idiot-prufs

Read by four out five drunken monkeys–written by the fifth.

What’s Wrong With Me?

feeling ill I’m not feeling right.

Something is a bit off.

I seem to be suffering from some mysterious medical condition.

The symptoms are myriad:

  • Nausea.
  • Runny nose.
  • Headaches in my stomach.
  • Stomach aches in my head.
  • Squirrels steal my mail and replace it with half eaten nuts.
  • Everything smells like fear.
  • Everything tastes like pine cones.
  • Pine cones taste like pickled beets (but they smell like fear).
  • The sound of Justin Bieber’s voice makes me weep uncontrollably.
  • I have a rash on my butt in the shape of Piers Morgan’s face.
  • I have a rash on my face in the shape of Piers Morgan’s butt.
  • My left eyeball pops out of its socket at really inconvenient times.
  • Itchy scalp.
  • Dizziness.
  • Chills.
  • Tremors.
  • Tremors 2.
  • Any movie involving giant mutant worms.
  • Sleeplessness.
  • Sleeplessness from incontinence.
  • Sleeplessness because Elvis’ ghost visits me nightly and gripes endlessly about how Mary Tyler Moore Hogged up all the screen time in Change of Habit.
  • The compulsion to make ridiculous lists.
  • Paranoia.

In my quest for answers I’ve read several books authored by a world renown doctor.

Unfortunately, upon reading these books, I’ve found them to be of no help at all. Not only did these books not reveal any insights regarding my condition, I now have an incredible craving for green eggs and ham, and an intense desire to write in poetic meter.

This is bad.

It’s very bad.

So very bad, you see.

“Egad it’s bad,” I said to me.

It’s sad when things are bad,

would you not agree?

It makes me mad to be sad when things are bad.

I’d be a happy lad, so full of glee,

to be just a tad glad, and not mad or sad.

I’d live so happily.

Do you see how infuriating that is?

After doing some follow-up research, I’ve found Theodore Seuss Geisel to be a complete fraud, and not a medical professional of any kind.

Note: in another shocking turn of events, I’ve discovered the renowned author and child care expert, Dr. Spock, wasn’t really a Vulcan. When will the misinformation and subterfuge end?

doctor spock vulcan

Dr. Spock was born in New Haven, Connecticut, which isn’t even in the same neighborhood as the planet Vulcan. Frankly, it’s not even close.


But this spurred an epiphany: my condition has been caused by stress and anxiety; the stress and anxiety that results from living a lie.

In my next post, I will reveal the lie I’ve been living under, and the healing can begin.

ADDENDUM:

Sometimes when Elvis’ ghost visits me, he brings me peanut butter and banana sandwiches. They taste like pine cones and they smell like fear.

horton hears a who

Horton can hear a Who, but he can’t help you diagnose the cause of your explosive diarrhea.

Dante’s Travel Agency Disappoints

idiotprufs:

Check out my latest contribution to The Grimm Report.

Originally posted on The Grimm Report:

A Special Report By Grimm Report Chief Travel Correspondent,
Larry Shampoe
idiotprufs.com | @idiotprufs

Westfield, NY–When Virgil and Beatrice, an unassuming couple from a small town in Western New York, booked a vacation package through Dante’s Travel Agency, they were anticipating a needed injection of excitement into their life, a break from the humdrum. “We purchased the Inferno package,” Beatrice explained, “it seemed like it would be fiery and exhilarating.”

The vacation they got was not what they anticipated.

View original 241 more words

Woefully Inadequate Preparation

 

pythagorean theorem

Useless knowledge when you’re about to be cut.

This occurred while I was working as a quality control inspector at a steel coating plant near Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. I was sitting at my desk filling out paperwork–paperwork that I’m sure was vital to the daily functioning of the plant, and not be interrupted–when the crane operator, Jim, burst into the office.

“We have a problem,” he barked.

Jim tended to have problems more days than not. Urgent problems. Urgent problems of all varieties. (I could tell it was urgent because Jim was using his urgent voice. His urgent voice was similar to his whiny voice, but an octave higher.)

