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My Sister Went to Vegas and All I Got Was a PooPen
20 JulAh, but her gift was more than the physical item; she presented on a platter an excuse to write about two of my passions: poop and pens. One I seem to unknowingly collect and stash in my various backpacks and messenger bags, the other shows up unexpected and unwanted in various places about the house from the ass of one of our two dogs. (Hint on which is which: I don’t stash turds in my bags.) Well, until now. And don’t ask to borrow my crappy pen. Get Your Own!
Of course I gave my PooPen a good sniff when we rescued it from it’s plastic and cardboard prison. From looking at the packaging, I expected the PooPen to smell like shit, but it smells like rubber. It feels like rubber too and doesn’t stick to my fingers like real poop. So … that’s good.
I guess the cartoon dude hates the smell of rubber because he’s crying and holding onto his gargantuan nose. Or maybe he’s crying because his cartoon hair looks like french fries.
I had barely lowered the PooPen from my average-sized snozzle when my daughter discovered real shit on the dining room floor. Daddy, someone pooped in here!
So I did what I always do when someone poops on the floor: I grabbed a camera and got all Ansel Adams on that shit.
Now it’s time for a game. With prizes! Look at the above photo. One of the three turds is actually a PooPen. (Hint: It’s not the turd that’s trying to be something it’s not, like some cool newly discovered animal that looks a little like a horse.)
(Last hint: It’s not the turd that wants to be a seahorse.)
Time’s up! Nope. Stop it. Too late. You lost. No prizes. Damn I thought it was an easy game. Here’s the one you should have picked:
Whoa, did this post just get all political? Am I insinuating that Mitt Romney’s head would make a good PooPen topper? Not at all. In fact, this is pretty much my view of our political system:
The Republicans and Democrats are just opposite ends of the same turd. But here’s where it gets really weird. I did a little Googling (“drone-prone world leaders writing with cool romney turd pens”) and found a single image: dolly-pawed President Obama penning a new diary entry.
7/20/12
Dear Diary,
Well, shit. Day 3 and still no Liquid Ass. Ordered it on freakin Wednesday. Out of stock? Would hope hahaprank would let me know. What a stupid name, hahaprank. Romney pen cool though. Smooth. Little smudgy. Smells like rubber. Why does rubber smell like rubber? Will have to look up. Need to work Batman shooting into campaign speech. Sensitive. Can’t stop thinking about liquid ass delay. No good rotten morning in Florida. Humid. Balls sweating like sob.
Local Man Doesn’t Know Why He Does That
7 Jun
Granite City, IL (AP) — A bewildered Pontoon Beach man, married for 15 years, couldn’t explain to his wife, who, allegedly, is “at the end of her goddamn rope ” exactly why he does that.
Friends of the couple say that the man does that because it’s just a part of his nature, that he can’t NOT do that. Reportedly, the wife knows this, but is fighting through some pre-midlife existential angst. Below is a partial transcript of one recent conversation.
Wife: Why do you do that? I mean, it’s just … weird.
Husband: What? What are you talking about?
Wife: You know what I mean; you’re a pig and I would prefer you stopped.
Husband: A pig? What the–
Wife: So … why? … why do you do that?
Husband: I don’t know. I just do. Everyone does it. You do it!
Wife: The hell I do! I don’t know anyone who does that. You’re 45 now. Grow. UP!
Husband: Listen to you. If it’s that big a deal I guess you’ll just have to file for a goddamn divorce, huh? That what you’re going after here?
Wife: Maybe I will. Or how about you just stop doing it? Would that be so hard? Jeez, you’re such an asshole!
Husband: Why should I change? I am who I am. Ever consider that? And maybe you’re the asshole. Hm? Ever think of that? You’re just set in your ways. Unflexible is what you are!
Wife: Ha ha ha. That’s not even a word, dork!
Husband: Not flexible! You’re NOT flexible. It’s a word to me!
Wife: Just … can you promise to stop doing it, okay? This is so stupid. I’m just … done. I’m done. I’m done.
Husband: No, I’m done. I’m outta here. I’m going for a walk.
