Insert Your Favorite Weekend Before Christmas Joke Here.

Santa Claus, like all pilots, gets regular visits from the Federal Aviation Administration, and it was shortly before Christmas when the FAA examiner arrived. In preparation, Santa had the elves wash the sled and bathe all the reindeer. Santa got his logbook out and made sure all his paperwork was in order. The examiner walked slowly around the sled. He checked the reindeer harnesses, the landing gear, and Rudolf's nose. He painstakingly reviewed Santa's weight and balance calculations for the sled's enormous payload. Finally, they were ready for the checkride. Santa got in and fastened his seatbelt and shoulder harness and checked the compass. Then the examiner hopped in carrying, to Santa's surprise, a shotgun. "What's that for?" asked Santa incredulously. The examiner winked and said, "Well I'm not supposed to tell you this, but you're gonna lose an engine on takeoff."

Little Charlie and little Timmy are lying in bed Christmas Eve. They can't fall asleep. Finally, at four in the morning, excitement gets the better of them, and they sneak downstairs to see what Santa brought for them. As they read the tags and count the gifts, they see that little Charlie has fifty presents and little Timmy only has one. Little Charlie then says, "Ha ha! I got fifty presents and you only got one, Timmy!" Little Timmy says in reply, "Ha ha! I may only have one present, but you have cancer."

According to the Alaska Department of Fish and Game, while both male and female reindeer grow antlers in the summer each year, male reindeer drop their antlers at the beginning of winter, usually late November to mid-December. Female reindeer retain their antlers till after they give birth in the Spring. Therefore, according to every historical rendition depicting Santa's reindeer, every single one of them, from Rudolph to Blitzen, had to be a girl. We should've known. Only women would be able to drag a fat man in a velvet suit all around the world in one night and not get lost.

As a little girl climbed onto Santa's lap, Santa asked the usual, "And what would you like for Christmas?" The child stared at him open mouthed and horrified for a minute, then gasped "Didn't you get my e-mail ?"

The three stages of life: You believe in Santa Claus. You don't believe in Santa Claus. You are Santa Claus.

let others share in the misery that is your christmas.

glow sticks, sr-71 blackbird, neuschwanstein castle, venus fly traps.

santa and bleebo save christmas with JESSICA BIEL and david koechner.

24 on 34th street - jack bauer vs. a suspicious terrorist from the north pole.

the writers at jimmy killem live are fucking geniuses. we love you lando.

the eight different kinds of drug dealers. no elf jokes, sorry.

Yeah, It's Raining Here Too. Seems Fitting, I Guess.

So needless to say, yesterday was a pretty down day for Team Ernie. But today is a new day, things start over, blah-blah-blah. Besides, Christmas is right around the corner.

Way back on August 22, 2005, I posted a quick blurb about the series finale to Six Feet Under. It was an incredible mind-fuck for me, and I presume for anyone else who followed the show. They essentially killed all of the characters. All of them. One right after the other, albeit some of them decades into the future. I literally sat there in bed that night, awake for hours contemplating my own mortality. How will I die? When will it be? Will I be old, or young? Warm in a bed with gray hair, or splattered all along the side of the road? Who would I leave behind? Who would go before me? Yes, it kept me up, I assure you.

So I guess the worst part about hearing of Gypsy's passing -- well you know, aside from the poor fucking dog dying to begin with -- was that it forced me to come face to face with my own dog's mortality. The best the shelter could guess, Bianca was about six years old, but as she is absolutely full of piss and vinegar I think she's closer to five. So barring some unforseen tragedy, I know that she will most likely outlife Ike. And while still quite spry for his age -- most people don't believe me when I tell them he is turning ten this May -- I know Ike has more days behind him than in front. He's just starting to show a little gray around his muzzle and down at the bottoms of his front paws. But other than that, he too is piss and vinegar. Sometimes I have to turn him away as he's constantly wanting to play ball, like when I'm trying to work or get all into a movie or something, and deep down I know the day that he doesn't want to play ball anymore will break my fucking heart.

And for reasons completely unknown to him, yesterday morning I got down on my hands and knees and crawled over to the dog bed he was laying, wrapped my arms around him and bawled my eyes out. He didn't know why I was doing this strange behavior, but he could tell something was wrong and did the only thing he could do, licking away my tears as fast as they came. Then both he and Bianca got to spend a little extra time chasing balls in the pool and split a big fat juicy hamburger later in the evening. I don't know about you, but I've got the best fucking dogs in the world.

While my heart has belonged to Joanna Krupa ever since she went on this tirade against Terrell Owens, I'm not exactly sure I'd include her in this list of Playboy celebrity "Guest Ring Girls" the UFC should consider.

Here are thirty women from thirty countries. I formally request that we lift the Cuban embargo immediately.

fedex kinkos won’t print our christmas card. plus, mom has nice tits.

notes from the no lone zone: a computer scientist looks at icbm security.

man shows his christmas spirit by trying to steal two trees. beatdown ensues.

old and busted: avalanches and howitzers. the new hotness: rockslides and wrecking balls.

Today Is Not A Good Day.

