idiot-prufs

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

Archive for the tag “humor”

19 Jun 2013

Gerald the Neighbor Kid.

You're stupid and you don't know anything.

You’re stupid and you don’t know anything.

“Hey Neighbor.” The voice penetrates your eardrum like a knitting needle. “Watcha doin’?” It’s a voice that sends chills down your spine. Chills that reach the bottom of your spine, make a quick U-turn and travel back up your spine, then back down again, just to ensure that they’ve done the job properly.

“Gerald…you’re here.” You stop what you’re doing and stand motionless. “Are you here to pee on my garden some more?”

“I’ve told you I’m not the one doing that,” he claims.

You turn slowly to find Gerald standing before you, soaking wet, finger in his ear trying to remove some stubborn water.

“I don’t know who you thought that moat was going to keep out,” he says to you.

“I don’t know, Gerald. I had a few thoughts,” you say in exasperation. “So, learned how to swim did you?”

“I’ve been taking lessons.”

“That’s great.”

“And those piranha you put in the moat: they don’t do any good either,” he informs you.

“Obviously not, I don’t see a single tooth mark.”

“All you have to do is throw some meat into the other side of the moat, it completely distracts them.”

“I should have gone with the electric eels.”

“You see,” Gerald continues, ignoring your electric eel comment as he works the water from his other ear. ”piranha are really more scavengers than hunters. I guess that you didn’t know that.”

“I guess I didn’t,” you agree.

“You don’t know lots of things,” he tells you. “Would you like to know something else that you don’t know?”

You feel compelled to hear what Gerald has to say next, even though you know that it will make you want to knock the freckles from his ruddy little cheeks.

Note: under no circumstance would you ever strike or do harm to child in any way–that’s what the piranha were for.  You’re just kidding–mostly.

“Just what is it that I don’t know, Gerald?”

“Well,” he says, wiping his nose on his sleeve, “that cement barrier you built around your house is useless.”

“Well that’s apparent.”

“All I needed to get past that, was a ladder and a blanket to throw over the razor-wire.”

“That easy for you was it?”

“Yeah. I don’t know where you’re getting your ideas on how to keep people out, but you’re being very smart about it,” he admonishes you.  ”An electrified fence would be far more effective.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” A tiny flame of hope flickers in your mind.

“But there are ways around that too,” he tells you, quickly dousing your tiny flame. ”And that Beware of Bigfoot sign that you put up, wasn’t fooling anyone.”

“Do you mean, apart from the twenty or so Bigfoot hunters that camped out on your fathers front lawn, convinced that they had found irrefutable proof that Bigfoot exists?” You challenge Gerald’s assessment.

“That really ticked off my dad.”

You chuckle to yourself. “I know it did.”

“He says you’re a bad neighbor,” Gerald informs you.

“Does he?”

“And he uses bad words when he says it.”

“Does he really?” You feel a weird sense of satisfaction.

“Did you know that one of those Bigfoot hunters smashed my dad’s mooning garden gnome with a shovel?”

“Yes.” Your spine stiffens slightly. “It was definitely the Bigfoot hunters that did that.”

“Anyway, do have anything to eat; all of that swimming and climbing made me hungry.” Gerald was hungry most of the time.

“I could make you a peanut butter and jelly sandwich,” you offer.

“How many times do I have to tell you this: I’m allergic to peanuts?”

“I can’t image how I could have forgotten that.”

“You can’t remember anything,” he scolds, “you’re always offering things that have peanuts in them.”

“Forgetfulness is my curse…among other things.”

“You should write this down so you don’t forget.” Gerald instructs. “I’m allergic to peanuts, shellfish, cats, pomegranites, bees…”

“Gerald!” Gerald’s list is interrupted by the sound of his father screaming over your barriers. “What did you do with my steaks?!”

“Uh oh. I think I have to go now. I’ll be back later to tell you some more things that you don’t know,” he assures you as he turns to leave.

“I’ll be eagerly waiting,” you tell him as he leaves.

You stand there for a moment in silent contemplation. “Allergic to bees are you?” you say to yourself in what could only be described as an ominous and sinister tone.

You should be ashamed of yourself.

Not nearly as effective as one might hope.

Not nearly as effective as you might hope.

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17 Jun 2013
9 Comments

The Great Carpet Fire: a Possible Act of God?

It’s happened to everyone hasn’t it? Throughout the course of your life at some point or another, you are going to set somebody’s carpet on fire.

Accidents happen. Things catch on fire. Things explode. Things tip over, catch on fire, and explode. It’s inevitable really.

It shouldn’t be a big deal.

Evidently it is a big deal to some people.

It’s a big deal to people who have no sense of humor.

It’s a big deal to people who have a tendency to yell at other people.

It’s a big deal to people who have a tendency to say angry hurtful things.

It’s a big deal to people who have no sense of humor, a tendency to yell at other people, and say angry hurtful things.

It’s a big deal to people who have high-pitched, squeaky, cartoon-rodent voices.

It’s a big deal. This is something I have learned.

