idiot-prufs

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

Archive for the tag “funny”

14 May 2013
11 Comments

What Really Happened To Me

Stupid Deer.

Stupid Deer.

It was a night in early March and western New York was being pounded by a typical lake-effect snowstorm.

As I ploughed through the snow that was quickly piling up, I tried to stay focused on the road to avoid any mishaps. I caught the image of a deer crossing sign out of the corner of my eye. These deer crossing signs are littered all over the countryside, they serve as a warning to motorists, to slow down and proceed cautiously. While I’ve seen plenty of deer on country roads in western New York, I have never seen a deer anywhere near a deer crossing sign.

I amused myself with the mental image of lazy county workers driving around and throwing up deer crossing signs wherever they felt like it, swilling Pabst beer from cans, and laughing at the unsuspecting motorists, who put false trust in the ill-placed signs.

I was snapped out of my daydream by a brown blur in the road.

Holy crap it was a deer.

I slammed the brakes on: the worst thing you can do on slippery roads. I was skidding out of control.

Quick, I thought, steer away from the skid. No wait, that’s wrong you idiot.

Steer into the skid.

Steer into the skid!

It was too late. I had slid off the road and into a ravine. Everything was going black.

Stupid deer.

As I regained conscientiousness, I found myself in a small country cottage. There was a woman standing over me. She told me that her name was Annie and that she was nurse. Even though it seemed that I only had a bump on the head, she told me that I was badly hurt and that I needed rest. She seemed kindly, not at all unhinged or sinister.

She told me that she read my blog and that she was my number one fan. I let her read something new that I was working on. It was a new passion of mine: Jersey Shore fan fiction.

As she brought me lunch, she told me that she didn’t like my Jersey Shore fan fiction. “I find it vulgar and disturbing,” she told me, “especially the parts about Snooki.”

I informed her that I was done with humor and that Jersey Shore fan fiction was now my entire focus. She became enraged and dumped hot soup in my lap.

She quickly apologized and claimed that it was an accident.

“What about the fork you stuck in the side of my head?” I demanded.

“I don’t know how that happened?”

“Why would you even serve soup with a fork?”

She became flustered and stormed from the room. I knew I had to get out of there.

I pulled the fork from the side of my head and began to gather my things. I made it as far as the front door when I heard a chilling voice from behind me.

“Where do you think you’re going?” she growled.

I peed a little bit. Something clanged against the back of my head, and everything went black again.

I awoke again with Annie standing over me. This time I was strapped to the bed and Annie was holding an ax.

“Don’t break my legs,” I pleaded.

“I’m not going to do that,” she said.

“Then don’t chop off my foot and cauterize the wound with a blow torch.”

“What? Where are you getting this?” she seemed confused.

“From Misery. You know, Stephen King.”

“You thought that I was playing the part of some twisted character from a Stephen King novel?”

“No,” I hesitated. “I thought that you were playing the part of a twisted character from a movie based on a Stephen King novel. There were really quite a few differences between the two, and it would really help me out if I knew which one you were going for.”

“I can’t believe that’s what you thought I going to do, that is so hurtful.”

“I’m sorry. It just seemed liked the direction that things were heading. You stabbed in the head with a fork. You hit on me the back of the head with what felt like a bedpan. I’m strapped to this bed. You’re standing over me holding an ax, and I seem to being wearing adult diapers, which seems to be a little bit of overkill.”

“Who has to wash those sheets, me or you?” she demanded..

“You I guess,” I said meekly.

“That’s right. And I’m holding this ax because I was chopping firewood so that I can build a fire to keep you warm. You don’t appreciate anything I do for you.” She threw the ax to the floor, grunted in indignation, and stormed from the room again.

I didn’t see her for hours.

When she returned she was very calm, and she had an emotionless look on her face that frightened me.

“I’ve made a decision,” she said coldly. “I have decided that you will write another humor post, and its subject will be your precious Jersey Shore.”

I refused. I would never sully the purity of Jersey Shore by mocking it.

“I anticipated that would be your reaction,” she said as her lips curled in a sinister grin like burnt paper, “I’d like you to meet someone.”

“Hello, I’m Doctor Phil, and I’m here to talk about your feelings.” Dr. Phil entered the room like a giant bald horror.

“I don’t want to talk about my feelings,” I blurted as fear gripped me.

“Then we’ll talk about how your feelings effect the feelings of others, and how effecting the feelings of others, makes you feel.” His voice was a relentless monotone.

“But I don’t…how do the two of you even know each other?”

“Annie has had some issues in the past, I’ve helped her with them.”

“Bang up job on that one Dr. Phil, have you seen my adult diapers?”

He just shook his head at me as if he were scolding a child. “How does it make you feel to know that your critical statements hurt the feelings of others?”

“Stop using the word feel or words derived from it, it’s really creeping me out.”