Wife: Good! Take a looooong walk … right off a cliff, okay? Can you do that?
Husband: You’re insane.
Wife: Well you started it. This is all you–your bullshit.
Husband: Whatever.
If You’ve Ever Thought “Man, I Wish It Was Legal to Throw a Baby off a Roof”
14 May
Like most people, I’ve tossed my share of babies off roofs, but this is just too much . . . to make a tradition out of it? Come on, that’s just lame. Here’s another video link. If you didn’t click, I’ll summarize. In this particular town in India, parents line up with their kids, aged 3 months to 2 years, to have them tossed from the roof of a temple onto a cloth held by men. They say the practice makes the babies grow stronger.
Here’s a bullet list about random things being tossed from high places:
- A Watermelon – Letterman used to do this. The cool part about using a melon instead of a 3-month-old infant is there’s no chance of ending up with a dead baby when you’re all done. Who likes dead babies? It gives me the willies typing it.
- A Mattress – Somewhere around 1996, while moving from a crappy 3rd floor apartment in Springfield, IL, I tossed a mattress over the rail of our back porch. The impetus to this irresponsible act was my initial desire to throw a baby from a high place. So really, really loud, I was like “Does anyone have a baby that I can throw from my third floor apartment window? Anyone?” No takers. Second best thing: mattress.
- A Penny – I conducted a very scientific study and found that every single one of of y’all believe that a penny dropped from the Empire State Building would go right through a person’s skull, brain, neck, ripping a cool-as-hell “penny path” right through an body until lodging somewhere in a big toe. If you hadn’t thought it through in such detail, you thought that it could kill a man, in general, somehow. Well, you’re ignorant. Read this. But something aerodynamic, like a pointy baby, thrown from the Empire State building, could do serious damage to a man holding a sheet.
- Liquid – What do you get when you combine a group of 18 to 24-year-old men, beer, tall buildings, and a baby sitting on the sidewalk? Come on, it’s easy, people. You get young “adults” dumping beer, spitting, and urinating on that baby. And that will be the most hilarious thing in the world. “Oh my God! Stifler just peed on that baby’s head. Duuuuude! That’s was sooooo awesooooome!”
- Dexter & Kitty - Yes, I wanted to toss two of our pets off a tall building this weekend. Saturday afternoon a crappy mood and a headache forced me to the couch. As soon as my ass hit the cushion, Kitty barfed. So I ended up crawling around on the floor with paper towels, trying to catch the next three barfs. Then Dexter was barking his damn head off outside, so I brought him in. He gulp down a bunch of water, munched on some kibbles, and barfed it all back up on the kitchen floor. Oh my freaking God, animals!
When my girls were tiny and tended to just lie around all day grunting and soiling themselves, I’d go to extremes to make sure they wouldn’t somehow fall from the couch to the floor: A sturdy object keeping them in place . . . pillows and blankets on the floor. And of course I had a back-up object on the couch and back-up cushioning. Oh, and the safety system set up to buzz and auto-dial 911 when they moved too suddenly. Couch to floor: what is that, an 18 inch drop, 24? Yeah, I’m going to hand my baby over to be tossed from a roof of a building and caught with a sheet.
To blindly follow a tradition.
Tebow to resume off-season practice of strangling small animals
15 JanAfter Tim Tebow’s Denver Broncos were throttled by the New England Patriots Saturday night, Tim Tebow revealed his controversial plans for the off-season.
Wearing a purple shirt and tie, Tim Tebow stepped up to the podium and addressed the media.
“Before I talk about anything else, first I want to thank my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, and my teammates for working so hard, not only tonight, but the entire season.” Tebow said.
Tebow went on to answer several questions: about the lopsided loss, about all the attention he’s received, and about playing against Tom Brady.
Then it got a little weird when he was asked about his off-season plans.
“I’m going to work hard to improve all facets of my game,” Tebow said. “And I’m going to strangle as many small animals as possible, mostly kittens.”
As the stunned media wondered what to make of this new development, Tebow continued.
