Category Archives: October 2012

My belly’s full of blisters, my organs feel squashed, and every time I sneeze my eyes fall out

Posted by facelikeafryingpan in October 2012 and tagged with , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Never pour boiling hot water on your belly.  You have likely never been tempted to do so, but if the thought should ever flit across your mind–ignore it.  It is not a wise thing to do.  I know from experience.

On Sunday night, I craved spaghetti with mushroom soup on it.  I’m not sure why.  Just roll with it.  I boiled the noodles and went to strain them in the colander when the bottom of my pot hit that thing (not sure what to call it) that divides the two kitchen sinks.  At first, I was concerned about losing the noodles to the cesspool that is a kitchen sink (don’t get me wrong.  My sink looks nice and shiny, but who knows what killer bacterium lurks there, waiting for its next victim).  And that’s when I felt it.  A huge surge of searing pain all over the surface of my belly (I’m not even going to discuss how large this surface is.  Just bear in mind that I did say the pain was “huge.”)  Yes, I am an idiot.  And yes, two days later I still have a rather massive red burn on my tummy.  And it is not happy at all.

The kitchen can be a very dangerous place–with hot water and all those knives.

Keep in mind that I live in Canada and that wearing a tube top in late October is out of the question.  And keep in mind, that I would not be caught dead in a tube top even in the sweltering heat of July.  I’ve tried the whole Daisy Duke “take-the-bottom-of-your-shirt-and-tuck-it-through-the-neckline” thing, but the little flap of material that hangs out from my cleavage keeps poking me in the burn.  Ugh.

Yup. My belly probably feels like this kids nose. But you’ve got to love the look on the crustacean’s face.

And I’m growing very tired of contorting myself in the shower.  Do you know how hard it is to keep one’s trunk dry in the shower?  Plus, doesn’t it defeat the purpose of a shower to begin with?

And my Keurig is feeling neglected.  I’m afraid to spill a hot drink on my belly.  It may sound irrational to you, but you have no idea just how klutzy I am.  If you did, you would tell me stick with cold drinks too.

Doc, I have a problem. My eyes hurt and my eye drops aren’t working.

1)  Yes, I did try to simmer my tummy, but it was an accident.  I can’t imagine torturing my body parts on purpose.

As a woman, I am rather attached to my eyelids.  Without them, my makeup would look funny.  And where would I put my eyelashes?   Not to mention all the dust and bugs that would pelt my cornea in their absence.

It seems that China’s Dong Changsheng is rather less “attached” to his lids.  Or at least, he will be if he keeps pulling cars with them.  Yes, he pulls cars using his eyelids.  Ack.  In fact, he holds the Guinness World Record for the “heaviest vehicle pulled by the eyelids” (there have been others?).  His accomplishment?  Pulling a 3307 lb. car a distance of 33 feet.

I don’t get it.  Was he just sitting in his garage one day looking at his stalled car and he got an itchy eyelid and thought I bet if I tow my VW to the mechanic using my eyelids I could kill two birds with one stone?  I could get a free tow and stop my eyelid from itching.

“I really wanted to achieve that perfect hourglass shape.  I just wish people would stop turning me upside down and placing me on my head. “

2)  Okay.  I’m jealous.  This broad has probably never burned her belly with a pot full of water.  First of all, she probably doesn’t eat.  And, second of all, I doubt she has the core abdominal strength to lift an empty pot, let alone one filled with liquid.

And where  the heck does she keep her internal organs? Her jeans must really bag at the waist.

This is Cathie Jung, the Guinness World Record Holder for the person with the smallest waist.  Thanks to spending 23 1/2 hours each day for over 25 years in a corset, she has achieved a 15 inch waistline.

Can I corset my entire body or will my head pop?

 3) Let’s face it.  Seinfeld‘s George Costanza had a crummy ambulance ride.  With a face like a human eggplant, a warring pair of medics, a collision with another vehicle, and a large hospital bill, things couldn’t have gotten much worse.  Or could they?

76-year-old, Edward Juchniewicz, was on a routine ambulance trip from his old age home to a doctor’s appointment when the unthinkable happened.  The ambulance attendant stopped to talk to a doctor and failed to notice that his patient’s stretcher was rolling away.  The contraption wheeled the poor man down an embankment and overturned.  He later succumbed to head injuries from the accident.