“I felt that you might feel that way.” His head was shiny and his voice was hypnotic.

“Break both my legs; I only use them when I walk,” I pleaded, but Annie had left the room. “I LOVED YOU IN FRIED GREEN TOMATOES!” I screamed through the wall.

“Now let’s listen to the song Feelings, the Engelbert Humperdinck version.”

I broke almost immediately.

I wrote the post that she wanted. It was about how CNN’s The Situation Room would be different if it were actually hosted by The Situation, instead of that pasty-faced, abless dullard, Wolf Blitzer.

Pasty-faced dullard.

Pasty-faced dullard.

He thinks Janet Reno is a dude.

He thinks Janet Reno is a dude.

It was brilliant political and social commentary. If Dave Barry had read it, he would have thrown roses at my feet…or rocks at my head.

When Annie read it, she wept tears of joy.

I convinced her to undo my constraints so that we could celebrate properly.

“There’s one problem with this post,” I told her as she poured the champagne, “nobody’s ever going to read it.” I grabbed the laptop and hurled it into the fireplace. It shattered into pieces and began to burn.

As Annie fell to her knees screaming, I made my escape.

I’ve tried to write Jersey Shore fan fiction since then, but the pain is too great. So I am stuck, writing this pathetic little humor blog.

I’ve started wearing adult diapers all the time; I like the freedom they give me.

Stupid Deer.

Seriously. You can't spell out the word cross? Stupid deer.

Seriously. You can’t spell out the word cross?
Stupid deer.

Posted in Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , , ,
28 Apr 2013
13 Comments

Where Have I Been?

He's either in a Canadian prison, or he's an ostrich egg.

He’s either in a Canadian prison, or he’s an ostrich egg.

It has recently been brought to my attention that my presence in the blogosphere has been lacking of late.

I have been presented with a list of possible reasons for my absence:

  • After his many failed attempts at winning the Heisman Trophy, he is diligently preparing in hopes of trying out for the Pittsburgh Steelers.
  • He spent hours scouring mock NFL drafts searching for his name, lost all sense of time.
  • He is dealing with restraining orders after sending several more letters to the Heisman Trophy committee, that apparently had a “threatening tone”.
  • He stole the Stanley Cup and scratched his name on it; he was held briefly for questioning by Canadian authorities.
  •  After it was discovered that he also scratched the phrase “Canadian beer sucks” onto the Stanley Cup. He was incarcerated in a maximum security prison somewhere in Nunavut. Once a week Tie Domi shoots slapshots at his head.
I was just kidding. I love Molson Canadian.

I was just kidding, Tie. I love Molson Canadian.

  • He has developed Rip Van Winkle’s Sleepy Hollow Disease, or some such thing named after a Washington Irving story.
  • The sun got in his eyes.
  • The moon got in his eyes.
  • He is convalescing from the effects of a severe moonburn.

Note: If the previous item on the list made no sense to you, that’s because it was an inside joke, but trust me, it was freaking hilarious.

  • He went whitewater rafting again and is presumed dead, or at least very soggy.
  • After commenting that he thought the movie The Godfather sucked, in front of the wrong person, he now rests peacefully with fishes.
  • After his tragic and untimely death, he was reincarnated as a banana slug. He was immediately stepped on, but came back as an ostrich; he is still in egg form.
  • He became a taster for Anheuser-Busch and is lying drunk in a field somewhere.
  • It’s a typical Saturday morning and he is lying drunk in a field somewhere.
  • Kim Jung Un invited him to North Korea to ride unicorns with Dennis Rodman. He was stunned, he had always thought that Dennis Rodman was mythological.
  • He was abducted by aliens.
  • He was abducted by bigfoot.
  • He was abducted by an alien bigfoot. (Several photographs were taken as proof. Unfortunately they were all underdeveloped, out of focus, and from a great distance.)
  • He was abducted by the Manson Family, Charles Manson tattooed a swastika onto his forehead.
  • He was abducted by the Partridge Family, David Cassidy tattooed a swastika onto his forehead. Susan Dey wouldn’t shut-up about LA Law and how hot she looked in the movie Looker. Shirley Jones kept griping about how much it ticked her off when people mistook her for that goody two-shoes, Doris Day. Danny Bonaduce told really bad jokes and bore a striking resemblance to alien bigfoot. Mr. Kincaid’s ashes rested in an urn on the dashboard of the bus. The other two Partridge children weren’t there; nobody could even remember that they had existed. The bus was attacked by Barry Williams and several other cast members from The Brady Bunch. They were fought off with pitchforks.
  • Against his better judgement, he attended another family get together. Enormous amounts of alcohol were consumed. A meal was served that consisted of some form of meat, it might have been opossum. A heated argument erupted concerning whether or not the term inbred, is considered to be pejorative. The argument escalated after somebody looked up the word pejorative. Three of his aunts began to chant and attempted to put a hex on him; he threw holy water on them and they melted. Gunfire erupted and several people threw rocks. There were many casualties; nobody important. It was all very traumatic.

