Read by four out of five drunken monkeys–written by the fifth.

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The Experiment

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This is short screenplay written by Ian Wallace, based on Frankenstein’s Omelet.


Opening Credits: Dream Sequence.

Characters: Main Character. Male. Mid-twenties to mid-thirties. Dressed in old-fashioned, but not period clothing.

Editing: The opening sequence will consist of a dream sequence that foreshadows the goings on in the body of the film. It would be made up of several different shots  (as described below) spliced together in an abstracted narrative format. The order in which they are presented do not necessarily dictate their sequence.

  1. The main character running through the woods as if being chased. He stumbles but doesn’t fall, and periodically looks back over his shoulder.
  2. Shot of the man’s feet running through the forest debris.
  3. Mob: Rather than bringing more cast members into the film, we could abstract farm implements and torches progressing through the woods. This would maintain the universal monster feel of this opening.
  4. Lightning Streaking across the sky.
  5. Design a makeshift lab. This doesn’t have to be anything overly elaborate, but should at least have the quintessential bubbling beakers. Easy as food coloring and dry ice. There would need to be a workbench, and dissection tools.
  6. Man presses his back against a wooden door, with the classic mob push going on behind it. He looks panicked and winded.
  7. On the workbench is a tray about the size of a dinner plate, or just a dinner plate with a cloth over it. Upon closer inspection, it appears to rising and falling as if breathing. Or more like a pulse depending on the aesthetic.
  8. Slow dolly up to the kitchen refrigerator. Three shots from medium angle light for night. Use green tape around the edge of the door so the glow can be composited in and motion tracked.
  9. As he watches the covered item on the workbench, a shot of blood soaking through the cloth. Lightning flash.
  10. These scenes will be inter-cut with the man sleeping fitfully, as if having a nightmare.  Not over the top, but enough to get the point across. Camera angle and shot variety will create the tension leading up to the point where the man wakes up and it’s morning.

Scene two: Morning


A bedroom with a big enough bed for two. He is alone, but the blankets on both sides are disheveled, implying that someone has been there. It’s morning and the room is relatively bright.


The man jerks awake from the nightmare he was having. He’s disoriented at first, but recovers and rubs his face.

Cut to the man walking into a brightly lit kitchen. He’s awake, but still a bit tired. A woman is busy at the stove. She’s wearing morning clothes and by her mannerisms, you can tell she’s been awake for awhile. At the middle of the space is a breakfast table setting. Burnt toast, coffee, and a large plate with a cloth over it.

He strolls over to the woman:

Man: “Good Morning” he says, still groggy: kisses her on the cheek.

Woman: “It’s about time you got up, sleepy head,” she says lightly.

Man: “Yeah. I was having the weirdest…” stops abruptly as he catches sight of the refrigerator from the dream. Just a normal fridge now. “…dream.” He finishes.

Woman: “You Okay?”

Man: Shakes his head as if to clear the image. “Yeah. I guess I’m just tired.”

Woman: “Awww… I’m sorry. But I have just what you need to feel better: some good old fashioned home cooking.”

Man: Sits down in front of the plate while rubbing his eyes, so that he hasn’t caught sight of the plate covered by the cloth. “Thanks babe,” he mumbles, “what are we having?”

Woman: “Well, it’s sitting right in front of you, silly. Take a look.”

Man: He opens his eyes, looks down and freezes. It looks just like the plate with the soaking blood from the dream. (cut to shot of cloth soaking through) He looks over his shoulder, obviously slightly rattled, then back at his plate.

Woman: “Well go on before it gets cold,” she says in a motherly way, standing by the table.

Man: Gingerly he pinches the cloth and pulls it away. A plume of steam rises up and he winces as if the smell was unpleasant. Before him sits the omelet in all its glory. A pool of liquid surrounds it on the plate. Strange marks, textures and folds in pale yellow and off white. What may be a mushroom slides down it. The man stares down at it. “It looks delicious (he feigns honesty) what is it?”

Woman: “What do you mean what is it?” (sounding slightly annoyed) “It’s a home style omelet.”

Man: (Hiding his bewilderment) “Well, of course it’s an omelet. It just doesn’t seem to be a conventional omelet, that’s all.”

