idiotprufs

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

Archive for the tag “humor”

How to Appreciate Poetry in a Right and Proper Way

 

bullwinkle

Bullwinkle, appreciating the hell out some poetry.
image source: eclbake.com

Every now and again, when I’m feeling intellectually illiterate or a bit lowbrow (anyone who has read this blog to any extent can understand how frequently that may be) I will resolve the feeling by appreciating poetry.

I just head to my closet, yank out my poetry sack, pull out a big wad of poetry, and appreciate the hell out of it.

Note: my poetry sack also serves as a repository for random unmatched socks.

When appreciating poetry in a right and proper way, there are a few things that are key:

Comprehension

If you can even remotely understand the meaning of a poem, it isn’t a proper poem. Poems tend to be vague or nebulous. Poets like to throw around a dizzying menagerie of random imagery, designed to confuse and disorient. If you’ve just finished reading a poem and you haven’t vomited in your mouth a bit, it isn’t proper poetry.

Symbolism

When a poet writes a poem about a leaf being blown from a tree, falling to the ground, and being trampled underfoot, he’s not actually writing about a leaf being blown from a tree, falling to the ground, and being trampled underfoot.

The leaf represents hopelessness, and the futility of a life marred by series of tragic events. The leaf being blown from the tree represents a life spiralling into an alcohol fueled abyss of despair. The leaf being trampled underfoot represents the crushing weight of an uncaring world and inevitable grip of death.

A morbid bunch–poets.

Emotional Response

Poems are written to evoke an emotional response from its readers. Once after reading a collection of poems by Sylvia Plath, I spent hours curled-up on the floor in the fetal position as I sobbed uncontrollably.

An excerpt from Daddy, one of Sylvia Plath’s best known poems:

If I’ve killed one man, I’ve killed two——
The vampire who said he was you
And drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.
There’s a stake in your fat black heart
And the villagers never liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I’m through.

Holy Crap! Right?

Note: I don’t want to paint the picture that all poets are emotionally distressed alcoholics with father issues– but the really good ones are.

But Limericks Are Fun
Limericks are short humorous poems with a strict meter and A-A-B-B-A rhyme scheme. They tend to revolve around a man with an odd ability, from a small island off the coast of Massachusetts.
Sonnets
Sonnets are fourteen line poems that rose to popularity in the 13th century. They tend to be written by William Shakespeare and lovelorn teenage boys who are trying to impress teenage girls who are way out of their league.
Haiku
Haiku is not proper poetry, let’s all just stop pretending that it is.
Epic Poems
These are lengthy poems that generally involve deeds of heroism. A few examples of epic poems: Divine Comedy by Dante, Paul Revere’s Ride by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow and Horton Hears a Who by Theodor Seuss Geisel.
Dr. Seuss
Don’t be fooled by this charlatan, while he may be the brilliant author of dozens of classic children’s books, he is not and has never been a medical professional.
Emily Dickinson vs. Angie Dickinson
Be sure that you know the difference. You don’t want to be chatting up a girl who is gushing over her love of Emily Dickinson when you say, “I know, she was smoking hot in Big Bad Mama.” Seriously– it ends badly.

angie Dickinson

This is not Emily Dickinson.
Image source: Tao of Poker

Interesting Fact
The Baltimore Ravens, the NFL franchise in Baltimore, is named after Edgar Allan Poe’s The Raven.
Note: if I had named the NFL franchise in Baltimore after an Edgar Allan Poe poem, I would have called them the Baltimore Conquering Worms. How much cooler would that have been?
A Moment of Braggadocio
On an essay I wrote in college, explicating The Tyger by William Blake, I received a grade of 99 percentile. Take that doubters who question my literary chops. (And that came on the heels of my high school English teacher openly doubting if I could successfully write my own name. True story.)
You Are Now Ready
You are now ready to pull out your own poetry sack, and start appreciating the hell out of poetry.
Final Note
I don’t want any whiny comments from people who love Haiku, write Haiku, read Haiku, or though the certifying of some bizarre clerical error at the hospital, have been named Haiku. It was just a joke…mostly.

An Explanation

In my last post, I revealed a malady brought on by the stress and anxiety of living a lie. As promised, here’s the explanation:

Adorable children's favorite, and possible tattoo subject.

Loveable children’s favorite, and possible body art subject.

In a previous post, Bees and Calligraphy, I wrote the following about bees:

They make honey, that sweet nectar byproduct without which Pooh Bear would have never gotten his head caught in a honey pot, in that adorable image by A. A. Milne. If it weren’t for that image, I’d have nothing tattooed to my left butt cheek.

