Sunday, December 31, 2006

Dana Carvey and Something I Can't Resist, dang it!

I wish I could resist posting this link. I can't. It belongs on this site.

I have watched this video about 13 times. I laugh...hard...every single time.

I LOVE Dana Carvey. If you haven't seen his old film Opportunity Knocks, then you are stupid. Oh, but, you are certainly stupid, regardless.

Anyway, watch the movie or I'll come slap your dumb, pimply face.

Saturday, December 30, 2006

Chlorine-Scented Mockery

I know, that sounds like the next chapter of Scruffy Love, but it's not. I'm sorry, but you'll have to wait for that. Why? Because I'm not at home, and I have a picture I want to use for that one. Honestly. That's all that's keeping you waiting.

Whassat? Y'don't care? I don't need your guff.

So The Girlfriend and I went over to my best friend Kevin's place. He's got a hottub, and now I smell like the YMCA. I'm whiffy, but sterile, and that means I come out ahead.

Forget all that for now, though, because although I'm wrinkly and stinkly, my purpose here is to make fun of psychics. I've done some research, courtesy of the Wikipedia, which is the kind of thoroughness you've come to expect from the FooDaddy, time-wasters.

When taking on the task of making fun of psychics, normally one would focus on how they'll say things like "your sister is in a bright, shiny place, surrounded by singing goldfish, and she wants you to know that she always hated your haircut," in order to surprise stupid people. Not me. I'm going to cover the spiritual side. The meditation that conditions the brain and fuels the soul's aura, sharpening it to the point where it can tune into any of the unlimited vibrational planes that surround us.

Sound familiar? If not, then you haven't picked up any pastel-colored books at work lately.

The FooDaddy Mind's Eye

In our first exercise, we will go to our wardrobe and pick out something flowing and soft. A bathrobe made of puppy ears, or a nice set of high-threadcount boxer shorts with your favorite cartoon character embroidered on them. This cartoon character will be your soul guide, and will communicate with you constantly. You should refrain from talking to your crotch in public, especially around the unenlightened.

Now that you're dressed properly, find a place in your domicile where the energy flows freely. Your breaker box comes to mind. Or the tank on your toilet. Go in there and hum softly to yourself and think about the color brown. Brown is the color of moles, and moles are a very tenacious form of life that we could all learn a lot from.

Has your heartrate dropped? Are you feeling drowsy and calm? Good. This is perfectly natural for someone dressed in boxer shorts humming to himself in the bathroom.

Next, I want you to imagine yourself inside a cardboard box. The sides are flat and very slightly bristly. It smells of newsprint in there. There are little chinks of light coming in from the top where the flaps don't quite meet, and there are kittens trying to paw them open. You mustn't give in to them! Their insistent mewing is naught but poison to your mind. Defeat the kittens and prevail. The cardboard is your friend, and the cardboard is your fortress.

Have you defeated the kittens like the proud and mighty mole? Have you achieved enlightenment and a deeper consciousness? Good. Now get dressed and go to work.

Sunday, December 24, 2006

Merry Christmas, Baby!

By "merry Christmas baby," I mean that I am wishing that baby in the picture a merry Christmas. She looks like she could use one. One of her parents seems not to have noticed that there was a baby in the yarn, and she was knitted right into a pillowcase. So sad. Take note, Anne Geddes. This could happen to you.

So has your Holiday Season® been going well, time-wasters? So far so good here, knitting accidents aside. Have you, like me, been wished random welfare by strangers and not remembered why? Have you heard a cashier fire off a "merry Christmas!" at your retreating back, fallen down, gotten tangled in your plastic bags full of coffee beans and toothpaste, writhed into a sitting position and then wished the cashier a heartfelt "Blarg! Uh, wait! Spanky Easter! No, that's uh..." and then scampered away?


You're all liars.

Now. I'm sure you've all been wondering what The FooDaddy's got on his wishlist for this Christmas. That's a very good and extensive question, and I'll admit to not being easily shopped for. You see, time-wasters, the things on my list are not available at any department store. They cannot, thank God, be carried in plastic bags. I shall now enumerate:

  1. I want love and peaceful joy for wlka8,n---mmmph!

I'm sorry. I couldn't keep a straight face and started typing all screwy. Let's try that again. Seriously this time. Promise.

  1. I'd like an all-expenses-paid trip to the South Pole, where I will be allowed to chase penguins around until I get all sweaty, and then I want to drive a snowmobile up a mountain.
  2. I want the power to wander the corridors of someone else's mind. I would also like to be automatically excused if I leave any candy bar wrappers and gummy fingerprints on things in there.
  3. Just once, I'd like to be able to attempt something "cool" without feeling like a total wanker. It hurts my soul when cashiers laugh at me. It really does.
  4. I'd like to be able to say that I hung out with my favorite band for a day, that they gave me all the sody pop I could drink, let me drive their limousine, and to actually care about something like that.
  5. I want the ability to buss moves so spanky-dope that they impress people who only hear about them third-hand.
  6. Okay, not really.
  7. Spanky-dope?

Get shopping, time-wasters! I expect to find some kind of super powers in my sock on the morning of the 25th.

And don't tell me that's impossible. It's happened to me before. The only trouble with super powers you find in your socks is that they're Mine was the ability to coin phrases like "chasing the laughing bats" and "crispy little wiener frog" and have people use them for a whole day before forgetting them.

Jumped The Shark, and other useful phrases

I have enjoyed the repartee following my Happy Birthday Wishes to The Stupid Blogger. In this series of witty rejoinders, Foo Daddy revealed his new phrase, chases (-ing, -ed, -er, etc.) the laughing bats.

That got me thinking that we could have yet more uproariously stupid good times making up (or modifying) similar phrases.

Let me get us started by alluding to a couple of such sayings. I like these because they are very slightly opaque at first glance. Their meanings have also become nuanced and altered from the original, but they are now in widespread use. Here goes...

Jumped the shark I have heard this used plenty of times but only recently did a search to discover the origins and real meaning. I recommend that you give at least a half hearted whirl at guessing it's meaning before you go to

Drank the koolaid What do you think?

OK, there's a couple to get us started. Let the games begin. I think we could make some up that may very well make their way through the pierced lips of tattooed teenagers, the stiff uppers of Harvard professors and the collagen puffed ones of not-well-compensated blonde truck stop waitresses all across our fair land. Wheee...what an ambition.

Thursday, December 21, 2006

Happy Birthday, STUPID

I see you have escaped the gallows for another year.

I was thinking that, as a special birthday present against you for all of your friends, I would disclose all of the stupid things you have done in my presence.

I set about to record them but it turns out that the blog has space limitations.

Ah well, truth be told, I'm pretty fond of you.

So, Happy Birthday, Stupid. Since your insurance rates probably went down last year, I don't have any "gifts" for you.

Saturday, December 16, 2006

Duke Dookums, Frontier Hero; Part II

(Missed Part I? Click here.)

Duke strode manfully up the steps of the saloon and knocked open the swinging doors with a single movement of his broad shoulders. As soon as he entered, the entire room quieted and every head turned toward him. The piano player, who had been engaged in a highly energetic version of “Do Your Ears Hang Low,” leaped from the piano stool and began cowering behind the instrument.

Ignoring the many pairs of eyes locked on his every move, Duke walked to the bar and leaned against it with an attitude of supreme indifference.

“Can I get you a drink, sir?” The bartender picked up a glass from the shelf and held it expectantly with shaking hands.

“I’ve had a hard day,” Duke said. “I’ll need something to wash the dust of the trail from my parched throat.”

“Well, we have some mighty fine whiskey that should do the trick.”

“Nah,” Duke said. “That’s not powerful enough for a Frontier Hero like me. I need something to soften the ragged edges of my palate and soothe my nerves. Hey, that would make a great opening line for a poem. Hold on just a minute.” He fished in his pockets for a notepad and pencil. “I’d better write that down before I forget.” He began writing, his brow furrowed in concentration as he made the notation.

Just as he was finishing, a large man wearing dirty jeans and a bright, checkered vest rose from a chair on the far side of the room. Due to his highly-trained Frontier Hero senses, Duke sensed the movement and looked up to see the man walking toward him. He put away the paper and pencil, and then pushed himself away from the bar.

The other man stopped a few feet away and looked at Duke with disdain. “You write poetry?” Not taking his eyes off Duke, he sent a stream of dark liquid toward a spittoon at the end of the bar, making a direct hit.

Duke smiled confidently. “Why, yes. Are you an arts lover, as well? Perhaps you’d be interested in a few verses of my latest creation. I call it ‘Dewdrop.’”

The man paled and backed away a step, an expression of horror on his lean, unshaven face. “No, I don’t wanna hear it! What are you, anyway, some kind of sissy?”

“That, my fine felonious friend, would depend on how many kinds of sissies exist in the world. I know of only one, so I’d have to take exception to your implication. You, on the other hand, exhibit certain signs of weakness. Take your vest, for example.”

“But it’s already mine,” the other man said, thoroughly confused.

Duke sighed. “My point exactly. Notice the pattern and the color scheme…”

“Are you makin’ fun of my vest?”