It’s been trying, but now I’m back.

Next post: Where I Really Was.

Credit: This list was written or inspired by a fellow Steelers fan, writer, and someone who knows my family.

Posted in Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , , ,
04 Mar 2013
6 Comments

The Aftermath

Oh the humanity.

There were a several burning questions left unanswered after the mêlée that occurred at the end of Experts and Fistfuls of Grass and Crickets:

  • Did Brenda have that mental breakdown?
  • Did her child continue to shove fistfuls of grass and crickets into his mouth?
  • Is it difficult to remove grass stains from a child’s teeth?
  • Were the security guards able to pry Wendell’s rodent-like teeth from Ted’s nose?
  • Was Ted horribly disfigured by Wendell’s rodent-like teeth?
  • Was the host able to restore any semblance of sanity?

Here are the answers you’ve been looking for:

  • After admitting on television that her child likes to sit in the backyard all day and shove fistfuls of grass and crickets into his mouth, Brenda received a visit from Child Services in an attempt to remove the child from what they viewed as an “abusive” home. Brenda’s child loved his mother and didn’t want to go with Child Services. He related these feeling to the man from Child Services by clobbering him over the head with a piece of furniture. It turns out that fistfuls of grass and crickets have the same effect on the child as spinach has on Popeye. After dispatching several guys from Child Services and a big oafish guy named Bluto, all parties concerned decided it was best to leave the child where he was. Brenda and her child now spend happy afternoons in the backyard shoving fistfuls of grass and crickets into their mouths.
  • Wendell was arrested for assault and thrown into a jail cell full of hardened criminals. The combination of the crazed look in his eyes, his blood soaked face, and the fact that part of Ted’s nose still hung from his glinting razor-sharp teeth, frightened even hardest of his cellmates. When a big oafish cellmate named Bluto made fun of his rodent-like features, Wendell leapt on him and bit his nose off. He quickly grew to become their alpha male and now gets the respect he has always longed for.
  • Ted needed extensive reconstructive surgery to fix his nose. After getting his nose done, he admired the way it looked, so he had his whole face done. He now hosts the the very show of his attack; the rating have never been higher. His first show featured people recovering from having their noses bitten off. One guest was a big oafish guy named Bluto. He was a man shattered by series of events: he had his nose bitten off by a twitchy little man, he was severely beaten by a small child, and he was constantly bested by a squatty little sailor man with a ridiculous speech impediment. There was much healing.
  • After the mêlée, the host fled the show never to return. His life spiraled into an alcohol fueled haze of despair and shame. He finally hit rock bottom where he remains to this day, producing episodes of The Real Housewives of Yonkers.

And if you’re still wondering, the answer is yes, it is fitfully difficult to remove grass stains from a child’s teeth.

I was hit with a credenza. I don't even know what that is.

I was hit with a credenza. I don’t even know what that is.

Posted in Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , , , ,
27 Feb 2013
15 Comments

Experts and Fistfuls of Grass and Crickets

Ours is a nation whose shores are teeming with experts. They are vital to our existence. We could barely function on daily basis if not for these titans of knowledge and purveyors of wisdom. We know these things because it’s what they tell us.

Our experts tell us what to do, how to think, where we should go, how to live our lives, what we should say, what we shouldn’t say, how long to boil an egg, how long not boil an egg, that eggs are bad for you, now they’re not, now they are again. Our experts tell us what we should believe in, and in what we shouldn’t.

When we feel miserable, they us why we feel miserable.

When we don’t feel miserable, they tell us why we should feel miserable.

When we feel happy, they knock some sense into us, so that we can get back to the business of being miserable.

If not for the tireless work of experts, I would still be living under the dark veil of happiness.

We expect our experts to be articulate and prepared. That’s why the following encounter between child developement experts on a local cable television show, so greatly disturbed me.

The names have been changed to protect the innocent. The facts have been changed to make it more entertaining.

Host: Today we have three experts in child developement. Brenda, Wendell and Ted are here to tell you what you’re doing right, or more likely, what you’re doing wrong. Let’s start with you Brenda.

Brenda: I believe that a child should be encouraged to express himself in any way that his creative inclinations may lead, even if these inclinations seem a little odd.

Host: Can you give us an example?

Brenda: Certainly. If your child chooses to express himself by, and this is just a randomexample, sitting in the backyard all day and stuffing fistfuls of grass and crickets into his mouth, who’s to say there’s anything wrong with that.

Host: Really? Because that does seems kind of weird to me. Wendell, what do you think?

