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idiotprufs

the blog that made the pope laugh so hard he peed himself.

Archive for the category “photo”

Squatchy

bigfoot

Alleged photo of bigfoot near Bradford, Pennsylvania…or a photo of a tree stump.

I am brimming with excitement and anticipation.

I am going to venture, intrepidly into the wilderness in the search for answers.

Bigfoot: does he exist? Is he out there? If he is out there, can I find him? If I do find him will I just pee myself and runaway? I probably will.

After exhaustive research (the Discovery Channel) of Bigfoot sightings, individuals who have made those sightings, and those who hunt for Bigfoot, I have prepared a list of all the things I will need to start my search:

  • I will need a large wooded area. Luckily for me, I live in rural Pennsylvania. I also live in an area where there have been actual Bigfoot sightings over the years. Rural Pennsylvania is also good for UFO sightings, alien abductions, haunted graveyards, and roving bands of cannibals. (I’m joking about the roving bands of cannibals–the vast majority of our cannibals tend to be quite sedentary…probably from the people they eat.)
  • It is also important for the area where you’re searching to have plenty of thick brush, large outcroppings of rock and thick walls of impenetrable fog and mist. The type of things that Bigfoot can quickly duck behind before you can get a clear picture of him.
  • A camera that takes pictures that are out of focus, out of frame, and generally blurry.
  • A FLIR thermal imaging camera. They’re great for picking up clear images of indistinct blobs.
  • You need an abnormally high percentage of your wardrobe to be camouflage, including your underwear and your wallet.
  • A motion activated camera. When motion enters their field of view it triggers a sensor, which promptly caused the camera to malfunction, burst into flames, and burn down half the woods.
  • A gun rack for the back of my pickup truck.
  • A pickup truck. (Preferably painted in camouflage.)
  • Bullet hole decals for my pickup truck…bigfoot hunters are badass.
  • The ability to pepper my vocabulary with the word squatchy regardless of context: I love what you’re done to your hair sweetheart–it’s squatchy.
  • A skeptic.

It always important for a group of Bigfoot hunters to have with them a reasonable skeptic with an analytical mind. The skeptic’s job is to ground over-exuberant bigfoot hunters, to provide a measure of scientific process to the proceedings, and to be condescendingly snarky.

Skeptics say things to bigfoot hunters such as:

  • It’s highly unlikely any type of simian would reside in these woods since they lack the requisite body fat for survival in a colder climate. We’re the only ones stupid enough to be wandering around the forest at night in this freaking cold.
  • Hey, don’t drop that camouflage wallet out here, or you’ll be doing some serious hunting.
  • A shower. Just once every day or two–think about it.
  • No. I don’t think those truck noises out by the highway have anything to do with bigfoot.
  • While a putrid sulfur smell is associated with bigfoot sightings, I don’t think that’s what this smell is from. Seriously…take a shower.

Once I have compiled all the necessary equipment from the list above and found myself a suitable skeptic, I will venture into the wilderness, and I will find the truth.

I may also get lost. If you don’t hear from me, send help.

bigfoot hunters

He’s got it.

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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.

Even More Taglines, Just to Piss You Off

drunken monkey

An avid reader of idiotrufs, and quite possibly the author.

Are you sick of taglines? Too bad.

Some more taglines for your consideration, amusement or scorn.

idiotprufs: the blog that’s had the hiccups since 1987.

idiotprufs: what happens when everything goes horribly wrong.

idiotprufs: the blog that taught Michael Jackson how to moonwalk, but had nothing to do with all that other weird stuff.

idiotprufs: the blog that was really freaked out by the flying monkeys from the Wizard of Oz.

idiotprufs: whatever stupidity happens to tumble from my brain.

idiotprufs: illegal in 38 states–frowned upon in the rest.

idiotprufs: the blog that doesn’t check to see if the milk has gone bad before it chugs it straight from the container.

idiotprufs: the blog that vomits far more often than it ought to.

idiotprufs: the real reason the dodo bird is now extinct.

idiotprufs: the blog that would have been burned at the stake in the Middle Ages.

idiotprufs: the blog that is often referred to as the juggernaut of the blogging world by people who are prone to hyperbole, and frequently imaginary.

idiotprufs: the blog that lost its virginity, but then immediately found it again. (It was right where it had left it.)

idiotprufs: the blog that giggles uncontrollably every time it meets someone from Intercourse, Pennsylvania.

idiotprufs: where brain cells go to die.

idiotprufs: the blog that has unsettling fantasies about Wolf Blitzer dressed in nothing but bicycle shorts and a monocle.

idiotprufs: the blog that can’t find Ecuador on a map…of Ecuador.

idiotprufs: the blog that thinks North Iowa is a state.

idiotprufs: the blog that plans to name its firstborn after a Muppet.

gonzo muppet

Gonzo: the probable name of idiotprufs’ first born (boy or girl).

idiotprufs: the blog that can do anything it wants because no one is paying attention anyway.

idiotprufs: the blog that wore alligator skin boots to its job interview with Peta, and got thrown out of the building.

idiotprufs: the blog that has been accused of smashing its neighbors garden gnomes with a shovel.

idiotprufs: the blog that thinks its neighbor shouldn’t make accusations that he can’t prove.

idiotprufs: the blog that doesn’t wait 60 minutes after eating before it goes swimming.