Woman: “Well that’s the stoves fault isn’t it? It’s not level.” (sounding more frustrated)

Man: “Not level?” he replies. “Well yeah, that’ll do it.” (trying to sound confident) Cut to the man investigating the omelet. He lifts a fold of the body and more cloudy fluid trickles out. Under the fold is an 0ff-blue, bruise like patch. Maybe the look of coagulated blood underneath a membrane.

Woman: (Now looming behind the seated man) “Well? Are you going to try it, or just look at it all day?” (covering up aggravation with forced sweetness.)

Man: Looks up at her, makes a smile and laughs nervously. He turns back towards the plate. He cuts a portion from the side with his fork and holds it up, speared. More strange fluid leaks away from the limp morsel. The man grimaces, closes his eyes and shoves it in. At first it’s fine. A look of momentary relief crosses his face. He chews it like a rubber band. Then it hits him.

Scene three: Gastrological disaster.

This scene is a hallucinatory nightmare as the man struggles with the morsel.

  1. Footage of hydrogen peroxide being poured on red meat.
  2. Beads of sweat on his forehead.
  3. Eggs and omelet makings being smashed and mutilated.
  4. Close-up of man chewing. He looks up, red in the face, toward the woman with a facial expression of “why would you do this to me?” Some of the milky liquid runs out of the corner of his mouth.
  5. The omelet on the plate is starting to pump a foul black liquid that begins to fill the bottom of the plate.
  6. Unused shots of the mob scene. (pitch forks and torches.)
  7. Close-up of the man sweating and looking panicked.
  8. Woman dressed like lady Frankenstein or in some other nightmarish costume (think of the Ms. Shields/mother scene from A Christmas Story, where the two are dressed as a jester and a witch mocking Ralphie with, “You’ll shoot your eye out.” ) laughing maniacally

Man: He finally manages to swallow it. (close-up on his throat swallowing.)

  1. Egg falling on glass, seen from underneath, and bleeding black and green. (inject egg with food coloring and drop it from high enough that it spatters.)
  2. Fluid mixing and congealing. (jello and vegetable oil.)
  3. Stock footage of church burning or volcano erupting.
  4. Woman dressed as a devil with dramatic lighting. Perhaps several people dancing around the table dressed similarly.

The man finally gets it down. Tries to keep from vomiting. Horrible stomach noises can be heard. He looks sick. Back to reality.

Woman: “Well, what do you think?”

Man: (Still looking a little ill) “Well, I can’t say I’ve ever had anything like it before. Ever.”

Woman: “Great!” she says happily, totally oblivious. She turns to go about her day. “Eat up while I get dressed.”

Man: Looks around desperately for a way to dispose of the contents of the plate.  Looks down. The woman’s dog is staring up with hopeful, hungry eyes. The man pauses, looks over his shoulder, and puts the plate on the floor. The dog gobbles the omelet down, licking up the fluid drippings from the omelet, and walks off into the other room. With trembling hands, the man grips his coffee cup and drinks.

Woman: The bathroom door opens and the woman walks out dressed. She pauses. From the other room the man hears the woman scream.

Man: Looks up with wide open, panicked eyes.  “What’s wrong?”

Woman: “The (dog’s name) has vomited everywhere. It’s on my carpet. My freaking couch. It’s everywhere–I just stepped in it.”

Man: Still frozen until he hears the dog growling from underneath the table. The dog bites his leg. The shot is from above the table as you see the man gasping from the bite.

A Healthy and Shiny Coat

coconut idiotprufs

The vile coconut.

Coconut makes me sick. If I bite into something with coconut in it, I will immediately begin to gag.

The mere smell of coconut makes me nauseous. In fact, anything coconut scented bothers me.

Am I telling  you this because I’m a whiny little crybaby?  A little bit, but I do have a point.

I was attempting to take a shower at my friend Lance’s house.

Note: normally I don’t use real names in an effort to protect the innocent, but no one here is innocent.

I stood in his shower, surveying the menagerie of shampoo and hair conditioner bottles that littered the front of the tub. I had only one priority in choosing a shampoo: it mustn’t be coconut scented.