Wendell: It is weird, and more than a little gross. Children should be strongly discouraged from any behavior that casts them as an outsider or as different from the rest. Children can be predatory and mean. They’ll chase you down the street, making loud squeaking noises and hurling chunks of cheese at you. Have you ever been pelted with a chunk of Swiss cheese? It really hurts.

Host: Okay, that was weird too. Ted, have you any thoughts…normal or otherwise?

Ted: Yes. I believe that Brenda is mentally unstable and on the verge of a nervous breakdown. I also believe that Wendell looks entirely too much like a rat.

Host: Of course you do. Brenda, Wendell, would either of you like to respond?

Brenda sat in disgusted silence with her arms folded.

Wendell sat and twitched nervously, glaring at Ted down his long nose, with his beady little eyes.

Host: And of course neither of you do. Ted, was that your expert opinion?

Ted: Absolutely. Brenda is a nut-job, and Wendell is a rat-boy.

At this point Brenda buried her face in her hands and began to sob. It seemed that she was under a great deal of stress, a level of stress not at all helped by the fact that she has a child who likes to sit in the backyard all day, and stuff fistfuls of grass and crickets into his mouth.

Wendell began to chitter wildly, lunged at Ted and bit him in the nose.

Ted screamed and bled, a lot.

Host: Well, I think it’s time for us to go to a commercial, and possibly call security.

What hope is there for our society if this is how our experts behave. I’m feeling so disconsolate, I might just sit in the backyard all day and stuff fistfuls of grass and crickets into my mouth.

You're nothing but a miserable eight minute egg boiler.

You’re nothing but a miserable eight minute egg boiler.

Posted in Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , , , ,
17 Feb 2013
20 Comments

Frisked and Manhandled in Amarillo, Texas

You will obey our traffic laws or you will be frisked and manhandled.

You will obey our traffic laws or you will be frisked and manhandled.

Place:

The curbside of an empty street in Amarillo, Texas.

Time:

Sometime shortly after midnight on a bitterly cold January morning many years ago.

Participants:

Alan: Driver of the car, completely lacking in the nuances of Texas traffic laws, and was recently discovered to have an intense fetish for the male buttocks.

Lance: Front seat passenger, map reader and navigator, purveyor of navigational pearls of wisdom such as:

  • “That’s the exit we want…way back there.”
  • “Last chance gas? I can find cheaper gas somewhere in the vast empty desert in between Las Vegas and Arizona.”
  • “Don’t worry, we can drive for miles on empty; long before we run out of gas and are cannibalized by a family of desert dwelling inbreds.”

Matt: Backseat passenger, frustrated driver with serious blood pressure issues (issues exacerbated by questionable passenger-side navigation).

Me: Backseat passenger, provider of sarcasm, semi-blind (evidently thirty miles is “way too far to go back” to retrieve a pair of glasses from a motel room in Flagstaff Arizona).

Four big imposing Texas cops: Big, imposing, very uncordial, rough hands, no perceivable sense of humor.

The Events:

We were on a two week road trip from New York State to Las Vegas and back. We were passing through Amarillo in the early morning in search of somewhere to eat. Alan made a left turn out of the wrong lane and we were swiftly pulled over by the Amarillo police.

We sat there on the side of for several minutes as the police made no movements. Suddenly another squad car came flying in from the other direction with its lights flashing. It came to a screeching halt and within moments there were four police officers surrounding our car, with their hands on their guns. “Get your hands where we can see them,” one of them screamed.

“Holy crap. What the hell did you do?” one of us said to Alan.

They removed Alan from the car and began to frisk him. They swiftly found the case of darts in his jacket pocket and presumed them to be some form of ninja weapon. Evidently people in Texas don’t play a lot of darts, because I could hear Alan trying to explain the concept to the officers, “you throw them at a board,” I heard him say repeatedly.

They moved Alan to the first squad car and removed Lance for his frisking. As Lance was being frisked Matt and I sat in the car and discussed how seriously they take their traffic laws in Texas, and whether or not speeding might result in the death penalty.  As we talked we evidently dropped our hands because one of the officers screamed at us to get our hands back up.

“But with our hands up, we can’t reach our weapons,” I wanted to say, but thought better of it.

Then it was Matt’s turn and I was sitting there alone the car with my hands in the air. I had never been frisked before, it was going to be my first time, I was a little excited–It was weird.

Then it was my turn. Alan was still in the squad car. Lance and Matt were standing on the side of the street shivering and laughing as they watched me being frisked. They offered the police officer some friendly advice as he manhandled me:

  • He resisting; rough him up.
  • Use your nightstick on him.
  • What good is a taser if you don’t use it?
  • Do a cavity search; it’s the only way to be sure.

Each bit of advice punctuated with cackles of laughter.

“Do you have any guns?” the cop asked as he frisked me.

“No.”

“Do you have any knives?”

“No.”

“Weapons of any kind?”

“No.”

“Are you carrying any drugs?”

“No.”

“Do you have any explosives?”