“Last year since we didn’t make the playoffs, I got an earlier start and probably strangled 21 or 22 small animals, including two parakeets and a cockatiel.”
Tebow was asked how he justifies this practice, given his strong religious devotion and vows to make the world a better place.
“Uh, before I answer that I want to thank my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, for giving me so many opportunities last off-season to strangle so many small animals, including a couple of nasty ferrets and a disabled boy’s pet hamster.”
The mood in the room darkened and a couple of reporters stormed out in disgust.
“What kind of man are you?” A man shouted.
“Before I answer that question I want to thank my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, for giving me the drive and motivation to strangle a bunch more small animals this off-season,” Tebow continued. “I’ll probably get things started tomorrow after church by strangling my neighbor’s brown tabby, Lucy. Then I’m going to watch some football.”
The IKEA post wherein I try not to offend Christians
11 Jan
Once or twice a year, Jennifer uses her aunt up in Grayslake, IL as an excuse to shop at IKEA, the world’s largest furniture retailer. And thank Holy Jesus we don’t own a cargo van; who knows how much crap she’d haul back down south. Oh, and just to be clear, when I use “Jesus” like I just did, it’s for comic effect only. I mean, it just sounds funny to me. Obviously I know it’s not an inherently funny word. Jesus. In fact, the last time I found myself in a church (not counting a funeral), it wasn’t funny a single time, not even the first. Then after the one hundredth time–Jesus, Jesus, Jesus–I thought to myself man, this chap is really riding this Jesus thing. That was way back when our daughter attended a Lutheran pre-school. She’s a first-grader now.
I woke up Google this morning and asked him about this issue. I found one person who would likely slap me around for exclaiming “Holy Jesus.” This person was answering the question:
Is it offensive to exclaim “Jesus!” as an exclamation, i.e. when something startles you?
This person’s reply:
It is blasphemy. If you are using the name of Jesus to not address Him, like when you are making an exclamation, angry or in disgust, you are blaspheming his name (using it in vain). It’s just like using someone’s mother’s name to express disgust.
And as did that religious public speaker-guy, I’m going to really ride this Jesus thing (at least for a couple more paragraphs). As soon as the name–the concept?–enters my mind and then hits the screen, besides the “funny” feelings, I feel a confusing mish-mash of guilt and anxiety–guilt for having notta-one religious bone in my body, and anxiety over possibly misleading people into thinking I am. Before I move on, I have an important confession about the bones in my body. I do have one religious bone, the stapes bone in my middle ear.
Bottom line here: I’m a live-and-let-live kind of guy. I don’t aim to offend.
Okay. Chicago Land houses two IKEA stores, one in Bolingbrook and one in Schaumburg. My wife mistakenly thought I had been to one of these IKEAs when in fact it had been her teenage cousin (son of the aunt) on a 2010 pilgrimage. That’s how her memory rolls, it rolls to the right, rolls to the left and then–plop–right into that soggy ditch of misplaced facts, where what’s real is confused with what isn’t.
Unfortunately, she doesn’t need an excuse to talk about IKEA. No, there’s no toll booths between a thought about IKEA and a statement to me about IKEA. If I could erect a toll booth right in that slot, when she’s about to mention that store, I’d charge a million dollars. Warning, toll bridge ahead . . . and you don’t have nearly enough cash to get through, so forget about talking to Mike about how great IKEA is.
Here’s a sentence for you. The girls just love to eat at IKEA. I’ve heard that sentence so many times that I’m really beginning to think the girls love to eat at IKEA. One time. Tell me one time and I get it. That’s how my memory rolls. Straight on.
And guess what? Sitting on our kitchen counter–right now–is the latest IKEA catalog. I’m not sure how long it will sit there. Three days ago, when she set it down, she told me something that involved her sister and also mentioned this or that about an earlier edition of the catalog. As of January 11, I’m thinking that this catalog is destined to be handed to her sister. I spend much time in that kitchen and each time I see that catalog I want to toss it into the recycling bin.