Am I wrong, but aren’t hospitals supposed to make people better?  I didn’t think they were supposed to strap you to a deathtrap on wheels and watch you roll down a hill.  This sounds like something that would happen to me.  Thankfully, our hospital parking lot is completely flat.

Here is a collection of accomplishments achieved by my fellow spastics.  I’m especially fond of the robot costumed kid.

How can my belly be burning hot and cold at the same time?  (Insert deep sigh here.)

Photo Credits:  leg saw (http://meanderthals.wordpress.com/2009/11/22/ouch/), nose pinch (horsemouth.typepad.com), VW meets eyelids (fastcar.co.uk), corset lady (www.heavy.com).

How to embarrass your car on a budget.

Posted by facelikeafryingpan in October 2012 and tagged with , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

“You take the money and I’ll grab the eyeballs.  Oddly enough, that’s not the first time I’ve said that.”  Barry Weiss, Storage Wars.

I want a nose for my car.  Every now and then, I see a car driving down the road sporting a shiny, red proboscis and I think to myself, “Self, we’ve got to get our paws on one of those.”  And, no, I am not making this up.  There are people in my town with car noses.  There’s even one automobile that sports eyelashes.  Maybe it’s just my town.  Must be the drinking water.

My car is not totally without facial features.  It has teeth.  Yes, I just said “teeth.”  Not the ghastly, “I-want-to-suck-your-Carotid-artery” kind.  Just happy, smiling, Osmond-white chompers.  You are likely wondering where I found such an awesome ornament.  (What?  You are not wondering where, but “why?” I don’t understand.)  They are the non-edible part of a candy/toy combo that I spied at Walmart.  It’s amazing what you can find when you possess the intellect of a small child.  My apologies to small children everywhere.

Yes. My car longs for one of these (or so I like to imagine).

During my search for the perfect breathing apparatus for my car, I discovered “Red Nose Day,” a Comic Relief-inspired, British charity event that encourages people and automobiles, alike, to sport a shiny, red nose.  Sure, we idiots across the pond will adopt blood pudding, Haggis, and other UK-spawned spare animal part dishes. Heck, we even opened our airwaves to…ugh…Benny Hill.  Why on earth have we not embraced the opportunity to wear giant red nostrils?  It’s even for charity.

What the hell is that grabbing my leg?

1)  Spotted dick aside, the Brits have given us a number of things that I am thankful for–Blackadder, Hyacinth Bucket, The Smiths, Death at a Funeral, and fish & chips, to name a few.  But here is one tradition  that I’m not sure I’d greet with such fervour.  Yes, from the people that brought us the treacherous sport of Cheese Rolling, I now present–Bog snorkelling.

Once a year, strangely dressed, muck-and-mire enthusiasts descend upon Powys, Wales for their chance to win roughly $200 US and a mention in the Guinness World Records.  All breathing must be done through your snorkel and you can only move using flipper power.  And, apparently, the water is nut-shrivelingly cold–not that I own a pair.  I’ve just been told.

Seriously, I love to swim as much as the next person.  But swimming in a bog carved out of peat moss?  There’s isn’t enough chlorine in the world that would make that seem alright.  Ack.

I bet a removable nose would come in handy, especially during flu season. Or would the snot just run freely down your face? Hm.

2)  Some noses are cute.  Bert and Ernie’s bulbous orbs of felt.  Long aardvark snouts.  The whiskered hamster variety.  And perfectly round, red ones on cars.  (I know.  Give it a rest already).  It turns out that they are more than just cute and useful in oxygen intake.  They have many uses.    Noses hold eyeglasses in place.  They give you something to pick when you’re bored.  They make it possible to “thumb your nose” at annoying neighbours.  And, apparently, they can blow up balloons.  Honest.  Here’s the proof…

Just what you want to explode at your child’s birthday party–a mucous-filled, booger-encrusted balloon.  Ack.

But, wait!  It gets worse.  A nose can also be used to blow a marshmallow across the room into a moron’s open mouth.  Yes, two gifted individuals from Illinois achieved the world record for pitching and receiving this nose candy over a distance of 16 feet.  I hate marshmallows at the best of time, but this would truly be a marshmallow nightmare.  Let’s hope they used the green ones.

