Anyone Seen The Keys To The Trophy Case?


You know how it goes; the Academy of Motion Pictures names its Oscar contenders, and you look over at your husband/wife/life-mate/favorite cat and shrug.  Neither one of you has even heard of these flicks, let alone ever considered going to see one.  If the Oscar nominees aren’t obscure enough, take a look at who’s nominated for Pulitzer Prizes – then you can really feel out-of-touch.

Mr. Parker: It's a Major Award! Swede: Shucks, I wouldn't know that. It looks like a lamp. Mr. Parker: What is a lamp, you nincompoop? It's a Major Award. I won it! Swede: Damn, hell, you say won it? Mr. Parker: Yeah, mind power, Swede; mind power.  (Image and dialogue from Jean Shepherd's "A Christmas Story")

(Image from Jean Shepherd’s “A Christmas Story”)

That’s all going to change right now.  Your days of being out of the loop as to who’s in and who’s out are officially over.  The winner of The Green Study’s “What’s on the B side of that 45?” contest is someone you’ve actually heard of.   That’s right, it’s yours truly.  My opus on middle age was so witty yet so poignant, so terse yet so wordy, so scratchy yet so smooth, that Michelle at The Green Study crowned it the winner.*

So now, just in time for the holiday cocktail party season, you’ll be able to confidently hold court and brag to friends and neighbors about your having been a long time reader, long before I was discovered by the masses.  Let’s face it, you’ll already look like something of a brainiac just for reading anything at all.  Being a loyal fan who knew my body of work** before I hit the big time will surely catapult you into the ranks of some sort of über-genius who borders on being an intellectual snob.

"I say, old man, I believe I've lost my favourite smoking jacket is at the tailor's shoppe.  Be a sport and toddle down to the wardrobe department and fetch me a new one, won't you?  Also, I'm simply parched, would you mind bringing me a glass of port as well?  Jolly good of you!" (Image from

1 Point Perspective didn’t write a single one of the classic novels which sit beneath my wrinkled left hand.  That being said, many of his blog posts are considerably longer and more complex than Kim Kardashian’s latest Tweet.
(Image from

If you’re like me, it’s not likely that you have much experience at looking like someone who’s “in the know” at holiday gatherings (or office meetings for that matter – pay attention Jenkins, and stop dawdling with your damn phone!).  With this in mind, I’ve come up with a few segues for you to drop into conversations about various topics.  You’re quite welcome.

“You know, I’d heard good things about that hunky trainer over at the gym.  My personal trainer is 1 Point Perspective.  You’ve probably heard of him, he’s an award winning blogger who wrote an epic treatise on exercise which is how I keep my upper arm fat just prominent enough to cover some of my back fat”

“Speaking of politicians, you simply have to reader 1PP’s exclusive interview with Anthony Weiner’s penis!  That little dick won’t shut up.  Plus, One Point’s illustration is quite tasteful, in a NSFW sort of way”

“Oh sure, ‘The Walking Dead’ is entertaining to a point, but it’s in hiatus – again!  I get my zombie fix over at 1PP’s Holiday Greetings from the Zombie Apocalypse.  Ho Ho Ho-ly crap!  The undead really make for some zany holiday hi-jinx!”

How exactly you’re supposed to fit links to blog posts into polite conversation is something you’ll have to figure out on your own.  I shouldn’t have to do everything for you people.  Take some initiative ferchrissakes!

In the meantime, I’m going to keep looking for the keys to the trophy case, I’ve got a new coffee mug coming and I’ll need to make space for it among the rest of my award swag.

Good luck at your holiday parties, if you’re going to be dropping my name when you visit The Green Study, try not to drink too much and end up making an ass of yourself.  I’m trying to build a brand here.

*Michelle has since revealed that during the contest judging she was battling a particularly nasty strain of flu-bug and may or may not have inadvertently over-medicated herself and/or suffered periods of delusion.  I took a quick look at the judging criteria and it clearly states that all decisions are final – no backsies.
** To be completely honest, my “body of work” includes interviews with The Easter Bunny, an infamous penis, and multiple essays on the human condition – most specifically, my frequent attempts at avoiding cleaning up dog dookie from the yard and generally whining about Facebook.

Stick This Holiday With A Fork – It’s Done

Once upon a time, we had a perfectly good holiday.  It was steeped in tradition, as holidays tend to be.  It was non-denominational and based upon the universal notion of pausing to take stock of how much each of us has to be thankful for.   How could it possibly be ruined?

I’m not talking about the Thanksgiving when Aunt Glenda drank too much wine and subsequently wet herself.  Nor am I referring to when Jimmy Jr. and Cousin Earl stirred things up over at the kid’s table when they staged an epic farting contest.  Those events are called “memories” people, and given enough time, they can become ones we cherish (though Glenda may not fully agree).