“I would never mock another man’s choice of wardrobe, except to say he should take care not to become hypocritical in his judgments of others.”

The swinging doors opened suddenly and the old man from the porch stood in the opening, the golden light from the saloon bathing his thin features in…well, golden light.

“He done called you a sissy and a hypocrite,” the old man said, eyes wild with anticipation. “Are ya’ gonna make ‘im draw, Wayward Phil?”

Wayward Phil fixed Duke with a discerning eye for a few minutes. Appearing at last to come to a decision, he grunted and put the eye back into his pocket. “Yeah,” he said. “I think I will.” Phil’s hands hovered over his holsters and he spread his legs a bit to obtain maximum balance. “Prepare to draw, stranger.”

Duke sighed, as if drawing on his last reserves of patience and assumed a stance similar to that of his foe. “I hate to do this, Phil, my man. I take no pleasure in humiliating my foes in public.” Then he snorted with laughter. “Who am I kidding? Of course, I do! Come on, Wayward Phil, if that’s really your name. Let’s do it!”

Wayward seemed a bit taken aback by Duke’s willingness to challenge him to a duel, but he knew backing down now would finish him in this town. He pointed to the old man, who was still standing in the doorway. “Give the count, Old Man.” Turning to Duke, he said, “At the count of three, we’ll draw. And may the best man win.”

“In that case, there’s really no need to proceed,” Duke said. “After all, we both know what the ultimate outcome will be.”

“You’re not gonna talk your way outta this one, stranger.”

“As you will,” Duke said, and shifted his broad shoulders as if to loosen up for the task ahead. “By the way, you don’t mind if I set these aside, do you? They can get a bit cumbersome.” He deflated the broad shoulders, folded them with care, and placed them gently on the bar. “Don’t spill anything on them,” he told the bartender. “The warranty just expired and I don’t have the cash to buy a new set.” Turning back to Phil, he took up his previous stance and the Old Man began counting.

“One…two…two an’ a half…two an’ three-quarters…two an’ seven-eighths…”

“Come on!” said Duke and Phil simultaneously.

The Old Man leaped into the air and clicked his heels, while throwing his arms into the air. “Three!”

The ensuing action was so fast it seemed to be in slow motion, although how that is possible is anyone’s guess. Both men made a mad grab for their holsters and whipped out pencil and paper.

At first it seemed Duke would make quick work of his foe, as his depiction of Michelangelo painting the Sistine Chapel began to take shape on the paper before the stunned eyes of the onlookers. But then, just as he was completing a particularly angelic-looking cherub, the lead in his pencil snapped and he was forced to pause while he sharpened the tip.

Although built into the side of his holster, the use of the sharpener nevertheless cost him precious moments and by the time he was able to return to his masterpiece, Wayward Phil was well on his way toward putting the final touches on a fairly stunning portrayal of the Grand Canyon.

Several tense moments passed while Duke struggled to overtake his opponent, and the crowd, which had gathered in closer to the combatants until they were completely encircled, held their collective breaths.

“Finito!” exclaimed Duke, and held up the drawing for his still-frantically scribbling opponent to see. A huge sigh filled the room and several people collapsed onto the sawdust floor from the stress of the action and a lack of oxygen. The sigh fled in panic.

Wayward Phil stared at the picture in disbelief and then down at his own drawing. “Dang it! I just had a tad more shading to do!” He stamped his booted foot on the floor in anger and stared at Duke with eyes full of hatred. “Nobody’s ever made a fool out of me before, stranger.”

“Ah!” Duke said, raising one finger, as if preparing to impart a few gems of wisdom. “But you’ve never before encountered Duke Dookums, Frontier Hero!”

The bartender stared at Duke with the usual awe. “You’re Duke Dookums?”

“That I am,” Duke said, hugging himself. He reached over, retrieved the shoulders from the bar, and quickly inflated them.

“Have a drink on the house,” the bartender said. “It’d be a pleasure to serve a man of your reputation and stature. What’ll you have? Whiskey?”

“No,” Duke said. “As I said, that’s not powerful enough for a Frontier Hero like me. I need something to soften the ragged edges of my palate and soothe my nerves. Hey, that would make a great opening line for a poem…wait, I think we’ve already been through this. Just give me a sarsaparilla.”

Thursday, December 14, 2006

Ah Gots Da Sikknesses

An Open Letter to My Sinuses

Look, guys, this isn't funny anymore. Wait... does this mean that I have more than one sinus? Could it be that it's just one of you morons fooling around up there and screwing the whole intake system up for the rest of us? I hope not, because I've got two words for you: laser surgery.

Anyway. Let it be known henceforth and throughput (or whatever) that I will no longer tolerate stepped-up snot production as a germ countermeasure. I've got a cold. I have not run into a situation where I need more stuff to put in tissues. I am not going to donate it to science, nor am I looking for Christmas presents for people I don't like much.

I've got a cold.

I'm tired of stopping every five minutes to honk into a two-ply facial tissue, turning innocent trash bins into devil piñatas. This is seriously cutting down on real productivity, and I expect this problem remedied within the hour.


So yeah. I've been a little under the weather lately, in the same way that lead tends to be under water. I managed to pick up this little bundle of microbial joy on the last day of my week-long vacation from work. This had the effect of making my vacation two days longer, unfortunately, I wasn't able to enjoy those two days. I spent most of them in a state of catatonia, curled up in my bed, sprinkled liberally with cats. I'm pretty sure I've only got two of them, but at the time it felt like I had hundreds of them up there with me, and they all wanted to occupy the same square footage I did.

If you were to ask The Girlfriend, I got sick because I ate some candy I found on a shelf at the store. She and I were cruising the Christmas decoration aisle, and I spied a little house made of candy. Some kind of cookie, by the smell of it. Sort of gingery. This "cookiebread house," as I will call it, had roof trimmings made of gummi orange slices, which I regard as quite tasty. There were no store employees nearby, nor could I spot any security camera domes. So I did what any red-blooded American citizen would have done: I snagged me a piece of gummi and put the eat move up on it.

The Girlfriend saw me do this, and what she said next led me to the conclusion that she thought I was being stupid. "That was stupid," she said.

Whatever. She was just mad because I thought of it first. People without free candy can be so bitter.

So I hope I get better soon, so I can taste things again. Gonna make me a cookiebread house with some nice, fresh, sterile gummies.

Monday, December 04, 2006

Duke Dookums, Frontier Hero; Part I

The sun was slowly setting in the…well, I guess it would have been west, as the man with the broad shoulders rode into Dingbat, a small frontier town located just on the edge of Comanche territory. All the other riders on the street watched him come, their faces clearly communicating curiosity and apprehension.

The stranger rode up to the hitching post and dismounted, throwing the reins carelessly over the post. He stretched luxuriously and would have done so a second time, but discovered he couldn’t afford it.

“Crap,” he said, in a voice sonorous with frontier manliness.

An old man sitting on the front porch of the General Store motioned across the street. “Latrine’s thet away, feller,” he said. “By the way, thet’s quite a mount ya' got there.”

The mysterious newcomer leaned forward and glared at the old man. “Are you mocking my mount?” he asked. He leaned forward some more, before finally losing his balance and toppling into the watering trough. Emerging from the water, he coughed and then smiled. “Ah, nothing like a cold bath to invigorate a man after a long day on the trail.” He turned back to the old man. “Now, what were you saying about my mount?”

Obviously worried by the singular poise of the stranger, the codger rose from his seat, knowing that no one would shoot an old man who was off his rocker.

“I was jest observin’,” he said, a bit nervously. “Ya' gotta admit it’s a little unusual fer these parts.”

“I take it you’ve never seen a unicycle before.”

“Can’t say thet I have,” the old man admitted. “Thet’s what thet contraption is?”

“Why, yes,” the stranger said. “Uni means one, while cycle suggests transportation involving the wheel. Therefore, uni-cycle means a one-wheeled mode of transportation.”

“Gotcha,” said the old man. “But ain’t it tough ta' pedal thet thing over rough terrain?”

“Yes, if one is a sniveling wuss,” the stranger said, and flexed his muscles to demonstrate he was neither sniveling nor a wuss. “But I am neither sniveling nor a wuss. I happen to be…a Frontier Hero!”

From somewhere in the lengthening shadows, a dramatic burst of orchestral harmony erupted and the stranger grinned smugly.

“That’s my theme song,” he said. “I had it specially arranged for a full-sized orchestra, although a string quartet is sufficient when funds are low.”

The old man was staring at the stranger with new-found awe. “Dang blast it!” he said. “Good thing I done found this new awe, cause you’re Duke Dookums, ain’tcha?”

“Yes, my good man,” said Duke. “That I am, that I am, that I am. That…I…am.” He hugged himself. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll go inside the local saloon, here, and see if I can win some money at craps in order to buy a second luxurious stretch. I always need two after a long day’s ride.”

Saturday, December 02, 2006

Scruffy Love 2; Scruffier Love

Before I begin, I’d like to apologize for the graphic nature of my graphic. It appears, however hilariously rendered they may be, that these painted lovers are at least engaging in a very safe form of intercourse.

