idiotpruf

The blog that prevents scurvy…as long as you eat orange slices while you read it.

Archive for the tag “humour”

Testicles or Lack Thereof

surprised cat

His name was Bill, and I had just met him five minutes previously. It was my first day on the job, and I was helping him.

We worked silently for a few minutes before he turned to me and said with stunning nonchalance, “Yeah. I’ve only got one testicle.”

I tried not to gape stupidly. I failed.

I prefer to know someone for at least one full day before I work my testicles into a conversation. Bill was obviously of a different mind.

He looked at me expectantly, as if waiting for me to say, “great, tell me more about your testicles, or lack thereof. I’m keen to hear.”

But I continued to gape stupidly, searching my mind for an appropriate response.

My mind failed me spectacularly; I replied by saying, “I have two of them?”

And yes, I said it as a question. I’m still trying to understand why I felt confused.

Perhaps I simply didn’t want to appear as though I was bragging. If I had confidently said, “I have two testicles–the proper amount,” that would have seemed grandiose.

He looked at me like I was an idiot.

 I felt like an idiot. 

There was that inevitable awkward silence that occurs when two men discuss their testicles for the first time.

Undeterred by my idiocy, he launched into the story, “I was out in my garage having a few beers when I thought to myself: this would be a good time to try out my new nail gun.”

The next several minutes were horrifying. I will spare you details because they involve a man piercing his testicle with a nail.

I did learn some things from Bill:

  • Shockingly, alcohol and power tools don’t mix.
  • Nail guns are designed to drive a nail through wood or plaster. The fact that a nail gun will readily penetrate a layer of denim and your scrotum just goes without saying.
  • A nail in your testicle really hurts.
  • A nail in your testicle will bleed a lot.
  • It’s challenging to drive yourself to the hospital with a nail in your testicle.
  • It’s difficult to walk with a nail in your testicle.
  • It’s even hard to breathe with a nail in your testicle.
  • Basically, it’s a struggle to do anything with a nail in your testicle except whimpering; whimpering is practically a requirement when you have a nail in your testicle.
  • Did I mention that it hurts?
  • There was never a more appropriate use of the phrase: unfortunate ricochet.

I can write one thing with relative certitude: it was not a good time for Bill to try out his new nail gun.

I spent the remainder of the day with one overriding thought: please don’t offer to show me a scar.

This Blog Prevents Scurvy

Early symptoms include malaise and lethargy, and if you’re anything like me (my condolences if you are), malaise and lethargy are your baselines.

I would even venture to add bitter indifference to the malaise and lethargy.

As time persists, additional symptoms include weakness, fatigue, changes to your hair, sore extremities, gum disease, poor wound healing, easy bleeding, and an irrational fear of ladybugs.

Others will also begin to regard you as a sissy, primarily because of the ladybug thing.

Also, it’s not clear what changes to hair means. Do you lose your hair? Do start to grow hair in weird and unwanted places like under your toes or on your tongue. Either way, I don’t like it.

These symptoms can result in eating disorders, mental issues, substance abuse, and eventually homelessness.

People will refer to you as that crazy person with the hairy tongue who screams and runs away from ladybugs.

What is the scourge responsible for the aforementioned maladies? Exposure to any of the Real Housewives television shows—also, scurvy.

It’s debatable which of those two things is worse.

But there is a preventative measure that can be taken: reading this book.

That’s right! This blog prevents scurvy. It is, however, powerless against the Real Housewives. 

That’s ridiculous, you’re thinking; I’m not some 16th-century pirate; I’m not worried about things like scurvy, my rum supply, walking the plank, or the Kraken. 

Actually, you are a little worried about the Kraken, but you just drink rum until that goes away.

But can’t I just eat some orange slices, you’re thinking to yourself?

This blog is so much better than orange slices. You don’t have to peel it, it doesn’t make your fingers all sticky, and it doesn’t rot.

It does rot a little but not nearly as quickly as orange slices.