One sure way to ruin a holiday is to let time-honored traditions be replaced by new things, which may or may not turn out to be tradition worthy.  Here are just a few ways that folks have managed to make hash out of our beloved turkey day:

Tradition: Cook an elaborate meal, centered around a sizable turkey, which fills the entire house with a its intoxicating aroma while roasting for hours and hours.

Replaced With: Deep fry the turkey out in the driveway, investing as little time as possible.

Result: Congratulations on taking the turkey cooking chore away from Mom so she’s free to bend the elbow with her sister Glenda.  In doing so, you’ve unwittingly pinned the responsibility of turkey cookery on Uncle Phil, who is also known as “Nagasaki Phil” for what he’s done to various cuts of beef at 4th of July barbeques.  The timeless aromas of roasting turkey have been replaced by the scent of several gallons of heated oil intermingled with a hint of gasoline from the lawn mower which sits adjacent to the propane tank by the shed.  As an added entertainment bonus, there’s a chance Uncle Phil will live up to his nickname and light the dog on fire.

meme from the net, where humor goes to die

meme from the net, where humor goes to die

Tradition: Taking time off to reflect on what we’re thankful for.

Replaced With: Squandering precious vacation hours on rampant consumerism.

Result: For many, Thanksgiving has already become nothing but the day before Black Friday, wherein we immediately discard being thankful for what we have and focus instead, on what we want.  Since Black Friday can’t come soon enough, America’s heartless retailers have started having stores open on Thanksgiving itself for even deeper discounts.  It’s only a matter of time before even deep fried turkey and instant mashed potatoes will not be quick enough for the schedules of bargain crazed shoppers – precipitating the change over to Wendy’s Turkey Gobbler Wrap with a side of fries.  At this rate, Halloween will eventually become the start of the Christmas shopping season with Thanksgiving being demoted to the unofficial midpoint of gift buying frenzy.

If your bank account looks like this, you need to stop watching the Cowboys get their asses kicked and go do some shopping!  Rumor has it Romo jerseys are going for bargain prices.  (Image from picsbox dot biz)

If your bank account looks like this, you need to stop watching the Cowboys get their asses kicked and go do some shopping! Rumor has it Romo jerseys are going for bargain prices even before December this year . (Image from picsbox dot biz)

Tradition: Scores of special side dishes are made and brought by family members from far and wide to accompany the turkey.  Oftentimes, these rare culinary gems are only seen on Thanksgiving, due to the closely guarded nature of secret family recipes and the labor intensive realities of making Grandma’s famous creamed onion and mashed rutabaga casserole from scratch.

Replaced With: Increasingly simple and/or instant dishes which require little more than adding the right amount of water and knowing how to use a microwave.

Result: It stands to reason that if you’re going to deep fry a 22 pound turkey in 13 minutes, you can’t spend hours and hours in the kitchen screwing around with the sides.  Besides, gourmands agree that the taste of deep fried meat is best complimented by instant mashed potatoes, Stove Top Stuffing, Pillsbury dinner rolls and of course, a freshly opened can of cranberry sauce.

Your guests won't believe that it's instant!  It'll be our secret!  (Image from 313merch dot com)

It’s a sure sign that Aunt Glenda’s had way too many white zinfandels when she starts huffing the jar of Instant Shit. (Image from 313merch dot com)

Tradition:  Rivalry football games.  In the halcyon days of my youth, the football teams of neighboring towns would meet every Turkey Day for bragging rights.  Win or lose, we’d return home to the smells of roasting turkey and Grandpa’s White Owl cigar smoldering in the ashtray.  Later, a couple of teams from the NFL or college ranks would square off on the TV.

Replaced With: The NFL has totally taken over Thanksgiving football.  There may still be some other games played, but you’d never know it.  The Lions play someone each year, then the Cowboys play someone else.  This year, San Francisco played yet another game after the other two contests were over.

Result: Now that the NFL has cornered the market on televised sports for this holiday, their focus has shifted to covering even more time zones to create constant grid iron action.  They’re trying hard to land a team in London, and rumor has it they have plans for franchising teams in Hawaii and on a special floating stadium in the north Atlantic.  Let’s hear it for the Fightin’ Cod!



You can't watch these warriors on Thanksgiving because A. They aren't in the NFL and B. They are presumably busy that day, making green bean casserole. (Image from football dot wonderhowto dot com)

You can’t watch these warriors on Thanksgiving because A. They aren’t in the NFL and B. They are presumably busy that day, making green bean casserole. (Image from football dot wonderhowto dot com)

Tradition: The kiddie table

Replaced With: The phasing out of the kiddie table due to hovering parents who can’t stand the thought of their kids being alone.  Surely there have been kiddie table lawsuits filed claiming discrimination and/or forced segregation as well.

