I like my pillow done extra crispy with a bowl of goat grass and a side order of dangling boogers.

How can a face be both greasy and dry?  Surely, one’s sebaceous glands could learn to work in tandem and produce a consistent, even layer of oil.  Not enough to make your face look like it could butter a slab of toast, but enough that you don’t walk around all day with flakes of dead skin congregating around your peeling nostrils like a bunch of renegade boogers.

Okay, Toni Braxton.  Is that dry skin or a nasty old booger?

Okay, Toni Braxton. Is that dry skin or a nasty old hunk of snot?

Most people experience a greasy T-zone.  My face does not know the alphabet.  It is basically illiterate.  My oily patches form more of a W.  A big-ass W.  Keep in mind that I hit puberty over thirty years ago.  I should be enjoying that point of life between having a teenage bumpy face and developing a visage that looks like well-worn leather.  The years between zits and wrinkles that most people get to enjoy.  I should not be clinging to a complexion that looks like I’ve been bobbing for apples in a vat of vasoline.

Should I believe those supposed altruistic celebrities that swear by ProActive or should I listen to the old lady at church that recommends a face full of mayo?  On the one hand, ProActive’s endorsers get paid to compliment it.  And, on the other hand, the old lady at church has skin like an over-microwaved pea.

Would you take skincare advice from this?

Would you take skincare advice from this?

I know.  An oily face will keep me looking young.  But I am tire of pimples.  Blind people keep mistaking my face for braille.

But enough about me.

1.  Did you know that a stye is basically a zit in the eye?  Ack.  Again, I must ask–what the heck is up with sebaceous glands?  Does anyone really need grease in their eyes?  Well, here is an interesting stye fact.  Another word far a “stye in the inner corner of the eye” is an AEGILOPS.  According to the Guinness Book of World Records, Aegilops is also the longest English word with its letters in alphabetical order.  I just bet your life wasn’t complete without knowing that little fact.  It is also a type of goatgrass, but who really cares about that?

I guess he does.

Did somebody say "goatgrass?"

Did somebody say “goatgrass?”

2.  Some people suffer from really over-active oil glands.  I worry about their pillows.  No seriously.  Would you want to absorb some greasy person’s face juice all night long?  I wondered if anyone has constructed a pillow with oily sleepers in mind.  It turns out that they have.

Nothing soaks up grease like a hamburger bun.  Just ask a burger.

Nothing soaks up grease like a hamburger bun. Just ask a burger.

Finally, a guy who won't mind if I get face grease on his shirt.

Finally, a guy who won’t mind if I get face grease on his shirt.

A pillow that you can blame for your greasy face.

A pillow that you can blame for your greasy face.

Perfect after a night of zit picking.

Perfect after a night of zit picking.

And I found this baby at http://jenniferandjonny.wordpress.com/2012/02/23/48/#comment-20…for the person who has simply given up.

The "I can't stand my oil slick of a face anymore" pillow.

The “I can’t stand my oil slick of a face anymore” pillow.

3. Okay, so this video is not for the faint at heart or weak of stomach.  I have to admit, that I found it simultaneously vomit-inducing and mesmerizing–like watching Gordon Ramsay clean out a mould-infested refrigerator on Kitchen Nightmares.  This is a dermatologist extracting a rare, but enormous form of blackhead.  Remember, I said ENORMOUS.  These massive pustules were likely the inspiration for the ostrich pillow found above.

black head extraction

Suddenly, my oily W-zone doesn’t bother me so much anymore.

Photo credits:  Toni Braxton (http://www.cadfanatic.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/04/tonibraxtonbooger.jpg), jabba the hut (http://images2.wikia.nocookie.net/__cb20100915194256/starwars/images/thumb/7/7f/Jabba_SWSB.png/250px-Jabba_SWSB.png), goat (http://www.wisegeek.org/do-goats-make-good-pets.htm#field), burger pillow (http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Hl5bQduRAMc/SDSyPq2oDeI/AAAAAAAAAuA/xpJQH-qAJ_w/s1600/hamburger+pillow.jpg), bacon pillow (http://images.thewirelesscatalog.com/graphics/products/regular/VM9812.jpg), boyfriend pillow (,   scabs pillow (http://www.badderhomesandgardens.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/04/il_570xN.328760944.jpg),

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

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

 Here’s Sam at his best.

