idiotpruf

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

Archive for the category “Humor”

It’ll Be Refreshing, He Said

rafting

“Paddle faster, you idiots.”

“Don’t worry, it’ll be refreshing,” my friend assured me. I had strong doubts as I stood on the shore and watched the river’s water heave and surge past. My trepidation was fueled less by the tenacity of the water and more by the fact that what I did in the water could be described less as swimming and more as a labored attempt to avoid drowning. In the pit of my stomach, I could feel that this rafting trip was about to turn ugly.

Rivers that are used for rafting are separated into five classifications. Class one rivers are basically flat, smooth waters that can be easily navigated. Class five rivers are rapidly descending, treacherous waters that require considerable experience to navigate.

Class one rivers are for tiny little girls and wimps. Class five rivers are for studly men who like to laugh in the face of the Grim Reaper. We chose a class three river; we were average men who like the laugh in the face of the Grim Reaper but only when the Grim Reaper is at a distance and busy with somebody else at the time.

The trip was going well; we had successfully navigated our way through several sets of rapids without major incident. It was then that the guide told us to bring our rafts to shore, where he informed us that this was the part of the trip where we could walk back upstream and go back through the last set of rapids.

“What,” I asked casually, attempting to mask the alarm in my voice, “do you mean without the raft?”

“That’s right, you’re just going to jump in the water and go,” the guide said with an annoying amount of confidence.

“Are you certain that’s safe?”

“Absolutely, these are very deep rapids.”

“It’s safe because deep water is harder to drown in?”

“Yes…I mean, no. When it comes to rapids, deeper is safer.” I could detect a timbre of irritation creeping into his voice.

“Okay, I understand…I’m curious, what are your thoughts concerning skydiving without the parachute?”

I could tell by the dagger-filled stare that was shooting my way that it was time to stop asking questions. This was the man whom I would depend upon to pull my semiconscious body from the water should the need arise.

One by one, like lemmings, we climbed onto the top of a small boulder and leaped into the river.

I made it through the first two mini-rapids without a problem. It was the third set of rapids where a sudden surge of water lifted my body for a moment then pulled me under the surface. Murky river water shot up my nose at approximately 2000 mph, ricocheted off the bottom of my brain, then poured into my lungs.

Not wanting to be filled with murky river water, my lungs immediately expelled the water back through my mouth and nose with considerable force. My eyes, feeling left out, began to water profusely. I was now spinning out of control, and my arms were flailing around like a crazed marionette.

This was the moment I chose to invent a new game. I call the game “Whack your face against the rock.” I invented this game approximately two seconds after the guide yelled, “Hey, don’t whack your face against the rock.”

“Are you okay?” the guide chortled, unable to mask his amusement. I signaled to him with a thumbs up…well, it was a single digit.

As I slowly spun out of the rapids and crawled to shore, gasping for air and coughing simultaneously (something that I had previously thought to be physically impossible), my friend asked, “Are you going to go again?”

“No,” I replied. “I think that I’m refreshed enough.”

river raft

The IOC is considering whack-your-face-against-the-rock for the 2020 Olympics.

I’ll Build My Own Damn Barrel

My attempt to purchase a barrel to go over Niagra Falls in has proven fruitless, but as that old saw tells us: if you want something done right, do it yourself.

idiotpruf barrel

For most of my life, the statement above hasn’t proven to be the case. If you were to believe my junior high shop teacher, I wasn’t the most industrious person with a tool in my hand.

“A danger to myself and others” was the phrase he recklessly bandied about.

Hey! I’m not the one with only eight and a half fingers, buddy.

The half finger was his nose-picking finger; it looked like he was shoving the whole thing up there.

All I’m trying to do is construct a barrel sturdy enough to go over Niagra Falls without being smashed into bits–how hard can that be?

Not dying is my second highest priority; my top priority is that the barrel be spacious enough to contain both myself and my pet pig Napolean. 

