idiotprufs

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

Archive for the tag “humor”

Idiotprufs’ Guide to Gifts not to Give

bad gift

You said you liked my armpits that way.

We all want to give the perfect gift for Christmas. The gift that will brighten a child’s face. The gift that show thoughtfulness and caring. The type of gift that will result in moments that will be cherished forever.

Well that’s not going to happen because frankly, you’re a moron; the best you can hope for is to not screw things up too badly.

Since I’m practically an expert at screwing things up badly–I mean, I am shockingly good at it–I am going to assist you in what gifts not to give.

Don’t give your goth cousin a bottle of skin bronzer. Just because she’s a goth doesn’t mean her flesh will burst into flames if it’s exposed to real sunlight. It’s Holy water that does that.

Don’t give your still single aunt, a copy of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, because the only way she’ll find a man, is if she constructs one herself. She will not find it as amusing as you do.

Don’t give your girlfriend, and I cannot stress this too strongly, a self-help book of any kind. Especially if that book had the phrase “for dummies” in the title. Just don’t.

Don’t give the guy your cousin is dating, this book, when what he really needs is a swift kick in the butt.

bad cousin

Come on man, open your eyes.

Don’t give your aunt a jar of anti-wrinkle cream and bottle of wart remover. Regardless of how badly she needs them, the gifts won’t be appreciated, and the resulting scowl on her face will only intensify the wrinkles.

Don’t give your uncle, who likes to hunt, that bottle of scent-masking spray he’s been asking for. The first thing he’ll do is try it out, and nobody wants to sip eggnog while they sit next to someone who wreaks of deer urine.

Note: Your uncle generally wreaks of some type of urine, but that stuff is just obnoxious, and he wears it like it’s cologne.

Don’t give your uncle that book of vegetarian recipes; he’s just going to use it’s pages to start the fire he uses to roast the woodchuck he hit with his pickup truck.

Don’t get your vegan cousin that Chia Pet. It looks entirely too much like bean sprouts growing out of tofu, and eventually he’s going to try to eat it. He’ll be rushed to hospital, and your entire family will blame you.

Don’t get your aunt and uncle that home drug testing kit. While it may be applicable, your cousin carries a blade, and she will catch up to you.

Don’t get your wife a rat trap.

Note: I have no joke for this; one year my uncle bought my aunt a rat trap for Christmas. True story.

Don’t give anybody, anything that has Justin Bieber on it. Why: because it has Justin Bieber on it. Enough said.

Don’t get your boss this mug; he may not have a sense of humor about it.

boss coffee cup

Why does everybody laugh at me when I drink coffee?

And finally, don’t give your grandmother that DVD of Deliverance; home movies can be so tedious.

Good luck, you’re going to need it.

gift

I don’t know what’s in here, but I’m certain it’s crap.

 

Spending Quality Time With Known Felons in a Seedy Dimly Lit Bar

felonsJust another small glimpse into my life. A special guest post written by someone who will refer to himself as Another Idiot (to many people it’s preferable to refer to themselves as idiots, than admit they know me). It does involve me and I will occasionally interject. Enjoy.

Picture if you will a seedy dimly lit bar, known for serving ice cold beer to bikers, farmers or bankers.

On any given night an eclectic crowd can be found at this fine establishment, enjoying all the ambiance of hunting gear, 1990s football paraphernalia, and NASCAR.

On any particular Saturday night, you could imagine the local trailer parks, backwoods cabins and downtown ghettos, had been abandoned for the solace of this drunkard’s utopia. It boasts the finest pickled eggs, and a variety of snacks that can conquer the most severe case of the munchies.

Idiotprufs’ note: if winning the battle over munchies results in losing the war against Salmonella, so be it.

Yes, this is my kind of bar.

On this night the bar was patronized by a handful of people. Two regulars sat at the far end of the bar. Myself and Idiotprufs sat at the other end of the bar, farthest away from the other patrons, closest to the ice-cold beer taps.

Three people entered the backdoor and proceeded to encroach upon the territory occupied by Idiotprufs and myself. With so much space in the bar, why would someone sit close? (Except to be close to the ice-cold beer tap, which always a good strategy.)

Would such an intrusion be justified?

The one newcomer sat next to me, the other was preoccupied with his goth looking girlfriend.

Idiotprufs’ notes: to be fair, she may have been goth, she may have been the living dead; it was a dimly lit bar.

