Much needed new Rocket Scientist Jokes

After googling the crap out of "rocket scientist jokes" and finding the same stupid joke about thawing chickens over and over, we, Ashley and mystupidself, naturally, have decided to make up some of our own. Next time you're at a very boring NASA function and can't get the party started you'll have some conversational fodder, or not, probably.

1). What's the difference between a rocket scientist and an astronaut?

Rocket scientists don't die when something goes wrong.

2). Why do rockets need rocket scientists?

Well, they're certainly not going to build themselves.

3). Why did the rocket scientist cross the road?

He's way smarter than you, so you wouldn't understand anyway.

4). Why can't rocket scientists ever get laid?

Because their rockets are never in their pockets.

5). Where is a rocket scientists favorite place to eat?

The NASA cafeteria.

6). What kind of car does a rocket scientist drive?

A Kia.

7). What did Osama Bin Laden say to the rocket scientist?

Hey, how have you been lately?

8). What's the difference between an Iranian and a rocket scientist?

Nothing.

9). How many rocket scientists does it take to screw in a light bulb?

It's never been done. They're too busy doing important things like rocket science.

10). What's the difference between a rocket scientist and a regular scientist?

Rockets.

At the Bottom of a Couple Year’s Supply of Kim Chi

Farewell: Friday, June 12, 2009
Listen, I think it's time for me to go home now. I think they're actually asking me to leave. My apparently anguine landlord has to sell my apartment to pay his prison bail, and I'm just sick of this damned building anyway. I have shushing showdowns in the hallways with the woman next door. She's an idiot. I've contemplated performing gastronomical experiments on her dog; this would be the place to do it, right?
That all doesn't matter anyway, there wasn't any chance of this place getting showered with encomiums from me any time soon. The simple fact that I refer to the communal patio as the cat box and to the neighbors’ apartment as the gerbil cage gives testament to its lackluster. I've lived this monotony for too long. I’ve spent too many hours in the gerbil cage watching my life pass by on a 24-inch Samsung television with a built in VCR. My mood-o-meter reads bellicose, and my swarthy attitude has even surfaced in surly comments to my students. But come on, who really cares about your two-month vacation around Europe?
I've thought that maybe I’m not well. WebMD offers me no consolation, no shelter from my imagination. I've recently begun, purely out of personal interest, an experiment to see how many different types of medical care I can procure through my health insurance before I depart this anachronistically ancient techno-city. I already have enough Xanax to sleep through my next decade of travel time. I even went and got an acupuncture treatment the other day. It's funny. I find myself much more skeptical of a man in a lab coat tapping needles into my skin and then putting me under a heat lamp for an hour than I previously thought I'd be. I've also started drinking this tea they gave me. It’s not horrible. It’s chalky, kind of like cava root without the zombie. It’s supposed to make me more regular. I already take a crap once a day. Isn’t that regular? Why am I worrying about things that don't matter? Get me out of here.

Almost: Thursday, June 18, 2009
To make things even more surreal I've relocated to a new apartment to finish out the final phase of my episodic journey. The fifty-second floor makes me queasy. It makes for long elevator rides where my xenophobic neighbors stare at me shamelessly while making derisive grimaces and humph noises. I suppose I fail to meet their high standards for elevator riders. But they account for the least of my current imprecation. Atop those fifty-one floors you will find me living with a giant man and a babushka gypsy looking sort of woman, who cruise up and down the sidewalks of the city covered from the neck down in black leather and straddling brightly colored vintage motorcycles that placidly reflect the neon lights lining the boulevard. My life here is skittish at best.
On the other hand, I know this sounds crazy with how fastidious I act, but sometimes, and very seldom, I fear leaving. I fear I might be ripped from this pallid haze of complacent manageable insanity and be incapable of assimilating into my original ‘life.’ Who knows, I might smell a sewer and expect a motorbike to whiz by me on the sidewalk. I might begin to have paranoid delusions of being overtaken by groups of black haired, black eyed, tempestuously raving children in a conflagration of unintelligible paroxysms. Or, I might simply find myself—out of place.
Anyway, I’m leaving, my caprice palsied by the reality of my plane ticket. I will no longer wilt into my divan under the blinking neon of the Seven Luck Casino. I will no longer drink poorly distilled alcohol while chewing on pig hocks and jellyfish. I won't go for a relaxing ocean cruise and toss handfuls of shrimp chips at a flock of overfed seagulls, and I won’t worry about exchange rates that fluctuate based on the effects of missile launches and abducted journalists working for Al Gore. I will no longer receive bottomless portions of some arduously fermented food with every meal I order. I won’t eat food accompanied by hearty endorsements from a septuagenarian woman for the effect it has on virility and life expectancy. I won’t eat thick strips of bacon for dinner. I won’t wake up in the land of morning calm anymore. No, I regress. I'm returning to my original programming, back to something comparably mundane but somehow insatiably alluring. I’m out. Change the channel.