idiotpruf

The blog that prevents scurvy…as long as you eat orange slices while you read it.

Lucy, Lucy, and Me

So the other day I was in Lucille Ball Memorial Park in Celoron, NY and I took a picture of the statue of Lucy and posted it on Facebook.

But as the days passed I felt a niggling. A tiny creeping feeling of guilt.

Then it occurred to me, the source of this feeling: there are two Lucys in Lucille Ball Memorial Park and completely ignored one of them.

One of the Lucy statues is far more popular than the other.

l love lucy
The popular Lucy: isn’t she lovely?

I wondered what caused me to totally ignore the less popular Lucy.

Am I just a shallow self-centered jerk? Of course I am–but I don’t think that was reason for my callous dismissal of the other Lucy.

Maybe it was time for some introspection. Maybe it was time I delved into the deepest recesses of my brain to find out what’s going on in there.

So that’s what I did.

Honestly, it more than a little unsettling…there were way more spiders in there than I would have anticipated.

I came to realization that I have far more in common with the unpopular Lucy than I would like to admit.

Scary lucy

The less popular Lucy.
  • She’s clearly drunk on Vitameatavegamin.
  • Her face is contorted in a weird way that frightens people.
  • At the sight of her, small children weep and flee into wilderness.
  • When birds crap on her, people don’t care so much.
  • She’s referred to as “Scary” Lucy. I’m referred to as “That Prick” Larry.
  • People complained about her until she was replaced with something better.

I’m practically living her life!

What Should I do about this revelation?

I can either buckle down and focus on making changes to better myself, or I can avoid Lucille Ball Memorial Park.

I guess I’ll be seeing less of the park.

Blog-Phobia

fear

“I’m so afraid of having my picture taken.”

Here’s a bit of information: there are more than 500 official phobias.

If you have Epistemophobia, the fear of knowledge, learning that just freaked you out a tiny bit.

Some phobias are quite common:

Chiroptophobia: the fear of batsMany people perceive bats to be terrifying, blood-sucking, winged creatures of the night. Some people may wildly wave their hands and scream like a little girl when a bat flies past their head. There is absolutely nothing wrong with this. Nothing!

Acrophobia: the fear of heights. Some people scream like a little girl if you put them on a tiny stepladder. This behavior is ridiculous–unless there’s bats up there.

Genophobia: the fear of sex. This is an extremely common phobia; every girl I’ve ever dated has suffered from it.

Other phobias are a little more unusual:

Automatonophobia: the fear of ventriloquist’s dummies, animatronic creatures, wax statues – anything that falsely represents a sentient being. (This explains my fear of the Kardashians.)

Walloonphobia: the fear of Walloons. Walloons could burst at any moment making a loud popping sound and startling you.

(My apologies, I thought this was the fear of balloons. Walloons are the French-speaking population of Belgium; it’s perfectly normal to be startled when Walloons burst and make a loud popping noise.)

Chionophobia: the fear of snow. Snow is lovely, how could anyone be afraid of snow? Unless of course you’re referring to Jon Snow the British news presenter–he’s freaky.

Jon snow british

I find his respectability unsettling.

But I found this list to be horribly lacking. I suffer from a myriad of phobias that are not officially recognized:

Sonny-Bono-phobia: the fear of being haunted nightly by the ghost of Sonny Bono. I fear he’d hang out all night singing I’ve Got You Babe, openly questioning Cher’s life choices, and warning me of the dangers of downhill skiing.

Potato-salad-phobia: the fear of the potato salad your aunt brings to family picnics. The Salmonella is the least offensive thing in it.

Old-hag-phobia: the fear of your aunt whether she’s bearing potato salad or not.

Decimal-phobia: the fear of any number containing a decimal point. While many people have a fear of the number 13, I find numbers like 24.7, 44.6, or 58.758 to be horrifying. When I found out the average body temperature was 98.6, I stayed in a broom closet for days weeping inconsolably.

Broom-closet-phobia: the fear of broom closets. I developed this phobia after being trapped in a broom closet for days where I wept inconsolably.

Oikos-phobia: the fear of anything Greek (especially Greek yogurt) or any product that John Stamos is a spokesperson for.