The following conversation may or may not have happened:

Idiotprufs: my Uncle Pedro’s a decent guy.

(The names have been changed to protect the innocent, or the not so innocent, as Uncle Pedro is a known felon.)

Another Idiot: how can he be a decent guy; he’s a known felon?

Newcomer (jerking his head around): I’m a felon!

Another Idiot: that’s nice.

Idiotprufs: you seem very proud.

(From this point forward Newcomer will be addressed as Felon. It is proper etiquette, when in seedy dimly lit bars, to refer to known felons as Felon.)

Felon: I am proud!

(It was late, and all parties had been consuming alcohol, which is probably what spurred the string of inappropriate questions to follow.)

Another Idiot: what did you do?

(Awkward silence encompassed the next several moments. Without a response, Another Idiot decides to ask the most inappropriate question for the circumstance.)

Another Idiot: are you a sex offender?

Felon: no, I’m not a sex offender! I can get laid any time.

Idiotprufs: does that include your time in prison?

(The Felon glared at Idiotprufs with a dumb look on his face before averting all of his attention back to Another Idiot.)

Idiotprufs’ note: as it turned out, the dumb look on his face was just his face.

Felon: I can get girls any time. I bet I’ve had more girls than you ever have.

Another Idiot: you might be right.

Idiotprufs: just to clarify: you’ve had women or girls? Because one’s just creepy while the other is a felony.

Felon: I don’t even have to pay for it!

Another Idiot (looking at Idiotprufs): sex offender?

Idiotprufs (nodding in agreement): sex offender.

Felon: I’m not a sex offender; I was in for assault.

Another Idiot: so that’s his story.

Idiotrufs: I’m still wondering about the whole sex in prison thing.

Felon: I like to beat people up for fun. I could kick your ass! You want to fight?

Another Idiot: I’ll pass.

Felon: I love fighting, beating people up, kicking their ass because they’ve been disrespectful to me.

ugly face

An artist rendition of the Felon.

Another Idiot: I’m just drinking beer; you’re the ass who barged into my conversation.

Felon: Do you want to fight about it?

Another Idiot: so you’re proud of assaulting people?

Idiotprufs: your entire family must be very proud.

Felon (very agitated): we could fight right here!

It was at this point the bartender could sense the situation spiraling, and injected himself into the conversation. The situation was diffused after the bartender sternly whispered a few words to the Felon. The Felon backed off and relaxed a bit. He ignored us after that, apart from the occasional angry glare. The remainder of the night was uneventful.

Final Idiotprufs’ note: we may never know what the bartender said, but I’m willing to bet it was this: you idiot, you’ve just broken the first rule of Fight Club.

fight club

I thought he looked familiar.

Don’t Say it to Your Boss

The people have spoken, and Don’t Say it to Your Boss has edged out Bad Idea Fireman. You asked for it.

office spaceMonster.com has compiled a list of things not to say to your boss. Let’s take a look at their list:

  1. I need a raise.
  2. That just isn’t possible.
  3. I can’t stand working with__.
  4. I partied too hard last night–I’m so hung over.
  5. But I emailed you about that last week.
  6. It’s not my fault.
  7. I don’t know.
  8. But we’ve always done it this way.
  9. Let me set you up with__.

I know–this list is ridiculous and useless.

I’ve made some subtle changes to the entries. Here’s what you really can’t say:

  1. I need a raise; I can barely steal enough from the office to keep up with the rising cost of cocaine and hookers.
  2. That just isn’t possible. I need to take two hours for lunch; it difficult to get properly drunk in one hour.
  3. I can’t stand working with these voices in my head; they keep telling me to kill again.
  4. I Partied too hard last night–I was almost too drunk to have sex with your wife.
  5. But I emailed you about that last week; I directly indicated to you that a reactor core meltdown was imminent, it’s not my fault if you don’t check your email.
  6. It’s not my fault; how was I supposed to know bringing my pet chimpanzees to work would be frowned upon…I’m sure that feces will wash out of you hair.
  7. I don’t know. I would be better at my job if your woefully inadequate leadership skills didn’t fail to inspire me on a daily basis.
  8. But we’ve always done it this way…you galactically incompetent prick.
  9. Let me set you up with my cousin; she’s one of those genuinely well manner Neo-Nazi skinheads.

Do see how much better this list is?

As prime example of what not to say to your boss, here’s an event that actually happened at a place where I worked, involving my supervisor, a coworker named Bill and myself.

