idiotprufs

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

Archive for the tag “comedy”

The Great Broccoli Fiasco

broccoliApart from a few facts that may be the products of my faulty memory, this story is completely true.

It came from the kitchen, and it was horrendous. It stung your nostrils, and it turned your stomach.

Note: my roommate’s name in this story was Al, but for the sake of brevity and ease, I will be referring to him simply as: Pathetic Pea-Brained Weed-of-a-Man.

Me: what is that horrendous smell?

Pathetic Pea-Brained Weed-of-a-Man: it’s probably me.

Me: it is a sickening and repulsive stench, but it’s a different kind of sickening and repulsive stench.

Pathetic Pea-Brained Weed-of-a-Man: I think it’s coming from the refrigerator.

Me: but there’s nothing in the refrigerator apart from a bottle of ketchup, some old pizza, and mysterious yellow stain that seems to move about on its own.

Pathetic Pea-Brained Weed-of-a-Man: the stain scares me; it’s shaped like a spider.

Me: (opening the refrigerator door, only to be staggered by the smell) holy crap, it is coming from the refrigerator.

Pathetic Pea-Brained Weed-of-a-Man: it must be the anchovies on that left over pizza; they taste like the ass-end of a rhinoceros.

Me: well, I’ll have to defer to your expertise in ass related matters.

Note: anchovies are lumps of decaying fish, infused with all of the salt in the world–they’re delicious.

Pathetic Pea-Brained Weed-of-a-Man: I know how to get rid of it.

He grabbed the pizza box from the fridge and hurled it onto the roof below the kitchen window of our apartment.

Me: brilliant.

Pathetic Pea-Brained Weed-of-a-Man: of course it’s brilliant; I’m the one who did it.

Me: your brilliance is only matched by your humility.

Pathetic Pea-Brained Weed-of-a-Man: it’s my humility that makes me great.

Me: you are a walking oxymoron.

So the problem was solved…or was it?

Not only did the odor not dissipate, it grew in strength.

The next day:

Pathetic Pea-Brained Weed-of-a-Man: why hasn’t the smell gone away?

Me: it wasn’t the anchovies.

Pathetic Pea-Brained Weed-of-a-Man: anchovies taste like the ass-end of a rhinoceros.

Me: we have to do something; air fresheners won’t cover it up.

Pathetic Pea-Brained Weed-of-a-man: air fresheners won’t cover up the ass-end of rhinoceros?

Me: probably not, but I was referring specifically to the smell in the kitchen.

Pathetic Pea-Brained Weed-of-a-man: well we’ve checked everywhere.

Me: is there anything in the vegetable crisper?

Pathetic Pea-Brained Weed-of-a-man: the what?

Me: the drawer where you keep the vegetables.

Pathetic Pea-Brained Weed-of-a-man: the what now?

Me: I’ll show you.

I slid open the vegetable crisper to reveal a bowl of expired broccoli and possibly the most rancid smell that has ever stimulated my olfactory senses.

Me: how can vegetables possibly smell that bad?

Pathetic Pea-Brained Weed-of-a-man: I didn’t even know that drawer was there.

Me: we have to get rid of them.

Pathetic Pea-Brained Weed-of-a-man: I have an idea.

So Pathetic Pea-Brained Weed-of-a-man grabbed the bowl of tainted broccoli and flushed it down the toilet.

The problem was solved…or was it.

It seems pouring a bowl full of broccoli down a toilet is the equivalent of pouring a bucket full of concrete down a toilet; it was a mess. There was literally a waterfall of human waste pouring down the kitchen wall of the downstairs neighbor.

She was unhappy…loudly.

A few days later we had a typical western New York snowstorm which dropped about four feet of snow on us.

The landlord came to shovel the snow from the roof outside our kitchen window. He struggled with something that was solidified to the roof. It turned out to a pizza with anchovies.

He was unhappy…loudly.

Note: if you were unaware: anchovies smell like the ass-end of a rhinoceros.

rhino butt

The Stupid Need not Apply

So you need to find a job, but you interview poorly because of the following problems:

You have poor verbal skills; your speech basically consists of a series of grunts and clicks.