Well, I think it’s hilarious, anyway. Imagine, if you will, the kind of damage this image would do to a child who has yet to ask the question “where do babies come from?” and get a straight answer. “What do one’s scapulae have to do with procreation?” the child gifted with quite the vocabulary would ask.

Actually, let the kids believe what they will. It’s no more harmful than telling them that babies come from storks or Santa Claus or Delphi.

Scruffy Love, Chapter 2

In the late afternoon that day, Buck Studson and Cassidy Swoony made love.

“It’s done!” beamed Buck, holding out his half of the pink heart of Popsicle sticks and shiny rocks. “Whaddya think?”

“Oh, Buck! It’s as beautiful as the stars are numerous!” swooned Cassidy. She fluttered a dainty, manicured hand under her elegantly sculpted chin and fell off her stool.

They had some sex to celebrate their love, which lay forgotten upon the workbench, portending odious things to come. Unbeknownst to the two lovers who still bore the bruises where love struck them, trouble was in their road and approaching fast.

Thurgood Bastardson approached town fast, his pointy goateed chin pressed into his beat-up, crappy old horse’s neck. He urged the beast on to greater efforts by swearing at it, because he was a jerk.

“I mean to have that Cassidy all to my own odious self!” he roared into the mane of his horse. “Because I’m a jerk!”

The thunder of hooves rolled out over the land like evil pancake batter.

Buck and Cassidy lay in the afterglow, playing pillowgames.

“King me!” hooted Buck triumphantly.

“My bosom doth heave in consternation,” sighed Cassidy, and did as her studmuffin commandethed. The tranquil silence of the sunny afternoon was suddenly shattered by the clatter of hooves on Buck’s cobblestone driveway.

“Remain here, squishylips,” Buck said tenderly. “I think somebody is occurring without, and I mean to divine the nature of their visit.” He strode manfully and naked over to the window and tumbled gracelessly out into the bushes.

“Buck Studson! We meet at last, o’ foul ladyhog! You may be young and virile, but I am unscrupulous and crafty and this gives me an edge over your do-gooding ways! I come demanding the Swoony woman for no evident reason, other than because it would abrade you something fierce!”

“Bastardson! You’re a bad man, you antagonist!” growled Buck, stepping from the shrubbery.

Thurgood chuckled, and the sound of that chuckle was like evil crabs fighting in a dark mixing bowl. “That is correct, good sir. Should I take this insight on your part as acquiescence to my—why are you naked?”

Buck looked down, and smiled.

“Gross!” said Little Rodney, and ran back into the tool shed.

…To be continued!

Sunday, November 26, 2006

I'm thankful for...

It's a strange custom, this yammering on to perfect strangers about how well off you are. Everywhere you go people are holding forth about their gratitude.

So, since it seems so neat, here are a few things for which I am thankful:

1). Superior intellect. Yes, that DOES mean superior to YOU if you are a easily-offended type.

2). Above average appearance. Almost goes without saying, but I AM thankful.

3). An enviable lifestyle. Well, I'm so SORRY if you feel envy. That's a venal sin and I'm sorry to be the cause of it in your life, but let's review a few little items and see if you don't have a few stirrings of that little viper. If you can answer "yes" to any of the following, then you should consider NOT envying me. Here goes.... Did you: a). nibble caviar from the navel of a supermodel this morning for breakfast? Y/N b). stretch in all your suntanned glory before a full length mirror prior to dressing? Y/N c). summon your man or maidservant up the winding staircase of your palace and bid them carry you down to your chauffered limousine? Y/N d). climb the steps of your Gulfstream IV and watch terra firma fall away beneath you as you flew to the Cayman Islands for a weekend of no tan lines? Y/N e). just receive an invitation to give the commencement address at Harvard in the Spring--and at the same time also be granted an honorary Doctorate? Y/N

Actually, I just read this little pop quiz and failed miserably myself. Who IS this "me" and why do I feel so homicidally envious of him?

Tuesday, November 21, 2006

Wedded Blitz

Marriage is a tricky business and, while I don’t profess to be an expert, I will say that I have learned a few things over the past four years. Four and a half years. Five years. Whatever. Moving on, I’d like to address the issue of problems in a marriage and how to handle them.

Men and women handle problems differently. They perceive problems differently and they pursue solutions differently. Left to his/her own devices, an individual will generally resolve the problem regardless of gender, but naturally, this wasn’t good enough. No! Men and women insist on co-habiting and this is why there are major problems above and beyond those of which nail polish to buy or even reaching that elusive “Z” while burping the alphabet.

Once a man and woman become a couple, things really complicate. Men view problems as obstacles, roadblocks on the path to more steak and Doritos, and think the best solution in all cases is to simply roll over the barrier with any vehicle containing an engine. They’ll use anything, although an Abrams tank is generally preferred. In other words, brute force is the key.

Women, on the other hand, view problems as actual problems, and consider the optimal solution to be: a long, involved discussion centered around the problem itself, the vague causes for the problem, all individuals involved in the problem, how the problem will impact their weight, and how Sandra’s new haircut makes her look like a deranged wombat hit by a riding lawnmower.

Even now, things are not at a critical point. But, as I mentioned, couples will eventually end up attempting to solve problems by working together. This is never a good idea, because the two problem-solving methods are not compatible. Let’s lay out a typical scenario.


Bob comes home from a long day at work, flops down on the couch, and grabs the remote. Ten minutes into an episode of Seinfeld, he suddenly becomes aware of his wife, Flossy, who is whimsically moving about the room and emitting sighs that sound as if they are being torn from the depths of her soul. Because Bob has been married for several years, he recognizes the presence of a problem. Immediately, his manly instincts report for duty and he mutes the television.

“What’s wrong?”

Flossy continues her waif impersonation and sighs, “Nothing.”

This is obviously a lie, so Bob persists. “Are you sure? What’s wrong?”


At this point, Bob has options. None of them good. Let’s examine these choices.

OPTION 1: Bob can assume nothing is wrong, unmute his favorite show, and continue enjoying his evening. While this is a common approach and completely logical, given the fact Flossy has twice denied there is a problem, it also will require Bob to ignore Flossy as she observes him watching television in oblivious contentment for several more minutes, before she finally flees to the bedroom and weeps.

OPTION 2: If you have the IQ of a rutabaga, you will have recognized option 1 as the actions of a lunatic. If Bob is a wise man, he will keep Seinfeld muted and, preferably, turn off the television altogether. Then he will rouse himself from the couch and sit upright, while affixing Flossy with an expression of caring and concern. For the next half hour, he will continually ask her if something is wrong. If Bob is lucky, Flossy will finally admit to having difficulties. She will then sit next to him on the couch and weep. While weeping, the entire story will come out and Flossy will discuss the problem itself, the vague causes for the problem, all individuals involved in the problem, how the problem will impact her weight, and how Sandra’s new haircut makes her look like a deranged wombat hit by a riding lawnmower.

Being a man, Bob will run out to his Abrams tank and prepare to solve the problem. We now understand Bob is an idiot, because women do not wish to have their problems solved. Merely discussing the problem in a "meaningful" way (I heard the masculine shudders from here) seems to suffice and even "solve" the problem, if you can call something not involving violent action and explosions a solution.

LIFE LESSON: If your wife is acting whimsical, inquire about her welfare at least 3,675 times. Once she has admitted to a problem after the 3,676th inquiry, do not, under any circumstances, attempt to solve it! Just sit there, nod understandingly, and replay old Seinfeld episodes in your head. Good luck, sucker.

Saturday, November 18, 2006

I Cleaned My Bedroom!

And I should be duly proud of that achievement.

I am, too.

I am not, however, currently enjoying its new cleanliness, as I am lurking down in a remote corner of The Girlfriend's basement. I have again taken control of her computer, and am preparing to use it to spread my insidious propaganda.

Or, in layman's terms, I'm going to write about how proud I am of myself for cleaning my room. It boils down to the same thing in the end, really, as I don't know where I put all my propaganda. Probably in a drawer somewhere.

This is an (a) historic occasion, much like my first post here on the Blog, but with more cat hairs involved. The process, which I carried out dressed in only the finest boxer shorts, took a little over three hours and enlisted the help of no fewer than two vacuum cleaners, a bottle of spray cleaner, some boxes and plastic bags, Lucky Piddle Patties (oh, them cats!) and half a cup of pilfered coffee.

I want you, time-wasters, to consider my cat Sprocket. At a guess, I'd say he weighs about 12 pounds, and he's short-haired. Very unassuming. But beneath his goofy veneer lies an extremely efficient fur-dispersal engine, capable of covering a 12x12 room to a depth of six inches in the time it takes me to pour a glass of Cherry Coke. There's a good chance that my Cherry Coke will play host to at least one Sprocket hair by the time he's done, too.

So, upon moving my junk off the floor, where it had been safely and conveniently stored for weeks, I vacuumed the drifts of cat hair out, and put the stuff into closets, on shelves, or into the garbage. I held a running dialog with myself that went something like this:

"Wow. Stupid cat."
"What the heck is this?"
"Heeeey, this isn't mine..."
"Betcha THIS is broken now."
And of course, the ever-popular, "So that's where this went!"

