idiotprufs

Illegal in 38 states–frowned upon in the rest.

Breakfast of Champions (Not the Kurt Vonnegut Story)

homer cookingIt was an omelet in the way Frankenstein’s monster was a human.

While its creator’s intentions may have been noble, the result was a seething beast that mocked nature and good culinary practices in general.

The plate sat before me, its contents bubbled and oozed, its bulbous features groped at the air and shifted to form what resembled a sinister grin.

Its creator hovered over me, flush with pride and anticipation, and offered me a verbal nudge, “well, are you going to try it?”

“Of course I’m going to try it…what exactly is it?”

“What is it,” she was incredulous, “don’t you even recognize an omelet when you see one?”

“Obviously I can see that it’s an omelet,” I lied. “It just doesn’t have the typical appearance of an omelet.”

“That’s the fault of your stove.”

“It’s the stove’s fault?”

“Your stove isn’t level.”

“My stove isn’t level?” I poked timidly at the contents of the plate with my fork, “And that’s that why this is purple?”

“I don’t know why it turned purple, ” she snapped defensively.

“It just seems like a really strange color for…”

“Never mind the color. Are you going to try it or not?”

I searched the plate for the least offensive portion. I stabbed my fork into what appeared to be a mushroom; it was almost certainly some form of fungus. Tendrils of steam curled from the fork and disappeared into the atmosphere, accompanied by a sickly pungent smell that hung in the air like a brick in wet cement.

As I drew the fork to my mouth, beads of sweat began to well on my forehead.

I paused.

She gathered over me like a thunder-head. The weight of her stare bore down on me; I could no longer delay the inevitable. I steadied my nerves, said a quick silent prayer, and jabbed the morsel into my mouth.

It had roughly the consistency of synthetic rubber. The flavor was an oddly unpleasant mixture of fetid egg and moldy wood. Just as I thought it couldn’t be more repulsive, I bit into something that seemed to squirt a semi-viscous liquid. It was like a mouthful of used bandages, but much less pleasant.

I chewed as quickly as possible and swallowed hard in a desperate attempt to remove the offending portion as far from my taste receptors as possible. I had to suppress the protective gag reflex that separates humans from rats.

Then I swallowed again–it was clinging to the sides of my throat.

I shifted slightly in my seat and swallowed a third time. It finally lost its grip. To this day I can’t be certain, but If I’m not mistaken, it attempted to climb back out.

I quickly grabbed a glass of water and emptied its contents into my stomach, taking with it the stubborn piece of the beast.

I looked up at its creator, smiled weakly, and forced the words out, “it’s delicious.” A single tear slid silently down my cheek. She stood over me, arms crossed, with a deep look of suspicion on her face. “Why don’t have some more then?”

“I’m not really hungry now,” I assured her as I slowly pushed the plate away. “I’ll have the rest later.”

“I know what that means: you’ll stick it in the refrigerator where it will sit untouched for weeks, until it turns bad and you have to throw it out.”

“I explained to you about the casserole, it wound up behind something, I forgot it was there.”

“Behind something? The entire contents of your refrigerator consist of a can of coffee, a bottle of ketchup, and a mysterious yellow stain that seems to move around on its own.”

“The yellow stain moves around?”

“Forget the stain,” she snapped.

“When I come back later, I expect to find the entire thing eaten.”

I was never certain whether she was talking to me or to the omelet. Per her orders, the entire thing was eaten: I fed it to the neighbor’s dog. The dog later vomited on my front steps and bit me; it seemed like an equitable trade.sick face breakfast

 

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Rodeo Clowns, Kanye West’s Fat Head, and a Pissed Off Bull

“Is that N’ Sync I hear?”

Bulls are huge, powerfully built animals with menacing horns, devastating hooves, and an unflinching desire to be left alone.

Bull-riders, by comparison, are sweaty little cowboys who feel it’s heroic to climb onto the backs of bulls, regardless of how irritating it is to the bull.

Bulls have names like Destroyer, The Widow-Maker, and The Mauler.

Bull-riders have names like Bucky, Earl, and that guy who used have testicles.

Bulls are simple animals, content to stand around and chew their cud, occasionally pausing to pee on the dirt.

Bull-riders are simple people, content to stand around and chew tobacco, occasionally pausing to pee on the dirt.

The only thing in which bulls truly revel is inflicting life threatening injuries upon things that annoy them.

Bull-riders annoy them.

The only things that bulls hate more than bull-riders are rodeo clowns, Kanye West’s fat head, and boy bands.

Note: it should be mentioned–the entire animal kingdom hates boy bands…especially badgers.

angry badgers

We’re coming for you Timberlake.

The sanctioned amount of time a bull-rider must stay on the bull is eight seconds. It was found to be the amount of time it takes the average person to look up, do a double take, gape momentarily, then utter the phrase: “would you look at what that idiot over there is doing.”

The bull is locked in a pen, which annoys it.

The bull-rider then climbs onto the bull’s back, which really annoys it.