There were a few lessons learned by the great carpet fire:

  • The average household vacuüm cleaner was not designed to pick up paperclips.
  • Attempting to pick up paperclips with an average household vacuüm cleaner might cause it to explode.
  • When the vacuüm cleaner you’re using begins to make a high-pitched whining sound, don’t ignore it.
  • When the high-pitched whining sound starts making the neighbors dog bark, don’t ignore it
  • If you’re thinking to yourself, this thing sounds like it’s about to explode, it probably is.
  • An exploding vacuüm cleaner sends a thick cloud of smoke and dust into the air like a mini-volcano.
  • Commenting to the vacuüm cleaner’s owner that it looked really cool when it exploded, like a mini-volcano, does not help the situation.
  • An exploding vacuüm cleaner creates an enormous mess while simultaneously removing your ability to clean up that enormous mess.
  • An exploding vacuüm cleaner might also burst into flames.
  • A burning vacuüm cleaner will probably set the carpet on fire.
  • A carpet fire will probably set off the smoke alarm.
  • Smoke alarms are obnoxiously loud.
  • A blaring smoke alarm will bring the vacuüm cleaners owner running into the room.
  • A contentious conversation might result with the squeaky-voiced owner of the vacuüm cleaner.

Squeaky-voiced Owner: Why is the smoke alarm blaring?

Fire-starter: Probably because of all the smoke.

Squeaky-voiced Owner: Why is the room full of smoke?

Fire-starter: It probably came from the carpet fire.

Squeaky-voiced Owner: Why is the carpet on fire?

Fire-starter: It must have spread from the vacuüm cleaner.

Squeaky-voiced Owner: Why is the vacuüm cleaner on fire?

Fire-starter: (Silent contemplating.)

Squeaky-voiced Owner: Why is the vacuüm cleaner on fire?

Fire-starter: Act of God?

Squeaky-voiced Owner: It sounds more the act of an idiot.

Fire-Starter: It just burst into flames.

Squeaky-voiced Owner: It just burst into flames?

Fire-starter: Crazy isn’t it?

Squeaky-voiced owner: You must think I’m the biggest moron on the face of the planet.

Fire-starter: Not the whole planet.

Squeaky-voiced owner: (Staring daggers, in a really creepy frightening way.)

Fire-starter: You know, if you cleaned more often, I wouldn’t have to.

Squeaky-voiced owner: Censored.

Fire-starter: That’s hardly called for.

Squeaky-voiced owner: Some more censored words, some of them really filthy and hurtful.

Fire-starter: It’s not even physiologically possible to put a vacuüm cleaner up there.

Squeaky-voiced owner: Let’s find out.

There was one more important lesson learned: the phrase “some day we’ll look back at this and laugh” does not always apply.

You think this is scary? Just let me near your vacuum cleaner.

You think this is scary? Just let me near your vacuum cleaner.

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01 Jun 2013
6 Comments

Mooning Garden Gnomes and Other Signs of Summer

This will not be tolerated. (image source: kaboodle.com)

This will not be tolerated.
(image source: kaboodle.com)

Memorial Day has passed, and the signs of burgeoning summer are all around you.

The temperature has warmed, flowers are blooming, the trees are again full of leaves, and your neighbor has once again placed a mooning garden gnome facing your kitchen window.

Your neighbor has named the garden gnome, Willard #5.

Willard met an untimely demise at the hands of maniac with a shovel. Willard #2 was also smashed with a shovel. Willard #3 was backed over by a car and smashed with a shovel. Willard #4 was hit with a brick, peed on, and smashed with a shovel.

You swear to your neighbor and the local authorities, that you had nothing to do with the Willards deaths, and under no circumstance would you attack Willard #5 with a shovel.

You purchase a sledge hammer.

Your other neighbor has planted his annual garden. In the coming months, he will regale you with baskets of fresh vegetables. He will explain to you that his garden produced so overwhelmingly, that his own family couldn’t possibly consume all the bounty themselves. He will bring jars of homemade pickles and relish. “Everyone in the world loves homemade pickles and relish, especially the way my wife makes them,” he will tell you.

Smug jerk.

You decide to plant a little garden in the corner of your yard. You want fresh tomatoes, zucchini, squash, maybe a few cukes. You have no idea what cukes are, but it’s fun to say so want them anyway. You can imagine the bounty that will cover your dinner table, and the compliments you are certain to receive from guests, satiated by the efforts of your labor and toiling. You have high hopes.

Unfortunately you run face first into one tiny problem: you don’t have a green thumb. In fact, what you have is more of a pitch-black thumb of festering death.

You’ve purchase all of the books:

  • The Beginner’s Guide To Growing A Garden.
  • The Idiots Guide To Growing A Garden
  • The Idiot-Beginner’s Guide To Growing a Garden.
  • Grow A Garden Even If You’re A Chimp.
  • The Idiot-Beginner-Chimp’s Guide To Growing A Garden.
  • Even If You Have A Pitch-Black Thumb Of Festering Death, Guide To Growing A Garden.
  • The Giant Catalog Of Plastic Plants.

Those books are now deposited in a bin labeled: things to be shred, burned and buried in a deep hole.