Have you ever done or created something of such life-affirming worth that you couldn't help but stand there like a moron and beam radiant joy out of your face at all around you? Well, that's what I did.

I stood in the middle of my room, like some retarded sculptor's idea of the human condition, and looked at the carpet. It turns out that it's NOT the same color as Sprocket, but a sort of a coffee-with-way-too-much-cream color. I beamed dementedly at it.

I gazed upon my desk, which had its collection of cat prints and sody pop goo banished to the four corners of the earth by the learned application of spray cleaner and paypa towel. I surreptitiously scratched myself in discreet regions with glee.

Next, my eyeballs directed theyselves upon the empty chair which had recently held a month's worth of clean laundry. I was so happy about this that I fell down.

From my new vantage point, I noted that all the crud and dust and cat debris had been vacuumed from my power strips with the utmost of love and care, and I flopped about like a drugged sunfish, so happy was I.

And then I left to come visit The Girlfriend. But in the back of my mind, I will know that my room is clean, and it will make me happy.

Wednesday, November 15, 2006

The Recorder--an instrument in the hands of Satan

There are only a couple of people in this world who should play a recorder. You aren't one of them and my son, Nathan, is most certainly not one of them, either.

In my evolution as a human, I have come to hold much less defined beliefs as to the nature of evil, but when I came home and found my son screeching away on his shiny new recorder, I immediately discovered a powerful certainty that Satan is alive and walks the earth.

"Hey, dad," my freckled one grinned, "Look what I got!"

"Wonderful," I regurgitated. Then I felt invisible, malicious fingers grasping at my throat.

So, let's examine the (maybe) two categories of people who have a right to play the recorder:

1). if you are a wizened Navaho Indian sitting alone under a vast night sky atop a red rock mesa, then you may be a candidate. The recorder "properly" played gives off that haunting, lonesome wail that seems most appropriate to wilderness places--places where other humans can't hear you.


Turns out there was only one category.

Anyone else who presumes to take up the recorder is either a small child upon whom this instrument of evil has been forced, or a sadist. Or both.

My son is both, I'm pretty sure.

Sunday, November 12, 2006

Timely Cell Phone Instructions

For the Blog of Stupid participants (founders, bloggers, readers and general population of cretins)

What follows is a simple, timely and important set of instructions and rules for you to follow as you use your cell phone. You may believe some of these rules to be sort of basic, but, believe me, there are those of you who will read them and say "DANG! I gotter stop doin' thet?".

Important, Timely and Relevant Rule #1: NEVER place your phone in a microwave oven as it will cause the battery to explode. (Pickle Weasel's Notes: I know this will seriously cramp your style because it's so wonderful to toss your phone and your popcorn in the microwave together. When you are munching nice, hot, buttery popcorn and holding a nice, warm phone to your ear, heaven seems very close indeed.)

Important, Timely and Relevant Rule # 2: Make sure no sharp-edged items--such as animal's teeth, razor wire or eagle's talons--come into contact with the battery. There is a risk of this causing a fire. (Pickle Weasel's Notes: seems to me that if you are in such a state of peril as to have an animal or an eagle molesting your phone, you may have more to worry about than a cell phone battery fire. Also, "Razor Wire"? Does this mean you should carefully wrap your cell phone up in a sock before attempting to escape over the high-voltage prison fence?)

Important, Timely and Relevant Rule #3: When you are taking a very long bath, remember that it is inadvisable to talk on your cell phone while it is plugged into the wall charging unit. You may drop it into the water and risk electrocution. (Pickle Weasel's Notes: Many of the members of this audience may not have to worry much about this rule--I am thinking that quite a few of you don't take, shall we say, "extended baths". In fact, why the heck don't you take a quick shower right now?).

Important, Timely and Relevant Rule #4: Don't Manually Disassemble Your Phone. (Pickle Weasel's Notes: Yes, my stupid friends, this also means...don't disassemble the phone with a hammer, don't disassemble the phone with a rock, don't ask your pet rhesus monkey (don't they have AIDS? why DO you have a pet rhesus monkey and how did he get AIDS?) to disassemble the phone. If you DO disassemble the phone because you want to find the little woman in there who tells you how many voicemails you haven't listened to, you WON'T be able to get it un-disassembled, you dummy, so DON'T DO IT!!!)

Important, Timely and Relevant Rule #5: Don't drop, shake or strike your phone severely. This may cause a loss of proper function. (Pickle Weasel's Notes: I really shouldn't need to explain this, but... OK, what this rule means is DON'T TRY TO HURT OR PUNISH YOUR PHONE. The phone isn't to blame that your boss called and fired you or your girlfriend just rang up to tell you that (ONLY because of you) she is now a lesbian and to erase her number from your contact list. If you SMACK, SPANK, KICK, THROW or otherwise EXPRESS DISPLEASURE in these ways, your phone will NOT be able to fix the problems in your life. In fact, you will probably have to also buy a new phone--or concoct a very improbably elaborate lie to tell the cell phone warranty folks so you can have them give you a new one for free.)

Important, Timely and Relevant Rule #6: DO NOT use your cell phone in high explosive areas as the phone may generate sparks. (Pickle Weasel's Notes: I doubt you have followed the instructions up to the point with absolute integrity. Because of this, your phone is likely to be cracked, leaking battery juices and probably has some frayed wires and fractured circuit boards. I'll be surprised if your phone isn't smoking and sparking just sitting there on top of your crumpled-up X-Treem Cheez Tater Chipz bag. Anyway, most of my readers would only come into a "high explosive area" by stealth. They certainly wouldn't have the kind of job where they'd be in an area like this legitimately. Therefore, I don't really care if you use your phone in there or not. I think you probably deserve to be blown across several counties and end up wrapped around a telephone pole anyway. So, knock yourself out!)

So, that's about it. If you'll observe these few important rules, you'll find that you and your cell phone will be happy for at least a few more days--until you fall asleep on the toilet and drop it down between your legs. Then, of course, although YOU would be ok with just drying it off and moving on with life, your phone will not have any will to live left. And who could blame it?

Tuesday, November 07, 2006

The Time Is Nigh!

I've been ignored by the pollsters and mocked by the electorate. I was not invited to participate in the debates. I've been trodden underfoot as the so-called miracle of democracy has marched to the drum of deception and greed. And yet, this has not undermined my firm belief that I will prevail when the polls are finally closed. I am smelling in the air the scent of victory. Either that, or the sauerkraut I forgot to toss out last week has gone bad.

I am counting on a late-night comeback to carry me on to victory so I can live like a sloth, draped in the arms of affluence and comfort. Oh, yeah, and help the people of Michigan, too. The polls close in just over an hour. Go to the polls and vote. Now! DO IT!


To read my plan for change in Michigan,
click here. And if you voters in Detroit feel offended by my fourth point...I was kidding.

Saturday, November 04, 2006

FooDaddy's Cheesy Love

Given that I work for the library system, as I’ve mentioned too many times before, I have unfettered access to a wide array of literary bilge. This usually manifests itself in the form of those little 3” by 5” paperbacks with pictures on the cover of rebellious shirtless men pressing their manly selves up against swoony women in poofy, low-cut dresses.

“Oh, Bartholomew! You’re so sweaty!”
“That’s my love, dear lady.”
“My chest doth heave!”

The Romance Novel. If I had to judge by weight, about 10 percent of my job is devoted to routing these little abominations. As if you couldn’t already tell, I think the Romance genre, uh, doesn’t need to exist, to put it nicely. Out of simple curiosity (and to pick up swooning tips) I’ve flipped a few of them open and taken a peek. This served two purposes: To reduce my faith in the intelligence of humankind, and to give me something to make fun of on the Blog.

To be perfectly honest, this post is mostly an excuse to show you time-wasters this particularly hilarious back-cover picture I found at work. I added the quotation balloons.

So, without further ado, The FooDaddy Romance Novel!

Scruffy Love
By The FooDaddy

Buck Studson was a rebel cowboy with a lot of muscles and no chest hair. He didn’t like children, until he met the pretty lady with the poofy dress who lived at the orphanage down the road. Cassidy Swoony had been single for too long, and it was starting to make her very angry.

“Because of my strong desire for to be swept off my feets, I swat you mercilessly, Little Rodney!” she said, chasing Little Rodney about the orphanage with a rolled up issue of Cosmopolitan magazine.

“You need a man with no chest hair and a cowboy hat!” said Rodney, dodging into the bathroom and running the bolt.

“Foul wastrel!” sighed Cassidy, and ran headlong into the door. She bounced off the wood veneer, and into the arms of…

“Buck,” said Buck, for that was his name, pointing to his hairless chest. “I’m here to adopt a child. I want one to help me take care of my giant romantic log cabin in the mountains, and to keep my flock of studly horses from getting fat by riding them all about the romantic mountains. How about that one?” Buck pointed vaguely in the direction of a pile of adorable children.

“My my, what a handsome stranger he is! My bosom heaves and thrives! I wish I, very attractive woman with great hair who is somehow inexplicably also very lonely, could put my painful past behind me and strew myself into this man’s heavily muscled wrists! I bet he likes ice cream too.” Cassidy thought out loud.