You get nervous in pressure filled situations; you sweat profusely, get dizzy, and blackout as you mumble incoherently about your collection of soap carvings.

You are sloppy and ill-mannered; you think Larry the Cable Guy’s a little too uptight.

You make a bad first impression.

You make a bad second impression.

Your third impression is just dreadful.

Your fourth impression is slightly better than your third.

But the fifth time people meet you they snap and attack you with a claw hammer.

You smell funny: like beets and goat urine.

And finally: you’re remarkably stupid.

So in light of these shortcomings, I’m going to aid you in your quest for employment with some helpful hints to get you through that daunting job interview.

Things you should not wear to a job interview:

  • A belt buckle that reads: The Boss Sucks.
  • Your “I’m too drunk to care” t-shirt.
  • That shirt you own that has a mustard stain shaped like Jiminy Cricket.
  • That shirt you own that has a ketchup stain shaped like Donald Duck.
  • Any shirt, with any stain, shaped like any Disney character.
  • That sombrero you’re so proud of.
  • Your alligator boots. (This applies if you’re interviewing for a job with Peta.)
  • Your lucky pair of pants. They may be lucky, but the hole in the crotch isn’t doing you any favors.
  • Your eye patch. Yes, it makes you look dangerous and cool, but don’t.
  • Your Omar Moreno wig. Yes, it’s hysterical, but don’t.
omar moreno hair

It’s hysterical, but don’t.

Things not to do on a job interview:

  • Turn every innocuous statement into a double entendre by responding with the phrase: that’s what she said.
  • Bring in Leonard, your pet lizard, because you think the interviewer might enjoy seeing how a lizard can devour an entire rat.
  • Bring in Wilbur, your pet wombat, because you think the interviewer might be fascinated by how much a wombat can crap.
  • Bad-mouth your previous employer using phrases such as, weasel-faced penis, rat-fink, or tiny brained flea.
  • Punctuate the tirade about how unfairly your previous employer treated by saying, “of course, I was stealing from the company to finance my crystal meth habit.”
  • Nod toward a picture of your interviewer’s wife, give him a knowing wink and say, “sweet.”
  • Don’t lean into your interviewer, carefully study his face, and then say, “a good plastic surgeon could fix that.”
  • Don’t try to show your interviewer how clever you are by guessing her age and weight.
  • Don’t ask your interviewer if he’s prematurely gray, or just dirt-old.
  • Don’t recommend a good wrinkle cream.
  • Under no circumstance should you ask your interviewer to “smell this.”
  • Don’t do anything the voices in your head tell you to do; they don’t have your best interest in mind.
  • Don’t introduce your interviewer to Phineas, your imaginary friend.
  • Don’t tell your interviewer that Phineas thinks he smells good.
  • Don’t demonstrate your conscientiousness by pointing out that you’re waiting until after the interview to get stoned.

Note: The following is an actual conversation I had with a man who was dropping off his resume at a place where I used to work:

Man: Is there someone here that I can talk to about a job?

Me: The plant manager does the hiring, but he isn’t here today.

Man: So I can’t talk to anyone today?

Me: Sorry.

Man: But I made sure not to get stoned today.

Me: That’s very conscientious of you; I’ll add a note to your resume.

Man: You make sure you do that.

That man wasn’t even considered for a position; does honesty count for nothing anymore?

Things not to put on your resume:

Under other interests:

  • Your plot to overthrow the government and replace it with a puppet regime. And the fact that the puppets are Bert and Ernie from Sesame Street.
  • Discussing your alien abduction, and various alien probing methods.
  • Your collection of shrunken heads.
  • Scrapbooking.
  • Hunting the world’s most dangerous prey: humans.
  • Miming.

Note: hunting mimes and shrinking their heads is acceptable…and if you should happen to scrapbook about it…whatever.

