Monday, October 30, 2006
Saturday, October 28, 2006
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
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't....reach...the....remote....or...the....beer
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
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
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
Piece by Brother Dave Barry
HOW TO ARGUE EFFECTIVELY – 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:
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
• Per se
• As it were
• 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
Something like this:
Please select ONE of the following which most describes you in a social situation--
d). Adolf Hitler
e). Pissed Off
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 :)
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
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.)
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 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
"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
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.
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
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
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.
Guess I got lucky.