idiotprufs

Illegal in 38 states–frowned upon in the rest.

Archive for the category “inspirational”

Vogon Poetry, Now Fourth Worst in the Universe

hitchhiker's guide

Do not let this Vogon read you his poetry.

Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy is quite clear on the point that Vogon poetry is the third worst in the universe:

“Vogon poetry is of course, the third worst in the universe. The second worst is that of the Azgoths of Kria. During a recitation by their poet master Grunthos the Flatulent of his poem “Ode to a Small Lump of Green Putty I Found in My Armpit One Midsummer Morning” four of his audience died of internal haemorrhaging and the president of the Mid-Galactic Arts Nobbling Council survived by gnawing one of his own legs off. Grunthos was reported to have been “disappointed” by the poem’s reception, and was about to embark on a reading of his 12-book epic entitled “My Favourite Bathtime Gurgles” when his own major intestine, in a desperate attempt to save humanity, leapt straight up through his neck and throttled his brain. The very worst poetry of all perished along with its creator, Paula Nancy Millstone Jennings (Paul Neil Milne Johnstone) of Redbridge, in the destruction of the planet Earth. Vogon poetry is mild by comparison.”

It is my endeavor to make it the fourth worst poetry in the universe:

There happened a witch who lived on a hill,

of diminutive size, but enormously shrill.

Unpleasing her countenance: all icky and warts,

when wickedly she cackles, how it twists and contorts. 

Her stench so loathsome like eggs and arm pit,

one whiff and you vomit in your mouth just a bit.

Small animals would flee, never again to be seen.

At least they weren’t trampled, as they well could have been.

Her sisters she’d gather, all cellulite and hate.

They would cackle and hiss and brag of the children they ate.

And eat they did much in their murky morass,

they had thick chunky thighs, like a hippo’s fat ass.

“We will taunt, we will curse, as well we see fit,

with toil and trouble and all that other Shakespearean shit.”

Their husbands did cower in a bleak silent hell,

for their wives weren’t just ugly, they’re mean as all hell.

But for these poor ladies, all their efforts did fail.

In the end it’s the hero who will always prevail.

Now the creatures just hide in a dark and dank place,

chugging Coors Light and shoving fudge in their face.

Does this tale have a moral, I don’t know it just might,

but probably not: I’m not very bright.

And now Vogon poetry is the fourth worst in the universe. Thank you.

Have a happy towel day and please:towwel day

My Sincerest Apologies

sea monkeyA few months ago I detailed how distraught I was after discovering I had missed National Toothache Day.

This pales in comparison to that oversight.

Yesterday was National Sea-Monkey Day.

I MISSED NATIONAL SEA-MONKEY DAY!

What the hell? It feels like I just woke up on December, 26th and thought to myself: it feels like I missed something yesterday–why do I crave eggnog?

Sea-Monkeys have been such a huge part of my life and this blog. I even wrote an entire post about how Sea-Monkeys are preferable to my aunts and uncles.

(But to be fair, a rotting bloated corpse infected with Ebola is preferable to my aunts and uncles.)

I’ve laughed with Sea-Monkeys. I’ve wept with Sea-Monkeys. I can’t think of a single important event in my life of which Sea-Monkeys weren’t an integral part.

(Except maybe when I lost my virginity–there were no Sea-Monkeys involved with that–I’m not a weirdo.)

Sea-Monkeys are fantastic companions:

  • They’re great listeners.
  • They almost never interrupt you.
  • They don’t hog the bathroom–they go right in the bowl.
  • They never take the last beer.
  • They laugh with me, not at me.
  • They hate mimes as much as I do.
  • They never touch the remote–they’re happy with what I want to watch.
  • They never get anchovies on the pizza–anchovies are their natural enemies.
  • They’re really into William Blake.
  • And if for some reason they do act up a little, I can just leave a bottle of cocktail sauce by their bowl. They’re brine shrimp–they get the picture.

I want to extend my deepest and most sincere apologies to all of the Sea-Monkeys out there: I will never let you down again.

