idiotprufs

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

Archive for the month “August, 2021”

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.

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