I looked around the office to discover I was the only one there. Crap.

“Houston,” I said to him.

“What?”

“When you burst into a room to exclaim that you have a problem, you’re supposed to say, ‘Houston, we have a problem.'”

“But we’re not in Houston.”

Note: nobody gets me.

“Never mind. What’s the problem?” I asked with genuinely feigned interest.

“Look at this,” he said as he shoved his phone at me. It was a picture of some temp workers standing outside on a smoke break.

“It’s a picture of some temp workers standing outside on a smoke break.” I said.

“You don’t see the problem?” He was incredulous.

“The threat of emphysema?”

“Look closer.” He shoved the phone at me again.

“Okay. They’re all smoking cigarettes, except for that little guy who seems to be holding…a crack pipe.”

“So you understand the problem now?”

“He’s not sharing with the others?”

“This is serious,” he snapped.

“Selfishness is a serious problem, Jim,” I admonished him.

“I can’t be operating a crane out there with people running around all hopped up on drugs.”

“Do people still use the phrase hopped up?”

“Are you going to do something or not?”

“Where’s Rick?” I asked. “He’s loud and obnoxious and loves to yell at people.”

Rick was the foreman, he was loud and obnoxious and loved to yell at people.

“He called off today,” Jim told me.

Note: It’s so rare that you’re in want of a person who is loud and obnoxious and loves to yell at people, but one time that you are, he’s not around. I once asked the owner why he made Rick the foreman. He told me that Rick was too stupid to do anything useful, but he was good at yelling at people, so he made him the foreman. Just another reason the Pittsburgh steel industry is thriving, in Japan.

I got on the radio and called the paint supervisor, to inform him of the situation.

“Deal with it, I’m in the truck yard,” he said tersely.

I reminded him that I mainly dealt with readings, measurements, recording data and that type of thing. What I didn’t deal with were problems that could lead to me being stabbed in the side of head.

“Deal with it, I’m in the truck yard,” He said again. My abilities of persuasion were obviously lacking.

I approached the person in question. He was a little guy with glasses. He looked like Mr. Peabody, if Mr. Peabody were a crackhead and not a cartoon dog. He was sweating profusely and his eyes were darting back and forth.

Mr. Peabody (probably not on crack)

“We won’t be needing you for the rest of the day, so you can go home now,” I told him, hoping that he would just acquiesce and leave.

“Why?” He demanded.

“We just don’t need you.”

He leaned into me, and growled in a slow deep voice, “is it because of the leprechauns?”

I gaped like an idiot.

“It’s the leprechauns isn’t it?” He persisted.

“No. It has nothing to do with the leprechauns.” I spoke slowly. “It’s more that you smoked crack on your break.” I felt at that point that honesty wasn’t going to make the situation any worse.

“Is that what the leprechauns told you?” He screamed. “The leprechauns lie!” Then he produced a razor blade from his pocket.

Evidently honesty could make things much worse.

He then gave me a very strange look and asked in a near whisper, “are you a leprechaun?”

You’re never really prepared for the first time someone asks you if you’re leprechaun. The public schools are woefully inadequate in such preparation. Knowing how to diagram a sentence or use the Pythagorean theorem, are useless abilities when you’re about to be cut.

So I said the only thing my agile brain could produce: “I’m not even wearing green.”

Luckily for me, by this time attention had been drawn to the situation, and there were several guys that had gathered around to help.

The police arrived shortly and took the guy away without incident.

But the next time someone asks me if I’m a leprechaun, I’ll be prepared.

My true identity.

idiotprufs: the Blog That’s Just too Big For One Tagline

drunken monkey

An avid reader of idiotrufs, and quite possibly the author.

Are you sick of taglines? Too bad.

I’ve decided to rotate taglines starting with what seemed to be the favorite from the previous list: Read by four out of five drunken monkeys–written by the fifth.

I deeply appreciate the comparison to a drunken monkey.