I spotted a small innocuous bottle of green shampoo set off to the side. Green shampoo is likely apple blossom scented, or green tea, possibly something herbal, but it certainly wouldn’t be coconut.

Without checking to see what it was, I confidently applied the shampoo to my hair and began to lather up.

The scent was odd, not at all what I expected. My scalp immediately began to tingle; it must be dandruff shampoo.

The tingling sensation transitioned to a burning sensation. The burning sensation spread to my eyes and nose, and there was a strange metallic taste in my mouth. It certainly wasn’t apple blossom.

As I started to rinse the shampoo from my hair, the burning intensified and it felt like I had gargled battery acid.

I grabbed the bottle to find out exactly what kind of poison I had been scrubbing into my scalp.

Flea and tick shampoo for dogs?

Are you kidding me?

The warning label instructed dog owners to wear gloves while applying the shampoo to their dogs, and to avoid making contact with skin.

Not only was the shampoo all over my skin, some of it had run down to the tender bits.

I grabbed a different bottle of shampoo, squeezed a copious amount into my hand, and began to aggressively slather it over my body.

A stark and sudden realization paralyzed me: coconut!

What insufferable madness is this?

The combination of pesticide and coconut made my stomach to flip like Nadia Comaneci in the 76 Olympics. I began to wretch like a cat hacking up a hairball; something Nadia Comaneci has probably never done.

It was horrible.

I was nauseous the remainder of the day, and everything I ate tasted like someone had sprayed Raid on it.

Lance would point out my hair to people and say, “doesn’t he have a healthy and shiny coat?” Then he would laugh hysterically.

Note: I told you no one was innocent.

“Don’t you read labels?” Lance’s girlfriend scolded.

“I sorry. I didn’t realize there would be a bottle of napalm in the shower,” I responded.

“Don’t be a baby,” she told me.  “I use that shampoo on the dog all the time and he never complains.”

I thought this criticism to be unfair. The dog also humps your leg, licks himself in indiscreet places, and eats his poop. I do almost none of those things.

Through it all, at least I know I’m virtually parasite free.

Note: Don’t worry, Henry my tapeworm is fine and doing well.

nadia comeneci, idiotprufs

Nadia scored a perfect 10; my stomach did not.

12 Reasons Lady Gaga’s Costume Designer Hates Her Job


It’s ridiculously hard to hem a strip steak.


Accessories include: matching belt, handbag, and A1 Steak Sauce.


You’re constantly being followed by packs of feral dogs.

The rest of you-she's this way.

“The rest of you, she’s this way.”


The fact that half of her wardrobe needs refrigeration.

More perishable clothing from that trouble maker Ellen.

More perishable clothing from that trouble maker Ellen.


That queasy feeling you get in your stomach when you go to a barbeque at Lady Gaga’s house, and she serves steaks and salad.


Having to deal with Britney Spears’ uppity costume designer, every time you ask to borrow her snake.

Just an All-American girl and her freakishly huge snake.

Just an All-American girl and her freakishly huge snake.


That confusingly contradictory tattoo she has on her butt, of Winnie The Pooh with his head caught in a honey pot.

I'm so adorable that it's confusingly contradictory.

“I’m so adorable that it’s confusingly contradictory.”


They way she gets yellow powder over everything after she wolfs down a bag of Cheetos.

Nothing wrecks the mood of dead-carcass costume, more than Cheetos dust.

Nothing wrecks the mood of a dead-carcass costume, more than Cheetos dust.


When anti-fur protesters throw blood on Lady Gaga, and it makes her costume better.


That unnerving feeling you get, that this one is going to send you straight to Hell.

This one's gonna cost you.

This one’s gonna cost you.


Your warm childhood memories of Sesame Street and Kermit The Frog have been destroyed forever.

Hi-Ho, I'm Kermit The Frog-help me please!

“Hi-Ho, I’m Kermit The Frog–HELP ME PLEASE!”


When people ask you the innocuous question: “What did you do at work today?” And you pause momentarily, then sob uncontrollably.


The weight of the horrible knowledge that you helped turn this girl:

Doesn't she look sweet/

Doesn’t she look sweet?

