The Hairy Naked Woman, The Evil Rubber Man, and A World Without Pockets

A lot of my blogs are about my weird freakin’ dreams.  You’d think I spend my evenings popping Quaaludes and washing them down with Red Bulls.  Seriously.  Even Tim Burton couldn’t come up with the films that I watch on the back of my eyelids at night.

No one--not even your razor--wants to encounter this.

No one–not even your razor–wants to encounter this.

My latest editions are equally strange.  And random.  Lately, I keep turning up in the oddest places with no pants on.  Just a top and socks.  Not even a pair of knickers.    When “Dream Me” realizes that she has somehow forgotten to cover her nether-regions, she doesn’t even attempt to cover herself up.  Heck no.  Instead, she looks around to see if she is the only moron in the vicinity who has forgotten their pants.  When she discovers that everyone else is fully dressed, she actually stops to ask herself, “Is it wrong of me to leave the house with my snow white ass hanging out?”  In case you hadn’t noticed, Dream Me is an idiot.  A half-naked idiot who really needs to get her girly parts waxed.

Last night, Dream Me remembered to conceal her bottom half and headed to a bar for some fabulous alcoholic ice cream beverages.  An Ice Cream Bar?  (Pun intended).  The dreamy (and not just because he was in a dream) waiter said that before he could sell me any, he would need to run my fingerprints.  Like I said, Dream Me is an idiot and didn’t see anything strange about this request at all.  He pulled his ink pads out from under the bar and I presented him with my finger pads and, presto, my prints had been processed.  Seemingly, out of nowhere, an entire Police Academyesque army of cops appeared–but without the guy who makes the funny noises–and I am informed that my prints match a set lifted from an armed robbery.  Now I know that Dream Me hasn’t been out robbing anyone.  If she had, she’d be better dressed and donning a tidy Brazilian.

Crimes don't always go as planned.  I guess it's good to be "flexible."

Crimes don’t always go as planned. I guess it’s good to be “flexible.”

1)  I love Gumby.  If I was going to become a robber, I think I’d like to don a Gumby suit.  No one would ever suspect Gumby as having anything but good intentions.  Even though my Gumby would only be 5′ tall.  A stubby Gumby.

The Gumby in this photo, however, has a rather disconcerting expression on his face.  No smile for this bendy boy.  Why?  Because it’s wearer is a moron.  The LA gentleman hiding behind those big red eyes attempted to rob a 7-11.  Naturally, the cashier thought he was being punk’d or something–which caused our claymation  friend to get…er…a little rattled.  He threatened to show his gun–but in true moron fashion, he had sewn the pockets just a little too small and couldn’t get his hand in.

First of all, why would Gumby have pockets?  He doesn’t even wear clothes.  Secondly, if Gumby did have pockets, wouldn’t they stretch?

Here is an official newsreel of the event.

I love it when he “slams his green padded hands down on the counter.”

The future is all about the body leotard.

The future is all about the body leotard.

2)  Speaking of pockets.  Have you ever noticed that humans of the future have done away with pockets?  The crews of both Star Trek and The Next Generation are all pocket-free.  Where the heck does Picard keep the keys to the Enterprise?  Doesn’t Deanna Troi need a place to keep her lipstick?  What about the wrinkle cream for Worf’s head?

I would think that future people would want more pockets.  Think about how many cards you carry in your wallet alone.

Do kangaroos of the distant future still have pockets?

Am I the only one troubled by this?


3.  I wonder what it would be like to shave unruly bikini hair with this baby–a $100,000 razor?  No, I did not add too many zeroes.  For the price of this razor, you could purchase roughly five Toyota Corollas–a different one for every working day of the week.

The blades are made of sapphire.  That’s important.  The handle is fabricated from practically pure iridium–a metal that comes from meteors.  Yes, finally a practical use for those pesky canyon-causing people-squashers.

This hair-shaving marvel is called the Zafirro Iridium by Bright Light Ventures and only 99 will be manufactured.  Bright Light claims that the blades will remain razor-sharp for an entire year–for 100 grand I expect them to stay sharp forever–but they will clean and sharpen your investment for a full decade.  Wow!  That’s quite a deal for a mere $10,000 a year.

I’m sorry, but some people are stupid.  There’s nothing worse than a stupid person with money.

Best leave peach fuzz alone.

Best leave peach fuzz alone.