Under accomplishments:

  • Your swift rise to power as president of the Justin Bieber fan club.
  • Finishing at the top of your taxidermy class. (Again, this mostly applies if your interviewing for a job with Peta.)
  • Your fluency in Klingon.
  • Having been a cast member of any television show with the words “the housewives of” in the title.

Final and key piece of advice:

Just don’t be yourself.

bad interview

Don’t do this.

Nutella or Montague: What’s in a Name?

nutella

A delicious snack, but a terrible name for a French child.

According to Ole Bill Shakespeare what you call a thing doesn’t alter its nature; “that which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet,” and all that.

Note: not to give anything away, but regardless of the lovely sentiment, things didn’t end well for Juliet.

It seems a court in Northern France disagrees with the Bard of Avon, and has taken a tough stance toward families who give their children odd names.

When one couple in Valenciennes tried to call their child Nutella, the shocked registrar immediately informed the local prosecutor, who took the case to court in the northern city. (But not before first making himself a quick snack, Nutella really is delicious.)

The judge argued that giving the child the name of a chocolate spread was against the girl’s interests as it might lead to mockery and unpleasant remarks. “Children can horribly cruel to other children who happen to have odd names,” the Honorable Peanut Butter N. Jelly told the court as he wiped a tear of remembrance from his eye. “Besides, her surname is already French, isn’t that bad enough?”

Note: Since my name, Shampoe, is also French, I’m allowed that last part.

The parents did not turn up at the hearing in November, and in their absence the judge ruled that the girl’s name should be shortened from Nutella to Ella. Her full name is now a much more respectable Ella Phant Butt. “Let’s see school children just try to make fun of that,” the court said.

The same court in Valenciennes made similar arguments in January this year before overturning the decision of another couple to name their child Fraise, the French word for strawberry.

The judge said that in particular the girl might face derision from people using the uncouth expression “ramène ta fraise” – a slang saying that translates as “get your a– over here.”

The parents opted instead for Fraisine, an elegant name popular in the 19th century which roughly translates as “get your non-strawberry a– over here.”

“French parents can choose whatever name they want for their offspring,” a registrar said, “but we will occasionally seek to ban or change a moniker that might be deemed against the child’s interests…or if we’re bored, or someone’s just being a real prick about things.”

“I don’t think it’s very funny,” said known prick Jacques Faucheux, father of court renamed Flaccid Penis Faucheux.

A family was told in 2009 that they could not name their child after the French cartoon character Titeuf.

titeuf

French cartoon character Titeuf–forget the name, I want my children to have that hairstyle.

Note: I’ve never been more glad to live in the United States; I fully plan to name my child, Magilla Gorilla Shampoe, and I don’t want the courts messing around with my daughter’s name.

Magilla

The name Magilla Gorilla just oozes class.

But the French courts don’t reserve this right for just human names. A dog owner in eastern France has been forced to change the names of his dogs, Itler and Iva, because they clearly “make people think of Adolf Hitler and Eva Braun.”

The unnamed owner argued that the names, Itler and Iva, had nothing to do with Adolph Hitler and Eva Braun. He grudgingly changed his dogs’ names to Iliso and Isio 4, but admitted he probably shouldn’t have shaved the swastikas into their fur.

And finally, in France you cannot call a pig Napoleon, due to a law aimed at preserving the image of the Emperor which remains on the statute books.

For shame George Orwell. For shame.

Animal Farm

Napoleon from George Orwell’s Animal Farm. For shame George Orwell.

 Addendum:

Jacques Faucheux has petitioned the court to have his son’s name (Flaccid Penis Faucheux) changed. He was a real prick about it.

The court granted his petition, and changed his son’s name to My-Fathers-A-Prick Faucheux.

Another petition is pending.

Stingrays and Vinny from Yonkers

Don’t let the happy face fool you; this is a vicious monster.
(image source: wpclipart.com)

Do you remember as a child, adults would bandy about that old saw that a bee would only sting if you provoked? Do you also remember the dissemination of that bit of information generally came moments after being stung by a bee?

I recall an instance in my childhood, sitting in my backyard, quietly playing in a manner that could be readily described as angelic, when a bee decided it had become sufficiently provoked. My youthful playtime came to an abrupt halt with the introduction of searing pain to the side of head.

