idiotprufs

what the hell else are you gonna do with your time?

Archive for the tag “idiot”

Ned the Tree Frog: A Fable


tree frog

The Fable

Ned was a tree frog who lived in a bush.

All the other tree frogs lived in big trees in the forest, but Ned had a fear of heights.

One day Ned was hopping around the forest floor when he bumped into Patty the tree frog and her boyfriend, Dirk the tree frog.

Ned had long fancied Patty the treefrog; she was especially plump and slimy.

“We’re having a party up in our tree tonight,” Patty told Ned, “why don’t you come?”

“He won’t come to a party in the tree,” Dirk said snidely, “Ned doesn’t like to be in the trees.”

“It’s called acrophobia,” Ned defended himself, “and it’s an officially recognized fear by American Psychiatric Association, Dirk.”

“You really need to grow a pair,” Patty told Ned.

“I’m a tree frog,” Ned told Patty, “that means my genitalia consists of two interior testicles and spermatic canal; I have a pair, you just can’t see them.”

“Let’s just leave this pathetic loser to himself and go have our party,” Dirk told Patty.

Dirk and Patty laughed at Ned as they hopped away to have their party.

That Dirk is a spermatic canal, Ned thought to himself.

That night Ned sat in his bush and listened to the laughter and frivolity happening in the tree above him and he felt very sad and alone.

So he got some gasoline and burned their tree to the ground–the other tree frogs never made fun of Ned again.

Moral

Don’t be a spermatic canal.

tree on fire

What happens when you’re a spermatic canal.

 

 

 

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They Must Be Stopped: 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 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 of these men of science are just quacks; they don’t believe gardens gnomes come to life at night. They don’t believe in ghosts or bigfoot or that the Earth is flat. Quacks!

image source: wpclipart.com

“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 Gerald the neighbor kid.)
  • 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 posting videos of you smashing their garden gnomes in your footy 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.

A Bad Job Interview and Ungulates.

He likes to size up new employees with a long hard stare.
(image source: theitcrowd.wikia.com)

He stares at you with an unwavering gaze as you shift uncomfortably in your seat. The seconds grow into minutes. The minutes grow into slightly more minutes. His unwavering gaze intensifies into a penetrating glare.

Beads of sweat well on your forehead.

The faint buzz of the flourescent lighting above you is the only sound in the room.

He picks up the phone and begins to dial, never averting his steely eyes from yours. He suddenly stops dialing and slams the receiver back into the cradle.

You flinch, beads of sweat break and run down the side of your face.

He sits back and crosses his hands, he seems to relax. You relax a little.

He then suddenly lurches forward and yells at you in a booming voice, “ungulates.”

Your brain frantically searches for the proper response. “What?” Is the best that your brain can do.

“Ungulate, it roughly means hoofed animals or being hoofed,” he explains.

“I know what an ungulate is,” you respond defensively.

“Then why did you seem so perplexed by the word?” He demands.

“I guess I was just startled,” you answer.

“Do many words startle you?”

“Words don’t startle me,” you say with incredulity.

“So you claim. Yet the word ungulate seemed to make you wet yourself. What other words give you a start?”

“I’m not afraid of any words,” you maintain.

“So it’s just ungulates that you hate. That’s a problem.”

“I don’t hate ungulates,” you reply, feeling a sense of desperation although you’re not certain why.

“I love ungulates,” he tells you with conviction. “My father loved ungulates. My father’s father loved ungulates…His father didn’t care for them, something about being kicked in the side of the head.” He then pauses for several moments, staring into the distance in a reflective manner, before continuing with renewed vigor. “But his father really loved ungulates. I don’t think that I could work with a person who didn’t love ungulates.”

“I love ungulates too,” you tell him latching on to his enthusiasm.

“Very well,” he says as he eyes you with suspicion, “what is the best type of ungulate?”

It’s at this point, you realize that you have never once in your life stopped to consider the qualities of ungulates. “The zebra,” you answer apprehensively.

“Are you currently high on crystal-meth?” The interviewer demands.

“Why. Is that the wrong answer?”

“No. Zebra is the proper answer, but you’re very skittish and sweaty.”

“I just didn’t think there’d be so many questions about ungulates for this type of job?” You tell him.

