idiotprufs

Illegal in 38 states–frowned upon in the rest.

Archive for the category “health”

It’s That Troublemaker Sidney Crosby’s Fault

sidney crosby

Pittsburgh Penguins’ captain and general troublemaker Sidney Crosby.

A Pittsburgh man stabbed in the head with a screwdriver during the Penguins’ playoff opener against the Columbus Blue Jackets on Wednesday night refused medical attention until the game was over, police said.

While the playoff beard–the tradition of not shaving until a team’s playoff run is over–is common among the players, certain fans in Western Pennsylvania employ the practice of not seeking medical attention for life threatening wounds until the Penguins have either been eliminated or won the Stanley Cup.

“It’s that troublemaker Sidney Crosby’s fault,” an official stated. “During the Mario Lemieux/Jaromir Jagr years there were a lot of casualities in the greater Pittsburgh area. Then the penguins sucked for a while and things calmed down. But since the Sidney Crosby era began things have gotten hairy again.”

Authorities said the victim, who was unidentified by police (but who they repeatedly referred to as Dumbass) was said to be the owner of the shop, was in the rear of the building when he became engaged in a verbal altercation with a 25-year-old male, whose name is also being withheld. (Dumbass with a screwdriver.)

The conflict escalated until the younger man struck the victim in the head with a screwdriver, the officers said.

“He was being a dick and I was holding a screwdriver,” the unidentified male said.

Police said the victim refused treatment for the laceration from paramedics on the scene, stating he would drive himself to UPMC Mercy hospital the second the playoffs were over.

The victim’s family have begun planning his funeral, as the Penguins are expected to make another deep playoff run this year.

People are just #%*&ing stupid a UPMC official stated.

screwdriver

Recently removed from Dumbass’s face.

I Am not Seasick!

dnager sign

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 and it smells like rotting pinecones…and there are spiders.

The process requires permits to be obtained. There’s heavy machinery involved. Sometimes if it’s a particularly painful memory, explosives are necessary. (OSHA gets heavily involved.)

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.

If you’re not familiar with the Maid of the Mist, it’s a boat-ride that departs near the Rainbow Bridge, passes the American and Bridal Veil falls, and proceeds into the curve of the Horseshoe Falls. It’s fun…normally.

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 more.

It’s important to note: during the ninety minute bus ride from our little village of Westfield, NY to Niagara Falls, I had availed myself of the free cans of pop placed about the bus in coolers. I drank multiple cans of pop.

“I kind of have to pee,” I remarked innocently 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 to be on the face of the Earth if you need to pee.

My state of kind of having to pee, rapidly escalated into having to pee worse than I ever had in my life.

If you’ve never been on the Maid of the Mist allow me to relate a brief description: as you head into the base of the Horseshoe Falls the water begins to seeth and writhe. 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.

I was not the favorite person of our class advisor. I may have been the least favorite person of our class advisor; she definitely could have done without my presence.

As I was bent over the railing in misery, classmates Matt and Cliff, who were privy to my predicament, taunted me mercilessly. They poked me and laughed and told others I was seasick.

I won’t divulge Matt’s surname; I think it’s for the Best.

And I won’t divulge Cliff’s surname; he’s fond of the color Brown.

(Was that too subtle?)

It was at this point another classmate approached and asked with genuine concern: you don’t look good, are you seasick?

I looked up at her and growled the words: I am not seasick!

(My apologies.)

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 shoved my way past the elderly and small children.

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.

I Had an Odd Dream

dream sign

I had an odd dream.

I was back in high school and the entire school had been assembled in the auditorium for an important announcement. The principal took the stage and announced that it was his great honor to announce that a student from our school had been chosen to participate in the Olympics for the USA swim team.

Then he announced that I was that person.

Everyone applauded as praise and adulation was poured over me.

I told the principal how proud and honored I felt, although it seemed a little strange considering I wasn’t even on the high school swim team and I’m a terrible swimmer. In fact, what I do in the water could be more closely described as a labored attempt to avoid drowning than as actual swimming.

The principal assured me that it was I who had been chosen.

I told him that almost anybody would be a better choice than me. Literally almost anybody in the country would be a better choice than me. I would likely need to be rescued before I reached the other end of the pool.

He told me it was great honor for the community and my being on the Olympic swim team would generate a butt-load of money for the school, enough money to allow the school to install a swimming pool.