So go ahead and read this book and live free from the fear of scurvy.

But definitely watch out for the Kraken.

Addendum: it’s not debatable; the Real Housewives is worse.

They rot faster than this blog.

In Honor of Dr. Seuss Day: Horton Hears a Chigger

chigger

You found this on your what?

So the other day these search terms popped up consecutively on my stats page:

feeling ill images

chiggers on testicles

Which comes first?

Are you feeling ill, and then you discover it’s because you have chiggers on your testicles?

Or, do you discover that you have chiggers on your testicles, and that makes you feel ill?

home alone

Not only was Kevin left home alone, but he’s also discovered chiggers on his testicles.

As I was pondering this, the progression of search terms changed to this:

feeling ill images

horton hears a who

chiggers on testicles

How different would Theodor Geisel’s story been if Horton hadn’t heard a Who on a speck of dust, but had discovered chiggers on his testicles?

Would he have been as protective of them?

Would he have been equally harassed and ridiculed by kangaroos and monkeys?

What if Vladikoff the Vulture had tried to fly away with them?

And what if the monkeys and kangaroos had tried to boil them in Beezle-Nut oil?

Just something to think about.

Think about testicles.

horton hears a who

I think I can hear something, and it’s making me itch in an unspeakable place.

 

 

Seriously, I Don’t Want to Dance

the office dancing

Do you really want David Brent as a role model?

Why is this world polluted with people who are determined to make me dance? Loud, pushy, abrasive, overbearing, manipulative overlords of what is or is not judged to be enjoyable. People who won’t take no for an answer. People who believe they better grasp what’s in my brain than I do.

What I say: I don’t want to dance.

What they hear: I pretend I don’t want to dance, but secretly, it’s my deepest yearning. If not for debilitating fear and self-loathing, I’d be out on the dance floor right now, living the dream.

What I say: seriously, I don’t want to dance.

What they hear: if only there were some loud, pushy, abrasive, overbearing, manipulative overlord of what is or is not judged to be enjoyable, to goad and badger me into doing what I’ve secretly always wanted to do anyway.

What I say: get away from me, you drooling half-wit.

What they hear: grab my arm like a slack-jawed oaf and physically drag me onto the dance floor.

I am not responsible for anything that happens from that moment forward. I am confident the person who coined the phrase “justifiable homicide” was just some poor fellow who earnestly didn’t want to dance.

Note: I’m sure when his jaw is no longer wired shut, the person described in the scenario above will apologize to me.

Let’s make one thing clear: just because you like a certain thing, it doesn’t follow that every other human should also like that thing. Loads of different people like loads of different things.

Jeffrey Dahmer quite enjoyed killing people, hacking them up, eating them, and stowing the leftovers in his freezer. I can write with a relative degree of certainty; most human beings wouldn’t much care for that.

I have never once thought to myself: killing people, hacking them up, eating them, and stowing the leftovers in my freezer, seems like a horrific and frankly evil thing to do…but Jeffrey Dahmer thought it was a lovely thing to do. Perhaps I’m looking at this all backward. I’ve got plenty of room in my freezer, and there are several acquaintances in my sphere of influence I could readily live without (mostly the few who try to make me dance).

If only the local learning annex offered a course on beginner cannibalism. It’s all scrapbooking this and scrapbooking that, down at that place.

And I don’t need to be the center of attention to enjoy myself–in fact, it’s preferable not to be.

Just because I’m not standing on a chair, singing Love Shack at the top of my lungs, juggling shot glasses while I wildly thrust my hips into the air in a suggestive manner, doesn’t mean I’m not enjoying myself.

I don’t see life through the same self-absorbed prism as you.

You imagine I’m thinking: if only I could summon the courage, that would be me on that chair.

When I’m really thinking: if only I could summon the courage, I would kick that chair from under that jackass’s feet. That would make me smile.

Also, don’t tell me to smile.

I smile plenty.

I smile when it’s appropriate.

I smile when I’m happy or when something good happens.

