I am the proud father of two sons, now in their twenties, who–like most such humans–passed successfully through what are known as the “teenaged” years. During the same period I was the owner of two male cats. As I saw it, my job in the case of the former was to raise them into upstanding […]
via How to Tell Your Teenaged Son From a Dead Rodent — Gerbil News Network
The following search engine terms cropped up on my stats page:
So it seems there is someone out there with a problem. I have few points to make. (And yes, I’m going to ignore the “sexy man riding a unicorn images” addition to this list, it horrifies me.)
However, after a great deal of soul-searching (watching several episodes of The Rockford Files on Netflix) I came to a conclusion: why shouldn’t I be able to help?
After doing exhaustive research, (mostly googling weird penis problems) conferring with a myriad of professionals, (friends who I thought would get a good chuckle out of weird penis problems) and pondering all the possibilities, I decided that I could be of assistance.
The Question:
Why does it look like my penis has bug bites on the bottom of it?
The Answer:
You have probably put your penis somewhere you shouldn’t have.
The Solution:
Stop doing that.
Life really is simple if you want it to be.
If you should happen to try this search term, don’t click on images. Just don’t do it.
A mother’s effort to honor her young children went terribly wrong when the tattoo she got of her son’s name was spelled incorrectly — so she took what some might call an unusual approach. Fortunately her friends and family convinced her not to have her armed amputated, but to rename her son after the tattoo.
“Kevin,” the two-year-old son of Johanna Sandstrom, of Sweden, was renamed “Kelvin” after a tattoo artist inked the wrong name on her arm.
Sandstrom’s tattoo read: Nova & Kelvin which was clearly a mistake.
“I had never heard the name ‘Kelvin’ before,” she said. “There isn’t anyone who names their kid Kelvin; lots of people name their kids Fahrenheit or Celsius, but never Kelvin. So when I thought more about it, I realized that no one else has this name. It became unique. Now we think it is better than Kevin.”
It also seemed a lucky stroke for Sandstrom’s daughter, whose name was changed from Ass-faced Hag to Nova, following the erroneous tattoo.
When asked to explain the mistake, the Swedish tattoo artist simply said, “in my previous job I wrote the assembly instructions for Ikea products; I was bound to screw this up incomprehensibly.”
Sandstrom told the newspaper she’ll make sure to check “10,000 times” before she gets the name of her third child, Freja, tattooed.
“Or maybe I’ll just get a skull with a snake slithering through it’s eye socket,” she added, “it’s 50/50 right now.”
This was supposed to read, Freja.
Pompeii man found to be luckiest man in the world to have ever lived.
via Luckiest man in Pompeii loses head as he wins the local big money lottery — Bull of the Board
Is your car making a funny sound? Does it give off a bad smell? Ask Mr. Car Person for help, and as soon as he gets the grease off his hands, he’ll type out an answer to your question. Dear Mr. Car Person– My husband “Carl” is a certified public accountant, which as you probably […]
Which of these scenarios is the worst?
scenario #1
You’re locked in a small room filled with disease riddled monkeys that screech at the top of their disease riddled lungs, and with incredible precision, hurl their disease riddled feces at your face…and they’re smug.
scenario #2
You’re taken into the desert on an oppressively hot day, stripped naked, tied to ant hill populated with crazy stinging Amazonian bastard ants, and honey is slathered over your naughty bits.
scenario #3
You’re given a vat filled with puss and random toad bits, and you have to eat every last drop…and you can’t have any salt.
(You could substitute your aunt’s potato salad here–it’s same difference.)
scenario #4
You have to swim a mile through raw sewage and dead rats, and you have to use the breaststroke.
scenario #5
You have to spend the day with your aunts, uncles, and cousins at the family reunion.
I know what you’re thinking: they’re all pretty horrible, but which one is the worst?
Your aunt always uses too much eye of newt.
Time is a mysterious force that affects all of our lives, even if we can’t see it, touch it, or feel it. Sometimes it moves very fast–we have hardly dropped our credit card payment in the mail when another bill arrives!–while other times it moves slowly, like when we’re at High School Awards Night waiting for our […]
Time is a mysterious force that affects all of our lives, even if we can’t see it, touch it, or feel it. Sometimes it moves very fast–we have hardly dropped our credit card payment in the mail when another bill arrives!–while other times it moves slowly, like when we’re at High School Awards Night waiting for our […]
You went to the annual kickoff-to-Summer picnic at your Uncle Finster’s house.
Normally you would avoid your Uncle Finster’s house the way a small rabbit would avoid a pit of vipers. A big fat pit of bulbous, sweaty, bitchy, chunky-thighed, drooling, self-congratulatory, vain, big-mouthed, half-wit, vipers.
And those are just your aunts.
But this year your grandmother has declared this summer will likely be her last and any of her grandchildren who don’t attend every family function, to be vindictively and purposely speeding her descent into the grave—she’s a lovely woman.
As you arrive, you’re immediately met by Uncle Finster’s wife, your Aunt Sally. She’s standing with her hands on her hips and an expression of accusatory smugness on her face.
Note: Sally’s maiden name was Snaggle-faced Bar Sinister Hag, but for some reason people just call her Sally.
“Did you bring it?” Aunt Sally demands.
“If you’re referring to either fear, trepidation, or an overwhelming desire to be elsewhere, I never come here without it,” you reply.
“Do you always have to be a smartass?”
“Evidently,” you admit.
“I meant the Jell-O dessert–did you bring the Jell-O dessert,” Aunt Sally wants to know.
“I brought the Jell-O dessert,” you confirm as you hand her a large container.