Into this girl:


Punch an Idiot in the Face Day

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:

  • What kind of questions does Jack Elam ask, and why are there so many of them?
  • How badly do your wife’s feet have to smell for it to be enough?
  • How do you know my neighbor, and how do you know he has a happy face?
  • Would I look good in gator boots?
  • Wow, this blog certainly attracts some weirdos (but not you).
  • Punch and idiot in the face day? Is that a real thing?

After doing an extensive amount of research (Google) I discovered “punch an idiot in the face day” isn’t a real thing.

Bitter disappointment.

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:

  • A petition containing signatures equal to 10% of the last local, general election vote for governor. (Governor? I thought Pennsylvania had a potentate.)
  • These signatures must be real people and not characters from Warner Brothers cartoons.
  • If your real name happens to be Elmer Fudd, there is an enormous amount of extra paperwork involved.
  • If your real name happens to be Elmer Fudd, your parents are dicks.
  • None of the signatures can be from dead people, this is not Illinois.
  • Petitions must be submitted by the 13th Tuesday before the election. Petitions may be circulated for (at most) 7 weeks, and circulation may not begin before the 20th Tuesday prior to the election. Initiated measures may be submitted at primary, municipal, or general elections…and written in yaks blood.
  • You must understand the previous requirement and be able to cite it verbatim while juggling running chain saws.
  • Election officials must submit successful initiatives to voters at the next primary, general, or municipal election occurring not sooner than the 13th Tuesday after the initiative was filed.
  • The successful initiatives mentioned in the previous requirement, must be submitted in triplicate with the third set written entirely in Egyptian hieroglyphics.
  • Every fifth word of every document must be written in a silly font.
  • Pointing out to any official, that the previous two requirements contradict each other, will result in the immediate disqualification of your ballot initiative. You will also be slapped in the face and poked in the eyes Three Stooges style.
  • The Pennsylvania election code requires you to obtain the following items: holy water, a cross, a wooden stake and a clove of  garlic. (Sorry, that’s the Transylvania election code.)
  • You must be able to find Harrisburg on a map of Pennsylvania.
  • You must be able to find Pennsylvania on a map of the United States.
  • You must be able to find Pennsylvania Avenue on a Monopoly Board.
  • If you roll doubles three times in a row, you have to go to jail.
  • You must purchase a lot of maps and board games.
  • Petition circulators must attest to the validity of petition signatures in a notarized affidavit.
  • You have to know what an affidavit is.
  • In some instances, you may have to sacrifice a small animal under a full moon.
  • You must be able to say name of, Intercourse Pennsylvania, without giggling.
  • You absolutely must be able to deal with bureaucrats without flipping out and stabbing someone in the face with a bayonet.

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.

jack elam at idiotprufs

“Hello, I’m Jack Elam, and every day is punch an idiot in the face day for me, idiot.”


I’ll bet you thought I was going to mention Justin Bieber somewhere in this post.

Well you were wrong…apart from this bit.


Me and the Map Idiot

This shouldn't be hard to read.

This shouldn’t be hard to read.

It happened many years ago on the mean streets of Buffalo, NY.

We were on our way to the Federal Building, mired in rush hour traffic, to pick-up my roommate Al. He had enlisted in the Army Reserves, but at the last minute, decided that he didn’t want to go. He came up with a “brilliant plan” to get out of it. The plan must have worked because the day he was scheduled to ship out for basic training, I received a phone call to retrieve him.

I took my friend Joe with me to navigate. Not my best move.

Me: Do you see where we are on the the map?

Joe: Yeah, I’ve got it.

Me: Do you see where the Federal Building is on the map?

Joe: I’ve got my finger on it.

Me: Okay, how do I get here from there?

Joe: I don’t know.

Me: What? Why not?

Joe: Just give me a minute to figure it out.

Me: What is there to figure out? You just follow the little lines from one spot to the other.

Joe: It’s not that easy; it’s like a ninety degree angle.

Me: So?

Joe: Wait, now I can’t find the Federal Building. It disappeared.

Me: Pick your finger up.

Joe: Oh yeah, there it is.

Me: (waiting impatiently) You need to give me some form of instruction.

Joe: Take the next right.

Me: Right here?

Joe: Right here.

