I don’t want you to get too excited, but today is International Carrot Day.
That’s right. An entire day to celebrate everything about carrots.
Frankly, it may not be enough time
Here are a few quick facts about the carrot.
Carrots were originally multi-colored until Dutch farmers crossbred yellow and red carrots to create the now-familiar orange carrot in the 1600s. (Only slightly more critical than the Dutch idea that your date pays for their own meal.)
It’s a myth that carrots help you to see better in the dark. It’s radioactive carrots that help you see better in the dark…provided you don’t die from radiation poisoning.
This myth was created by the British during World War II to conceal the fact that their pilots were using newly developed radar. I think the truth is they got their hands on some radioactive carrots.
Having carrot cake for a snack allows you to pretend you’re having a healthy snack.
When eating a carrot, it’s fun to repeatedly say, “What’s up, doc,” and pretend that you are Bugs Bunny.
1st-century Greek physician Dioscorides wrote in his 1st-century pharmacopeia of herbs and medicines, De Materia Medica, that “the root of the carrot can be cooked and eaten.” Man, those Greeks were on top of their shit.
Maybe the most crucial fact: a carrot is a perfect thing to use to make a snowman’s nose and, if you’re so inclined, a snowman’s penis.
So go out there today and celebrate International Carrot Day by having yourself a fistful of carrots, but try to avoid radioactive carrots; they will genuinely make your hair fall out.
As the new year arrives, the annual acts of introspection, personal assessment, and deep soul-searching are effervescing across the nation, spurring aspirations for self-improvement.
The New Year’s resolutions abound.
Some resolutions are to purge undesirable habits: smoking, picking your nose, being Joy Behar, punching people in the face who press you on what your New Year’s resolutions are.
Some resolutions are to adopt desirable habits: a healthy diet, good hygiene, not being Joy Behar, apologizing profusely after punching the person in the face who pressed you on what your New Year’s resolutions are.
Some people simply resolve to approach life with a more positive attitude toward their fellow man; they feel they can make the world a brighter place.
To all of this, I have one response: Wake Up Fools! Your fellow man sucks.
You’re awesome; it’s everybody else that needs to change.
To that end, here is my 2025 list of resolutions for others:
Don’t walk around on December 31st and say, “See you next year” to everyone you meet and chortle as if you’ve just invented it.
Don’t respond to the “See you next year” guy by sharpening a stick to a fine point and poking him in the eye with it as you say, “Now you won’t,” regardless of how appropriate it may seem.
If somebody says something you find funny, just laugh like a normal human being; don’t say lol out loud.
Don’t ride your skateboard in the middle of the street as if you own it; I will run you over, you smug little bastard.
Don’t run around showing people pictures of a footprint that you think is indisputable proof of Bigfoot. Your wife has hobbit feet and she walks around barefoot entirely too much.
Don’t place your new mooning garden gnome, Willard, facing your neighbor’s kitchen window.
Don’t act all surprised when your new mooning garden gnome, Willard, is mysteriously smashed to bits in the middle of the night.
Don’t accuse your neighbor of things you can’t prove.
Don’t inadvertently set your garage on fire while attempting to rid it of a hornet’s nest with a road flare. As funny as it was, you’re a menace to the neighborhood.
If you’re a mime, don’t be.
Don’t bring the express lane at the supermarket to a screeching halt by getting into a protracted conversation about your nephew Josh with the cashier. We’re all upset that he’s back in jail, but if you’re on probation, you shouldn’t be smoking crack.
If you’re on probation, don’t smoke crack.
If you are on probation and you are smoking crack, don’t do it in your car.
If you are on probation and you are smoking crack in your car, don’t do it while driving over the speed limit…or on the sidewalk.
Don’t post proof of your probationary violations on Facebook with the description: look what I did.
Don’t tweet about your incriminating Facebook post just to ensure everyone sees it.
Don’t assure someone that you have beer in your fridge and then hand them a Natural Light.
Put all the baby pictures away; your first three children were ugly, and I’m sure this one will be, too.
Everything your child does is not precious unless, by precious, you mean annoying beyond the ability to be described with words.
It’s never good to start a story with the phrase: my child did the most precious thing in juvenile court today.
Don’t get all pissy when you see something on a list that you think may pertain to you; it absolutely does pertain to you. Learn from it.
Finally and simply: don’t pretend you’re not a moron if you are a moron (you know who you are).
Addendum: I saw the picture of your baby; he looks like a potato.