Final Note: There is absolutely no truth to the rumor that I once guzzled a bowl of Sea-Monkeys on a drunken dare. It is a heinous fabrication of the worst kind. A vicious, nasty, horrible, deliciously salty lie.

fish

The anchovy–natural enemy of the Sea-Monkey.

 

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.

Just Keeping it Real?

rude

A few posts back I mentioned my displeasure with people excusing their ill-behavior by saying, “I’m just keeping it real.”

Recently I’ve encountered several memes in this vein littering Facebook.

I'm not rude

Let us be clear about this: rudeness and honesty are not mutually exclusive traits. I would argue much rudeness is simply an expression of unnecessary honesty.

Let’s say you see a person who you believe could stand to lose a few pounds and you say, “hey fatty, you need to lay off Ding-Dings before you go into a sugar coma.”

Honest: very possibly.

Rude: without question.

If you meet a person you find to be less than attractive and you utter something like, “you know, the thought of dating you makes me vomit in my mouth a little.”

Honest: why not?

Rude: absolutely. (Plus, I was having a bad hair day so it really wasn’t fair.)

If you take a bite of your aunt’s potato salad at a family picnic, and you gag then loudly proclaim that it tastes like a monkey peed on death…well that’s just funny.

Then there’s this meme: I'm not rude meme

Knowing and having been around some of the people who have slapped memes such as this one on their Facebook page; I can state without fear of contradiction: you and I have never been thinking the same thing. Ever!

In fact, the words that tumble from your lips tend to be quite shocking.

It’s not shocking that you’ve said them; it’s just shocking that they’re the product of an undiseased human brain.

But this is the meme I really appreciate:hoenst bitch

Let’s take those exact same words and rearrange them slightly:

I’m not just brutally honest. I’m a bitch.

Is that rude?

Hey, I’m just trying to keep real.

I’ve Missed Again

regret

My life is littered with regrets.

  • The time I saw that pretty girl and didn’t introduce myself.
  • The time I saw that pretty girl and did introduce myself. (The pepper spray was entirely uncalled for.)
  • Every time I’ve uttered the phrase ‘what’s the worst that could happen’ right before doing something.
  • The time as a child I tried to melt Play-Doh on the stove.
  • The time as an adult I tried to melt Play-Doh on the stove. (I’m not sure what I thought would have changed, certainly not smoke alarms.)
  • The time my uncle told me to grab the electric fence behind my grandmother’s house…and I listened to him.
  • The shocking amount of times I’ve underestimated the power of electricity.
  • The time I was asked by a woman “how stupid do you think I am” and I gave a quantifying answer.
  • The time a woman asked me to guess her age and I answered her honestly.
  • The sheer disappointment certain to be felt by anyone searching for the Phil Collins classic Missed Again, and this blog is what they find instead.
  • The sheer disappointed this blog causes in general.
  • My Hello Kitty phase. (I’m just joking about this one–I regret nothing!)
  • That I have once again missed National Toothache Day.

That’s right. February 9th was National Toothache Day and I’ve completely missed it. The decorations never mad it out the box. And I completely forgot about the traditional National Toothache Day dinner: Gummi Bears, Mountain Dew, and a big heaping bowl of molasses, followed by poor oral hygiene.

I’d say don’t cry over spilled milk, but National Don’t Cry Over Spilled Milk Day was February 11th. I Missed that one too!

I’m starting to feel anxious, but National Stress Day isn’t until November 4th.

You have no idea how much that stresses me out!

From this point forward I’m marking my calendar.

I’ve already circled March 5th: National Multiple Personality Day. Last year I relied on one of my other personalities to remind me, but the only thing they ever tell me is to kill again.

But this year, we’ll be ready.

missed again

“You’ve missed again, idiotprufs.”

The 4-Way Stop in Rural Pennsylvania–The Bermuda Triangle of Traffic

You think this place is mysterious and unexplainable?

You think this place is mysterious and unexplainable?