Some more taglines for your consideration, amusement or scorn.

idiotprufs: the blog that’s had the hiccups since 1987.

idiotprufs: what happens when everything goes horribly wrong.

idiotprufs: the blog that taught Michael Jackson how to moonwalk, but had nothing to do with all that other weird stuff.

idiotprufs: the blog that was really freaked out by the flying monkeys from the Wizard of Oz.

idiotprufs: whatever stupidity happens to tumble from my brain.

idiotprufs: illegal in 38 states–frowned upon in the rest.

idiotprufs: the blog that doesn’t check to see if the milk has gone bad before it chugs it straight from the container.

idiotprufs: the blog that vomits far more often than it ought to.

idiotprufs: the real reason the dodo bird is now extinct.

idiotprufs: the blog that would have been burned at the stake in the Middle Ages.

idiotprufs: the blog that is often referred to as the juggernaut of the blogging world by people who are prone to hyperbole, and frequently imaginary.

idiotprufs: the blog that lost its virginity, but then immediately found it again. (It was right where it had left it.)

idiotprufs: the blog that giggles uncontrollably every time it meets someone from Intercourse, Pennsylvania.

idiotprufs: where brain cells go to die.

idiotprufs: the blog that has unsettling fantasies about Wolf Blitzer dressed in nothing but bicycle shorts and a monocle.

idiotprufs: the blog that can’t find Ecuador on a map…of Ecuador.

idiotprufs: the blog that thinks North Iowa is a state.

idiotprufs: the blog that plans to name its firstborn after a Muppet.

gonzo muppet

Gonzo: the probable name of idiotprufs’ first born (boy or girl).

idiotprufs: the blog that can do anything it wants because no one is paying attention anyway.

idiotprufs: the blog that wore alligator skin boots to its job interview with Peta, and got thrown out of the building.

idiotprufs: the blog that has been accused of smashing its neighbors garden gnomes with a shovel.

idiotprufs: the blog that thinks its neighbor shouldn’t make accusations that he can’t prove.

idiotprufs: the blog that doesn’t wait 60 minutes after eating before it goes swimming.

idiotprufs: the blog that tore the labels off its mattress with an arrogant disregard for the law.

idiotprufs: the blog that once brazenly robbed a group of mimes at gunpoint, but got away with it because nobody talked.

idiotprufs: the blog that is way too proud of the previous mime joke.

idiotprufs: the blog that took two years of Spanish in high school, but still can only count to ten.

idiotprufs: a clear sign that the end is near.

idiotprufs: the blog that is used as currency in prison.

idiotprufs: the blog that was once rejected as a cast member of Big Brother, because it just wasn’t slutty enough.

tidiotprufs: the blog that is badgered nightly by Mickey Mantle’s ghost, spitting sunflower seeds on it.

idiotprufs: the blog that still can’t find Waldo, regardless of how persistently it tries.

idiotprufs: the blog that wept like a baby when it saw Brian’s Song.

idiotprufs: the blog that it’s creator refers to as “the babe magnet.”

idiotprufs: the blog that believes Bigfoot is real, but has serious doubts about Donald Trump’s hair.

idiotprufs: also predicted by the Mayans, but John Cusack has no plans to make a crappy movie about it.

idiotprufs: what Sir Isaac Newton was actually thinking about right before that apple fell on his head.

idiotprufs: the tenth level of Hell in Dante Alighieri’s Inferno before the editing.

idiotprufs: the only one of Aesop’s fables that didn’t have a moral.

idiotprufs: oh the humanity.

idiotprufs is stilled freaked out by flying monkeys.

idiotprufs is still freaked out by flying monkeys.

Words of Inspiration

love hurts

I have never written more beautiful or poignant words. I’m starting to get all misty-eyed.

I think I may have a bright future in inspirational writing.

Special thanks to The Phil Factor, whose post, Top Ten Tuesdays! My Top Ten Blogging Pet Peeves, gave me the nudge I needed to pursue this new path.

Taglines and more Taglines

taglines

Because they haunt your dreams.

“Striving every day to do the least idiotic thing possible, generally failing.”

