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idiotprufs

the blog that made the pope laugh so hard he peed himself.

Archive for the tag “satire”

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 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.

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Local Spider has Altercation with Girl

little miss muffet

An artist’s rendition of the incident.

“It was horrifying,” the victim said pausing to catch his breath, “it was probably the single most horrifying thing that’s ever happened to me.”

It seems Mr. Chadwick P. Arachnid was innocently spinning his web when a Miss Muffet began creating a disturbance.

“She was screaming hysterically and waving her arms around like a crazy person,” Mr. Arachnid said. “Then she threw a bowl at me. Now my web is filled with curds and whey; it’s completely ruined the dead flies I had stored there.”

Miss Muffet claims it was Mr. Arachnid who frightened her. “That ugly thing scared me so badly I fell off my tuffet,” Miss Muffet told us.

“I’m ugly?” Mr. Arachnid said in disgust. “I thought that screaming giant pink bulbous face of hers was the last thing I was I ever going see…and what the hell is a tuffet anyway?”

The authorities have cautioned Miss Muffet and Mr. Arachnid to keep their distance from each other.

“No one has to tell Little Miss Muffet to stay away from that awful thing,” Miss Muffet asserted.

“Did that gargantuan thing refer to herself as little,” Mr. Arachnid said in disbelief. “She should call herself Behemoth Miss Muffet.”

It took several officers to restrain Miss Muffet after she came after Mr. Arachnid with a rolled-up newspaper.

Mr. Arachnid survived the attack but is recuperating with three broken legs.

spider

“I stand by my assertion–she’s huge.”

Is It True?

 

Adorable children's favorite, and possible tattoo subject.

Loveable children’s favorite, and possible body art subject.

In a previous post, Bees and Calligraphy, I wrote the following about bees:

They make honey, that sweet nectar byproduct without which Pooh Bear would have never gotten his head caught in a honey pot, in that adorable image by A. A. Milne. If it weren’t for that image, I’d have nothing tattooed to my left butt cheek.

This revelation elicited a myriad of responses:

  • That’s weird.
  • That’s funny.
  • That’s unusual.
  • That’s weird in a funny and unusual way.
  • That’s adorable.
  • Wait, it’s on your butt? That’s not adorable, that’s horrifying. You’ve defiled a precious childhood memory. If I ever meet you in person, I will whomp you on the head with an ax handle.
  • May I see it?
  • A.A. Milne is turning over in his grave.
  • That’s amazing. I have the same tattoo on my left breast.
  • Stop following me you creep, or I’m going to blast you in the face with pepper spray.
  • I’m going to consume alcohol until every brain cell I have containing that mental image is destroyed.
  • Ick.

Note: Upon reflection, the thing about the pepper spray is probably an entirely unrelated matter.

But I have a confession to make: it’s all a horrible lie.

I don’t have a tattoo of Pooh Bear or any other beloved cartoon character on my left butt cheek. In fact, I haven’t any tattoo of any kind anywhere on my body.

I know what you’re thinking now: has everything I’ve read on this blog been nothing but falsehoods and mindless tripe. Allow me to clear the air regarding a few items that have appeared in this blog.

