My boobs are itchy, I smell like horse ass, and I can’t stop licking the road.

People who love the winter have something seriously wrong with them.  I don’t care if you’re an acrobatic back-flipping downhill skier, an expert snowperson builder, or the guy who salts our street like it’s a slab of pork rind–no one in their right mind would choose winter over the other three seasons.

In summer, you can like whatever the heck you want.

In summer, you can like whatever the heck you want.

Who wants a nose that feels like it is full of small tenement blocks and bleeds every time you try to “clean it out?”  I know–some of you are probably saying “EW!” right now.  But you are not from these parts.  We may have snow on the ground and damp in the air OUTSIDE, but our toasty homes contain air as dry as a popcorn fart.  Nasal passages don’t stand a chance.  I’m with George Costanza on this one–“with all that dry desert air, I bet that even Moses had occasion to pick.”

God help the women of  Eastern Canada because boobs get itchy.  I bet that every estrogen-owner north of the 49th can’t wait to find a private place to claw at her nipples.  I know that you’re thinking about it right now.  Go ahead.  Scratch.  I won’t look.  I’ll be too busy with my own.

And who in the hell enjoys trying to get the bottom of their pants into a pair of tall boots.  A person can’t wear skinny jeans every single day and normal ones make your boots all bloated and bumpy looking if you don’t put them in just right.  It’s a pain, is it not?

Even a Super Hero wear a boot-cut jean every once in a while.

Even a Super Hero wears a boot-cut jean every once in a while.

And, holy crap–hair really does like to do its own thing in the winter, doesn’t it?  No amount of goop can tame it.  And I have long, curly, red hair.  This is how I look from December to March.

He has quite the "do" going on, doesn't he?  My winter head is bigger.

He has quite the “do” going on, doesn’t he? My winter head is bigger.

You know how much I hate clowns. Just looking at this freak is disturbing me immensely.  His hair is tamer than mine though.

You know how much I hate clowns. Just looking at this freak is disturbing me immensely. His hair is tamer than mine though.

The only difference is that my hair is not wool.  Wool-like, yes.  But not actual wool.

The only difference is that my hair is not wool. Wool-like, yes. But not actual wool.

Please keep in mind, that the only resemblance that I have to these photos is the hair.  I do not have a red triangular nose and pasty white complexion.  Nor do I have Carrot Top’s freakish eyebrows or Raggedy Ann’s missing upper lashes.  And my shoes aren’t sewn on to my feet.

1) 2009-_1356001iElaine Davidson of the UK, also the Guinness World Record Holder for the woman with the most piercings, would have one hell of a time trying to rid her nose of oxygen barriers.  By 2006, she had been been punctured by 4225 piercings.  With that many holes in her, she probably doesn’t float.  Thankfully, she lives in the damp of Scotland and doesn’t have to worry about dry air encrusting her nose.

And, no.  She doesn’t set off the metal detectors at the airport.

shovel racing

2)  My shovel is not my friend.  Spending time with him involves a lot of work.  The snowblower is much easier to get along with.

But it turns out that I have been missing out on a perfect way to bond with my shovel–shovel racing.  Yup.  It really exists and wasn’t created by Canadians.  In fact, this sport was born in New Mexico of all places.

At Angel Fire Resort, in the Southern Rockies, snow-shovel enthusiasts can be seen careening down mountainous slopes at speeds of up to 70 mph.  Holy crap.  Only old-school metal shovels are allowed.  For some reason, visions of Clark Griswold‘s food-varnish-covered flying saucer springs to mind.  But these snow-shoveled psychopaths aren’t in a movie, and trees don’t know to stay out of their way.

A recent variation of the sport involves hooking up your shovel to a horse, shouting a yee-haw or two, and going wherever your equine takes you.  Yup, that’s just where I want to be when Black Beauty takes a dump.  Under her butt on a shovel.

For the entrepreneurial shovel-rider.

For the entrepreneurial shovel-rider.

AutopsyCartoon

3)  One thing I really don’t understand is the whole “electrified outdoor clothing” trend.  Why would anyone want electric mitts?  Sure, they’re warm.  But sitting on the electric chair is probably toasty too.