“Why would I have explosives?”

“Do you have any or not,” he screamed at me.

“No.”

“Do you have any contraband?”

“I’m not really certain what contraband is.”

“It is what I say it is,” he bellowed.

“Okay… I’m going to go with no.”

“Where do you live?”

“New York State.”

“Do you live in the city?”

“Do you mean New York City?”

“What do you think? What other city is there in New York?”

“Well, there’s Buffalo, Syracuse, Rochester, Binghamton, White Plains…” I didn’t even have a chance to get to Yonkers or Albany before he rudely interrupted me.

“Are you trying to be a smart mouth?”

“I’m not really trying.” It was really no effort at all.

“Where are you from exactly?”

“I’m from a small town called Westfield.”

“What? What’s the nearest city?”

“The nearest city is Erie, Pennsylvania.”

“I thought you just said you from New York.” His voice was a combination of anger and confusion.

“I am. Westfield’s about sixty miles from Buffalo, near the Pennsylvania state line.”

“Is that near New York City?”

“Compared to Amarillo, Texas: yes; compared to any other place in New York State: no.”

After a thorough groping, he sent me to side of the street to stand with Lance and Matt as the other officers searched the car. We stood there shivering, cracking jokes, laughing and offering tips on where we’d search if we were them. They ignored us.

It seems they saw our New York license plates and presumed that we were drug runners, transporting a shipment a drugs from Mexico to New York City.

Once they realized we were just a bunch of hicks from a small town in Western New York, they became cordial and even friendly. They gave us some instructions on where to find something to eat, and sent us on our way.

As we pulled away, Alan made a turn out of the wrong lane, but this time they let it go, after all, we were just a bunch of hicks.

Learn service through knowledge at the Amarillo Police Academy (groping optional).

Learn service through knowledge at the Amarillo Police Academy (groping optional).

Posted in Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , , ,
11 Feb 2013
21 Comments

Some Very Good Reasons You Should Start Smoking Today.

See how happy you could be.image source: wpclipart.com

See how happy you could be.
image source: wpclipart.com

The plight of tobacco executives in our country.

With the combination of class action lawsuits and the implementation of restrictive legislation, the poor tobacco executives in our country have taken a terrible beating over the past several years. It has resulted in a precipitous tumble in their social standing; they have gone from being filthy stinking rich, to being only extremely well off. If we don’t take immediate action, where will it end?

The fate of our tobacco executives if we don't take immediate action.image source: andertoons.com

The fate of our tobacco executives if we don’t take immediate action.
image source: andertoons.com

The word emphysema is really fun to say.

It’s a word that just rolls off your tongue.  Em-phy-se-ma: one syllable just flows into the next. Try saying it once. Try saying it several times in a row. Try saying it quickly. Try saying it quickly several times in a row (unless you have emphysema: you might pass out).

The great thing about emphysema is that once you have it, it never goes away. And emphysema will affect nearly every aspect of your life; so you will have no trouble working it into daily conversation:

  • The doctor diagnosed me with emphysema.
  • I’m taking this medicine for my emphysema.
  • I’d love to play with my grandchildren more, but I can’t because of my emphysema.
  • I climbed two flights of stairs and collapsed in a sweaty quivering mass due to my emphysema.
  • I won at scrabble when I played the word emphysema. Thank goodness I can still play board games.

Not only will you have fun with the word emphysema, but so will your friends and family, long after you’re gone:

  • What a nice funeral. I guess the doctor said he would have survived the pneumonia if hadn’t been for the emphysema.
  • He certainly died young, but his quality of life wasn’t very good with the emphysema.
  • Remember that time he coughed up a piece of lung and we all laughed for hours; crazy thing that emphysema.
In a twist of irony, you win a scrabble tournament playing the words healthy alveola.image source: snapdesign.com

In a twist of irony, you won a scrabble tournament playing the words, healthy alveoli.
image source: snapdesign.com

You need to know what they’re talking about.

You’ve seen them huddled together, enjoying their cigarettes, with their furtive glances and secretive whispers.

They’re outside of the bar, the restaurant, the bank. They’re outside any and every place of business. They assemble in the wind, the rain, and the snow. They assemble regardless of scorching heat or an F5 tornado. Nothing deters them.

What can they be talking about? It must be of incredible importance. They must be solving the puzzles of the universe.

You’ve tried approaching them, but without a cigarette in your hand, they just regard you with disdain and disgust.

It’s been eating at you; you need to know what they’re talking about.

Note: It’s a little known fact that Albert Einstein developed both special and general relativity, while huddled with a bunch of coworkers outside of a patent office, in a brutal German snowstorm.