“What?” Buck squinted at Cassidy.

“Did I say that out loud? Foolish me!” she said, blushing.

“You’re turning red,” said Buck slyly. “Do you want to have sex?”

“Certainly!” said Cassidy, and swooned, thumping into Buck’s studly deerskin trenchcoat.

“Gross!” said Little Rodney from the bathroom.

So there you have it. That could very well be the first installment, and if I feel like it, I’ll write more later. I’ve been mocking the Romance Novel out loud for years now, and I’ve found that it’s fun to do it in print!

“That’s lame,” said Little Rodney.

Monday, October 30, 2006

On the Road

Okay, folks. With the Michigan governor's race coming down to the wire, I've decided to kick off a week-long bus tour. I will be travelling the state, speaking with concerned citizens, such as Bertha McChortlepuss, who stated her feelings clearly by saying, "You suck!" and then offering me a pickle. Concerned about campaign finance reform laws, however, I refused the donation.

If you see me around, why not stop to wave with all fingers as I pass by? Oh, and don't hesitate to create Hart for Governor yard signs at your own expense and stick them in your neighbors' lawns in the dead of night. For more information about my run for the state's highest office, click here.

Saturday, October 28, 2006

All The Things I've Always Wanted To Say

In response to FooDaddy’s FooDaddy’s (huh?) request, I have compiled a list of things I’ve always wanted to say, but didn’t for various reasons, either because I never found the right opportunity or because I was too sensitive to the feelings of others. Mainly, I’m a coward.

1. “Plastic surgery might be able to fix that.”
2. “Excuse me, sir, but is this your Giant Rat of Versailles?”
3. “Watch out, she’s backin’ up!”
4. “Take me to see your leader.”
5. “It’s okay, I have a spare clavicle in my car.”
6. “I hate you.” (And mean it.)
7. “Mind if I take your picture? I need an excuse to buy a new camera.”
8. “Oooooh! My very own catamaran!”
9. “Gimme the money and no one gets hurt. Yeah, I take Visa.”
10. “I want a large medium pizza with water buffalo droppings. Hold the crust.”
11. “O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”
12. “Yeah, and on the rocks. Hey, there’s ice in here!”
13. “Go on, try to flee. I dare ya’”
14. “Come on, you wanna a piece o’ me? No? Good.”
15. “That’s not a zit, there’s a blood clot in your eye. Better see a doctor.”

Anyway, this was fun! You all should try it. Vote Craig Hart on Nov. 6. Or is it 7? Aw, what difference does it make? Voting twice never hurt anyone.

Thursday, October 26, 2006

Danged Baseball

OK, seriously now. We have been busily maligning baseball and its adherants. We have been right, too.

Right now I am watching another grinding, excruciating game between the Tigers and the Cardinals. The problem is (this is BIG, so scootch your chairs up a little closer gang) BASEBALL HAS NO MOMENTUM. The winner is just the beneficiary of near terminal boredum on the part of the other team.

So, anyway, I feel sort of bad bringing such a sore subject back up. I really do. We've already been kibbitzing loudly. I just can't help it.

This is a pitiful, sorry bleat of misery. I can'

My Campaign Poster

Now that my campaign for governor is picking up speed, I thought it might be wise to provide the media with a photo to be used for articles and television reports. My staff and I naturally chose the most flattering one in my collection, because I'm the kind of guy who understands the importance of putting forth a professional image, especially when dealing with such a serious matter as running for governor.

Wednesday, October 25, 2006

Hit The Road Commissioner

My day was not pleasant. I left a bit late for work today, thereby putting myself in downtown Grand Rapids at rush hour. This is never a good idea. Not because we are a particularly large city, but because our road system seems to have been designed by a blind, and particularly lazy, sloth using a ruler that had previously been run over by priority freight.

Because I had left late, I decided to take the most direct route, since turning crowded corners at that crazy time of the morning can be highly entertaining. Imagine my surprise as I cleared a curve and discovered the road ahead of me to be closed. Entirely closed. Not just one lane, but the entire road. No previous warning of closure, no mention of it on the traffic report (to which I had listened attentively), no dancing albino billabong waving a sign reading, “Turn back, you fool, turn back!” Nothing. And so, I and dozens of other harried members of the local workforce, were thrown into momentary confusion.

Fortunately, the road crew had clearly indicated a detour and so we all piled into it and began creeping our way down scary side streets that looked as if they had been constructed shortly after the Big Bang. Or perhaps during it; they were just as orderly.

Sadly enough, it soon became apparent that the job of creating the detour had been assigned either to Mortimer Snerd or an escaped war criminal, because it directed the poor, unsuspecting motorists to a dead end and then left them there.

“Ha!” chortles Escaped War Criminal. “Let’s see them find their way out of that one!”

Actually, I think the road commissioner merely became bored and, looking at his wall map of the Grand Rapids road system, said to himself,

“Ya’ know, if I close off North Division and then create a detour just so, the resulting back-up will spell out the word ‘billabong.’ Cool!” This probably explains why there was no billabong available for construction duty, as he was over at the commissioner’s office telling him how to spell his name.

My day did not improve from that point, but the rest of the details aren’t nearly as entertaining as this, so I’ll save those for a slow Blog day. Cheerio! (Frosted Flakes.)

Monday, October 23, 2006

If I Had A Hat, I'd Throw It In The Ring

My friends,

With Michigan’s political season upon us, the airwaves and print media have been filled with mud-slinging, accusations, and innuendo. I think it’s time to stop this. I think it’s time Michigan had a candidate for governor who will not kowtow to special interest groups and who will not use another candidate’s shortcomings as fodder for a political ad, such as the fact that
Dick DeVos has an addiction to Bazooka Bubblegum and that Jennifer Granholm has a heretofore secret fantasy of being the second witch from the end in the Shakespeare play of the public’s choice.

But I will not use these disqualifying revelations in my campaign. I won’t harp on and on about them in an attempt to besmirch their character before the voters. No! I have had enough of the character assassination and name-calling, you swine! This is why I am now announcing my candidacy for governor. Let me outline my agenda for our great state that I will enact if elected.

  • I will see to it that everyone who participates in my write-in campaign will receive a complimentary fruit bat, which will be paid for by regulated funds from my own pocket, assuming I can find a suitably sneaky way to get regulated funds into my pocket in the first place.
  • I will eliminate all state taxes and replace them with a free-will offering. During the first week of every month, a team of 100,000 ushers, elected by the legislature, will go door to door with offering plates and collect money for the operation of schools, police and fire protection, and, of course, my exorbitant salary.
  • I will push for legislation that will allow the immediate and arbitrary execution of anyone who owns a recording of Bette Midler singing, “The Wind Beneath My Wings.”
  • I will push for the immediate sale of Detroit to Canada. The sooner we can ship these crackpots off to a foreign country the better.
  • I will require the legislators to make all speeches in an Irish brogue and if they cannot, they will be required to sprint hither and thither.
  • I will appoint a new state-wide holiday and will designate it Play With Sharp Objects Day.
  • In order to retain their positions, all sitting judges will be required to pass a rigorous slalom course on unicycle, while wearing their robes.
  • All elected officials will be required to have humiliating nicknames, which I will choose.

And so, friendly voters, if you agree with my initiatives, write-in Craig Hart for governor. Vote early, vote often, and just remember, if the aardvark drinks a martini, it may be time to change your socks.

Sunday, October 22, 2006

Dave Barry

I am SURE that this is violating one of our stupid rules, but I can't help myself and won't try. This was so funny that I think we'll get above average mileage out of it. If I could be sure one of you wouldn't have called me a filthy quisling liar-plagiarist, I would have tried to, um...plagiarize it.

Piece by Brother Dave Barry


I argue very well. Ask any of my remaining friends. I can win an argument on any topic, against any opponent. People
know this and steer clear of me at parties. Often, as a sign of their great respect, they don't even invite me. You too
can win arguments. Simply follow these rules:

Drink Liquor.

Suppose you are at a party and some hotshot intellectual is expounding on the economy of Peru, a subject you know nothing about. If you're drinking some health-fanatic drink like grapefruit juice, you'll hang back, afraid to display your ignorance, while the hotshot enthralls your date. But if you drink several large martinis, you'll discover you have strong views about the Peruvian economy. You'll argue forcefully, offering searing insights and possibly upsetting furniture. People will be impressed. Somemay leave the room.

Make Things Up

Suppose, in the Peruvian economy argument, you are trying to prove that Peruvians are underpaid, a position you base solely on the fact that you are underpaid, and you'll be damned if you're going to let a bunch ofPeruvians be better off.
Don't say: "I think Peruvians are underpaid."
Say instead: "The average Peruvian's salary in 1981 dollars adjusted for the revised tax base is $1,452.81 per annum, which is $836.07 below the mean gross poverty level."
NOTE: Always make up exact figures. If an opponent asks you where you got your information, make that up too.
Say: "This information comes from Dr. Hovel T. Moon's study for the Buford Commission published on May 9,1982. Didn't you read it?" Say this in the same tone of voice you
would use to say, "You left your soiled underwear in my bathroom."