This revelation elicited a myriad of responses:

  • That’s weird.
  • That’s funny.
  • That’s unusual.
  • That’s weird in a funny and unusual way.
  • That’s adorable.
  • Wait, it’s on your butt? That’s not adorable, that’s horrifying. You’ve defiled a precious childhood memory. If I ever meet you in person, I will whomp you on the head with an ax handle.
  • May I see it?
  • A.A. Milne is turning over in his grave.
  • That’s amazing. I have the same tattoo on my left breast.
  • Stop following me you creep, or I’m going to blast you in the face with pepper spray.
  • I’m going to consume alcohol until every brain cell I have containing that mental image is destroyed.
  • Ick.

Note: Upon reflection, the thing about the pepper spray is probably an entirely unrelated matter.

But I have a confession to make: it’s all a horrible lie.

I don’t have a tattoo of Pooh Bear or any other beloved cartoon character on my left butt cheek. In fact, I haven’t any tattoo of any kind anywhere on my body.

I know what you’re thinking now: has everything I’ve read on this blog been nothing but falsehoods and mindless tripe. Allow me to clear the air regarding a few items that have appeared in this blog.

  • Did a crack-head, wielding a razor blade, really accuse me of being a leprechaun: yes.
  • Did I work in a place where the foreman had a pathological hatred of raccoons because they have “little people hands”: yes.
  • Did I meet Bigfoot in a local pub and enrage him when I accused him of having chiggers: no.
  • Did I ridicule a Bigfoot hunter when he claimed the best way to escape a female Bigfoot was to run downhill, because female Bigfoot can’t run downhill due to their large floppy breasts: yes.
  • Did I subsequently interview Lady Bigfoot regarding the allegation that she has large floppy breasts: Don’t be ridiculous…her breasts were immaculate.
  • Did I receive an angry letter from, Eduardo, a Bolivian pudding maker, after I may have implied an association between Bolivian pudding and Egyptian dung beetles: no. I did, however, receive a scathing letter from an Egyptian dung beetle.
  • Was I frisked and manhandled by the police in Amarillo, Texas: yes.
  • Did I watch the greatest comeback in NFL playoff history (the Buffalo Bills’ 32 point comeback over the Houston Oilers) in a seedy bar in Amarillo, Texas surrounded by hostile patrons who resembled the cast of The Good, the Bad and the Ugly: yes.
  • Was one of the patrons fondling a blood stained machete: possibly. His hands were under the table; he could have been fondling anything under there.
  • Did I once pull on to the tram line in Buffalo, New York, after mistakenly believing it to be a weird little street: yes.
  • Did I then, in an ill-fated attempt to turn around, get the vehicle wedged between the curbs: yes.
  • Did I once inadvertently wash my hair with flea and tick shampoo: yes.
  • Did I dig a moat around my home to keep out Gerald the neighbor kid: no.
  • Did I put piranha in the moat: weren’t you paying attention, there’s no moat.
  • Was I denied the sale of eggs after jokingly telling the cashier that I was going to throw them at a police car: yes.
  • Did I once anger an Aunt at a family picnic, by stating that her potato salad tasted like battery acid and death: yes. (But not as much as when I told her she had chunky thighs. The phrase “chunky thighs” is compliment in some cultures. Not in ours, but in some.)
  • Did I inadvertently set another person’s vacuüm cleaner and carpet on fire: yes.
  • Do I really have an irrational hatred of mimes: it’s not irrational.
  • Did I really smash a mooning garden gnome with a shovel because its butt was directed at my kitchen window: not that you or anyone else can prove.
  • Was I once taken captive by a crazy woman–Misery style– because I had stopped writing this blog to focus my Jersey Shore fan fiction: no.
  • Do I write Jersey Shore fan fiction: If only I had that type of ability.

Now that this burden has been lifted from my conscience, the healing can begin.

vacuum on fire

Yes. This really happened.

 

What’s Wrong With Me?

feeling ill I’m not feeling right.

Something is a bit off.

I seem to be suffering from some mysterious medical condition.

The symptoms are myriad:

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

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

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

This is bad.

It’s very bad.

So very bad, you see.

“Egad it’s bad,” I said to me.

It’s sad when things are bad,

would you not agree?

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

I’d be a happy lad, so full of glee,

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

I’d live so happily.

Do you see how infuriating that is?

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

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

doctor spock vulcan

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


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

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

ADDENDUM:

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

horton hears a who

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

Woefully Inadequate Preparation

 

pythagorean theorem

Useless knowledge when you’re about to be cut.

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

“We have a problem,” he barked.