Mitts are meant for snow.  Snow is made of water.  Water and electricity don’t mix.  If you build a snowball in electric mitts, will you electrocute yourself?  I mean, it bodes well for your intended snowball victim.  But it does seem like a rather harsh punishment for engaging in child’s play.

And what happens if your hands sweat?

Stress makes my hands sweat when I’m not wearing heated mittens.  Worrying about my heated mittens killing me will definitely exacerbate the problem.  What if your wearing your heated mittens while riding a shovel behind a horse and the horse pees on your hands?  Will you die under a horse’s ass?

Heated mitts are clearly not for the neurotic.

I have to go.  My nose is bleeding.

Photo credits:  tongue stretch sarahsdoodles.wordpress.com, men in tights thefwoosh.com, Carrot Top guestofaguest.com, Ronald McDonald www.hcpl.net, Raggedy Ann poietes.wordpress.com, piercings www.telegraph.co.uk, shovel dude www.ibtimes.com,  horse poop www.environmentalgraffiti.com, autopsy cartoon mobileintensiveprayerunit.blogspot.com.

Giant Sweat Socks, Donuts With Feet, and A Puss Explosion

I confess that I never really grew up.  And I am not referring to my lack of stature.  I achieved exactly five feet in this department, much to my relief.  The thought of having to say that I am four foot anything would have been too much to bear.  (Sorry.  I momentarily had to consider the use of “bear” vs. “bare,” which is not good being that I am an English teacher.  Then I remembered that “Bare With Me” equates to an invitation to get naked.  Good thing I got that straight.  Stupid language.)  Now, where was I?  Oh, yeah.  My lack of height.

While, I never grew up in the physical sense, I failed to do so in the mental sense as well.  At the age of 45, I still love anything with eyes.  Well, not clowns.  Or dolls.  Or, Heaven forbid, clown dolls.  But most things with eyes amuse me immensely.

Poop.  Not cute.  Poop with eyes.  Adorable.

Poop. Not cute. Poop with eyes. Adorable.

I still love Bert and Ernie–although I am partial to Bert.  He’s the only man I know that can pull off lime green pants and a uni-brow.  I am a huge fan of Wage the Ugly Doll (um.  Hence my Gravatar and blog design).  And I collect vintage Pop Culture icons–you know, things like Grimace, Cornelius Rooster, old Snoopys, the Dough Boy.  But my real weakness is puppets.  I have a plethora of puppets.

My childhood (and current) dream was (and is) to be a puppeteer on any Jim Henson Production.  I’m not fussy.  Any one of his puppets will do.  Except maybe Miss Piggy.  She bugs me.  She looks like Nikki Newman on The Young and the Restless.  She bugs me too.

Nikki NewmanMiss Piggy (2)

Beeker would be good.  Or Grover.   And, of course, Bert or Ernie.  Not Elmo.  I’d like to step on his throat.

I finally got the damn thing to shut up.

I finally got the damn thing to shut up.

Makes me feel guilty stepping on my socks.

Makes me feel guilty stepping on my socks.

1)  Let’s face it.  Sock puppets are awesome.  As long as the sock is clean and doesn’t smell like foot.  Or Parmesan.  I can never tell the two scents apart.  Gack.

This sock puppet is pretty darn cute.  It’s the eyes.  It’s always the eyes.  I am suddenly very aware of the fact that I am stepping on a pair of potential sock puppets right this minute.  Instead of entertaining smiling children, my socks are stuck clinging to my foot callouses.  Note to self: moisturize crunchy feet.   Poor socks.  Almost makes me want to take them off and give them a break.  Almost.  The cold hardwood floor stops me from actually doing it.  After all, they ARE socks.  They were born to be stepped on.

Anyway, I digress.  Back to my first fact of the day.  When it comes to sock puppets, I think bigger is better.  Imagine one that is 32 feet tall.  Imagine the eyes!