Pi-phobia: fear of the Greek letter Pi. Pi represents 3.14: the ratio of a circle’s circumference to its diameter. John Stamos frequently uses Pi when he is determining the volume of the circle on the top of a Greek yogurt container. (Pi is a bucketful of issues for me.)

Ticking-time-bomb-phobia: the horrible fear that masked intruders will break into my home as I sleep, kidnap me, lock me in a room with a ticking time bomb, and bind my hands so that I must diffuse the bomb with my tongue. If they’re particularly sinister, they will slather the bomb with my aunt’s potato salad. (The potato salad really is crap.)

Kool-Aid-man-phobia: the fear that the Kool-Aid man will come crashing through the side of my home, leaving a gaping hole in the wall, and damaging the structural integrity of the entire house. He will then yell “Oh Yeah” with his big bulbous face, and behave as if the act of pouring me a glass of Kool-Aid makes up for giant mess he’s created.

Humor-blog-phobia: the fear of wasting precious moments of your life reading the moronic ramblings that some witless stooge has posted on WordPress.

While any phobia can cause issues and have ill-effect on one’s well being; it’s the last entry on the list that is especially debilitating. So watch out for it.

kool aid man

Stupid bulbous face. I’ll bet he read too many humor blogs.

Don’t Drone on About Wolves

aesop fables

“Wolf! Big freaking wolf!! I’m not kidding!”

In a controversial move, the residents of a small Greek village have replaced the boy who watches over their sheep with drones. “It really makes a lot of sense,” The village elder reported. “We’ve had a great deal of trouble maintaining the integrity of the village’s herd of sheep.”

Apparently the village has experienced some issues with sheep wandering off, attacks from predators, and what was described simply as “human error” by the village elder.

“It was that idiot kid,” a villager named Aesop finally confided. “We all knew he was trouble from the start: always fooling around, never taking his job seriously. He thought the job was boring, ‘counting sheep puts me to sleep’ he would say jokingly.” He paused for a moment before adding, “he’s the village elder’s nephew.”

According to reports, the boy would amuse himself by crying wolf, then laughing hysterically at the harried villagers who would drop what they were doing, and hurry out to the pasture with pitchforks in hand, only to find no wolf.

cartton boy

After the boy had “cried wolf” on several occasions, the villagers had had enough. “There’s a big guy in the village named Acteon,” Aesop said. “He would get really angry running all the way out to the meadow. It took three guys just to keep him from whomping that kid over the head with an ax handle.”

The boy’s false alarms would take a turn for the tragic. It seems when a real wolf threatened the herd, none of the villagers would heed his call, and several sheep were lost. It was at this point the village decided to make a change. “The drones are working out really well,” the village elder effused. “They can monitor the herd, round-up sheep that happen to stray, and we’ve weaponized them so they can eliminate any potential threat. We did have an unfortunate incident when a villager became frightened and threw his pitchfork at a drone…let’s just say, what goes up must come down.”

When asked what the boy was doing now that he no longer looked after the sheep, the village elder hesitated before answering, “evidently one of the drones deemed him to be a threat to the herd…my sister is pretty pissed.”

“There’s moral to this story,” Aesop added. “A liar won’t be believed, even when he’s telling the truth…and he might get his ass blown off by a drone.”

drone wolf

Loud-mouthed threat detected.

Honey and Flies: Don’t Bother

honey

You’re all familiar with the following saying:

You can catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.

But this is the question I have for you: what are you going to do with a bunch of flies?

You can’t train a fly to do anything, they’re completely stupid.

You don’t want to eat flies: you get wing stuck in your teeth, they have limited nutritional value, and they taste like fly.

And once you’ve got flies stuck in your honey, the honey is ruined; no one wants to eat honey that has flies stuck in it. Those flies were probably prancing around on a pile of dog crap before they got around to your honey.

And to that point: if you want to catch some flies, lay out a pile of dog crap; that’s what flies really want.

I understand the point of the phrase is that you get better results if you’re nice to people rather than if you’re rude.

But do you really want to walk around all day being all flowery and nice to people if your reward is a bunch of flies in your honey–it makes your honey taste like fly!

