The man who has been identified as a Mr. T. Fairy was allegedly trying to gain entry to the residence of the Rizzo family. “He claims to have had business there,” the arresting officer said.
The man was discovered carrying a satchel of silver dollars and what appeared to be a bag filled with children’s teeth. “A bag of children’s teeth,” said the officer. “How sinister is that?”
The man claims to be the famed Tooth Fairy, but the police have their doubts. “I imagined the Tooth Fairy to be less masculine,” the officer admitted, “and definitely less tattooed.”
“Everybody just assumes the Tooth Fairy is some petite little woman,” Mr. Fairy said, “but that’s just sexist.”
The Investigation has uncovered that little Jay Rizzo had lost a tooth earlier in the day when on a dare, he tried to eat a brick. “Jay is pretty stupid,” his father confirmed.
Adding intrigue to the situation and weight to the man’s story: he was discovered to have wings. “We were fingerprinting him when all of a sudden these wings go fluttering up behind him,” the processing officer said, “that doesn’t normally happen.”
Mr. Fairy is being charged with trespassing and with a little used statute involving activity deemed to be more than a little icky.
“Well, the tooth will come out in the end,” Mr. Fairy said with a chuckle.
Little Jay’s lost tooth remains under his pillow, waiting for the Tooth Fairy to make bail.
I saw this headline on my newsfeed the other day.
Jumping Spiders Seem to Have a Cognitive Ability Only Previously Found in Vertebrates.
My first thought: there are spiders that can jump? Nobody told me that. I don’t think that should allowed. It’s bad enough they can hang down from the ceiling and drop into the chocolate milk of poor unsuspecting children. Then when one of those innocent (almost angelic) children goes to take a sip, they encounter a horrible wriggling beast.
What is normally a delicious and comforting beverage is transformed into a glass of chocolaty terror. An incident like that could put some children completely off chocolate milk. Not me, but some children.
If you made a list of things you don’t want to have the ability to jump, spiders would likely be on that list.
Then I started thinking about the fact that these jumping spiders have a cognitive ability only previously found in vertebrates.
I’m a vertebrate! I’m almost certain of it. Despite what I’ve been told, I pretty sure I have a backbone.
So there are spiders out there that not only have the ability to jump, but they have the same cognitive ability that I have? I don’t want to brag, but if I were a spider, I think I’d be a clever one.
I may not be brilliant as a human being, but if you transferred my intelligence level into a spider, I’d be at least above average. I’m not saying I’d be the smartest spider out there; I’d be no tarantula, but I’d be smarter than those daddy-longlegs dullards.
When I consider the trouble I’m capable of causing as a human, I can’t imagine damage I could inflict if I were a jumping spider.
Something needs to be done about these jumping spiders.
Let’s go scientific community; it’s time to put your heads together and come up with a solution.
Things go extinct all of the time. Things that we aren’t even trying to kill. Things that have never once been in a glass of chocolate milk.
How many small children have to be traumatized before something is done?
In 1910 there was an organization in the great Commonwealth of Pennsylvania called The Anti-Automobile Society of Pennsylvania and they really hated automobiles.
They complained automobiles traveled too fast, frightened their livestock, ran over their chickens, and that Pennsylvania motorists were inexplicably unable to properly use a turn signal.
Note: I made up the part about the turn signal, the Anti-Automobile Society of Pennsylvania didn’t say anything about the turn signal, but I’m saying it. Use your damn turn signal!
The point is: The Anti-Automobile Society of Pennsylvania really hated automobiles, almost as much as I hate mimes, other peoples children, and any TV show with the words the real housewives of in the title.
They developed a set of guidelines for automobiles operating in rural areas of Pennsylvania:
I’m not making that up.
Admittedly, they had very little to say about the fact that automobiles don’t leave disease spreading horse crap everywhere, but no system is perfect.
After a recent trip to the DMV, I have become convinced that the Anti-automobile Society of Pennsylvania was deeply involved with the development and current state of the Pennsylvania Department of Motor Vehicles. Their grubby little fingerprints are all over it.
The current procedures of Pennsylvania DMV are only slightly less convoluted, but they still involve rockets and horse crap.
I leave you with a photo of a 1910 automobile offender.
What the hell is wrong with you people?
And more importantly: what’s wrong with me that those search terms direct people to this blog?
I was recently reminded of an event from my past; an event that was buried deeply in the recesses of my mind.
Dredging things from the deep recesses of my mind is not an easy task. It’s dark and scary in there, it smells like rotting pinecones and there are spiders.
Anyway, the memory (recovered at great cost of life) was of an event that occurred during my senior class trip to Toronto, Canada.
On our way to Toronto we stopped at Niagara Falls to ride the Maid of the Mist.
We took the tram down to the area where you board the boats, which at the time was basically just a big cement slab. There was nothing down there, including restrooms.
We waited there. Then waited some more. Then we waited a little longer.
It’s important to note: during the ninety minute bus ride from our little village of Westfield, NY to Niagara Falls, there were coolers containing cans of pop placed about the bus. I availed myself multiple times.
“I kind of have to pee,” I remarked innocently to my friends as we stood waiting.
We finally boarded one of the boats, donned our rain coats and departed for the falls.
I believe I can write without fear of contradiction: the base of Niagara Falls is without question, the worst place on the face of the Earth to be if you need to pee.
My situation rapidly escalated from kind of having to pee, to into having to pee worse than I ever had in my life.
If you’ve never been on the Maid of the Mist, the boat lurches up and down and you are constantly blasted in the face by dense mist.
And because the Horseshoe Falls are a curve, literally half of your horizon is a 180ft wall of water crashing down at a rate of over 75,000 gallons per second.
I was in agony–it felt like my bladder was filled with tiny wolverines trying to claw their way out.
