It is a well known and widely accepted fact that garden gnomes are evil creatures of the night.
They spend their days in an inanimate state, surrounding the homes of the naïve, who have become witless servants to their evil machinations.
They often assume silly poses and sport whimsical names such as Boddywinkle or Fudwick.
Do not be fooled by this subterfuge, they are maniacal creatures with evil plans.
There are some in the so-called “scientific community” who will try to tell you this is hokum, mere nonsense.
Some are those who are secretly working in concert with the gnomes, helping to propagate their plans for world domination.
Some of these men of science are just quacks; they don’t believe gardens gnomes come to life at night. They don’t believe in ghosts or bigfoot or that the Earth is flat. Quacks!
Here is a short list of some of nighttime activities in which garden gnomes engage:
See what I mean–pure evil.
There is a singular weapon that is particularly effective in the battle against garden gnomes: a silver plated shovel. (You can also kill them with a regular shovel, but it’s not nearly as cool.)
This menace must be dispatched.
Their plans to foment anarchy must be stopped.
Get your shovel today and join me in this call to arms.
Warning: You might have crybaby neighbors who have a proclivity for calling the police, acquiring court orders, or posting videos of you smashing their garden gnomes in your footy pajamas. So be careful.
|jack elam you sure ask a lot of questions|
|happy face idiot|
|wifes feet dont smell enough|
|cartoon scientists pictures|
|punch an idiot in the face day|
|bug eyed cartoon characters|
|job interview with gator boots|
|school counselors dumb|
|my idiot neighbor|
Several random thoughts immediately leapt into my brain after this cluster of search terms appeared on my stats page.
Note: there’s a lot of room in my brain for random thoughts to leap, stretch out, or do an entire gymnastic floor routine; it’s pretty vacant up there.
Thoughts such as:
After doing an extensive amount of research (Google) I discovered “punch an idiot in the face day” isn’t a real thing.
Then I had another thought: just because something isn’t a real thing, doesn’t mean it can’t be.
So after once again doing an extensive amount of research (Wikipedia) into the process of initiating a ballot measure in the great Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, I came to a conclusion: it’s a lot more work than I am willing to do.
Just a few of the things required:
See what I mean, and this is just the first page.
Then I had another thought (I’ve been on fire with thoughts lately) I need to think like a politician: I just need to convince a bunch of willing dupes to pursue my vision, let them do all the work, then take all the credit when the initiative passes.
I will keep you updated.
People in this country will forgive a lot of things, maybe even most things, but there is one thing people find unforgivable.
One thing that is so contemptuous, so vile, that it will send normally docile people over the edge.
It causes the young and healthy to have debilitating brain aneurysms, and reduces white-haired grandmothers to obscene gestures and obscenity laced tirades.
It even caused Pope Francis to punch a mime in the face.
What is this one thing: people who screw-up traffic.
Note: I was just kidding about people who screw-up traffic causing Pope Francis to punch a mime in the face; mimes are the reason Pope Francis punched a mime in the face.
Other motorists don’t care why you’re screwing up traffic, just that you are screwing up traffic. You could be slumped over your steering wheel with an arrow protruding from one of your eyes sockets and most compassionate thing you’re gonna hear from another motorist is: “Hey idiot–use your good eye.”
The incident causing traffic to be screwed-up could be completely beyond your control.
Note: In an unrelated matter, did you know that without transmission fluid, a car is less of an automobile and more of a giant metal traffic clogger? It is.
Here are just some of the ways you can screw-up traffic:
Remember: it doesn’t matter why you’ve screwed-up traffic, just that you have.
Do you think that people hate O.J. Simpson because he got away with double-homicide? No. It’s because when the police came to get him, he got in that Ford Bronco, got on the California highway on a Friday afternoon and screwed-up traffic.
A mother’s effort to honor her young children went terribly wrong when the tattoo she got of her son’s name was spelled incorrectly — so she took what some might call an unusual approach. Fortunately her friends and family convinced her not to have her armed amputated, but to rename her son after the tattoo.
“Kevin,” the two-year-old son of Johanna Sandstrom, of Sweden, was renamed “Kelvin” after a tattoo artist inked the wrong name on her arm.
Sandstrom’s tattoo read: Nova & Kelvin which was clearly a mistake.