  • Did a crack-head, wielding a razor blade, really accuse me of being a leprechaun: yes.
  • Did I work in a place where the foreman had a pathological hatred of raccoons because they have “little people hands”: yes.
  • Did I meet Bigfoot in a local pub and enrage him when I accused him of having chiggers: I wish.
  • Did I ridicule a Bigfoot hunter when he claimed the best way to escape a female Bigfoot was to run downhill, because female Bigfoot can’t run downhill due to their large floppy breasts: awesomely, yes.
  • Did I subsequently interview Lady Bigfoot regarding the allegation that she has large floppy breasts: don’t be ridiculous…her breasts were immaculate.
  • Did I receive an angry letter from, Eduardo, a Bolivian pudding maker, after I may have implied an association between Bolivian pudding and Egyptian dung beetles: no. I did, however, receive a scathing letter from an Egyptian dung beetle.
  • Was I frisked and manhandled by the police in Amarillo, Texas: they’re a handsy group.
  • Did I once pull on to the tram line in Buffalo, New York, after mistakenly believing it to be a weird little street and get the vehicle wedged between the curbs: yes.
  • Did I once inadvertently wash my hair with flea and tick shampoo: shut up!
  • Did I dig a moat around my home to keep out Gerald the neighbor kid: I’m still waiting on the permits.
  • Did I put piranha in the moat: weren’t you paying attention, there’s no moat…yet.
  • Was I denied the sale of eggs after jokingly telling the cashier that I was going to throw them at a police car: people just don’t get my sense of humor.
  • Did I inadvertently set another person’s vacuüm cleaner and carpet on fire: let’s just say mistakes were made.
  • Do I really have an irrational hatred of mimes: it’s not irrational.
  • Did I really smash a mooning garden gnome with a shovel because its butt was directed at my kitchen window: not that you or anyone else can prove.
  • Was I once taken captive by a crazy woman–Misery style– because I had stopped writing this blog to focus my Jersey Shore fan fiction: I’m going to yes because I know you want it to be true.
  • Do I write Jersey Shore fan fiction: If only I had that type of ability.

Now that this burden has been lifted from my conscience, the healing can begin.

vacuum on fire

Yes. This really happened.

 

An Idiot his Bucket and a list

list of buckets

So many buckets–I’d better make a list.

I was recently asked what’s on my bucket list.

I informed the person I didn’t have that many buckets, and if I did, I certainly wouldn’t make a list of them. What am I: some kind of idiot?

I was informed that I am an idiot, and I clearly didn’t know what a bucket list was.

Note: it seems I was also confused about what a chamber pot is.

After having it explained to me what a bucket list is, and disturbingly what a chamber is, I got to work creating a bucket list.

An idiot’s Bucket List

  • Have a conversation with an attractive woman that doesn’t end with me rinsing the pepper spray from my eyes.
  • Go on a date with an attractive woman that doesn’t end with me rinsing the pepper spray from me eyes.
  • Have any interaction with any woman that doesn’t end with me rinsing the pepper from my eyes.
  • Go on a date with any woman.
  • Overcome my crippling fear of dates (not the dried fruit).
  • Overcome my crippling fear of dates (the dried fruit).
  • Purchase a Ronco food dehydrator, enabling me to produce my own dates. (The dried fruit, not the social interaction–that would be creepy.)
  • Obtain a level of maturity that allows me to not giggle uncontrollably every time I hear the name Lake Titicaca.
  • Obtain a level of maturity that allows me to not giggle uncontrollably every time I hear the word peninsula, (it reminds me of the word penis.)

Note: etymologists claim the word peninsula has no derivation from the word penis. I am skeptical–why are most peninsulas shaped like penises?

  • I’d like to dine in a restaurant where they know me, and there’s only a moderate chance my food will be spat in.
  • I want to go back to the days when I didn’t know what human saliva tastes like.
  • I want to ride a dolphin, but a porpoise will do.
  • I want to learn the difference between a dolphin and a porpoise.
  • I want to operate a boat without every other passenger on the boat fearing for their lives.
  • I want to stand on the Great Wall of China, turn to person next to me and declare, “let’s see the neighbor’s dog crap on my lawn now,” then laugh hysterically.
  • I want to finish the Eiffel Tower, but do a really crappy job.
  • I want to make a mime talk…and if at all possible, cry.
  • I want to write an opera in Italian.
  • I want to learn how to write in Italian.
  • I want to make the fat lady sing, or at least choose a more sensible diet.
  • I want to discover indisputable evidence that Bigfoot exists, then destroy it, so I’m the only one who really knows.
  • I want to come up with an idea that leads to world peace.
  • I want to amend the previous item on this list.
  • I want to come up with an idea that makes me filthy rich, and if the whole world peace thing also happens, that’s fine too…I guess.
  • I just want a bucket, but not to pee in, that’s a chamber pot.

    chamber pot

    A chamber pot: the perfect place to put this list.