Me: Are you sure, this doesn’t look like a proper street.

Joe: Yes. Turn before we miss it!

I turned onto the weird little street per Joe’s instruction. It wasn’t a proper street.

Me: What kind of street is this? It’s barely wide enough for one car.

Joe: I don’t know. It’s just a really narrow street, with big weird curbs and a bunch of wires overhead.

Me: What are those wires for… holy crap, we’re on the Metro Rail line! We have to get off this.

I immediately hit the brakes and threw the car into reverse. As I turned the wheel attempting to back around, the rear wheels bumped up against the curb. Then I pulled forward and the front wheels bumped up against the other curb. I repeated this process several times until I had successfully wedged the car between the curbs on either side of the pathway. We couldn’t go forward. We couldn’t go backward. We were stuck.

Me: You’re gonna have to get out and push.

Joe: I don’t want to do that, there’s a bunch of people watching.

Me: Of course they’re watching; they’re waiting for the Metro Rail to come around the corner and smash the idiots into tiny pieces.

Conveniante mass transit to most. Impending doom to us.

Convenient mass transit to most. Impending doom to us.

Joe grudgingly got out and pushed. People watched.

As we attempted to extricate ourselves from the path of the Metro Rail, that was certain to come barreling around the corner at any moment and annihilate us, people were pointing and laughing at idiocy they were witnessing. After several attempts, we freed ourselves, bounding up over the curb with a thud. I pulled back onto the pathway heading in the opposite direction. Joe got back into the car and sat sheepishly. It was all very humiliating.

Joe: A homeless guy laughed at me.

Me: That’s rough for you.

Joe: He asked me if I was born this stupid.

Me: Perhaps he’s seen you read a map.

Joe: We were at a ninety degree angle.

Me: Okay Pythagoras.

Joe: Are we going to tell Al we got his car stuck on the Metro Rail track?

Me: We are not.

We pulled out of the Metro Rail pathway and back into normal traffic, and all was well…except for Buffalo PD patrol car that happened to be passing by at that moment. The officer did a double-take that would have made James Finlayson* proud, brought his vehicle to a screeching halt and poked his muscle-bound head out the patrol car window. And yes, he had a muscle-bound head.

*What? You don't know James Finklayson. He was an old-timey actor famous for his double takes.

*What? You don’t know James Finlayson. He was an old-timey actor famous for his double-takes.

Police Officer: Pull over.

We pulled over. He stormed up to our car with a scowl, and a definite sense of purpose. I began to explain to him what had happened, but before I could get the first word out, he interrupted me.

Police Officer: Do you even have a driver’s license?

Me: Yes sir, I have all my information right here.

He snatched the information from my hand as he glared at me. I could see myself cowering beneath him in his mirrored sunglasses.

Police Officer: That’s not a street.

Me: I know.

Police Officer: You know? The fact that you were driving on it would suggest otherwise. Why would you be doing that?

Me: (nodding toward Joe) Well, he was reading the map and giving me directions, and he said to turn there.

Police Officer: Did he really? You over there, Map Idiot, did you tell him to drive down the Metro Rail track?

Joe: We’re just trying to get to the Federal Building.

Police Officer (refocusing on me): Do you just go wherever Map Idiot tells you to go? If Map Idiot tells you to drive head-on into the Metro Rail, is that what you do? You’re not going to make it to the Federal Building if you’re dead.

Me: I’m sorry officer, normally I’m an excellent driver, (I had just seen Rain Man) but I’m from a small town, and I’m not used to driving in the big city.

I wish I could tell you that’s not what I said, but it’s exactly what I said. That’s right, I’m a rube. But it worked, the officer chuckled a little and immediately softened. He gave us instructions to the Federal building, told us to be careful, and sent us on our way. We safely reached the Federal Building where we found Al waiting for us.

Me: So you got out of it?

Al: Yes.

Me: What did you tell them?

Al: Something.

Me: Like what?

Al: Just something. I don’t want to talk about it.

Me: Okay.

Al: So, did you have any trouble getting here?

Me: Nope.

Joe: The police officer didn’t even give us a ticket.

Al: Why would you get a ticket?

Me: No reason. I don’t want to talk about it.

