Is “Versatile” A Polite Way of Saying “Will Write About Absolutely Anything?”

I look like I have gone several rounds with Mohammed Ali this morning.  My right eye is one giant saddle bag surrounded by scratches.  Rumour has it, I have acquired an eye virus.  Seriously?  How in the heck does a person get an eye virus?  It’s not as if I’ve been pushing elevator buttons with my retina or rinsing my eyes in other people’s backwash.  And no one has sneezed directly in to my cornea.  Lately.  

And, yes, the full set of Samsonite that has taken residence in what was once my flat and bagless under-eye is damn itchy.  After two consecutive mornings of waking up with massive claw marks–it looks like I’ve been battling Garfield for a lasagna–I have taken to wearing gloves to sleep.  I hate it.  Not only do I hate to have covers over my feet, but it turns out that I also hate having warm hands.  I keep finding my white gloves–they make me look like I have Mickey Mouse hands–everywhere but on my fingers.  And the claw marks continue to materialize.

After a glimpse in the mirror–followed by a wake-the-dead scream–I decided to visit my blogging friends for solace.  You, after all, are unaware of my current monstrous appearance (well, at least you were until I told you about it.  I am an idiot).

And, lo and behold, I have received a nomination for the Versatile Blogger Award!  Behind their swollen itchiness, these Irish eyes are smiling!  Just one question–does “versatile” imply or infer (can never get those two words straight) that I will write about absolutely anything?  I don’t have a problem if it does–because I pretty much will write about anything.  ANYTHING at all.


A huge thanks to The View From A Slightly Twisted Angle for nominating me.  If you have not checked out her blog, you must!  It is one of my all-time favourites.  She is absolutely hilarious and never fails to make me laugh out loud.

I have cut and pasted the directions for accepting this award and hope that my crust-riddled eyes have read them correctly.  They are:

  1. Link back to the person who nominated you.
  2. Nominate other blogs for the award.
  3. List 7 random things about you.
  4. Put the award pic on your acceptance post

I have completed numbers 1 and 4.  Yay me.  Now I must nominate some other bloggers.

Twenty Seven In Twelve

Snoring Dog Studio

This, That, and The Other Thang

On The Homefront and Beyond

Swim in the Adult Pool


Family Haikus

I thought that seven would be a good number–you know, one for every day of the week.  One of my other favs, Motherhood is an Art received this award at the same time as me.  Otherwise, she would be nominated now too.

Ugh.  Now I must come up with SEVEN random things about myself.  Hm.

1.  When I was a kid, I desperately wanted a dog.  I even pretended to be one for awhile–I answered the door barking etc.  I thought I’d embarrass my parents until they caved.  Due to my allergies, I was limited to getting a poodle.  This thought terrified me.  The only poodles that I had ever seen were the ones with the silly hairdos.  I actually believed they came that way.  Thankfully, when I met the poodle that was to be mine, his hair was fluffy and evenly distributed throughout his body.

Who wouldn't find this pointy-nosed, pom-pom footed, skinny assed dog cute?

Who wouldn’t find this pointy-nosed, pom-pom footed, skinny assed dog cute?

2.  Like I already said, I simply cannot seem to grasp the difference between “infer” and “imply.”   I also seem to call cupboards closets and closets cupboards.

I don’t care if it’s a cupboard or a closet…as long as there isn’t a skeleton hiding in it.

3.  I bought a gift for my friend’s baby that will be born in June.  I’m not really sure what it is.  It is tall and handmade, chocolate brown and white, it sits up and has very long arms.  I call it Bear Monkey Dog.  I think it will be staying at my house permanently and I will be buying her something else.  It matches my chocolate brown walls and I’ve grown rather attached to it.  Whatever it is.

Is it a bear?  A monkey?  A dog?  You decide.

Is it a bear? A monkey? A dog? You decide.

4.  I recently bought a kid’s book for myself.  It is called Stick Man and is, perhaps, one of the best children’s books ever.  He’s a man…and he’s a stick.  It sort of reminds me of the many sticks and rocks that I picked up as a kid and couldn’t put down because I wanted them to come home and “live” at our house.  I was always adopting inanimate objects and feeling sorry for them.  Sort of like Bear Monkey Dog.

