November 16th is National Button Day, a day to celebrate both the function and history of the button. I’ll bet you didn’t know that, did you? The holiday was founded in 1938 by the National Button Society. I’m willing to wager you didn’t know that either; you probably didn’t even know the National Button Society even existed. Philistine! You’re probably one of those weirdos who’s all into zippers; what’s the matter with you? Zippers are so crass and inelegant. Buttons are clearly superior; no one has ever gotten their penis caught in a button. I mean, it’s happened to me a couple of times, but it’s rare. November 16th is also the International Day for Tolerance; where’s your tolerance? Zippers may be quicker and easier, but life is not all about convenience and ease; if it were, I wouldn’t live in a tent in the woods and have to fight raccoons for my food. Don’t you think I’d rather have a functioning toilet rather than a rusty bucket with a hole in it? Admittedly, it might be better to have a zipper on my tent rather than the buttons; they let the mosquitoes in. But that is the sacrifice I am willing to make, so get your butt out there and start celebrating the hell out of buttons.
I woke up today in a state of pure joy and anticipation. What was the impetus for this intense state of excitement? Did I get a big promotion at work? Not with my work ethic. Did that pretty woman I asked on a date agree to go out with me? I never got a definitive answer; by the time I’d wiped the pepper spray from my eyes, she was gone. Did my order of Sea-Monkeys finally come in? Are you crazy–I’m not Sea-Monkey excited. Today is National Pluto Day. An entire day to soak in the greatness of that loveable cartoon dog. It is a little weird that he’s a dog owned by a mouse, but that aside, Pluto has brought joy to audiences for nearly a century. I decorated extensively in preparation (balloons), but then I discovered National Pluto Day pertains to the dwarf planet Pluto and not the beloved animated pet. I must admit that I was disappointed; Pluto isn’t even a proper planet anymore. I wish my Sea-Monkeys had come today. But then I rebounded; so what if Pluto isn’t a full planet anymore? I could still celebrate its existence. Pluto was named after the Roman god of the underworld; that’s interesting, right? Its existence was surmised in the late 19th century by observing perturbations in the orbit of Uranus. (Insert your own joke here.) Visual confirmation of Pluto was made in 1930, and it subsequently became our solar system’s ninth planet. However, in later years, many other objects were discovered orbiting in the same volume as Pluto, indicating that Pluto is part of a group called the Kuiper belt. (Not to be confused by the belt worn by longtime major league infielder and broadcaster Duane Kuiper; they’re two different things.) In 2006, Pluto lost its status as a planet and was reclassified as a dwarf planter; it’s all very sad. On a more positive note, today is also National Flirting Day, so see if you can’t do something with that.
Neither did I and now we’ve completely missed it; it makes me so angry.
Today is National Almond Day; what the hell am I supposed to do with that?
You might advise me not to cry over spilled milk, but National Don’t Cry Over Spilled Milk Day was February 11th; I missed that one, too.
It makes me so furious that I want to slap someone, but I missed my opportunity.
My life is littered with regrets.
The time I saw a pretty girl, and I didn’t introduce myself.
The time I saw a pretty girl, and I did introduce myself. (The pepper spray was entirely uncalled for.)
Every time I’ve uttered the phrase ‘what’s the worst that could happen’ right before doing something really stupid.
The time as a child, I tried to melt Play-Doh on the stove.
The time as an adult, I tried to melt Play-Doh on the stove. (I’m not sure what I thought would have changed, certainly not smoke alarms.)
The time my uncle told me to grab the electric fence behind my grandmother’s house…and I listened to him.
The shocking amount of times I’ve underestimated the power of electricity.
When my girlfriend asked me, “How stupid do you think I am? ” and I gave a quantifying answer.
The sheer disappointment that is certain to be felt by anyone directed to this blog after searching for National Slap Day just to discover they have missed it.
The sheer disappointment this blog causes in general.
My Hello Kitty phase. (I’m just joking–I regret nothing about that!)
That I have once again missed National Toothache Day.
That’s right. February 9th was National Toothache Day, and it blew right past me.
The decorations never made it out of the box, and I completely forgot about the traditional National Toothache Day dinner: Gummi Bears, Mountain Dew, and a big heaping bowl of molasses, followed by poor oral hygiene.