It’s Christmastime again: the perfect opportunity to brighten the spirits of a loved one with the gift of the rutabaga.
What’s so special about the rutabaga, you may ponder–what isn’t so special about the rutabaga is my response.
They can be roasted.
They can be baked.
They can be boiled as a flavor enhancer in soups.
They can be boiled as a flavour enhancer in soups in Great Britain. (You wouldn’t believe how much tastier the soup is with that extra U in the word flavour.)
They can be thinly julienned as a side dish, in a salad, or as a garnish.
They can be thinly julienned and used to clean up oil spills in the driveway.
They can be mashed into a paste and used to degrease engines.
They can be mashed into a paste and used as a beautifying face cream. (It won’t make you more attractive, but it will cover your face–which, if you’re being honest, is the problem.)
You can make rutabaga ice cream.
You can make a rudimentary boiled rutabaga stew that was a staple of famine-ridden Europe during the war and pretend you’re living in famine-ridden Europe during the war…because pretending is fun.
You can chuck them at the heads of people you don’t like.
You can chuck them at the heads of people you’re ambivalent about.
You can chuck them at the heads of people you do like. (The thunk of a rutabaga bouncing off a human skull is surprisingly satisfying regardless of the target.)
You can fill your child’s stocking with them. (But ensure they’re fresh; they can attract flies.)
You can use them to attract flies.
You can carve them into lanterns, as was the old Irish tradition.
You can carve them into lanterns and chuck them at people’s heads. (Hopefully the beginnings of a new tradition.)
And finally, you can make the traditional Finnish Christmas dish Lanttulaatikko.
Lanttulaatikko is a delicious Finnish Christmas dish–you can also chuck it at people’s heads.
Autumn is upon you; there’s a crispness in the air, the birds are on their annual journey south, and your neighbor, Mary Jo, has already begun her ritual of blowing her fallen leaves into your yard. Another important rite of fall is finding the perfect pumpkin to carve into a jack-o-lantern. There are many things to look for when searching for the perfect pumpkin. The pumpkin’s rind should be hard and leathery, much like your neighbor Mary Jo’s face. It should have no cracks, cuts, or soft spots. You can test the rind by gently poking it with your fingernail or by shooting it with a crossbow. As tempting as it may be, do not test Mary Jo’s face by poking it with your fingernail–she bites. Definitely do not, shoot her in the face with a crossbow; you’re not the type who would flourish in prison. When your fingernail or the arrow hits the pumpkin, it should make a thunk as if it’s hollow–that’s the pumpkin you want. Actually, you don’t want that pumpkin; you want the pumpkin next to it: some jackass shot that pumpkin with an arrow. You also want to avoid weak or broken stems; you want to feel a firm, dark green stem. (Add your own filthy joke here.) A traditional pumpkin will be a solid orange color from top to bottom. You should look for a round-shaped pumpkin; they are easier to carve and have more seeds for roasting or spitting at people; both activities are fun. It is optimal to find a pumpkin with a flat bottom. Pumpkins with flat bottoms are more stable and less likely to tip over when lit. Mary Jo’s flat bottom has the opposite effect. You should avoid pumpkins with dull or discolored areas on top, which can be evidence of frost damage. It’s best to avoid pumpkins with small spots or blemishes, as they can indicate a bug infection. It is astonishing how many of these steps also apply to your neighbor, Mary Jo. Once you have chosen the perfect pumpkin, it is time to carve the jack-o-lantern. It’s a good idea to make an outline of the design you want with a marker before carving. You can choose either a funny face or the traditional hideous, scary face. Mary Jo’s face is a good template for the latter. You’ll want to use a good-sized carving knife and make sure the blade is plenty sharp. At some point, you will cut your thumb off, and you want the cut to be as clean as possible so the doctors can reattach it without too much difficulty. Some people like to carve their jack-o-lanterns outside due to the mess, but you may want to avoid carving the jack-o-lantern outdoors; a crow will steal your severed thumb. Once you’ve finished your jack-o-lantern and cleaned up all the blood (if you are going for a scary jack-o-lantern, the blood spatter may enhance it), you need to find a prominent place to display your handiwork for all to see. But you would do well to remember: within twenty minutes of placing your jack-o-lantern on your front porch, one of Mary Jo’s slack-jawed reprobate children will smash it in the street.
As you drive down the road, you begin to feel a queasiness in your stomach. You don’t know what is causing this feeling, but you know something is out there, looming in the distance.
The farther you travel, the uneasiness transitions to a feeling of impending doom.
Then you see it.