I went in search of sympathy, only to find an accusatory tone. Unfortunately two of my aunts were visiting.

“What did you do to it?” The first asked in her typically snide voice.

“What did I do to it?” She was obviously confused by the sequence of events.

“You must have provoked it,” the other chimed in, with her less snide, but decidedly more mannish voice.

Note: my aunts’ inability to recognize a child playing in a manner that could be readily described as angelic, likely stems from their own entirely unangelic nature…they’re really bitchy.

Informed by this experience, I watched in amusement as a tour guide on a travel show condescendingly told Vinny from Yonkers, “don’t be alarmed by that stingray brushing against your leg, they only attack when they’re angry or provoked.”

Vinny from Yonkers response was to act alarmed. He then gave the tour guide a look that generally precedes a punch in the face.

Any animal in which the word “sting” is prominent in its name, is probably an animal of which to be wary. It is generally wise to approach anything with the ability to sting, with caution.

Things that sting:

  • Bees.
  • Wasps.
  • Hornets.
  • Platypuses (yes they sting; watch the Discovery Channel sometime).
  • Stinging nettles.
  • Graig Nettles, former gold glove third basemen of the New York Yankees, and his rapier wit.
  • Scorpions.
  • That vicious rejection from the cute girl you asked out. Seriously, she didn’t have to say that thing about your face.
  • Jellyfish.
  • Yellow jackets the type of insect.
  • Buzz the yellow jacket mascot of Georgia Tech. He didn’t have to say that thing about your face either.
  • That slap you received after making an ill-advised comment about your aunt’s mannish voice.
  • Gordon Sumner (Sorry, this is from the “things called sting” list).
  • Stingrays.

Also, how would you go about determining the mental state of a stingray? I’ve never seen one that appeared happy-go-lucky.

It’s probably hard being a big flat fish living on the bottom of the ocean, always afraid that some fat tourist named Vinny will step on your back.

Stingrays have their mouths and nostrils situated on their underbellies; that cannot be a pleasant way to exist.

And have you seen what stingrays look like? They’re all crazy ugly; stingray sex must be just awful.

A stingray’s sting can result in extreme pain, illness, the amputation of affected limbs, and in extreme cases, death.

Note: if you’re a condescending tour guide, they can also cause you to get punched in the face by a guy from Yonkers named Vinny.

Any animal that on a whim can cause my life to end, is by my way of thinking, a source of alarm.

Or is it possible that you could run into a stingray with a sense of humor; a stingray that finds it amusing to sting a condescending tour guide.

Either way, you should be careful before you smugly tell someone not to be alarmed. You could be dealing with a stingray with a sense of humor, or guy named Vinny without one.

stingray

My sex life is just atrocious.

Putting One Thing on Top of Another Thing

blocks,

An example of my capabilities.
(image source: wpclipart.com)

“Do you understand?” He was gaping at me the way someone would who had just tried to explain calculus to an ape. And not one of those clever apes that knows sign language, but one those apes on the nature channel that’s eating its own poop.

“Seriously?” I responded.

“Yeah,” he spat the word at me in the most condescending arrogant voice he could conjure. “Did you understand what I just explained to you?”

Note: in fairness to him, the most condescending arrogant voice he could conjure, turned out to simply be his voice.

Allow me to go back to the beginning and explain: I am referring to an experience I had as a temporary worker. When you’re a temporary worker, there are certain things that are presumed:

  • You possess the education of a 12th century manure mucker, your biggest aspiration is to one day be allowed to use a shovel.
  • You need everything explained to you at least a dozen times.
  • You need everything explained in a tone that one would use when explaining to a small child why he shouldn’t eat all the fingerpaint, and vomit into the fish tank.
  • You need everything explained to you in monosyllabic language. (Ironically, the word monosyllabic is exactly the type of word that should never be used when explaining something to a temporary worker.)
  • You need everything explained to you with accompanying diagrams. These diagrams should be drawn in crayon if possible.
  • All diagrams should be drawn in non-threatening colors such as forest green or navy blue. Bright colors confuse and disorient temporary workers (fuchsia makes us crazy).