The above statement has been the tagline of this blog since its inception–sadly, it’s also been the guiding principle of my life–but it feels as if it’s time for a change. (For the tagline, my life’s a irreparable heap.)

So I’ve decided to try out a few alternatives:

idiotprufs: what happens when you don’t listen to that nagging little voice in your head.

idiotprufs: read by four out of five drunken monkeys-written by the fifth.

idiotprufs: the blog that is wanted by the authorities for questioning.

idiotprufs: just do it. (Evidently the people at Nike think they own everything.)

idiotprufs: the blog that got so drunk last night, it can’t remember anything it did.

idiotprufs: the last blog you will ever read…after you’ve stabbed your eyes out with a shrimp fork.

idiotprufs: the blog that makes my friends deny they know me.

idiotprufs: the reason most of my family no longer speaks to me. (I wish I had started it sooner.)

idiotprufs: the reason I’ve been burned in effigy by Bolivian pudding makers.

idiotprufs: reading it will make your breath perpetually minty fresh.

idiotprufs: the blog labeled a bitter disappointment by its parents.

idiotprufs: the blog that was a banana slug in a previous life.

idiotprufs: the blog that is…um…interesting.

Note: The above tagline is an actual quote from someone after reading this blog; I think she thought it was more polite than saying, “it made me vomit uncontrollably.”

idiotprufs: the blog that was abandoned in the wilderness, but found its way home.

idiotprufs: the new black–black is now forest green.

idiotprufs: it’s addictive like heroin, but without the needles.

idiotprufs: the subject of dozen of lawsuits.

idiotprufs: it’s only libel if isn’t true.

idiotprufs: it’s better than chugging a bowl full of Sea Monkeys.

idiotprufs: the blog that requires you to have all your shots.

idiotprufs: the crayon drawing of the literary world.

idiotprufs: not everybody that reads it suffers from a debilitating brain aneurysm…but it helps.

idiotprufs: it’s like something Mark Twain would write, but without all the humor and talent.

idiotprufs: five minutes of your life that you will never get back.

idiotprufs: it’s like that rash that just won’t go away.

idiotprufs: reading it prevents scurvy.

idiotprufs: the blog that has resulted in almost zero cases of rabies.

idiotprufs: it’s practically a cure for not being an ax wielding maniac.

idiotprufs: the blog that has never caused cancer in lab rats. (It is however a death sentence for yaks.)

idiotprufs: Bigfoot’s favorite blog next to Outdoor Life.

idiotprufs: overlooked by the Pulitzer committee for purely political reasons.

idiotprufs: the blog that ran into Piers Morgan’s blog in a crowded bar, and beat the crap out of it.

idiotprufs: the real reason Edward Snowden fled the country.

idiotprufs: the only blog read aloud in Buckingham Palace.

idiotprufs: the blog that openly wonders if men from Nantucket ever get sick of being facetiously asked if they’re “the guy” from the limericks.

idiotprufs: the blog that caused Justin Bieber to snap.

idiotprufs: only stupid, repugnant, ugly people don’t like it.

idiotprufs: the blog that is being carefully monitored by the NSA.

idiotprufs: the greatest thing on the internet since that piano playing cat.

idiotprufs: the real father of Snooki’s baby.

idiotprufs: the blog that makes your eyes do this:

kimberly goodman

What did I just read?

idiotprufs: it’s considered a vile profanity in Portuguese.

idiotprufs: virtually none of the death threats were credible.

idiotprufs: developed in a secret underground laboratory below Martha Stewart’s house, by a race of super-smart ferrets.

Note: Mr. Squeakers, a ferret that escaped from Martha Stewart’s compound, described her home as wreaking of buttermilk pancakes and fear, but he also described it as being very tastefully decorated.

idiotprufs: the blog that’s destined to rule the world with an iron fist!

I kind of like the last one.

Head Wounds, Deer Semen and Fear: A Famliy Reunion

ugly men, idiotprufs

You’re not related to these men, you should be so lucky.

So you think your family reunions are miserable?