That queasiness in your stomach constricts into a tight knot. Your heart pounds. Tendrils of fear speed down your spine.
Your palms dampen, and beads of sweat build on your forehead.
You are bearing down on a four-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, and the laws of physics falter.
You become disoriented as a form of temporary stupidity sets in–on occasion, the stupidity is permanent.
The rules of polite society crumble into chaos.
Despite the evidence, there is a distinct set of rules to follow when approaching a 4-way stop in rural Pennsylvania:
Prepare your insurance information before you get to the intersection in anticipation of the inevitable collision.
Ease your way toward the intersection, displaying cautious trepidation.
Make eye contact with the other motorists, looking for signs of fear and weakness.
Identify the motorist displaying the most fear and weakness; he has the right of way.
Wait for the motorist who has the right of way to go.
Realize by his dull, lifeless eyes, the driver with the right of way has no clue he has the right of way. (You’re not sure if he knows he’s driving.)
Sigh disgustedly when nobody goes.
Spend several interminable moments as all four motorists gawk numbly at each other.
Disgustedly pull into the intersection.
Slam on the brakes after all four motorists have pulled into the intersection simultaneously.
Slowly put your vehicle in reverse as you suspiciously eye the other motorists.
Exclaim, “What the hell is wrong with these idiots,” when, again, nobody goes.
Decide you’ve had enough and floor it.
Push the airbag away from your face as it deflates.
Marvel at the 4 car collision you’ve just been a part of.
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:
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.
Addendum: On occasion, in rural Pennsylvania, one of the conveyances at the four-way stop will be an Amish buggy. If that is the case, be prepared to be flipped off by an angry Amish dude and bitten by a horse.
It occurred to me the other day that if the William Penn, founder of the English colony of Pennsylvania, had been named William Tran, then I would been born in the great Commonwealth of Transylvania.
Wouldn’t that be awesome!
The Sylvanias have so much in common.
Bram Stoker’s fictional character Dracula.
Dracula was based the real-life ruler Vlad the Impaler. Vlad Dracula was known for committing many acts of brutality, his favorite being impaling his enemies on stakes.
There are numerous tourist attractions around Transylvania connected to Vlad.
Bran Castle, a tourist attraction associated with Vlad the Impaler. (I wonder if pigeons poop on it,)
We have a statue of Rocky.
Statue of Rocky. (Pigeons definitely poop on it.)
Rocky Balboa is a fictional character created by actor and filmmaker Sylvester Stallone, (himself known for brutal acts of annunciation) based on the real-life boxer Chuck Wepner.
An eerie church in Transylvania. (Pigeons are afraid to poop here.)
We have a place literally named Erie!
Erie, Pennsylvania: it may be spelled differently, but it’s just as creepy. (Pigeons don’t poop here, but the seagulls crap on everything.)
Transylvania is romanticized as place inhabited by supernatural creatures such as vampires, werewolves, and monsters.
Abott and Costello knew all about these monsters.
We have a groundhog the predicts the freaking weather.
Abott and Costello knew almost nothing about Punxsutawney Phil.
There’s a bunch of other similarities between Pennsylvania and Transylvania involving steel production, ethnic and religious backgrounds, and geographical features, but that crap is all boring.
So I’ll leave you with the one striking difference between Pennsylvania and Transylvania.
The Transylvania State football team is just a bunch of tiny, slow-footed, pasty-faced, European guys.
Penn State great Franco Harris smashing through the Transylvania State offensive line.
All you want is to give the perfect gift for Christmas. The gift that will brighten a child’s face. The gift that shows thoughtfulness and caring. The type of gift that will result in moments to be cherished forever.
What a load of crap that is!
You are an insensitive oaf, but social convention dictates you must give gifts at Christmastime. What you really want is to give gifts that won’t result in icy glares from your significant other and, more crucially, gifts that won’t result in a face-stabbing.
Granted, most of your attempts at gift-giving have not resulted in a face-stabbing, but there have been enough face-stabbing occurances to preclude you from using the phrase, isolated incidents.
Who would have thought a weight loss book, a thigh master, a bottle of rum, and a set of kitchen knives were a bad combination of gifts?
Maybe the fact that it was a weight loss book for dummies that put the gift recipient over the edge.
It could have also been the rum-soaked eggnog she was belting down all day.
Since I’m practically an expert at screwing things up badly (I mean, I am shockingly good at it), I am going to aid you in what gifts not to give.