Makes you think twice before burning kindling, doesn’t it? Maybe it’s just me.

5.  I love the smell of gas.  Not the farted type.  I like gas as in gas-oline.  I could work at a gas bar just so I could smell the product.  Mm.

Image result for sniffing ass

I said sniffing “gas,” not ASS.

6. Gail Vaz-Oxlade annoys me.  Yes, she has to deal with an endless parade of morons.  And, yes, half of them come to her for help, but don’t want to listen.  But she bugs the crap out of me.  Nails on a blackboard.  The fact that she is on during suppertime doesn’t help.  Nothing worse than being annoyed during a meal.

Image result for gail vox oxlade tiara

I know I’m annoying, but it works. See, I said I wouldn’t shut up until I got a tiara and I got one. .


7.  Carrots are overrated.  I have red hair.  As an adult, I have come to appreciate it.  Part of this is due to the fact that other adults say nice things about it.  As a kid, I HATED having red hair.  And this is down to the fact that other kids said bad things about it.  To this day, I can’t hear a Woody Woodpecker laugh without cringing.  I get more joy out of carving a pumpkin than most non-pumpkin-hair-coloured people do.  And I harbour a deep resentment towards carrots.  To me, they are only good for one thing.  Snowman noses.

Even Frosty has bad “carrot” memories.

Photo Credits:  Poodle (, Closet Cupboard (, Stickman (, dog butt (, Gail (,

That Vegetable Fractured My Skull, That Pillow Gave Me An Arrhythmia, And That Guy Called Me Spastic

I was in Tim Hortons the other day–a claim that pretty much all Canadians can make on any given day–and I heard something that had never occurred to me before.  The cashier said to the next guy in line, “I can help you over here.”  And the guy replied, “No thanks.  I don’t need any help.  I just need a coffee.”

Why had I never thought of that response?  It’s genius.

And it has made me worry about what I will say when I go in to work tomorrow.  I always ask the bookstore clientele if they need help.  Upon reflection, it sounds like I am accusing them of requiring psychoanalysis–and that I am offering to provide it.


So far, no one has called me out on the ridiculousness of my offer of help, but it is only a matter of time until that Tim Horton’s guy comes in to the store.  Unless he’s illiterate.  I can only hope.

Talk about dumber than a bag of rubber hammers.

Talk about dumber than a bag of rubber hammers.

1) Perhaps, some of the bookstore clientele are in need of therapy and my offer of help will inspire them to seek medical attention.  Especially the one who smells like pee.

And the world is full of the insane.  Just look at these hammer-wielding morons.  I’m sure that if you saw them walking down the street (with their rubber mallets concealed, of course), they would appear as normal as you or I.  Well, maybe you.  I rarely appear normal.  But, once they bring out their squeaky hammer, they turn in to madmen and madwomen.

This is the Sao Joao Festival in Porto, Portugal–a celebration in honour of St. John, the patron saint of lovers.  Apparently, hitting a member of the opposite sex on the head is meant to be a turn-on.  In the old days, the head-basher of choice was a leek.  Don’t ask me why.  If someone said they were going to take a “leek” on my head, I’d run the other way screaming.  No one knows why the leek was dropped in favour of squeaky hammers–likely due to an influx of head injuries.  Plus, a night of having giant onions whipped across your head would make your hair smell appalling.  No amount of “Gee Your Hair Smells Terrific” (remember that shampoo?) would set it right.

Talk about getting up on the wrong side of the bed.

Talk about getting up on the wrong side of the bed.

2) After a rough night of being in hit in the head with a hammer, there is nothing better than a good night’s sleep.  Unless, of course, you find yourself next to a complete surprise.  And I don’t mean the guy you picked up after one too many Molson Canadians–the one who looked like George Clooney in the pale light of the moon, but more closely resembled Woody Allen in the light of day.  Don’t get me wrong.  I am a huge fan of Woody Allen, but you couldn’t pay me enough to sleep with him

The “surprise” that I am referring to, however, is a severed horse head.  Not a real horse head a la Godfather.  That would be disgusting.  No, I am referring to the severed horse head pillow planted there by someone who wants to give your cardiac system an unscheduled stress test first thing in the morning.

