Time is a mysterious force that affects all of our lives, even if we can’t see it, touch it, or feel it. Sometimes it moves very fast–we have hardly dropped our credit card payment in the mail when another bill arrives!–while other times it moves slowly, like when we’re at High School Awards Night waiting for our […]
You went to the annual kickoff-to-Summer picnic at your Uncle Finster’s house.
Normally you would avoid your Uncle Finster’s house the way a small rabbit would avoid a pit of vipers. A big fat pit of bulbous, sweaty, bitchy, chunky-thighed, drooling, self-congratulatory, vain, loud-mouthed, half-wit, vipers.
And those are just your aunts.
But this year your grandmother has declared this summer will likely be her last and any of her grandchildren who don’t attend every family function, to be vindictively and purposely speeding her descent into the grave—she’s a lovely woman.
As you arrive, you’re immediately met by Uncle Finster’s wife, your Aunt Sally. She’s standing with her hands on her hips and an expression of accusatory smugness on her face.
Note: Sally’s actual name is Snaggle-faced Bar Sinister Hag, but for some reason, people just call her Sally.
“Did you bring it?” Aunt Sally demands.
“If you’re referring to either fear, trepidation, or an overwhelming desire to be elsewhere, I never come here without it,” you reply.
“Do you always have to be a smartass?”
“Evidently,” you admit.
“I meant the Jell-O dessert–did you bring the Jell-O dessert,” Aunt Sally wants to know.
“I brought the Jell-O dessert,” you confirm as you hand her a large container.
“You didn’t put those tiny little colored marshmallows in it did you?” Aunt Sally asks. “You’re Uncle Finster hates those tiny little colored Marshmallows in his Jell-O.”
“I can’t stand that hippie Jell-O,” your Uncle Finster confirms.
“No, Uncle Finster, I didn’t put those tiny little colored marshmallows in the Jell-O; I know how much you hate those tiny little colored marshmallows. In fact, I’m well aware of the list of things you hate: things that are colorful, things that are joyous, laughing children, puppies, opossums that aren’t dead, potpourri, shredded wheat, pinecones, anything that’s purple, people who live on islands, words containing the letter Q, human emotion, lime flavored foods, and seedless watermelons.”
“Lime is disgusting and seedless watermelons aren’t natural,” he screams at you.
“They aren’t the only things unnatural,” you say as you wipe the spit from your face.
“Remember that time you put those tiny little colored marshmallows in the Jell-O: your Aunt Sally had a heart attack,” Uncle Finster accuses you.
“First: grabbing your chest and screaming, “you’ve given me a heart attack” isn’t the same as actually having a heart attack. Second: I’m sure her sedentary lifestyle and lard-based diet would be the primary factors in regards to any heart issues Aunt Sally may experience.”
“What’s going on?” Your Aunt Jackal forces her way into the conversation. “You didn’t put those tiny little colored marshmallows in the Jell-O again did you?”
Note: your Aunt Jackal was meant to be named Jaclyn, but there was a clerical error with the birth certificate. Oddly, the name Jackal is far more suited to her.
“There are no tiny little colored marshmallows in the Jell-O,” you assure her.
“You’re still a bitter disappointment,” she tells you before she walks away to get another cocktail.
Your Aunt Jackal in her natural habitat. She’s probably just killed something.
“Did I hear something about there being tiny little colored marshmallows in the Jell-O?” Your Uncle Brad asks. “Are you trying to ruin the annual kickoff-to-Summer picnic?”
“There are no tiny little colored marshmallows in the Jell-O,” you tell him.
“Everyone is talking about how you put tiny little colored marshmallows in the Jell-O again,” your Cousin Bucky tells you as he joins the conversation, “I like the way you stir things up.”
“I have an announcement to make,” you shout as you stand on a piece of lawn furniture.
“I hope it’s not that you’re a bitter disappointment,” your Aunt Jackal says, “because we already know.”
“Don’t worry about her,” Cousin Bucky whispers to you, “Aunt Jackal’s drunk…and a bitch.”
Undaunted you continue, “I can assure everyone here, there are absolutely no tiny little colored marshmallows in the Jell-O.”
You stand waiting for a response as your family silently gapes at you.
The silence is finally broken by a scream from Aunt Sally, “This is lime Jell-O filled with chunks of seedless watermelon.”
“I did do that,” you tell the family, “but what else can you expect from a bitter disappointment?”
Aunt Sally clutches her chest.
Aunt Jackal drunkenly scowls at you.
Cousin Bucky gives you a thumbs-up.
Summer has officially kicked off.
This would be great if it contained chunks of seedless watermelon.
Your smug neighbor’s robustly growing garden–you needed a place to pee at night.
Your smug neighbor has planted his annual garden. In the coming months, he will regale you with baskets of fresh vegetables and tales of his horticultural prowess. He will explain to you that his garden has produced so overwhelmingly, that his own family couldn’t possibly consume all the bounty themselves. He will bring jars of homemade pickles and relish. “Everyone in the world loves homemade pickles and relish, especially the way my wife makes them,” he will tell you.
