idiotpruf

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

Archive for the tag “idiot”

The True and Accurate Historical Story of Limburger Cheese

limburger cheese

The delightful aroma of feet.

There is one salient fact about Limburger cheese: it is just awful. The only time I would need Limburger cheese, would be if I needed something that smelled like death and the smell from my giant pile of opossum crap just wasn’t enough.

Did you know the bacterium used to ferment Limburger cheese is the same bacterium that is responsible for body odor, and in particular, foot odor?

If you’ve ever smelled Limberger cheese, you had your suspicions.

Limburger cheese was first created in the Duchy of Limburg in the 19th century by a man who had just come home from a hard day of cheese making. He had unbuckled and removed his boots and was attempting to enjoy a meal with his wife when he and his wife got into an argument that changed the history of cheese making forever.

Wife: What is that horrendous smell?

Cheesemaker: Ooh, we’re having stoofvlees, I love stoofvlees.

Wife: It’s the most putrid smell I have ever encountered.

Cheesemaker: I don’t smell anything. Pass the ale.

Wife: I think it’s your feet.

Cheesemaker: Seriously. Pass the ale.

Wife: It’s rancorous.

Cheesemaker: It’s not that bad.

Wife: It is that bad. There are people retching on the other side of the Demer River.

Cheesemaker: Do you know what this conversation isn’t doing? It isn’t remedying the fact that I have no ale.

Wife: Your feet smell worse than that giant pile of opossum crap you have behind the house.

Cheesemaker: I’ll get my own ale.

Wife: Why do you even have a giant pile of opossum crap?

Cheesemaker: I’ll tell you why, (he pauses to take a slug of ale) because someday you’ll be in desperate need of copious amounts of opossum crap, and you’ll be glad it’s there.

Wife: I’ve thought the same thing about you, but it still hasn’t happened. Besides, it’s the worst smell in the world.

Cheesemaker: Nonsense. It’s not the worst smell in the world. In fact, I’ll bet that I could make a cheese that smells worse.

Wife: I doubt it.

Cheesemaker: You’ll see; it will become my mission.

Wife: Shut up and drink your ale.

And drink his ale he did.

And succeed he did–beyond his wildest ale-fueled dreams.

Of course, his wife left him and his giant pile of opossum crap.

The Duchy of Limburg is now divided by modern-day Germany, the Netherlands, and Belgium. None of the three countries wanted it: it reeked of Limburger cheese and developed a huge opossum problem.

Addendum: there are historians who will tell you certain items in this story aren’t factual–historians suck.

opossum

The aroma of their crap is delightful.

Reefer Madness and a Bit of Math

pot shop

Albert Einstein almost never hung out here.

The Dutch have done it again.

From the people who have already given us windmills, Holstein cows, gouda cheese, Heineken, orange carrots (seriously, orange carrots–look it up), and most crucially: the idea that my date will pay for her own meal, comes another breakthrough.

Dutch researchers have determined that students who were banned from smoking marijuana in Dutch coffee shops were found to be more likely to pass exams, specifically math-based exams.

The effect is “five times larger” for courses requiring quantitative thinking and maths-based tasks, according to the researchers. They then crossed out that figure and changed it to “four times larger” before crossing out that figure and changing it to “ten times larger.” They then admitted that they were quite confused and unsure of the figures–they had been smoking a lot of pot that day. They then put on some Steely Dan records and sent out for munchies.

Note: in an unrelated study, Dutch researchers have discovered that people who repeatedly whomp themselves in the face with a wooden shoe, are more likely to suffer from headaches than people who don’t repeatedly whomp themselves in the face with a shoe.

The Dutch, known for their thoroughness and incredible dyke building skills, have compiled a list of activities hindered by the use of marijuana:

  • Basic math skills.
  • Advanced math skills.
  • Common core math (actually, heavy drug use helps with this).
  • Operating heavy machinery.
  • Operating heavy machinery while trying to remember the lyrics of your favorite Grateful Dead song.
  • Operating heavy machinery while remembering that your favorite Grateful Dead song has no lyrics; it’s just 25 minutes of twangy guitar music.
  • Taking deep breaths without hacking up a lung.
  • Finding Lake Titicaca on a map.
  • Saying the name Lake Titicaca without giggling uncontrollably.
  • Not giggling uncontrollably.
  • The ability to have a conversation with a person without referring to him as “man” repeatedly.
  • The ability to enter a grocery store without purchasing a case of Twinkies.

Additionally, the Dutch have discovered that in manufacturing companies where marijuana use is prevalent among its workers, production levels have seen a substantial drop. However, this doesn’t apply to companies that produce tie-dye clothing; drug use in those companies seems to cause an explosion of production…at least until everyone gets hungry and they start scarfing down bags of Cheetos.