Result: Letting the kids sit at the table with the grown ups inhibits parents from spending the entire meal talking about this year’s strategy for Christmas gift shopping once they’ve finished speed-eating.  This will also give parents insight into what a mediocre job they’ve done teaching the young ones table manners.  Honestly, when Little Brittany bit into that Turkey Wrap without holding her pinkies out, I could have just died.

There's cousin Earl making his "He who smelt it dealt it" face.  The little rascal!  (Image from 999thepoint dot com)

There’s Cousin Earl making his “He who smelt it dealt it” face. You can tell from Jimmy Jr.’s reaction in the background that having whiffed Earl’s air biscuit, he knows he’s finished a disappointing second again this year. Brittany must be upwind of the action.  (Image from 999thepoint dot com)

I’d like to go on at greater length about this sad topic, but the time is already running out for my whining about the ruination of Christmas.  I hope I didn’t give you indigestion.


Right In The Old Bread Basket

I’m no stranger to the dinner table.  In fact, I’ve got over five decades of anecdotes of my over-eating.  There’s the time I gobbled so much food at my grandmother’s Thanksgiving table that I fell asleep with my face in the plate.  Were it not for the tryptophan, I might have eaten myself to death that fateful turkey day.  In college, the local Mexican joint suffered mightily during my attendance at their all-you-can eat taco night.  The same thing went for the place in Colorado with the all-you-can-eat steak dinners.  A note on that last one, swimming isn’t the only thing you should avoid doing immediately after eating; driving a truck loaded with all your possessions in the dark of night while the majority of your blood flow is busy trying to digest the better part of a cow is also to be avoided.

Given my rich history of gluttony, I couldn’t help but be impressed with the recent news story of the woman who was found by customs inspectors in the Dominican Republic to be smuggling seventy thousand dollars in her stomach.  She had another sixty-nine thousand found hidden in her suitcase.  I’m guessing they found the suitcase loot first, and then noticed her bloated belly.  Typically, airline passengers have a tough time filling up too much on the palm sized portions of pretzels they give out these days.  Even if she bought one of the sixteen buck turkey sandwiches and washed it down with with a couple of splits of champagne, her tummy would still have appeared relatively normal.

Of course the news outlet which carried the story helped to make it all the more amazing by using an illustration featuring a file photo of stacks of crisp hundreds bound with red rubber bands.  The size of a stack of hundreds is rather substantial when juxtaposed with the opening  of a standard pie hole.  I whipped out several number two pencils and some scratch paper and did a little math.  After a half hour of cyphering, I can say with a degree of confidence that she would have had to swallow seven hundred of those c-notes to come up to the total listed in the story.

I'd think the corners of those stacks would be especially tough to swallow.  Not to mention the fact that money is dirty, any one of those bills could have been touched by a politician.  (Image from picsbox dot biz)

I’d think the corners of those stacks would be especially tough to swallow. Not to mention the fact that money is dirty, many one of those bills could have been touched by politicians. (Image from picsbox dot biz)

I didn’t have a hundred dollar bill laying around, but if memory serves, they’re pretty much the same size as a twenty, which I did (miraculously) have handy.  I folded it as small and tight as I could, then took a pic of it next to one my allergy pills.  Since these pills have no effect whatsoever on the molds, stink bug droppings and various other things which make autumn as fun as spring for me, it’s nice to finally have a use for them.

Since snapping this pic, I've squandered the twenty smackers on a cup of coffee and a handful of magic beans.  My wife scolded me about the beans and threw them out the window.  On an unrelated note, it occurs to me that swallowing a human thumb would be even more difficult than a rolled up bill.

Since snapping this pic, I’ve squandered the twenty smackers on a cup of coffee and a handful of magic beans. My wife scolded me about the beans and threw them out the window. On an unrelated note, it occurs to me that swallowing a human thumb would be even more difficult than a rolled up bill – hats off to you cannibals!

I suppose that someone will point out that she could have gulped down a mere seventy one-thousand dollar bills or the tiny paper currency of the island nation of Tonga* to minimize the gut bulk.  Even so, seventy thousand clams adds up to a whole lot of swallowing.  Perhaps she dipped them in butter or possibly apple sauce to help get them down.

I’m no expert in human physiology, but the “harvesting” of the cash poses a few lovely options.  Perhaps her colleagues had planned on an ipecac syrup cocktail and a few reruns of “Here Comes Honey Boo Boo” with a well placed bucket.  Another choice would have been the colonoscopy prep approach, which would have run the risk of partially digested c-notes and a new high bar setting for the term “dirty money”.  Lastly, there was the possibility of some motel room surgery, which is usually performed for more cosmetic purposes, such as silicone-caulk buttock enhancement.