It was suggested in the previous post that the complexities of the 4-way stop in rural Pennsylvania are comparable to Physics or high-level mathematics.

Outlandish you say?

As you approach it, you begin to feel a queasiness in your stomach. You can’t see it yet, but you know it’s out there, looming in the distance.

Then you see it.

That queasiness in your stomach tightens into a knot.

Your heart pounds.

Tendrils of fear burrow down your spine.

Your palms dampen and beads of sweat build on your forehead.

You’re sweating like a virgin on prom night.

You are bearing down on a 4-way stop in rural Pennsylvania.

The 4-way stop in rural Pennsylvania is the Bermuda Triangle of the driving world. The gauges in your vehicle begin to malfunction. The laws of physics begin to fail. You become disoriented and a form of temporary stupidity sets in–on occasions the stupidity is permanent. The rules of polite society crumble into chaos.

Despite the evidence, there are a distinct set of rules to follow when approaching a 4-way stop in rural Pennsylvania:

  1. Prepare your insurance information before you get to the intersection, keeping in mind the inevitable collision.
  2. Ease your way toward the intersection, displaying cautious trepidation.
  3. Make eye contact with the other motorists, looking for signs of fear and weakness.
  4. Identify the motorist displaying the most fear and weakness, he has the right of way.
  5. Wait for the motorist who has the right of way to go.
  6. Motion disgustedly when nobody goes.
  7. Spend several interminable moments as all the motorists gawk numbly at each other.
  8. Disgustedly pull into the intersection.
  9. Slam on the brakes after all of the motorists have pulled into the intersection.
  10. Slowly put your vehicle in reverse as you suspiciously eye the other motorists.
  11. Exclaim, “what the hell is wrong with these idiots,” when again, nobody goes.
  12. Decide you’ve had enough and floor it.
  13. Push the airbag away from your face as it deflates.
  14. Marvel at the 4 car collision you’ve just been a part of.
  15. Curse loudly…or at least as loudly as you can with a broken jaw.

The following warning sign should be before every 4-way stop in rural Pennsylvania:

road_sign_rectangal_blank

Amelia Earhart didn’t disappear over the Bermuda Triangle; she’s at a 4-way stop outside of Erie Pennsylvania, shaking her fist at a bunch of idiots.

Exactly

Exactly.

You’re Not Really a Bad Person

snidley whiplash

“You can tell by my maniacal sneer I’m a good guy.”

You’re not really a bad person.

Sure, you parked in front of that fire hydrant despite the big sign clearly indicating not to park in front of the fire hydrant. You know, because of all the laws and such.

You couldn’t have possibly known that orphanage would catch on fire.

You did see some smoke coming from the building, but you imagined a nice cozy fire burning in the fireplace…midday in the middle of August.

And while it seemed odd the smoke was emanating from a window and not a chimney, you’re not a fireplace expert.

Besides, it wasn’t very much smoke…at first.

For all you knew, they were just electing a new orphan pope.

And you’re all for freedom of religion, despite that time you punched that Jehovah’s Witness in the face. But he rang the doorbell and got you out of bed…it was barely past noon.

And while you made the decision to argue with the firemen rather than allow them the unimpeded ability to aide the orphans who were now fleeing for their lives from a burning building, we all have our priorities.

Hey! Those firemen put a scratch on your car that isn’t going to buff out.

What’s the big deal anyway? They’re orphans–they’re used to hardship.

You probably shouldn’t have cursed at that nun, but it was a very intense situation. And that crack she made about your future be filled with damnation and hellfire just seemed mean.

No! You are not a bad person at all.

fire forest

Fires make everything nice and toasty warm.

 

Virginia Zoo Misplaces Weird Looking Panda

red-panda-2The Virginia Zoo has announced that it has lost Sunny, its prized red panda. A frantic search was launched Tuesday morning when it was discovered Sunny wasn’t in her enclosure.