It turns out that a group in Rhode IslandProject Undercover, holds the Guinness World Record for the World’s Largest Sock and–you guessed it–it looms a whopping 32 feet in height.  Holy crap.  And they patterned it with a standard sock monkey puppet in mind.  Here’s the finished product…monster sock

big zit

2) My mind is a mysterious thing.  Puppets have led to socks which, then, led to feet.  Feet make me think of bunions (which, by the way, is one of the cutest words ever.  Calling someone a bunion sounds like a term affection, when really you are calling them a hideous foot growth).  Bunions made me ponder boils and corns.  Which, unfortunately led to me finding this.

Ack.  I must try to type without letting my eyes wonder over to this picture.  It’s like a car accident.  You don’t want to look at it, but you simply have to.  All I can imagine is the poor bugger who was around when it popped.

I don’t really know much about this photo other than the fact that it is simply labelled “the world’s biggest zit.”  How the hell do you get a zit the size of a red squirrel?  Seriously.  Does the guy live off a steady diet of Poutine and Deep Fried Mars Bars?  Perhaps, it’s from an ingrown hair.  But what the hell kind of hair would lead to a giant pustule like that?  The hair of a Wookiee?

Rumour has it that the largest zit was 78mm–about the size of a hockey puck.  I’d rather get hit in the head with the puck though.  Less messy.

3)  I have to erase the image of this massive sebaceous thing, so I have decided to share a few cute Canadian things with eyes.  I remember asking an American blogger if she had ever seen the Excel gum commercial with the walking donut and coffee cup.  Apparently, this is a “Canadian” thing, so I thought I’d share this–and a few other cute commercial icons–with my non-Canuck friends.

Here are the mascots for Excel (by Wrigley’s) gum.  Since this original commercial, a bulb of garlic has joined the gang.

 I am, however, still puzzled about the whole “donut breath” thing.  Does a donut really cause “breath?”  And, if it did, wouldn’t it be a good thing?

And here are the “timbits” of Tim Hortons’–otherwise known as donut holes.

And Frank & Gordon, the Bell Canada Beavers.    They seem to have been fired from Bell–maybe due to failed contract negotiations or a better offer elsewhere.

One of my all-time favourite pictures.  Bert and his dad.

One of my all-time favourite pictures. Bert and his dad.

Photo credits:  Nikki Newman (people.plurielles.fr) Miss Piggy (www.timeshighereducation.co.uk), poop with eyes (flickr.com), sock with eyes (www.sodahead.com), monster zit (www.songtoday.com),

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).

My blanket smells like belly button, my coffee reeks like skunk butt, and my pocket smells like 100-year-old phlegm.

It’s one of those days where I seriously contemplate gender reassignment.  Let’s face it–having a uterus and a pair of ovaries can be a pain in the ass.  Especially when they render you a hemorrhagic, cramped-over, anemic mess every 21 days.  Thankfully, I don’t get bitchy.  Whiny, yes.  Bitchy, no.

I fear a sex-change will leave me looking like this.

Knowing my luck, a sex-change would transform me into this.  No offense, Nathan Lane.

I, therefore, apologize in advance for what will likely be a less-coherent than usual (and that’s saying something) post that may or may not contain a number of period-induced expletives.  For any of my faithful male readers who have not yet ran away from the computer screaming, I say, “thank you.”  If women must endure bleeding profusely from the crotch in order to ensure that the human race continues to thrive, the least the men can do is listen to us vent about it.  I bet you’re glad you’re not my hubby right now.  Hehe.

menstruation

A few things have struck me as particularly strange this week.  First of all, the English language is a very peculiar thing–particularly if you only hear it spoken.  For instance, a naval graveyard can sound like a place where dead bellybuttons go.  Knotty pine sounds like very ill-behaved trees.  “She’s got a big pair,” could make someone think she has an over-sized fruit.  And who hasn’t partaken in the occasional “it’s not/it’s snot” joke?  Seriously.  ESL must be a nightmare.

Ack.  A blanket that smells like a belly button.

Ack. A blanket that smells like a belly button.