I looked for photos of actual squatters, but felt the ones I found were demeaning.  This woman chose to dress this way to perform squats, and as such, she demeans only herself.  By the way, honey, love the shoes!  (Image from thegreatfitnessexperiment dot com)

If motel surgery was really an option, then the smugglers might have considered hiding the “wampum in dee bumbum” in the first place.  Though eagle-eyed customs inspectors who are twerking aficionados might spot tell-tale cash-stack lumps amid the curvy splendor of the booty.   (Image from thegreatfitnessexperiment dot com and/or dudelol dot com)


Irrespective of how the money was to be rescued from this woman’s digestive system, swallowing that much money is pretty impressive  If I have more than five bills in my wallet, my sitting posture gets all catty-wampus and I end up having to spend that cash on chiropractic adjustments.  How ironic is that?  I recently took a short flight to Florida and spent the entire two hours squirming around like a meth addict with ADHD.  Every time the seat belt light came on, I surrendered any fleeting hopes of comfort.  I can’t help but wonder how anyone could sit in one of those seats with seventy large in their breadbasket.  Maybe on the way to the airport, she decided to treat herself and burped up enough cash to upgrade to first class.

* A quick Google search revealed that the people of Tonga do not actually use paper money at all, and in fact used to pay for everything with plastic.  Sadly, the huge amount of plastic which washes ashore there on a daily basis nearly ruined their fragile economy.  They have addressed the problem by changing their monetary system back to the original forms of currency which consisted of puka shells and human teeth.  An online calculator estimated that seventy thousand US dollars would convert to roughly 1237 pounds of shells and enough bicuspids to outfit every player in the NHL with a flawless smile.

Popular TV Episodes Summarized For Your Convenience

First of all, you’re welcome.  I had to do my monthly duty over at the Nudge Wink Report, so I thought I’d summarize the latest goings on of a few popular TV shows instead of coming up with some sort of intelligent topic to write about.  Don’t worry about spoilers though, as I’m actually a week or so behind.  If you’re further behind than that, you need to buck up and take your TV viewing a little more seriously and stop wasting time with more meaningful pursuits, like earning a living, raising children or volunteering at the local ebola clinic.  Since I know that many of you are visual learners, here’s a photo for you:

I found this and figured someday it would be a great illustration for a post, then I saw something shiny and forgot all about it.  Feel free to be disturbed.  (Image from wincountry dot com)

I found this and figured someday it would be a great illustration for a post, then I saw something shiny and forgot all about it. Feel free to be disturbed. (Image from wincountry dot com)

Feel free to thank me later.  You can click on the Nudge Wink link above, or here to jump over there and see my incredibly shallow summary of a few popular shows, which you may or may not watch.

No Thinning This Herd


It’s my time of the month over at The Nudge Wink Report. Even though I can’t manage to write anything on my own blog, I try to appease my boss over at NWR, because, you know, she’s my boss and all. Let’s all wish her a speedy recovery from the headaches I give her.

Originally posted on The Nudge Wink Report:

Image from the author's personal empty tequila bottle

Image from the author’s personal empty tequila bottle

In a recent FTC ruling, people who bought caffeine-infused under-garments in hopes of losing weight will soon be getting their money back.  It seems that two different companies sold these jittery Jockey shorts and bilked people out of a million bucks or so.  Much to the disappointment of these shoppers, wearing tightey-whiteys with more buzz in them than a case of Jolt Cola won’t actually melt the pounds away.

The legal community would have us believe that this action has identified the wrong doers and punished them.  The innocent victims of the greedy scams will be reimbursed and everything will once again be right with the world.  What they don’t tell us is that with an extra fifty bucks squeezed back into their tight pants pockets, these folks are free to buy a case of Hostess Ho Ho’s, a couple…

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Strange Days In Pomerania

Things have been busy around here, and my sporadic contributions to the blog community have reflected it.  Despite having a number of demanding issues on my over-flowing plate, the stars have aligned and sent me a sign that it’s time to re-enter the collective consciousness of all seven of my faithful readers.  For the detail oriented among you, the specific stars to which I’m referring are located in the Galaxy Pomerania.