Supervisor: I think I should go on a diet and shed a few pounds before summer.

Bill: You don’t need to lose weight; you’re pleasantly plump.

(Several moments of painfully awkward silence.)

Supervisor (her face turning a shade of crimson): I’m what?

Bill: you’re pleasantly plump.

Supervisor: I’m plump am I? Plump is what I am? I’m plump?

Bill: no, you’re pleasantly plump.

Supervisor: so my plumpness is pleasant to you?

Bill: I like a girl with meat on her bones.

Me: wow, I can’t believe you thought the word meat would make this better.

Supervisor: so I’m plump and meaty. (turning to address me) Do I look pleasantly plump to you?

Me: (frightened): pleasant is not a word I use to describe you at the moment.

Supervisor: but am I plump?

Me: no.

Bill: There’s nothing wrong with having some junk in your trunk.

(She literally became so angry she couldn’t speak.)

Me: you really need to stop the words from coming out of your mouth, Bill.

She tortured Bill for weeks, screaming “watch out, there’s fat coming through,” every time she walked by him. It was funny.

You can now go to work secure in the knowledge you won’t say the wrong thing to your boss.

Christmas turkey

Remember: plump and a meaty is fine when describing your Christmas Turkey, but not when describing your boss.

Help Me Pick My Next Post Topic

Wile E. Coyote

Wile E. and I are kindred spirits.

Several months ago I was having a dream.

In this dream my uncle was trying to chop my face off with an ax. He was chasing me through the woods and he seemed very determined in his efforts. He seemed to be enjoying himself a great deal. He was reminiscent of Jack Torrance from The Shining, but much more disheveled and maniacal. As ax wielding maniacs go–he was good at it.

Why would my uncle be chasing me through the woods with an ax? He has issues…and an ax.

Note: if my uncle were to chase me through the woods with an ax, it wouldn’t be the worst thing he’s done to me. He’s a miserable backstabbing rat-bastard of a human being, and I’m sugar-coating it.

Jack Nicholson

Here’s Miserable Backstabbing Rat-Bastard.

Anyway, I awoke from the dream and had a brilliant idea for a blog post, it would be the single funniest blog post ever written.

I quickly jotted the idea down, lest I should forget, and went back to sleep.

The next morning I looked at what I had written: Bad Idea Fireman.

I had absolutely no clue what it meant. I had absolutely no clue what I was thinking when I wrote it down. I had nothing.

Was it a bad idea to become a fireman?

Was it a bad idea a fireman had?

Were firemen a bad idea in general? That seems unlikely unless I was alluding to the firemen in Ray Bradbury’s dystopic tale, Fahrenheit 451. A great book, but not really full of laughs.

It’ll come to me I thought.

It didn’t.

It still hasn’t months later, and I had forgotten about it until I stumbled upon it today in my drafts section.

Then I had a thought (it happens): my drafts section has become cluttered with half-written posts and neglected ideas; it’s time to change that.

Here’s a short list of some of the unfinished posts:

Why do Hillbillies Have Weird Faces?

This search term popped up on my stats page. It’s a compelling questioned that deserves an answer.

Why Sea-Monkeys are Better Than Your Cousins.

I’m not certain why this one wasn’t finished, it practically writes itself.

Don’t Say it to Your Boss.

I found a list of things not to say to your boss at a work relations website. The list was woefully inadequate; I could immediately think of a half dozen ill-advised things I’ve said to bosses, that weren’t on the list.

Where is Bigfoot and Why is He so Damned Hard to Find?

Answering this question would wipe out half of the programming on Animal Planet.

Bad Idea Fireman.

Your guess is as good as mine.

Vote for the post you want to see, or leave a comment, or do both.

Thanksgiving With the Family: The Aftermath

breaking bad Thanksgiving.

That seems about right.

Did you have a good Thanksgiving with the family?

Of course you didn’t; you had it with the family.

The phrase “with the family” is equivalent to the phrase “while being tortured sadistically.”

Let’s try it out: Did you have a good Thanksgiving while being tortured sadistically? See how the words are different, but their meaning hasn’t changed.

Are you nursing a headache today because getting through Thanksgiving with the family means more Wild Turkey than actual turkey?

Wild Turkey

Wild Turkey: helping you survive family get-togethers since 1869.

Did your crazy uncle pull out his pictures of what he claims to be a Bigfoot, but what looks suspiciously like the stump in his backyard.