Use Meaningless But Weighty-Sounding Words and Phrases

Memorize this list:
• Let me put it this way
• In terms of
• Vis-a-vis
• Per se
• As it were
• Quo
• So to speak

You should also memorize someLatin abbreviations such as"Q.E.D.," "e.g." and "i.e."
These are all short for "I speak Latin,and you don't."

Here's how to use these words and phrases.

Suppose you want to say,"Peruvians would like to order appetizers more often, but they don't have enough money."
You never win arguments talking like that.
But you WILL win if you say,"Let me put it this way. In terms of appetizers vis-à-vis Peruvians quo Peruvians, they would like to order them more often, so to speak, but they do not have enough money per se, as it were. Q.E.D."
Only a fool would challenge that statement.

Use Snappy and IrrelevantComebacks

You need an arsenal of all purpose irrelevant phrases to fire back at your opponents when they make valid points. The best are:
• You're begging the question
• You're being defensive
• Don't compare apples to oranges
• What are your parameters?
The last one is especially valuable. Nobody (other than engineers and policy wonks) has the vaguest idea what"parameters" means. Here's how to use your comebacks:

You say: "As Abraham Lincoln said in 1873..." Your opponent says: "Lincoln died in 1865." You say: "You're begging the question."
You say: "Liberians, like mostAsians..." Your opponent says:"Liberia is in Africa." You say:"You're being defensive."

Compare Your Opponent to Adolf Hitler

This is your heavy artillery, for when your opponent is obviously right and you are spectacularly wrong. Bring Hitler up subtly.
Say, "That sounds suspiciously like something Adolf Hitler might say" or "You certainly do remind me of Adolf Hitler."

So that's it. You now know how to out-argue anybody. Do not try to pull any of this on people who generally carry weapons

Saturday, October 21, 2006

Psycho Tests

The classic DiSC test. Have you heard of it? This is a pretty simple, but effective management tool which poses a series of ideas which the testee ranks by the level of personal identification with one or more of them.

Something like this:

Please select ONE of the following which most describes you in a social situation--

a). Timid
b). Gregarious
c). Magnetic
d). Adolf Hitler
e). Pissed Off
f). Weary

You go through several dozen sets of these and then click a "Submit Test for Analysis" button. Your computer whirs and smokes a little (at least MY computer does--all the surgeon general warnings notwithstanding). After it comes back, this PDF version test results window comes up and you get to read all about your personality.

This is pretty cool since the classic DiSC test was written by an optimist. This guy thinks that there are no bad personalities, only bad questions.

For example, I recently tested myself and my entire team. We got together in my richly appointed conference room (you think I'm joking, but I'm not) and read portions of each other's tests out loud.

Even the people I was pretty sure would have a negative test actually came back looking like champions. Naturally, mine looked great, but that was no surprise.

Anyway, I got to thinking how funny it would be if someone created a test that would actually TELL THE TRUTH about some people.

The DiSC test stands for: D-dominant type; I-influencing type; S-stable type; C-conscientious type.

In the DiSC test, you have various combinations but one type that usually emerges as your primary type. I, for example, rated high on "D" but was predominantly an "I". That would be referred to as a "high I".

So anyway, what if you had one with an acronymn like:


Since I'm running short on time, I'll ask for your help to come up with what each of those categories mean :)

Wombat Invasion

With this clip, I would like to introduce a new form of stupidity that I am shamelessly unleashing upon the world...StupidBlogTV!

The Devil and Baseball

I’d like to clear the air here a bit at the Blog of Stupid. If you’re a regular reader of our comments (indulge in stupidity lately?) then you’ll be aware of the accusations of Satan worship leveled at me, your faithful helpful and pleasantly scented Blogger.

First, I’m going to go out on a limb and say that I’m reasonably intelligent. This is difficult, because I have to disagree with my brain. It’s always like, “Psst. FooDaddy. Um…You’re a bit on the lousy side,” and I’m all like “Hey, that’s not very nice,” and it’s all like “Neither is being such a poo,” and I’m like “Quit it. I’m trying to drive,” and it’s like “You forgot pants again, you bum,” and I’m like “Uh, that’s the style nowadays. It’s New Wave,” and it’s like “Stop saying ‘like’ all the time. Makes you sound like a cheerleader,” and I say “That’s it. I’m not giving you any more coffee and ice cream.”

And then it shuts up.

With that out of the way, would any moderately intelligent person consider Satan worthy of praise? Think back to any time in your life that you suffered at the hands of someone who was being a bastard just for the fun of it. Now imagine yourself singing nice songs to this person. See what I mean?

I have to admit, though, that it’d be funny to hear it.

Hymn for Satan Worshipers

(To the tune of “Our God is an Awesome God”)

Satan makes a crappy god
He is a schmuck from Hell below
Spreading malice hate and greed
He’s a crappy god

At the scene of a car accident: “Wow! Thank Satan you’re okay!”

Sneezing: “Satan bless you!”

Dinnertime: “Dear The Devil, thank you for this meal, and bless the one who prepared it…”

Bedtime: “Now I lay me down to bed; hope I don’t wake up dead. I’ve got myself to thank; if I make my soul yours to gank.

So yeah. I apologize to any devil worshipers who may be reading this (Nordby?) but your engine’s missing a couple pistons.

And now my take on baseball.

I’ve been to only a couple of baseball games in my life, and I left them all before they finished. The most exciting thing I remember happening at one is my mom getting hit right in the chest by a foul ball, and that really wasn’t any fun at all. Especially for her.

But what does stick in my mind is something I’m sure a lot of you have wondered. You notice this because, as The Girlfriend stated in one of her stupid indulgences (comments) these men wear tight, ballerina pants. Baseball players are conditioned athletes, rigorously coached to cooperate and play as a single unit…

So the question is why do so many of them seem to be cursed with rogue privates? You get the impression that if they didn’t keep a close hand on them, they’d wander all the way into the stands and frolic under the bleachers and eat people’s popcorn. This does not fit the definition of “rigorously coached”.

You have to admit, that’d make the games a bit more exciting. “What the heck is that? Holy crap! Step on it, quick! It’s trying to get my nachos!”

But then again, I’m not really into sports at all. I resent the idea that they’re somehow “manly” because, taking two “manly” sports, you’ve got football, which is men in tight pants jumping all over eachother, and professional wrestling, which is men with NO pants jumping all over eachother.

Now boxing. There’s a sport that has testosterone all over it. Couplea guys punching eachother until one of ‘em falls down.

Grunt! Makes y’wanna go out and steal food and drag some women back to your cave.

Friday, October 20, 2006

More Freakin' Baseball

There has been much talk on the Blog lately about the grand ol’ sport of baseball. I realize there are many people in America who love this game, possibly because it is so sedentary that it is not necessary for them to move during the course of it. And that’s just the players. The viewers of the game are absolutely motionless. In fact, there have been several confirmed instances of baseball fans being carted away for display as department store dummies and all the statues of Indians you used to see placed in front of cigar stores were actually dedicated baseball fans who mummified while waiting for the final inning. But, apart from these vague slurs and aspersions, I decided it would be wise (and extraordinarily funny) to write a post that truly exhibits the insanity of certain sports. Because baseball has been the chosen topic here, I’ll start with it.

(For a short history of this sport, please read
this early Blog post.)

Why this love for baseball? First off, I don’t know. But, since a lack of knowledge has never stopped me from offering an opinion, I’ll tell you anyway. Baseball is popular because it gives guys an excuse to spit and swear in the outfield. Seriously! Well, that and become insanely wealthy.

Baseball is structured in nine segments called innings. Why these segments are called “innings” is not known. The game is essentially played outside. And, to proceed to succeeding innings, there has to be a specified number of outs, usually three, unless you are playing against a really stupid team and then you can usually get away with one.

The game is played with a small, white sphere, called a baseball for obvious reasons, which is approximately one inch in diameter (one litre for you metric types). In spite of its innocent appearance, this ball is obviously an instrument of evil or simply talks with a lisp, because it receives no end of punishment. Men with hats and chewing tobacco throw it at 100 miles per hour (100 hectares for those farther to the north), beat it with large wooden clubs, smother it in scary leather gloves, and sometimes throw it at the ground when it does something they disapprove of, like dodging out of the way when a player attempts to shove it into the scary leather glove. Personally, I’m on the ball’s side, here. If a large man wearing, as The Girlfriend put it, tight-fitting pants with knee-high socks worn over them, lunged toward me with a leather bag-like object several times my size and attempted to stuff me inside, I have to say I would exercise great agility in fleeing his grasp.

Then we have what is called a pitcher. This is a man who stands on a little hill of very unsanitary dirt called a pitcher’s mound. Why is this called a “pitcher’s” mound? If it is indeed his mound, why cannot he take it home with him after the game? He could let it eat dinner with him and introduce it to his mom: “Mom, Mound. Mound, Mom.”