I was busy with the important task of opening bottles of juice and dumping the juice into a barrel; there was a problem with the labeling and the juice needed to be re-bottled. (Evidently, even non-peon workers make mistakes.)

Note: I’ve promised not to divulge the name of the famous juice company where this happened. I will not welch on that promise. If I were do that I’d be a welcher. I don’t want to be someone who welchs. Was that last bit subtle enough?

I was interrupted from my duties by Rat-Faced Guy, (not his actual name) who informed me that he needed my assistance.

He dragged me over to a line where juice was being packaged in small cans. As cases of these cans progressed down the line, a machine would lift every other case and then fling the cans into the air, spilling them across the floor. Evidently, that’s not how the machine was designed to operate.

Rat-Faced Guy (probably not his name) explained to me that the malfunctioning machine would be shut down, and I would step in to take its place. As the cases came down the line in pairs, it would be my job to pick up the first case of juice, and place it on top of the second case of juice. Then I would have to do that again and again, until the machine was operating properly again.

It was at point that Rat-Faced Guy (potentially his actual name, when I say Rat-Faced Guy, people seem to know whom I’m referring to) asked me if I understood.

“So, you’re asking me if I understand putting one thing on top of another thing?” I asked him.

“Yeah.” He looked at me with his beady eyes, his wispy mustache twitching nervously.

“What if, instead of putting the first case on top of the second, I put the second case under the first case?” I proposed.

Rat-Faced Guy (probably his actual name) looked at me incredulously. “Why would you do that?”

“I’m a visionary,” I told him. “I’m like Henry Ford, Steve Jobs, or Thomas Crapper.”

“Just do it the way I told you,” squeaked Rat-Faced Guy (almost certainly his actual name).

For the next two hours, I stood in one spot, and successfully put one thing on top of another thing.

Perhaps now they will trust me with something challenging such as putting one thing next to another thing.

The sky’s the limit.

Addendum:

I know what you’re thinking: Thomas Crapper, a visionary? The toilet guy? Yes. Thomas Crapper, the toilet guy, was a visionary. Consider what it was he proposed. Try to imagine the first time he discussed it with his friends:

Thomas Crapper: You know how outhouses are filthy and disgusting places, riddled with rats and snakes.

Friend #1: Horribly dirty things, outhouses.

Thomas Crapper: And you know how we put them a certain distance from our homes because of the stench and the disease and the vermin.

Friend #1: Yes.

Friend #2: Ha, vermin’s a funny word.

Thomas Crapper: I’m thinking about moving that inside the house.

Friend #1: That’s insane.

Thomas Crapper: Maybe put it in a small room near the bedroom.

Friend #1: That’s just crazy talk. Is this because we keep making fun of your name? Because if it is we can stop.

Friend #2: Ha, Crapper is a funny name; I’m not stopping.

Thomas Crapper: We could even put it in the same room that we bathe.

Friend #1: Now you’ve gone off the deep end. Next you’ll be telling us about a machine that will allow men to fly.

Thomas Crapper: Well, there are these two brothers named Wilbur and Orville, and they have an idea.

Friend #2: Ha, Wilbur and Orville, those are funny names.

idiotprufs, rat cartoon

An uncanny likeness to Rat-Faced Guy, and possible outhouse resident.
(image source: wpclipart.com)

Origami Chrysanthemums are Hard

condom

Just your average boring penis-shaped condom.

Several months ago in a post, Poop Flinging Monkeys and Origami Condoms, I detailed some of the bizarre spending habits of the National Institute of Health. Not the least of which was a 2.4 million dollar grant for the development of an origami condom.

The inventor of the origami condom, Daniel Resnic, claimed that his silicone-based condom was designed to increase sensation, and solve the age old problem that most condoms can’t be folded into the shape of a chrysanthemum.

Alas, Daniel Resnic has been accused of fraud, and ordered to repay the funds.