Did your vegan cousin punctuate the Thanksgiving Day prayer by loudly proclaiming that meat is murder?

Did your aunt then correct your vegan cousin by informing her that this year’s Thanksgiving dinner was roadkill, and therefore its death was clearly an accident. (It may have been opossum, nobody was quite sure. Your uncle was really drunk when he hit it.)

Wild Turkey

Wild Turkey: helping provide your Thanksgiving dinner since 1869.

Did your crazy uncle once again regale you with story of how he once shot a unicorn, but by the time he got to it, it had turned back into his neighbor’s goat?

Did you cousin, the serial dater, arrive with a man who was a definite upgrade from previous years: he did have a face tattoo and prosthetic fangs, but at least he didn’t have a hook for a hand?

Did an argument break out over whether the term inbred is pejorative?

Did the argument rapidly escalate when somebody looked up the word pejorative?

Did the argument result in multiple stabbings, limited gun-play, and one injury from a crossbow?

Do you now have a wound on your forehead that you will describe in the future as the scar of Thanksgiving 2014?

Did your aunt, the mean one, bring her infamous three bean salad?

Did the three bean salad taste like a monkey peed on a pile of death?

Did everyone suffer through the three bean salad because they’re too afraid of her to comment?

Note: Among your aunts, being labeled as “the mean one” is a bit like being labeled as “the racist Nazi.”

Did your drunken uncle attempt to carve the turkey (or opossum, groundhog, warthog, whatever) and sever his pinky finger…again?

Did your uncle, the volunteer fireman who thinks he’s a doctor because he’s had first aid training, attempt to reattach the finger using liquor as an antiseptic and fishing line as sutures?

Was the phrase, “I’ve never seen so much blood” uttered multiple times during the procedure?

Wild Turkey

Wild Turkey: aiding your family with ill-advised medical procedures since 1869.

Did you promise yourself that you would never again step into this unholy cacophony?

At least not until Christmas, or you’ve procured holy water and a crucifix.

Seriously, I Don’t Want to Dance

the office dancing

Do you really want David Brent as a role model?

Why is this world polluted with people who are determined to make me dance? Loud, pushy, abrasive, overbearing, manipulative, overlords of what is or is not judged to be enjoyable. People who won’t take no for an answer. People who believe they have a better grasp of what’s in my brain than I do.

What I say: I don’t want to dance.

What they hear: I pretend I don’t want to dance, but secretly, it’s my deepest yearning. If it weren’t for debilitating fear and self-loathing, I’d be out on the dance floor right now, living the dream.

What I say: seriously, I don’t want to dance.

What they hear: if only there were some loud, pushy, abrasive, overbearing, manipulative, overlord of what is or is not judged to be enjoyable, to goad and badger me into doing what I’ve secretly always wanted to do anyway.

What I say: get away from me you drooling half-wit.

What they hear: grab my arm like a slack-jawed oaf, and physically drag me onto the dance floor.

I am not responsible for anything that happens from that moment forward. I am certain the person who coined the phrase, “justifiable homicide” was just some poor fellow who earnestly didn’t want to dance.

Note: I’m sure when his jaw is unwired, the person described in the scenario above, will apologize to me.

Let’s make one thing clear: just because you like a certain thing, it doesn’t follow that every other human should also like that thing. Loads of different people like loads of different things.

Jeffrey Dahmer quite enjoyed killing people, hacking them up, eating them, and stowing the leftovers in his freezer. I can write with a relative degree of certainty, most human beings wouldn’t much care for that.

I have never once thought to myself: killing people, hacking them up, eating them, and stowing the leftovers in my freezer, seems like a horrific and frankly, evil thing to do…but, Jeffrey thought it was lovely, perhaps I’m looking at this all backwards. I’ve got plenty of room in my freezer, and several acquaintances in my sphere of influence I could readily live without. If only the local learning annex offered some course on beginner cannibalism. It’s all scrapbooking this and scrapbooking that, down at that place.

I don’t need to be the center of attention to enjoy myself. In fact, it’s preferable.

Just because I’m not standing on a chair, singing Love Shack at the top of my lungs, juggling shot-glasses, while I wildly thrust my hips into the air in a suggestive manner, doesn’t mean I’m not enjoying myself.

I don’t see life through the same self-absorbed prism as you.

You imagine I’m thinking: if only I could summon the courage, that would be me on that chair.