I’m starting to feel anxious, but National Stress Day isn’t until November 4th.
You have no idea how much that stresses me out!
From this point forward, I’m marking my calendar.
I’ve already circled March 5th: National Multiple Personality Day.
Last year, I relied on one of my other personalities to remind me, but the only thing they ever told me was to kill again.
You’re sitting there casually watching the chick flick of her choice. It’s not a bad movie; you’re enjoying its whimsical humor. About two-thirds through the movie, just as you’ve become emotionally invested in the characters, she suddenly turns to you and pops this landmine under your feet: do you think Julia Roberts is prettier than me?
The following conversation results:
Her: Do you think Julia Roberts is prettier than me?
(You hear the landmine’s triggering mechanism click, and you’re afraid to move.)
You: Um…I don’t know.
Her: It’s a simple question. Do you think she’s prettier than me or not?
You: Of course not, you’re much prettier.
(You think you may have defused the landmine, but you still feel trepidatious about taking a step.)
Her: Why are you being a liar?
(Nope; still undefused.)
Her: If you think she’s pretty, you can say so.
You: Okay. I think Julia Roberts is attractive.
Her: Which is it? Is she pretty, or is she attractive?’
You: What’s the difference?
Her: If you don’t know the difference between the two words, how can you properly use either one?
You: I guess I would say she’s very attractive.
Her: Oh, so now she’s very attractive. Is she gorgeous?
You: I guess to some guys.
Her: What kind of guys?
You: Guys who…have the ability of sight.
(Several moments of uncomfortable silence.)
Her: I suppose you wish I looked like Julia Roberts.
You: No. I don’t need a woman who’s gorgeous; you’re fine.
(The sheer stupidity of the statement hits you immediately; an impending feeling that you won’t make it out of this alive is beginning to set in.)
Her: Do you want to know what I wish?
You: I sincerely doubt it.
Her: I wish you looked like Hugh Grant.
You: I wish I looked like Hugh Grant.
Her: You do?
You: Sure. Then I could find a girlfriend who looks like Julia Roberts.
(Deafening silence. You can’t stand on the landmine much longer before your legs give out.)
Her: Maybe I should just make an appointment with a plastic surgeon tomorrow and get all my horrible flaws fixed.
You: Don’t bother; I don’t think the plastic surgeon can fix bitchy.
(Boom! Body parts are everywhere.)
Don’t feel too bad; you never stood a chance. It was an old, faulty Soviet landmine; it was going to go off no matter what.
Jamestown, NY–When Virgil and Beatrice, an unassuming couple from a small city in Western New York, booked a vacation package through Dante’s Travel Agency, they were anticipating a needed injection of excitement into their life, a break from the humdrum.
“We purchased the Inferno package,” Beatrice explained, “it seemed like it would be fiery and exhilarating.”
The vacation they got was not what they anticipated.
“Our vacation started at a spot the brochure referred to as The First Circle of Hell; that’s a colorful name, I thought to myself; this ought to be fun.” Beatrice solemnly shook her head before adding, “I was mistaken.”
To the couple’s dismay, they discovered their vacation consisted of nine days of going from one circle of Hell to progressively worse circles of Hell.
“Tomorrow will be better, we kept telling ourselves, but it never was,” Beatrice told us. “The brochure promised interaction with famous people,” she continued with a scowl on her face, “but Judas, Hitler, and Ted Bundy are not the best dinner companions.”
“Hitler slurps his soup,” Virgil added.
Beatrice went on to describe how the ninth and final day of the vacation was the most distressing: “We had this big meet and greet with Satan himself,” she said. “He was loud and obnoxious, and he wreaked of burning flesh and sulfur…and he just wouldn’t shut up about how telemarketing was all his idea.”
“We were looking for tropical drinks with umbrellas and seaside barbeques,” Virgil added as he trembled, “not for lost human souls writhing in torment and agony by a lake of fire.”
“This has all been very hard on Virgil,” Beatrice explained. “He’s very sensitive; he has the heart of a poet.”