Note: it is a little-known fact that tie-dye was invented in 1928 when after eating a tainted breakfast burrito, Walt Disney vomited on a co-worker’s shirt and really liked the way it looked. He then drew something about a mouse on a steamboat. The Dutch don’t invent everything.

Meanwhile in North Korea:

Does a Bee Sting in the Penis Hurt?

bee sting

“You want me to sting you where now?”

A million-dollar National Science Foundation grant was given to Cornell University so a researcher could force bees to sting him on his penis to find out how much it hurts.

Let that sink in.

The idea was inspired by an unfortunate situation when a honeybee flew up Michael Smith’s shorts and stung him. “I was really surprised that it didn’t hurt as much as I thought it would,” he said. The experience got him thinking: where is the most painful place on the body to get stung by a bee?

Oddly, it didn’t get him thinking about his choice of shorts when bike riding, or his strange proclivity for rubbing flower pollen on his inner thighs before he goes bike riding.

Note: the bee found the whole experience to be horrifying. “I was just buzzing along, very busy as we’re known to be, when suddenly I was all up in this dude’s junk,” the bee said.  

With the financial support from a National Science Foundation (NSF) Graduate Research Fellowship grant to Cornell University, Smith forced honeybees to sting more than 25 locations on his body from the face to the genitals. He then rated the pain caused by each of the stings on a scale of “Ouch” to “Holy Crap, What Have I Done.

To compel a bee to sting, it was grabbed by the wings and pressed against the desired sting location.

Note: the million-dollar research grant pales in comparison to the multi-million-dollar lawsuit filed by the bees who were “compelled” to sting Michael Smith in the penis.   

bee sting research

One million dollars being spent.

The least painful locations to be stung by a bee for Michael Smith were the skull, middle toe tip, the upper arm, and in the face of some guy who happened to walk into the room at the wrong time.

The most painful places to be stung for Michael Smith were the nostril, upper lip, and the genitals.

Note: shockingly, being stung in the genitals does hurt.

Also painful for Michael Smith was the broken nose that resulted when the guy who got stung when he happened to walk into the room at the wrong time, punched him in the face.

Michael originally had his eyeball on the list of body parts to be stung but was talked out of it by his advisor Tom Seeley.

Note: I think it’s safe to say, despite the advice about the eyeball, as an advisor, Tom Seeley has failed Michael Smith miserably.  

Michael concedes this study is limited by its low sample size: one person, himself.

“It is possible that if other people were tested, they would not rank the painfulness of the stings in the same way or perceive pain similarly by location. It is also possible a female researcher may rate being stung in her penis or scrotum very differently,” Michael stated.

Did I mention how miserably Michael Smith’s advisor failed him?  

In case you’re wondering, these methods do not conflict with the Helsinki Declaration, which is a set of ethical principles for research involving human subjects developed by the World Medical Association.

In an “unrelated” experiment, researchers from Brown University set out to see if they could convince some moron from Cornell to compel bees to repeatedly sting him in the penis.

Helsinki is looking into it.

Addendum:

The assertion that Michael Smith rubs flower pollen on his inner thighs before he goes bike riding is purely speculation on my part…but he probably does.

bee sting penis

I think I see where Michael Smith went wrong.

Stupid Mimes

I robbed a bunch of mimes at knifepoint and got away with it.

Actually, I was only miming having a knife, but they fell for it.

In fact, I was miming holding a carrot, but they couldn’t tell the difference.

I wasn’t even going to use the mimed carrot–I’m a very nonviolent person at heart.

Unfortunately, they could only mime giving me their wallets, evidently, mimes don’t like to carry cash.

So, I took their berets and their last wisps of dignity.

I robbed a bunch of mimes of their berets and their last wisps of dignity, and I got away with it.

When the police asked them what happened–none of them talked.

Stupid mimes.

You Found What on Your Penis 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 degree of certainty; this blog was absolutely no help at all to the person in question.
  • I know what you’re 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 papercut 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.

Physically Fit to be Tied–And a Bit Older

image credit: TMZ

(image credit: TMZ)

“Are you physically fit?” bellowed the man on the television screen as he jabbed a muscular finger in my direction.

“I don’t know,” I exclaimed, a bit startled by the suddenness of the question.

“Are you physically fit?” he persisted. This man was loud, muscle bound, and so deeply tanned that where ever he was, he must have been near the surface of the sun.

“You’re getting older,” he continued.

I am getting older, I thought, nearly every day.

“Do you even know what it means to be physically fit?”

I had to admit that I really didn’t.

“Of course you don’t know what it means, you’re a tiny pathetic weed of a man.”

I still didn’t know what it meant, was a little insulted, but wished that someone would tell me.