idiotprufs: the blog that tore the labels off its mattress with an arrogant disregard for the law.

idiotprufs: the blog that once brazenly robbed a group of mimes at gunpoint, but got away with it because nobody talked.

idiotprufs: the blog that is way too proud of the previous mime joke.

idiotprufs: the blog that took two years of Spanish in high school, but still can only count to ten.

idiotprufs: a clear sign that the end is near.

idiotprufs: the blog that is used as currency in prison.

idiotprufs: the blog that was once rejected as a cast member of Big Brother, because it just wasn’t slutty enough.

tidiotprufs: the blog that is badgered nightly by Mickey Mantle’s ghost, spitting sunflower seeds on it.

idiotprufs: the blog that still can’t find Waldo, regardless of how persistently it tries.

idiotprufs: the blog that wept like a baby when it saw Brian’s Song.

idiotprufs: the blog that it’s creator refers to as “the babe magnet.”

idiotprufs: the blog that believes Bigfoot is real, but has serious doubts about Donald Trump’s hair.

idiotprufs: also predicted by the Mayans, but John Cusack has no plans to make a crappy movie about it.

idiotprufs: what Sir Isaac Newton was actually thinking about right before that apple fell on his head.

idiotprufs: the tenth level of Hell in Dante Alighieri’s Inferno before the editing.

idiotprufs: the only one of Aesop’s fables that didn’t have a moral.

idiotprufs: oh the humanity.

idiotprufs is stilled freaked out by flying monkeys.

idiotprufs is still freaked out by flying monkeys.

Enough Already, Boorish Photo Purveyor

angry baby

That is precious.

Evidently certain people weren’t paying attention.

Certain people who are either dull-witted or recalcitrant.

People who are dull-witted, recalcitrant, or compulsively boorish.

And in some cases, people who possess all three traits.

People who insist–regardless of how vehemently I protest–on showing me pictures of their children.

The ugly truth: I don’t like your children. In fact, I don’t like your children almost as much as I don’t you.

Note: it is my solemn pledge to the readers of this blog, at no point will it ever be heartwarming.

Don’t show me a picture of your grandchild and say, “she has her fathers eyes, isn’t it amazing?”

No, it’s not amazing at all; it’s pretty much how genetics work.

Your grandchild is bald, pudgy, toothless, prone to drooling, and screams at the top of her lungs when she wants something. If she had a tramp stamp, she be the spitting image of her mother–that’s amazing.

I don’t want to see the following progression of photos:

  • Here’s my baby at one day.
  • Here’s my baby at one week.
  • Here’s my baby at two weeks.
  • Here’s my baby at three weeks.
  • Here’s my baby at four weeks.
  • Here’s my baby at one month.
  • Here’s my baby at five weeks.
  • Here’s my baby at six weeks.
  • Here’s my baby at seven weeks.
  • Here’s my baby at eight weeks.
  • Here’s my baby at two months.
  • Here’s my baby at nine weeks.
  • Here’s my baby at ten weeks.

It was annoying just having to read that wasn’t it?

It pissed me off having to write it.

Just imagine having to sit through six months worth of those photos. Forget waterboarding, that would crack the most hardened terrorist.

Here’s the only progressions of photos I need to see:

  • Birth.
  • Graduation from high school.
  • Graduating from college.  I know the parents; it’s not happening.
  • Wedding.
  • Obituary clipping.

That’s it. That’s all I need.

Do you know what’s just as bad? Endless photos of your child’s birthday party.

And now, thanks to modern technology, the boorish photo purveyor doesn’t need to haul around a bunch of photographs, she can cram literally thousands of photos onto her phone. Thousands of mind-numbing soul-sucking photos.

Note: the first two dozen photos are of the cake. It’s a freaking cake, not a Rodin sculpture.

Rodin sculpture

Rodin would have been an awesome cake designer.

Imagine this conversation:

Boorish photo purveyor: would you like to see pictures of my child’s birthday party?

You: I’d rather be stabbed in the face with a bayonet.

Boorish photo purveyor: let me get my phone.

You: I hope your phone has an app that turns it into a bayonet.

Boorish photo purveyor: do you want to see a picture of the cake?

You: only if it has a bayonet in it.

Boorish photo purveyor: I have hundreds of pictures.

You: Arrgh (you feign a fatal heart attack, and lie motionless until the boorish photo purveyor, sensing the awkwardness of the moment, walks away).

But the worst place to be cornered by a boorish photo purveyor is on an airplane. You’re trapped, you have only four options:

  1. Smother the boorish photo purveyor with your inflight pillow.
  2. Fake a bomb threat, be gladly dragged away by the Air Marshal.
  3. Jump from the plane, and plummet to certain death.
  4. Sit and silently view the photos.

Did you notice how each option was worse than it’s predecessor?

Note: in the old days you could dissuade fellow passengers from engaging you by fondling a blood stained machete, and repeatedly mumbling about your manifesto. Now you can’t even bring your machete on the plane, bloodstained or otherwise. Now you can’t do anything on a plane. Thanks for nothing terrorists. When you’re done being waterboarded, I’ve got some baby pictures for you.

Retaliation is the only solution. The next time someone asks me if I want to see pictures of their child, I’ll respond: “yes, but first you must see the 500 photos I have of my pet Sea-Monkeys; they’re so precious.”

That ought to work.

sea monkeys

I’ve named these two, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.

 

 

 

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