 And here’s Gordon.

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

This lady tells crappy stories.

This lady tells crappy stories.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I wonder if he has a neck.

The name sounds promising.

The name sounds promising.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My eyes feel weird.

Photo Credits: Amish kids (art.icio.ru), bowling ball head (guinnessworldrecords.com), disaster cafe (huffingtonpost.com), eyeball food (www.oddee.com).

Sparky-my flat, green, fire-breathing child

I am going to take a “One-Time Only” break from my usual seemingly A.D.D.-inspired, often incoherent, journey into what this mind calls “entertaining” and “informational” and indulge in a wee bit of self-promotion.  Bear in mind this is not something that I am comfortable with–self-deprecation is much more up my alley.

Blogging has given me the privilege of meeting many incredibly funny and talented people–one of which is the hilarious and clever writer, Jodi Ambrose.  With two published books under her belt, Intimacy: How To Get More Of It and Sex: How To Get More Of It, (both of which are loaded with brilliant insights into navigating a successful relationship with the opposite sex, by the way), her third offering has now been released.  A wonderfully entertaining and helpful cookbook entitled Darn Good Eats: The Cookbook for Creative Chefs and Reluctant Cooks. 

As many of you know, I loathe cooking.  So cookbooks aren’t usually my thing–unless, of course, they are filled with pictures of the delectable Gordon Ramsay.  Mm.  Darn Good Eats, however, is a darn good read.  Jodi’s whacky sense of humour shines through on every page.  Her intro makes “reluctant” chefs like myself feel right at home.  Her thoughts on cooking are summed up with “Blech!”  Mine too.  She even grates her thumb during the creation of “Mom’s Spaghetti Sauce”–something I would do–and, yes, they ate the grated thumb Parmesan cheese.

For those of you who have mastered the art of cooking, Jodi’s handsome hubby, Grant, is on board with more intricate dishes for the “creative” chef.  The second half of the book, Jodi’s collection of recipes that enable one to cook without actually cooking, is perfect for us “reluctant” (sounds much better than “useless, could burn boiled water” ) cooks.  See.  Something for everyone.

You are probably wondering what any of this has to do with self-promotion.  Well, Darn Good Eats also sports a nifty “Dragon-Breath-O-Meter”–a device that informs would-be eaters as to the breath-killing capabilities of each dish.  One dragon, for instance, tells the reader to rinse with mouthwash, while four dragons comes with the recommendation that they get a new mouth.  Like I said, clever.

This is where me and my inner braggart come in.  I created the dragon.  Yes, my little baby dragon who I named “Sparky” now resides in the pages of Darn Good Eats and will forever live in pantries everywhere.  I’m so proud of my boy.

My bouncing baby boy

My bouncing baby boy.

I was thrilled to have this opportunity and am very grateful to Jodi for providing it to me!  If you’d like to learn more about Jodi and her books, you can find her at Jodi’s website and Jodi’s blog.

I must also give a shout out to another fellow blogger who provided a couple of recipes  for this collection,  Bernadette Martin.

If you’d like your VERY OWN copy of Darn Good Eats, and Sparky in all his glory, it can be purchased from Amazon right here:  Amazon.com.

I will be back to my strange, tangential self on Thursday.  I promise.

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:  http://www.coolstuffexpress.com/store/p/439-Zing-The-Spring-Loaded-Spoon-Food-Launcher.html

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

Photo Credits:  Barry Weiss (zimbio.com), Dessert Lady (girlsguideto.com), noodle guard (thedigitalpicnic.blogspot.ca) , Pacino (www.tumblr.com), noodle with eyes (www.funfunblog.com), rice Homer (icanhas.cheezburger.com), computer food  and egg face (thechive.com), hot dog massacre (designbeep.com).

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 (declubz.com), corn flake (msnbc.msn.com), illinois outline (theus50.com), tongue dog (ohnotheydidn’t.livejournal.com).

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

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.


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).