“Well I’m going to tell you.” He seemed to be reading my mind. “Physical fitness is the ability of the body to function with vigor and alertness, and with ample energy to engage in leisure activities. Endurance and cardio respiratory integrity are the overt signs of physical fitness.

Well this was absolutely no help at all.

My body functions with vigor and alertness, in as much as I seldom fall asleep when I don’t want to. I have endurance; I can run over one-hundred feet before the searing pain in my side renders me unconscious. As far as cardio respiratory integrity goes, my heart’s been beating for my entire life and hasn’t stopped yet, how much more integrity do you need?

Ample energy for leisure activities? Any activity that requires an amount of energy that can be characterized as ample, isn’t leisurely at all.

Here are a few activities that I don’t consider leisurely: running, jogging, speed walking, walking normally over long distances, walking slowly up an incline, lifting heavy objects, carrying heavy objects, lifting then subsequently carrying heavy objects, rock climbing. Rocks should never be climbed, if you’re trying to get somewhere and there is a rock in the way, go around it or blow it up. Why do think Alfred Nobel invented dynamite? They didn’t name that award after him because he wasted his time scrabbling up and down rocks.

It was at this point that the man on the screen began doing squat-thrusts. There has never been a time in the history of mankind that it was necessary to do a squat-thrust.

I decided to change the channel. Eventually I found a man reclined in a hammock, sipping a drink through a straw as waves washed a sun soaked beach in the background.

Now that’s a leisurely activity; one for which I have ample energy.

idiotpruf

Goofy has the idea.
(image source: wondersofdisney.com)

You’re so Superior

I was reading an article about the trend of people marrying themselves.

The article detailed how the people who marry themselves, find it a truly empowering and liberating act.

It explained that even though it isn’t legal to marry yourself, people are having symbolic ceremonies with all trimmings of a traditional wedding.

You’re probably thinking marrying yourself is the act of a weird, delusional, and self-absorbed person.

You’re thinking it’s an act of desperation by person who’s had a complete break from reality.

Maybe you think it’s just a twisted and elaborate plan to get wedding cake.

Shame on you!

I’ll bet you’re one of those judgmental types.

I’ll bet you think the only difference is between marrying yourself and being completely and hopelessly alone is absolutely nothing.

You simpleton.

You’re probably one of those backwards people who also thinks it’s weird when people eat urinal cakes.

Urinal cakes are minty, crunchy, goodness; they wouldn’t put cake in the name if they weren’t delicious.

You probably think it’s abnormal for a person to keep hundreds of pet banana slugs and name them after Dickens characters.

Mr. Pumblechook is the best friend I’ve ever had; he’s plump and yellow and perfect. Banana slugs are very good listeners; they almost never interrupt.

I’ll bet you’re one of those super self-righteous people who think it’s wrong to be a cannibal.

You probably think it’s “icky” to eat another person.

You dullard.

I’m not saying that I’m a cannibal, (mostly for legal purposes) but wouldn’t it be nice to have the option.

You’re so superior: you’ve probably never spent a quiet afternoon licking toads and staring directly into the sun.

You’ve haven’t lived until you’ve spent a quiet afternoon licking toads and staring directly into the sun.

Sure, you may functional eyesight and undamaged taste buds, but at what cost.

I don’t care what you think; I am going to marry myself.

Mr. Pumblechook will be my best man and after the ceremony we’re going sit around eating urinal cakes, licking toads, and staring directly into the sun.

And you’re not invited, weirdo.

Mr. Pumblechook always gives the best advice.

Builder of Straw Houses Furious

“It’s given the whole straw house industry a bad name,” Cyril Tottering the proprietor of Tottering Straw Homes Inc. complained.

It seems Mr. Tottering’s business has taken quite a financial hit since the story of the Three Little Pigs has gotten out.

“Those pigs are blatant liars,” Mr. Tottering asserted, “you can’t just huff and puff and blow down one of my straw houses.”

“He came around trying to sell me one of those crappy straw houses,” the third little pig told us. “I wouldn’t keep my dung pile in one of those things. My brother, the first little pig, kept bragging about how cheap his house was…look where that got him.”

“My straw houses pass rigorous testing,” Mr. Tottering asserted.

“I guess none of that ‘rigorous testing’ involved a lit match,” the third little pig responded.

“We could ask the wolf what really happened, but evidently the pigs boiled him in oil,” Mr. Tottering stated. “That hardly seems like trustworthy behavior.” 

“If you come down someone’s chimney uninvited, boiled in oil is what you’re gonna get,” the third little pig said. “We’re not just going to allow ourselves to be eaten–not by the hairs on our chinny chin chins.”

“What does that even mean: the hairs on our chinny chin chins? It pisses me off every time they say that.”