Plus, what’s with the saying, “it sells like hotcakes?”  Do hotcakes really sell a lot?  In Canada, we call them pancakes, and they do not sell at all.  We don’t have IHOP, but we did have a few wannabes.  Golden Griddle?  Defunct.  Smitty’s Pancake House?  Gone with the wind.  Don’t get me wrong.  Canadians like pancakes.  We just don’t seem to like to pay for them.  I think we should coin our own phrase–“it sells like Tim Hortons‘ coffee.”  Even though I still say that Tim Hortons’ coffee smells like roadkill skunk.  But maybe I am just developing a giant nose tumour.

For the first time in my life, colour me speechless.

For the first time in my life, colour me speechless.

1)  I consider myself to be somewhat of a collector–PEZ, model cars, pop culture memorabilia–but some “collectors” really should keep their collections hidden away.  Australian librarian, Graham Barker, is one of those people.  For the past 26 years, he has mined his belly button for lint; eagerly retrieved his lode, and stored it in dated jars.

Why?  No seriously.  This is not a rhetorical question.

Admittedly, he has garnered himself a mention in the Guinness Book of World Records, achieving a moment of fame.  But do you want to go down in history as the man that not only spent 26 years of his life navel-gazing, but digging around in there too?

Having amassed 22.1 grams of belly button fibre, I must wonder if there is anything left of his sweaters?  And I don’t even want to know what sort of putrid odour wafts from these jars when he unscrews the lids?  Ack.  Just puked in my mouth again.  After 7 months of blogging, you think I’d get used to this.

bellybutton lint

Now, just for shits and giggles, check out the adoring and gleeful manner in which his eyes behold his beloved collection.  This is a man who clearly loves his belly button and the gifts it sprouts.

Holy crap.  They smell the same to me.  Am I dying?

Holy crap. They smell the same to me. Am I dying?

2) It turns out I do not have an impaired olfactory lobe.  Nor do I have a nose tumour.  In fact, I may simply have a more finely tuned sniffer than the rest of you.

According to  David Rowe, smell-expert and author of Chemistry and Technology of Flavors and Fragrances, coffee and skunk juice do share an important aroma-causing compound.  Coffee contains furfuryl mercaptan, a chemical that is in the same family as butyl mercaptan–the chemical that gives a skunk squirt its musky (a.k.a. nauseating) smell.

This skunkiness is exacerbated during the creation of decaf.  Apparently the caffeine-removal process also removes much of this chemical, so companies must add it back in to make the product smell more enticing.  If they add too much, the result is a cup of java that reeks of skunk butt.

It’s not all in my head.  Or my nose.

If you knew what it was, you probably wouldn't hold it with your bare hands.

If you knew what it was, you probably wouldn’t hold it with your bare hands.

3)  So my quest to have Barry Weiss find my blog is still under way.  And I just happen to have a Barry-related tidbit that fits in with today’s rant.  Imagine that?

A while back, Storage Wars‘ (and all of television’s, for that matter), most lovable character came across an item that resembled a metal flask with a strange little door on the side.  He and his doting audience were enthralled.  Whatever could this strange device be?

Turns out it is a century-old, portable cuspidor–more commonly known as a spittoon.  Yes.  This is a vessel filled with the relics of old phlegm.  ACK!

While Barry initially appeared appalled by this revelation, he seemed to recover from this initial shock, pocketing the sputum-filled vessel and adding it to his personal collection.  I like to think he went home and boiled it first.

Ancient phlegm or not, he can still park his cuspidor under my Sealy Posturepedic any day of the week.

But he may want to wait for two to five days.

If you’d like to read more about Barry Weiss, his phlegm holder and more, check out my social media experiment at: Searching for Barry Weiss.

Photo Credits:  Nathan Lane  (www.mamapop.com),  menstruation (vi.sualize.us), belly button blanket (focuseddistortion.blogspot.ca), belly button lint & man who loves it (www.dailymail.co.uk), coffee-drinking skunk (e621.net), spittoon (forum.maximumfun.org).

My retinas burn, I’ve got a mattress on my face, and I seem to have lost my eyebrows

“Push Bob off the ladder. He’s messing with the clock again.”

