idiotprufs

Read by four out of five drunken monkeys, written by the fifth.

Murder and Cheese Dip

Party table
What a lovely looking party…it’d be a shame if somebody ruined it.

What if murder wasn’t illegal?

What if murder was just a thing considered rude–something you wouldn’t do at a friend’s party?

Imagine you were invited to a party at a friends house. While at this party you have a bit too much to drink.

During the festivities you question the host’s taste in decor. You toss out phrases like: garish, glitteringly obnoxious, tasteless, and the truly unfortunate phrase: just plain butt-ugly.

During this party, you cause a perfectly nice couple to storm out after you ask them if they named their daughter Liz because she bears an uncanny resemblance to a lizard.

At some point during the night, you murder a guy named Mitch with a waffle iron.

And through an unfortunate accident, you ruin the cheese dip.

Now imagine the thing your friend is the most upset about is the cheese dip. In fact, everyone is mad at you because the cheese dip was really good.

“Did you have to hit Mitch in the back of the head with a waffle iron?” your friend yells at you. “You made him fall face first into the cheese dip…now no one will eat the cheese dip.”

The next morning you apologize profusely as you make your friend some pancakes. (You’d make waffles but the back of Mitch’s head ruined the waffle iron.)

You apologize for the remarks you made about the decor. The decor is perfectly lovely if you’re colorblind, or just plain blind.

You phone that nice couple and apologize for implying their daughter looks like a lizard. (Just because it’s true doesn’t mean it needs to be said.)

You apologize for insinuating that your friend’s wife dresses a tad slutty. Then you remember that you never actually said that out loud, so you apologize for that.

But most emphatically, you apologize for the cheese dip, because the cheese dip was truly delicious.

What you don’t apologize for is Mitch, because Mitch was a dick. Besides, it’s not like murder is illegal.

cheese dip
The cheese dip, prior to Mitch’s dead face.

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.

Tooth Fairy Arrested

in jailErie, Pennsylvania–A man was jailed in the City of Erie, Pennsylvania after being arrested for suspicious behavior and what the responding officer referred to as, prowling around like a weirdo.

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.

tooth fairy

Jumping Spiders?

I saw this headline on my newsfeed the other day.

jumping spider

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.

  • Spiders
  • Snakes
  • Scorpions
  • Piranha
  • Possessed dolls
  • Elmo dolls: the whole tickle me thing is just creepy
  • Evil penguins
  • Penguins that aren’t evil, but have the tendency to be churlish
  • Hippos: you don’t want anything that can knock over a car, to have the ability to jump
  • Leprechauns: leprechauns are evil; evil things shouldn’t be able to jump
  • Any of the Kardashians: see previous two list items for explanation

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?

chocolate milk
There may or may not be a jumping spider in there. Take a sip.

The Anti-Automobile Society of Pennsylvania

Amish Buggy

Rural Pennsylvania Roads: still idyllic in 2021.

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:

  1. Automobiles travelling on country roads at night must send up a rocket every mile, then wait ten minutes for the road to clear.
  2. If a driver sees a team of horses, he is to pull to one side of the road and cover his machine with a blanket or dust cover that has been painted to blend into the scenery.
  3. In the event that a horse refuses to pass a car on the road, the owner must take his car apart and conceal the parts in the bushes.

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.

Model t

I think I see the problem: automobiles in 1910 were operated by small children dressed for safari.

Donner Party Disappointment

donner party

They seem like a fun bunch.

Absolutely the worst party I’ve been to in my life.

It was in a horrible location: a difficult to navigate snow-covered mountain pass more suited for ox-drawn wagons than a proper vehicle. Seriously, rent a hall.

The only music they had was some old guy with a fiddle who couldn’t play it properly because he’d lost several fingers to frostbite.

Everyone was just dour. There was a lot of wailing and weeping–it was a real mood killer.

They ran out of hor d’oeuvres almost immediately; the food was the biggest disappointment.

It was such an ill-planned party–I left early.

I just hope things picked up after I left.

Addendum:

The Donner Party is sometimes referred to by historians as the Donner-Reed Party.

But I’m certain Donner-Reed would throw a fantastic party.

donna reed

“I throw fantastic parties.”

What the Hell?

The following search terms popped up on search terms page in this order:

  • fat naked hillbillies
  • floppy breasted women
  • what mushrooms not to eat out of cow poop

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?

mushrooms

Dig in.

Mal de mer?

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.

maid of the mist

It’s fun–normally.

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.

niagra falls

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.

homer pee

Homer and I have a lot in common–I am also a cartoon and quite jaundiced.

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