Ancient Greeks first named the Galaxy Pomerania.  They assigned the stars to the deity Fluff Yapper.  (Image from the creative hands of this very author)

Ancient Greeks first identified the Galaxy Pomerania. They assigned the stars to the deity Phlufficus Yappyus. (Image from the creative hands of this very author)

A man in Redding, California allegedly dog-napped his ex-girlfriend’s Pomeranian “Bear”.  The couple had broken up, but during a brief reconciliation, he made her dinner.  Following the meal, he sent her text messages asking how she enjoyed eating her dog.  He thought the BBQ sauce and Hawaiian buns worked especially well with the dog meat.  Personally, I’ve always felt Hawaiian buns would only taste delicious if you had the good fortune to be eating them in Maui.  Then again, I’ve never had one topped with a steaming helping of “Pulled Pomeranian” slathered in a Memphis-style sauce, so I’ll try to keep an open mind.

Meanwhile, in another part of California, a young lady named Paris Hilton paid $13,000 dollars for a “dog”.  The dog in this case was a miniature Pomeranian which weighs in at a mere 11 ounces or so.  Apparently, Ms. Hilton apparently prefers her pocketbook pups to be considerably smaller than the burgers from Carl’s Jr. which she shills on TV.  Math whizzes will point out that the dog ended up costing Ms. Hilton more than four times what she would have shelled out for an equal weight of Beluga caviar.

Paris, in what might be perceived as a blatant attempt at boosting her Klout rating, has enlisted her legions of fans to help her name the little ball of fluff, which was originally named “Mr. Amazing”.  It’s going to be tough for those scores of 14 year olds to come up with a handle better than that, but I’m sure they’ll try.  When choosing between naming a  celebrity’s pooch or studying for some dumb geography quiz, Ohioteenchik@Twitter put it best when she posted “#No Contest!”.  Experts agree that Paris is unlikely to rename her latest handbag hound “No Contest”, but it was a nice try nonetheless.

There is no evidence to support the possibility that Carl's Jr is considering serving Barbequed bowsers or even Hawaiian style buns. (Cut and paste digital collage handiwork by the author)

There is no evidence to support the possibility that Carl’s Jr. is considering serving barbequed bow wows or even Hawaiian style buns. On a side note, I’m appalled that a young woman of Paris’ breeding would eat without holding her pinky properly outstretched.  Clearly she’s been spending too much time with the common rabble! (Cut and paste digital collage self-expression by the author)

When faced with stories regarding spoiled jet-setters, small, yappy dogs and deceitful culinary practices, I find myself becoming a tad philosophical.  For instance, fate brings two Pomeranians into the world, one to a soon-to-be-wealthier breeder, the other to a loving owner with incredibly bad taste in boyfriends.  One dog has fairly simple goals in life; stay away from the new boyfriend and try to look tough (as in chewy and packed with gristle).  The other Pomeranian, while decidedly better off, has a more complicated existence.  He has to look cuter than the Chihuahua (which is admittedly pretty easy), to stay quiet when Mommy’s on the cell, avoid excessive eye boogers, and most importantly, don’t ever, ever shit in a Louis Vuitton bag.

On a speculative note, I wonder whether the wannabe chef boyfriend will eventually try to rekindle things with his lady friend (assuming a condition of his eventual parole doesn’t require him to stay at least 500 feet away from her and any of her pets).  The diehard romantic in me can’t help but imagine there’s still a spark there, that these kids still have a chance at true love.  Like any guy though, he’ll have to deal with a woman’s uncanny ability to remember even the smallest past transgression.

Cmon Baby, you're not still sore about the dog are you?!  By the way, that Teddy Bear looks pretty tender.  (Image from telegrafi dot com)

Cmon Baby, you’re not still sore about the dog are you?!  By the way, that Teddy Bear still looks pretty rare. (Image from telegrafi dot com)

I was slightly disappointed that these two stories hadn’t been about a more comically named breed.  Unfortunately, there’s just no way that even Paris Hilton would pay five figures for a labradoodle, though the thought of her trying to lug a 60 pound drooling, love-bug around in a designer bag does create a fun mental image.  As for the culinary aspect, an exhausting web search didn’t yield any recipes which specified a particular breed, so we can assume that only those with the most discriminating palates could tell the difference between a chicken-fried Chow Chow and a blackened Barkless Basenji.



Out of the Closet And Up Against A Jumbo Package

In a recent chapter of the gay-guy-playing-pro-football saga, an online article actually supplied me with so much material to write about, I barely knew where to start.

First, ex-football coach and Skeletor look-alike Tony Dungy said he would not have drafted Michael Sam, the NFL’s first openly gay player.  Dungy said that he would not have wanted to have to deal with the complexities which Sam’s impeccably stylish, matching personal baggage might contain.  I haven’t spoken with Mr. Dungy personally, but I think I understand his logic.  Also, he didn’t actually talk about Mr. Sam’s luggage, that was just me using a cute metaphor.