Get lost, we're doing something important. We're developing a cure for cancer or emphysema. Hey, emphysema, that's fun to say.image source: sodahead.com

“Get lost, we’re discussing important things. We’re discussing a possible cure for cancer or emphysema. Hey, emphysema, that’s fun to say.”
image source: sodahead.com

To stick it to that know-it-all the Surgeon General

You’re a rebel and you don’t appreciate anybody telling you how to live your life. You certainly don’t need some preachy Surgeon General constantly yapping at you about lung cancer, heart disease, or 32 known carcinogens.

There are tons of dangerous activities out there that the Surgeon General has said absolutely nothing about:

  • Poking yourself in the eye with a stick.
  • Dropping a brick on your toes.
  • Insulting the wife of a tatoo laden biker dude.
  • Juggling knives.
  • Attempting to re-attach your fingers with a sewing needle and some thread.
  • Hitting yourself repeatedly in the face with a hammer.

Why don’t hammers come with an explicate warning from the Surgeon General; you don’t have to hit yourself in the face more than five or six times with a hammer, to do some real damage.

If we’re going to make any real changes, it’s up to all of you out there to light up and start puffing away.

I’d start smoking today if my jaw wasn’t wired shut.

I'm launching a law suit; those irresponsible executives at Black & Decker, need to learn.image source: wpclipart.com

I’m launching a lawsuit; those irresponsible executives at Black & Decker, need to learn.
image source: wpclipart.com

Posted in Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , , , ,
03 Feb 2013
14 Comments

Manti Te’o Stunned to Discover Tooth Fairy Isn’t Real

All of the facts in the following post are completely true, except for most of the bits about me, and all the bits about Manti Te’o.

How could I have been such a fool?

How could I have been such a fool?

South Bend, Indiana, February 3 – “I thought we had a connection,” an exasperated Manti Te’o told a me in a recent interview. Evidently Te’o had formed a relationship that he had considered to be “very close” with the person known as the Tooth Fairy.

It began at an early age when Te’o was only two years old and had lost a tooth. His parents told him, if he placed it under his pillow before he went to bed, the Tooth Fairy would come that night. He placed the tooth under his pillow with eager anticipation. The next morning the tooth was gone and in its place he found a shiny silver dollar. His love affair with the Tooth Fairy had begun.

As the years progressed, so did Manti’s obsession with the Tooth Fairy. With the combination of his participation in football and his love of sugary snacks, he continued to lose teeth.

“I admired the gentle way in which she would remove the tooth from beneath my slumbering head,” Te’o told me, “I was one of the few kids who looked forward to going to the dentist to have a tooth pulled.” He then paused for a moment to wipe away a tear and compose himself. “I knew that it meant my beloved would be near that night.”

Te’o glared at me as I chuckled a bit too loudly. I apologized but then chuckled some more.

He explained how his relationship with the Tooth Fairy had intensified during his years at Notre Dame. He began leaving her love letters along with his teeth. She reciprocated by leaving him photos of herself and a phone number.

“We had magical conversations that lasted for hours,” Te’o told me.

“And you never suspected anything?” I asked him.

“Well, I did think it was a little strange that she sounded like an elderly Filipino man, but who’s to say how someone should sound,” he said as he showed me the phone number.

“This is a prefix from western New York,” I told him.

“My friends told me the Tooth Fairy was from Buffalo,” he explained.

I tried to get a statement from Te’o's friends, but they were laughing to hard respond.

It seems, it was these friends that had played an elaborate joke on Te’o. A joke that brought his world crashing down around him.

It happened one fateful day while strolling through the electronics section in Walmart.

“I was walking through the electronic section of Walmart and I happened to glance over at the televisions. They were showing a movie. When I saw what was on the screen, I just froze in disbelief.”

Apparently the picture that Te’o had lovingly carried around with him in his wallet, and presumed to be the Tooth Fairy, was actually the Disney character Tinkerbell from the animated movie Peter Pan.

"Tooth Fairy" photo, voiced by an elderly Philipino man from Buffalo, may or may not have a hook for a hand.

“Tooth Fairy” photo. Actually an elderly Filipino man from Buffalo, who may or may not have a hook for a hand.

“It didn’t give you pause that there was a pirate with a hook for a hand in some of the pictures?” I asked.

“Not really,” he explained, ”it’s common for Filipino immigrants from Buffalo to have hooks for hands…my friends told me.”

Not wanting to ire Te’o with further chuckling, I decided to move on.

“How did it make you feel when you found out that the woman you loved was actually a fictional cartoon character?”

“It was devastating,” he answered, “it’d be like finding out that Mrs. Butterworth isn’t real.”

“Mrs. Butterworth?”

“You know, that lovely woman who makes the delicious maple syrup. I have a photo of her in my wallet too.”

I explained to Te’o that not only was Mrs. Butterworth not a real person, but Mrs. Butterworth’s isn’t even real maple syrup; it’s just corn syrup with brown food coloring and maple flavoring.

Te’o buried his face in his hands and began to sob openly.