You may think that sounds stupid, but you’re willingly reading this drivel; how smart can you be?

Napolean and I have long ago accepted the idea that we would probably die together in some weird and grizzly manner.

But we survived the tandem skydiving, so maybe we should put those fears to rest.

You only need a handful of items to build a barrel:

  • A mullet
  • Assembly jig
  • Four large iron hoops of varying size
  • 2 barrel lids cut to size
  • Handsaw
  • Sandpaper
  • Sponge
  • Winch
  • 24 to 36 aged wood staves

I am well on my way: Napolean has the mullet; he’s had it since his Billy Ray Cyrus phase. I don’t know why you would need a mullet to build a barrel, but I’m not one to question the wisdom of the internet. 

I assume an assembly jig is some type of Irish Folk Dance; I’m sure I’ll pick that up quickly.

I can meander down to the local smithy to grab some iron hoops of varying sizes.

I own a handsaw to cut the 2 barrel lids to size.

I am almost certain I have a piece of sandpaper somewhere.

I have a SpongeBob SquarePants bath sponge.

I can borrow my neighbor’s winch.

Then all I need is 24 to 36 aged wood staves; piece of cake.

Correction: apparently, you need a mallet to construct a barrel, not a mullet. That does make more sense, although Napolean was a little disappointed.

I’ve run into a few additional problems.

I’m told an assembly jig is not an Irish Folk Dance, and I am terrible at modern interpretive dance.

Also, it seems the local smithy closed his shop a few years ago, give or take a century.

And I lied about the handsaw; I don’t have one of those; I’m not some master carpenter.

Napolean has refused to use my Spongebob Squarepants bath sponge; he thinks it’s disgusting. It’s a pretty haughty attitude coming from someone who rolls around in the mud. Although, that sponge has been in some intimate places.

Napolean has also pointed out that what I have is not a piece of sandpaper but some sand and a piece of paper. It was an easy mistake to make.

Borrowing the winch from my neighbor might be more complex; he’s installed security cameras since that time I borrowed his riding mower and inadvertently drove it into the lake.

I also have to look up the word stave; seriously, what the hell is a stave?

I fear I am a bit further from the completion of my project than I hoped.

But Napolean and I will continue to strive forward.

More updates to come.

Barrel Shopping

barrel for going over falls

A barrel like this would be great…but I prefer something in color.

Now that I’ve decided to go over Niagara Falls in a barrel, a few slight logistical wrinkles need to be ironed out.

First and foremost: I need a barrel. I have several vital requirements for the barrel I choose for my journey over the falls:

  1. It must be watertight enough to endure the 681,750 gallons of water that travel over the falls per second without it filling with water and killing me horribly.
  2. It has to be sturdy enough to endure the 2,509 tons of force created by the 681,750 gallons of water that travel over the falls without losing structural integrity and killing me horribly.
  3. It must withstand the 167-foot drop without bursting on impact and killing me horribly.
  4. It must be spacious enough for me to comfortably fit into. (I don’t like to be cramped almost as much as I don’t like to be killed horribly.)
  5. It must fit onto the top of a Mercury Marquis. (I have bungee cords.)

My search for a suitable barrel has been less than fruitful.

It’s startling just how unhelpful the employees of Lowes are when it comes to barrel shopping.

You wouldn’t believe the slack-jawed looks I get when I ask them where they keep their barrels for going over waterfalls–they gape at me like I’m a moron.

The people at Ace Hardware are even less helpful. Their little jingle: “Ace is the place with the helpful hardware folks,” is a blatant and disgusting lie. It should be: “Ace is the place where smug, judgmental pricks named Todd question your mental stability.”

I went to a website of the deceivingly named Crate & Barrel–utterly useless unless you plan to go over Niagara Falls on an overpriced chaise lounge.

(I did, however, find a delightful celosia black hand-knotted area rug.)