If you have someone who has recently given up coffee and needs a tad bit of a “jolt” in the morning, you can get yours at

And, just in case you live under a rock and have never witnessed the scene that birthed this idea, here you are…

I bet that guy is going to need therapy.


3)  Some people require therapy for issues relating to self-esteem.  I don’t think anything could be harder on one’s self-esteem than being called “spastic” or “spas” for short.  But what else would you call someone who hails from the town of Spasticville, Kansas?  

In fact, this name is such a burden on residents that in 2010, they applied to have the town’s name changed to “Trail’s End.”  It is said that the name Spasticville originated with a large home for the mentally challenged that was once located there.  That’s just mean.

In the interim, the inhabitants of this minuscule Kansas town can say it loud, and say it proud.  “I am a Spas.”

Photo credits:  Lucy (, rubber hammers (, horse head (, Spasticville (

Ear Gunk-Eating Insects, Polite Criminals, and A Teeny Tiny Washing Machine

Over the years, I have acquired a rather sizable portfolio of strange stories to share.  While reading a blog from one of my favourite bloggers,, I was reminded of my first several apartments.  And the many…umm…”colourful” experiences that I had there.

This looks exactly the same as it did in 1988--looks okay, right?  Wrong.

This looks exactly the same as it did in 1988–looks okay, right? Wrong.

In hindsight, I should have chosen nicer places to live in.  And I was a collection officer at the time, so I should have known which buildings were “deadbeat-riddled cesspools.”  But I was barely twenty and very naive.  I was so naive, in fact, that I thought my kitchen was full of “grease bugs.”  I later learned that these crunchy-looking, shadow-casting monsters that hated the light, were cockroaches.  My kitchen was literally crawling with them.

cockroach cartoon

The insects, however, were really the least of my problems.  Shortly after moving in, a tenant of the 25th floor came home and interrupted a robbery in progress.  A hostage-taking ensued, the SWAT team was called in, and, I can only assume, the situation was rectified.  This was soon followed by a resident of the adjacent high rise taking potshots at a passing bus with a rifle.  No one was shot.  It would appear he was a nutbar with particularly bad aim.

My thug was easier to get rid of than this guy.

My thug was easier to get rid of than this guy.

On one occasion, a deranged person tried to break down my door.  They were hollering someone’s name.  I couldn’t quite make it out, but it sounded nothing like mine.  I meekly informed the person through the door that they had the wrong apartment and they apologized and went away.  I know that this sounds like an unlikely resolution to the problem, but this exact thing had happened to me before.  I was boarding at another apartment building and was home alone, cheering loudly to the Grey Cup (Canada’s version of the Super Bowl), when a different (I am assuming) person began pounding on the door.  It would seem that someone owed this dude money.  Unsure what to do, I told him (again, through the closed door) that this was not blah-blah’s apartment.  He went away.  It would appear that deranged people can be reasoned with.

polite Canadians

And don’t get me wrong.  It’s not like I live in a city filled with insane door-busting people.  I just happened to live in places that attracted insane door-busting people.  On the upside–they were always polite and apologetic.  That’s a Canadian criminal for you.

A favourite Canadian pastimes.

A favourite Canadian pastime.


Holy crap.  You could make a candle with all that wax.

Holy crap. You could make a candle with all that wax.

1) One of the things that troubled me the most about having cockroaches was the fear of having one crawl in my ear while I slept.  A giant, crusty, long-legged earwig of sorts.  One that could survive a nuclear holocaust.  Suppose it developed a taste for ear wax.  Although, after looking at this picture, I may never eat ANYTHING again.  But cockroaches are much less squeamish.  And, maybe, my ear wax is a delicacy.  My farts smell like roses, so anything is possible.

Thankfully, one of my blogger friends, (, introduced me to the Ear Vac.  Perhaps, this would not only keep my ears free of cockroach food, but it might also suck out any insects that wander in their in the first place.