The interview was over; it was time for the healing to begin.

She's not real either.

She’s not real either.

Posted in Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , , , ,
25 Jan 2013
13 Comments

Was That a Screeching Brazilian Stink Monkey? (Again)

Screeching Brazilian Stink Monkey?

After mentioning the screeching Brazilian stink monkey in my previous post, it was suggested to me that I repost the original. This was one of my first posts; man was I weird back then.

I have a phobia. A fear that creeps up on me and slowly overwhelms me. A fear that causes me to lay awake at night, tossing and turning, afraid to fall asleep for fear of might happen while I’m slumbering.

What is this fear that has me in such a state of paranoia?

I’m afraid that a roving horde of screeching Brazilian stink monkeys, will break into my home and handle all my possessions with their filthy stink monkey paws. I fear that they will rub my possessions all over their parasite infested bodies and then return them to their exact position of origin, leaving me to only guess of their nefarious activities.

My friends tell that I’m crazy.

Am I crazy. Am I really?

When I get up in the morning, I find everything in exactly the same position that I left it in the night before! Typical screeching Brazilian stink monkey behavior.

My friends persist with the idea that I’m crazy for two specific reasons:

  1. Monkeys tend not to be fastidious creatures and are far more likely to scatter things about and pee on them, than return them to their place of origin.
  2. There is no such creature as the screeching Brazilian stink monkey. (They seem smugly confident about this point. [But Wikipedia doesn't know everything.])

According to National Geographic, 1,200 new species of plants and vertebrates have been discovered in the Amazon between the years 1999 and 2009. With that many new species being discovered, one of them is bound to be a monkey, a monkey that by its sheer characteristics and nature, could only be called a Screeching Brazilian Stink Monkey.

My paranoia has become so profound that my friends have suggested medication. The doctor (another apparent expert of Amazonian wild life) concurred. I’m now on an experimental drug called Oxymoron-gubernatorial-toxin. It seems to be working, there are however a few slight side effects:

  • Dizziness.
  • Dry mouth.
  • Itchy rashes shaped like Ecuador.
  • Your left ear will fall off at really inconvenient times.
  • Nausea.
  • More nausea.
  • Vomiting.
  • Even more nausea.
  • squirrels will steal your mail.
  • Sleeplessness caused by nausea.
  • Coma

Everything seems to be going well; I sometimes get nauseous when I have to chase squirrels or bend over to pick up my ear.

But now and then, out of the corner of my eye, I think I see a screeching Brazilian stink monkey, just waiting to handle all of my possessions.

Posted in Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
17 Jan 2013
17 Comments

Some of Tom Cruise’s Other Responsibilities

What? You have aliens in your body. I'm on it.

What? You have aliens in your body. I’m on it.

In the new book, “Going Clear: Scientology, Hollywood & The Prison of Belief.” Lawrence Wright details Tom Cruise’s involvement in The Church of Scientology and the ultimate responsibility of both: protect humanity from the aliens living in our bodies, who are bent on destroying us and ultimately the planet.

It’s about time somebody got on this. I don’t know how many sleepless nights I’ve spent tossing and turning, fretting over the aliens living in our bodies, who are bent on destroying us and ultimately the planet.

Now that I know Tom’s on the case, I can allay these alien fears, because I know that once Tom Cruise starts something, he will see it through to the end, just ask his wife Mimi Rogers.

Sorry. Just ask his wife Nicole Kidman.

Again, sorry. Just ask his wife Katie Holmes.

Really? They seemed so happy.

Katie Holmes runs 26.2 miles: ITS THE FARTHEST SHE'S GOTTEN YET!

Katie Holmes runs 26.2 miles: ITS THE FARTHEST SHE’S GOTTEN YET!

Note: When I write that I’m no longer fretting over the alien living in my body, I’m not referring to the tapeworm, I’ve named him Henry, and he still bothers me.

Anyway, I am now freed to focus on some other wildly delusional phobias that I’ve been ignoring for far to long.

  • I fear that bio-terrorists have been working on an insidious virus that will turn half the population into mimes. It will cause the second half of the population to become emotionally unstable and distraught to the point of suicidal thoughts, mostly because the first half of the population are mimes.
  • I fear that garden gnomes are evil creatures that rest dormant during the day, scheming and plotting against me. They come life at night to carry out their nefarious garden gnome plans. Their evil plans consist mostly of getting drunk on Iron City Beer and peeing on the side of my house. I hate them.

    Iron City Beer goes straight through you.

    Iron City Beer goes straight through you.