“You are absolutely correct. Let’s get on with a proper interview shall we.” You nod in agreement, glad to be getting on with it. “So, why do want to be a proctologist; do you enjoy sticking your finger up other men’s butts?”

“What? No. I don’t want to be a proctologist.”

“Well then why are you here?” He asks you accusingly.

“Isn’t this an accounting firm,” you ask confusedly.

He shuffles through some of the papers on his desk, reads through a few of them thoroughly, shuffles through a few more, then looks up at you. “You’re right, this is an accounting firm. How silly of me. We almost never have cause to stick our fingers up other men’s butts. Except on Thursdays, there’s quite a lot of it on Thursdays, but other than that, almost never.”

“Okay?” you say with a total lack of conviction.

“I suppose you’re well equipped at adding and subtracting numbers, because that’s the type of thing we’re looking for in a proctol…I mean accountant.”

“Yes. I’m very good at math,” you assure him.

“Quickly. What does 6+5-2 equal?” He snaps at you.

“That would of course be nine,” you reply confidently.

He stares at you for a moment. He then pulls a small calculator from his desk drawer and punches several buttons. “Amazing. That is absolutely correct, and you didn’t need an adding machine, an abacus, or even your fingers. You just did it right in your head.”

“It was really just a child’s question,” you tell him modestly.

“Nonsense. You are brilliant. When can you start?”

“I can start immediately.”

“There’s just one little thing: what is your opinion on diseased chimpanzees?” The interviewer asks.

“I don’t think I have an opinion on diseased chimpanzees,” you tell him with uncertainty.

“Don’t be silly, everyone has an opinion on diseased chimpanzees.”

“Really?” You seem doubtful. “What’s your opinion on diseased chimpanzees?”

“I think they’re smug,” he tells you with a tinge of contempt in his voice.

“Why is it relevant?”

“All of our employees share a desk with a diseased chimpanzee.”

“Why in the world is that?”

“It seems we were doing a job for a research lab and misplaced a few million dollars of theirs. Now we have to house some of their less than successful projects.”

“You misplaced a few million dollars,” you ask in total disbelief.

“Look,” he replies angrily, “not everyone is as brilliant at math as you are. Listen, getting along with a diseased chimpanzee as a desk-mate is really very simple: don’t make eye contact, don’t make any sudden movements, don’t ever use his stapler, don’t let him use his stapler to staple documents to your forehead; they will do that, and if he hurls his feces at you, don’t hurl yours back.”

“Do you honestly think, I need to be told not to hurl my feces in the workplace?”

“There have been incidents.”

“This is crazy. I don’t want to work here. I don’t want to work for you, and certainly don’t want to work with a diseased chimpanzee. I’m out of here.” You storm out in a huff.

“And he wanted to be a proctologist; he doesn’t possess the temperament,” the interviewer mumbles to himself, “and I would never allow him near my ungulates.”

zebra ungulate

“You got a problem with me?”

A Few Helpful Hints For Your Job Interview

Things you should not wear to a job interview:

  • A belt buckle that reads: The Boss Sucks.
  • Your “I’m too drunk to care” t-shirt.
  • That shirt you own that has a mustard stain shaped like Jiminy Cricket.
  • That shirt you own that has a siracha stain shaped like Donald Duck.
  • Any shirt, with any stain, shaped like any Disney character.
  • That sombrero you’re so proud of.
  • Your alligator boots. (Especially if you’re interviewing for a job with Peta.)
  • Your lucky pair of pants. They may be lucky, but the hole in the crotch isn’t doing you any favors.
  • Your eye patch. Yes, it makes you look dangerous and cool, but don’t.
  • Your Omar Moreno wig. Yes, it’s hysterical, but don’t.
omar moreno hair

It’s hysterical, but don’t.