Too bad I didn’t come across this twenty years ago.  Thankfully, I NOW reside in a bug free house.

2.  In case you’ve never met someone who has actually had a large insect burrowing around in their ear canal, here is a man who temporarily provided shelter for a June Bug.  

Apparently, the most common ear invaders are gnats, beetles, moths and ROACHES.  I knew it!  According to, small winged insects get stuck and can’t fly out.  Large bugs get trapped and can’t crawl out backwards.  Great.  Our ears are giant bug traps.  And, unless you are a deaf person, you get the pleasure of hearing amplified bug sounds–like buzzing, flapping, and of course, everyone’s favourite–gnawing through the ear drum noises.

3.  If you are looking for your first apartment, here are some you may want to consider (or not):


 This 100-floor monster is The Princess Towers in Dubai, the tallest apartment building in the world.  I don’t want to live anywhere that a Hook’n’Ladder truck can’t reach me.  Plus, I hate heights.  But, if none of these things are of concern to you, this may be just the place for you.  As long as the elevators are reliable.  

penthouse in TriBeCa

This is currently the most expensive rental property in New York City.  This 13,500 square foot, three floored, penthouse in TriBeCa currently rents for $100,000 per month.  A far cry from the city average of $3400 a month, which, by the way, would land you a staggeringly beautiful spot up here in the Great White North.  Except maybe T.O.  Or Vancouver.  Their prices are NUTS.



photo credits:  ear wax (ack!) (, Princess Towers (,


A Petrified Hot Dog, A Lesbian Horse, and A Foot Named Mildred

The paper cut is a mysterious thing.  For instance, I could lop off an entire arm, leaving a gaping hole with a fountain of arterial blood squirting forth, and it would not hurt as much as a paper cut.  Albeit, the limb-removal is more likely to cause me to scream in horror, pass out, or perhaps, die.  But I bet the paper cut–especially one along a bending seam like a knuckle–would instill greater pain.  Not that I’d sacrifice a limb to prove my point.  After all, I was a kid who named my hands and feet.  It would be like cutting off a friend.  Left hand=Petty.  Right hand=Loyalist.  (yup, Loyalist).  Right foot=Snowy.  (Maybe I had perpetually cold feet).  Left foot=Mildred.  I was a strange child.

Forget waging war with machine guns and tanks.  We should simply throw shards of paper at the enemy.  Maybe we should be dropping bombs of 8 1/2 x 11″ sheets of photocopy stock on them.  And, if they are looking up, we may even be lucky enough to deal out a paper cut to the eye.  Yee-ouch!  That’s gotta hurt.

One of my many occupations is a part-time job in a book store.  I am no stranger to paper cuts.  You see, part of the problem is that space on the shelves is tight, so we regularly have to use Houdini-like feats to make new stock fit.  It does not matter that customers can barely pry a book loose from the Jenga-ish wall that we have created.  Our goal is to simply get the inventory out.  This leads to a lot of paper cuts.

Honest, all I did was pull out one book!

Honest, all I did was pull out one book!

But I have never bled on the merchandise.  That would simply be disgusting.  Although, I did sneeze on a book once.  I hope the pages didn’t stick together.


1)  Speaking of fingers, does it not strike anyone else as strange that prolonged exposure to water actually makes our skin wrinkle?  The moisture gets sucked right out.  Look at this thing.  It doesn’t even look like a finger anymore.  It looks like a dehydrated carrot or a really old hot dog.

According to researchers at Newcastle University, prune-fingers actually serve a purpose.  Apparently, digit wrinkles allow us to grab on to wet objects.  All-season radials for our fingers.

I thought this was a cool little fact.  Even if the picture does remind me of the episode of Seinfeld in which Kramer eats a really old, theatre hot dog.  Blick.  I almost throw up in my mouth thinking about it.  After all, I hate hot dogs–new or old.