It appears in order to find a suitable barrel for going over Niagara Falls, I’m required to have one custom-made.

Going over Niagara Falls in a barrel is turning out to be more difficult than I had imagined, but I will soldier on.

liquuor barrel

What a great barrel; I just have to empty it of the Jack Daniels inside–it’s a plan!

Here we Go!

barrel over falls

Here I go!

I’ve decided to go over Niagara Falls in a barrel.
I know what you’re thinking: that is a fantastic idea and not in any way reckless or ill-conceived.
You probably think the only thing to surpass my level-headed decision-making is my sense of adventure and almost unparalleled bravery.
You’d be correct–the level of your perception is stunning.
You are nothing like the naysayers in my sphere of influence, people who use harsh terms like reckless, ill-advised, wildly insane, dunderheaded, pea-brained, attention-seeking prat, dangerously maladjusted, and stupid.
Stupid is a very hurtful word.
These skeptics like to point out the majority of the individuals who have gone over the falls in a barrel have perished horribly.
Well, I’m not in the majority. If all those mental competency tests The New York State Board of Mental Health made me take are to be believed, I’m quite far from the majority.
In 1930 George Stathakis went over the falls in a barrel with his 150-year-old pet turtle.
If a geriatric turtle can survive going over the falls in a barrel, I think I can manage.
George died, but his death could have been barrel unrelated–everyone has to die sometime, right?
Anyway, my preparations to go over Niagara Falls in a barrel have begun.
By the end of summer, you will see my name plastered all over the news. (And not for indecent exposure this time.)
I will keep you updated on my progress.

turtle

I can do anything a turtle can…except stay submerged underwater for extended periods of time…I’ll be fine.

You Gullible Fool

Today is April 1st, which means people will be running around telling lies to each other so they can then yell April Fools Day and chortle at the ridiculous gullibility of the person they have just pranked.

Example:

Prankster: I’m so sorry to tell you this, but your mother was just killed in a horrific car accident; there were pieces of her everywhere.

Gullible Fool: That’s the worst thing I’ve ever heard; I think I might have a heart attack.

Prankster: April Fools! You should see the look on your face.

Gullible Fool: Oh, thank goodness.

Prankster: Yeah. I mean, she is dead, but she’s not in pieces. They can’t find her left eyeball, but the rest of her is all there.

Gullible Fool: That’s not any better!

Prankster: April Fools! She’s not dead at all.

Gullible Fool: Stop doing that to me.

Prankster: Of course, she’s not dead. She is in a coma, and that thing about her left eyeball is true, but she is definitely not dead.

(Long, awkward pause.)

Gullible Fool: Well?

Prankster: Well, what?

Gullible Fool: You are going to say April Fools again and tell me my mother is fine, right?

Prankster: Actually, your mom is in a pretty bad coma; you should probably get to the hospital as soon as possible.

Gullible Fool: I hate you.

Prankster: I know, but seriously, we should hurry; she’s not in good shape.

Do you see how much fun April Fools Day can be?

I can’t wait to find some friends and pretend one of their loved ones is dead; it’s going to be the best.

laughing face

Testicles or Lack Thereof

surprised cat

His name was Bill, and I had just met him five minutes previously. It was my first day on the job, and I was helping him.

We worked silently for a few minutes before he turned to me and said with stunning nonchalance, “Yeah. I’ve only got one testicle.”

I tried not to gape stupidly. I failed.

I prefer to know someone for at least one full day before I work my testicles into a conversation. Bill was obviously of a different mind.

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

But I continued to gape stupidly, searching my mind for an appropriate response.

My mind failed me spectacularly; I replied by saying, “I have two of them?”

And yes, I said it as a question. I’m still trying to understand why I felt confused.

Perhaps I simply didn’t want to appear as though I was bragging. If I had confidently said, “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 they involve a man piercing his testicle with a nail.