Things not to do on a job interview:

  • Turn every innocuous statement into a double entendre by responding with the phrase: that’s what she said.
  • Bring in Leonard, your pet lizard, because you think the interviewer might enjoy seeing how a lizard can devour an entire rat.
  • Bring in Wilbur, your pet wombat, because you think the interviewer might be fascinated by how much a wombat can crap.
  • Go on a tirade about your previous boss, using phrases such as, weasel-faced penis, rat-fink, or tiny brained flea.
  • Punctuate the tirade by saying, “of course, I was stealing from the company to finance my crystal meth habit.”
  • Nod toward a picture of your interviewer’s wife, give him a knowing wink and say, “sweet.”
  • Don’t lean into your interviewer, carefully study his face, and then say, “a good plastic surgeon could fix that.”
  • Don’t try to show your interviewer how clever you are by guessing her age and weight.
  • Don’t ask your interviewer if he’s prematurely gray, or just dirt-old.
  • Don’t recommend a good wrinkle cream.
  • Under no circumstance should you ask your interviewer to “smell this.”
  • Don’t do anything the voices in your head tell you to do; they don’t have your best interest in mind.
  • Don’t introduce your interviewer to Phineas, your imaginary friend.
  • Don’t tell your interviewer that Phineas thinks he smells good.
  • Don’t demonstrate your conscientiousness by pointing out that you’re waiting until after the interview to get stoned.

 

Things not to put on your resume:

Under other interests:

  • Your plot to overthrow the government and replace it with a puppet regime. Definitely don’t mention the puppets are Bert and Ernie.
  • Discussing your alien abduction, and various alien probing methods.
  • Your collection of shrunken heads.
  • Scrapbooking.
  • Hunting the world’s most dangerous prey: humans.
  • Miming.

Note: hunting mimes and shrinking their heads is acceptable, and if you should happen to scrapbook about it…whatever.

Under accomplishments:

  • Your swift rise to power as president of the Justin Bieber fan club.
  • Finishing at the top of your taxidermy class. (Again, this mostly applies if your interviewing for a job with Peta.)
  • Your fluency in Klingon.
  • Having been a cast member of any television show with the words “the housewives of” in the title.

Final and key piece of advice:

  • Just don’t be yourself.
bad interview

Don’t do this.

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 must be 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.

Brilliant.

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.”

 

 

Use Your Good Eye…Idiot

(image source: wpcliparts.com)

People in this country will forgive a lot of things, maybe even most things, but there is one thing people find unforgivable.

One thing that is so contemptuous, so vile, that it will send normally docile people over the edge.

It causes the young and healthy to have debilitating brain aneurysms, and reduces white-haired grandmothers to obscene gestures and obscenity laced tirades.

It even caused Pope Francis to punch a mime in the face.

What is this one thing: people who screw-up traffic.

Note: I was just kidding about people who screw-up traffic causing Pope Francis to punch a mime in the face; mimes are the reason Pope Francis punched a mime in the face. 

Other motorists don’t care why you’re screwing up traffic, just that you are screwing up traffic. You could be slumped over your steering wheel with an arrow protruding from one of your eyes sockets and most compassionate thing you’re gonna hear from another motorist is: “Hey idiot–use your good eye.”

The incident causing traffic to be screwed-up could be completely beyond your control.

Note: In an unrelated matter, did you know that without transmission fluid, a car is less of an automobile and more of a giant metal traffic clogger? It is.

Here are just some of the ways you can screw-up traffic:

  • By driving.
  • By driving too slowly in the fast-lane; it’s called the fast-lane, people are trying to get somewhere.
  • By driving too fast; are you trying to kill someone, maniac?
  • By never using your turn signal; let people know what you’re doing. You’re obviously stupid, we just don’t know how stupid.
  • By driving for miles and miles with your turn signal blinking for no apparent reason.
  • By consuming 15 to 20 cans of Coors Light before driving your kids to Sunday School. (You know who you are.)
  • By sitting at a 4-way stop and gaping numbly at the other drivers when it’s clearly your turn to go.
  • By making an obscene gesture to another motorist who is gaping at you at a 4-way stop, even though it’s clearly his turn to go.
  • By taking your eyes off the road to text your friend; nothing you have to say is important.
  • By taking your eyes off the road to pick-up the cell phone you just dropped while texting your friend. (You will however need to find it to dial 911 after you hit that tree.)
  • By driving down the road with your seat-belt dangling from the door, making sparks on the road; it’s dangerous when you cause other motorists to laugh hysterically.
  • By having your automobile come to an abrupt stop in the middle of a busy street because your transmission fluid has suddenly drained from your car. (This is your not fault; you can tell all those idiots honking their horns to shove it.)

“Shove it!”
(image source: wpclipart.com)

Remember: it doesn’t matter why you’ve screwed-up traffic, just that you have.