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

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

“Houston,” I said to him.

“What?”

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

“But we’re not in Houston.”

Note: nobody gets me.

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

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

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

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

“The threat of emphysema?”

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

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

“So you understand the problem now?”

“He’s not sharing with the others?”

“This is serious,” he snapped.

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

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

“Do people still use the phrase hopped up?”

“Are you going to do something or not?”

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

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

“He called off today,” Jim told me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mr. Peabody (probably not on crack)

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

“Why?” He demanded.

“We just don’t need you.”

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

I gaped like an idiot.

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

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

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

Evidently honesty could make things much worse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

My true identity.

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

drunken monkey

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

Are you sick of taglines? Too bad.

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

I deeply appreciate the comparison to a drunken monkey.

Some more taglines for your consideration, amusement or scorn.

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

idiotprufs: what happens when everything goes horribly wrong.

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

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

idiotprufs: whatever stupidity happens to tumble from my brain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

idiotprufs: where brain cells go to die.

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

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

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

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

gonzo muppet

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

idiotprufs: a clear sign that the end is near.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

idiotprufs: oh the humanity.

idiotprufs is stilled freaked out by flying monkeys.

idiotprufs is still freaked out by flying monkeys.

Words of Inspiration

love hurts

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

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

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

Taglines and more Taglines

taglines

Because they haunt your dreams.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

idiotprufs: the blog that is…um…interesting.

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

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

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

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

idiotprufs: the subject of dozens of lawsuits.

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

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

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

idiotprufs: the crayon drawing of the literary world.

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

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

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

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

idiotprufs: reading it prevents scurvy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

idiotprufs: the real reason Edward Snowden fled the country.

idiotprufs: the only blog read aloud in Buckingham Palace.

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

idiotprufs: the blog that caused Justin Bieber to snap.

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

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

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

idiotprufs: the real father of Snooki’s baby.

idiotprufs: the blog that makes your eyes do this:

kimberly goodman

What did I just read?

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

idiotprufs: virtually none of the death threats were credible.

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

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

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

I kind of like the last one.

Firecrackers and Cow Crap

image source: wpclipart.com

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We chose not to be trampled and gored.

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

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

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

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

All of this took hours to accomplish.

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

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

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

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

Hiccup Gremlins and a Punch in the Face

man with hiccups idiotprufsExperts tell us that hiccups are a myoclonus of the diaphragm, that results in an abrupt rush of air into the lungs. You get them when the vagus nerve, which runs from the brain to the abdomen, is irritated. They are most commonly the result of digestive disturbances.

Well that’s just crazy talk–everyone knows hiccups are caused by gremlins.

There are a lot people out there who will tell you that gremlins don’t exist. People who think they’re smarter than you because they have years of medical training, or they’ve read books, or they’ve never been described as “bat crap crazy” by a certified mental health professional. Maybe they’ve never slapped a mime in the face, or they’ve never been arrested for urinating on a police car, but does that make them smarter than you?

Probably, but don’t listen to them–you can’t trust a person who’s never slapped a mime in the face.

Do you think it’s a coincidence that you only seem to get hiccups at the most inconvenient times:

  • You’ve just gone to bed because you have a big presentation at work the next day.
  • You’re at that big presentation; your company’s pitching a foolproof remedy for hiccups. It doesn’t go well.
  • You approach that cute girl to ask her out. She has a terrible phobia of people with hiccups. She blasts you in the face with pepper spray.
  • You’re trying to catch your breath after being blasted in the face with pepper spray.
  • You’re giving a eulogy for a close friend. The fact that your friend died from a mysterious case of hyper-hiccups, heightens the inappropriate nature of your sudden attack of hiccups.
  • Just after the judge asks if you have anything to say for yourself. Evidently urinating on police cars is frowned upon in some places. (You can however slap a mime in the face almost anywhere.)
  • That brief moment of silence after that pastor announces, “if there is anyone here who objects to this union, let them speak now or forever hold their peace.” The former bride of your deceased friend is finally moving on with her life and remarrying. She is not amused. More pepper spray is in your future.

But now you have hiccups, how do you get rid of them?

Note: If you don’t want to be punched in the face, don’t try to cure a person of hiccups by scaring them.

Don’t get me wrong, watching one of your friend’s attempt to scare the hiccups out of another one of your friends, and get punched in the face, is completely entertaining.

Also, being the only person in the room who doesn’t have the hiccups or a black-eye, is weirdly satisfying.

