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

http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-89770458144460734&pr=goog-sl

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.

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.

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?

Nobody?

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 generally...cheap. 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 wikipedia.org

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.

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.

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.”

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.

Sincerely,
Me.

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.

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.”

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!