  • I fear that my neighbor won’t see it my way when he finds all of his garden gnomes smashed with shovel.
  • I fear the Amish Mafia: it’s some of the scariest fiction on television.
  • I fear that the cast of Jersey Shore will move into the house next to me. And they’ll bring garden gnomes.
  • I still fear that a roving horde of screeching Brazilian stink monkeys  will break into my home and handle all my possessions with their filthy stink monkey paws. I fear they will rub all my possessions over their filthy stink monkey bodies and return them to their place of origin, leaving only a lingering stench and an occassional stray hair as evidence of their activity.
  • I fear that Tom Cruise will never find true happiness. I hope Church of Scientology does a better job in choosing his next wife; she’s probably currently starring on the Disney Channel.

Maybe once Tom gets this aliens in our bodies thing sorted out, he can tackle some of the aforementioned problems, Jack Reacher would get it done.

Henry loves Buffalo wings.

Henry loves Buffalo wings.

Posted in Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , , , ,
03 Jan 2013
10 Comments

Pi A la Mode and Waiting in Line.

Delicious with a scoop of ice cream on the side.

Delicious with a scoop of ice cream on the side.

In a previous post, I detailed my uncanny ability to bring to a complete halt, any line that I get into. This is just one example.

There were two checkout lanes open. In the first lane there was a couple with two carts heaped over the top with groceries; in the second lane there was a women with two boxes of cook and serve vanilla pudding. I chose the second lane. I chose poorly.

I stood there for several moments while the woman and cashier discussed different types of pie. I found the bits of conversation about custard especially enthralling.

“Don’t you just love pie?” The woman turned to me and asked.

“I love all the Greek letters, but Pi is my favorite,” I told her.

They both looked at me like I was an idiot.

Finally the cashier picked up the first box and swiped it over the scanner. Nothing happened. She swiped it again. Again nothing happened. She swiped it a third time. And nothing happened for the third time. She swiped it again, and again, and again, and again, and again.

She paused for a moment to regroup, I think she might have been cramping up. She picked up the other box and swiped it several times. Still nothing. She sighed in exasperation as she stopped to visually inspect the bar code on the box.

“Why don’t it try it one more time,” I encouraged her, “you know what they say: the 89th time is the charm.”

It wasn’t.

She called Ted for a price check. Ted grumpily grabbed one of the boxes and stomped away with it.

As we waited for Ted’s return, the woman regaled us with stories about the pair of cardinals nesting in her yard. “One’s male and one’s female,” she said, displaying a strong grasp of how reproduction works.  “Unless they’re gay cardinals,” she chortled. They both laughed hysterically.

“I think the Pope has a policy against gay cardinals,” I told her.

They both looked at me like I was an idiot again. You get used to it.

As we waited for Ted’s return, a line was beginning to form behind me.

Ted returned with a price and a box of pudding. He plopped it down on the conveyor as he turned to leave.

“Wait a minute Ted,” I said quickly.

He spun around and screeched at me in a high pitched, cartoon villain voice, “My name is not Ted.”

“Holy crap,” the guy behind me exclaimed.

“My name is Tad,” he continued, lowering his voice a few octaves.

“Sorry. I thought it was Ted.”

“It’s not Ted,” he spit the words at me. “It’s not Ted at all. It’s Tad.”

“Anyway Tad,” I said being careful to enunciate, “that’s not the right kind of pudding.”

“What do mean,” he demanded.

“You took a box of vanilla cook and serve pudding. That’s a box of vanilla instant pudding.”

“I must have picked up the wrong kind,” he said sheepishly.

“Why did put the other box down in first place?” The man behind me wanted to know.

“I was looking for the price,” Tad said defensively.

“You can’t hold something in your hand and look for something at the same time?” The man continued his line of questioning.

“I don’t know,” Tad stammered, “I’ll go get the right kind.” He grabbed the box and hurried away.

“I thought you said his name was Ted,” I told the cashier.

“I thought it was,” she replied.

Tad returned and slapped the box down on the conveyor.

“That’s not the right kind either,” I told him dejectedly.

“What? That’s instant.”

“Yes it is,” I confirmed, “but it’s also tapioca.”

“What’s the difference,” he demanded.

“Mostly the tapioca,” I explained.

“It’s a bigger difference than Ted and Tad,” the man behind me grumbled.

Tad snatched the box from the conveyor and stormed away again.

“Perhaps you should call for someone with a more responsible sounding name,” I suggested to the cashier.

“He’s a @$#$% idiot,” the man behind me declared.

“I think he just has dexterity problems,” I told the man.

“He’d better learn some dexterity pushing a mop.” The man was resolute in his opinion.

Tad returned and slapped a box of vanilla cook and serve pudding onto the conveyor. “There, that’s the right kind,” he announced triumphantly.

“Way to go hero,” the man behind me said sarcastically.

As I was leaving the store, I could see the couple with the two carts of groceries, loading the last of it into their car. Once again the line that I had chosen had come to an abrupt halt.

Also, I suddenly had a craving for Pie.

Tad's future, according to the man behind me.image source:wpclipart.com

Tad’s future, according to the man behind me.
image source:wpclipart.com

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