I questioned how it was we had swim team without a swimming pool.

He told me it wasn’t easy and I should just shut up about being a bad swimmer because the T-shirts with my face on them were already being printed.

As I made my way through the halls to my next class, fellow students stopped me to shake my hand congratulate me.

I thanked them but expressed to them how much they should temper their expectations because I was going to lose catastrophically.

Then the class president stopped me and gushed about how proud everyone was. I was starting to get annoyed because I suddenly realized I had to pee urgently and she just wouldn’t stop talking.

I sought out a restroom but they were all closed for maintenance.

out of order sign

Intolerable for an Olympic hero.

I searched the entire school until I found myself in the basement where I stumbled upon a small café.

It seemed odd to me: a small café being in the school basement.

The waitress congratulated me for making USA swim team and offered a free cup of coffee.

I thanked her but declined the coffee since I already had to pee quite badly and because my performance would likely be a national embarrassment.

But the café had a restroom.

Unfortunately there was some random middle-aged fat guy standing in front of the urinals and he wouldn’t let me pass.

I told him it seemed creepy: a middle-aged fat guy hanging out in front of the urinals in the restroom of small café in the basement of a school. There’s probably laws against it.

There were threats made. Threats concerning who may or may not urinate on whom–it got tense.

Sadly, (maybe thankfully) I will never know how it turned out because I woke up.

The point of all this?

This dream dredged a memory from the deep recesses of my mind. A memory that will be the subject of my next post.

Next Post: I’m Not Sea Sick!

Michael Phelps

Michael Phelps just pees in the pool when he has to go.

The Disturbing Part of My Conversation With Bill

baby

“Please stop talking now.”

In my previous post I detailed my first conversation with Bill, a coworker with one testicle.

Bill had described to me an unfortunate turn of events involving alcohol, a nail gun, a regrettable ricochet, and the subsequent loss of one of his testicles.

He described it with a level of detail that seemed completely unnecessary–it was disturbing.

Following the nail gun discussion, we navigated through several comparatively mundane topics of conversation, most of which had nothing to do with anybody’s testicles, damaged or otherwise.

Eventually he began to tell me about his ex-girlfriend. He described to me how much he adored her. He described to me how much she reciprocated his feelings. He told me with regret that they were forced to break-up.

“How is it that you were forced to break-up?” I asked him.

“Well, it turned out that she’s ‘kind of’ my sister,” he replied casually.

Then he stood there silently. For the first time all day–he stood there silently. He had jabbered on about his guns, his dog, his truck, and his testicles–the one he still had and one he didn’t. But now he stood there silently.

“Please explain,” I said.

“Explain what?” He replied innocently.

The man who thought it necessary to guide me through a graphically detailed journey of the loss of his testicle now had nothing say.

“Explain how she’s ‘kind of’ your sister.”

“We have the same father,” he again replied innocently.

I puzzled for a moment as I absorbed what I had just heard.

“That would make her less ‘kind of’ your sister and more ‘exactly’ your sister…it’s pretty much the text book definition of a sister.”

“Half-sister,” he corrected me. “We have different mothers.”

It seems the poor girl’s mother had never told her who her real father was until the circumstance of her dating her half-brother had forced the situation.

“It was really too bad we had to break-up,” he said with regret. “We had a lot in common.”

“Of course you had a lot in common,” I told him, “DNA for starters.”

Then he said something horrible.

Note: I know what you’re thinking: more horrible than the story about a nail piercing his testicle? Yes!

“We had great sex,” he proclaimed with an amount of pride that seemed wholly inappropriate.

“Stop it,” I yelled in a panic.

I didn’t need the mental image of a man with one testicle having sex with his sister. (Correction: half-sister.)

“I’d be more comfortable if we went back to talking about your lost testicle,” I said emphatically.

Just saying the words made me queasy; no man should ever have to utter that phrase.

The state of Bill’s family tree.

Why Did You Tell Me That?

surprised cat

Exactly.

His name was Bill, and I had just met him five minutes ago. It was my first day on the job, and I was helping him. We worked in silence for a few minutes before he turned to me and said with stunning nonchalance, “Yeah. I’ve only got one testicle.”

I gaped stupidly.

I prefer to know a person at least one full day before I work my testicles into a conversation.