It’s not that I hate IKEA either. I’ve just never been to one and I guess I just don’t “get” it. Right? There IS something to “get,” I assume. Cuz Jennifer done got it. I’m actually sitting in an IKEA chair right now. It’s a version of this chair, different color. My feet, along with a cat, are on this footstool. And this lamp is floating above me.
After writing most of this on Tuesday, Jennifer came home and–wouldn’t you know it–found an excuse to bring up IKEA (without paying a toll). It seems her friend, who actually lives in Sweden where the founder of IKEA, Ingvar Kamprad, is from, wants MY lamp. Hmm, you don’t say?
Another confession to end this post. When writing like this, it’s essential that I exaggerate or I literally will fall asleep at the keyboard. Here’s the truth: J’s memory is fine, mine isn’t spectacular, I don’t really mind her talking about IKEA, and my stapes bone, after all, isn’t all that religious.
If you really want to know, want to put me in a box, though a rather large one, I’m Spiritual, But Not Religious.
Local Boy’s New Slinky Tangled, Again
17 Feb
Jimmy's Slinky, Before
Jimmy Wormley thought it would be different this time.
Last week at Skate ‘N Shake, the Edwardsville resident unwrapped a shiny, new Slinky toy from his friend Stanley Stalegrass as they celebrated Jimmy’s tenth birthday. As the cool metal met his hands, he made a silent promise to himself. He closed his eyes, cradled the toy to his chest, and mouthed the words “This Slinky will last forever.”
Unfortunately, the Slinky was a tangled mess within 45 seconds.
Jimmy's Slinky, After
Of course, this wasn’t the first time Jimmy has been devastated by the tangle-prone toy. He received a plastic, rainbow-colored Slinky from Grandma and Grandpa Wormley last year. It lasted all of 27 seconds.
“I fiddled with that damn thing for an hour last year,” said Joe, Jimmy’s father. “Those things can’t be fixed. Even if you do get ‘em untangled they’re all bent to hell. This year I just tossed it in the trash.”
When asked how Jimmy handled the ruined toy this year, Joe became agitated.
“Oh jeez, you should of seen him. He cried and cried right there in front of all ‘is friends and even that little girl he likes–what’s her name?–Jill,” Joe said, spit running down his chin. “I wanted to give him a good smack on the head, but I didn’t. I mean, not until we got home. The boy don’t deserve no working Slinky acting like a little whiny baby.”
According the the famous 1989 National Tangled Slinky Study, conducted by Maxine Styway, Ph.D., the popular toy, invented in the early 1940s, is not known for being sturdy enough to, say, be handed down from father to son.
Last Year's Slinky
I examined close to ten thousand Slinky toys over a ten year period and found that in the hands of male children they lasted, on average, 19 seconds before tangling. In the hands of female children, it’s a little higher, where they lasted up to 24 seconds. I found that children enjoy stretching the toy beyond its capabilities. Also, children (both boys and girls) tend to fight over toys. The Slinky toy, unfortunately, does not stand up to yanking this way and that.
A follow-up call yesterday to the Wormley home revealed that Joe had purchased a Paddle Ball toy for Jimmy “to shut him up.”
According to Jimmy’s distraught mom, Sally, the elastic string broke even before they made it back to their car at the nearby Glen Carbon Wal-Mart. At home, Joe tied the string back together. Twelve seconds later, the string came loose from the staple on the paddle. Seven seconds after Joe reattached the string to the paddle, the string became detached from the ball. At that point, Joe repeatedly whipped his son on the a– with the cheap paddle until it broke.
Do Dogs Dream? Boobs Boobs Boobs Boobs Boobs
15 FebBoobs
I have always thought that dogs dream just like humans. Luckily for our four-legged friends, they probably do not dream about income taxes, world hunger, and cancer. Unfortunately for them, they probably do not dream about Natalie Portman’s boobs either. Of course, I don’t dream about Natalie Portman’s boobs because I’m married. I dream about the same things all married men dream about: Scarlett Johannson’s boobs.
a Boob
To confirm that dogs do, in fact, dream, I typed “Katy Perry’s boobs” into Google and found out nothing about dogs, but spent twenty minutes looking at all the cool hairstyles Katy Perry has worn since her rise to fame following the hit single “I Kissed a Girl” in 2008.