It’s been alleged that Mr. Resnic misspent millions of taxpayer dollars on trips to Costa Rica, lavish parties at the Playboy mansion, full-body plastic surgery, a condo in Provincetown, Mass., and patents for numerous “get-rich-quick” schemes.

Whether or not one of those “get-rich-quick” schemes involved convincing the National Institute of Health to give him a 2.4 million dollar grant to develop a condom that can be folded into the shape of a chrysanthemum remains undetermined.

Regarding the oddities of some of his expenditures, such as full-body plastic surgery, Mr. Resnic replied, “Do you really think you can fold your penis into the shape of a chrysanthemum without massive plastic surgery…origami chrysanthemums are hard.”

It is rumored that it was an employee of Mr. Resnic who turned over hundreds of pages of documents supporting allegations of fraud.

Note: in an unconfirmed and unsubstantiated rumor–and likely a product of my faulty imagination–it’s reported that the initial scrutiny of Mr. Resnic was brought to bear when the director of the NIH, upon using Mr. Resnic’s origami condom, was unable to unfold his penis from the shape of a chrysanthemum. Origami chrysanthemums are hard.

However, Mr. Resnic claims the employee who turned over the documents, is himself guilty of misusing grant funds. He has demanded the employee, “Make restitution to my company of the stolen monies ($487,377.32) at one dollar ($1.oo) /week, by personal check, sent by U.S. mail, until the funds are recovered.”

When asked why he would choose a payment method that would take nearly 10,000 years to complete, he simply replied, “Are you kidding? That’s how long it’s going to take to get my penis untangled. Seriously, origami chrysanthemums are hard.”

origami flower

Origami chrysanthemums are hard.

Update: Bigfoot Sightings at Speed’eez Sports Bar and Grill

idiotprufs

A photo of Bigfoot at Speed’eez Sports Bar and Grill (as always, Bigfoot ducked just out of sight as the picture was taken).
(image source: goerie.com)

North East, Pa.–It’s been a year since the first reports of Bigfoot sightings in the small town of North East, Pennsylvania. Specifically that the mythical creature was spotted frequenting Speed’eez Sports Bar and Grill.

It seems his presence has dramatically increased in recent weeks, as his wife, Lady Bigfoot, has left him. Evidently she grew weary of his nights of cavorting at Speed’eez, downing 32 ounce mugs of Yuengling Lager, and gorging himself on Buffalo wings, while she was back in the forest, flipping over dead logs looking for grubs.

“Do you know how much effort it takes to keep your home tidy when you live in the forest?” Lady Bigfoot demanded. “There are bugs everywhere and raccoons get into everything.”

According to reports, Lady Bigfoot’s failing patience was finally exhausted when Bigfoot came home with suspicious blonde hairs stuck to his fur. He claimed the hairs were from a border collie, but that only lead to additional and somewhat disturbing questions.

Reportedly, in the wake of Lady Bigfoot’s departure, Bigfoot’s mood has become dour, and he has grown ill-tempered. “He’s always bitching and moaning about something,” one patron of Speed’eez commented, “but you can’t really say anything…he’s so freaking huge.”

The list of things that irritate Bigfoot is myriad and growing:

  • The way squirrels smell when they’re wet.
  • The unnerving noise chipmunks make when they’re having sex.
  • Every song the B-52s have ever recorded.
  • How everyone refers to him using the generic term Bigfoot. His given name is Rupert; why does nobody use it?
  • The inexplicable way Lady Bigfoot always shaved her armpits but absolutely nothing else.
  • The creepy way rabbits chew their food.
  • Girls named Traci that dot the I with a smiley face.
  • When the Jersey Devil pops by unannounced, and you just can’t get him to leave.
  • Justin Bieber (to be fair, all of animal kingdom hates Justin Bieber, especially badgers).
  • When people mistake him for a bear; bears are uninformed and dull-witted creatures.
  • That idiot Poe; he always laughs a bit too loudly at those Jack Link’s messin’ with Sasquatch commercials.
  • Chiggers.
  • The way nobody can take a picture of him that doesn’t turn out blurry and out of frame.
  • Those morons from The Animal Planet, they’re always crashing through the forest, making a racket. Seriously, his number is listed, just give him a ring.
  • The way deer just crap anywhere they want.
  • At parties, unicorns crash around with absolutely no regard for where they’re sticking those horns.
  • The way bartenders get pissed when he tips them with grubs and tree bark.
  • When hippies come out to the woods, sit around a campfire, smoke pot, and recite really bad Haiku.
  • Hippies.
  • Haiku.
  • Bigfoot hunters that think they know so much about him. They’ve never once sat down with him, had a beer, and talked. He has opinions; he’s not a bear.