3)  Noses, eyelashes, and teeth aside, I love cars.  Especially ones that sound mean.  Rather than spending a lot of money getting a tricked out exhaust, I’ll think I’ll just drive around with this guy making throaty car noises over a loud speaker.  Check it out…

watch?v=RSDUcKw-GOk

And no automotive blog would be complete without this baby…

Barry Weiss’s awesome 1955 Ford Bubble-top Beatnik. No nose required for this baby.

If you’d like to see more of Barry Weiss’s car collection, check out my social media experiment at: Searching For Barry Weiss.

 

Photo Credits: Smart nose car (flickr.com), bog snorkeling (www.aquiziam.com), the Beatnik (autoholics.com).

No arms, skinny legs, a giant diaper, and a blanket that scares me.

Posted by facelikeafryingpan in October 2012 and tagged with , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

I am feeling a tab bit discombobulated today and stringing together coherent thoughts is quite beyond my capabilities.  Stupid, random sentences that have nothing to do with each other is much more within my reach.

Everyone seems to think birds have it made because they can fly.  But imagine going through life with no arms.  Seriously.  Getting peanut butter off your beak without hands or paws or anything remotely like that must be a pain in the ass.  And the “armed” creatures all make fun of the way you walk.  It’s hard to strut when you have no arms to swing.  Or hands to put in your pockets.  Speaking of pockets, birds have very skinny legs and no hips, so pants are out of the question.  And without arms, they can’t wear shirts.  They will never know the joy of having pockets.  Plus, they must get tired of eating the same old thing all the time.  How many ways can you serve a worm?

Which brings me to another question.  Why do we call pants “pants” in the plural?  And why does one “pant” constitute a pair?  Some say it’s because they have two legs in them.  A shirt has two sleeves, but it remains a lowly, singular item.  Is this because we place more value on legs than on arms?  Hm.  That should make the bird feel a bit better.

1)  Birds, like anyone else, need to have fun and I am sure that one of their favourite pastimes involves well-aimed poop and shiny, red cars.  I know.  I own one.  A shiny, red car that is.  Not a bird poop.  Although, I do occasionally have a few in my possession on said shiny, red car.

It turns out that someone has found a way to rob our feathered friends of this sport.  Yes, they have created diapers for birds.  How humiliating.

If you feel compelled to diaper your canary, you can find these babies at http://www.diapersforbirds.com/index.asp.  They have even included a how-to video for the first-time avian parent.

They could have at least included pockets.

2)  Even our insults seem to malign our feathered friends.  Take the term “bird brain.”  Humans have deemed the avian mind to be laughable–so small that even Dan Quayle (ironically named after a bird) could out-spell it.

But, perhaps, we have been wrong.  Turns out that a diet of caterpillars and crickets is the healthy way to go.  Ack.  There goes my cinnamon swirl peanut butter with raisins in it.  Never eat raisins before you compose a blog about bugs.

Scientists agree that insects are chalked full of protein, iron, and vitamins.  For every 100 grams of caterpillars you gnaw on, you are getting 28 grams of protein.  That’s impressive.  Unless you’re the caterpillar.  And if you prefer the finer things in life, perhaps steamed silk worm is more your style.  Sounds elegant, doesn’t it?

And here’s a useful little ditty for you to remember the next time you go digging for your dinner:

Red, orange, yellow, forget this fellow.

Black, green, or brown, wolf it down.

3)  Anyone who knows me, knows that I am a HUGE fan of crows.  And I finally have the chance to feature one of the coolest roadside attractions  that I had the thrill of discovering–three 11 foot tall metal crows in Upstate New York.  They’re on the I-81 just south of the Ivy Lea Bridge (aka Thousand Islands Bridge) to Canada and can be seen most easily from the southbound lane.  Don’t blink or you will miss them.  Seriously.

Sculptor, Will Salisbury, created 3 Crows in a Field from 1999-2001 as a “campaign to abolish boredom.”  I know it keeps me and my “bird brain” (actually referring to myself, not my husband) entertained.