I’m referring to those occasions that include grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, second cousins, creatures who claim to be cousins, but who you could swear are really albino trolls, in-laws, out-laws, felons, significant others, insignificant others, the cast of that creepy movie The Others.

Do you have that one guy who doesn’t seem to belong with any particular family, but always shows up around the holidays. He wears an eye-patch, has a peg leg, and refers to everyone as Matey.

Does the mere act of thinking about your family make you sweat profusely and vomit a little in your mouth?

Does your calendar have the date of your family reunion circled with the word, Armageddon, written across it in blood?

Do you equate spending the day with the extended family with that disturbing dentist/torture scene from Marathon Man?

When you’re with your family, do you wish you could trade places with Dustin Hoffman’s character?

Did you get all the way to the closing credits of The Hills Have Eyes before you realized it wasn’t a home movie?

Do you read Oliver Twist and think: lucky bastard?

Does having your family around you, have the same effect on your brain as a sweaty 300 lb construction worker, pounding on your skull with a jack hammer, while he lustily puffs cigar smoke in your face and curses at you in Portuguese?

Do you have an uncle whose motto is: you can never use too much lighter fluid, unless you’ve plenty of gasoline?

Whenever he leaves a place, do things seem to be on fire that weren’t before he got there?

Is he one of the things that is on fire?

Do you have an uncle who shows up in full blood soaked camouflage, wreaking of a masking scent made from deer semen?

The disturbing part: he hasn’t even been hunting, he just like the way it looks.

Does the emergency room of your local hospital put extra people on duty the day of your family reunion, to deal with the sudden influx of contusions, broken bones, severe burns, food poisoning, alcohol poisoning, bite wounds–some animal, some human, some unidentifiable, and one that appears to be from a bigfoot–stab wounds, gunshot wounds, arrow wounds, one particularly gruesome wound seemingly caused by a medieval mace, and several cases of acute mental distress?

Do you get tetanus and rabies shots before the reunion, not as a precaution, but because you just know.

On your way to the family reunion, do you stop at a convenience store and casually browse, in the futile hope that masked robbers will burst into the store and rob it. You hope the robbery will go sideways and devolve into a protracted hostage situation that stretches into the night? (Or at least until about 6pm, the approximate time your family reunion ends.)

Alas, you have ill fortune, the store is robbed, but the robbers are highly proficient and a hostage situation never materializes. You are shot in the leg, but you know that that’s not an acceptable reason for missing the family reunion, a gunshot wound was bound to happen at some point in the day anyway.

Even when you do have what any rational human being would consider an acceptable reason for missing the family reunion, you still get the following phone call from your aunt and the family enforcer, Barsinister Hag.

Note: She claims her name isn’t Barsinister Hag, but by the sheer nature of her being, it must be.

Barsinister Hag: why you weren’t at the family reunion?

You: I had bayonet wound in the face.

Barsinister Hag: Is that all? You could have stopped by to say hello to your grandmother.

You: It was bleeding quite a lot.

Barsinister Hag: Everybody else made time.

You: I lost a pretty big chunk of my brain, and quite a few memories.

Barsinister Hag: You seem to remember me just fine, how do you explain that?

You: Fate is cruel and hateful.

Barsinister Hag: You’ll pay for this betrayal.

You: Even more than the time I said you had chunky thighs, and you had a hobo attack me with a hammer?

She angrily hangs up and the next day you are attacked by a hobo with an ax.

Is your family worse than that?

Is it?

family reunion

No. Stick it in my face, this has to be convincing.

Firecrackers and Cow Crap

image source: wpclipart.com

This is a post from last Fourth of July. This was one of my more popular posts, presumably because it details an act of irrevocable stupidity on my part. Enjoy.

When we were about twelve years old, my friend and I got our hands on a cache of fireworks. We had everything from firecrackers to the really big stuff. Our potential ranged from slight burns, to watching as the fireman hosed down the side of the house.

We gleefully spent our summer blowing things up and creating a general state of mayhem.