Don’t give your goth friend a bottle of skin bronzer. Her pale, nearly translucent skin is her choice. It is not a result of her inability to tan naturally. Her flesh will not burst into flames if it’s exposed to real sunlight. It’s Holy water that makes her flesh burst into flames.
Don’t give your girlfriend, and I cannot stress this too strongly, a self-help book of any kind with the phrase “for dummies” in the title.
Unless, of course, a face-stabbing is exactly what you want for Christmas.
Don’t give your friend the book: Why Men Love Bitchs. His girlfriend Amanda won’t appreciate it; what he really needs is a book about better decision-making.
Don’t give your stepmother a jar of anti-wrinkle cream and a bottle of wart remover. She will not appreciate them…regardless of how desperately they’re needed.
Don’t give your stepfather, who likes to hunt, a book of vegetarian recipes; he’s just going to use its pages to start the fire he’s going to use to roast the woodchuck he hit with his pickup truck on the way to the Christmas party.
Don’t get your vegan friend that Chia Pet. It looks entirely too much like food; eventually, he’s going to try to eat it. He’ll be rushed to the hospital, and his entire family will blame you.
Don’t give anyone you know this book.
Don’t avoid this gift because you fear recrimination. Avoid this gift because it’s just too late.
Don’t get your boss this mug; he may not have a sense of humor about it.
“Why does everybody laugh at me when I drink coffee?”
Addendum
If John Wayne Bobbitt had listened to me when I told him kitchen knives were a terrible Christmas gift for his wife Lorena, perhaps their marriage wouldn’t have become so severed.
A set of kitchen knives from Bed Bath and Beyond. It was the beyond that got John Wayne Bobbitt in trouble…she cut his penis off.
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.
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.
It’s Christmastime again: the perfect opportunity to brighten the spirits of a loved one with the gift of the rutabaga.
What’s so special about the rutabaga you may ponder–what isn’t so special about the rutabaga is my response.
They can be roasted.
They can be baked.
They can be boiled as a flavor enhancer in soups.
They can be boiled as a flavour enhancer in soups in Great Britain. (You wouldn’t believe how much tastier the soup is with that extra U in the word flavour.)
They can be thinly julienned as a side dish, in a salad, or as a garnish.
They can be thinly julienned and used to clean up oil spills in the driveway.
They can be mashed into a paste and used to degrease engines.
They can be mashed into a paste and used as a beautifying face cream. (It won’t make you more attractive, but it will cover your face–which if you’re being honest, is the problem.)
You can make rutabaga ice cream.
You can make a rudimentary boiled rutabaga stew that was a staple of famine-ridden Europe during the war and pretend you’re living in famine-ridden Europe during the war…because pretending is fun.
You can chuck them at the heads of people you don’t like.
You can chuck them at the heads of people you’re ambivalent about.
You can chuck them at the heads of people you do like. (The thunk of a rutabaga bouncing off a human skull is surprisingly satisfying regardless of the target.)
You can fill your child’s stocking with them. (But ensure they’re fresh; they can attract flies.)
You can use them to attract flies.
You can carve them into lanterns as was the old Irish tradition.
You can carve them into lanterns and chuck them at people’s heads. (Hopefully the beginnings of a new tradition.)
And finally, you can make the traditional Finnish Christmas dish Lanttulaatikko.
Lanttulaatikko is a delicious Finnish Christmas dish–you can also chuck it at people’s heads.
So don’t vilify me just because I don’t want to hear your children, see them, smell them, or be in their general vicinity. And I certainly don’t want to touch them–unnecessary and unwanted touching is precisely how the Black Plague proliferated. Flea-infested diseased riddled rats have taken the blame for far too long–it was filthy little children like yours.
And don’t try to tell me I should treasure your children’s presence because all children are precious. So is uranium and I don’t want to be around that.
Let’s Compare: it causes weakness, fatigue, fainting, and confusion. Bleeding from the nose, mouth, gums, and rectum. Bruising, skin burns, open sores on the skin, and sloughing of skin. Dehydration. Diarrhea and bloody stool. Fever. Hair loss. Nausea and vomiting. Organ failure and even death.
Uranium causes many of those same things.
Uranium, however, doesn’t scream like a psychotic brat at the top of its lungs because you didn’t give it an extra piece of fudge–uranium knows it’s already had enough and so should its mother.
So you and your precious children: just leave me be.
Addendum: If you believe there is the tiniest shred of a chance this post is referring to you and your children–it is!
If you need someone to watch your uranium or your children–I’ll take the uranium.
idiotpruf 