Eventually, I made it to this article titled “Do Dogs Dream?” written by Stanley Coren, Ph.D. and he tells us something along the lines of:
of course, you dummy readers without advanced degrees, you KNOW dogs dream because you have seen them twitching and shaking and whining and growling in their sleep. Big dummies.
Boobs
He also writes about “the pons,” which is a part of the brain (it’s not very scientific sounding, is it?) that keep us (and dogs) from acting out our dreams. Without my “pons” last week, I would have driven eighty miles in my sleep to my childhood home to fight space aliens with a samurai sword. In an experiment on dogs, they removed or deactivated this section of their brains and then–the most abhorrent act in this experiment–forced them to watch The English Patient to bore them to sleep quickly.
Once asleep and dreaming without their “pons,” scientists were astounded to find the dogs standing up on their hind legs asking for martinis, cigarettes, and hookers. I don’t know HOW I missed those study results in the mainstream media.
I’m writing about this topic because our dog, Sammie, was dreaming yesterday at my feet as I was napping on the couch. She started to twitch and whine, waking me up. I then fell asleep and dreamed about strangling her for interrupting my dream about Salma Hayek’s boobs. I’m thankful for my “pons,” because I don’t really want to kill our dog. Though, most of the time, she acts half-dead anyway. That’s what got me wondering: If a dog does nothing all day, what the heck can she be dreaming about?
More Boobs
So I set about removing or deactivating our dog’s “pons” to determine the answer to that question. Of course, I knew I needed a scalpel and a bunch of absorbent towels, but, beyond that, I had no idea where to begin. So I did what most intelligent, responsible pet owners would do: I typed in “Christina Hendricks’ boobs” into Google. Luckily, this distracted me for so long that I gave up the idea of cutting into our dog’s brain just to find out if she really dreams about lying around all day. I mean, how can she expend more energy dreaming than she does awake? When awake, twitching and whining would at least give me a sign that she’s still alive.
So, to recap, I have learned two things today: (1) dogs dream, and (2) the internet is a good place to look at celebrity boobs.
Finally, more boobs
Waking Up Mom Was Hard To Do
13 Feb
For years I thought my mom was a super hero whose power was that she never needed to sleep. She was up when I climbed into my bed and there she was again, day after day, puttering around the house in the morning. What the hell did she do all night? For all I knew she was controlling a Midwest drug cartel. But I decided she was probably just scrubbing the skid marks out of my Fruit of the Looms. I was certain skid mark removal had to be a full-time job. But later I found out she did, in fact, sleep every night, and that impressed me even more. I mean, if she could keep my underwear brilliant white and NOT work the overnight shift–wow. Anyway, once in awhile (maybe ten times during my childhood) I needed her help in the middle of the night. Yep, that first time in a silent house I searched all over, and there she was in the last place I expected…in bed, asleep.
I can think of only 3 reasons I ever had to rouse my mom from a deep sleep: (1) I felt like I was going to throw up all over myself; (2) I had already thrown up all over myself, or; (3) my dad, drunk, had thrown up all over me and had passed out under the swing set in the back yard. Obviously, mom didn’t like opening her eyes to me standing by her bed. Bad news all the way around. I didn’t much like it either; in fact, it scared the sh– out of me.
In my experience humans wake up in two ways, and I’m not talking about what kind of mood we wake up in, which can range from cheery to “kill me now.” No, I’m talking about the moment your eyelids separate, the moment before you have time to think, the split second before “Oh my God, I didn’t take enough pills, I have to life another hellish day on Earth.” Get it? That moment. The way I wake up, I like to call the “normal” way, and this means that I open my eyes slowly and remain in a horizontal position and speak in hushed tones (if I speak at all). The second “way” is known by two names, depending on where you live: In California it’s called the “earthquake wake” and in other parts of the world it’s called the “war torn rise.”
In my childhood home, I called it the “Oh Jesus I have to wake up mom.” Think of the Jack-in-the-Box toy: you know it’s going to pop up and make you crap your pants, but you have to turn the crank anyway…a tiny bit at a time.