At one point we thought that it would be a clever idea to set off a firecracker in my grandfather’s barn, with the noble goal of making the cows crap.

We had a huge string of firecrackers that we took into the barn. We removed one firecracker from the string and set the string on a barrel. We lit the lone firecracker and threw on the floor in the middle of the barn. We were already chuckling and basking in the glow of our brilliance.

The firecracker went off, leapt into the air, did a strange turn in mid-air, as if it were a guided missile, and landed on the barrel next to the string of firecrackers.

We both tried to grab it, but it was too late. That string of firecrackers took off like a bat out of Hell. We chased it from one end of the barn to the other, yelling, banging into each other, and having no success in corralling it. If I’m not mistaken, it was using evasive tactics.

The cows were in a complete state of panic. They were jumping up and down and trying to break out of their stalls. They were also crapping in a nonstop torrent.

When the string of firecrackers had finally extinguished itself, the air was thick with smoke and the pungent odor of spent gunpowder and cow crap. The lone bull in the barn, had broken loose from its stall, and was glaring at us with a look of unfriendly intent. He was in a state of slight agitation. A bull in a state of slight agitation, closely resembles any other animal in a total rage. 

A solitary thought went through my mind: there may have been unforeseen flaws in our brilliant idea.

Moments later another thought took its place: that bull is going to mangle us.

We learned a valuable lesson that day: you can corral an angry bull without being trampled and gored, or you can corral an angry bull without getting yourself covered with cow crap, but you cannot do both. 

We chose not to be trampled and gored.

Note: We also learned that the stench of cow feces is a stench that lingers.

Through a series brilliant tactical maneuvers, we were able to calm the bull down and eventually return him to his stall.

Note: It’s amazing what fear and panicked fueled frenzy can inspire.

Then we had to clean up the cow crap, and it was everywhere: on the floor, on the cows, on walls, on surrounding beams, dripping from the ceilings above the stalls, and on us.  After that we had to hunt down every vestige of former firecracker, to insure that my grandfather didn’t find out what had happened.

All of this took hours to accomplish.

That night, my grandfather walked into the barn, walked out five seconds later and said, “who set off the firecrackers in the barn?”

We told him the entire messy story. He laughed at us, for what seemed like a longer time than was necessary.

Years later, we were still finding bits of used firecrackers in that barn, continual reminders of our idiocy.

They don’t like firecrackers.
image source: wpclipart.com

Achilles Frustrated by Hole in Health Care Coverage

Originally posted on The Grimm Report:

A Special Report By Grimm Report Chief Health Care Correspondent,
Larry Shampoe
idiotprufs.com | @idiotprufs

The Greek warrior Achilles has recently become vocal about his dissatisfaction with his health care coverage. “Ridiculous waiting lists, exorbitant dinars out-of-pocket, and an inexplicable hole in my coverage,” were just some of the phrases used by Achilles to describe his frustration.

View original 281 more words

Ask, Ask and Maybe We’ll Answer: Battle of the Pancake Syrups

idiotprufs:

The Nudge Wink Report has answered a burning question of mine with great skill and alacrity.

Originally posted on The Nudge Wink Report:

Now that staff performance appraisals are done for another year, it’s time to move on to:

Ask, Ask and Maybe We’ll Answer” here on NWR.

This week’s question comes from Larry in Pennsylvania, writer of the WordPress blog: idiotprufs. Larry, we’re happy you found your way to The Nudge Wink Report. We hope what’s about to happen doesn’t make you regret your decision to become a fan of NWR. And you are a fan.  Right?

Larry’s question is:

If Mrs. Butterworth and Aunt Jemima had a bare-knuckle boxing match, who would win?


Tom : Most people don’t know this, but “Mrs. Butterworth” and “Aunt Jemima” were actually ill-advised code names for famous cars. Sweet!

“Mrs. Butterworth,” obviously, was “The General Lee” from the hit TV show The Dukes of Hazzard. By process of elimination it’s then easy to deduce that “Aunt Jemima” was how Doc and…

View original 905 more words

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