It was a quiet ride home.

What the map of Buffalo evidently looked like to the Map Idiot.

What the map of Buffalo evidently looked like to the Map Idiot.

Gerald the Neighbor Kid

You're stupid and you don't know anything.

You’re stupid and you don’t know anything.

“Hey Neighbor.” The voice penetrates your eardrum like a knitting needle. “Watcha doin’?”

It’s a voice that sends chills down your spine. Chills that reach the bottom of your spine, make a quick U-turn and travel back up your spine, then back down again, just to ensure that they’ve done the job properly.

“Gerald…you’re here.” You stop what you’re doing and stand motionless. “Are you here to pee on my garden some more?”

“I’ve told you I’m not the one doing that,” he claims.

You turn slowly to find Gerald standing before you, soaking wet, finger in his ear trying to remove some stubborn water.

“I don’t know who you thought that moat was going to keep out,” he says to you.

“I don’t know, Gerald. I had a few thoughts,” you say in exasperation. “So, learned how to swim did you?”

“I’ve been taking lessons.”

“That’s great.”

“And those piranha you put in the moat: they don’t do any good either,” he informs you.

“Obviously not, I don’t see a single tooth mark.”

“All you have to do is throw some steaks into the other side of the moat, it completely distracts them.”

“I should have gone with the electric eels.”

“You see,” Gerald continues, ignoring your electric eel comment as he works the water from his other ear. “piranha are really more scavengers than hunters. I guess that you didn’t know that.”

“I guess I didn’t,” you agree.

“You don’t know lots of things,” he tells you. “Would you like to know something else that you don’t know?”

You feel compelled to hear what Gerald has to say next, even though you know that it will make you want to knock the freckles from his ruddy little cheeks.

Note: under no circumstance would you ever strike or do harm to child in any way–that’s what the piranha were for.  You’re just kidding–mostly.

“Just what is it that I don’t know, Gerald?”

“Well,” he says, wiping his nose on his sleeve, “that cement barrier you built around your house is useless too.”

“Well that’s apparent.”

“All I needed to get past that, was a ladder and a blanket to throw over the razor-wire.”

“That easy for you was it?”

“Yeah. I don’t know where you’re getting your ideas on how to keep people out, but you’re being very smart about it,” he admonishes you.

“What would suggest, Gerald.”

“An electrified fence would be far more effective, I suppose.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” A tiny flame of hope flickers in your mind.

“But there are ways around that too,” he tells you, quickly dousing your tiny flame. “And that Beware of Bigfoot sign that you put up, wasn’t fooling anyone.”

“Do you mean, apart from the twenty or so Bigfoot hunters that camped out on your fathers front lawn, convinced that they had found irrefutable proof that Bigfoot exists?” You challenge Gerald’s assessment.

“That really ticked off my dad.”

You chuckle to yourself. “I know it did.”

“He says you’re a bad neighbor,” Gerald informs you.

“Does he?”

“And he uses bad words when he says it.”

“Does he really?” You feel a weird sense of satisfaction.

“Did you know that one of those Bigfoot hunters smashed my dad’s mooning garden gnome with a shovel?”

“Yes.” Your spine stiffens slightly. “It was definitely the Bigfoot hunters that did that.”

“Anyway, do have anything to eat; all of that swimming and climbing made me hungry.” Gerald was hungry most of the time.

“I could make you a peanut butter and jelly sandwich,” you offer.

“How many times do I have to tell you this: I’m allergic to peanuts?”

“I can’t image how I could have forgotten that.”

“You can’t remember anything,” he scolds, “you’re always offering things that have peanuts in them.”

“Forgetfulness is my curse…among other things.”

“You should write this down so you don’t forget.” Gerald instructs. “I’m allergic to peanuts, shellfish, cats, pomegranites, bees…”

“Gerald!” Gerald’s list is interrupted by the sound of his father screaming over your barriers. “What did you do with my steaks?!”

“Uh oh. I think I have to go now. I’ll be back later to tell you some more things that you don’t know,” he assures you as he turns to leave.

“I’ll be eagerly waiting,” you tell him as he leaves.

You stand there for a moment in silent contemplation.