However, in recent days Bigfoot’s spirits have been buoyed by the arrival of friends. Yeti has made the trip from the Himalayas, and The Skunk Ape has arrived from Florida.

But with the arrival of Bigfoot’s friends, a few problems have arisen.

“The only thing ‘Abominable’ about Yeti are his manners,” one of the bartenders related. “If have to listen to him tell one more story about how much a yak can crap, I’m going to lose it.”

“Of course The Skunk Ape smells horrible,” said a patron named Bob, “but what’s worse…he hogs the jukebox and plays nothing but Steve Perry solo stuff.”

Tensions came to a head when Poe accused Bigfoot of giving him deer ticks. Later that evening Poe was found in the street, stomped into the pavement, and covered with giant foot prints. The other patrons seemed to be okay with it.

The local authorities instituted a ban on all mythological creatures while an investigation is conducted.

“I can’t believe this happened right before St. Patrick’s Day,” one exasperated leprechaun commented.

poe beaten up

An artist’s rendition of Poe. Oddly, this was before the attack.

 

 

Horton Hears a Chigger

chigger

You found this on your what?

So the other day these search terms popped up consecutively on my stats page:

feeling ill images

chiggers on testicles

Which comes first?

Are you feeling ill, and then you discover it’s because you have chiggers on your testicles?

Or, do you discover that you have chiggers on your testicles, and that makes you feel ill?

home alone

Not only was Kevin left home alone, but he’s also discovered chiggers on his testicles.

As I was pondering this, the progression of search terms changed to this:

feeling ill images

horton hears a who

chiggers on testicles

How different would Theodor Geisel’s story been if Horton hadn’t heard a Who on a speck of dust, but had discovered chiggers on his testicles?

Would he have been as protective of them?

Would he have been equally harassed and ridiculed by kangaroos and monkeys?

What if Vladikoff the Vulture had tried to fly away with them?

And what if the monkeys and kangaroos had tried to boil them in Beezle-Nut oil?

Just something to think about.

Think about testicles.

horton hears a who

I think I can hear something, and it’s making me itch in an unspeakable place.

 

 

Are Sea-Monkeys Better Than Your Extended Family?

Sea-Monkey family

What a lovely family.

It’s the question people have been asking themselves for ages: are Sea-Monkeys better than my family?

Don’t be ridiculous, it’s not even a question; of course Sea-Monkeys are better than your family.

Sea-Monkeys aren’t constantly shoving pictures of their potato-faced baby at you; forcing you to comment on how cute their potato-faced baby is.

Sea-Monkeys don’t get angry when you use the phrase “potato-faced” to describe their baby.

Note: turnip-faced doesn’t seem to be any more agreeable than potato-faced. Your family appears to have a bizarre bias against root vegetables that Sea-Monkeys don’t possess.

Sea-Monkeys don’t show up to family picnic all liquored-up on Genny Cream Ale, and vomit into your aunt’s potato salad.

Sea-Monkeys don’t get all pissy when you comment that your aunt’s potato salad was bound to be involved with vomit at some point before the day was over.

Unlike your aunt, Sea-Monkeys aren’t overly sensitive about their chunky hippo thighs.

Note: unlike your family, Sea-Monkeys tend to be very fit; it’s probably all the swimming they do, coupled with their general reluctance to shovel fatty foods into their fat gaping yaps.