So you won’t waste your time with a bunch of supposed hiccup cures, or get punched in the face by a startled person with hiccups; here is a list of hiccup cures not to try:

  • Scaring someone: this will only get you punched in the face.
  • Tickling: this will also get you punched in the face.
  • Punching someone in the face: While there are several perfectly sound reasons for punching someone in the face, curing hiccups is not one of them.
  • A spoonful of sugar: this may work for Mary Poppins–or any Disney character who breaks into song at irritatingly inappropriate moments–but it doesn’t cure hiccups.
  • A spoonful of peanut butter: this will actually give you hiccups if you don’t have them. If you already have hiccups, and you eat a spoonful of peanut butter, your esophagus will explode.

Note: I spelled esophagus correctly on the first try. I just thought you should know.

  • Drinking a glass of water while standing on your head: this is something made up by your friends, so they can take your picture and post it on the internet.
  • Inhaling paprika: your friends are cruel liars.
  • Holding your breath: this will make you turn blue and pass out. You will wake up with a bump on your head, still with the hiccups, and a blurry view of your friends posting another picture on the internet.
  • Putting your friend’s hand in warm water while he’s sleeping. (Sorry, this comes from an entirely different list. Your friends will definitely post the results of this one on the internet. A punch in the face may also be forthcoming.)
  • Fifty small drinks of water without taking a breath: at sip 42–yes, at exactly sip 42–you will involuntarily take a breath and inhale the water, coughing and shooting the water through your nose.
  • Fifty small drinks of vodka without taking a breath: the same as above, but with the added aspect of vomiting.
  • Putting your fingers in your ears: you still have the hiccups, but at least you can’t hear your friends laughing.
  • Holding your tongue with your fingers: seriously.

This is the point: hiccups cannot be cured, they are caused by gremlins. You simply have to wait for the gremlins to tire, and the hiccups will just go away by themselves. Believe it, it’s science.

 

Not this type of Gremlin.

This type of gremlin.

Fear Loathing and Rejection

fear loathing and sadnessA few weeks ago Becky of Becky Says Things asked her readers for blogging inspiration.

Since I’m constantly inspiring others to do things: sob uncontrollably, flee into the wilderness, punch a mime in the face, file restraining orders, stock up on pepper spray, change their names and disappear into the Bolivian mountains, eat green crayons and evaluate the futility of their lives, just to name a few; I decided to give it a go.

After an enormous amount of deep thought, at least five or six seconds worth, I came up with a topic that I thought to be pure blogging gold: bees and calligraphy.

I sat back and confidently waited for her post about bees and calligraphy, and the awards and accolades that were certain to follow.

It never came. I was passed over in favor of music.

Despair.

As the days passed my sorrow deepened. The colors of life that had once been bright and vibrant now seemed dull and gray. I no longer enjoyed plays, movies or books. I especially couldn’t stand plays or movies based on books. (Except for The Shining, Jack Nicholson is an absolute treasure.)

Music was dead to me. (Except for Weird Al Yankovic, he is delightful.)

Food tasted like cardboard. Cardboard tasted like tapioca. Tapioca tasted like green crayons and green crayons tasted like forest green crayons. Tofu was oddly unchanged.

Even the one thing in the world that I loved more than anything, reruns of The Jersey Shore, couldn’t cheer me up. As I watched their fake tans, greased up hair and increasing levels if stupidity, I knew it was hysterical, but I just couldn’t laugh.

I found myself sitting in a darkened room, chugging Mad Dog 20/20 straight from the bottle, and writing really bad poetry about giraffes and other even-toed ungulates.

As I sat stewing in a combination of fear and loathing and other emotions that remind you of Hunter S. Thompson books, I had an epiphany. (Ooh, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas is another movie based on a book, Johnny Depp is an absolute treasure and he’s delightful.)

The epiphany? I could write a post about bees and calligraphy.

I know what you’re thinking: there are so many reasons why my post about bees and calligraphy wouldn’t be as entertaining as a post about bees and calligraphy written by Becky.

  1. Her blog is more popular than mine.
  2. She’s a better writer.
  3. I don’t have a suave and debonair spokesman like Stickman.
  4. When people tell her that her blog is funny, their voices aren’t dripping with sarcasm.
  5. She probably smells better than I do.
  6. She at least doesn’t smell like burnt toast.
  7. Why do I smell like burnt toast, that’s just weird.
  8. She’s never eaten crayons.
  9. She’s never fought a mime.
  10. She’s never been pepper sprayed.
  11. She’s never been pepper sprayed by a mime.
  12. She doesn’t fill her blog posts with tedious lists.

Regardless, the world needs bees and calligraphy, and I will give the world what it needs.

Next post: Bees and Calligraphy.

weird al

He is an absolute delight.

 

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