He doesn't look too much like Dungy in this pic and in an ironic twist, Skeletor looks kind of effeminate here.  (Image from Cracked dot com)

He doesn’t look too much like Dungy in this pic.  In an ironic twist, Skeletor looks kind of fem in his signature lavender tights…and girlfriend, those nails! (Image from Cracked dot com)

The NFL is a tough place to do business, and potential players are put under intense scrutiny.  Teams want to avoid drafting anyone whose off-field behavior might sully the league’s reputation or distract fellow players from remembering blocking assignments and locker combinations.  Sports psychology experts will tell you that all it takes is one accused murderer, wife beater, dog fighter or date-rapist to disrupt the delicate balance of locker room morale.  Drafting a guy who already “plays for the other team” is just asking for trouble.

It appeared during the draft that many of the NFL’s talent scouts may have agreed with Dungy’s assessment of Michael Sam.  After all, it’s one thing to have pink accessories to show support for breast cancer awareness (and then donate pennies to the actual cause), but damn it man, the NFL doesn’t need players to start pushing for rainbows too!  You let gay men into the league and the next thing you know they’ll be having “Say Yes To The Dress” marathons on the jumbo-tron!

Boobies – 7  Judy Garland worship – 3

Oh hell no girl!  It's gonna take more than some pink ribbons to fix that dress.  Get your ass back in the limo!  (Image from xoxobook dot com)

Oh hell no girl! It’s gonna take more than some pink ribbons and wrist bands to fix that look!  (Image from xoxobook dot com)

Dungy’s quote did not get past sports commentator and arbiter of all-things politically correct Keith Olbermann, who promptly labelled  him “The Worst Person in the World“.  I’m not a close follower of Mr. Olbermann.  I’m hoping that he names a new worst person in the world every week or two and this is not a one-time thing.  While Dungy’s comment could certainly be construed as prejudicial, it’s hard to imagine that he beats out Adolf Hitler, Charles Manson or Donald Rumsfeld, just for uttering a few words.  In Olbermann’s defense, if he just labelled Dungy a jerk, he wouldn’t have likely gotten much mileage out of it.

If you let zee homos into zee league, zoon zee schwartzas vill follow, und before vee know it, zee Juden vill own zee teams und have access to zee zuperboxes und bunkers" (Image from dot net)

“If you let zee homos into zee league, zoon zee schwartzas vill follow, und before vee know it, zee Juden vill own zee teams mit access to zee zuperboxes und bunkers” (Image from taringa dot net)


Next in line was Tim Wildmon, the CEO of the American Family Association.  Wildmon discussed the PC media’s fervor over Dungy’s remark.  In addition, Wildmon volunteered that having spent quite a bit of time in locker rooms as a sports reporter himself, he felt that surrounding Michael Sam with all that naked “beefcake” was unfair to the players (Insert cheap “illegal contact”, “holding” or “too many men on the field” penalty joke here).  I’m reserving my opinion on anything else Wildmon wrote, and just taking some perverse thrill in his use of the term “beefcake” in discussing naked manly men.


Brutus the Barber Beefcake.  Honey, those stripes are just not working...and those tights!?  You need a make-over!  First, let's put some shoulder pads on you.  (Image from cakechooser dot com)

Honey, those stripes are just not working…and those tights!? You need a make-over! First, let’s put a jock strap and some shoulder pads on you. We’ll finish the look with a snazzy visor! (Image of Brutus The Barber Beefcake from cakechooser dot com)

As the keeper of my own blog, I’m entitled to give my two cents on this whole issue.  The thought of a gay man being anywhere around the hallowed ground of America’s most prized gladiators is simply too much for many of us to wrap our narrow minds around.  Clearly doing elaborate celebratory dances while wearing tight, colorful pants and eye make-up is no place for some kind of Nancy-boy.  If openly homosexual men are able to infiltrate the league, it’s only a matter of time before the F in NFL will stand for “Flaming”.  Players will start patting one another on the backside, displaying fancy footwork, wearing knee socks and gathering in “huddles” to talk about their plans.

Tony Dungy didn’t really elaborate on the risks of hiring a gay guy to do a straight man’s job.  Had he done so, he might have pondered how on earth anyone could expect a homosexual to use a spin move on a tight end while trying to get his hands on the ball.  In any case, the deed is done, and Sam is here to stay, at least for now.  It’s only a matter of time before homosexual men start showing up in other sports like figure skating and drag racing.  At least purists of heterosexuality in professional athletics can take comfort in the lack of any lesbians in women’s sports.








You’d Better Have A Good Excuse!


Time flies when your deadline approaches! Luckily, people can be counted upon to do stupid things and give me something to scribble about. Make sure you eat your vegetables and try not poke your eye out!