Just this side of heaven is a place called Rainbow Bridge. When an animal dies that has been especially close to someone here, that pet goes to Rainbow Bridge. There are meadows and hills for all of our special friends so they can run and play together. There is plenty of food, water and sunshine, and our friends are warm and comfortable. All the animals who had been ill and old are restored to health and vigor; those who were hurt or maimed are made whole and strong again, just as we remember them in our dreams of days and times gone by. The animals are happy and content, except for one small thing; they each miss someone very special to them, who had to be left behind. They all run and play together, but the day comes when one suddenly stops and looks into the distance. His bright eyes are intent; His eager body quivers. Suddenly he begins to run from the group, flying over the green grass, his legs carrying him faster and faster. You have been spotted, and when you and your special friend finally meet, you cling together in joyous reunion, never to be parted again. The happy kisses rain upon your face; your hands again caress the beloved head, and you look once more into the trusting eyes of your pet, so long gone from your life but never absent from your heart. Then you cross Rainbow Bridge together. Author unknown...

As I write this post to you this morning, my eyes are red and swollen, and my cheeks are wet with tears. I have to tell you something, but quite honestly I don'y know where to begin.

When Gypsy's story was first brought to my attention, anger was the first emotion I experienced. Anger that one animal could suffer so much at the hands of human being. And over the course of the last four and a half years, than anger has slowly but surely given way to happiness. Happiness that that animal could be so forgiving to humans and despite all of her abuse, still manage to find such a lackadaisical joy in life that only dogs can.

This morning, that happiness has abruptly and been replaced by another emotion; that of sadness. I now feel such a profound sense of loss that I am sure the sun won't come up this morning. This morning, I received the following email from Tri-County Animal Rescue, the folks who rescued Gypsy and have given her a home since then.

If one were to make a guess at how old Gypsy was when she was first rescued, I think probably two or three years would probably be as safe a bet as any. Despite the weight that now hangs quite heavily on my heart, I take great solace in knowing that through our generosity and compassion, Daisy lived twice as long in comfort and surrounded by people who loved her, than she did in agony and forced to fight for her own survival for our wicked amusement. I am grateful that we helped put so many sunrises between her days spent in a dog crate with her face pockmarked by stitches and surgical stents, and that of her eventual passing. I am thankful that when it was finally her time to pass on, it happened in the peacefulness of a loving home, and not to the roaring cheer of a dogfighting ring.

Whether you attribute Gypsy's death to a theological origin, or to that of just a tired old body finally giving out, I am sure that wherever Gypsy is now, she's got all four legs and a perfect doggie face. I hope there's lots of sun to be warm on her face, lots of grass to roll in, and lots of things to chase. Our world will most certainly be a darker place without her. I don't know what else to say. I haven't wept like this since my mother died. I am just so fucking sad.

So long, my little Frankendoggie, we hardly knew ye. And we most certainly, are the lesser for it.

A Touching Christmas Story.

Sometimes, life throws us a helping hand when we least expect it.

A few weeks ago, I was rushing around trying to do some last minute Christmas shopping. I was stressed out and not thinking very fondly of the weather right then. It was dark, cold, and wet in the parking lot as I was loading my car. I noticed that I was missing a receipt that I might need later. So mumbling under my breath, I retraced my steps to the mall entrance. As I was searching the wet pavement for the lost receipt, I heard a quiet sobbing. The crying was coming from a poorly dressed boy of about 12 years old. He was short and thin. He had no coat. He was just wearing a ragged flannel shirt to protect him from the cold night's chill.

Oddly enough, he was holding a hundred dollar bill in his hand. Thinking that he had gotten lost from his parents, I asked him what was wrong. He told me his sad story. He said that he came from a large family. He had three brothers and four sisters. His father had died when he was nine years old. His mother was poorly educated and worked two full time jobs. She made very little to support her large family. Nevertheless, she had managed to skimp and save two hundred dollars to buy her children some Christmas presents. The young boy had been dropped off by his mother, on the way to her second job. He was to use the money to buy presents for all his siblings and save just enough to take the bus home. He had not even entered the mall, when an older boy grabbed one of the hundred dollar bills and disappeared into the night.

"Why didn't you scream for help?" I asked. The boy said, "I did." "And nobody came to help you?" I queried. The boy stared at the sidewalk and sadly shook his head. "How loud did you scream?" I inquired. The soft-spoken boy looked up and meekly whispered, "Help me!" It was then that I realized that absolutely no one could hear that poor boy cry for help.

So I grabbed his other hundred and made a run to my car. Now I've got enough money for this broad, woo hoo!

Chess boxing is a hybrid sport which combines the sport of boxing with games of chess in alternating rounds. Chess boxing fights have been organized since early 2003. The sport was started when Dutch artist Iepe Rubingh, inspired by fictional depictions of the sport in a comic by French comic book artist and filmmaker Enki Bilal, organized actual matches. The sport has become increasingly popular since then. To succeed players must be both skilled chess players and skilled boxers. And no, I am so not kidding.

Matthew John Serra is an American mixed martial artist and Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu black belt. He is a former UFC Welterweight Champion and an ADCC Submission Wrestling World Championship silver medalist. He began practicing martial arts at an early age, first studying kung fu. In the 1990s, he began studying Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu under Renzo Gracie and on May 23, 2000 was awarded his black belt, the first American to do so under Gracie. Here's a chat with former UFC champion Matt "The Terror" Serra. And my God, does he sound like a guido or what?

Hey does anyone know what brand of tire this is?

celebrity sex tapes nobody wants to see.

grasshopper, you too can write a hit kung fu movie.

the top ten most realistic transvestites. dibs on mimi... no, uh, wait.

why i love living in new york city. a video essay.

techniques of the professional pickpocket.