When I’m really thinking: if only I could summon the courage, I would kick that chair from under that jackasses feet. That would make me smile.

Also, don’t tell me to smile.

I smile plenty. I smile when it’s appropriate: I smile when I’m happy. I smile when I’m with my friends. I smile when something good happens. I smile when a jackass falls from his chair and shot-glasses cascade across his face.

Note: sometimes I summon the courage.

People who go around smiling for no apparent reason are mental. I am not mental (fingers crossed).

crazy smile

This is how you appear to the rest of the world.

Being a naturally quiet person or an introvert is not a problem that needs to be fixed–just leave me be.

 Addendum

And stop trying to make me eat guacamole–I just don’t like it. Also, telling me I don’t like guacamole because I’ve never had ‘your guacamole’ isn’t helpful, unless by ‘your guacamole’ what you really mean is bean dip.

 

avacado

I just don’t like it.

Purple Pilgrims

pilgrims

The way Pilgrims are supposed to look…if you have no creativity.

As a child you learn many lessons:

  • Regardless of how far your garden hose sprays, you’re still too close to the hornet’s nest.
  • You don’t want to discover the quantitative value for the phrase “mad as a hornet” at any point in time.
  • Regardless of how sturdy it seems, an umbrella is not an adequate substitute for a parachute.
  • Your cousins lie.
  •  You can be lying in a crumpled heap, several bones broken, some of them relatively important, and the first thing any adult will think to say is: “look at what you did to my umbrella.”
  • Even though most varieties of snakes are not venomous, you still don’t want them to bite you.
  • Convincing your cousin to let a snake bite him so that you find out whether or not it’s venomous, seems like a good idea, but it will really piss-off your aunt.
  • Did I mention cousins lie.
  • Never utter the phrase “sticks and stones will break my bones but words will never harm me,” to someone who is in possession of sticks or stones. In the jungle that is playground justice, you will be pelted with a barrage of sticks and stones.
  • When adults say cheaters never prosper, they’re full of it. Cheaters prosper all of the time, mostly because they’re cheating.
  • Do not ever, under any circumstance, ask a girl if she’s going to be as fat as her mother when she grows up.
  • Definitely don’t ask her that question if she’s holding sticks or stones.
  • Don’t melt play-doh on the stove. (What seems like a scientific experiment to you, is just wanton destruction to your mother.)
  • Ditto with crayons.
  • Don’t purposely try to set off the smoke alarm just to see how loud it is. It’s loud.
  • Thinking your mother won’t hear the smoke alarm because she’s in the shower, is a big mistake.
  • Artistic creativity is not always welcomed.

It happened when I was a first-grader at R.R. Rogers Elementary School in Jamestown, NY.

Our class was making a Thanksgiving Day mural from construction paper. We were broken into groups, my group was tasked with making the Pilgrims.

We immediately found there to be a dearth of orange construction paper, the color used to make the Pilgrims’ faces and hands.

I made a command decision: we’ll use purple construction paper for the Pilgrims faces and hands. “It’ll be avant-garde,” I said.

Note: I’ll bet you don’t think a six-year old would use the word avant-garde. It’s my story and I’ll tell it the way I want.

Tracy the tattletale strongly objected and ran to inform the teacher, (Tracy was such a conformist) but as a renown tattletale, the teacher simply told her to hush, and just work with the others.

Note: not only was our group saddled with Tracy the tattletale, we also had Keith the paste-eater. It was a nightmare.

We completed our project and handed it in with a great sense of pride and accomplishment.

Our teacher was displeased. It’s difficult to overemphasize just how displeased she was.

“They’re purple,” she shrieked, as if we were a bunch of colorblind idiots.

“We know they’re purple,” we told her, “we’re not kindergarteners.”

It turned out the mural was going up on the wall for a big parent-teacher thing that night. She’d left that bit of information out of the instructions.

Note: on the heels of Halloween, and our pumpkin making spree, she should have known we’d be low on orange construction paper, which brings me to another important lesson learned: when at all possible, deflect blame.

In the end the parents were simply amused by the purple Pilgrims; it seems adults really don’t expect a lot from six-year old children.

Addendum:

I wonder if Salvador Dali’s teacher criticized him for drawing everything all floppy.

floppy watches

At least he didn’t have the gall to make Pilgrims purple.

My Top Ten Previous Lives and Other Nonsense

Napolean

I may have been Napoleon in a previous life.