But I think the pitcher is misnamed anyway. I mean, if I was standing in the kitchen (unlikely, but let’s suppose) and my wife said, “Hey, pitch me that large spoon,” I would not think she meant I should attempt to impale her with the spoon by using it as a missile and hurtling it at her at 100 mph. No, I would assume she meant I should toss it to her using a gentle arcing motion. Not in baseball. There, pitching means Attack of the Death Sphere. It would be much safer for the batter if the pitcher simply hauled out a double-barreled shotgun and pulled both triggers simultaneously. Hey, if it works for certain high-level government officials, then I think a major-league sports player could pull it off.

Each team also has a coach. I don’t watch a lot of baseball, but one thing I did notice was that the coach would every now and then walk briskly onto the field in order to talk to the pitcher, who cleverly covered his mouth with a scary leather glove while speaking. Actually, the fact of the matter is that the coach does not go to talk to the pitcher. He gets up and moves around because he has to go to the bathroom, but doesn’t want to miss any of the game. Ha! A league secret is out. Look for my tell-all book, which will be appearing in bookstores everywhere, at least until the store management notices that I have replaced the latest Grisham thriller display with copies of “My Secret Life As An Undercover and Very Inconspicuous Wad of Tootie-Frootie Chewing Gum.”

Well, shucks, look at the time. I meant to give a quick rundown of each major sport, but baseball turned out to be so silly that I carried away. The others will just have to wait. Stay tuned, ladies and gents, we still have to get to lacrosse! And bloody knuckles!

Wednesday, October 18, 2006


I am going to say something so blindingly objectionable to the longsuffering Tigers fans that, even across the many miles to where I sit ensconced in safety and comfort, I tremble a little bit.

I HATE BASEBALL! It is a game only for the seriously bored and those who live in places like Michigan.

OUCH! Dang it! (That was my wife pulling a small hair on my leg out)

So, anyway, baseball. All these guys get together and play a very, very long game.

Football I get. The guys are huge. They crash into each other. They sweat alot. Mostly people get hurt and carted off in ambulances. And, they have scantily clad girls jumping around who seem very happy no matter what happens. (That's a big advantage of being questionably intelligent and beautiful--everything is wonderful and you don't even know why!).

the other nice thing about football is that it gets over with. You do some eliminations and stuff and then you have this huge game in January (that's the Superbowl, for you baseball types). One game. That's all.

Baseball guys have to play dozens of games just for the chance to play another seven games. At a certain point one of the teams just says, "Heck with it" and slumps off in boredom.

Another thing. In baseball, you hardly ever have any fights. You don't foul each other. Almost no drama.

Quite probably, baseball is the least exciting major sport--well, maybe with the exception of Major League Quilting.

Tuesday, October 17, 2006

W*rk. The Ultimate 4-letter Word.

I received some very disturbing news today. I was at work, just preparing to leave for the day, when FooDaddy came in for his shift. On time. Early, in fact. I was stunned, to say the least, but assumed this startling occurence was due to a faulty clock or some other innocuous explanation. It was not to be so.

"I've decided to become a productive member of society," FooDaddy announced, exhibiting an air of determination and mild grief.

"Well, then," I said, appalled, "this may be a good time to inform you that I can no longer be your friend."

He brightened. "Really? It would be that easy?"

"Yes, I'm afraid so. Your being productive would put me under a great deal of pressure."

I don't think he took my threat to de-friend him very seriously, though, because his mood was growing merrier by the moment. I tried to impress upon him the gravity of the situation by repeating my ultimatum.

"If you insist on becoming productive, we shall have to part ways. I have principles! A reputation!"

He responded by leaping into the air and clicking his heels together (not easy in sneakers), and then began working with an assiduousness that caused my already lethargic energy level to go AWOL. For those of you who lack a military background, AWOL stands for Absent Without Lemurs, a particularly serious offense on the battlefield where lemurs could make all the difference. (They're whizzes at operating heavy machinery.)

Since FooDaddy was obviously too interested in clowning around to understand the seriousness of the issue at hand, I decided his threat to become a productive human being must be only a witticism, meant to amuse and entertain. Ha! What a nut.

Thursday, October 12, 2006

The Ol' Swineskin

In the early days of ye olde Blog, I wrote a post about my dislike of baseball. I do, however, enjoy a little football. Especially the pocket-sized ones, so I can take them onto buses and into restaurants. I also love the game itself and so, exercising my right as a foundin’ member of the Blog, I have decided to post about that love right now.

Football began during the Spanish Inquisition, when one of the more popular pastimes included the cutting off of heathen feet. On any given weekday, and even more on Saturday, there would be dozens of variously attired feet rolling through the streets.

This practice caused no end of problems, not the least of which was the fact that the emergency rooms were full of people with bruises and cuts, caused by falling on the cobblestones after tripping in the dark over a carelessly placed foot. The history books record one such individual, Arch Fungus, whose case is typical. Arch was a heel, a real callused fellow, and it was widely-speculated that he had no sole. Ahem…sorry.

Anyway, Arch walked into a doctor’s office, demanding to see the physician on duty. When the doctor appeared and asked about the problem, Arch informed him it was a twisted ankle.

“Let’s see it,” the doctor said.

Reaching into his pocket, Arch pulled out a badly misshapen ankle and plopped it down on the examining table. “There,” he said. “I tripped over this last night and almost hurt myself. Something has to be done!”

Arch’s sentiment was repeated by the entire population and legislation was soon passed to stop the useless dismemberment. Since the heathen swine were not converting, the procedure itself couldn’t be terminated, so instead, the feet were put to good use. And this is when football made its first appearance.

At first, people just kicked the feet through the streets for fun, but soon teams were created, then leagues and divisions. You can see the pattern, can’t you? Now we have the National Football League, which entertains millions of people the world over, very few of whom know the real story behind their beloved game.

I have to admit that at first glance, the game seems utterly mindless. Here we have tons (literally) of huge, powerful guys charging around a field of fake grass, running into each other at full-tilt and attempting to kill the players of the opposing team. All over an oblong, inflated piece of leather. Actually, on second thought, this is an utterly mindless game. It’s also manly, but I wax redundant.

Last week, there was a game in which a punt returner grabbed the ball and began zipping down the field, breaking tackles and leaping over fallen comrades. He managed to flee down to the one yard line before a 500 pound linebacker, who had been lurking behind the goalpost, tackled him, leaving a punt returner-shaped hole in the turf, but no punt returner. Unable to find him, they dropped air fare down the hole and, sure enough, he was back within the week. He was none the worse for wear, except he now insists on eating everything with chopsticks, which is quite a feat when eating hamburgers and slices of pizza.

Being Nocturnal

I work nights. This has its ups and downs, just like petting cats, but less bitey. What ups and what downs, you might ask? Good question.

Does the ease of capturing spiffy nighttime shots like this cancel out the fact that nobody except deranged lawyers and certain breeds of frog are awake by the time I'm free? If I like frogs, and for the sake of this argument let's assume I do, then yes, the tradeoff is worth it. Granted, a lot of my friends go to bed at more or less "normal" or "reasonable" or "not stupid" hours so I shan't be able to share the frogs with them. Sounds poetic, does it not?

And lo, I am greatly saddened. Oh, but that there could be more hours in the day! I shan't be able to share of my frogs lest the celestial bodies see fit to slow their clockwork!

Yeah, that was worth the interruption. *cough*

So what I've got is frogs and lawyers, avoiding rush hour traffic on the way home (traffic of any kind, really), spiffy night vistas to take pictures of, and of course being witness to my cats going nuts in the dark. They do this every night, my cats. Must be a way of relieving tension they built up during the day and wish to release in secret. Most importantly though, I've also got the opportunity to become a Creepy Night Putz, (CNP) which is good or bad, depending on my veiwpoint.

For the sake of argument, let's assume I'd like it.

One advantage, for example, of being a CNP allows you to do away with "fashion", since (a) the number of people who would see and critique you is drastically reduced and (b) if you're wandering around a 24-hour grocery store at three in the morning, people aren't going to be terribly surprised to see you wearing, oh, say... How about I make you another list? Those seem to be popular on the Blog lately.

Appropriate Attire for the Creepy Night Putz:

  • Mismatched socks, worn over the shoes
  • A big fuzzy hat with earflaps and some tasteful boxer shorts
  • Any skirt over a pair of beige corduroy pants
  • A big poofy winter coat with squirrels in the pockets
  • Wooden earrings carved to look like congressmen
  • The lower half of a full-body cast and a bowtie
  • A white tuxedo with grass stains all over it
  • Chainmail pants and a Hawaiian shirt
Feel free to mix 'n' match from that list, time-wasters, to create your own unique look. A look that says to the cashier "I'm here to buy matches and decorative pillows at midnight, and then I'm going to go home and dance in my bathtub. And I've got a coupon for them pillows!" A look that demands respect.

After you've finished your shopping, you can spend some time lurking in the bushes outside the zoo, writing in your Blog, drawing on the sidewalk with chalk by moonlight (which impresses artistic lady-types) or going to Denny's and reading the menu aloud to yourself and chuckling pleasantly. The night is young, and there aren't a lot of people awake to stop you, so let your creativity run away with itself!

So yeah. There's that.