Photo Credits:  hairy bush (, Gumby (, Star Trek (, razor (, peach fuzz (, birdbee (

Giant spoons, Deep-fried arms, the Godfather, and A Dream Not Starring Barry Weiss

I’m not sure if it’s because I’m currently in the throes of an eye-leaking, nose-clogging, hack-until-I-barf cold or if it’s simply a symptom of having a very strange mind, but I had another oddball dream last night.  You’ve already heard of my tales of cookie-shopping with Betty White, riding roller coasters with an expletive-shouting Gordon Ramsay, and my favourite, a romantic interlude with Storage Wars‘ Barry Weiss in a strange setting–unless one usually has sex in a creek filled with miniature man-eating sharks.

Shucks, Barry. You got all dressed up for me? But aren’t you worried about the sharks making holes in your suit?

Last night’s slumber adventure did not involve anyone famous.  No, Barry did not stop by for another steamy encounter (even though he has an open invitation).

Apparently, Dream Me had been foisted into the position of Official Lasagna Baker for a large church function.  Ha!  Me in the kitchen!  That was their first mistake.  Their next lapse in judgement was expecting me to grind the beef–yes, make my own hamburger meat–in a massive contraption that, it would seem, I was supposed to know how to operate.  Dream Me is much brighter than Actual Me and managed to get the ground beef production under way, only to discover that there was nothing to stop the finished  product from falling on the floor.  Okay, Actual Me would have seen that one coming.

Dream Me soon found herself up to her knees in raw hamburger (definitely a few health code violations there, I’m sure) and went running into the kitchen for….wait for it…lasagna pans.  Yes, the answer to Dream Me’s problems was lasagna pans.  The kitchen helpers flew into action, searching for lasagna pans, but they all seemed to be encrusted with decades worth of former lasagnas.  “Wash them,” I ordered (Dream Me is much bossier than Actual Me).  Damn it all.  The taps turned but no water came out.  And somehow in the process of turning the tap, I spilled deep-fry fat on my arm (obviously to match Actual Me’s noodle water tummy burn…yes, I said noodle water tummy burn.  Say it ten times fast).  Apparently, my trusty kitchen aids had been deep-frying the lasagna noodles.

Ya well. FFO KCUF.

Needless to say, I woke up around this point.  Maybe out of sheer frustration.  But, probably to avoid cleaning up the mountain of meat followed by a painful wound debriding session.

Sometimes sleeping is exhausting.

After all, what woman hasn’t had the embarrassing experience of leaving the house with a noodle in her hair?

1) Speaking of noodles, here’s something…um…interesting.  I love Japan.  Home of the square watermelon, remote control toilet, sleeping commuter plunger helmet, girlfriend pillow, and so much more.  I have unearthed yet another fabulous Japanese invention.

While North Americans suffer from toilet paper shoe or skirt-tucked-up-the-buttcrack syndrome, our Far East counterparts appear to fall victim to another fashion faux pas–the dreaded condition known as “noodle in the hair.”  Apparently, pasta-riddled locks are such  a prevalent problem that they have developed a noodle eater’s hair guard.

All I can tell you is that I have long curly hair and eating fusilli is a bitch.

Yummier than any pasta dish.

2) I should have been born Italian.  I love pasta.  And I am quite adept at doing the whole fork and spoon noodle rolling thing.  I eat spaghetti like a Corleone.  And I’d like to get my hands on Michael.

Everybody Loves Raymond‘s Marie Barone has a giant fork and spoon on her kitchen wall.  I have often wondered why anyone would need or want a giant fork or spoon.  I have finally figured it out.

According to the folks at the Guinness World Records, the world’s longest noodle was created in 2007 in Japan by Hiroshi Kuroda.  This impressive piece of noodle art was just over 1800 feet long.  That’s over a third of a mile.  Holy crap!

For serious food fighters.

3)  So what if Frank & Marie have a penchant for huge cutlery?  There are worse things they could do.  Like use their huge spoon to fling huge foods.

When I was in college studying Fashion, our entire dorm floor used to regularly engage in wet noodle fights.  Seriously.  There is nothing more revolting than being thwacked in the face with a handful of slimy spaghetti.  Well, I guess there is one thing that was more revolting–the stalactite-like noodles hanging from the ceiling the next morning.

I guess you could dress us up, but you couldn’t take us anywhere.

It turns out that we were not the only ones guilty of waging war with edible weapons.  Meet the spring-loaded spoon.  A real product available to real people.  For just $4.95, you can become the master of your kitchen table.  I so want one of these.  Check it out at:

Here’s a few shots of people who take “playing with their food” a tad bit too far.

Photo Credits:  Barry Weiss (, Dessert Lady (, noodle guard ( , Pacino (, noodle with eyes (, rice Homer (, computer food  and egg face (, hot dog massacre (

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

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.

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 (, corn flake (, illinois outline (, tongue dog (ohnotheydidn’