The bull with the bull-rider on his back is released into an arena filled with jeering fans, which annoys it beyond belief because it hadn’t finished peeing.

The bull storms around in a state of agitation that closely resembles a blind rage as it attempts to repel the annoyance that has so rudely interrupted his peeing.

Meanwhile the bull-rider is being thrashed about like a rag doll. (He may also be peeing a bit at this point.)

The bull swiftly dislodges the annoyance, launching him through the air. The annoyance crashes to the ground, tumbles several feet and skids to a halt.

He displaces an impressive amount of manure filled dirt with his face.

His teeth continue on for several more feet.

As the bull-rider staggers to his feet, dazed and unsure of what’s happening, the bull finishes peeing then turns to face him.

The bull lowers its horns and beats its hooves at the dirt; a malevolent glint appears in its dark animal eyes.

As in any time of great crisis, men wearing make-up are called upon to save the day: the rodeo clowns are deployed.

They dance around the bull, taunting and mocking it (evidently the bull is not pissed-off enough yet) until they can lure the bull’s attention away from the bull-rider.

Sensing that their efforts are falling short, they form a line and belt out an N’sync medley.

The bull becomes so confused with rage that it charges into the stands and heads straight for Kim Kardashian and Kayne West, who just happen to be in attendance.

The bull gruesomely gores Kanye’s fat head–the crowd cheers wildly.

The bull-rider is saved; the rodeo clowns are showered with cheers and adulation. It seems that all is well, until a pack of frenzied badgers pour into the arena and savagely attack the rodeo clowns.

After several moments of shrill screams and wild chittering, the badgers flee as quickly as they appeared.

The rodeo clowns lie in the dirt, bloody and defeated, their painted on smiles betraying them.

bull

“You’re dressing oddly these days Kayne.”

Somewhere in the deep recesses of it’s mind, the bull feels a deep sense of satisfaction.

Well–Now You’ve Blown It

sad balloonOne of your key resolutions this New Year was to stop wasting your time reading dreadful blogs devoid of intellectual value of any kind.

The type of blog written by a pasty-faced geek with zero social grace.

The type of blog that burrows into your brain, takes root, and festers until it has transformed you into a drooling half-wit.

Well–you’ve blown it now haven’t you?

You’d might as well crack open that bottle of Jack Daniels, rip open that pack of Camels, and start eating cookie dough straight from the tube, because you’ve just taken the first step into a spiraling abyss.

Better luck next year.

mr creasote

This is what this blog does.

Love Hurts, but Not as Much as a Stab Wound

love hurts

I felt it was time to re-post these beautiful and poignant words.

I wrote this during a period of deep personal healing…but mostly I was drunk.

 

Pan Changes Instrument of Choice

pan flute

Pan in his pre-banjo days.

Arcadia, Greece–After centuries of regaling the woodland creatures of Arcadia with his famous pan flute, Pan has decided it’s time for a change. He has decided his musical growth has become stagnant and  has decided to dump the flute.

“The flute wasn’t really getting it done with the nymphs anymore,” Pan explained. Pan’s new instrument of choice: the banjo.

Reaction to Pan’s sudden switch in musical instruments has been less than favorable. “Even I can’t get away fast enough when he starts banging on that thing…and I’ve got wings on my feet,” his father Hermes confided.

“He’s my son and I will always support anything he does,” his mother, a woodland nymph, told us. “But seriously, I’m about to smash that thing against a tree.”

Undaunted by the criticism, Pan plans to press forward with the banjo and tour Greece with his own bluegrass band.

hermes

Pan’s father fleeing from his banjo picking.

Eyebrows Count

big eye browsIn my last post I suggested it unwise, on a first date, to spend an inordinate amount of time bragging about how many times you’ve accidentally set yourself on fire.

Allow me to clarify: a first date isn’t the only time it’s unwise to brag about how many times you’ve accidentally set yourself on fire.

I could provide a lengthy list of times and places it’s unwise to brag about how many times you’ve accidentally set yourself on fire. Allow me to condense it to this: don’t at any time or in any setting, brag about how many times you’ve accidentally set yourself on fire.

One example: Don’t brag about how many times you’ve accidentally set yourself on fire during your job interview at the propane store…just don’t.

If you’re reading this and thinking that this is all perfectly obvious and doesn’t need to be said; I have one thought to convey to you: you don’t know the same people I know. (And count yourself lucky.)

And this includes bragging about accidentally setting other people on fire…that’s just rude.

Buildings too–structure fires are very dangerous.

One final point of clarification: bragging about how many times you’ve accidentally burned off your eyebrows counts as bragging about accidentally setting yourself on fire.

I’m tired of hearing you brag that you’ve burned off your facial hair so many times you longer have to shave.

I hope this bit of clarification has been helpful.

Addendum:

If you’re that person who is trying to start a fire and you think to yourself: two or three gallons of gasoline ought to do the trick. Just go ahead and step away.

gasoline can

At least to two or three gallons should do it.