Check out the clip, if you’d like a good laugh:  

Everytime I watch it, I get the dry heaves a little.

extra toes

2) Like I’ve said once before, extra fingers run in my family.  And, despite my mother’s sigh of relief when she discovered that I had the requisite 10, I have always wished that I had been born with extras.  It would have been a great conversation starter.  Plus, I wear mitts instead of gloves, so that never would have been a problem.  I probably could have conned some doting elderly person to knit me some six fingered gloves, anyway.  Plus, I think I would be able to type much faster.

I now introduce you to the feet of a six-year-old, Chinese boy who was born with 16 toes and 15 fingers.  I’m amazed at how perfect each little piggy looks.  After a 6 1/2 hour operation, the little lad now has ten fingers and ten toes.  And he has cut his risk for paper cuts in half.

3) Stocking the bookstore shelves is not always exciting.  It seems like I am forever putting out new offerings by Danielle Steele and Nora Roberts.  Ack.  How in the hell does Nora Roberts possibly find the time to write what feels like a book a week under her own name AND under her mystery-writing pseudonym J.D. Robb?  Has she undergone cloning?  Or is she not an individual at all, but rather a writing team?  Hm.  I really want to know.  If she is a real person, I suddenly feel like a lazy, non-productive writer.

I would love to stock the shelves with bizarre titles like these puppies that I found at  Yes, these are real books.

weird book 1weird book 2weird book 3weird book 4weird book 5weird book 6

Even some of the descriptions are hilarious.  The “Lesbian Hair” author refers to children as pets with thumbs.  The coffin book claims that this is one project you will not want to put off and that it is perfect for people who want to be buried in their work.

And I didn’t know that horses could be Lesbian.

Photo credits:  finger (, toes (, books (

Giant Sweat Socks, Donuts With Feet, and A Puss Explosion

I confess that I never really grew up.  And I am not referring to my lack of stature.  I achieved exactly five feet in this department, much to my relief.  The thought of having to say that I am four foot anything would have been too much to bear.  (Sorry.  I momentarily had to consider the use of “bear” vs. “bare,” which is not good being that I am an English teacher.  Then I remembered that “Bare With Me” equates to an invitation to get naked.  Good thing I got that straight.  Stupid language.)  Now, where was I?  Oh, yeah.  My lack of height.

While, I never grew up in the physical sense, I failed to do so in the mental sense as well.  At the age of 45, I still love anything with eyes.  Well, not clowns.  Or dolls.  Or, Heaven forbid, clown dolls.  But most things with eyes amuse me immensely.

Poop.  Not cute.  Poop with eyes.  Adorable.

Poop. Not cute. Poop with eyes. Adorable.

I still love Bert and Ernie–although I am partial to Bert.  He’s the only man I know that can pull off lime green pants and a uni-brow.  I am a huge fan of Wage the Ugly Doll (um.  Hence my Gravatar and blog design).  And I collect vintage Pop Culture icons–you know, things like Grimace, Cornelius Rooster, old Snoopys, the Dough Boy.  But my real weakness is puppets.  I have a plethora of puppets.

My childhood (and current) dream was (and is) to be a puppeteer on any Jim Henson Production.  I’m not fussy.  Any one of his puppets will do.  Except maybe Miss Piggy.  She bugs me.  She looks like Nikki Newman on The Young and the Restless.  She bugs me too.

Nikki NewmanMiss Piggy (2)

Beeker would be good.  Or Grover.   And, of course, Bert or Ernie.  Not Elmo.  I’d like to step on his throat.

I finally got the damn thing to shut up.

I finally got the damn thing to shut up.

Makes me feel guilty stepping on my socks.

Makes me feel guilty stepping on my socks.

1)  Let’s face it.  Sock puppets are awesome.  As long as the sock is clean and doesn’t smell like foot.  Or Parmesan.  I can never tell the two scents apart.  Gack.

This sock puppet is pretty darn cute.  It’s the eyes.  It’s always the eyes.  I am suddenly very aware of the fact that I am stepping on a pair of potential sock puppets right this minute.  Instead of entertaining smiling children, my socks are stuck clinging to my foot callouses.  Note to self: moisturize crunchy feet.   Poor socks.  Almost makes me want to take them off and give them a break.  Almost.  The cold hardwood floor stops me from actually doing it.  After all, they ARE socks.  They were born to be stepped on.