The Anti-Automobile Society of Pennsylvania…Seriously

 

Amish Buggy

Rural Pennsylvania Roads: still idyllic in 2019.

From the outset of this post I want to make to make one point abundantly and unmistakably clear: I am not making this up.

In 1910 there was an organization in the great Commonwealth of Pennsylvania called The Anti-Automobile Society of Pennsylvania, and they really hated automobiles.

They complained automobiles traveled too fast, frightened their livestock, ran over their chickens, and that Pennsylvania motorists were inexplicably unable to properly use a turn signal.

Note: I did make up the part about the turn signal, the Anti-Automobile Society of Pennsylvania didn’t say anything about the turn signal…but I’m saying it!

The point was: The Anti-Automobile Society of Pennsylvania really hated automobiles, almost as much as I hate mimes, other peoples children, and any TV show with the words the real housewives of in the title.

They developed a set of guidelines for automobiles operating in rural areas of Pennsylvania:

  1. Automobiles travelling on country roads at night must send up a rocket every mile, then wait ten minutes for the road to clear.
  2. If a driver sees a team of horses, he is to pull to one side of the road and cover his machine with a blanket or dust cover that has been painted to blend into the scenery.
  3. In the event that a horse refuses to pass a car on the road, the owner must take his car apart and conceal the parts in the bushes.

Isn’t that Awesome?

Admittedly, they had very little to say about the fact that automobiles don’t leave horse shit everywhere, but no system is perfect.

It has inspired me to develop my own set of guidelines for operating an automobile in Pennsylvania that I will be posting in the future.

I leave you with a photo of the offender.

Model t

I think I see the problem: automobiles in 1910 were operated by small children dressed for safari.

 

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 motioned toward the Toyota Prius parked in his driveway, “it’s completely buried.”

It seems that 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 to defend himself, “I really don’t think it’s fair to blame me every time someone’s car or their house or their garden 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.

It seems 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.

 

 

 

The Turn Signal: So Simple an Inbred Cannibal Can Use It

turn signal use

A simple lever: evidently too complicated for some people.

It’s time to address a persistent and growing problem I’ve noticed here in Erie County in the great commonwealth of Pennsylvania: the improper use or complete disregard by motorists for the turn signal.

Note: you probably thought I was going to address the roving bands of inbred cannibals we have here in Erie County. I find that problem to be slightly less pressing.

Using a turn signal is relatively simple: if you’re turning right, flick the little lever up. If you’re turning left, flick the little lever down. There’s almost no thinking involved.

Note: if you have ever observed motorists in Erie, Pennsylvania, you’d understand that thinking is not at all a part of the process. 

There are no complex instructions. You don’t have to fit Peg Q into Slot W, even though you can’t find any Peg Q and there’s no hole where Slot W is supposed to be (those jerks at Ikea know exactly what they’re doing.)

You don’t have to solve for X; there are no mathematical equations involved. You aren’t going to miss your turn because you forgot to multiply before you added; in fact you will almost never use PEMDAS while making a turn.

You don’t have to diagram a sentence before you use your turn signal. Your thought process when making a turn should never be this:

I’m going to make a left turn. Okay, the world left modifies the word turn so that makes it an adjective right? Unless the word turn is a verb in that context. No, I think it’s a noun. However If I were to say “I going to turn left,” then the word turn would be a verb…I think. It doesn’t matter, I missed the turn a mile back. In which case the word turn is definitely a noun. Probably.

This isn’t Sophie’s Choice. If you use the right turn signal, Nazi’s aren’t going to abduct the left turn signal. So go right ahead and use that signal without fear of repercussion.