Do you think that people hate O.J. Simpson because he got away with double-homicide? No. It’s because when the police came to get him, he got in that Ford Bronco, got on the California highway on a Friday afternoon and screwed-up traffic.

You Found What on Your What Now?

The following search engine terms cropped up on my stats page:

why does mySo it seems there is someone out there with a problem. I have few points to make. (And yes, I’m going to ignore the “sexy man riding a unicorn images” addition to this list, it horrifies me.)

  • If I were suffering from this particular malady, and in a dire search for answers, a blog entitled idiotprufs is not blog that I would choose for answers.
  • I can write with a certain degree of certainty, this blog was absolutely no help at all to the person in question.
  • I know what your thinking: but isn’t laughter the best medicine? No it is not. There are several occasions when medicine is the best medicine: a gunshot wound to the head, a pick-ax in the eyeball, a paper-cut in that v-shaped space in-between your fingers (seriously, that hurts), and when you have weird and alarming protrusions on your dangle.

However, after a great deal of soul-searching (watching several episodes of The Rockford Files on Netflix) I came to a conclusion: why shouldn’t I be able to help?

After doing exhaustive research, (mostly googling weird penis problems) conferring with a myriad of professionals, (friends who I thought would get a good chuckle out of weird penis problems) and pondering all the possibilities, I decided that I could be of assistance.

The Question:

Why does it look like my penis has bug bites on the bottom of it?

The Answer:

You have probably put your penis somewhere you shouldn’t have.

The Solution:

Stop doing that.

Life really is simple if you want it to be.

If should happen to try this search term, don't click on images. Just don't do it.

If you should happen to try this search term, don’t click on images. Just don’t do it.

Names and Other Temporary Things


wrong tattoo

A mother’s effort to honor her young children went terribly wrong when the tattoo she got of her son’s name was spelled incorrectly — so she took what some might call an unusual approach. Fortunately her friends and family convinced her not to have her armed amputated, but to rename her son after the tattoo.

“Kevin,” the two-year-old son of Johanna Sandstrom, of Sweden, was renamed “Kelvin” after a tattoo artist inked the wrong name on her arm.

Sandstrom’s tattoo read: Nova & Kelvin which was clearly a mistake.

“I had never heard the name ‘Kelvin’ before,” she said. “There isn’t anyone who names their kid Kelvin; lots of people name their kids Fahrenheit or Celsius, but never Kelvin. So when I thought more about it, I realized that no one else has this name. It became unique. Now we think it is better than Kevin.”

It also seemed a lucky stroke for Sandstrom’s daughter, whose name was changed from Ass-faced Hag to Nova, following the erroneous tattoo.

When asked to explain the mistake, the Swedish tattoo artist simply said, “in my previous job I wrote the assembly instructions for Ikea products; I was bound to screw this up incomprehensibly.”

Sandstrom told the newspaper she’ll make sure to check “10,000 times” before she gets the name of her third child, Freja, tattooed.

“Or maybe I’ll just get a skull with a snake slithering through it’s eye socket,” she added, “it’s 50/50 right now.”

skull tattoo

This was supposed to read, Freja.

Which is the Worst?


hard choices

 

Which of these scenarios is the worst?

scenario #1

You’re locked in a small room filled with disease riddled monkeys that screech at the top of their disease riddled lungs, and with incredible precision, hurl their disease riddled feces at your face…and they’re smug.

 scenario #2

You’re taken into the desert on an oppressively hot day, stripped naked, tied to ant hill populated with crazy stinging Amazonian bastard ants, and honey is slathered over your naughty bits.

scenario #3

You’re given a vat filled with puss and random toad bits, and you have to eat every last drop…and you can’t have any salt.

(You could substitute your aunt’s potato salad here–it’s same difference.)

scenario #4

You have to swim a mile through raw sewage and dead rats, and you have to use the breaststroke.

scenario #5

You have to spend the day with your aunts, uncles, and cousins at the family reunion.

I know what you’re thinking: they’re all pretty horrible, but which one is the worst?

potato salad

Your aunt always uses too much eye of newt.

Uncle Finster’s Picnic and Brightly Colored Marshmallows


colored marshmallows

You went to the annual kickoff-to-Summer picnic at your Uncle Finster’s house.