Stupid neighbor.
You decide to plant own garden in the corner of your yard. You want fresh tomatoes, zucchini, squash, maybe a few cukes. You have no idea what cukes are, but it’s fun to say so want them. You can imagine the results that will cover your dinner table. You can imagine the praise you are certain to receive from guests, satiated by the efforts of your labor and toiling. You have high hopes.
Unfortunately you run face first into one tiny problem: you are complete shit at growing things. (Except for ear hair–you grow ear hair like a wookie.)
You purchase a progression books as your efforts continuously fail:
Those books are now deposited in a bin labeled: things to be shred, burned, and buried in a deep hole.
Note: you purchased a few plastic plants, they inexplicably turn brown and fell apart. You choose to ignore the metaphysical ramifications that you are able to kill plastic.
Undaunted, you redouble your efforts.
After being told Native Americans placed a dead fish with the kernel when they planted corn, you consider raiding the family fish tank, but you don’t want to go through that drama again. Seriously, who gets that attached to fish?
Modifying slightly, you put a fish stick in the ground with every seed you plant. It doesn’t seem to help. You write a nasty letter to Mrs. Paul’s frozen seafood company, making wild accusations about artificial ingredients.
Mrs. Paul, who lives down the street from you accidentally receives the letter. Icy stares ensue.
Stupid Post Office.
Your snarky neighbor comments on how sickly your cukes look, but how your weeds are growing robustly.
You try come up with a clever retort, but you’re not clever.
“You’re a cuke,” you finally yell…five minutes after he’s left.
At last you have some success, only to discover that fresh vegetables are enjoyed by several of nature’s pests: bugs, worms, mice, gophers, and Gerald the neighbor kid.
You also discover that Gerald likes to pee on things. You purchase a taser, but you won’t use it on Gerald–the local authorities have confiscated it.
Stupid local authorities.
Finally, you discover the answer to all your problems; it’s called the farmers market.
Your dinner table now abounds with natures bounty, the fruits of hard labor and toiling, just not yours.
These are cukes? It looks like the Jolly Green Giant took a dump.
Despite going on 77 dates in three years, long-time bachelor Tom Avery has yet to find a woman that meets his specifications. While his close friends suggest it might be helpful to eliminate a few of the requirements he has for his future wife, he maintains that all 52 of them are absolutely necessary. Since […]
We all know them. Its me me me, and they bore the sock off us all. Only retirement can make them more annoying, and yet somehow there is more…
via Banker retires and becomes an even bigger tw*t, say his “friends” — Bull of the Board
In an experiment at MIT mice fed yogurt as compared to junk food developed luxuriantly thicker fur and bigger testicles that they projected outwards, giving them an air of “mouse swagger.” Scientific American It’s Friday night and, like every other mouse in the lab, I’m cruisin’ the scene–TGIF and all that. I reached […]
via TGIF With a Big-Balled Yogurt-Eating Mouse — Gerbil News Network
An artist’s rendition of Bigfoot as he hurries to the restroom after one too many Yuengling Lagers.
North East, PA–It seems the ban of all mythological creatures from Speed’eez Sports Bar and Grill in the town of North East, Pennsylvania has been lifted by new management.
The ban was implemented after a series of disturbing incidents involving Yeti, The Skunk Ape, a unicorn named Sparkles, a bevy of mischievous leprechauns, and local resident, Bigfoot.
The series of events culminated when one the patrons, an individual known as Poe, was found in the parking lot severely beaten and covered with giant footprints.
Todd Luke, the new manager of Speed’eez explained the ban’s reversal, “Sure, Bigfoot is loud, smelly, he tips with tree bark, he plays nothing but Steve Perry solo stuff on the jukebox, his hair gets into everything, and he’s probably responsible for the recent outbreak of Lyme Disease, but Poe’s a dick.”
It was originally believed the assault on Poe was precipitated by Poe’s constant reference to an embarrassing infestation that Bigfoot may or may not have had.
“I don’t have genital chiggers,” Bigfoot responded.
However, it has come to light there may have been another reason for the severe beating: Bigfoot believed Poe was making inappropriate advances toward his wife, Lady Bigfoot.
“It’s a completely ridiculous accusation,” Poe said. “While I will admit I’m attracted to extremely tall, hair covered women and that a pre-historic ape-like creature with rudimentary speech skills seem like the type of woman, some might say the only type of woman, who would date me; absolutely nothing untoward happened.”
“We shared a plate of Buffalo Wings and tree grubs once, that’s all there was to it,” Lady Bigfoot explained. “He’s not my type: he doesn’t smell like pinecones and his forehead doesn’t protrude nearly enough.”
She paused momentarily before adding, “and he’s kind of a dick.”