I genuinely considered peeing off the side of the boat.
But it was not my desire to be forever known as the guy who got sent home two hours into the senior trip for peeing off the Maid of the Mist and causing an international incident.
As I was bent over in misery, my friends taunted me mercilessly and told others I was seasick.
I wasn’t seasick.
We finally made it back to shore, but the only way back up the street was by the tram and there were a lot of people in line ahead of us. A lot!
It was then I did something I wasn’t proud of; I shoved my way to the front of the line.
I literally shoved my way past the elderly and small children.
After reaching the top of the hill, I ran (which is ridiculously hard to do when you really have to pee) and made it to the restroom with no time to spare. I peed for what felt like fifteen minutes–it was glorious.
I made it through the entire senior trip without causing a single international incident. Collectively as a group, we were all a little surprised.
You’re not really a bad person.
Sure, you parked in front of that fire hydrant despite the big sign clearly indicating not to park in front of the fire hydrant, because of all the laws and such.
You couldn’t have possibly known that orphanage would catch on fire.
You did see some smoke coming from the building as you were parking, but you imagined a nice cozy fire burning in the fireplace…midday in the middle of August.
And while it seemed odd the smoke was emanating from a window and not a chimney, you’re not a chimney expert.
Besides, it wasn’t very much smoke…at first.
For all you knew, they were just electing a new orphan pope, you’re not an orphan pope expert.
And you’re all for freedom of religion, despite that time you punched that Jehovah’s Witness in the face. He rang the doorbell and got you out of bed and it was barely past noon. Besides, you’re not a freedom of religion expert.
And while you made the decision to argue with the firemen rather than allow them the unimpeded ability to aide the orphans who were now fleeing for their lives from a burning building, you’re not a firefighting expert.
Hey! Those firemen put a scratch on your car that isn’t going to buff out.
What’s the big deal anyway? They’re orphans–they’re used to hardship.
You probably shouldn’t have cursed at that nun, but it was a very intense situation and that crack she made about your future being filled with damnation and hellfire just seemed mean. She did seem to be a damnation and hellfire expert; she was quite longwinded about it.
No! You are not a bad person at all.
Imagine the following scenario: you’re innocently walking down street, minding your own business, contemplating life, when you spot something out of the corner of your eye: on the grass sits a solitary toad. You make a mental note of the toad, but you don’t think much about it.
But as carry on with your day, you can’t shake one niggling thought: I could have licked that toad.
It’s a thought that persists with you through the following days. It grows from a gentle nagging into a full blown obsession.
Your days are filled with confusion and regret; your nights are haunted with sleepless torment.
And thus begins your journey as a toad-licker.
There’s no shame in being a toad-licker. You’re not hurting anybody. You’re still the same person you’ve always been, but people begin to see you differently.
Admittedly, a much higher than normal percentage of toad-kickers are criminally insane, but you’re not criminally insane; when the voices inside your head tell you to kill, you almost never listen to them.
Your friends begin to treat you differently. They subtly begin to remove you from their lives. The invitations to parties and get-togethers become less frequent. They say they fear you’ll suddenly produce a toad from your pocket and start licking it. They claim you’ll start licking a toad at a really inappropriate time.
You will produce a toad from your pocket and start licking it, but you’re discreet. Besides, if you can’t lick a toad at a funeral; when can you lick a toad?
Society tries to separate you. Society tries to ostracize you.
It’s not like you have Ebola, or the face of a goat, or you’re a Kardashian: YOU’RE NOT A FREAK!
I urge all of you to look into your hearts and give toad-lickers a chance; toad-lickers are people just like you and me…apart from all the toad-licking and the fact they rarely bathe.
Please, toad-lickers just need a little understanding…except for this guy–this guy’s a weirdo.
So this happened to me once.
I had been working with this woman, Cathy, for about a month.
She was a normal person. And when I say normal, what I mean is, she was slightly more verbose than most and several degrees louder. She was like a howler monkey without the grace.
For the month we worked together, I sported a beard.
One weekend I decided to shave the beard. There was no particular reason for the removal of the beard, it was just the whimsical part of my nature that people find so endearing.
I went to work the following Monday morning, sans beard.
I walked past Cathy and I said hello as one would do.
She looked at me with pure horror and recoiled like I was Jeffrey Dahmer asking her over to my place for dinner.
I could tell by the expression on her face and the vacant look in her weird fish eyes, that she had no idea who I was.
“It’s Larry,” I told her.
After a moment I could see the light of recognition dawn across her face.
Then she looked at me said what I considered to be a remarkable thing: “Ew. Is that what your face looks like?” Then following a not unsubstantial pause, she said: “no offense.”
She then went on a lengthy diatribe detailing what a mistake it was for me to expose my face to light of day. But after every insulting (and frankly hurtful) thing she said, she would follow it with: “no offense.”
Well guess what, Cathy, I took offense then and I take offense now!
Why do people think they can say any horrible thing they want and it’s okay if they just punctuate it with, “no offense”?
If at the end of World War 2, Hitler had thrown his hands into the air and said, “listen everybody, no offense,” would it have all been okay?
No, Adolph! It’s not okay! And you’re not okay either, Cathy!
That day I told Cathy that despite her strong feelings toward my face, I thought she was a wonderful and precious and perfect person in every way.
Just like a liar would.
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.
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.”
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!
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 following warning on a pack of cigarettes:
Smoking can cause heart disease, lung cancer, strokes, bad breath, rabies, Ebola, explosive diarrhea, your left eyeball to pop out of it’s socket at really inconvenient times, dry mouth, and your penis may or may not fall off.
And all anyone will think is: whoa, these must be the good ones.
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 most crucially–murder. Basically, don’t do anything illegal. You get the idea. After all, what are we–a bunch of drunken monkeys? lol.
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.