Besides, it is exhausting being nice to people: people suck. I’m not wasting good honey on flies or people who suck.

It would be a different story if you could train flies to attack people who suck. I’d be all for throwing the honey around then.

Until then, I think I’ll just stick with the vinegar.

Pyramid

Moses: now there was a dude who knew how to use flies.

It’s Just Bad Advice

hero

I’ve seen this quote floating around recently:

My goal in 2022 is to be my best self and my own personal hero.

I have just one quick question: to whom have you been talking and what horrible lies have they been telling you.

Do you remember that time someone told you to “just be yourself” when you when on that first date?

I’m not sure if you remember how badly that went. If you don’t we can reference the police report. My favorite part is when you and your date were taken hostage by the mime.

I know you like to tell people you gave that girl the most memorable night of her life. Normally the only things you give the girls you date are crippling self-doubt and genital chiggers.

Being memorable isn’t always a good thing. Survivors of the Hindenburg would often describe escaping that harrowing inferno as the most memorable night of their life. And those people were never held against their will in a Taco Hut by a man wearing white face paint and a beret. He didn’t even a real gun, he was just miming it.

You may be the only person in history to be screamed at by a mime. (It is amazing how fast a mime will break character once you’ve peed on the back of his leg.)

My point is: your goal shouldn’t be to be your best self, your goal should be to be someone entirely different. Someone radically, unmistakably different than yourself.

As far as you being your own personal hero; there aren’t enough adjectives in the English language to express just how bad of an idea that is. I’m trying to envision the type of person who would adopt you as a personal hero. I picture one of those weirdos who writes fan letters to a serial killer who’s in prison.

If your goal for 2022 is to improve yourself, try making it through the year without being arrested for peeing on a mime, or on the back of a police car, or on the back of a policeman.

In fact, if you can make it through the year without being arrested for public urination of any kind, we’ll call that a win.

I know it’s a tall order, but I’m not completely certain you can’t do it.

Good luck.

Let’s All Just Start Accepting the Truth


Wouldn’t life be easier if we all just told the truth?

Wouldn’t it be better if we didn’t sugarcoat things?

Wouldn’t it be better if we just accepted things as they are?

Imagine a world where we didn’t have to censor ourselves; a world where people didn’t get their shorts all twisted up in a bunch over every little thing you say.

Example:

Easily Offended Individual: don’t you think my baby is beautiful?

You: what do you mean–for a lizard?

Easily Offended Individual: I mean beautiful for a baby.

You: a baby lizard?

Easily Offended Individual: for a baby person!

You: your baby looks like a lizard.

Easily Offended Individual: people say the baby takes after me!

You: you have lizard eyes.

Easily Offended Individual: you’re an ass!

You: but I’m an ass with normal eyes.

Easily Offended Individual: you can go to Hell!

See. If people would just accept the fact that they have a creepy lizard baby, everything would be easier and there would be a lot less occurrences of people who were only being honest being punched in the face by angry people who are most likely suffering from the trauma of having lizard eyes.

I’m just saying.

Lizard like reflexes.

King of Pennsylvania

kings crownI’ve been working on a ballot initiative for the upcoming election. Excitingly, if my ballot initiative passes, I will become king of the great Commonwealth of Pennsylvania.

I must admit, there has been some opposition to the prospect of my becoming king of Pennsylvania. You could even categorize some of the opposition as extremely heavy.

I would be a kind and benevolent king. Sure, I’d have some people put to death, but nobody that would be missed; mostly bureaucrats and slack-jawed neighbors who live across the street.

Opponents of my initiative have put forth a myriad of ridiculous reasons why they think I shouldn’t be king of Pennsylvania. They carelessly throw around phrases like maniacally unhinged and dangerously unbalanced.

They offer proof such as:

  • We don’t have kings here in America–we’re not Canada.
  • My plans for a castle with a moat and turrets for canons would violate all kinds of zoning laws.
  • My plans to imprison every member of the zoning commission are unconstitutional.
  • They oppose my plans to create a new constitution for the great Commonwealth of Pennsylvania that would allow me to imprison every member of the zoning commission and put canons wherever the hell I want.
  • They claim I really can’t be trusted with canons. (This one is fair–I would lay waste to things.)
  • They oppose my plans to declare war against New York State. (King Cuomo and I haven’t seen eye to eye for some time now.)
  • They oppose my plan to change Ground Hog Day to Red Panda Day.
  • They say my plans to turn the entire city of Erie into a maximum security prison, while understandable, are unrealistic.
  • They claim that I am a whack-job who simply can’t be trusted with power of any kind.