Despite the past tensions, it seems all is back to normal at Speed’eez Sports Bar and Grill.
“I’m glad we were able to get this all straightened out,” Poe said as he began to scratch his groin. “Hey, what do genital chiggers feel like?”
A photograph of Bigfoot at Speed’eez Sports Bar and Grill. Unfortunately, as always, he ducked just out sight as the picture was taken.
NO NEONICOTINOIDS in good old traditional napalm. “I am sure they are being overly cautious in banning these so-called ‘bee-harming’ pesticides,” said Much Craplock farmer, Silage Marner. 119 more words
via Farmers return to traditional pest control methods to save bees — The Daily Squabble
FRAMINGHAM, Mass. The housing market in the Boston area is hot so times should be good for Ed Rensell, a retired insurance broker who depends on occasional notary public fees to cover income gaps left by his pension. “It’s only $2 a document, but that’s a cup of coffee at McDonald’s,” he says as he glares with envy across the […]
via Antics of “Extreme” Notaries Irk the Calling’s Old Guard — Gerbil News Network
It’s a tradition. This is the fourth year I’m posting this on Memorial Day weekend for two specific reasons:
Years ago I worked at an American Legion post. I met a lot of people during my time there. Some of them were ordinary people, some were interesting, some were bizarre and some were bizarrely interesting.
One of the more interesting people was Jack.
Jack constantly spoke in non sequiturs. At first I thought that he was simply hard of hearing, but I began to realize there was a thread of continuity in the things he was saying. His conversations would go off in seemingly weird and irrelevant tangents, but they generally made it back to their original points.
I’ve often wished that I had written some of them down, unfortunately I’m a moron.
Here are a few of my favorites that haven’t been lost to my faulty memory:
Jack: I remember when I paid only ten dollars a week for rent.
Other patron: We don’t live in the fifties anymore Jack.
Jack: What! (slamming his fist against the bar in indignation) I haven’t ridden a bicycle in years.
Other patron: What?
Jack: I’d rather pay for my truck insurance than ride a bicycle.
Other patron: Again, what?
Jack: I can barely afford to pay my for rent and my truck insurance.
Or this one:
Me: Do you want another beer Jack?
Jack: (giving me a dismissive wave): I don’t know anyone named Dan.
Me: Firstly, I asked you if wanted another beer. Secondly, what about Dan sitting there right next to you?
Jack: (looking at Dan suspiciously) His last name isn’t White.
Me: So?
Jack: Then why would someone named Dan White want to buy me a beer?
Me: Obviously he wouldn’t. I can’t believe I’ve behaved so foolishly.
But this was my favorite:
Me: How are you doing today Jack?
Jack: You’re nuts!
Me: I hesitate to ask, but apart from the obvious, why do say that?
Jack: My wife was never an Eskimo.
Yeah. I still have no idea.
Probably not Jack’s wife.
But of all the interesting people I met, John was the most interesting.
John had a lot of stories to tell and a keen willingness to tell them, under one condition: you had to keep a cold rum and coke in front of him. He needed the proper “lubrication” to keep the vocal chords going.
John was man in his late eighties but still very spry. He had a weird sense of humor, which was probably a good thing because his wife seemed to have none at all. She was constantly reprimanding John for his jokes.
But that didn’t stop John.
John was a rifle bearer for the Honor Guard. One day after performing their duties, the members of the Honor Guard were returning to the post to have a few drinks together, as was their custom.
John walked calmly up to bar in full dress uniform, carrying his rifle, and wearing his eye-patch (John had to occasionally wear an eye-patch because of condition he had. He claimed he wore so he didn’t see double after he’s had a few too many) and stood there with a slight impish grin on his face.
He looked like pirate.
He then quickly pulled the rifle to his shoulder and discharged it toward the back of the bar.
The crack of the rifle echoed through the hall. If you’ve never heard a rifle discharged in a building, it’s loud. Beer flew into air, drinks were spilled, people scattered, some hit the floor. Even though I knew it was only a blank, it was still jarring to have a weapon discharged in your general direction.
A cloud of smoke hung in air the along with the pungent smell of spent gun powder. For a moment after the echo of the rifle had disappeared there was total silence. Then there chaos. Some people were laughing; some people were not. Some people were cursing, especially John’s wife, who unleashed a stream of foul language that to this day, I am certain has never been matched.
Once I made sure I still a whole person, I laughed, maybe as hard as I ever had in my life.
He later told me he thought it would be funny.
“When isn’t heart failure funny,” I told him.
John was reprimanded by the post, but that didn’t bother him. In fact, I’m not sure I ever saw anything bother him.
John was there that day on June 6th 1944. It’s estimated that 2,500 allied soldiers lost their lives on D-Day… but John didn’t. He had to hang around long enough to nearly scare me to death.
So this Memorial Day weekend, I’m dedicating this blog post to Jack, John and every other veteran who is no longer with us.
idiotpruf 