“Allergic to bees are you?” You say to yourself in what could be described as an ominous and sinister tone.

You should be ashamed of yourself.

Not nearly as effective as one might hope.

Not nearly as effective as you might hope.

A Call to Arms– the Garden Gnome Menace

We're here for you.

There are more of them everyday.

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.

This whimsy is a lie.

This whimsy is a lie.

Do not be fooled by this subterfuge, they are maniacal creatures with evil plans.

This is far more typical behavior.

This is far more typical behavior.

There are some in the so-called “scientific community” who will try to tell you that 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 are just quacks, unable to see the truth before their eyes.

image source:

“Garden gnomes are harmless decorations, and not at all sinister…I’m not a quack.”

Here is a short list of some of nighttime activities in which garden gnomes engage:

  • They pee on your vegetable garden. (This might also be the neighbor kid Gerald.)
  • They taunt your neighbor’s dog so that it barks all freaking night. (Also possibly Gerald.)
  • They let the air out of your tires, but different amounts in every tire, so that your ride to work is really bumpy.
  • They sneak into your garage and replace all your English standard unit tools with metric tools, so that when you try to fix something, nothing quite fits.
  • In Canada, they do they opposite.
  • They put signs on your front door that read: Jehovah’s Witnesses Welcome.
  • They take one bite out of the apple, then put it back in the bowl.
  • They drive really slow in the fast lane.
  • They paint the phrase, Justin Bieber Rules, in bright pink letters on the side of your car. But they paint it on the passenger side, so you don’t see it right away, and drive all the way to work with people inexplicably pointing at you and laughing.
  • They fill your mailbox with pinecones. Really sticky ones.
  • They sneak into your home and replace all your Yuengling Traditional Lager with Natural Light.

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.)

Gruesome but necessary.

Gruesome but necessary.

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 making public videos of you smashing garden gnomes in your pajamas. So be careful.

Grab your weapon today.

An instrument of garden gnome death, or if you just need to dig hole, it’s good for that too.

Don’t Pee on the Electric Fence

Even the cows think you're an idiot.

Even the cows think you’re an idiot.

Never had greater words of wisdom passed over human lips: Don’t pee on the electric fence.

Well, maybe not great words of wisdom, but to a bunch of young boys about to go ramming through a cow pasture on their way to the woods, they seemed like great words of wisdom. After all, he was an old guy, and old guys know stuff.

Of course, to a group of young rapscallions, this was practically a dare to pee on the electric fence.

Note: As it turned out, far more useful words of wisdom would have been: don’t pee close enough to the electric fence that your friends can shove you into it. Don’t trust your friends: another solid piece of advice.

They may not be words that hold the eloquence of the Gettysburg Address or the weight of Churchill’s address to a joint session of Congress upon the United States entrance into the war, but if you had ever been shoved penis first into an electric fence, you would appreciate their significance.

He also told us not to eat any mushrooms growing on cow crap. He was evidently unconcerned with the  myriad of poisonous mushrooms growing everywhere else.

The point is: a few short words of wisdom can save a young man from a lot of misery. Words of wisdom such as:

  • Regardless of how far your super-soaker sprays, you’re still too close to the hornet’s nest.
  • You don’t want to discover the quantitative value for the phrase “mad as a hornet.”
  • It may seem sturdy, but an umbrella is not an adequate substitute for a parachute.
  • When jumping from the barn roof with an umbrella, the hay bales below are much less of a cushioning factor than one might think.
  • Despite the blood, “look what you did to my umbrella?” is the first thing an adult will think to say.
  • Even though most varieties of snakes are not venomous, you still don’t want them to bite you.
  • Convincing your cousin to let a snake bite him so that you find out whether or not it’s venomous, seems like a good idea, but it will really piss-off your aunt.
  • Never utter the phrase “sticks and stones will break my bones but words will never harm me,” to someone who is in possession of sticks or stones. In the jungle that is playground justice, you will be whacked over the head with a stick.
  • Do not ever, under any circumstance, tell a girl that her socks make her look like a rodeo clown.
  • That old children’s rhyme about girls being made of sugar and spice and everything nice–total crap.
  • Don’t melt play-doh on the stove. (What seems like a scientific experiment to you, is just wanton destruction to your mother.)
  • Ditto with crayons.
  • Don’t purposely try to set off the smoke alarm just to see how loud it is–it’s loud.
  • Thinking your mother won’t hear the smoke alarm because she’s in the shower, is a big wet screaming mistake.
  • And finally: don’t pee on the electric fence.

