My minion army nears completion.
I’m going to need about 37 of these if I am to have any sort of decent minion army to do my bidding.
The catch is that if I saw them coming toward me, I am not sure if I would shit my pants first then die of fright, or if that would happen simultaneously.
BTW, the key to making an escape from them appears to be ice (1:45).
(HT to the lovely CQ for this!)
The Eighties were even better in Europe.
It’s true. Every shoulder pad was larger, every pair of Peter Pan boots was pointier. Everything the early Eighties had going on was in the glint of this band’s eye:
Feel our velvet sheets.
Don’t believe me? Here’s proof:
Read MoreYour fat face is the least of your concerns.
Oh hey, Japan…what’s new?
Calm down mother, it turns out this is a face slimming exercise device.
And with that, my jokes about “the arrows are going the wrong way” and I will take our leave.
Read MoreA funny thing happened on my way to the office.
MOM, STOP READING THIS POST NOW. You are not going to find it funny and my sister may not be available to take your ”She’s so smart. Why does she have to write things like that?!” call.
In years gone by, my beloved old dog Rudy and I would make a 20 minute walk to my office. Every day on this walk, we would cross the Halifax Commons. Made up primarily of sports fields and paths that lead from the downtown-bar direction to the residential areas, I would have to be vigilant about Rudy getting stuck into leftover food that had been dropped by a late night traveller. Rudy was a raw-fed dog and I didn’t think of food in terms of “for humans” or “for dogs” generally, but cooked chicken bones of the leftover-KFC variety can splinter and do some real damage in the gut. They also seemed to be the late night item of choice if you plan to hurl food on the ground.
If you’ve ever had a dog, you’ll know how fast and stealthy they are about gulping down found food items. The Controller of the Meals did not hand this out, and the fact that the dog discovered it independently probably sets off some ancient bell in its brain that makes the food taste that much better. (None of that really explains the propensity of breeds like Labrador Retrievers to eat socks and the like, but that’s over-breeding for you.)
On the day in question, I spotted Rudy over by a bleacher, sniffing at something in a manner that can only be described as mighty tentatively which led me to assume it was not food. He also showed no signs of throwing himself on it and rolling about, which ruled out a carcass of some sort. Curiosity piqued, I strolled over to see what was so interesting. My life was never the same.
Lying on the ground, near a bleacher but no where near a garbage can, was a stick of pepperoni. Thicker than a Slim Jim but thinner than a hunk of kielbasa, it was about 7 inches. Why was my dog not happily chomping up his discovery? Could it be the soggy, decrepit looking condom that was enveloping about 3/4 of the pepperoni’s body?
I take you back to the girth of the pepperoni… it was not sufficient, to my mind, for anything other than what nature intended it as: a delightful snack. Its thickness to length ratio not enough to withstand any activity THAT MIGHT REQUIRE A CONDOM.
I stood there for a moment, as my brain puzzled this, until my dog – who had no intention of tangling with that thing on the ground – gently led me away from the area. By the time I arrived at the office, my mind was reeling with possibilities, all of which I outlined with S and L (who had a disturbing enthusiasm for the topic, frankly). In the end it was decided that lack of girth notwithstanding, a condom would provide reasonable protection from the spicy nature of the meat product when enrobed in, um, delicate human tissues. Which all depends on whether or not the pepperoni was of the Hot Hot variety, information I could not supply.
What about photographic evidence, you say? These were simpler times and I did not possess a camera phone, so I have scoured the internet for a reasonable facsimile. Here it is.
(source: www.stevenhumor.com)
The Commons Pepperoni did not have legs, arms, a body, head, smoke, toque or pom-poms, but its central member bears great resemblance to what I saw that day.
Only now I have visions of it chasing me down the street, pom-poms bouncing in the wind.
Read More
Bring me your pity! And the wookie, too.
I am currently in the midst of a bout of torticollis. I realize that half of you are now picturing me with a large turtle shell growing on my back. Ha ha yes, lovely, the colour really brings out my eyes. I’d doodle that for you, were I able to move a little more.
Torticollis is a stiff neck – in fact its other, less known, colloquial name is wryneck. I shit you not. It generally lasts for just a few days in its most painful incarnation, and requires lots of muscle relaxants and sleep. Actually, the muscle relaxants require the sleep. Lovely, lovely muscle relaxants. In the long term, exercise and less time at a computer are helpful. You see my conundrum.
Anyway, typing while lying flat on your back has its limits, so for your amusement I present to you the time that I attempted to use my stiff neck to have my mother incarcerated. When I was four.
Read MoreWry & Ginger cards & notes
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