I smile when a jackass falls from his chair and shot glasses cascade across his face.

Note: sometimes, I summon the courage.

People who go around smiling for no apparent reason are mental. I am not mental (fingers crossed).

crazy smile

This is how you appear to the rest of the world.

Being a naturally quiet person or an introvert is not a problem that needs to be fixed–just leave me be.

Groundhog Day Dissent

So Punxatawney Phil popped out of his hole today and saw his shadow, indicating by lore, six more weeks of Winter.
He then took a second look at his shadow and exclaimed, “Is that how fat I am? Why didn’t anybody tell me? You’ve been stuffing me full of grubs all Winter so you can pull me out in front of the world looking like this?”
Phil then viciously bit the goofy guy in the top hat and retreated back into his hole.
But this post isn’t just about Punxatawny Phil and his self-image issues; it’s about Erie Englebert, a lesser denizen of the great Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, and his predictive powers.
Erie Englebert came out of his hole today and didn’t see his shadow, clearly indicating, according to Erie Englebert, that he isn’t a self-absorbed idiot.
“Who walks outside, and the first thing they do is look for their shadow?” Englebert said derisively.
Legend has it that if Erie Englebert doesn’t see his shadow, there will be six more weeks of Winter. Possibly more, possibly less; the weather in Erie is freaking crazy.
“Phil thinks he’s so great,” Englebert bristled. “Just because some Dutch witch saw one of us 200 years ago and made some crazy proclamation, now Phil’s a meteorological genius.”
Phil dismissed the criticism, “Englebert’s always been jealous of me.”
“Jealous?” Englebert exclaimed in disbelief. “Have you seen how much weight Phil’s put on? I guess that’s what happens when you live in a place called Gobbler’s Nob.”
With that, it started snowing, and Englebert scuttled back into his hole until next year.

An Erie resident was heard muttering, “****ing groundhogs,” as she cleaned the lake-effect snow from her vehicle.

snow in erie pennsylvania

A Bit of Truth About Groundhog Day

idiotprufs groundhog day punxsutawny phil

Phil and his throng of adoring fans.

Groundhog Day

Groundhog Day is a celebration when thousands of people gather in a small town in rural Pennsylvania to applaud a groundhog as a celebrity and a prognosticator. They wait with bated breath for that groundhog to emerge from his hole and to notice or not notice his own shadow. It is a day of great pomp and circumstance.

The Other 364 days of the year
The other 364 days of the year, a groundhog is a giant rodent that’s considered a pest, and poking its head from a hole would cause the same rural Pennsylvanians to reach for their 12-gauge.

groundhog phil

“Hey, where did the party go?”

Love Hurts, but Not as Much as a Stab Wound

love hurts

I felt it was time to re-post these beautiful and poignant words.

I wrote this during a period of deep personal healing…but mostly, I was drunk.

The Grasshopper and the Ant

aesoop fableOne bright day in late autumn, a family of Ants was bustling about in the warm sunshine, drying out the grain they had stored up during the summer, when a starving Grasshopper, his fiddle under his arm, came up and humbly begged for a bite to eat.

“What!” cried the Ants in surprise, “haven’t you stored anything away for the winter? What in the world were you doing all last summer?”

“I didn’t have time to store up any food,” whined the Grasshopper; “I was so busy making music that before I knew it, the summer was gone.”

The Ants shrugged their shoulders in disgust. “Making music, were you?” they cried. “Very well; now dance!” And they turned their backs on the Grasshopper and went on with their work.

The grasshopper realizing he was much bigger than the ants, pushed them down and took their food.

The next day the ants returned with about a million of their friends, hacked the grasshopper into pieces with their big bitey mandibles, and carried him back to their colony to feed the queen.