Mr. Tottering went on to tell us how he and a Mr. Dennis Flimsy owner of Flimsy Stick Homes Inc. are combining to launch a defamation lawsuit against the three little pigs.

“I wouldn’t keep my dung pile in one of those stick houses either,” the third little pig chuckled. “Tottering and Flimsy: pretty aptly described if you ask me.”

“Those are our names!” Mr. Tottering yelled in exasperation.

“It seemed like a really good deal at the time,” the first little pig explained.

“Who would think wolves have such lung capacity,” the second little pig added.

“Our brother said that thing about his dung pile again, didn’t he?” the first little pig asked disgustedly.

“Yeah,” the second little pig said in conclusion, “he’s kind of a dick about that big brick house of his.”

Monkeys, Shakespeare, and Me

monkey

The authors of this blog?

I’m sure you’ve heard of the Infinite Monkey Theorem. It states the following:

If you’re having a child’s birthday party, don’t hire a clown, or a pony, or a big sweaty guy in a SpongeBob SquarePants costume. Get a monkey in a cowboy hat on a unicycle; your children will have infinitely more fun.

I’m joking, that’s not really the Infinite Monkey Theorem. (But seriously, go with the monkey in the cowboy hat.)

Wikipedia describes the Infinite Monkey Theorem this way:

The infinite monkey theorem states that a monkey hitting keys at random on a typewriter keyboard for an infinite amount of time will almost surely type any given text, such as the complete works of William Shakespeare. In fact, the monkey would almost surely type every possible finite text an infinite number of times. However, the probability that monkeys filling the observable universe would type a complete work such as Shakespeare’s Hamlet is so tiny that the chance of it occurring during a period of time hundreds of thousands of orders of magnitude longer than the age of the universe is extremely low (but technically not zero).

So, I acquired a couple of monkeys, (don’t ask how, it involved unsavory behavior and a yak) I gave them a couple of typewriters and let them go nuts. I wanted to see if there was anything to this Infinite Monkey Theorem. Plus, monkeys are fun.

We got off to a rocky start: there was some feces hurling and some disturbingly lengthy (and quite frankly, hurtful) obscene gesturing, but eventually they got to work.

While they didn’t reproduce any of the works of Shakespeare, they did type the phrase: Hamlet smells of cheese and Denmark multiple times.

Then something bizarre happened: the monkeys began to reproduce most of the contents of this blog and in shockingly less time than it took me to produce it. They even corrected some of my grammar errors.

And these weren’t the smart type of monkeys that do sign language; these were the type of monkeys eat their own poop and smoke cigarettes and one of them was really drunk at the time.

They rewrote several Curious George books, except every book ended with George violently attacking The Man with the Yellow Hat.

Then they started writing limericks about me that were really filthy.

After that they peed on the typewriters and mocked me with their superior verb tense usage.

It was all very disheartening.

I think I’m going to read Hamlet and pretend it was written by a drunken monkey.

Better yet, I’m going to read Curious George books and pretend they were written by a drunken Shakespeare.

Addendum: the monkeys rewrote this post too and it was better than this crappy version.

hamlet

Don’t hire a guy dressed up like Hamlet for a child’s birthday party either–they smell like cheese and Denmark.

Sick and Tired

glaring look

“What’s wrong with you?”

I am sick and tired of people who think they are better than me.

People who think they are better than me just because they don’t eat crayons–there’s no law against eating crayons.

Do you know what all serial killers have in common: they don’t eat crayons. They occasionally eat people, but never crayons. Would you prefer I went around murdering people and eating them? I’ll bet you would, because you’re all judgmental that way.

I’m sick and tired of people who think they are better than me just because they’ve never slapped a mime in the face–there’s no law against slapping mimes in the face.

Okay, there is a law against slapping mimes in the face–but there shouldn’t be! When did this country become the type of fascist police state where you can’t slap a mime in the face?

I’m fed up with those of you who think you’re so superior just because you’ve never licked a toad then urinated on a police car. Police cars are inanimate objects: they don’t care if you urinate on them.

The police officer gets a little angry when you urinate on him.

It makes the toad furious.

And so what if I like to spend my evenings skulking in a dimly lit room, chugging bottles of Orange Jubilee Mad Dog 20/20, eating from a 64 pack of Crayola Crayons, with the B-52’s greatest hits blaring at full volume on the stereo as I fingerpaint pictures of giraffes and other even toed ungulates on the walls.

Sometimes I do it dressed up like a rodeo clown.

There’s nothing weird about any of that…except for listening to the B-52’s–I shouldn’t do that.

Think about this: if I didn’t do weird and unspeakable things this blog wouldn’t even exist.

I should probably stop.

mad dog 20/20

Perfectly paired with Crayola brand dandelion crayons.

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