Anyway, I digress.  Back to my first fact of the day.  When it comes to sock puppets, I think bigger is better.  Imagine one that is 32 feet tall.  Imagine the eyes!

It turns out that a group in Rhode IslandProject Undercover, holds the Guinness World Record for the World’s Largest Sock and–you guessed it–it looms a whopping 32 feet in height.  Holy crap.  And they patterned it with a standard sock monkey puppet in mind.  Here’s the finished product…monster sock

big zit

2) My mind is a mysterious thing.  Puppets have led to socks which, then, led to feet.  Feet make me think of bunions (which, by the way, is one of the cutest words ever.  Calling someone a bunion sounds like a term affection, when really you are calling them a hideous foot growth).  Bunions made me ponder boils and corns.  Which, unfortunately led to me finding this.

Ack.  I must try to type without letting my eyes wonder over to this picture.  It’s like a car accident.  You don’t want to look at it, but you simply have to.  All I can imagine is the poor bugger who was around when it popped.

I don’t really know much about this photo other than the fact that it is simply labelled “the world’s biggest zit.”  How the hell do you get a zit the size of a red squirrel?  Seriously.  Does the guy live off a steady diet of Poutine and Deep Fried Mars Bars?  Perhaps, it’s from an ingrown hair.  But what the hell kind of hair would lead to a giant pustule like that?  The hair of a Wookiee?

Rumour has it that the largest zit was 78mm–about the size of a hockey puck.  I’d rather get hit in the head with the puck though.  Less messy.

3)  I have to erase the image of this massive sebaceous thing, so I have decided to share a few cute Canadian things with eyes.  I remember asking an American blogger if she had ever seen the Excel gum commercial with the walking donut and coffee cup.  Apparently, this is a “Canadian” thing, so I thought I’d share this–and a few other cute commercial icons–with my non-Canuck friends.

Here are the mascots for Excel (by Wrigley’s) gum.  Since this original commercial, a bulb of garlic has joined the gang.

 I am, however, still puzzled about the whole “donut breath” thing.  Does a donut really cause “breath?”  And, if it did, wouldn’t it be a good thing?

And here are the “timbits” of Tim Hortons’–otherwise known as donut holes.

And Frank & Gordon, the Bell Canada Beavers.    They seem to have been fired from Bell–maybe due to failed contract negotiations or a better offer elsewhere.

One of my all-time favourite pictures.  Bert and his dad.

One of my all-time favourite pictures. Bert and his dad.

Photo credits:  Nikki Newman ( Miss Piggy (, poop with eyes (, sock with eyes (, monster zit (,

A bowling ball to the head, a fork in the eye, and some bored Amish kids.

Gordon Ramsay yells at me a lot.  Well, at least he does in my dreams.  Ironically, when I’m awake I find the several-Michelin-star chef quite appealing–even when he’s at his expletive-shouting worst.  My subconscious, however, appears to have an opinion of its own.  In past blogs, I have shared some of these F-bomb riddled dreams–including the one in which I am trapped at the top of a roller-coaster with the culinary genius when he is in one of his “moods.”  Rather than comfort the enraptured female beside him, he breaks into a fit of curses that would put Yosemite Sam to shame.

 Here’s Sam at his best.

 And here’s Gordon.

Last night, I found myself in a bowling camp under the expert tutelage (do the Brits have bowling alleys?  I’ve never heard one mentioned on Coronation Street. hm.) of–you guessed it–Chef Ramsay, himself.  It’s hard to take a dream seriously when the teams are picked by players descending a giant slide and being assigned to the team that they pop out in front of.  But once the swear-happy Ramsay starts telling you you’re an idiot–the word “bollocks” also rolls of his tongue frequently–you quickly realize that this is not going to be a fun dream.  No frolicking in the fields with Gordon and, certainly, no hanky panky.  (My subconscious seems to be holding out for Barry Weiss.) Needless to say, my bowling grew appallingly worse.  I think that I may have thrown a ball behind me.  I woke up stressed.