Photo Credits:  bugs (www.ifood.tv), crows (www.roadsideamerica.com), Gary Larson Cartoon (www.thebirdforums.com).

One whole wheat nostril with a side order of arm pit juice please. And, no, I will not pray to your penis.

Posted by facelikeafryingpan in October 2012 and tagged with , , , , , , , , , , , ,

I think I am getting old.  My dendrites appear to be shriveling up, no longer able to form a connection with my mind.  Or, worse, making connections with the wrong parts.  Here is a glimpse into a day in my life:

  • Back car out of garage.  So far so good.  Get out of car and close garage door.  Good.  Then proceed to sit in passenger seat.  And wonder why car is not moving.  Oops.  Check to see if anyone saw that.  Breath sigh of relief and back car out of driveway.
  • Make wrong turn on highway and have to double back.  Realize that my gas tank is dangerously close to empty and curse myself for having to waste “fumes” on backtracking.
  • Arrive at clothing store.  “Oh” and “Aw” over new items on clearance rack.  Leave the store, and fumble to put on black jacket before going outside.  Remember that I did not bring black jacket.  Forgot it at home on couch.  Crap.  Wonder what black article in left hand is. Realize I have just left the store with clearance black dress pants in hand slung over shoulder.  Oops.  Return to store and apologize profusely.

Honestly.  This sort of thing happens to me all the time.  Damn this aging grey matter and the embarrassing situations it gets me in to.  I’m only in my forties.  What the heck will I be like twenty years from now?  A drooling, babbling, lump of stupidity with a double chin and a milky coating over one eye?

Today I felt like doing something a little different.  Rather than present three pieces of extremely valuable information relating to my rant above, I have decided to offer you three tidbits that I’d rather forget.  And it sounds like I’ll have no problem doing so.  Now, where was I?  Oh ya…

1)  Is your penis worthy of wearing a spanky fuchsia ribbon and parading itself around a public park?  You must be so proud.  But I must warn you that making an exhibition of it in just any park may land you in the clinker.  And on some lists that may have neighbours showing up at your door with torches and giant clubs.  Best to “parade” your prized possession at a venue where it will truly be appreciated.  And I know of just the place.

It turns out that in some cultures, the penis is worship-worthy.  It is the master of fertility.  (Although, I’m not sure where it would be without the lowly female’s egg.  But enough of my offended female sensibilities).  Worship the penis and your barren uterus will pump out babies aplenty.  Especially if you honour said phallus with a shiny pink bow.  And one need not worry about unsightly foreskins–only circumcised members allowed.

This image may take me longer to forget than I had originally hoped.  If you’d like to make an offering to a holy dick, yourself, these are found in a secluded spot behind the Swissotel Nai Lert Park Hotel in Beijing.

2)  So, you have just earned your Masters Degree in Fine Arts.  What will you do next?  I know.  Open a bakery where you can sell body parts made of bread.  Yes.  These morose dismembered heads are, supposedly, as edible as your harmless-looking, squishy loaf of Wonder Bread.

Kittiwat Unarrom, the artist behind the heads and appendages at Bread Head Bakery in Ratchaburi, Thailand, makes a plethora of body parts out of dough that contains other treasures like raisins and cashews, and occasionally, chocolate.  (I like to think that the chocolate is an unwilling participant, however).  Need a hand?  You’ve got it.  He’ll even throw in a foot or two.

Maybe I’m weird, but I simply cannot imagine sitting in the staff room at lunch and gnawing on a whole-wheat nose.  Ack.  Damn.  I threw up in my mouth again.

If you’d like to see the Freddy Krueger of bakers in action, check out this video.  Warning:  View with extra large vomit bag close at hand.

3)  And, you knew I couldn’t get through this post without a tribute to our friends in Japan–who, apparently, like some pretty strange beverages.

One that tastes like the juice from an armpit.   Just what you want.  A bottle of “sweat.”

Another that contains pig placenta.  Where did I put that damn barf bag?

Yes.  They’ve mixed cola and a vegetable.  I must admit, I kind of want to try this.

And what the heck does “in love? be juicy? mean?”  And what on earth would it taste like.

Need new puke bag.  This one’s full.

And I don’t even know what to say about this.

Oops.  My husband just found my peanut butter in with the coffee mugs.  It’s going to be a long day.

Credits:  Cartoon (http://ershu.wordpress.com/2008/03/13/forgetfulness-at-its-peak/), penises wearing bows (silencedmajority.blogs.com), breadheads (www.geekologie.com), sweat (pocarisweat.com), placenta (www.ebaumsworld.com), cucumber (www.japanprobe.com), juicy (www.ebaumsworld.com), weird eye trick (www.funnyjunksite.com).

Pass Me My Shark, Put Extra E Coli on my Burger, and Drown That Damn Toothbrush

Posted by facelikeafryingpan in October 2012 and tagged with , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

In a previous installment, I told you that I have strange dreams.  This week, my nighttime forays have been particularly interesting.  A couple of nights ago “dream-me” was walking through a creek while Storage Wars‘ Barry Weiss defended me from sharks.  Tiny man-eating sharks.  In a creek.  “Dream-me” was so impressed with Barry’s heroic efforts that I let him make love to me right then and there.  In the creek.  Surrounded by little sharks.  Needless to say, watching Storage Wars is now like foreplay.

Last night, I dreamt that I discovered that I had a two-year-old.  I guess that up until that point it had been very quiet and invisible.  Well, it turned out that this kid was like a walking Webster’s Dictionary.  Its vocabulary made for great entertainment at parties.  Hey, if you’re going to have an imaginary toddler in your forties, you might as well have some perks.  And, yes.  I realize that I have been referring to the kid as “it,” but it’s okay.  It’s not real.  I much preferred the Barry Weiss dream.

Barry Weiss…no creek-dwelling shark is too much for him

I had a beef sandwich the other day.  You’re probably scratching your head and thinking, “I know this chick has the thought-process of a red squirrel, but what does that have to do with anything?”  Bear with me.  Right now, eating cow in Canada is like playing a deli version of Russian Roulette.  A huge beef processing plant in Alberta has been shut down due to an e coli outbreak.  Can ingesting e coli cause strange dreams?  If I eat more, can I pick up the Barry Weiss dream where I left off?  I think I’ll go out and get myself a big steak.  With a side order of bacteria.

1) Let’s face it.  Humans are strange.  And some humans are stranger than others.  I couldn’t possibly bring up Russian Roulette without checking to see if our friends from the Far East have tried re-inventing it.  Sure enough, they have.  From the nation that has brought us the girlfriend lap pillow, the plunger helmet, tomato chocolate, the remote control toilet, and square watermelons, I now bring you Japanese Russian Roulette.  

This kind of makes me want to dust off the old Nerf guns.  Kind of.

I would rather use this toothbrush after the pig than buy one of these.

2)And trust me, the Japanese do not have a monopoly on bizarre products.  I was in the local Walmart the other day and saw something that horrified me.  Justin Bieber toothbrushes.  They actually sing.  Four different colours are available and each one plays a different Bieber hit.  Yikes!  Waking up and having to endure the Biebs singing.  In my mouth.  Is it just me or does that seem dirty?  And not in a pleasant “dreaming-about-Barry-Weiss” way.

This clip pretty much sums up the reaction I had at Walmart.  Except in my head.  I didn’t think I should exclaim my disbelief out loud.  By myself.  To no one in particular.

 

3)  So, what kind of shallow-water dwelling shark could Barry Weiss have been rescuing me from in my dream?  I think we can safely say it wouldn’t be Bruce from Jaws.  Yes, that was the shark’s name.

Apparently, the world’s smallest shark is smaller than a human hand.  Well, not mine.  Mine are freakishly small.  Like Minnie Mouse‘s hands.  But with four fingers and a thumb.

This harmless little shark is the Dwarf Lanternshark, believed to be found only in Columbia and Venezuela.  The Chihuahua of sharks, it doesn’t exactly instill fear.  So, it would appear that my dream took place in a South American creek.  And the only danger I faced was having my heels over-exfoliated by Snickers-sized sharks.  Perhaps, Barry wasn’t being heroic after all.  He just really wanted to touch my smooth feet.

No small sharks were harmed during the filming of my dream.

Related Links:  Searching For Barry Weiss