Sea-Monkeys are never arrested for public indecency and peeing on a police car.

Sea-Monkeys never violate probation. (Probation officers can be so touchy about public indecency and peeing on a police car.)

Unlike your cousin, Sea-Monkeys don’t dump mustard in the fish tank.

Note: to a Sea-Monkey, mustard in the fish tank is less of a condiment and more of a toxic spill.

As brine shrimp, Sea-Monkeys are bottom feeders. (Sorry, this entry is from the list of how Sea-Monkeys are similar to your family.)

You never get a call from the police at four in the morning because your Sea-Monkey has set fire to something…again.

Note: to be fair, it is difficult to start a fire inside a bowl of water. Still, your bone-head uncle could do it, and burn off his eyebrows in the process.

Sea-Monkeys don’t put curses on their nieces and nephews. (Sea-Monkeys rarely dabble in the black arts.)

Sea-Monkeys don’t dispose of rancid broccoli by it flushing down the toilet. Sea-Monkeys know that flushing a bowl of broccoli down the toilet will clog the pipes. Sea-Monkeys know that clogging the pipes with broccoli will create a waterfall of disgusting toilet water that will flow down the kitchen wall of their downstairs neighbor. Sea-Monkeys don’t do that; they’re not that stupid.

Sea-Monkeys never, ever, piss-off the downstairs neighbor.

I want to give a nod to Diane Henders for dredging the memory of the “broccoli fiasco” from the deepest muck filled depths of my brain. Dredging the deepest muck filled depths of my brain requires heavy equipment and several permits that require acts of bribery to obtain. Nice job.

And Finally…

When you refer to someone as a “miserable squinty-eyed back stabbing rat-bastard” you’re almost never talking about a Sea-Monkey.

sea monkey

You must admit, this Sea-Monkey is the spitting image of one of your aunts.

Dear Critic

the critic

Dear critic,

I want to extend my deepest apologies to you. I know that I have failed you, as a blogger, and as a man.

I understand that my blog is not what you desire it to be.

But know this: I feel your pain.

Every time I stumble upon a blog about a person dealing with their battle with depression, I think to myself: why aren’t you blogging about pumpkins, or carving pumpkins into jack-o-lanterns, or pumpkin pie, or any type of pastry? How dare you blog about something that is important to you?

Every time I come across a blog about photography, I think: why so many pictures? Mountains, rivers, trees, children at play, it nauseates me? Why aren’t you blogging about foot fungus or calligraphy? Why aren’t you blogging about foot fungus, written in calligraphy? Shame.

I recently found a blog devoted strictly to the music of the Beatles. I know what you’re thinking: what about the Spice Girls? When are Scary, Sporty, Baby, Ginger, and Posh going to get their due? I have always felt that Victoria Beckham doesn’t get nearly the amount of press she deserves. You can suck up to Sir Paul McCartney all you want; he isn’t going to be your friend.

And when I find a blog about food, I think: why aren’t you blogging about your collection of toenail clippings? And if you don’t have a collection of toenail clippings, why not? All you need are toenail clippers and a mason jar. Get your priorities straight.

When I discover a blog about politics, I think: why aren’t you blogging about mimes…strike that, mimes suck.

You took me to task for not commenting on the Charlie Hebdo incident. You felt that, I, as a humor blogger (as lighthearted and funny as mass murder is) had a duty to stand up for freedom of speech. But isn’t freedom of speech also the right to choose what not to write about?

Note: Sorry, I was starting to make a serious point there. I will now counter it with a goofy image of baby chicks in jester hats.

Silly Chicks

That’s better.

And finally, when I come across a blog devoted to criticizing other blogs, I think: well done, you are doing yeoman’s work. Keep it up, you make the sun shine brighter.

So dear critic, in the future I will strive to do better.

Best regards,

idiotprufs

P.S. Oscar Wilde once wrote that sarcasm is the lowest form of wit and yet the highest form of intelligence. If it the case that sarcasm is beyond your grasp: piss off.

Victoria Beckham

Don’t worry Victoria, we’ll get your face out there.

 

 

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