Upon investigation it was discovered a dimwitted caretaker named Ron was responsible for the escape. It seems Ron believing that Sunny was some weird raccoon that had gotten into the panda enclosure, opened the gate and shooed it away by manically waving a feces encrusted pitchfork and screaming, “git you weird raccoon, git.”

It seems the zoo has endured several odd mishaps at the hands of Ron; some of them involving misplaced animals, many of them involving feces, most of them disturbing.

“The biggest problem we have with Ron is that he is almost completely stupid,” one zoo official said. “He was kicked repeatedly in the head by a bongo antelope…and he was remarkably stupid before he got kicked in the head by a bongo antelope. You should never try to collect an animals feces by standing behind it with a bag.”

bongo antelope

Bongo antelopes prefer to do their business in private.

After days of searching, Sunny still has not been located. Zoo officials fear the red panda has escaped the boundaries of the Zoo.

“Ron has a way of driving things away,” the zoo official said. “Usually it’s women, but I guess this time it was a red panda.”

While the zoo officials remain hopeful, they do concede that when Ron drives something away, it generally flees the state and changes its name.

Addendum

While recalling one incident involving Ron, a wombat, and a bag of feces, one colleague began to laugh so hysterically he lost consciousness.

wombat poop

Wombat feces: they do look like brownies, especially if you’re an idiot.

What the Hell is Going on?

drinking monkey

(image source: washingtontimes.com)

 

Here is an excerpt from an article from The Washington Times.

Right now the National Institutes of Health is spending $3.2 million to get monkeys to drink alcohol excessively to determine what effect it has long term on their body tissue.

What the hell is going on?
I have so many problems with this:
  • Do you think it’s wise for an animal already prone to flinging it’s crap, to drink alcohol excessively? Crap flinging is the main reason Piers Morgan gets shut off at his local pub after only two drinks.
  • I don’t need $3.2 million to tell what the long term effect of drinking alcohol on body tissue: it’s really bad. In fact, alcohol is practically a cure for not having cirrhosis.
  • There’s already been long term documentation on the effects of drinking alcohol excessively. It was called Jersey Shore, and the results were horrifying. Odd skin discoloration, weird ceramic looking hair, annoying speech patterns, promiscuous behavior and a general oafishness, were just some of the effects displayed during this study.
  • What questionable methods are these researchers employing to get these monkeys to drink excessively? Do they give them low paying jobs and put them in loveless marriages, and constantly remind them of their unfulfilled potential? Do they make listen to bleak Russian poetry with its dark imagery and veiled critique of Stalinism, or worse: Sylvia Plath poems. Do they make them watch Jersey Shore reruns with the knowledge that these people are now wealthy and famous. The possibilities are all very disturbing.

And then I came upon this excerpt from the same article:

NIH also has handed out $69,459 to the University of Missouri to study whether text messaging college students before they attend pre-football game tailgates will encourage them to drink less and “reduce harmful effects related to alcohol consumption.”

What the hell is going on?

We’re spending money trying to stop college students from drinking at football games. That’s like trying to stop plants from photosynthesising in the sunlight.

Meanwhile, we’re forcing alcohol, and likely Sylvia Plath, down the throats of innocent monkeys!

What the hell is going on?

And how are these text messages supposed to work? Are they based on how well the warnings on the packs of cigarettes have worked? You could put the following warning on a pack of cigarettes:

Smoking can cause heart disease, lung cancer, strokes, bad breath, rabies, Ebola, explosive diarrhea, your left eyeball will pop out of it’s socket at really inconvenient times, dry mouth, and your penis may or may not fall off.

And all a smoker will think is: whoa, this must be the good stuff.

Why do we even bother putting people in prison when all we have to do is send out the following text message:

Dear Good People,

Please refrain from theft, assault, and most crucially–murder. Basically anything illegal. You get the idea. After all, what are we–a bunch of drunken monkeys? lol.

Thank you for your time.

This is all very disturbing to me. I think I’ll join the monkeys and have a cocktail. I may even fling a little crap.

 

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