While some or most of these point are valid, who cares, I want to be king.

I’m feeling very optimistic.

Note: My previous ballot initiative (slap-an-idiot-in-the-face-day) was a failure. Hopefully, this one fairs better.

I still don’t understand why my slap-an-idiot-in-the-face-day initiative failed. Everybody who voted against it is an idiot who should be slapped in the face–and there should be a day for it. 

Stress and More Stress

According to University Hospitals, moving is the third most stressful life event behind the death of a loved one and divorce.

stress road sign

Although, if the death of a loved one is a person you’re divorcing, that would seem to fall under the category of problem solved.

And evidently the people at University Hospitals have never tried to plan a murder; that shit is way more stressful than those other things. People underestimate the logistics that go into a properly planned murder.

Try planning the murder of a loved one–you wouldn’t believe stress headaches you get.

Then on top of dealing with all the stress from planning the murder and the subsequent death of a loved one, you have to move because it’s just creepy living in a house with a body buried in the basement.

Anyway, moving is stressful.

It brings to mind a time I was helping my parents move. As we were loading the truck, a crew of industrious PennDot workers arrived in front of their home and swiftly proceeded to open up a gaping hole at the end of their driveway.

I could intuit immediately that something was amiss because they were PennDot workers who were industrious and working swiftly. The phrase industrious PennDot workers is akin to the phrase kind-hearted Nazis.

Upon depositing a gaping hole at the end of my parents driveway, they packed up and left with the efficiency and alacrity with which they had arrived.

I can recall thinking to myself: what the hell.

And placing a gaping hole at end of my parents driveway seemed to accomplish nothing other than to remedy the problem that there wasn’t a gaping hole at the end of my parents driveway.

Have you ever tried to contact PennDot to get answers about something? It’s easier to contact Hell and get answers from the Devil. Suspiciously both numbers have the same prefix.

In fact, dealing with PennDot should be at the top of any list of stressful events. I’m starting to wonder if these people at University Hospital know anything about stressful events at all.

After spending far more time than is reasonable on the phone with PennDot and its soulless minions without receiving a shred of useful information, the workers just returned and began to fill in the hole.

While there still seemed to be no reason for digging the hole in the first place, I thought I caught a glimpse of what appeared to be a body being dumped into the hole before they began filling it.

It’s all starting to make sense.

Industrious PennDot workers.

Enough Already With the Photos

angry baby

That is precious.

Evidently certain people weren’t paying attention.

Certain people who are either dull-witted or recalcitrant.

People who are dull-witted, recalcitrant, or compulsively boorish.

And in some cases, people who possess all three traits.

People who insist–regardless of how vehemently I protest–on showing me pictures of their children.

The ugly truth: I don’t like your children. In fact, I don’t like your children almost as much as I don’t you.

Note: it is my solemn pledge to the readers of this blog, at no point will it ever be heartwarming.

Don’t show me a picture of your grandchild and say, “she has her fathers eyes, isn’t it amazing?”

No, it’s not amazing at all; it’s pretty much how genetics work.

Your grandchild is bald, pudgy, toothless, prone to drooling, and screams at the top of her lungs when she wants something. If she had a tramp stamp, she be the spitting image of her mother–now that’s amazing.

I don’t want to see the following progression of photos:

  • Here’s my baby at one day.
  • Here’s my baby at one week.
  • Here’s my baby at two weeks.
  • Here’s my baby at three weeks.
  • Here’s my baby at four weeks.
  • Here’s my baby at one month.
  • Here’s my baby at five weeks.
  • Here’s my baby at six weeks.
  • Here’s my baby at seven weeks.
  • Here’s my baby at eight weeks.
  • Here’s my baby at two months.
  • Here’s my baby at nine weeks.
  • Here’s my baby at ten weeks.