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 challenging 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 even hard to breathe with a nail in your testicle.
  • Basically, it’s a struggle to do anything with a nail in your testicle except whimpering; whimpering is practically a requirement when you have a nail in your testicle.
  • Did I mention that it 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 for Bill to try out his new nail gun.

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

This Blog Prevents Scurvy

Early symptoms include malaise and lethargy, and if you’re anything like me (my condolences if you are), malaise and lethargy are your baselines.

I would even venture to add bitter indifference to the malaise and lethargy.

As time persists, additional symptoms include weakness, fatigue, changes to your hair, sore extremities, gum disease, poor wound healing, easy bleeding, and an irrational fear of ladybugs.

Others will also begin to regard you as a sissy, primarily because of the ladybug thing.

Also, it’s not clear what changes to hair means. Do you lose your hair? Do start to grow hair in weird and unwanted places like under your toes or on your tongue. Either way, I don’t like it.

These symptoms can result in eating disorders, mental issues, substance abuse, and eventually homelessness.

People will refer to you as that crazy person with the hairy tongue who screams and runs away from ladybugs.

What is the scourge responsible for the aforementioned maladies? Exposure to any of the Real Housewives television shows—also, scurvy.

It’s debatable which of those two things is worse.

But there is a preventative measure that can be taken: reading this book.

That’s right! This blog prevents scurvy. It is, however, powerless against the Real Housewives. 

That’s ridiculous, you’re thinking; I’m not some 16th-century pirate; I’m not worried about things like scurvy, my rum supply, walking the plank, or the Kraken. 

Actually, you are a little worried about the Kraken, but you just drink rum until that goes away.

But can’t I just eat some orange slices, you’re thinking to yourself?

This blog is so much better than orange slices. You don’t have to peel it, it doesn’t make your fingers all sticky, and it doesn’t rot.

It does rot a little but not nearly as quickly as orange slices.

So go ahead and read this book and live free from the fear of scurvy.

But definitely watch out for the Kraken.

Addendum: it’s not debatable; the Real Housewives is worse.

They rot faster than this blog.

In Honor of Dr. Seuss Day: Horton Hears a Chigger

chigger

You found this on your what?

So the other day these search terms popped up consecutively on my stats page:

feeling ill images

chiggers on testicles

Which comes first?

Are you feeling ill, and then you discover it’s because you have chiggers on your testicles?

Or, do you discover that you have chiggers on your testicles, and that makes you feel ill?

home alone

Not only was Kevin left home alone, but he’s also discovered chiggers on his testicles.

As I was pondering this, the progression of search terms changed to this:

feeling ill images

horton hears a who

chiggers on testicles

How different would Theodor Geisel’s story been if Horton hadn’t heard a Who on a speck of dust, but had discovered chiggers on his testicles?

Would he have been as protective of them?

Would he have been equally harassed and ridiculed by kangaroos and monkeys?

What if Vladikoff the Vulture had tried to fly away with them?

And what if the monkeys and kangaroos had tried to boil them in Beezle-Nut oil?

Just something to think about.

Think about testicles.

horton hears a who

I think I can hear something, and it’s making me itch in an unspeakable place.

 

 

Seriously, I Don’t Want to Dance

the office dancing

Do you really want David Brent as a role model?

Why is this world polluted with people who are determined to make me dance? Loud, pushy, abrasive, overbearing, manipulative overlords of what is or is not judged to be enjoyable. People who won’t take no for an answer. People who believe they better grasp what’s in my brain than I do.

What I say: I don’t want to dance.

What they hear: I pretend I don’t want to dance, but secretly, it’s my deepest yearning. If not for debilitating fear and self-loathing, I’d be out on the dance floor right now, living the dream.

What I say: seriously, I don’t want to dance.

What they hear: if only there were some loud, pushy, abrasive, overbearing, manipulative overlord of what is or is not judged to be enjoyable, to goad and badger me into doing what I’ve secretly always wanted to do anyway.