When asked what they planned to do now, Beatrice replied, “We’re just going to go home and get some sleep; it was impossible to get even a wink with all three of Cerberus’ heads barking incessantly every night.”
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.
I’ve recently encountered some individuals who said they hate Christmas or they can’t wait for the Christmas season to be over.
What is the matter with you people, don’t you know it’s the most wonderful time of the year? Andy Williams told us so in song form. Are you going to contradict Andy Williams? Andy Williams was a national treasure you heartless goons.
I had a friend (not the one with genital chiggers) tell me he couldn’t wait for Christmas to be over: the obligations, the expense, the forced family get-togethers with people he really didn’t care for.
It’s a crying shame.
But I had another friend (the one with the genital chiggers) tell me how much he loved Christmas: the decorations, the songs, the eggnog (the best of all nogs), the gifts, and the general spirit of giving.
I would have shook his hand, but he had been doing a crazy amount of groin itching due to the chiggers. I told him there was a powder he could get, but he said he had used the powder and the chiggers thought it was Christmas, formed a big circle, and sang Christmas carols like the Whos in Whoville.
Speaking of the Whos in Whoville: don’t you Christmas haters remember when the Grinch’s heart grew three sizes when he finally understood the true meaning of Christmas?
Note:if your heart grows three sizes, you have a pretty severe medical condition–you’re probably going to die. You should definitely seek medical help as quickly as possible.
But that’s not the point.
Don’t you Christmas haters remember when Scrooge McDuck awoke on Christmas morning to discover the spirits had done it all in one night and he hadn’t missed Christmas. He took a bag of toys and a turkey to the Cratchit’s home.
It does seem strange: a duck eating a turkey. Some kind of weird fowl cannibalism going on there. Still, Scrooge kept Christmas from that point forward and he kept it well.
Note:if you’re a young couple about to have twins, I implore you to name them Ignorance and Wont. They’ll hate you for it, but it’ll be a great conversation starter every Christmas.
Don’t you Christmas haters remember when Jimmy Stewart’s character thought he had killed Lee Marvin’s character, but it was in fact, John Wayne’s character who had killed Lee Marvin’s character and…
Sorry, that’s the wrong Jimmy Stewart movie. That’s from The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance, a great movie, but not very Christmassy.
Don’t you Christmas haters remember when George Bailey realized he was the richest man in Bedford Falls because he had friends and family and had made a difference in so many lives? Do you not remember that! It was so freaking heartwarming!
Look at how happy Jimmy Stewart is. It’s as if he’s just shot Lee Marvin.
And don’t all you Christmas haters remember when Charlie Brown asks, “Isn’t there anyone who knows what Christmas is all about.”
Linus replies, “Sure, Charlie Brown, I can tell you what Christmas is all about.”
Linus then moves to center stage and says this:
And there were in the same country shepherds abiding
in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night.
And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them,
and the glory of the Lord shone round about them:
and they were sore afraid.
And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold,
I bring you good tidings of great joy,
which shall be to all people.
For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour,
which is Christ the Lord.
It’s only one of the most iconic moments in television history.
I hope all you Christmas haters shoot your eyes out.
Fairytale Land–The wolf community has united in protest against what they perceive as the negative portrayal they receive in fables and fairytales. We have interviewed Mr. Bartholomew Wolf, spokeswolf for The Equity For Wolves In Storytelling, about the situation.
Mr. Wolf: Just look at the end of The Three Little Pigs. The three little pigs boil the wolf in oil, and nobody sheds a tear. In fact, everybody cheers. Just think about how that story begins, they label him as ‘the big bad wolf,’ it’s highly prejudicial. That wolf’s name was Poindexter; he was one of a litter of six, and he had to overcome a stuttering problem as a child–they didn’t tell you that in the fable!
Idiotpruf: When he was boiled in oil, Poindexter was climbing down the chimney to eat the pigs.
Mr. Wolf: What? You’ve never had bacon? You probably had a nice ham dinner last Sunday; I’ll bet no one tried to boil you in oil.
Idiotpruf: Actually, I had vegan tacos.
Mr. Wolf: Really?
Idiotpruf: No. I was joking; vegan tacos are disgusting. But Poindexter wasn’t just trying to eat the three little pigs, he also destroyed the homes of the first two little pigs with his breath.