It was annoying just having to read that wasn’t it?

It pissed me off having to write it.

Just imagine having to sit through six months worth of those photos. Forget waterboarding, that would crack the most hardened terrorist.

Here’s the only progressions of photos I need to see:

  • Birth.
  • Graduation from high school.
  • Graduating from college.  I know the parents; it’s not happening.
  • Wedding.
  • Obituary clipping.

That’s it. That’s all I need.

Do you know what’s just as bad? Endless photos of your child’s birthday party.

And now, thanks to modern technology, the boorish photo purveyor doesn’t need to haul around a bunch of photographs, they can cram literally thousands of photos onto her phone. Thousands of mind-numbing soul-sucking photos.

Note: the first two dozen photos are of the cake. It’s a freaking cake, not a Rodin sculpture.

Rodin sculpture

Rodin would have been an awesome cake designer.

Imagine this conversation:

Boorish photo purveyor: would you like to see pictures of my child’s birthday party?

You: I’d rather be stabbed in the face with a bayonet.

Boorish photo purveyor: let me get my phone.

You: I hope your phone has an app that turns it into a bayonet.

Boorish photo purveyor: do you want to see a picture of the cake?

You: only if it has a bayonet in it.

Boorish photo purveyor: I have hundreds of pictures.

You: Arrgh (you feign a fatal heart attack, and lie motionless until the boorish photo purveyor, sensing the awkwardness of the moment, walks away).

But the worst place to be cornered by a boorish photo purveyor is on an airplane. You’re trapped, you have only four options:

  1. Smother the boorish photo purveyor with your inflight pillow.
  2. Fake a bomb threat, be gladly dragged away by the Air Marshal.
  3. Jump from the plane and plummet to certain death.
  4. Sit and silently view the photos.

Did you notice how each option was worse than it’s predecessor?

Note: in the old days you could dissuade fellow passengers from engaging you by fondling a blood stained machete, and repeatedly mumbling about your manifesto. Now you can’t even bring your machete on the plane, bloodstained or otherwise. You can’t do anything on a plane anymore; thanks for nothing terrorists. When you’re done being waterboarded, I’ve got some baby pictures for you.

Retaliation is the only solution. The next time someone asks me if I want to see pictures of their child, I’ll respond: “yes, but first you must see the 500 photos I have of my pet Sea-Monkeys; they’re so precious.”

That ought to work.

sea monkeys

I’ve named these two, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.

Dear Loudmouth

 screaming mouth

Dear loudmouth,

Purveyor of unwanted opinions,

I think it is absolutely adorable that you believe I care what you think.

I don’t.

I don’t care at all–not even a little.

I view your opinions as gnats buzzing around my head; irritants to be swatted away and if possible, crushed.

It’s not the sheer stupidity and ignorance contained within your opinions that I find so objectionable. It’s more the level arrogance and brazenness in which you disseminate your opinions.

I would listen to virtually anyone’s opinion before I would listen to yours. If there are 7.7 billion people in the world, yours would be the 7.7 billionth opinion to which I would listen.

I would even listen to opinions in languages I don’t understand, (which frequently includes English) before I would listen to your opinion. Even if a person spoke in a language that consisted of nothing but clicks and whistles, I would sit and listen with an empathetic countenance, nodding, and adding an occasional, “that’s a good point,” to the mix.

I would listen to the opinions of parrots before I would listen to yours. At least when a parrot says something birdbrained, it’s because it has the brain of a bird. What’s your excuse?

Or one of those howler monkeys. Even if that  howler monkey was hurling its feces at me as it was howling its opinion, I would find it preferable to your opinion. I would rather be hit in the face with monkey crap than listen to your opinion.

You remind me of Bluto from the Popeye cartoons, but without the couth. Bluto is couther than you. A loudmouthed cartoon blowhard has more couth than you. That’s crazy.

Olive Oyl is always going to choose Popeye over Bluto and Popeye isn’t exactly a golden throated charmer.

I’m sure you have opinions about this post…I don’t care.

It’s my hope that my stance on the matter has been made sufficiently clear.

Thank you for your time.

opinions

Couther than you.

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