Do you know when you shouldn’t use your turn signal? When your not making a turn! If you’re one of those people who drives for miles with your turn signal inexplicable blinking, you deserve to be mocked and beaten.

And if you’re one of those motorists who turns on your turn signal in the midst of making the turn, you’ve completely missed the point. We need to know what you’re going to do before you do it. You see, we already know you’re an idiot, we just don’t know how big of an idiot. It would be a bit like putting on the condom when you’re “already making the turn” if you know what I mean.

I hope this post has been helpful and informative, and if you are among the turn signal offenders, sufficiently shaming.

turn signal

So simple even an inbred cannibal can do it.

A World Record by a Nose


miller nose
In August of 1976, Tom Miller of the United States, spent 4 days, 23 hours, 47 minutes, and 3 seconds, pushing a peanut to the summit of Pike’s Peak, with his nose.

He set a new world record for pushing a peanut to the summit of Pike’s Peak with your nose and forever became known as “that weirdo who pushed a peanut to the top of Pike’s Peak with his nose.”

The Guinness Book of World Records took notice and recorded his feat not once, but twice.

#1 For pushing a peanut to the top of Pike’s Peak with his nose.

#2 For the biggest waste of 4 days, 23 hours, 47 minutes, and 3 seconds, in recorded history.

Tom Miller’s parents wept tears of joy…well, they wept a lot.

Tom Miller’s life would never be the same.

But few remember the other participant in this record-setting  journey and how he was left forever broken.

mr peanut

“Tom Miller can bite me.”

 

Tran and Penn: the Sylvanias

william penn

William Tran Penn.

It occurred to me the other day, that if the William Penn, founder of the English colony of Pennsylvania, had been named William Tran, then I would currently be residing in the great Commonwealth of Transylvania.

Wouldn’t that be awesome!

The Sylvanias have so much in common.

Bram Stoker’s fictional character Dracula.

Dracula was based the real-life ruler Vlad the Impaler. Vlad Dracula was known for committing many acts of brutality, his favorite being impaling his enemies on stakes.

There are numerous tourist attractions around Transylvania connected to Vlad.

castle bran

Bran Castle, a tourist attraction associated with Vlad the Impaler. (I wonder if pigeons poop on it,)

We have a statue of Rocky.

rocky

Statue of Rocky. (Pigeons definitely poop on it.)

Rocky Balboa is a fictional character created by actor and filmmaker Sylvester Stallone, (himself known for brutal acts of annunciation) based on the real-life boxer Chuck Wepner.

Chuck Wepner

Real-life boxer Chuck Wepner. (Pigeons wouldn’t dare.)

Transylvania is often thought of as eerie.

church scary

An eerie church in Transylvania. (Pigeons are afraid to poop here.)

We have a place literally named Erie!

Erie eerie

Erie, Pennsylvania: it may be spelled differently, but it’s just as creepy. (Pigeons don’t poop here, but the seagulls crap on everything.)

Transylvania is romanticized as place inhabited by supernatural creatures such as vampires, werewolves, and monsters.

abott and costello

Abott and Costello knew all about these monsters.

We have a groundhog the predicts the freaking weather.

idiotprufs groundhog day punxsutawny phil

Abott and Costello knew almost nothing about Punxsutawney Phil.

There’s a bunch of other similarities between Pennsylvania and Transylvania involving steel production, ethnic and religious backgrounds, and geographical features, but that crap is all boring.

So I’ll leave you with the one striking difference between Pennsylvania and Transylvania.

The Transylvania State football team is just a bunch of tiny, slow-footed, pasty-faced, European guys.

 

Franco Harris steeler

Penn State great Franco Harris smashing through the Transylvania State offensive line.

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 prhase: Hamlet smells of cheese and Denmark.

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.

Then 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 monkeys with bladder issues and a severe attitude problem…then I’m going to get drunk and pee on the monkeys.

Addendum: the monkeys wrote this post too and it was better than this shit version.

hamlet

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

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