    Don't eat these mushrooms. Leave the cow crap alone too.

    Don’t eat these mushrooms. Leave the cow crap alone too.

!#@$%# Raccoons



The following happened while I was employed as a quality control inspector at a steel coating plant outside of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.

It was about 6:15 AM as I crossed the plant floor toward the offices. The lights weren’t turned on yet, and though the sun was rising outside, the interior of the building was still a dark tangle of shadows.

In the distance I could see a short stumpy figure climbing the ladder to where the cranes and catwalks are.

I wondered why Jim, the crane operator, would be climbing into the crane so early, and thought it peculiar that he was doing it in the dark. As I looked more closely, I realized that it wasn’t Jim at all; it was the biggest raccoon I had ever seen. (Yes, I mistook a huge raccoon for Jim, if you had ever met Jim, you would understand.) The raccoon then disappeared into the darkness of the rafters and catwalks.

“I’ve seen that raccoon,” Ken, one of the private inspectors, told me, “it comes up from the Ohio River at daybreak and just disappears into the building somewhere.”

Suddenly Rick the foreman, who was sitting at his desk, jumped up, twirled around, and yelled at us, “they ain’t clean.”

“What?” Ken said, slightly startled.

“People think that raccoons are clean, but they ain’t clean. People think that raccoons are clean because they wash their food. They wash their food because they ain’t got no saliva; they don’t wash their food because they’re clean. They ain’t clean.” He stood glaring at us as we took in his tirade.

“Well..” was all that Ken got out.

“And they ain’t smart. People think they’re smart because they’ve got little people hands, but they ain’t smart. They ain’t clean and they ain’t smart.” He then stormed from the office as if he had been horribly offended.

Ken and I stood in a state of bewildered silence. Although neither of us said anything, we knew what other was thinking: what the hell was that?

After a few moments, Ken broke the silence,”Wow, Rick really !#@$%# hates raccoons.”

We speculated about what frightful trauma must have occurred to instill such a level of hatred for a furry animal. Maybe as a small child he was attacked by a racoon. Maybe as a teen, a pack of racoon toughs bullied and taunted him. Maybe they knocked the books from his hands as he awkwardly made his way through the school hallway. (Rick had the physical presence of Ichabod Crane, without the grace.)

This is what I think happened: it was prom night, the night Rick had dreamed of since he was a little boy. He had his tuxedo. He had the corsage that he would tenderly pin to her gown. It was his night to shine.

She was a little late, but that’s fashionable right? He paced impatiently as the minutes stretched into hours. Periodically he’d stop to check his watch as he would mumble under his breath, “she’ll be here any minute now.”

“Don’t ask a raccoon to the prom,” his friends had advised. “They’d rather scavenge through garbage cans than slow dance to Bryan Adams songs. But he hadn’t listened.

The night came and went without a word from her. Rick’s never gotten past the heartbreak and devastation. Now he has an irrational hatred of all raccoons.

The source of Rick’s heartbreak.

Erin Go Bankrupt! Leprechauns A Wee Bit Swindled

Check out The Grimm Report.

The Grimm Report

6401488_d603fef6c8 Moneybags Potfiller. Image By Kris Krug

A Special Report By Grimm Report Chief Money Correspondent,
Larry Shampoe | @idiotprufs

In a tragic tale of misplaced trust and greed, a number of leprechauns from County Kerry, Ireland have lost their life savings to an elaborate Ponzi scheme. While most of the leprechauns have declined to comment, one leprechaun, Tweedle McBumpers, has decided to open up about the events. “It’s tragic,” Tweedle said fighting back anger. “Most of us have lost everything. No more gold. No more pot to keep it in. You know that old phrase ‘he doesn’t have a pot to crap in’? Well that’s us. There’s nothing at end of this leprechaun’s rainbow but despair and big vacant spot where a pot of gold should be.”

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