Note: you purchased a few plastic plants, they inexplicably turned brown and fell apart. You choose to ignore the metaphysical ramifications that you were able to kill plastic.

You are now known as the “Grim Reaper” at every nursery and ag center in the area.

Undaunted, you redouble your efforts.

You read that Native Americans placed a dead fish with the kernel when they planted corn. You put a fish stick in the ground with every seed you plant. It doesn’t seem to help. You write a nasty letter to Mrs. Paul’s frozen seafood company. Mrs. Paul, who lives down the street accidently gets it, icy stares ensue.

Stupid Post Office, the mail carrier won’t be getting any of your cukes.

You discover that you can successfully grow something: weeds, and a lot of them. You can grow weeds like they’re on freakin’ steroids.

At last you have some success, only to discover that fresh vegetables are enjoyed by a lot of nature’s creatures: bugs, worms, rabbits, gophers, and the neighbor kid Gerald.

You also discover that Gerald likes to pee on things. You purchase a taser. Don’t worry, you won’t use it on Gerald; the local authorities have confiscated it.

Stupid local authorities, some more names crossed off your cuke recipient list.

Finally, you discover the answer to all your problems; it’s called the farmers market.

Your dinner table now abounds with natures bounty, the fruits of hard labor and toiling, just not yours.

Picture of a cook.

Picture of a cook.

Sorry, that’s not right. Mostly.

These are cukes. I've always had trouble with homonyms.

These are cukes. I’ve always had trouble with homonyms.

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25 May 2013
9 Comments

Veterans Fondly Remembered.

Years ago I worked at an American Legion post. I met a lot of interesting people during my time there. One of the more interesting people was Jack.

Jack constantly spoke in non sequiturs. At first I thought that he was simply hard of hearing, but I began to realize there was a thread of continuity in the things he was saying. His conversations would go off in seemingly weird and irrelevant tangents, but they generally seemed to make it back to their original points.

I’ve often wished that I had written some of them down. Here are some of my favorites that I can remember:

Jack: I remember when I paid only ten dollars a week for rent.

Other patron: We don’t live in the fifties anymore Jack.

Jack: What! (slamming his fist against the bar in indignation) I haven’t ridden a bicycle in years.

Other patron: What does riding a bicycle have to do with rent?

Jack: I’d rather pay for my truck insurance than ride a bicycle.

Other patron: Okay?

Jack: I can barely afford to pay my rent and my truck insurance.

Or this one:

Me: Do you want another beer Jack?

Jack (giving me a dismissive wave): I don’t know anyone named Dan.

Me: Firstly, I asked you if wanted another beer. Secondly, what about Dan sitting there right next to you?

Jack: His last name isn’t White.

Me: I didn’t say it was.

Jack: Then why would someone named Dan White, want to buy me a beer?

Me: Obviously he wouldn’t, I don’t what I was thinking.

But this was my favorite:

Me: How are you doing today Jack?

Jack: You’re nuts.

Me: I hesitate to ask, but why do say that, Jack?

Jack: My wife was never an Eskimo.

I’ve never tried to figure it out.

But Of all the interesting people I met, John was the most interesting.

John had a lot of stories to tell and a keen willingness to tell them, under one condition: you had to keep a cold rum and coke in front of him. He needed the proper “lubrication” to keep the vocal chords going.

John was man in his late eighties but still very spry. He had a weird sense of humor, which was probably a good thing because his wife seemed to have none at all. She was a surly woman who I never saw smile; John was never without one.

John was a rifle bearer for the Honor Guard. One day after performing their duties, the members of the Honor Guard were returning to the post to have a few drinks together, as was their custom.

John walked calmly up to bar in full dress uniform, carrying his rifle, and wearing his eye-patch (John had to occasionally wear an eye-patch because of condition he had. He claimed he wore so he didn’t see double after he’s had a few too many) and stood there with a slight impish grin on his face.

He looked like pirate.

He then quickly pulled the rifle to his shoulder and discharged it toward the back of the bar.

The crack of the rifle echoed through the hall. If you’ve never heard a rifle discharged in a building, it’s loud. Beer flew into air, drinks were spilled, people scattered, some hit the floor. Even though I knew it was only a blank, it was still jarring to have a weapon discharged in your general direction.

A cloud of smoke hung in air the along with the pungent smell of spent gun powder. For a moment after the echo of the rifle had disappeared there was total silence. Then there chaos. Some people were laughing; some people were not. Some people were cursing, especially John’s wife, who unleashed a stream of foul language that to this day, I am certain has never been matched. Once I made sure that I hadn’t soiled myself, I laughed, maybe as hard as I ever had in my life.

John was reprimanded by the post, but that didn’t bother him. In fact, I’m not sure I ever saw anything bother him.

John was there that day on June 6th 1944. It’s estimated that 2,500 allied soldiers lost their lives on D-Day… but John didn’t. He had to hang around long enough to nearly scare me to death.

So heading into this Memorial Day weekend, I’m dedicating this blog post to Jack, John and every other veteran who is no longer with us.

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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.

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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.

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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
24 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 , , , , , , , , , ,

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