First Impressions

pigpen peanuts charlie brown

You’re ready for that big date.

Have you ever been preparing to go on a first date and had someone give you the following advice: just be yourself?

Did that piece of advice give you the confidence you needed?

Well it shouldn’t–you’re a dreadful person.

That advice is the type of pabulum you’d get from a cheap greeting card written by a half-wit and given to you by someone who pretends to care about you, but who secretly plots your demise. (Grandma is quite devious.)

The facts:

  • You make a bad first impression.
  • You make a bad second impression.
  • You make a third impression that is shockingly worse than the first two.
  • You make a fourth impression that is better than the first three, but still lacking.
  • The fifth time people meet you they attack you with a claw hammer.
  • You smell like beets and goat urine.
  • Unsurprisingly, much of your wardrobe is stained with beet juice, goat urine, and a green goo you’ve yet to identify.
  • You pepper your speech with the phrase, “that’s what she said.”
  • You attempt to impress your date with your mastery of the Klingon language. (Even Klingon women find this unimpressive.)
  • Your ability to belch the theme to Gilligan’s Island is less of an aphrodisiac than you perceive it to be.
  • When you pee it whistles. (This probably won’t be an issue on a first date, but you should seriously have that looked into.)
  • Peppermint schnapps is not a satisfactory alternative to good oral hygiene.
  • Constantly griping about how handicapped people get all the good parking spots isn’t a good look.
  • Nobody cares about your collection of toenail clippings and they certainly don’t need to see pictures of it.
  • You spend far too much time bragging about how many times you’ve accidentally set yourself on fire.
  • Quite frankly–you’re just a dick.

So my advice to you (apart from adopting celibacy) is to be as far from yourself as you can possibly be.

If radical plastic surgery and hypnosis aides you in being as far from yourself as possible: I’m all in on that.

Good luck on that first date…hopefully you won’t get pepper-sprayed.

man pepper spray

Yeah, that’s how I thought it would go.

Lake Effect Snow Dries Up Lake Erie

gooferie

crater3For the first time in recorded history, Lake Erie is empty due to all the water being turned into lake effect snow which has blanketed the city of Erie.

“As we know, when cold air moves over the lake, it picks up water and deposits it as snow, “ said Meteorologist Dr. Patrick Timmells of the National Weather Service in Cleveland. “Since Erie is the shallowest of the Great Lakes, it only took a few heavy snow bands to completely drain it.”

93-year-old John Fay, a lifelong Erie resident, says he’s never seen anything like this. “This is worse than December of 1944. Back then, only half the lake was drained. My buddy and I waded to Canada and back.”

One local fisherman plans to take advantage of the situation. “I won’t even have to take my boat off the trailer, “said Frank “Mooneye” Kapitsky. “There should be a lot…

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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 the one time 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.

My immediate boss was also off that day. This was horrible luck for me since 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.

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, 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 and held it to my face.

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 (almost leprechaun lucky) Mr. Peabody became so fearful of leprechauns, he left on his own without incident.

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

My true identity.

Christmas and Rutabagas

rutabaga

It’s Christmastime again: the perfect opportunity to brighten the spirits of a loved one with the gift of the rutabaga.

What’s so special about the rutabaga you may ponder–what isn’t so special about the rutabaga is my response.

  • They can be roasted.
  • They can be baked.
  • They can be boiled as a flavor enhancer in soups.
  • They can be boiled as a flavour enhancer in soups in Great Britain. (You wouldn’t believe how much tastier the soup is with that extra U in the word flavour.)
  • They can be thinly julienned as a side dish, in a salad or as a garnish.
  • They can be thinly julienned and used to cleanup oil spills in the driveway.
  • They can be mashed into a paste and used to degrease engines.
  • They can be mashed into a paste and used as a beautifying face cream. (It won’t make you more attractive, but it will cover up your butt-ugly face.)
  • You can make rutabaga ice cream.
  • You can make a rudimentary boiled rutabaga stew that was a staple of famine ridden Europe during the war and pretend you’re living in famine ridden Europe during the war–because pretending is fun.
  • You can chuck them at Kayne West’s head. (It’s such a huge bloated target.)
  • You can chuck them at the heads of people you’re ambivalent about.
  • You can chuck them at the heads of people you like. (The thunk of a rutabaga bouncing off a human skull is surprisingly satisfying.)
  • You can fill your child’s stocking with them. (But ensure they’re fresh; they can attract flies.)
  • You can use them to attract flies.
  • You can carve them into lanterns as was the old Irish tradition.
  • You can carve them into lanterns and chuck them at Kanye West’s head. (Hopefully the beginnings of a new tradition.)
  • And finally, you can make the traditional Finnish Christmas dish Lanttulaatikko.
rutabaga dish

Lanttulaatikko is a delicious Finnish Christmas dish–you can also chuck it at Kayne West’s head.

Addendum: Don’t make rutabaga ice cream…it sucks.

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