just because the love of his life, a six foot three, latex-free blowup doll, has suddenly deflated due to a precipitous drop in the barometric pressure.   That combined with the fact that we live a mile above sea level and him wearing a Dungeons and Dragons fetish costume during love making could only lead to this predictably disastrous end.  So, no, I have no empathy for him.”

            Apparently the blowup doll met her demise during the jousting contest.

            “She was no good for him anyway,” said Franko.   “She was fickle and would often laugh at Doug’s jokes with overzealous mirth only because she wanted something from him like, money… or carbon dioxide.”

                 Multiple attempts to repair Susan had failed, including duct tape, vulcanized rubber patches, and Flex Seal, which is excellent for repairing holes in the bottom of boats, but not Susan.  And it made her break out in a vicious rash.

               “This situation has become untenable,” said Franko.  ” Thus I will be moving on to see other people who have mutiple psychological disorders including depression, PTSD, and… excessive sports betting,” said Franko.

                 Susan was retired, recycled into a set of moped tires.  Doug rides the moped to and from work three days a week.

                     Last week, after contracting Covid, it was revealed that Green Bay Packers star quarterback, Aaron Rodgers, had lied before the season about his Covid vaccination status, prompting a deluge of criticism.

                     “I didn’t lie… nor did I mislead anyone,” Rodgers said.  He went on.  “In response to being asked by reporters if I was vaccinated, I simply responded with a string of hair splitting words that were tantamount to the complete, fucking opposite of the truth.  So much so, that it even elicited an enthusiastic thumbs up from Pinocchio, who was in the back of the room at the time, a benefactor of season tickets courtesy of the Green Bay Woodworkers Union.”

                          Rodgers said that he had been taking his own regiment of homeopathic supplements to boost his immune system against Covid 19.

              “Yeah, I’ve been taking zinc, vitamin C, Ivermectin, a horse dewormer not approved by the FDA to treat Covid 19, and lots and lots of greens… which includes kale, green beans, Soylent Green, and green eggs and ham,” Rodgers said.   He continued.  “Yeah, I ultimately did contract Covid, but I’m one hundred percent sure I don’t have any worms… mainly because I didn’t have worms to begin with.”

           Rodgers went on to say that he had consulted a top notch medical team of advisers that included, Bones McCoy, comedian, Joe Rogan, and one of the old, cranky guys from the balcony of the Muppet Show.

           And as to how he has been criticized for breaking NFL protocol by attending press conferences unmasked, while not vaccinated, Rodgers incorrectly cited MLK.   Rodgers compared MLK’s legacy of being jailed, beaten, and ultimately assassinated while fighting for civil rights for millions of oppressed people, to his own self-described draconian plight of having to wear a mask in a press conference to protect the health of fellow human beings.

              “The rule doesn’t make sense to me,”  Rodgers said.  “That’s why I ingest pills that kill worms in the belly of horses.”

             We wish Aaron Rodgers a full and speedy recovery from Covid… and the brain fog that sometimes precedes it.

                 Yesterday, a worm named John, was faced with the difficult decision of whether or not to free some of his fellow worms who had been captured during a  marathon contest of Hide and Go Seek.  The contest was between the worms and several fisherman from the east dock.

                   “I had the can opener and the will,” said John.  “But I was advised not to do it by the local casualty and disaster prevention official.   I’m pretty sure I heard my next door neighbor, Mr. Don, and my Uncle Ernie inside that can.  Their appeals for freedom were somewhat faint, but I’m pretty sure they wanted me to get them the fuck outta there.”

                There was an estimated forty-five worms inside the can.  There has been speculation as to whether two fishermen and one of the Bee Gees was also inside the can as well.   Not sure which Bee Gee it was, but all indications suggests it was the one with the high pitched voice.

           “I can’t say whether there were  fishermen or Bee Gees inside that can or not,” said John.   “All’s I know is… I’m now one hundred percent sure that my Uncle Ernie was inside that can, because now that I think back… I could hear him talking about Frank Sinatra.  He was a big Sinatra guy.  And I could also smell his undeniably pungent cologne and cigar smoke through those tin walls.  Still… the disaster prevention guy warned me-no, he guaranteed me… that if I carried though with my mission, that I would bring holy hell upon our community.   What could I do?  I mean, the guy correctly predicted that the last season of Game Of Thrones would be terrible, so who was I to question him?”