I’ve noticed when people talk about reincarnation or previous lives, they’ve always been someone famous or influential or important. They’re always Napoleon or George Washington or the guy who invented the ShamWow.

Why is it that no one has ever been a fifth century banana slug or Igor the twelfth century serf who mucked out stables, and was killed by a runaway manure cart?

After much deliberation I’ve come up with my top ten previous lives:

TEN

Big stupid dinosaur–Jurassic Period.

NINE

Small clever dinosaur, eaten by a big stupid dinosaur–Jurassic Period.

EIGHT

Big stupid dodo bird that jumped from a cliff in a fruitless attempt to fly–whenever the hell we lived.

dodo bird

Look at those tiny ineffectual wings, no wonder we’re extinct.

SEVEN

Mayan who first met Francisco Hernandez de Cordoba, and thought to himself: these Spaniards seem nice, I’ll introduce them to my people, nothing bad could come from that–sixteenth century, near the time of the fall of the Mayan Empire.

SIX

Wendall Newton, Sir Isaac Newton’s stupid cousin who laughed when the apple fell on Isaac’s head. Later ate the apple and choked, it had a worm in it–seventeenth century.

FIVE

Pierre, Marie Antoinette’s advisor and later headless corpse. He advised her: just tell them to eat cake–eighteenth century.

FOUR

Adolph Hitler, but not the infamous one; just another boy born in Germany with a very unfortunate name–early twentieth century.

THREE

Raccoon who was shot, but later gained fame as Fess Parker’s hat–mid twentieth century.

TWO

Big stupid tuna fish caught in a net. Later became part of a casserole that Edwina Fornwaller took to a pot-luck dinner. It was dry and not well received–late twentieth century.

ONE

Bigfoot. Spent time lurking just out of sight, and being captured in grainy indistinguishable photographs–whenever.

fess parker

Here I am on Fess Parker’s head. Don’t I look awesome?

Poop Flinging Monkeys and Origami Condoms

monkey throwing poop

He’s right-handed–make a note of that.

A few weeks ago I wrote a post entitled, What the Hell is Going on, detailing the National Institute of Health’s spending of $3.8 million to make monkeys alcoholic. (The amount spent on monkey rehab is still unreported.)

The Daily Mail has now reported another list of bizarre NIH spending:

$2.4 million dollars to develop an ‘origami’ condom.

I’ve always felt the biggest problem with condoms is that they’re not in the shape of a swan. They’re just too easy to use; stopping to remove the condom from its package, and apply it without losing the ‘moment’ is just too simple; why not also have to fold it into shape of dragon.

$939,000 dollars to determine that male fruit flies prefer younger female fruit flies.

Researchers have determined that this is caused by drop in hormone levels as female fruit flies age, but we know that’s a load of crap.

When you have a 24 hour lifespan, that midlife crisis hits you fast and hits you hard. It’s about noon, you’re flying around a waste basket containing discarded apple cores, when it hits you: my life is half over and I haven’t even had lunch yet.

You buy an unpractical sports car, start dressing inappropriately for your age, you get a couple of piercings and a tattoo that reads: forever young.

You dump your twelve-hour old wife for a nubile six-hour old.

You’re balding, you have a paunch, your behavior is embarrassing, and tomorrow you’ll be dead.

I believe my assessment to be more accurate, and it cost $939,000 less.

$592,000 dollars to determine that chimpanzees with the best poop flinging skills are also the best communicators.

I think I can write without fear of contradiction: if you address someone by slapping a fistful of your feces in their face, you will have effectively gained their undivided attention.

However, be prepared for that person to subsequently communicate their feelings…violently.

$117,000 to learn that most chimps are right-handed.

Couldn’t the researchers from the previous study have just made of note of which hand the chimps were throwing their feces with; if you’re going to do something as important as throwing your feces, you’re not going to do it off-handed.

$325,000 to learn that marriages are happier when wives calm down more quickly during arguments with their husbands.

This is like doing a study to determine that fire is hot.

The real question is why do wives in some marriages calm down more quickly during arguments. I’m willing to bet it’s because husbands in those marriages, during arguments, don’t say things like:

  • I don’t know why you’re acting so crazy.
  • I think you’re overreacting to that remark about your acting crazy.
  • Can’t this wait until the game’s over.
  • Who cares what your friends think; it’s my opinion that matters.
  • Who care if those jeans make you look fat, if I wanted a skinny wife, I would have married your sister.