This lady tells crappy stories.

This lady tells crappy stories.

I soon found myself in another dream.  This time I had been asked to read a story to Amish children.  Sounds warm and fuzzy right?  Wrong.  The minute I looked at the book in my hand, I knew I had my work cut out for me.  It was a story about the RCA Victor dog and a history of TV.  Only I would choose to read a television book to the Amish.  And, let’s face it.  Even I would find that book boring and I HAVE A TV.  Needless to say, I woke up a little more stressed.

A chicken and the egg dilemma...which came first?  Brain damage or bowling balls to the head?

A chicken and the egg dilemma…which came first? Brain damage or bowling balls to the head?

1)  If you suck at bowling as much as I do, I may have found another way to show off your prowess with a bowling ball.  I must warn you–it does involve concrete blocks, heavy falling objects, and possible brain damage.  Oh yes, and someone with good aim who would gladly drop bowling balls on your head.

Meet American, John Ferraro, the Guinness World Record holder for the most concrete blocks broken on the head with a bowling ball.  Yes, you read this correctly.  He piles lumps of concrete on his head and, then, has someone smash them from above with bowling balls turned projectiles.

Now, this particular bowling ball weighed 7.3 kilograms (over 16 pounds) and, apparently, his record is having 45 concrete blocks smashed to smithereens on his skull.  Talk about a numb skull.  No, seriously.  That’s not a dig at Mr. Ferraro.  It would really make your skull numb.

I wonder if he has a neck.

The name sounds promising.

The name sounds promising.

2)  Whenever I watch Gordon Ramsay flip his lid during a dinner serving at Hell’s Kitchen, I wonder what is going through the minds of the customers.  If they’re anything like me, they would be laughing.  His ire humours me (as long as it isn’t directed my way and it doesn’t involve bowling balls).

I can imagine that some people, likely the ones that aren’t familiar with Mr. Ramsay’s Type A personality and were bullied into becoming guinea pigs for the bumbling wannabe chefs by a domineering boyfriends or peer pressure, find the spectacle off-putting.  And hardly conducive to eating.

All I can say is “suck it up, Honey.  It could be worse.  You could have been dragged to the Disaster Cafe.”  Personally, the name alone is enough to make me give this place a wide berth.  I don’t want to eat anywhere bearing the name “disaster.”  My mother didn’t raise no idiots.

Apparently, people pay good money to eat through a simulated 7.8 earthquake.  Seriously.  Every meal comes equipped with a side order of earth-shattering tremors.  And a double dose of spilled food and drink.

Located in Lloret de Mar, Spain, this underground cave-like dining room is manned by servers in hard hats and reflective vests.  Patrons are also instructed to wear machine-washable clothing that they don’t mind being marred by spillage.

Here is a typical meal serving at Disaster Cafe.  Sort of makes Hell’s Kitchen look civilized.  

I don't like food that watches me eat it.

I don’t like food that watches me eat it.

3) Gordon Ramsay throws up a lot on TV.  But who can blame him?  Imagine having to taste test a combination of caviar, capers, and white chocolate.  That would get most stomachs churning.  And “investigating” fridges filled with maggoty poultry and furry veggies is also hurl-worthy.

When I was about 16, I went to visit my aunt in Madrid.  We had three weeks, so we took a nice trip out to Benidorm and Alicante–coastal places filled with yummy seafood.  Only problem is that they liked to serve their food fresh–fresh as in the food looked at you.  I don’t want my food to watch me eat it.  I like to forget that I am, in fact, gnawing on a cow or a sheep or a fish.

Shrimp on the Mediterranean are HUGE.  And they still have heads.  And on those heads are beady little black eyes.  Ew.  And to make matters worse, one of my aunt’s friends liked to bite the heads off and eat them.  It seems funny now, but at the time I was disgusted.  I didn’t eat much on the coast.

I must admit that I have now found something worse than shrimp eyes.  It turns out that people actually eat tuna eyes.  Big, gelatinous, cloudy-looking tuna eyes.  ACK.  Apparently, they can be found in Japanese supermarkets and restaurants.  They are best sauteed or boiled.  I just puked in my mouth.

