idiotprufs

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

Archive for the tag “humor”

Just to Reiterate: Get the Hell Out of the Way

waiting in line

Is she talking about her gout again? Kill me now.

I know I’ve touched on the subject of checkout line etiquette on more than one occasion.

And I know what you’re thinking: why are you beating a dead horse?

It’s dead.

It’s been dead.

Just stop it.

You’re embarrassing yourself.

Would you beat Seabiscuit?

Seabiscuit’s a dead horse.

Seabiscuit was an underdog that overcame adversity.

Seabiscuit’s story was inspirational and heartwarming.

How dare you.

I’d wager that you didn’t even cry at the end of the Old Yeller.

Are you made of stone?

Old Yeller was a faithful and trusted companion.

Monster.

Anyway, recent events have led me to believe that I need to revisit the subject of checkout line etiquette. First generally and then specifically.

Just a few thing you shouldn’t do in a check-out line, generally:

  • Haggle over the validity of a ten cent coupon for meatless vegan sausage. I mean what’s the point, it’s just awful. Go put it back on the shelf and calmly leave the store.
  • Suddenly realize, moments after the cashier has rung up your total, that you’ve forgotten something vital; something that you absolutely mustn’t leave the store without or your wife will give you that “how useless are you” speech. Retreat to the back of the store to retrieve the overlooked item. Take an eternity because you have trouble locating the item. Return fifteen minutes later with your item and an apologetic grin. (If the item you return with is meatless vegan sausage, you will be beaten sadistically.)
  • Try to pay with a personal check if don’t have any identification. How long have you been alive on this planet?
  • Try to pay with cash only to find you’re a little bit short. Then instead of putting something back (because everything you’re getting is absolutely vital, even the meatless vegan sausage) you rummage through all your jacket pockets to find that all you have are some loose Tic Tacs and an assortment of Canadian coins. (Obviously if you’re in Canada this is not a problem; Tic Tacs are widely used as currency there.)
  • Juggle running chain saws.
  • Lick the face of the person next to you and scream, “I have Ebola.”
  • Get in the express line with a cart full of items. Then lick the face of the person next to you and scream, “I have Ebola.”
  • Mime. (Miming should never be done anywhere for any reason.)
  • Loudly sing Justin Bieber songs.
  • Quietly sing Justin Bieber songs.
  • Be Justin Bieber.
  • Punch a mime in the face. (Sorry. This one’s acceptable and sometimes necessary.)

And now, something you shouldn’t do in a check-out line, specifically:

Don’t wait until you’ve been completely checked out, and all your items bagged, to start a personal conversation with the cashier.

We don’t care that your gout has been acting up.

We don’t care that your child’s soccer coach won’t put him in the game. Your kid sucks-deal with it.

We don’t care that your niece is in a loveless marriage. She shouldn’t have married her second cousin; we know it’s legal, but still.

We don’t care that your gynecologist was arrested. He should have never been in that opium den to begin with. Do you really want a gynecologist who frequents opium dens anyway.

But mostly, we couldn’t give a rodent’s behind who you think should have been eliminated from Dancing With The Stars. There was a brief fleeting moment when we cared, but that was just a mass hallucination, and it passed.

If you believe the people in your general sphere of being, so desperately need to know your opinion, then call them later. Text them. Instant message them. Hell, open up your kitchen window and scream as loudly as you can in their general direction-I don’t care. Just get the hell out of the way.

Thank you.

Addendum:

If you’re upset because you’ve never seen Old Yeller, and now I’ve ruined it for you, I have only one thing to say: Rosebud was a sled.

rosebud

At least I didn’t reveal that Bruce Willis’ character in Sixth Sense was dead the entire time.

Smoking: What are You Waiting For?

Recently I jokingly asked someone if they could recommend a brand of cigarettes, because I needed a hobby, and I planned to take up smoking. This was met with a glassy-eyed stare, and an earnest lecture against the evils of smoking.

I felt it was time to revisit an old post extolling the many reasons people should start smoking.

Note: so many of my jokes are met with glassy-eyed stares, I could use them to hypnotize people.    

smoking face

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 tattoo laden biker dude.
  • Juggling knives.
  • Attempting to re-attach your fingers with a sewing needle and some thread following some ill-advised knife juggling.
  • 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)

What the Hell is Going on?

drinking monkey

(image source: washingtontimes.com)

I had yet another brilliant post about search terms planned for this weekend, but then I stumbled upon a news story that I was compelled to address.

Note: I can sense your disappointment. And it’s not the typical disappointment that comes from reading this blog. It’s not the “I’ve just wasted five minutes of my life that I will never get back, and I think I could feel my braincells dying as read that” type of disappointment. It is genuine disappointment; the type of disappointment my blind date felt when she saw me for first time. (The expression on her face really was quite painful.)

Here is an excerpt from an article from The Washington Times.

Right now the National Institutes of Health is spending $3.2 million to get monkeys to drink alcohol excessively to determine what effect it has long term on their body tissue.

What the hell is going on?
I have so many problems with this:
  • Do you think it’s wise for an animal already prone to flinging it’s crap to drink alcohol excessively? It’s the main reason Piers Morgan gets shut off at his local pub after only two drinks.
  • I don’t need $3.2 million to tell what the long term effect of drinking alcohol is on body tissue: it’s really bad. In fact, alcohol is practically a cure for not having cirrhosis.
  • There’s already been long term documentation on the effects of drinking alcohol excessively. It was called Jersey Shore, and the results were horrifying. Odd skin discoloration, weird ceramic looking hair, annoying speech patterns, promiscuous behavior and a general oafishness, were just some of the effects displayed during this study.
  • What questionable methods are these researchers employing to get these monkeys to drink excessively? Do they give them low paying jobs and put them in loveless marriages, and constantly remind them of their unfulfilled potential? Do they make listen to bleak Russian poetry with its dark imagery and veiled critique of Stalinism, or worse: Sylvia Plath poems. Do they make them watch Jersey Shore reruns with the knowledge that these people are now wealthy and famous. The possibilities are all very disturbing.

And then I came upon this excerpt from the same article:

NIH also has handed out $69,459 to the University of Missouri to study whether text messaging college students before they attend pre-football game tailgates will encourage them to drink less and “reduce harmful effects related to alcohol consumption.”

What the hell is going on?

We’re spending money trying to stop college students from drinking at football games. That’s like trying to stop plants from photosynthesising in the sunlight.

Meanwhile, we’re forcing alcohol, and likely Sylvia Plath, down the throats of innocent monkeys!

What the hell is going on?

And how are these text messages supposed to work? Are they based on how well the warnings on the packs of cigarettes have worked? You could put the warning: “Smoking can cause heart disease, lung cancer, strokes, bad breath, rabies, Ebola, explosive diarrhea, your left eyeball will pop out of it’s socket at really inconvenient times, dry mouth and your penis may or may not fall off” on a pack of cigarettes and all a smoker will think is: whoa, this must be the good stuff.

Why do we even bother putting people in prison when all we have to do is send out the following text message:

Dear Good People, please refrain from theft, assault and if at all possible, murder. Basically anything illegal. You get the idea. Thank you for your time.

This is all very disturbing to me. I think I’ll join the monkeys and have a cocktail. I may even fling a little crap.

Addendum:

I have come to realize I am writing a post describing the harmful effects of alcohol on National Vodka Day. My apologies, vodka. Without you we wouldn’t have White Russians or nearly as much liver cancer.

vodka

Today we honor you for your contribution to bleak Russian poetry. (image source: absolute-news.com)

 

 

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.

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