Normally you would avoid your Uncle Finster’s house the way a small rabbit would avoid a pit of vipers. A big fat pit of bulbous, sweaty, bitchy, chunky-thighed, drooling, self-congratulatory, vain, big-mouthed, half-wit, vipers.

And those are just your aunts.

But this year your grandmother has declared this summer will likely be her last and any of her grandchildren who don’t attend every family function, to be vindictively and purposely speeding her descent into the grave—she’s a lovely woman.

As you arrive, you’re immediately met by Uncle Finster’s wife, your Aunt Sally. She’s standing with her hands on her hips and an expression of accusatory smugness on her face.

Note: Sally’s maiden name was Snaggle-faced Bar Sinister Hag, but for some reason people just call her Sally.

“Did you bring it?” Aunt Sally demands.

“If you’re referring to either fear, trepidation, or an overwhelming desire to be elsewhere, I never come here without it,” you reply.

“Do you always have to be a smartass?”

“Evidently,” you admit.

“I meant the Jell-O dessert–did you bring the Jell-O dessert,” Aunt Sally wants to know.

“I brought the Jell-O dessert,” you confirm as you hand her a large container.

“You didn’t put those tiny little colored marshmallows in it did you?” Aunt Sally asks. “You’re Uncle Finster hates those tiny little colored Marshmallows in his Jell-O.”

“I can’t stand that hippie Jell-O,” your Uncle Finster confirms.

“No, Uncle Finster, I didn’t put those tiny little colored marshmallows in the Jell-O; I know how much you hate those tiny little colored marshmallows. In fact I’m well aware of the list of things you hate: things that colorful, things that are joyous, laughing children, puppies, opossums that aren’t dead, potpourri, shredded wheat, pinecones, anything that’s purple, people who live on islands, words containing the letter Q, human emotion, lime flavored foods, and seedless watermelons.”

“Lime is disgusting and seedless watermelons aren’t natural,” he screams at you.

“They aren’t the only things unnatural,” you say as you wipe the spit from your face.

“Remember that time you put those tiny little colored marshmallows in the Jell-O: your Aunt Sally had a heart attack,” Uncle Finster accuses you.

“First: grabbing your chest and screaming, “you’ve given me a heart attack” isn’t the same as actually having a heart attack. Second: I’m sure her sedentary lifestyle and lard based diet would be the primary factors in regards to any heart issues Aunt Sally may experience.”

“What’s going on?” Your Aunt Jackal forces her way into the conversation. “You didn’t put those tiny little colored marshmallows in the Jell-O again did you?”

Note: your Aunt Jackal was meant to be named Jaclyn, but there was a clerical error with the birth certificate. Oddly, the name Jackal is far more suited to her.

“There are no tiny little colored marshmallows in the Jell-O,” you assure her.

“You’re still a bitter disappointment,” she tells you before she walks away to get another cocktail.

jackal

Your Aunt Jackal in her natural habitat. She’s probably just killed something.

“Did I hear something about there being tiny little colored marshmallows in the Jell-O?” Your Uncle Brad asks. “Are you trying to ruin the annual kickoff-to-Summer picnic?”

“There are no tiny little colored marshmallows in the Jell-O,” you tell him.

“Everyone is talking about how you put tiny little colored marshmallows in the Jell-O again,” your Cousin Bucky tells you as he joins the conversation, “I like the way you stir things up.”

“I have an announcement to make,” you shout as you stand on a piece of lawn furniture.

“I hope it’s not that you’re a bitter disappointment,” your Aunt Jackal says, “because we already know.”

“Don’t worry about her,” Cousin Bucky whispers to you, “Aunt Jackal’s drunk…and a bitch.”

Undaunted you continue, “I can assure everyone here, there are absolutely no tiny little colored marshmallows in the Jell-O.”

You stand waiting for a response as your family silently gapes at you.

The silence is finally broken by a scream from Aunt Sally, “This is lime Jell-O filled with chunks of seedless watermelon.”

“I did do that,” you tell the family, “but what else can you expect from a bitter disappointment?”

Aunt Sally clutches her chest.

Aunt Jackal drunkenly scowls at you.

Cousin Bucky gives you a thumbs-up.

Summer has been officially kicked off.

green jell-o

This would be great if it contained chunks of seedless watermelon.

 

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