Do Worms Ever Feel Dirty?

I used to wonder if worms ever got dirt in their ears. When I later discovered that worms don’t have ears, I felt a huge sense of relief. Imagine having a giant clump of topsoil stuck in your ear and not having any hands with which to pick it out. But then I started to feel bad for the worm. Life can’t be easy without any ears, hands, or arms.


I got over that and began to ponder another worm-related question. Yes, I entertained more than one worm thought. Do worms ever feel dirty? I mean, I know they literally live in the earth, but surely some earth is less comfortable than others. There must be times when they wish they could have a good shower, right?

Maybe that’s why they always seem to come out when it rains. To wash off the filth. And get eaten by birds.

This raises another question…Why is the word “earth,” the very name of our home planet, synonymous with “dirt?” Is this not strange? Do Martians line up at their garden stores for bags of “black Mars?” As an earthling, I find this disturbing.


The best worm of all, in my humble opinion, is Lowly Worm. Not only does he have eyes (unlike his run-of-the-mill brethren), he also wears a boot and drives a car. His boot likely prevents him from talking to his ass — which appears to be a common problem among worms. And his fashionable outfit establishes him as the lone clothing-wearer among a species of nudists.

While I’m on the topic of long, cylindrical life forms, I’m very glad I’m not a snake. I like snakes. I have never been squeamish about snakes and have no problem picking them up and removing them from the garage floor. The thought of finding a vacated snake skin, however, freaks me out. Imagine if humans could simply shrug off a their outer layer flesh? The mall floors would be layered with hollow people-shaped clumps of epidermis. We could literally jump out of our skins. On the upside, it would eliminate the need for exfoliating.


And I just learned something really freaky! Did you know there is actually a worm snake? Yes, it’s officially called the “Carphophis amoenus” and they reach about 13 inches in length. I think I want one.

worm snake

Until next time,

Face Like a Frying Pan



Image Credits:


Lowly Worm:

Shedding snake:

Worm snake:

I am The Itchy and Scratchy Show

It seems fitting that a blog whose title includes the word “embiggens” should also include an entry entitled “The Itchy and Scratchy Show.” But, before you get your hopes up, it’s not what you think. It will not feature an aardvark-faced mouse or an axe-wielding cat. It will, in fact, feature nothing more than a bunch of rather itchy bumps…that make me scratch.

It seems that I am the proud recipient of a strange and insidious rash that has encircled my eyelids and under-eyes (is that a word?) like an infectious raccoon. Cortisone cream seems to work, but this rash — like a highly skilled maze runner — always manages to stay one step ahead of its steroidal enemy.

On the upside, it has taken my mind off COVID.

I have always considered myself to have pig’s eyes. Picture a pig’s eye. Non-descript. Invisible lashes. No outstanding features. Blank. This is me without makeup. 

pig eyes

Not exactly “bedroom eyes.”

And, while I’m talking about pig’s eyes, did you know that Saint Paul, Minnesota was originally named Pig’s Eye after a one-eyed, whiskey-brewing reprobate? It’s true. I checked. And, like one quarter of the Face Like A Frying Pan family, he was French Canadian. 

Check out this video from The Passive Aggressive Guide to Minnesota History…


When we hear the term “sweating like a pig,” we automatically think of a human drenched in a thick layer of pungent perspiration. This couldn’t be further from the truth. Pigs actually have no sweat glands and; therefore, could be said to have the freshest pits around. This is why they enjoy rolling around in mud. A swine has got to cool off somehow. 

dwight shrute

Since no post is complete without a reference to a Muppet — and I could not write a piece about pigs without wanting to find a Miss Piggy fact — I managed to find a rather tasty little tidbit. Yes, the world’s most beloved pork puppet was originally named Piggy Lee in honour of the famous jazz singer, Peggy Lee. Her name was shortened to Miss Piggy as no one wanted Ms. Lee to take offense. 


I hereby proclaim that I would have no problem with any future Muppets being named in my honour. Even if they have pig eyes. With bumps around them.  

Image Credits:

Pink eye:

Pig eye:

Miss Piggy and Miss Peggy:


Until next time,

Face Like A Frying Pan


I Got Hit in the Head By a Drone Just Before the Rubber Car Struck Me

Driverless cars disturb me. Sure, I love my car. His name is Wally and he faithfully waits for me wherever I go. But, it doesn’t mean I want to entrust him to get me home safely without my help.

After all, in Back to the Future, Doc Brown piloted his time-travelling DeLorean, in Harry Potter, Weasley’s flying Ford had someone at the steering wheel, and the speeder bikes of Star Wars still required drivers . Even the Jetson’s flying cars had animated characters at the helm. Why then, is actual technology striving to make the human component of driving redundant?


See? No driverless cars in the Jetson’s version of the future. 

I like driving. Lots of people like driving. Why, then, are companies seeking to take away our fun? I would much rather see them developing flying cars. Now that would be fun. And it would take hours off a weekly commute.

If safety is an issue, I think we should steal an idea from TV’s Ray Barone and look into the manufacturing of cars made of Nerf. Even if they are sluggish when wet.


Now this is where technology should be headed. Cars made of high density foam. 

In 2016, a self-driving Tesla struck a transport truck, apparently failing to detect the broad expanse of white against a sunny sky. This is not good. A lot of things are white. Buildings. Other vehicles. The Staypuft marshmallow man. A large gathering of brides. A Trump supporters’ rally. These are almost all things for which a vehicle should stop.

Let’s look at drones as an example. They are, after all, miniature driverless vehicles. If humans can’t master the art of making drones foolproof, surely we should abandon the idea of placing their large and deadly counterparts on our highways.

1. Hollywood paints pizza delivery drivers as pimply faced, heavy metal playing, menaces-to-mailboxes-and-lawn-ornaments. Surely, even the worst of these is better than a drone. Particularly, since they have been known to fall from the sky, which would seriously shift your pizza toppings.

In fact, drones have hit Seattle’s Space Needle, driven into an office building and thwacked a worker in the head, been attacked by a branch-wielding chimpanzee, and they have come close to hitting several commercial airplanes and helicopters. Quite frankly, the people in Quebec are better drivers.

And, ironically, during the first-ever Great Bull Run in Virginia, the carnage was not caused by a horned boy-cow. Instead, several spectators were wounded by a rogue drone that crashed into the audience.

Image result for bull cartoon

I hear the bull was looking specifically for this guy.

2. While pondering roadways filled with nerf, I began to reminisce about my childhood. One of my all-time favourite toys was the nerf ball. I’m not talking about today’s jazzed-up, built for wind-resistance variety. I’m referring to the simple round blob of foam that was, seemingly, designed solely for the use of lobbing it at people’s foreheads. Prior to the nerf ball’s conception I’m sure there were a lot of ball-to-head related injuries. Mainly because the name softball is exceedingly deceptive. Softballs are not soft and bouncing one off your brother’s forehead could lead to permanent brain damage. A nerf ball to the cranium, however, is the equivalent of a cotton ball to the face. No blood or hospital visits required.

Ironically, this simple toy catches a hefty price on the marketplace. Right this moment, there are several for sale for about $60 + $40 shipping. Yes, $100 for a round piece of foam.

Don’t remember the original Nerf ball? Here’s a video clip…


3. Interestingly, there exists some hot and heavy debate on the internet regarding the case for introducing rubber cars. The proponents joyfully exclaim that loud crashes would be replaced by “boings,” dents would simply sproing back into shape, and upon impact, passengers would merely bounce around within their rubber cabins. Bumper-to-bumper traffic would be fun–like a game of full-sized bumper cars.

The opponents adeptly point out that rubber is, indeed, a very heavy material, making cars sluggish. Rubber would also melt due to engine heat–which, now that I come to think of it, would lead to melted rubber injuries. They also remind us that, even in a rubber car, a head-on collision is likely to lead to fatalities as the passengers would be endlessly thrown about the insides of their bouncy car.

What is your take on the rubber car? Yeah or Nay? What about cars made of Nerf?


Image credits:

The Jetsons:


Angry bull:

It “Distracted” My Driving…

This one has been kicking around as a draft for awhile, so I thought I’d release it out into the world….

Vomit is slippery.

This is one of those statements that I accepted as truth despite never having actually measured the viscosity of vomit. Nor have I ever had the opportunity to use alliteration to describe the contents of my stomach. Until now.

I, unfortunately, can attest to the fact that vomit is, indeed, slippery. And not at all pleasant to the touch.

You see, it’s allergy season. (Right now you’re probably saying “Allergy season? It’s not spring, you idiot.) Every season is allergy season for me, but the fall with its decaying leaves, moldy earth, and other rotting detritus wreaks havoc on my faulty immune system and fills my lungs up with snot.

Here’s a song about snot…

I suppose that by now you are wondering how my snotty lungs led to slippery vomit. My body doesn’t actually like having items other than air in its lung compartments and, in an effort to rid itself of the unwanted mucus, it decided to send me into a fit of violent coughs. Now these coughs sort of start at my toes and gather strength as they move upwards.

And I had a full stomach as I had just finished eating lunch.

And, did I mention that I was in my car on my way to work?

Yes, my clothes were neatly pressed. My name tag firmly in place, to the left, by my heart. And I had sandals on. This is important to note.

This particular cough started somewhere around my kneecaps. It picked up steam as it made its way upwards to my “guttal” region, stirring up my egg salad sandwich and chai latte. From there it escaped my mouth as an ear-piercing bark coupled with a gurgling and spewing sound. The gurgling and spewing noises were, as I quickly discovered, the by-product of a former sandwich exiting my throat at warp speed.


I “ugly cry.” I wonder if I also “ugly barf.”

When I opened my eyes (I believe it is dangerous to barf with one’s eyes open lest they are blown out of the eye socket altogether), I was shocked to see that my steering wheel was plastered in slimy egg salad stalactites and the sheen of bile. Bear in mind that I was still in the flow of traffic and that gripping a stomach juice-smeared steering wheel is like trying to grip another person’s tongue with your bare fingers.

Turning my steering wheel was out of the question. Thankfully, work lay straight ahead.

Somewhere underneath the self-loathing and disgust caused by the fact that my hands were mired in my own puke, there lurked a glimmer of pride. I had managed to keep my clothing and my car seat vomit-free. The only victim appeared to be my steering wheel. Surely, such accurate aim was worthy of praise–or, perhaps, even a celebration.

Image result for steering wheel face

Look at how happy this steering wheel is. It has, likely, never been barfed on.

I pulled into the parking lot and began rifling through the glove compartment for a kleenex, a paper towel, hell, a well-used snot rag would do. Thankfully, a Wendy’s napkin presented itself and I was able to return my steering wheel to its former dry, vomit-free and respectable self. I had made it to work. No one need ever know that I had just puked in my car. Unless, of course, I decided to broadcast the fact. In my blog.

Unfortunately, when I placed my foot on the ground, it made a squishing sound. My sandals were laden in barf and I had thoroughly soiled my only napkin. I had no choice. Me and my putrid pukey feet would have to trudge into work as is. We would have some explaining to do.

What is the grossest funny thing that has happened to you? It’s okay to share. You are among friends. 





I Get Interviewed!!! Yay Me!

I recently had the pleasure of being interviewed by my buddy and author, S.J. Lomas. She is fabulously funny and clever and keeps me in stitches on Twitter (@SJLomasAuthor).

So, without further ado, here is my very first attempt at being the subject of an interview.


My Present Left Me Crippled And Blind…

Yesterday was my mother’s birthday and she received 45 scratch cards. Seriously. Now, one would think that receiving so many chances to win BIG money would be a good thing. And it was–in the beginning.

The first problem is that some of these game cards are as easy to understand as an Ikea instruction manual in Klingon. And, the play area, itself, has font so infinitesimal that a flea would require a magnifying glass. After just one card, my mother had the eyes of a crack addict.


Image result for crack addict eyes

This man has, obviously, played too much scratch bingo.

And, of course, there is the scratching. My mother has arthritic hands. After one giant monopoly board, she was worse off than Jerry Seinfeld after signing his Japanese royalty cheques.

One can only hope that she wins a huge payoff. If only so she can afford laser eye repair and physiotherapy on her hand. 

Which brings me to a whole other concern. Me being me–an OCD neurotic mess–I, immediately, began to worry about her inhalation of so much of that weird scratch-off residue. I mean, what the hell is that stuff made of? Some carcinogenic slurry of road-paint and drywall dust from the floors of a factory in China?

Note to self: Tell mother to wear card-scratching mask.

1) I don’t think I have ever purchased a scratch card for myself. Perhaps, if I lived in one of the Top Five States that spend the most money on scratch cards, I, too, would have succumbed to this addiction.

  1. Massachusetts
  2. West Virginia
  3. Rhode Island
  4. Delaware
  5. New York

In fact, according to MoneyWise, the monies spent in Massachusetts on scratch tickets equate to almost a thousand dollars per adult. It makes sense as this Atlantic coast state (interestingly, a geographical characteristic shared by all five top states) claims to be home of the original instant scratch ticket.

2) I am a fan of Simpsons-esque eyeballs–large and round with the pupil smack-dab in the middle. And, as far as eyes go, I subscribe to a “the bigger the better” school of thought–unless they are simply temporarily enlarged due to a night of scratch card playing or cocaine snorting.

The world’s largest eyeballs belong to the Colossal Squid. These baby blues–or should I say blacks–measure in at 11 inches in diameter. Eyes the size of dinner plates.

My ex-father-in-law had a glass eye that he used to pop out of his head from time-to-time. I’d find it on my chair, my place mat,  or other random places. Thankfully, it was small. I can’t imagine finding this thing sitting next to my fork.

Plus, isn’t this squid missing his eyeball? Is he out there somewhere swimming around with a giant eye patch bumping into blue whales and things?

3) According to Marc Okrand, the creator of the Klingon language, roughly 100 people are fluent in this tongue. Is it just me or is this 99 people too many? I remember mastering Ubbi Dubbi as a young child. I thought I had unlocked a secret code–a little kids’ version of the Dead Sea Scrolls. But, for the most part, whenever I uttered something like “Hubellubo! Hubow Ubare Yubou?” people simply looked at me like I was having some type of seizure.

The point that I am trying to make is that I was a child. The adults around me did not pull out their Ubbi Dubbi to English dictionaries and try to decipher my nonsense. They told me to talk like a normal person. Why, then, have 100 grown-up humans gone to great pains to master a language that only 99 other people have mastered? Has no one told them to talk like a normal person?

If you’ve never actually heard a non-Klingon speaking Klingon, you will want to check out this dude rapping in Klingon.



Photo credits: Squid Eye:  Drug Addict:


My Mushroom Story…Yes, I Have One

I am neurotic. I don’t know when my perception of the world around me transformed from a blissful place of sunshine and lollipops into the anxiety-riddled one that I now inhibit  inhabit. My mother says I was always a tad bit…um…”different” (insert finger quotes here), which I guess is true. I did believe, after all, that tow trucks broke cars and firemen started fires. Think about it. Every time a car stops working, there’s a tow truck around. And, every time there’s a fire…well, you know where I’m headed with this.

camel tow

It seems that my mind–although highly superior to others in many aspects–in my opinion, which, by the way means very little given the state of my mind to begin with– was pre-programmed for neuroses at a very early age. (If you made it through that sentence without experiencing a walloping migraine, congratulations for your stick-to-itiveness. If that sentence made sense to you, please accept my condolences. I see padded cells and really long-sleeved white jackets in your future.)


When I was 7 years old, I experienced what I call the Toadstool Event…an event which has given me a phobia of inedible fungi.  Mycophobia. A fear of fungus. Yes, even the cutest flock of fungi has the power to fray my nerves.

Don't let their innocent faces fool you.

Don’t let their innocent faces fool you.

It started off as an innocent school trip.  My classmates and I merrily frolicked through the forest, picking colourful fungi to take back to our classroom, “oh-ing” and “aw-ing” at every turn, trying to outdo one another by finding increasingly weirder-looking specimens.  When our mushroom marauding came to an end, we piled on our school bus and returned to school just in time for lunch.

I happily devoured my peanut butter and raspberry jam sandwich and my wagon wheel (a chocolate-covered marshmallowy dessert adored by school children in the 1970s, not an actual wagon wheel, although those likely contain a great deal of healthy fibre), and headed back to my classroom.

wagon wheels

If these are the “original” wagon wheels, I would suggest backing away from the box.


Upon entering, my teacher (who from this moment on, I will refer to as Ms. WTF Were-You-Thinking) stated, “Now, I hope you all washed your hands before lunch as you did handle poisonous mushrooms.” The whole room broke into a series of obedient nods and “yes, Ms. WTF’s.” I, however, had lapsed into horrified silence.

Image result for hand mushroom

I could almost picture the toadstool remnants stuck to my hands. 

I had not washed my hands. I had potentially eaten peanut butter, jam, and toadstool spores for lunch. I had no choice. I had to confess my potentially life-threatening hygiene faux-pas. And what followed is likely what transformed an otherwise well-adjusted (albeit slovenly) child into a neurotic, hand-washing-obsessed worrywart who is actually allergic to mushrooms. It’s true. I’ve been tested. Well, the mushroom part…I’ve never been tested for the rest.

Ms. WTF Were-You-Thinking immediately  gathered the offending fungi around her, opened up her toadstool book and proceeded to say aloud, ” this looks like the destroying angel.” The very name was ominous. She continued to read the potential side effects of accidental ingestion, but my mind only heard the words “deadly” and “Poison Control.” I don’t remember much after that–other than my parents receiving a phone call that evening stating that Poison Control had concluded that I had not, in fact, been in contact with any toxic fungi and that I would, indeed, live.

In a true neurotic fashion, I did not believe them and forced my parents to stay up with me in case I died. I, apparently, fell asleep at 10:00 and was pleased to wake up the next morning and discover that I was still alive.

Image result for hand washing compulsive

And that is my mushroom story.

I’ve got to go. My hands are calling me.



Photo credits:

Camel Tow:

Toadstools: I’ve had this on my computer for so long, I don’t know where it came from. If it is yours, let me know and I’ll give you credit. By the way, brilliant photo!

Wagon wheels:

hand fungus:


I’ve got a horrible taste in my mouth and I’m buried in snot rags…

I am feeling nauseated. Whoever invented the term “I’ve got butterflies in my stomach” needs a slap to the head…with a brick. My gut feels like a herd of hissing cockroaches are at war with a bevy of botulism-riddled bacterium carrying Swiss army knives. Butterflies, my ass. Speaking of “ass”…my butt is the cause of my urge to vomit. My buttal region has recently gone on strike and, as a result, I decided to give it a not-so-gentle nudge with a dose of Milk of Magnesia.

Now, for those of you who have never experienced this tummy-churning, bowel-blowing concoction brought to you by the lovely people at Phillips, don’t let the heavenly manna-esque name fool you. And do not let the bottle’s promise of mint or cherry flavouring raise your hopes either. All the chocolate in Switzerland could not improve the “dead fish and chalk” taste at the root of this witch’s brew.


Image result for vintage milk of magnesia ad

Sweet? Pleasant? WTF? 

So, here I sit with my guts rumbling, my taste-buds cringing, and a reinforced distaste for all things minty. But my butt will know who’s boss.

And, while I’m on the topic of masking horrifying tastes with seemingly benign flavours, does anyone–other than me–automatically associate artificial cherry flavouring with cough syrup?

Well, it would appear that the company that produces Kit Kat chocolate bars has decided to one-up this trend by masking the taste of chocolate–after all, who enjoys that creamy cocoa taste?–with the medicinal flavour of cough drops. Yes, the new flavour, available for a limited time only in Japan, contains throat lozenge powder. Apparently, this is aimed at preventing sore throats as soccer fans cheer on the Japanese National Soccer Team. If you want to try one of these cough-suppressing candy bars, you are out of luck. They were only available until September 2017. Darn it all.

The United Kingdom’s Donna Griffiths certainly wished that there was a tasty anecdote to sneezing as she achoo-d her way into a Guinness World Record. She sneezed for a consecutive 977 days, from January 13, 1981 to September 16, 1983–including roughly a millions sneezes in the first year alone.

Did she hold a job? How did she sleep? I want to know more about this. This would make an awesome movie. A little hard to find an actress willing to tackle this role, but Meryl Streep could do it.

Did everyone around her get tired of saying “God Bless You” and “Gesundheit?” How much Kleenex did she use? Did she find it hard to stay within her 2 garbage bag limit on trash day?

Virtual Assistant Help

On that note, I must run. Read into that what you may.


Image Credits:

Milk of Magnesia-