What I say: get away from me, you drooling half-wit.

What they hear: grab my arm like a slack-jawed oaf and physically drag me onto the dance floor.

I am not responsible for anything that happens from that moment forward. I am confident the person who coined the phrase “justifiable homicide” was just some poor fellow who earnestly didn’t want to dance.

Note: I’m sure when his jaw is no longer wired shut, the person described in the scenario above will apologize to me.

Let’s make one thing clear: just because you like a certain thing, it doesn’t follow that every other human should also like that thing. Loads of different people like loads of different things.

Jeffrey Dahmer quite enjoyed killing people, hacking them up, eating them, and stowing the leftovers in his freezer. I can write with a relative degree of certainty; most human beings wouldn’t much care for that.

I have never once thought to myself: killing people, hacking them up, eating them, and stowing the leftovers in my freezer, seems like a horrific and frankly evil thing to do…but Jeffrey Dahmer thought it was a lovely thing to do. Perhaps I’m looking at this all backward. I’ve got plenty of room in my freezer, and there are several acquaintances in my sphere of influence I could readily live without (mostly the few who try to make me dance).

If only the local learning annex offered a course on beginner cannibalism. It’s all scrapbooking this and scrapbooking that, down at that place.

And I don’t need to be the center of attention to enjoy myself–in fact, it’s preferable not to be.

Just because I’m not standing on a chair, singing Love Shack at the top of my lungs, juggling shot glasses while I wildly thrust my hips into the air in a suggestive manner, doesn’t mean I’m not enjoying myself.

I don’t see life through the same self-absorbed prism as you.

You imagine I’m thinking: if only I could summon the courage, that would be me on that chair.

When I’m really thinking: if only I could summon the courage, I would kick that chair from under that jackass’s feet. That would make me smile.

Also, don’t tell me to smile.

I smile plenty.

I smile when it’s appropriate.

I smile when I’m happy or when something good happens.

I smile when a jackass falls from his chair and shot glasses cascade across his face.

Note: sometimes, I summon the courage.

People who go around smiling for no apparent reason are mental. I am not mental (fingers crossed).

crazy smile

This is how you appear to the rest of the world.

Being a naturally quiet person or an introvert is not a problem that needs to be fixed–just leave me be.

Groundhog Day Dissent

So Punxatawney Phil popped out of his hole today and saw his shadow, indicating by lore, six more weeks of Winter.
He then took a second look at his shadow and exclaimed, “Is that how fat I am? Why didn’t anybody tell me? You’ve been stuffing me full of grubs all Winter so you can pull me out in front of the world looking like this?”
Phil then viciously bit the goofy guy in the top hat and retreated back into his hole.
But this post isn’t just about Punxatawny Phil and his self-image issues; it’s about Erie Englebert, a lesser denizen of the great Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, and his predictive powers.
Erie Englebert came out of his hole today and didn’t see his shadow, clearly indicating, according to Erie Englebert, that he isn’t a self-absorbed idiot.
“Who walks outside, and the first thing they do is look for their shadow?” Englebert said derisively.
Legend has it that if Erie Englebert doesn’t see his shadow, there will be six more weeks of Winter. Possibly more, possibly less; the weather in Erie is freaking crazy.
“Phil thinks he’s so great,” Englebert bristled. “Just because some Dutch witch saw one of us 200 years ago and made some crazy proclamation, now Phil’s a meteorological genius.”
Phil dismissed the criticism, “Englebert’s always been jealous of me.”
“Jealous?” Englebert exclaimed in disbelief. “Have you seen how much weight Phil’s put on? I guess that’s what happens when you live in a place called Gobbler’s Nob.”
With that, it started snowing, and Englebert scuttled back into his hole until next year.

An Erie resident was heard muttering, “****ing groundhogs,” as she cleaned the lake-effect snow from her vehicle.

snow in erie pennsylvania

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