It takes a little bit of time to learn the skill of balancing a normal-ish life during the day with being a Creepy Night Putz, but it can be done.

I was planning to write up a list of disadvantages to being awake most of the night, but... I've got some important bushes to be in, and I can't find my fuzzy hat.

Tuesday, October 03, 2006

Just My Luck!

Luck, as a concept, has been around since the Middle Ages. Back on Wednesday of 1653, a candlemaker and author of humorous publications targeted at unfortunate-looking children, named Darius the Pleasantly Scented, developed luck. He published his findings with quill and ink and was subsequently taken to court and there defeated by the village jerk, Ernald the Whiny. On his way up to the gallows, Darius was heard to remark that the lousy turn of events was "just his luck". This was written down by the village Blogger, The Guy Who Enjoys Cheese Products, earning its place in history and our modern day language.

This is, of course, complete and utter dill puckery. If I was a more enterprising type, I'd have looked up the word, done some research on its etymology, and perhaps given the world of mythology a quick glance-through. But that sounds like work, and by definition, work is not "fun," and thus gives me gas. So I made some stuff up.

I'm sure by now you've noticed the picture. "What's that?" you've asked yourself out loud for some reason. The others in the library have given you the stink-eye. We at the Blog of Stupid suggest that you keep your stupid questions safely in the realm of the subsonic.

To continue: That is a genuine Lucky Golden Poo. Follow the link, time-wasters, and be presented with the chance to purchase your own! Just think! Your very own, very special, Lucky Golden Poo! On a little rope! That oughta put those lousy librarians in their place, once they see what you've got swinging from your beltloop, or around your neck, or from your nose ring. Or whatever.

This begs the question: Is it die-cast? How do the factory workers feel about using a poo die to make a living? Do they proudly announce this to their relatives? What are their Christmas cards like?

It also clearly illustrates the fact that different cultures define and try to attract luck in different ways. The Lucky Golden Poo is, of course, Japanese. They make nice electronics and reliable automobiles, so it just seems right that they'd think tiny metal poo sculptures are lucky. I guess.

Perhaps you, loyal time-waster, do not have a lucky object. Perhaps you'd like one? Well, for a limited time only (until this post gets scrolled out of view) I'm offering you a list of ways you can snag some luckiness using objects you can find, buy, make or steal all by yourself with only a little bit of time and minor damage to your intelligence.

  • Lucky Sack of Dried Up Spiders (from most basements)
  • Cat Hair Wad of Luck (got a long-haired cat and a brush?)
  • A necklace made from your favorite breakfast cereal and some itchy twine brings luck AND helps you feed the sparrows.
  • Lucky Bit of Linty Candy (stays in your pocket forever!)
  • Random Burnt-Out Automotive Light Bulb of Happiness (if you own a car, all you have to do is wait)
  • Wrap yourself in Christmas lights and tell your friends that you're the Lucky Glowing Spaceman of Glee, and they'll help pay for your treatment out of their own pockets.
  • Stop bathing, and develop Lucky Odors®. A big hit with the ladies, who won't be able to get enough of your sweaty love. Very popular with people who buy things from SPAM email.
  • Lucky Couch Quarters (their presence between the cushions will comfort you and buy you gumballs if you get desperate)
  • Old Running Shoe of Constant Companionship. I don't have an explanation for this one. It's just...yeah.
  • Lucky Piddle Patties, the clumpy catbox charms that keep the cruddies away!
  • Start a Blog of Luck, and post about all the good luck you've had. Remember to attribute any fortunate happenstance to the vibrations of your crystals (quartz, from your watch, for instance) or the local barometric pressure, or goat observations, or anything for that matter, as long as it's stupid enough.
  • Lucky Mummified French Fries. Keep them under your car seat for traditional musty luck in traffic.
  • And, of course, Lucky Bench Gum, available in any public park to those who have only to seek.
There ya go! Before you know it, you'll be the luckiest person on your block, and all thanks to the Internet. Bet you didn't think there was anything useful on the Internet, did you? Well, I managed to stumble across the Lucky Golden Poo, and all I was doing was looking at Web cartoons. The things you find in banner ads nowadays is simply amazing.

Guess I got lucky.

Friday, September 29, 2006


The elevator door opened and I started in, only to stop and step aside when I saw someone exiting. I smiled and nodded, as is my custom, but they did not return my silent salutation. I thought nothing of it and proceeded into the elevator.

When I stepped inside, I realized why the previous traveler had ignored me and also knew it was going to be a long trip to the second floor. The place reeked like a steamy night aboard a fish trawler. The odor was so strong that the varnish had been stripped from the wood interior and sections of the paneling were warping outward, dislodging screws and the remains of ancient spiders.

Glancing down at my arm, I was startled to observe the hair slowly turn a toxic shade of green. Just then, my nostrils closed and my lungs began to constrict. Assuming the fetal position, I dropped to the floor of the elevator in search of a single breath of oxygen.

I heard the “ding” of the floor indicator and rose to anxiously await the rush of fresh air that would accompany the opening of the doors. Open they did and I made a mad dash for freedom, only to pass a woman who was obviously on her way to a modeling session.

I glanced back as the elevator doors closed to see her fixing me with an expression probably reserved for phlegm and the residue found on boots after a hike through a dairy farm. I raised my hands with an attitude of innocence. Unwisely, she sniffed in disdain. And promptly passed out.

* * *

Has this ever happened to you, Blogsters? The preceding story is true, in a general, false sort of way, and it only cemented my aversion to elevators. There is always the danger of what I just mentioned (you already forgot?), but there are many other hazards of elevator travel. With this in mind, I thought it would be wise to go prepared the next time you have occasion to use one and found this list on the Innernet that might help toward that goal.

How to Annoy People on Elevators

  • Announce in a demonic voice: “I must find a more suitable host body.”
  • Ask each passenger getting on if you can push the button for them. Press the wrong ones.
  • Attempt to hypnotize the other passengers.
  • Bring a camera, take pictures of everybody in the elevator.
  • Bring a chair along.
  • Call out, “Group hug!” and enforce it.
  • Carry a blanket and clutch it protectively.
  • Challenge people to games of hide-and-seek.
  • Crack open your briefcase or purse, and while peering inside ask: “Got enough air in there?”
  • Draw a little square on the floor with chalk and announce to the other passengers that this is your “personal space.”
  • Drop a pen and wait until someone reaches to help pick it up, then scream, “That’s mine!”
  • Give each passenger a round of applause as they enter or leave.
  • Greet everyone getting on the elevator with a warm handshake and ask them to call you Admiral.
  • Guard the button panel so no one can touch it. Growl and bite at anyone’s fingers who attempt to cross you.
  • Hug yourself.
  • Hum the theme from Mission Impossible with your eyes darting around the elevator.
  • If anyone brushes against you, recoil and holler, "Bad touch!"
  • Introduce yourself as Ochenga-Wangaa the Great Chief and begin telling stories of your native island.
  • Lean over to another passenger and whisper: “Noogie patrol coming!”
  • Lick gummy bears and stick them to things (the walls, the buttons, the passengers, etc.)
  • Meow occasionally.
  • Offer a bite of your fresh tangerine to everyone coming on board.
  • Offer hitman services.
  • Perform the Hamlet soliloquy. When a new passenger enters, start over again.
  • Place police tape (CRIME SCENE DO NOT CROSS) on the inside of the doors.
  • Preach about the end of the world.
  • Push the buttons and pretend they give you a shock.
  • Read a book upside down.
  • Say "Ding!" at each floor.
  • Say, while holding a paper with OUT OF ORDER written on it, “I wonder why this was glued on the door when I came in.”
  • Scribble furiously on a notepad while looking at each passenger. When they try to look, hide the pad.
  • Stand really close to someone, sniffing them occasionally.
  • Stand silent and motionless in the corner, facing the wall, without getting off.
  • Stare at another passenger for a while, then announce “You’re one of THEM!” and move to the far corner of the elevator.
  • Stare at your thumb and say, "I think it's getting larger."
  • Stare, grinning, at another passenger for a while, and then announce “I’ve got new socks on!”
  • Tell the passengers not to worry. The bomb won't go off for at least another two minutes.
  • Try to purchase an article of clothing from the person next to you.
  • Walk in circles. Change directions when you hit a passenger.
  • Walk on with a cooler that says “human head” on the side.
  • Wave hands wildly at invisible flies buzzing around your head.
  • Wear a puppet on your hand and talk to other passengers "through" it.
  • Wear a ski mask and carry an axe.
  • When arriving at your floor, grunt and strain to yank the doors open, then act embarrassed when they open by themselves.
  • When the elevator doors close, announce to the others, “It’s okay, don’t panic, they’ll open again.”
  • When the elevator is silent, look around and ask, "Is that your beeper?"
  • When the elevator reaches another passenger’s floor, scream and collapse in front of the door.
  • When there’s only one other person on the elevator, tap them on the shoulder and pretend it wasn’t you.
  • While the doors are opening, hurriedly whisper, “hide it...quick!” then whistle innocently.
  • Whistle the first seven notes of “It’s a Small World” incessantly.