My eyes feel weird.

Photo Credits: Amish kids (, bowling ball head (, disaster cafe (, eyeball food (

2012 in review

The stats helper monkeys prepared a 2012 annual report for this blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

4,329 films were submitted to the 2012 Cannes Film Festival. This blog had 19,000 views in 2012. If each view were a film, this blog would power 4 Film Festivals

Click here to see the complete report.

2013 is a pain in the neck. And why do I smell cheese?

I’ve always heard that whatever you are doing on New Year’s is what you’ll be doing for the rest of the year.  If this is true, 2013 will be a “pain in the neck.”  Literally.  I don’t know what the heck I was doing in my sleep the other night–I hope it was fun–but, for the past two days I have felt like this woman:

I wonder if this would make me taller.

I wonder if this would make me taller.

after someone removes her neck rings.  Seriously.  As much as I like having a neck (how else would I be able to wear necklaces and scarves), right now, I would gladly have it lopped off and opt to simply have my head sewn right on to my shoulders.  Except that would make me shorter.

On a lighter note, I bet Wile E. Coyote would have fun with this lady’s neck and a giant ACME magnet.

I wonder what would happen to a knife thrower if he did his act in front of one of those giant magnets?  Would he look like a piece of Swiss cheese covered in ketchup?  Sorry.  Neck pain brings out the sadist in me.

Which reminds me of a joke we used to tell when we were kids.  What’s orange and red and lies at the side of the road?  A wounded cheezie.  That one still disturbs me.  But it fails to prevent me from eating cheezies.

And my husband can't even tie ONE of these by himself.

And my husband can’t even tie ONE of these by himself.

1)  I am glad that women don’t have to wear neckties.  Especially to July weddings.  But the way I feel today, I think that donning 150 or so ties would provide an awesome amount of neck support.  Like a flashy neck brace.

Although, as I gaze upon this picture of Arnold Albert, the Guinness Record Holder for wearing the most ties at once, I must admit that he looks anything but comfortable.  Should the human neck bend back at a 90 degree angle like that?

I am impressed that he managed to tie 150 neckties though.  In my household, I am the tie tier (that looks really weird in print).  I’m glad to know that my skills developed during the “1980s women wearing skinny black leather neckties era” have not been lost.

Finally.  A room I don't have to worry about staining with cheeto fingers.

Finally. A room I don’t have to worry about staining with Cheeto fingers.

2)Let’s face it.  Art work made of food is pretty cool.  I have already featured cheese sculptures and Cereal masterpieces.  Today, in honour of wounded cheezies everywhere, I present Cheeto Art.

This piece is entitled “The Cocktail Party”  by Sandy Skoglund–an artist who specializes in tableaux that marry photography and pop culture.  Too bad orange clashes with my red hair.  That cheezie dress looks pretty cool.

Then again, Conan O’Brien is a ginger and he looks pretty good in Cheetos. 

Who wouldn't want to clone a few best buddies and try their hand at indoor hot-air ballooning?

Who wouldn’t want to clone a few best buddies and try their hand at indoor hot-air ballooning?

3)  As I previously mentioned, I am currently tempted to perform a “neckectomy.”  While perusing the Internet for instruction, I came across a promising offering at Amazon–“Do-it-yourself Brain Surgery.”  Surely, if I can do a lobotomy in my living room, a neck removal can’t be that difficult.

And if that doesn’t work, I can always recruit Humphrey the hamster into the whole “breeding combat hamsters” endeavour.  If I can wake him up.  I’m not sure how effective a narcoleptic fighter hamster will be in the face of battle.

Some of this book’s other offerings appear more promising.  What could be easier than converting one’s home into a romantic ruin?  Well, a “ruin” at least.  I assume a romantic ruin is just a ruin with scented candles.

Excuse me.  I’m off to perform neck surgery.

I’d rather have a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy.

neck cartoon

Photo Credits:  Long necked woman (, tie guy (  Guinness World Records profile),Cheeto room (, Conan (, book (