“You didn’t put those tiny little colored marshmallows in it did you?” Aunt Sally asks. “You’re Uncle Finster hates those tiny little colored Marshmallows in his Jell-O.”
“I can’t stand that hippie Jell-O,” your Uncle Finster confirms.
“No, Uncle Finster, I didn’t put those tiny little colored marshmallows in the Jell-O; I know how much you hate those tiny little colored marshmallows. In fact I’m well aware of the list of things you hate: things that colorful, things that are joyous, laughing children, puppies, opossums that aren’t dead, potpourri, shredded wheat, pinecones, anything that’s purple, people who live on islands, words containing the letter Q, human emotion, lime flavored foods, and seedless watermelons.”
“Lime is disgusting and seedless watermelons aren’t natural,” he screams at you.
“They aren’t the only things unnatural,” you say as you wipe the spit from your face.
“Remember that time you put those tiny little colored marshmallows in the Jell-O: your Aunt Sally had a heart attack,” Uncle Finster accuses you.
“First: grabbing your chest and screaming, “you’ve given me a heart attack” isn’t the same as actually having a heart attack. Second: I’m sure her sedentary lifestyle and lard based diet would be the primary factors in regards to any heart issues Aunt Sally may experience.”
“What’s going on?” Your Aunt Jackal forces her way into the conversation. “You didn’t put those tiny little colored marshmallows in the Jell-O again did you?”
Note: your Aunt Jackal was meant to be named Jaclyn, but there was a clerical error with the birth certificate. Oddly, the name Jackal is far more suited to her.
“There are no tiny little colored marshmallows in the Jell-O,” you assure her.
“You’re still a bitter disappointment,” she tells you before she walks away to get another cocktail..
You’re Aunt Jackal in her natural habitat. She’s probably just killed something.
“Did I hear something about there being tiny little colored marshmallows in the Jell-O?” Your Uncle Brad asks. “Are you trying to ruin the annual kickoff-to-Summer picnic?”
“There are no tiny little colored marshmallows in the Jell-O,” you tell him.
“Everyone is talking about how you put tiny little colored marshmallows in the Jell-O again,” your Cousin Bucky tells you as he joins the conversation, “I like the way you stir things up.”
“I have an announcement to make,” you shout as you stand on a piece of lawn furniture.
“I hope it’s not that you’re a bitter disappointment,” your Aunt Jackal says, “because we already know.”
“Don’t worry about her,” Cousin Bucky whispers to you, “Aunt Jackal’s drunk…and a bitch.”
Undaunted you continue, “I can assure everyone here, there are absolutely no tiny little colored marshmallows in the Jell-O.”
You stand waiting for a response as your family silently gapes at you.
The silence is finally broken by a scream from Aunt Sally, “This is lime Jell-O filled with chunks of seedless watermelon.”
“I did do that,” you tell the family, “but what else can you expect from a bitter disappointment?”
Aunt Sally clutches her chest.
Aunt Jackal drunkenly scowls at you.
Cousin Bucky gives you a thumbs-up.
Summer has been officially kicked off.
This would be great if it contained chunks of seedless watermelon.
Your smug neighbor’s robustly growing garden–you needed a place to pee at night.
Your smug neighbor has planted his annual garden. In the coming months, he will regale you with baskets of fresh vegetables and tales of his horticultural prowess. He will explain to you that his garden has produced so overwhelmingly, that his own family couldn’t possibly consume all the bounty themselves. He will bring jars of homemade pickles and relish. “Everyone in the world loves homemade pickles and relish, especially the way my wife makes them,” he will tell you.
Stupid neighbor.
You decide to plant own garden in the corner of your yard. You want fresh tomatoes, zucchini, squash, maybe a few cukes. You have no idea what cukes are, but it’s fun to say so want them. You can imagine the results that will cover your dinner table. You can imagine the praise you are certain to receive from guests, satiated by the efforts of your labor and toiling. You have high hopes.
Unfortunately you run face first into one tiny problem: you are complete shit at growing things. (Except for ear hair–you grow ear hair like a wookie.)
You purchase a progression books as your efforts continuously fail:
Those books are now deposited in a bin labeled: things to be shred, burned, and buried in a deep hole.
Note: you purchased a few plastic plants, they inexplicably turn brown and fell apart. You choose to ignore the metaphysical ramifications that you are able to kill plastic.
Undaunted, you redouble your efforts.
After being told Native Americans placed a dead fish with the kernel when they planted corn, you consider raiding the family fish tank, but you don’t want to go through that drama again. Seriously, who gets that attached to fish?
Modifying slightly, you put a fish stick in the ground with every seed you plant. It doesn’t seem to help. You write a nasty letter to Mrs. Paul’s frozen seafood company, making wild accusations about artificial ingredients.
Mrs. Paul, who lives down the street from you accidentally receives the letter. Icy stares ensue.
Stupid Post Office.
Your snarky neighbor comments on how sickly your cukes look, but how your weeds are growing robustly.
You try come up with a clever retort, but you’re not clever.
“You’re a cuke,” you finally yell…five minutes after he’s left.
At last you have some success, only to discover that fresh vegetables are enjoyed by several of nature’s pests: bugs, worms, mice, gophers, and Gerald the neighbor kid.
You also discover that Gerald likes to pee on things. You purchase a taser, but you won’t use it on Gerald–the local authorities have confiscated it.
Stupid local authorities.
Finally, you discover the answer to all your problems; it’s called the farmers market.
Your dinner table now abounds with natures bounty, the fruits of hard labor and toiling, just not yours.
These are cukes? It looks like the Jolly Green Giant took a dump.