He looked at me expectantly, as if he was waiting for me to say, “great, tell me more about your testicles, or lack of them. I’m keen to hear.”

As I gaped stupidly, several possible responses flipped through my mind:

  • I guess were getting to know each other aren’t we?
  • Left one or right one?
  • Does it make you walk in circles?
  • Fantastic. Straight to the weirdest thing possible.
  • I think I’ll work on the other side of the room.
  • Oh. That’s why the guy called you One-balled Bill.
  • My whole life: that’s how long I could have gone without knowing that.

I said none of those things. I replied by saying the stupidest thing my brain could conjure: “I have two of them?”

And yes, I said it as a question. I’m still not certain why I felt confused.

Perhaps I just didn’t want to appear as though I was bragging. If I had confidently told him, “I have two testicles–the proper amount,” that would have seemed grandiose.

He looked at me like I was an idiot. I felt like an idiot. There was that inevitable awkward silence that occurs when two men discuss their testicles for the first time.

Undeterred by my idiocy, he launched into the story “I was out in my garage having a few beers when I thought to myself: this would be a good time to try out my new nail gun.”

The next several minutes were horrifying. I will spare you details because…well…ick.

I did learn some things from Bill:

  • Shockingly, alcohol and power tools don’t mix.
  • Nail guns are designed to drive a nail through wood or plaster. The fact that a nail gun will readily penetrate a layer of denim and your scrotum just goes without saying.
  • A nail in your testicle really hurts.
  • A nail in your testicle will bleed a lot.
  • It’s difficult to drive yourself to the hospital with a nail in your testicle.
  • It’s difficult to walk with a nail in your testicle.
  • It’s difficult to breathe with a nail in your testicle.
  • It’s difficult to do virtually anything with a nail in your testicle, the exception being whimpering; whimpering is practically a requirement when you have a  nail in your testicle.
  • Did I mention that it really hurts?
  • There was never a more appropriate use of the phrase: unfortunate ricochet.

I can write one thing with relative certitude: it was not a good time to try out his new nail gun.

I spent the remainder of the night with one overriding thought in my mind: please don’t offer to show me a scar.

Bill has only one.

 

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 top of a ladder. This behavior is ridiculous–it’s not like 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.

Hammock Time–U Can’t Touch This

hammock spring

What could go wrong here?

The signs of spring are all around you:

  • The sound of your neighbor cursing bitterly as he scrapes the ice from his car transitions to the sound of your neighbor cursing bitterly as he scrapes the bird crap from his car.
  • The neighbor gets out his mooning garden gnome that will soon be facing your kitchen window.
  • You get out your shovel that will soon be smashing a mooning garden gnome…allegedly.
  • The final remnants of where Gerald the neighbor kid wrote insults to you in the snow with his pee, have melted away. (Gerald’s impressive vocabulary is surpassed only by his apparent bladder size.)
  • You look into the purchase of an electrified fence just powerful enough to repel a small child.
  • You dig out your hammock and prepare to hang it up.

Ah yes, that sweet summertime relaxation that is your hammock.

Every year you gleefully hang your hammock as you sing a song you’ve named Hammock Time. It’s a song that you’ve cleverly invented specifically for the annual occasion.

Note: Hammock Time is just U Can’t Touch This with the lyrics ‘hammer time’ replaced with the lyrics ‘hammock time.’ But you’re proud of it regardless.

Hammock placement is vital to reap the full supine benefits of the hammock experience. You had the perfect spot for your hammock until those butchers at Penelec decided no tree, branch, hedge, or growing life of any type should come within a thousand feet of their precious wires.

tree maintenance

Just a few examples of Penelec butchery.
(Image source: gooferie)

When choosing the proper location for your hammock, there are many factors to be taken into consideration:

  • You want an area with a nice breeze.
  • You want an area with shade.
  • You need to be certain there isn’t a bird’s nest directly above you. You don’t want bird crap smacking you in the face when you’re trying to relax. You really don’t want bird crap smacking you in the face in general; it’s a simple issue of sanitation.
  • Don’t put your hammock near a hornet’s nest; hornets are ill-tempered and have a twisted sense of boundary.
  • Don’t put your hammock over a pit of vipers. If you drop something in that pit–that’s where it’s staying.
  • If you can at all avoid it, don’t put your hammock on the edge of an active volcano. It only takes one pyroclastic flow to ruin your day.
  • You need a spot that assures a modicum of privacy if you like to relax in the nude. (Just another reason to avoid hornet’s nests when placing your hammock.)
  • You don’t want to place your hammock directly above another person’s hammock if your hammock isn’t properly secured and could potentially come crashing down on the person below you. (I’m looking at you, Lance.)
  • Despite the many valuable life lessons I’m certain you learned from Gilligan’s Island, the placement of your hammock between two coconut trees is not one of those lessons. Coconut trees have coconuts. Coconuts + gravity + your face = eating through a straw.
  • Don’t put your hammock anywhere Gerald the neighbor kid can reach you. If you have to dig a moat and fill it with piranha, do it.

If you’re anything like me, you are going to enjoy a summer filled with sweet Hammock Time.

Final note: If you are anything like me, you need to change everything about yourself immediately.

idiotprufs mooning gnome

If you find this little fella facing your hammock–then it’s really hammer time.

Beware the Ides of March…and Dead Rotting Fish

ides of march

On March 15, 44 BC. Julius Caesar was stabbed to death in the Theatre of Pompey at a meeting of the senate by as many as 60 conspirators.

Note: The Theatre of Pompey was showing the remake of Footloose at the time. It was the second most disappointing part of Caesar’s day.

Upon realizing one the conspirators was his friend Brutus, he uttered the now infamous Phrase, “Et tu Bluto.”

It was at that point Brutus became enraged and screamed, “Bluto is the character from the Popeye cartoons you imbecile; my name is Brutus. How many times do I have to tell you that?” Brutus then he stabbed Caesar repeatedly.

Bluto Popeye

Bluto and Brutus are not the same. Just ask that smug tenth grade English teacher of yours.

Historians will tell you Julius Caesar’s assassination was politically motivated and the result of rising tensions between Caesar and the Senate. Historians will also tell you several Senators feared Caesar would overthrow the Senate in favor of tyranny. Historians are always blathering on about something in the past.

Well, historians are full of it.

I know the real story: everyone was just sick of Caesar forcing them to put anchovies on their salads.

Anchovies are gross.

Final Note: the word assassination has the word ass in it twice. That amuses me more than it should.

Caesar salad

A delicious plate of Caesar Salad. Because there is nothing more appetizing than dead rotting fish.

Just a Quick Clarification

floppy eared dog

There may be some readers of this blog who have made an inference (due to no fault of my own) based upon things they think they may have read in this blog.

It is my desire to stem any disinformation that may persist and to eliminate even the most infinitesimal chance of confusion.

To be perfectly clear: I have absolutely no firsthand knowledge that any of my aunts have a pseudo-penis.

If you are laboring under the impression that one of my aunts has a pseudo-penis, that’s on you.

That being said, I have absolutely no firsthand knowledge that none of my aunts have a pseudo-penis.

I mean, it’s statistically unlikely that any of my aunts have a pseudo-penis, but I do have a lot of aunts.

And saying that something is statistically unlikely is pretty much the same as saying it is possible.

So let’s just leave it at this: while statistically unlikely, it’s entirely possible that one or more of my aunts have a pseudo-penis…but you didn’t get that from me.

I have a cousin that’s half spider monkey. She doesn’t have pseudo-penis, but she does have a prehensile tail. She’s a pleasant enough girl, but the way she wolfs down grubs at the dinner table is quite off-putting.

Her mother on the other hand (who may or may not have a pseudo-penis) is a horror. Remember the mother alien from Aliens? That big, ugly, drooling, murderous beast. That thing was a cherub compared to my cousin’s mother.

aliens

A cherub in comparison…and this thing doesn’t have a pseudo-penis.

I do have an uncle who menstruates. You may think that’s not physiologically possible, but he does it. He thinks nobody knows–everybody knows.

Grandma calls him a medical miracle, but that’s just because freak of nature sounds bad in the Christmas letter.

His wife has a pseudo-penis.

Correction: it is statistically possible that his wife has a pseudo-penis. I don’t want anyone getting the wrong idea.

I trust this post has cleared things up.

And maybe certain family members will be less angry with me…they’re so touchy.

Final Note: aren’t you glad I didn’t include a picture of pseudo-penis in this post?

monkey

See how useful a prehensile tail can be.

Post Navigation

%d bloggers like this: