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

Plans for the Day: Swallow Rhode Island, get my dog’s tongue shortened, and shop for cookies with Betty White.

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

I tend to dream a lot.  Part of my breakfast routine is sharing my previous night’s slumber adventures with my husband.  He doesn’t really listen, but I tell him about them anyways.  He claims he doesn’t dream.  I tell him, “everyone dreams, but not everyone remembers.”  He doesn’t believe this.

I miss dreaming.  It would seem that my cough suppressant-induced comas aren’t conducive to dreams.  I do enjoy being able to sleep through the night without awaking to rib-snapping fits of hacking up phlegm (who wouldn’t right?), but I no longer have anything exciting to talk about over breakfast.

I once dreamt that I was shopping for Peanut Butter Pirate Cookies with Betty White.  That was fun.  I’ve also ridden a roller-coaster with Gordon Ramsay yelling in my ear.  That was strange, but I find Ramsay rather sexy.  Especially when he’s cursing.  I don’t know what “bollocks” are, but they sound dirty.  My sleep-twin has been rescued and seduced by Horatio Cain, sunglasses and all–which made me look at David Caruso in a whole new light.  I’ve even had my childhood dog return to life–but in my dream, he smelled like decaying canine (whatever that smells like) and I felt guilty for not wanting to play with him.

I would love to hear about your strangest dreams.  Maybe I could pretend they were mine and talk about them over tomorrow’s breakfast?

1)  In my Gordon Ramsay dream, we were stuck in a car at the top of a roller coaster.  And, no, not a roller coaster car–a street car.  In his defense, that could explain a lot of his yelling.  And his profanities.

It would appear that someone in Japan also has strange dreams–dreams that he or she later makes a reality.  Welcome to the the Skycycle in Okayama‘s Washuzan Highland Park–a roller coaster buggy that you must pedal, yourself.  Just what I need–a mixture of terrifying heights and cardio.

And I hate roller coasters.  I am afraid of heights and I suffer from motion sickness.  These give me panic attacks while I barf.  I have found that the best way to endure one is to simply close my eyes.  Well, this Japanese invention totally rules that remedy out.  I don’t want to be the one pedaling with their eyes closed, bumping into everyone else’s cart.  I might shove someone off the track, sending them plummeting to the ground below, perhaps on top of a vehicle carrying an elderly couple and their great grandchildren and their blind chihuahua, Clive, which would be a shame, course.  Or worse, I might hit Gordon Ramsay.  And he’d yell at me.  Hey, maybe dreams can come true.

Here’s what this thing looks like in action.  It looks sort of sedate, but remember…this involves the prolonged torture of having to LOOK DOWN!

2)  As I sit down to breakfast to bombard my husband with tales of my dreams the night before, I’ll have to stop and inspect my cereal more closely.  I could be inadvertently devouring a small fortune–and the likeness of a province or state.

Apparently, two sisters from Virginia (who knew their geographical shapes quite well and, obviously, eat very slowly) discovered this Illinois-like flake and managed to sell it on e-bay for $1350.

Rumour has it that the pair originally tried to auction the flake, itself, but were not in accordance with e-bay’s food rules.  Instead, they auctioned off a coupon redeemable for this crispy corn Illinois replica.  Clever.

3)  So, in the dream about my “dead dog come back to life,” I am happy to see my canine friend.  Don’t get me wrong.  But he smells really bad.  Doggy breath is raunchy at the best of times, but after being dead for twenty years–ACK!

Now here is a dog that I wouldn’t want puppy kisses from at all–dead or alive.  This is Puggy, the Guinness Record Holder for the dog with the longest tongue–the Gene Simmons of the canine world.  This otherwise cute little Pekingese has 4 1/5 inches of dog-slobber-laden papillae.  ACK, again.

If you’d like to see Puggy and his pink friend in action, here you are:

Well, I must go.  Betty White’s honking the horn.  She must need an Oreo.

 

Photo Credits:  roller coaster (declubz.com), corn flake (msnbc.msn.com), illinois outline (theus50.com), tongue dog (ohnotheydidn’t.livejournal.com).

Hand me my chicken shades, my dog’s polka album, and a cough drop, please.

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

It would seem that my formerly mentioned head full of snot, which I had chalked up to being a mere summer cold, has somehow mutated into whooping cough.  Yes, I am being bested by a childhood disease.  I tell you–kids are tough.  I think if adults had to endure teething, we’d go ballistic.  Millions of newly-toothed adults pounding the snot out of each other.  Oops, there’s the word “snot” again.  I’m a little preoccupied with it.

And the term “whooping cough” sounds like it should be much more fun than it actually is.  I, in no way, feel like saying “whoop.”  I do, however, feel like beating myself over the head with a sack of hammers.

I remind myself of an episode of Seinfeld–come to think of it, everything reminds me of an episode of Seinfeld.

1)  Humans have been trying to “humanize” the animals around them ever since Noah crammed them into the world’s first cruise ship.  Poodles with parkas, pink dyed curls, and booties.  Need I say more?

This funky chicken appears to be enjoying her Elton John-esque, rose-coloured glasses–but don’t let her seemingly sunny disposition fool you.    In fact, these shades have been designed to prevent her from pecking her friends and relations…um…to death.  Yes, not all chickens are peaceful Foghorn Leghorn types.

I first came across these poultry accessories on an episode of Storage Wars.  Barry Weiss is not only easy on my 20/20 vision eyes, but he is also a fountain of knowledge–quickly identifying the mysterious objects as chicken glasses.

Check out this 1947 news clip.  You’ll be amazed by what passed for “clever banter” back then.  Not a glowing moment in our developmental history.

2)  We’ve all heard of shoes for dogs, but what about shoes that look like dogs?  Now you can say, “these puppies hurt my feet” and really mean it.

Created by Israeli designer, Kobi Levi, in 2010, these babies raised a few eyebrows…human and schnauzer alike.

I said, “Heel!”

3)  Snoopy thinks he is human.  He composes novels, engages in regular plane fights, decorates his doghouse for Christmas, ice skates, and prepares turkey dinners.  I’d love a dog that cooked.  Especially if he cleaned the kitchen afterwards.

Here are a few interesting facts about Snoopy:

He loves root beer.  Mm. root beer.

He’s afraid of large, dangling icicles.

His favourite brand of dog food is called “For Dogs Who Flew in World War 1 and  understand a little French.”

He was once engaged, but his bride-to-be took off with a Golden Retriever.  Must have been the hair.  And the height.

He plays the accordion and has a penchant for polka music.  Okay, that makes him a human with bad taste.

Here is a whooping crane.  I have whooping cough.  I don’t like this bird right now.

Photo Credits:  Chicken in shades (gp1.pinbike.org), Dog shoes (glamour.com), Snoopy (www.myfreewallpapers.net), whooping crane (www.birdorable.com).

A Lopped Off Tail, A Broken Beak, and a Whole Lotta Curds

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

Many years ago, when my parents were still dating, my father wrote love letters to my mom.  I know.  Cute.  Even cuter, he would always signed them with a hand-drawn ookpik by his name.  Ookpik?

As a kid, I always loved the seal-fur ookpik in my mother’s curio.  I know.  What the heck’s an ookpik?

And when I was eight years old, my dad bought me a royal blue, felt covered, ookpik that I fell in love with immediately and named it “Ernie.”  He was best friends with a little bear, “Herbert.”  Yes, I did watch a lot of Sesame Street.  And yes, Bert and Ernie were my favourites.  The budding young writer that I was, I instinctively knew that blatantly hijacking these Muppet monikers was wrong.  Herbert and Ernie were close–but not the same.  Anyway, back to my ookpik.  I quickly learned that running down the community ski hill behind our house with a bear in one hand and an ookpik in another was a danger-fraught activity.  One false step and I found myself tumbling down what felt like an endless mini-mountain.  I broke my pinky finger.  And my ookpik bent his beak.  Permanently.  I know, I know–what the hell is an ookpik, once and for all?

My fellow Canadians know.  Especially those born prior to the 1980s.  Those from outside the Great White North, however, likely don’t have a clue.  Perhaps, you have become frustrated and googled the word “ookpik.”   If you are my friend at  http://motherhoodisanart.com/, you are already “in” on the secret.

Well, here it is.  “Ookpik” is an Inuit word for “owl.”  In the 1960s and early 70s, they became all the rage up here–sort of morphing into a breed of owl of its very own.  The ookpik is usually wingless–it’s only features being eyes, a beak, and toes.

Here are some examples:

Unfortunately, when I was in highschool, an errant mouse ate a hole through Ernie.  Such is the life of a felt ookpik.  And, yes, I still miss him.

Now, back to these two adorable Sesame Street roommates.  When I was in high school, I decided to conduct a survey relating to their names (I’m a survey junkie).  And now, I am going to conduct it again.

1)  Japan’s strange inventions have often been featured in my blog, so I thought it only fair that I poke fun at the oddball ideas that have come to fruition thanks to Canadian minds.

One of the strangest, and perhaps, most lethal from a cardiologist’s point-of-view is Poutine (pronounced poo-tinn).  This dish originated in nearby Quebec, but is now sold at mainstream fast-food restaurants like Wendy’s and A&W throughout Canada.  But anyone who really knows Canada, knows that we LOVE our chip trucks.  And no one does better poutine than one of those.

Poutine is simply a pile of french fries covered (or rather smothered) in dark gravy and cheese curds.  Mm.  Cheese curds.  It is sinfully delicious, but will probably clog an artery or two.

If you think that’s weird.  There was a chip truck in Eastern Ontario that sold fries smothered in butter.  Greasy french fries with butter?  Really?

We Canucks are a hearty lot.  Or so we like to tell ourselves.  Maybe we’re just all nuts.  Here’s a typical chip truck, Canuck-style: 

2)  This is my all-time favourite Canadian treat.  First of all, it originates in my hometown, Ottawa.  All good things come from Ottawa.  Except politicians.

And, most importantly, they are delicious.  BeaverTails–not politicians.  No, we do not hunt down buck-toothed rodents and lop off their tails.  We are, in fact, quite kind to our beavers.  We even put them on our nickels.

The “BeaverTail” is a flattened lump of whole wheat dough, deep-fried, and smothered in various mouth-watering toppings.  The traditional one is covered in cinnamon and sugar.  If you add a twist of lemon, you have the Killaloe Sunrise.  But, for the true sweet-tooth, you can smother yours in chocolate hazelnut, maple butter, apples with cinnamon, banana chocolate, chocolate & vanilla, chocolate & peanut butter & Reese’s Pieces, or cream cheese with Skor pieces and chocolate drizzle.  Damn, now I’m hungry.  I think I’ll head down to the park and get me one of these.  Blogging is not good for the waistline.

Oh, yeah.  Did I mention that BeaverTails, just like Poutine, are sold in small chip-truck-sized, cabin-like buildings.  Here is a typical BeaverTail vendor:

So far we have learned that Canadians like strange-looking, furry owls; have a penchant for heart-stopping, curd-covered, deep-fried potatoes; and regularly nibble on cinnamon-covered beaver appendages.  Quite simply put, we make the Japanese look normal.  But wait.  I still haven’t reached number 3.  There’s always a number three.

3)  Americans love to make fun of us.  According to them, we talk funny.  Yes, according to the nation that produced the southern twang and drawl, the Boston accent, and whatever those people in the movie Fargo were speaking, WE talk funny.  So, here’s a tip for those who really want to mimic us well–here are some uniquely Canadian words.  Ours are the ones in BOLD print.

Eh?  Replaces “Huh?” or “Do you agree?”

Serviette= Napkin

Washroom= Bathroom

Pop=Soda.  We do say Club Soda and Cream Soda though.  Everything else is Pop.

Chocolate bar=Candy bar

Chesterfield=sofa or couch

Double Double=two creams, two sugars in coffee.

Pencil Crayon=coloured pencil

Runners=sneakers

Rad=radiator.  We don’t say “rad” for radical.

Hydro=electrical service.  Paying our hydro bill is the same as paying the Power Company in the US.

Bachelor=small type of apartment.  “Bachelor for rent” does not cause confusion up here.

Garburator=garbage disposal.

Two-four=case of twenty-four beer.

Brown Bread=Whole Wheat Bread.

Kraft Dinner=Kraft Macaroni & Cheese

Homo Milk=Homogenized Milk

Housecoat=Bathrobe

Go missing=disappear

knapsack=backpack

Lineup=a line or queue.

Postal code=Zip code

Ski-doo=snowmobile

Transport truck=tractor trailer

So, now you can speak Canadian.  Woo. Woo.

Photo Credits:  ookpiks: 1 (static.artfire.com),  2 (www.mccord-museum.qc.ca), 3 (farm3.static.flickr.com), 4 (subrosa-rosamundi.blogspot.ca),  5 (www.nait.ca), 6 (farm3.staticflickr.com), Bert & Ernie (whatvinniethinks.com),  Poutine (trentonstories.blogspot.ca), Chip Truck ( busblog.tonypierce.com), Beavertail  (www.foodgypsy.ca) BeaverTail Truck ( foodworld-evablogspot.ca),   eh (www.talktocanada.com).  

The “You Make My Day” Award

Posted by facelikeafryingpan in May 2012

I love starting things.  Finishing them is a whole other thing.  So, I thought to myself, “Self.  What is something that I can start without having to finish?”  And, a-ha, it came to me.  Start a blogging award.  So, after a little bit of time on Paint, here it is…The You Make My Day Award.  

This award is designed to thank the bloggers that brighten, enlighten, or heighten your day.  

Receiving a prestigious award such as this does come with a few responsibilities.

First, one must thank the person who nominated them.

Second, you are required to answer the following 8 questions.

1)  Why do you blog?

2)  If you were trapped on a desert island, what book, DVD, food, cartoon character, and childhood game would you bring?

3) Share a funny joke or one-liner.

4) What is your favourite thing about your self?

5) What one word best describes you?

6)  If you could have a lifetime supply of any candy/candy bar, what would it be?

7)  What fictional character do you relate to most?

8)  If you were to write the story of your life, what would you call it?

And, last but definitely not least, nominate 8…yup, just 8…of your favourite blogs.  Be sure to let them know and share the instructions.

So, I am nominating:

1) http://familyhaikus.wordpress.com/

2) http://pickyniki.wordpress.com/

3) http://justoutsidetheboxcartoon.com/

4) http://onthehomefrontandbeyond.wordpress.com/

5) http://dottyheadbanger.wordpress.com/

6) http://motherhoodisanart.com/

7) http://palomasharma.wordpress.com/

8) http://kitchenslattern.com/

Thank you for Brightening, Enlightening, and Heightening My Days!!

This is just a sampling of the many awesome blogs that I have encountered.  Remember, I could only pick 8!!

A Tree Made of Rubber, A Head Full of Snot, and A Bike Named Bob

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

“For my birthday I got a humidifier and a de-humidifier… I put them in the same room and let them fight it out.”  Steven Wright.

Two days until the start of Fall a.k.a. Autumn.  I wonder why it has two names.  Actually, I really wonder how the name “fall” came about.  Is it because the leaves “fall?”  What if you live in a country where leaves don’t fall?  What if your surrounded by pines, or palms, or rubber trees?  By the way, rubber trees sound cool.  Trees made of rubber.  I wonder if they bend like Gumby.

In winter, the snow “falls,” so why didn’t we call it fall?  Why doesn’t summer have the alias “swelter?”  Spring could be called “smells like poop.”  I like that.  People would ask, “Where are you going for Smells Like Poop Break?”

I am currently suffering through a summer cold–soon to become a Fall cold.  My head is a throbbing cesspool of snot.  My ears can no longer do what they are paid to do–hear.  They seem to have decided to try aching instead.  Even my tongue hurts.  Who the hell gets a sore tongue?

On the upside, my husband is enjoying the quiet.  But I am going crazy.  I must yammer.  Thank God for blogs.  And a captive audience.  Assuming you’re still there.  (Insert sound of crickets).

And I’ve never actually seen a rubber tree.  If you cut one down, I’m sure the logs don’t bounce.  But I like to imagine they do.  For some reason, this reminds me of a Seinfeld bit…

1)  Speaking of bouncing, here is a ball that doesn’t bounce.  It’s made of cling wrap.  It clings.

According to the Guinness World Records people, this is the world’s largest ball made of cling wrap.  There have been others?  And this sucker weighs over 281 pounds.  The last time I looked, Saran Wrap wasn’t cheap, making this one valuable ball.  Not that anyone would want to use any of this cellophane now.  He’s put his feet on it.  And I think I see dog droppings in the lawn.

2)  Rubber Trees remind me of the Osmond’s and their brief TV Show, The Osmond Family Show.  Marie sang the song “High Hopes” about the rubber tree plant on that show. I was never a fan of Donnie & Marie, if I’m completely honest.  I just remember that Donnie wore purple socks.  The whole family had very nice teeth.  I bet if they all smiled at once, the blinding, white light could be seen from space.  And they were all horribly sweet and nice.  They made the Brady Bunch look like the Manson Family.  My favourite Brady was the dog, “Tiger,” which is a cat’s name–a fact that confused me immensely as a child.  And, apparently, also as an adult.  That sentence consisted of nothing but words that start with “a.”  Cool.

3)  So, while Marie Osmond was singing about an ant and a rubber tree plant, what were Americans naming their children?  According to the Social Security Administration, 1979’s top names were:

Jennifer & Michael.

Out of curiosity, I checked 1929 as well.  Turns out Mary & Robert were # 1 then.

That’s why my bike is named Bob.  And my car.  Bob’s a good name.

Now, I must go blow my nose.

Photo Credits:  Cling Wrap Ball (Huffington Post), baby (blog.howdesign.com).

I was driving in my furry car to see the Captain of Beans when my arm fell off.

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

Last night, I made the mistake of saying aloud, “I like wind.”

My husband, who never passes up a chance to be funny, quickly responded “Is that why you fart so much?”

I’m a bit of an attention hog, myself, so I deftly replied, “Yes.  And I’m really upset that I can’t put my ass in front of my face.”

This is the sort of banter that takes place in my house all the time.  But that’s not where I was going with this post.  The fact is that I LOVE wind.  The type created by Mother Nature, not Libby’s brown beans.

I so wish I could pretend to be a dog and stick my head out the car window, but let’s face it–I’d probably get my head lopped off by a mailbox or something.  Instead, I play it safe by sleeping in front of a fan.  Yes, we have central air, so it’s not because I’m hot.  In fact, sometimes I’m downright cold.  But the wind feels damn good.  Even if it is frigid.

And in the car, I never use the a/c–which is a major accomplishment.  It gets pretty darn hot and sticky here in the summer.  (Yup, I’m Canadian.  And, yes, we do get heat.  Eh?)  My husband, however, loves air conditioning.  You might think this causes a dilemma.  Not at all.  Our car is the Switzerland of automobiles.  His half of the vehicle is like a chilly, sealed-off, tomb with all the artificial air-pushing vents pointed in his direction.  My side has the window wide open and my arm flapping in the fresh, “real air” breeze.

The only problem is that insects travelling at 85 kms an hour hurt.  My arm has seen–or rather “felt”–it all.  Errant beetles, fuzzy bees, and God knows what else has been smucked against my tender flesh.  I know.  You’re saying, “How do you think the poor bug felt?”  I’m not without a soul.  I also feel sorry for the bugs.  But I cannot stop.

On an unrelated topic, I heard this joke on Ellen the other day.  What did the zero say to the eight?  I like your belt.

1)  What do you get when you cross a beetle and a rhinoceros?  Apparently, the ugliest bug ever.  Seriously, look at that thing.  It’s name is the “rhinoceros beetle” and I must say that both I and my arm were relieved to learn that it resides in the Far East.  And I don’t mean East as in Newfoundland–I mean China and Japan.  My heart does go out to my Japanese and Chinese arm-flailing counterparts though.  Having one of these careen into your arm would probably leave you…well…armless.

If you’re a regular follower of my blog–and if you aren’t, what is wrong with you?–you will know what a fascinating place Japan is.  Well, the home of the girlfriend pillow, tomato chocolate, the suction cap helmet, and so much more has struck again.

While we wimpy North Americans play with our pet Labradoodles and listen to the Snuggle Bear sell us laundry products, the Japanese are seemingly immune to such soft and cuddly façades.  They appear to prefer sharp and crunchy, particularly when it comes in the form of the rhinoceros beetle.  Pet stores sell them for $5 to $10.  In some places in Japan, you can even get one in a vending machine.  Hopefully, not the same one that dispenses Coke and Doritos.

They are also popular cartoon characters.  This makes me wonder what we are missing out on.  Perhaps, we should also embrace the insect world.  Monty the Mosquito?   David Dung Beetle?  Maybe these should be the subjects of the next Pixar flick.

2) One Beetle that I am a HUGE fan of is the Volkswagen variety.  You’ve got to love a vehicle that gives you permission to punch people.

The clever folk at the Dallas Arboretum have discovered a way to create soft fuzzy, colourful Bugs.  Meet the VW topiary Westfalia and Beetle pair.  These former street vehicles have had their proverbial guts removed and some sort of plant-friendly caging or meshing attached and “voila”–look at how pretty they now are!

This would make Herbie proud.

3) Japan is not the only place where I find strange things.  The UK has its fair share.

Meet “Captain Beany”–yup, that is what he “officially” goes by–the Curator of the Baked Bean Museum of Excellence.  Mister Beany–I refuse to recognize his self-appointed ranking–has amassed over 200 artefacts in his Port Talbot, Wales museum.  Um, he refers to it as a “virtual haricot heaven.”

So, there you have it.  If you consider yourself to be a bean fiend, this just may be the place for you.  But I don’t see any Libby’s.

In honour of all you busy-bowelled bean eaters, here is a clip of the famous Blazing Saddles bean scene:  

And, course, I couldn’t have a blog that mentioned “beans” without at least one clip from Mr. Bean.  

Photo Credits:  Ugly bug (http://life-bite.blogspot.ca), VW topiaries (http://www.dallasplanttrials.org), Mister Beany (http://www.bakedbeanmuseumofexcellence.org.uk/).

Use your stubby arms to throw the dog a pizza ball. And put the butter back in the fridge.

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

Do you ever have one of those days where you can’t seem to string together a coherent group of words to save your soul?  I’m having one of those.  So, of course–I have decided to write a blog.  You, after all, are used to my lack of lucidity.  My rambling, moronic, rants.

A few things have occurred to me lately.

Why is the English language so strange?  I can’t imagine trying to learn it for the first time.  Who decided to name evergreens “fir” trees?  Especially in Canada.  We suffer the “living in igloos” stereotype enough without newcomers falsely believing that it’s so cold here our trees need fur.

And who invented the doughnut?  And why?  If something tastes good, why would you want to have less of it by cutting out a hole?

And why can an owl turn his neck right around?  It’s not like he needs to back his car out of a long driveway.  Or keep an eye on misbehaving students, while he writes on the blackboard.

And why are my arms too  short to scratch the middle of my back?

And why does aspartame taste like crap?

If you know the answer to any of these conundrums, I would love it if you could enlighten me.  In the mean time, I will share a few gleanings that I have discovered of my own.

1)  Most of you know that I am short.  Only five feet tall to be exact.  My lack of height is exacerbated by the fact that everyone seems to be getting taller these days.  Seriously, I feel like an ewok.  With slightly less fur.   And better enunciation.

It turns out that things could be worse.  Yes, I am on the very short end of the height spectrum–for humans.  But I could be a short dog.

“Why would that be worse?” you ask.  Good question.  It turns out that if human heights varied as much as our canine counterparts, the shortest person would be around two feet tall–that would be me–and the tallest would stand at 31 feet.  Suddenly, I don’t feel so short.  I could be two feet tall.  Or 31.  It would be hard to find pants either way.  Or agree on a the height for my kitchen counters.  Where would you put a doorknob? I guess you’d have to have more than one.  And imagine if the tall guy sat in front of you at the theatre.

2)  Okay.  So, you are now going to think I am an idiot.  I think I am, so you might as well too.  For some reason, I always thought that doughnuts were made without holes in them and that the dough balls were later punched out.  It’s Tim Horton’s fault, really.  If the holes weren’t going to be punched out and discarded, why did they develop the Timbit (for those of you outside of Canada, these are doughnut holes that we buy by the dozens).

It turns out that doughnuts are formed in their tire-like shape–hole and all.  I feel very let down by this discovery.

Does anyone remember the little dough balls they used to put with pizzas in the pizza box?  I always wondered what they were for.  But, for some reason, they were always my favourite part of the pizza.  Until we got a dog.  Then the dough ball became “his” part of the pizza.  Stupid dog.

Speaking of Tim Horton’s–they recently caused massive confusion with the introduction of new cup sizes.  If you want to experience this ordering mayhem for yourself, watch this:

3)  After years of “heart smart” Becel, I miss the taste of real butter.  So much so that when I go to a restaurant, I always take a few of the little single servings home. I just found two in my purse.  They had melted.  Note to self:  put plastic baggy in purse for butter-thieving occasions.

And, apparently, butter isn’t just for eating anymore.  It has become a great medium for art.  Honest.  I just realized that my last blog had a bit about sculpting with cow poop.  Today’s is about butter.  I seem to be developing a cow fetish.  Hm.

Here are some mouth-watering examples of butter art:

Photo Credits:  Staypuft (ghostbusters.wikia.com), Homer (www.simpsonovi-dnes.estranky.cz), cow jumping over moon (edibleblog.com), Ben Franklin (endlesssimmer.com), farmer/cow/sheep (illusion.scene360.com), sow and piglets (dyscario.com), motorcycle cow (uk.search4eat.com), man with lion (thechive.com), cafeteria lady (thebaresquare.com), rose (edibleblog.com).  

I will eat my gold tomato, wipe my butt with a cactus, and talk to the hamster with the pretty white gloves

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

I recently decided I wanted to buy a hamster.  Yes, I realize this is an unusual pet choice for a grown-up.  In my defence, I have allergies, so my selection is limited.  And hamsters are low maintenance–perfect for a scatterbrained individual like myself.

So, I headed off to Walmart and picked out a cage that looks like something the Jetsons would live in, some light blue shavings (yup, they come in techno-colour now), and some food.  I turned around with my heavily-laden arms (I was too stupid to get a cart beforehand), only to have a little old lady exclaim, “Oh!  You must have children.  I remember those days.”  Part of me wanted to make her feel like an idiot by saying, “Nope.  This is for me.”  But, then, I realized she may not feel like an idiot at all.  She might just think that I’m the idiot.  An adult with a hamster.  I simply smiled and said, “yes.”  Yes, I know.  I lied.  But it was a neat and tidy lie.  No flowers.  I didn’t feel compelled to give my fictitious children names (Molly and Clive would have come to mind.  I don’t know why) or ages (what age is “hamster appropriate?”).  I didn’t embellish and add a tragic tale of woe about a flattened beagle and the family car.  I managed to keep my deception to a single syllable.  This, in itself, is noteworthy.

My hamster is now home.  I have decided it is a “he.”  Apparently, “sexing” a hamster is tricky, so one really never knows.  I had originally named him “Clive” (there’s that name again) because he looks rather formal–for a relative of a rat.  He has white hands.  Like he’s wearing gloves.  But that name was not received with great applause.  He is now officially “Humphrey.”  I don’t know why.

Which, for some reason, brings me to something that I have been wondering about.  Did Noah have to wait for snails and slugs to make their way on to the ark?  Did he invite them first, so that he could get other things done while they were travelling?  Or did he wave his hands in frustration and pick them up?  Which makes me wonder how many “slower” animals didn’t make it on time.

And, how did Noah “sex” the hamsters to make sure he, indeed, had one of each gender?  And wouldn’t the ark have become overrun with the little buggers?  And rabbits.  And why on earth did he invite the mosquito?

1)  I admit that I do like escargot–at least I think I do.  Maybe it’s just the garlic butter that I enjoy.  Let’s face it–everything tastes good smothered in melted golden butter with garlic thrown in.  I have never actually had a snail without it.  Maybe they taste like dirt.  Or erasers.  Or worse, dirt-covered erasers.

Apparently, someone thinks they taste pretty good.  They have, in fact, become a key ingredient in one of the world’s most expensive dishes–a “curry” that goes for a whopping $3600 US.

London’s Bombay Brassiere has taken opulence (and quite possibly, indigestion) to a whole new level.  What their menu calls “The Samundari Khazana Curry” consists of Devon crab, white truffle, sea snails (told you–star of the show), Scottish lobster, and caviar.  But wait–I forgot the proverbial “icing on the cake”–this time in the form of gold.  Really.  The lobster has been iced with edible gold leaf.  Even a lowly cherry tomato has been coated with the stuff.  ACK.  Sure, gold is pretty.  As a ring.  A necklace.  Or in it’s natural shape–a long, rectangular bar.  But it doesn’t belong in my lower intestine.  That’s just wrong.  

I guess it’s like laying a golden egg.  Only messier.

2)  If you poop gold, ordinary toilet paper simply will not do.  It is likely that you prefer to use $100 bills.  But, if you find yourself short on cash (likely because you just indulged at the Bombay Brassiere), you may wish to opt for the faux c-note instead.  Justtoiletpaper.com (yes, there is a store for everything these days) will sell you a roll for $8.95.

I wonder how Benjamin Franklin feels about this.

If currency is not your style, there are many other fashionable rolls on which to wipe your tender toosh.  I thought it would be fun (not to mention unconventional) to hold a favourite toilet paper poll right here.

3)  So, maybe you don’t poop gold.  It doesn’t mean that your bowels are incapable of creating a masterpiece of their very own.  Just ask artist, Sam Mahon.  He has turned cow patties into a bust that sold for thousands.

The subject of his piece, New Zealand Environment Minister, Nick Smith likely wasn’t thrilled with his “sh*tty” likeness.  Mahon created the piece to protest against what he claimed was Smith’s failure to protect waterways from dairy farm pollution.  Apparently, the piece  doesn’t smell at all.

But kiddies, I wouldn’t recommend trying this at home.

Photo Credits:  gold lobster (http://goodnewsaday.wordpress.com/2011/10/08/the-most-expensive-food-in-the-world-2/), toilet paper money (comparestoreprices.co.uk), toilet paper for poll (www.justtoiletpaper.com),  poop bust (www.stuff.co.nz).

A Sip of Eye Juice Please. I Must Go Run Over Myself.

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

Many years ago, someone sold my grandmother a used Dodge Diplomat.  She was quite proud of  her new wheels–and greatly amused that people often mistook it for a cop car.  It was white.  And big.  And the popular choice of many small town police stations.  There was just one problem.  The floor was rotting out.

When she discovered this formerly hidden problem, she was mortified.  It would cost a fortune to fix.  Plus, she wondered what other secret ailments this car was keeping from her.