Mr. Wolf: That’s the most ridiculous part of the story; most wolves smoke two packs a day and couldn’t blow the seeds off a dandelion, let alone destroy a house with their breath.
Idiotpruf: Why do you think there are so many stories where the villain is a wolf: The Three Little Pigs, The Wolf and the Fox, The Wolf and the Seven Young Kids, and Little Red Riding Hood, just to name a few?
Mr. Wolf: I don’t know. Wolves are just like every other woodland creature; we have hopes, dreams, and fears like any denizen of the forest.
Idiotpruf: You do, on occasion, devour your fellow denizens of the forest.
Mr. Wolf: We’re very upfront about that. Besides, if you focus on one negative thing, you can make anything seem bad. Most of the animals in the forest have annoying traits: rabbits are noisy chewers, squirrels smell horrible when they’re wet, and tree frogs are horribly smug.
Idiotpruf: I wouldn’t have guessed that about tree frogs.
Mr. Wolf: That’s because tree frogs have no reason to be smug–they just are.
Idiotpruf: In Little Red Riding Hood, the wolf eats the poor girl’s grandmother.
Mr. Wolf: Little Red Riding Hood is a prime example of how these stories get it wrong about wolves; any self-respecting wolf would never eat the grandmother first; grandmothers are all sinewy and gristle, and they taste like linament.”
Idiotpruf: The story suggests that the wolf ate the grandmother first so he could take her place and fool Little Red Riding Hood so that he could then, in turn, eat her.
Mr. Wolf: What does it say about Little Red Riding Hood that she couldn’t readily tell the difference between her grandmother and a wolf–quite frankly, it’s insulting to the wolf.
Idiotpruf: So you’d beokaywith the story if the wolf ate Little Red Riding Hood First?
Mr. Wolf: At least it would make more sense.
Idiotpruf: Just for clarification, as a wolf, you’re okay with the eating of the little girl?
Mr. Wolf: Of course, we’d eat the little girl, I mean, we’re freakin’ wolves.
The interview ended abruptly after that, and Mr. Bartholomew Wolf was stripped of his title as the spokesperson for The Equity For Wolves In Storytelling.
Have you ever noticed how an object can have more than one use? Take, for instance, a standard shovel. You could use a shovel to dig a hole; you could also use it to smash an ugly porcelain frog into a thousand tiny pieces. Two completely different uses. You could then use your shovel to bury the thousand tiny pieces of the porcelain frog in the hole that you have already dug, preferably before your neighbor discovers what you’ve done to his porcelain frog. Let’s be honest: if your neighbor didn’t want his frog smashed into a thousand tiny pieces, he shouldn’t have bought a frog that was so ridiculously ugly and made of fragile material like porcelain; he might as well have put a sign next to it that read: please smash me, I’m ugly and fragile, and I don’t deserve to exist. On second thought, there could be confusion if your neighbor happened to be standing next to the sign; that sign could be readily misinterpreted; your neighbor is also ugly and fragile. Also, your neighbor’s personality is such that it wouldn’t take much of a nudge to push a person from the mere impulse of violence to a case of full-blown assault.You, of course, limited your aggression to the porcelain frog–for now. As luck would have it when you dug the hole earlier in the day, you had no plans for it; you just dug the hole out of the sheer enjoyment of digging a hole. Then you saw the porcelain frog, and the whole thing just came together. When your neighbor accuses you of smashing his porcelain frog and burying it in your backyard, you can tell him to go ahead and see for himself because you have the perfect hole-digging implement for such a task. Of course, you had the foresight to bury an active landmine next to the dispatched porcelain frog; you were on a hole-digging spree. “Go dig it up,” you’ll urge him. “You have a 50/50 chance of not being blown to hell.” Then, you will laugh manically as he angrily trudges back into his house in an act of total defeat. Unless he’s going inside to call the authorities, the second of those two possibilities is probably more likely. Ugly, fragile people have the tendency to tattle. You could use the shovel to bolt your door before the ATF arrives in preparation for the inevitable stand-off; you are getting a ton of positive use out of your shovel today.
Do you see all the different uses there are for a common shovel?
idiotpruf 