I don’t remember the first time, but I’m sure it ended with me curled on the floor by her bed, crying. From then on, the process of waking her would take up to an hour, because I would stop off in the living room to watch the most wicked scenes of The Exorcist to ready myself. After watching Regan’s head swivel 360°, I thought could handle anything.
I employed two basic “wake up mom” strategies: the pussyfoot and the little-less-pussyfoot.
My least favorite, the pussyfoot method, called for me to tiptoe up to her bedside and stand there staring at her. This was torture for me because, eventually–2 hours later?–she would sense someone creepy standing over her, watching her sleep, and she would bolt upright and yell something like “Who are you!” or “Bomb!” or “Skid marks!” Well, to be fair, I don’t remember actual words. More accurately, just think of the sound you would make if you found a severed head in your closet.
The little-less-pussyfoot method was way better because I had a general idea of when the upright bolt and gasp was coming. I felt more in control. I would create some noise entering the room. For example, I made sure my socked feet would strike the carpet with some force. (But, really, how much sound could that have made?) Also, I would deal out a pseudo-cough or that “clear my throat” sound on the way in. Usually, though, when I reached her bed I would turn into a big fat chicken and revert back to the standard pussyfoot method. Again, I would stand there, silently….
Finally, a whisper: “mom.”
Stillness.
“mom.”
A little louder: “mom.”
Then I would push on the mattress, enough to move her arm a couple of millimeters.
Whisper: “mom.”
Then sometimes I would pull on a blanket or sheet…ever so slightly. Nothing. Damn! (That’s an internal “damn,” of course.)
Growing desperate, but remembering my throat tricks: Hack. Ahem. Hack. Hack. Ahem.
At this point I knew she would wake up any second, so I pushed on, sweat pouring down my face, heart thumping. With a shaky little arm I would tap her shoulder. “Mom!”
BOOM! The walls and ceiling crack, the floor turns to Jell-O. A flash of fire. Skin melting. The house, gone.
She would startle awake, sitting up, “What!” As I pooped myself, I would forget what the hell I was doing in there, that I had thrown up on myself an hour ago.
“Um, I had a bad dream.”
“What’s that smell?”
“Uh–what?–I’m going back to bed now.”
“Okay, good night.”
I walked back to bed wondering why I had even bothered. As a child–and again in my my twenties–I had no problem at all with sleeping a few hours in my own mess of poo and vomit.
Note: Though the above is based on true events, it has been exaggerated for effect. For example, dad usually passed out inside the house.
Hairy Balls … ‘Nuff Said
10 FebThe word “hairy” is not funny on its own. Humans are hairy. Dogs are hairy. Robin Williams is hairy. Okay, that makes it funnier. Hairy backs make me snicker.
The word “balls” is not funny on its own unless you’re thirteen or if you’re Beavis or Butt-Head. When I think of balls in April, I think of baseballs. In September, footballs.
But look what happens when you squish those words together: hairy balls. Say it out loud.
Come on, SAY IT!
There, don’t you feel better?
Yesterday, I found this story about Harry Baals, a former Indiana mayor who won four terms in the 1930s and 1950s. In Fort Wayne, IN they’re trying to find a suitable name for a new government building, and “The Harry Baals Government Center” is kicking ass in an online poll. Sadly, Deputy Mayor Beth Malloy told the Associated Press that the name would probably not be chosen because she doesn’t want to see Fort Wayne the butt of late-night television jokes.
Harry pronounced his last name “balls,” but descendants have since changed it to sound like “bales.”
I remember one day in elementary school during lunch, the class was buzzing about the possible existence of a man named “Harry Dickey.”
Are you sure? No way! How do YOU know? You’re full of shit!
It was passed from student to student, from table to table, and by the time I scraped the bottom of my chocolate pudding and nibbled on the last of my sandwich, the whole room was talking about this mysterious man with the hilarious name.
If you have a unique, snigger-inducing name, like, say “Small Penis,” I say embrace it.
Hairy Balls T-shirt