None of this interested me at all.  I was too busy wondering  if a “hole” in the floor meant that she would run over herself.  This is how my mind works.

I also wonder if Gordon Ramsay ever eats Kraft Dinner.

And why there’s a train car at our local body shop.

And if anyone has an aardvark I could borrow.  (We seem to be overrun with ants).

I have a simple mind that is fascinated by very strange things.  Much like Homer Simpson.  

Back to the topic of Kraft Dinner.  It would appear that we, the consumers, are dissatisfied with the run-of-the mill KD fare.  Apparently, we want healthier noodles smothered in fake cheese.  Kraft recently introduced versions that are higher in fibre and crammed full of omega 3.  Well, I got brave the other day and tried some of their “all vegetable” type–made with cauliflower.  Yes, you read that right.  Cauliflower Kraft Dinner.

My first thought was–“Sure.  Like I’m supposed to believe that this is actually made with cauliflower.”  I’m not usually cynical by nature, but this sounded too good to be  true.  Healthy KD?  But, it would appear that the people at Kraft can truly be  trusted.  The noxious fumes of boiled cauliflower–the only veggie that smells more vile is the odiferous cabbage–let me know that these were not your ordinary, colon clogging, white flour noodles.  And the bonus is that, despite the smell, it tastes exactly like the KD you know and love.  Um, maybe “love” is too strong of a word.  The KD you have come to expect.

Only trouble is that it causes–er–a colonic explosion.  I nearly blew a hole in the commode.

1.  Here is another thing that I “wonder” about–this book title.  Hm.  I must be a very naive landlubber.  As you know, I am highly neurotic.  I worry about everything.  Well, thanks to author, John Trimmer, I now have another fear to add to an already massive list–getting squashed by huge ships.

Not only is Mister Trimmer a writer, but he is also a “Captain.”  He must know what he is talking about.  If he thinks I should learn how to avoid huge ships, I will.  Even if I do live in Central Canada, far away from any major shipping routes.  Should some drunken sailor plow a multi-storied cruise liner into a massive tropical storm that whips it ashore along the St. Lawrence, where it is picked up by a record-breaking tornado, and plunked down in my living room, I will be prepared.

Phew.

And that’s not even the interesting part.  You should see Amazon‘s list of products that customers who viewed this item also viewed.  Here it is:

-the best of David Hasselhoff (there is a “best” of the Hoff?  Must be the pauses between songs)

-white face paint (to hide behind, while you are buying the best of David Hasselhoff?)

-the 2009-2014 Outlook for Wood Toilet Seats in China.  (This has left me speechless.  And I can’t get MY book published.)

-Uranium Ore (To blow oneself up, along with one’s entire neighbourhood after listening to the Best of David Hasselhoff)

-The Stray Shopping Carts of Eastern North America: A Guide to Field Identification (For when birdwatching gets dull).

-3B Scientific Testicle Self Exam (For when shopping cart-watching bores you too).

-a book entitled “Bombproof Your Horse.” This one truly made me “wonder.”  A LOT.  Seriously, bombproofing your horse?  Are they a lot of drive-by horse explosions that I haven’t heard about?  What the heck does a bomb-proofed horse look like?  Did anyone ask the horse what he thinks about this?  Maybe he’d rather just move to a less “bomb-riddled” neighbourhood.

2.  I also spend a lot of time wondering about stupid people.  Especially the type of people that carry their umbrellas with the business end pointed out.  They usually make it extra-dangerous, by swinging their arms when they walk.  Shopping should not be a risky affair.  I should be able to do it without being impaled by someone’s rain protection.

Consider the driver of this car.  The one decapitating cyclists and poodle-walkers as he makes his way down the street.  The one who is about to meet his match in the form of a tow truck.  He must be a lethal umbrella swinger.  And an idiot.

Umbrellas, after all, aren’t always as innocent as they appear.  

3)  I also wonder how someone could spew noodles through their nose or milk out their eyes and not worry.  What if a piece of linguine starts to mould in your sinus cavity?  Or some homogenized curdles on your retina?  Don’t these things even cross their minds?

Ilker Yilmaz of Turkey is undaunted by the threat of dairy-related damage to his eyes.  He is the proud Guinness World Record Holder for the farthest distance for milk squirting from an eye.  Yes, it really does exist.  He obviously boasts some muscular optics, having a achieved a milk squirt of 9′ 2″.

Yes,  he’s “GOT MILK?”  But he can keep it.  Gack.

Photo credits:  Ladder Car (curiousphotos.blogspot.ca), eye milk (guinnessworldrecords.com).