Moral

Ants are vindictive little bastards.

ants pixar

“If you play The Devil Goes Down To Georgia one more time…”

Local Man Upset by Giant Pile of Dung on Prius

surprised expression

Mr. Philbert J. Weedly

Bemidji, Minnesota–The authorities had to intervene when a dispute between two local residents radically escalated.
“Would you look at this,” exclaimed Philbert J. Weedly of Bemidji, Minnesota, as he motioned toward the Toyota Prius parked in his driveway, “it’s completely buried.”
At some point during the night, Mr. Weedly’s vehicle had become covered in a mountain of blue feces.
“I don’t see why he’s blaming me,” fellow Bemidji native Paul Bunyan replied, “if you ask me, that giant pile of blue crap could have come from any number of places–a lot of people don’t care for Weedly.”
“Are you kidding me?” Mr. Weedly said in exasperation.
Mr. Bunyan continued defending himself, “I really don’t think it’s fair to blame me every time someone’s car, their house, or their mouthy know-it-all wife, who deserved it, gets covered in a giant pile of blue crap.”
“Are you kidding me?” Mr. Weedly said again.
The dispute began when Mr. Bunyan challenged Mr. Weedly for the presidency of the local chapter of the Minnesota Sierra Club and defeated him in the chapter’s election.
“I just felt it was time for a new chapter in my life,” Mr. Bunyan explained.
“We all know what happened,” Mr. Weedly said. “He’s a legend of American folklore. He’s Minnesota’s favorite son. His footsteps created the 10,000 lakes. It’s all just a big popularity contest.”
“I know Paul Bunyan seems like a strange choice for the presidency of a Sierra Club chapter,” Milton Shipley, a member of the Sierra Club chapter, admitted, “I mean, he is literally known for chopping down trees. He’s just so freaking huge; how do you say no to him?”
“My wife was extremely vocal in her opposition of his candidacy,” another member, who wanted to remain anonymous, told us, “but then she was involved in a rather unfortunate incident involving Babe, Mr. Bunyan’s big blue ox. I don’t want to go into too much detail,” he said pausing for a moment, “Let’s just say she was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I don’t know what he feeds that thing, but the stench was foul. It’s been six months, and my wife’s hair still attracts flies.”
“It s— on me,” his wife said tersely.
The authorities have issued warnings to both Mr. Weedly and Mr. Bunyan. They also asked Mr. Bunyan to try and control where his blue ox relieves itself, but they told him from a distance.
“Do you call this justice?” Mr. Weedly said in a final statement of resignation. “Are you kidding me?”

blue ox

The famed blue ox–I don’t know what he feeds it.

Sister City Disappointment

Opera House

Sydney, Australia: a lovely sister city.

North East, Pennsylvania–The residents of the small village of North East, Pennsylvania received a dose of bad news upon discovering their sister city wasn’t what they believed it to be.
The village was ecstatic when it received a sister city request from Sydney, Australia. “We couldn’t believe our good fortune,” the mayor of North East said.
Upon traveling to Australia to accept the sister city request, officials from North East (the mayor and his life partner Bruce) discovered the request came not from the city of Sydney but from a guy named Sydney who lives in a shack at the bottom of a pit in the desert.
“The disappointment is bitter,” Bruce said of the development, “Sydney, Australia is a metropolis with renown architecture and a thriving art world; Sydney from Australia is a filthy foul-mouthed little man who lives in a pit and scratches his testicles far more than should be necessary.”
“I have genital chiggers,” Sydney explained, “they bite.”
The mayor and Bruce gave Sydney a case of the world-famous Welch’s grape jelly, produced right in North East from local concord grapes.
Sydney reciprocated with a half-full can of Foster’s beer that he poured back into the can from the dog bowl.
“Everything in Sydney’s shack is sticky,” the mayor commented, “absolutely everything.”
While Bruce has returned home from the disastrous trip, the mayor remains in Australia recovering from bites from a highly poisonous eastern brown snake and three types of poisonous spiders.
Sydney keeps poisonous spiders as pets; the snake was just bad luck.
“A kangaroo kicked me in the nuts,” Bruce said upon his return, “it was the best part of the trip.”

eastern brown snake

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