“I had never heard the name ‘Kelvin’ before,” she said. “There isn’t anyone who names their kid Kelvin; lots of people name their kids Fahrenheit or Celsius, but never Kelvin. So when I thought more about it, I realized that no one else has this name. It became unique. Now we think it is better than Kevin.”
It also seemed a lucky stroke for Sandstrom’s daughter, whose name was changed from Ass-faced Hag to Nova, following the erroneous tattoo.
When asked to explain the mistake, the Swedish tattoo artist simply said, “in my previous job I wrote the assembly instructions for Ikea products; I was bound to screw this up incomprehensibly.”
Sandstrom told the newspaper she’ll make sure to check “10,000 times” before she gets the name of her third child, Freja, tattooed.
“Or maybe I’ll just get a skull with a snake slithering through it’s eye socket,” she added, “it’s 50/50 right now.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Traffic at the intersection of routes 28 and 85 in Rayburn Township, Pennsylvania, was shut down by a pair of cows having amorous relations. According Trooper John Corna, troopers “kept trying to shoo them off the highway, but that just got the bull mad and it started to escalate.”
Of course it made him mad, wouldn’t it make you mad if you were trying to have an intimate moment with your lady friend, and a man started shooing you?
Well, it really ticks off bulls.
In a previous post about bull-riders, I detailed a few things that bulls hate. I may have left that list a tad incomplete. So in the interest of completion, (pun intended) more things that make bulls angry:
If I have left anything off the list, I apologize.
It’s really irritating when you want to finish something, but can’t; just ask the bull.
So I recently stumbled across a news story that detailed how a man in Holland Township, Michigan, accidentally set fire to his apartment. The fire spread and destroyed eight other apartments in his building and damaged two dozen other units.
When he set fire to his apartment, he was doing something that some might describe as ill-advised. Others would say it was foolish. But to most of us, it was an act of downright stupidity.
What was it that he was doing when he set fire to his apartment?
The following is a list of possible things the man in Michigan was doing when he started the fire.
Which one do you think is the real story?
So what do you think?
If you don’t feel like guessing, here’s the story: nbcnews.com.
There is one salient fact about Limburger cheese: it is just awful. The only time I would need Limburger cheese, would be if I needed something that smelled like death and the smell from my giant pile of opossum crap just wasn’t enough.
The bacterium used to ferment Limburger cheese is the same bacterium that is responsible for body odor, and in particular, foot odor.
Limburger cheese was first created in the Duchy of Limburg in the 19th century by a man who had just come home from a hard day of cheese making. He had unbuckled and removed his boots, and was attempting to enjoy a meal with his wife, when he and his wife got into an argument that changed the history of cheese making forever.
Wife: What is that horrendous smell?
Cheesemaker: Ooh, we’re having stoofvlees, I love stoofvlees.
Wife: It’s the most putrid smell I have ever encountered.
Cheesemaker: I don’t smell anything. Pass the ale.
Wife: I think it’s your feet.
Cheesemaker: Seriously. Pass the ale.
Wife: It’s rancorous.
Cheesemaker: It’s not that bad.
Wife: It is that bad. There are people retching on the other side of the Demer River.
Cheesemaker: Do you know what this conversation isn’t doing? It isn’t remedying the fact that I have no ale.
Wife: Your feet smell worse than that giant pile of opossum crap you have behind the house.
Cheesemaker: I’ll get my own ale.
Wife: Why do you even have a giant pile of opossum crap?
Cheesemaker: I’ll tell you why, (he pauses to take a slug of ale) because someday you’ll be in desperate need of copious amounts of opossum crap, and you’ll be glad it’s there.
Wife: I’ve thought the same thing about you, but it still hasn’t happened. Besides it’s the worst smell in the world.
Cheesemaker: Nonsense. It’s not the worst smell in the world. In fact, I’ll bet that I could make a cheese that smells worse.
Wife: I doubt it.
Cheesemaker: You’ll see; it will become my mission.
Wife: Shut up and drink your ale.
And drink his ale he did.
And succeed he did–beyond his wildest ale fueled dreams.
Of course his wife left him and his giant pile of opossum crap.
The Duchy of Limburg is now divided by modern-day Germany, the Netherlands, and Belgium. None of the three countries wanted it: it reeked of Limburger cheese and developed a huge opossum problem.
Addendum: there are historians who will tell you certain items in this story aren’t factual–historians suck.