Originally posted on The Nudge Wink Report:

A 68 year old man named Ronald Avers in East St. Louis, Illinois, has been accused of sticking sewing needles into packages of meat at a local supermarket.  There’s absolutely no plausible reason for doing something so awful.  No excuse could possibly make this alright.  When questioned by the FBI, Mr. Avers said he did it “just for the hell of it“.  Just for the hell of it?!  That’s his excuse for sticking pointy things into food products?!  Also, what’s with East St. Louis, Illinois?  That sounds as bad as West New York, New Jersey.  City planners and public relations people should take a lesson from Californians, who long ago changed the name of North Tijuana to San Diego.

Warning!  Eating sewing needles which are still encased in plastic packaging may be even more dangerous than just eating plain needles.  Don't eat needles, they are sharp and not particularly tasty.  The Nudge Wink Report does not condone eating needles - illustration for comedic purposes only. WARNING! Eating sewing needles which are still encased in plastic packaging may be even more dangerous than just eating plain needles. Don’t eat needles, they are sharp and not…

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The Mütter of All Ütterances

You struggle for half an hour trying to put together a bookcase from a Scandinavian superstore, only to discover the instruction sheet you’ve been following is for a wine rack.  In another scenario, you see the police car light up in the rear view mirror and suddenly realize your car inspection sticker expired two months ago.

Tutankamen in a tutu!  You should have known it was a wine rack, since there were on twelve of the parts instead of the sixteen listed on the box.  (Image from this-pic dot com)

Tutankhamun in a tutu!!! You should have known it was a wine rack, since there were on sixteen of the fluted wood dowels instead of the twenty-two listed on the box. (Image from this-pic dot com)

These types of situations are as unavoidable as potholes in March or a humongous nose-zit on the day of your big interview.  It’s called life, people.  We’re adults here; we deal with it and move forward.  If you’re like many people, these moments of unpleasant surprise are worthy of some sort of verbal acknowledgement to the fates who are responsible for dealing you such a crappy hand.

One of my father’s favorite things to grumble at such times was, “Jesus Christ on a crutch!”  We weren’t an especially religious family, so my brothers and I had little fear of lightning strikes or plague-of-locusts type retributions for his blasphemy.  We just knew that Dad was fed up and we’d be well advised to steer clear of him.

An acquaintance I met much later in life used a similar phrase but put the Savior on a Harley instead of a crutch.  Others have been known to put the Son of God on a pogo stick.

Crutch, Harley, hey, whatever man, I'm cool with it.  (Image from buntology dot com).

Crutch, Harley, hey, whatever man, I’m cool with it.  All is forgiven, bro! (Image from buntology dot com).

Each of these utterances is colorful in its own way.  Christ on a crutch strikes me as more alliterative than visual, though I can picture Him spraining an ankle tripping on an Easter egg when He rose from the dead.  Putting the Number One Son on a motorcycle, on the other hand, is purely visual.  The comical image of His robes and long locks flowing in the breeze is trumped only by Him kick starting that hog in a pair of ratty sandals.  In an effort to avoid upsetting the more pious readers any further, I’ll skip discussion of the pogo stick entirely.

As amusing as the thought of the Son of God cruising on an Electro-Glide may be, it’s got a definite time stamp on it.  Biblical scholars among you might point out that my Dad’s saying is not exactly timeless either, as J.C. only walked or limped the earth a couple of thousand years ago.  So an ancient Egyptian, when faced with the lack of Brown-Out© correction fluid for fixing the errors on his papyrus scroll, would have had to utter something else.  On a side note, who would’ve guessed that biblical scholars read this blog?

You can't tell from this picture, but the original text of the third column was supposed to read, "beetle, sun, lotus, beetle, zig-zag"  I screwed it up, but there was no way to correct it, so the Pharaoh ended up having to enter the next world through the back door.  Man was he pissed.

You can’t tell from this picture, but the original text of the eighth column was supposed to read, “beetle, sun, lotus, beetle, zig-zag” I screwed it up, but there was no way to correct it.  The Pharaoh ended up having to enter the next world through the back door. Man was he pissed! (Image from roadrunner dot com)

The mütter of all ütterances* has to be free of references to a given era, or the gadgets of the day.  It’s got to be composed of only the most elemental components.  It should be just as applicable to today’s suburban Dad dropping his iPhone in the urinal at the strip club**, as it would have been to a Neanderthal man stubbing his toe while dragging his newly found mate by her hair.

For those of you who haven’t already guessed it, the original saying for man during moments of frustration and/or dismay is none other than the classic; “Shit on a stick!