This study also showed that marriages were completely unaffected when the husbands were the ones who became calm more quickly. This just proves two things that everybody already knew:

  1. Women just want men to understand why they’re upset and empathize with them.
  2. Men don’t care; we just want to drink beer and watch football without all the noise.

$832,000 went to learn if it was possible to get uncircumcised South African tribesmen into the habit of washing their genitals after having sex.

Note: is this what the couples in the previous study were arguing about? Because that would make sense to me.

Let’s be clear about this.

This wasn’t an attempt to get uncircumcised South African tribesmen into the habit of washing their genitals after having sex.

This was a study to learn if it was ‘possible’ to get uncircumcised South African tribesmen into the habit of washing their genitals after having sex.

Let me save you $832,000: yes it’s possible.

Anything is possible. It’s possible to be struck by lightning. It’s possible or win the lottery. It’s possible that I’ll grow to like mimes.

Note: You’re thinking that last one isn’t possible. If you gave me $832,000 to like mimes; I would like me some mimes.

And how do they know uncircumcised South African tribesmen don’t wash their genitals after sex? It feels like something creepy has been going on there.

Note: perhaps uncircumcised South African tribesman would be more conscientious of genital hygiene if they didn’t have to fold their condoms into the shape of a chrysanthemum. Chrysanthemums are freaking hard. Read more…

Deliverance: Not the Only River Tale to End Badly.

Photo source: Travel France Rafting

“Don’t worry, it’ll be refreshing,” my friend assured me. I had strong doubts as I stood on the shore and watched the river’s water heave and surge past. My trepidation fueled less by the tenacity of the water, more by the fact that what I did in the water could be described less as swimming and more as a labored attempt to avoid drowning. In pit of my stomach, I could feel that this rafting trip was about to turn ugly.

Rivers that are used for rafting are separated into five classifications. Class one rivers are basically flat, smooth waters that can be easily navigated. Class five rivers are rapidly descending, treacherous waters that require considerable experience to navigate.

Class one rivers are for tiny little girls and wimps. Class five rivers are for studly men who like to the laugh in the face of the Grim Reaper. We chose a class three river, we were average men who like the laugh in the face of the Grim Reaper but only when the Grim Reaper is at a distance and busy with somebody else at the time.

The trip was going well, we had successfully navigated our way through several sets of rapids without major incident. It was then that the guide told us to bring our rafts to shore where he informed us that this was the part of the trip where we could walk back upstream and go back through the last set of rapids.

“What,” I asked casually, attempting to mask the alarm in my voice, “do you mean without the raft?”

“That’s right, you’re just going to jump in the water and go,” the guide said with an annoying amount of confidence.

“Are you certain that’s safe?”

“Absolutely, these are very deep rapids.”

“It’s safe because deep water is harder to drown in?”

“Yes…I mean, no. When it comes to rapids, deeper is safer.” I could detect a timbre of irritation creeping into his voice.

“Okay, I understand…I’m curious, what are your thoughts concerning skydiving without the parachute?”

I could tell by the dagger filled stare that was shooting my way, that is was time to stop asking questions. This was the man whom I would depend upon to pull semiconscious body from the water should the need arise.

One by one, like lemmings, we climbed onto the top of a small boulder and leapt into the river.

I made through the first two mini-rapids without a problem. It was the third set of rapids where a sudden surge of water lifted my body for a moment then pulled me under the surface. Murky river water shot up my nose at approximately 2000 mph, ricocheted off the bottom of my brain, then poured into my lungs.

Not wanting to be filled with murky river water, my lungs immediately expelled the water back through my mouth and nose with considerable force. My eyes, feeling left out, began to water profusely. I was now spinning out of control and my arms were flailing around like a crazed marionette.

This was the moment I chose to invent a new game. I call the game “Whack your face against the rock.” I invented this game approximately two seconds after the guide yelled, “Hey, don’t whack your face against the rock.”

“Are you okay?” the guide chortled, unable to mask his amusement. I signaled to him with a thumbs up…well, it was a single digit.

As I slowly spun out of the rapids and crawled to shore, gasping for air and coughing simultaneously (something that I had previously thought to be physically impossible) my friend asked, “Are you going to go again?”

“No,” I replied. “I think that I’m refreshed enough.”

river raft

The IOC is considering whack-your-face-against-the-rock for the 2016 Olympics.

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