The roots of this gem of an utterance can be traced further back to the single syllable cry of “Shit!”  Linguistics experts agree that after creating words to describe fire, cave, hunger and constipation, early man likely named excrement next.  Shortly after our ancient ancestors came up with a name for poop, they discovered that saying “Shit!” sometimes just wasn’t enough.

Putting the shit on a stick was a natural choice.  Shit on the ground was hardly worth noting.  Shit in the sky was a fairly rare phenomenon despite the sizable number of pterodactyls dropping six pound deuces all over the Greater Pangaea metropolitan area.  This is not to say that airborne feces didn’t have a place in the vocabulary – but the use of the term “shit-storm” was developed much later and usually employed for more disastrous situations.

According to the caption, Justin left this poop-on-a-stick on the plane.  Behavior like that is a good example why I'm not a big fan of buying my kids souvenirs.  (Image from photobucket dot com)

According to the caption, Justin left this poop-on-a-stick on the plane. Behavior like that is a good example why I’ve never been a big fan of buying my kids souvenirs. (Image from photobucket dot com)

Shit on a stick has it all, linguists can only marvel at the catchy rhythm of the words strung together in simple-yet-elegant single syllables.  Its practicality is excellent, as the phrase can easily fit into one exasperated exhalation.  From a content standpoint, it harkens back to a simpler time, when our ancestors valued a nice stick, and lamented the wasting of a perfectly good one because it had doo-doo on it.

*For all you smart-assed experts in Teutonic grammar who want to point out that “mütter” is the plural form of mother, and that “ütterance” isn’t a word at all, save your breath.  I wanted to use some umlauts for comedic effect, and by golly I did.  It’s unlikely I succeeded however, as funny letter symbols from foreign languages seldom amüse people and are more likely to scare them away from a post.  One can only hope I’ll lëarn from my mistäkes.

**Putting the iPhone in a container of uncooked rice is often effective for getting it to work again.  As for getting it to smell better, you’re on yoür own.

What Do I Want? Glad You Asked!

A friend of mine posted this thing on Facebook.  It’s a shining example of one of those passive-aggressive/feel-good/one-upsmanship things that show up there.  My interpretation of the message is “Look at me and how selfless and wonderful I am!  You can try to show how great you are by re-posting it, but you’ll never be as great as me, because I posted it first.  If you don’t re-post it, we can all just accept how horrible a person you must be.”  (Your interpretation may vary, it’s a free world).  Here it is:

Someone or something on Facebook calling itself "The Mind Unleashed" came up with this, and people have been reposting it ever since.

Someone or something on Facebook calling itself “The Mind Unleashed” came up with this, and sheep people have been re-posting it ever since.

Since it’s posted here and not on my Facebook page, readers are permitted to not feel guilty if they are okay with orphans remaining alone or for sick people staying ill.  As a rule, my Facebook page seldom shows much more than my blog links.  I try to avoid posting any sort of “happy horse-shit/pray for my cancer riddled Dachshund/what-the-world-needs-now-is-love-sweet-love” types of things.  Ironically, since there will be a link to this post, the above message will end up showing up on my Facebook wall, albeit in a roundabout sort of way.

Faithful readers may recall my earlier attempts at creating my own stuff to post on Facebook.  In one blog post I came up with several inspirational posters, and in another I developed a yet to be patented decoder ring for FB posts.  Sadly none of them have taken off and been re-posted hundreds of thousands of times.  The lack of a meteoric rise in success of posters like the one below may be due to a paucity of wit among readers*, a lack of readers in general, or the fact there are no kittens in any of the photos.

(* Not you, Darling, those other readers – you know who I mean!)

Put this on your Facebook page, and I won't shoot this dog (Quasi-inspirational poster by the author)

Put this on your Facebook page, and I won’t shoot this dog. (Quasi-inspirational poster by the author)

Despite my previous failures, the post that my friend passed along like an emotional flu bug has inspired me to try one more time.  I’ve developed my own “I Want I Want I Want” poster, which is brutally honest and not designed to make anyone feel crappy for not posting it.  That being said, if you don’t post it on your Facebook wall, I’ll mope around the house and wish I’d never gone to all this trouble.

I apologize if I come across as kind of demanding, but as long as we're on the subject, I forgot to add that I want to have my cake and eat it too - because really, what good is it having cake if you can't eat it, right? (List of what I want by the author, but feel free to post it on your Facebook page - if you can't save the image, drop me an email and I'll send you one)

I apologize if I come across as kind of demanding, but as long as we’re on the subject, I forgot to add that I want to have my cake and eat it too – because really, what good is having cake if you can’t eat it, right? (List of What I Want by the author – feel free to post it on your Facebook page – if you can’t save the image, drop me an email and I’ll send you one)