Why on earth do we turn back the clocks in November?  Seriously.  I miss daylight.  And no matter how much Vitamin D I pump into my body, I still feel like I’m in a mental fog.  Apparently, I’m not the only one.  The other day, my husband asked me to pick him up at 12′ long sub from Subway.  I don’t think he realized what he had said until I asked him how I would get it home.  Strap it to the top of my car?  Which we both thought would be funny.  My car is really small.  And it is also the shiniest, most polish-laden car to ever grace the face of the earth.  Seriously, I think it can be seen from space.  So, he immediately had to say something about mustard stains on my roof.  See, this sunlight deprivation is affecting both of us.  And not in a good way.  I am so stupid that I even decided to write about this.

I’m still finding clocks that show the wrong frickin’ time.

And to think that it is only November.  And that the shortest day of the year is still over a month away.  I may be a drooling, incoherent, one-brain-celled idiot by the time April rolls around.  Seriously.  You haven’t met “Winter Me” yet.  And for anyone who ever doubted that God has a sense of humour, I present Exhibit A.  He placed me about as far away from the equator as possible–Canada.  Ugh.  Yes, I am angling for an invite to somewhere warm and shiny.  Really.

I, too, would hug the sun. But in a much kinder, gentler, fashion.

“My car smells funny and I don’t know why.”

1)  Like I said, this lack of daylight makes me stupid.  Not stupid enough to park between two dumpsters, mind you.  No amount of scented pine trees hanging from my mirror could combat that stink.  Not to mention the fact that I’m a tad bit of a neurotic germaphobe.  I’d probably have to throw out my car.  My very polished car.  Which would suck.  I have a fortune invested in it in car care products alone.  Anyway, back to the photo at hand.

Despite his lack of couth or his nasal impairment, this individual does show a remarkable talent for parallel parking–something that I avoid at all costs.  Seriously,  this dude could give lessons.  I don’t know how he even did that.

Maybe he didn’t.  Maybe his roommates are getting revenge on him for snoring or eating the last Eggo.  Strategically placing bins of trash around someone’s car does sound like fun–except I’d have to boil my hands afterwards.  Not fun.  I’ll stick with shaving off people’s eyebrows.  Not that I’ve ever done that.  Yet.

 2) If you are feeling tired (living a sunlight-free, vampire-ish existence will do that to you), I would not recommend viewing this video.  Way too many comfy, white mattresses.  On a cloudy day.  You don’t even get to enjoy the sunshine vicariously.

I love sleep.  My life gets in the way of it though.  But I think I’ve found the perfect hobby.  Mattress Dominoes.  And I’m not alone in my fascination for a sport that only requires a Sealy Posturepedic.  It turns out that competing for the Guinness World Record for the largest game of Mattress Dominoes is a favourite global pastime.  Who knew?  Well, apparently everybody but me.

This particular attempt to secure this record was made at NYC’s Intrepid Sea, Air and Space Museum in 2010.  Participants had to be taller than 4’11”.  Yay!  Finally, something I am tall enough for.  While they managed to “topple” 380 standing sleepers, the record has been broken several times since.  The current record is 1001 mattresses and was set earlier this year in a Shanghai shopping mall.

This post is making me yawn.  You too?  Shut up.

3) I love to make fun of Justin Bieber, even though he is my fellow Canuck.  Well, it turns out that he has, perhaps, one of THE shiniest cars ever.  Blindingly so.  It looks like it’s made of Reynold’s Wrap.  Before you’ve crinkled it up to cover your turkey sandwich.

I wonder how many retinas he’s fried with that thing?

Damn it! Now he’s killed the other eye.

These are just a few other shiny cars I found.

Barry Weiss’s (yes, I am still harbouring that crush) Decoliner. Very shiny.

Flo Rida’s ultra shiny, chrome Bugatti. That’ll suck your eyes out on a sunny day.

I haven’t got a clue who William Gallas, the soccer player is, but he does have a pupil-pinchingly shiny Mercedes McLaren.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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

Photo credits     Messing with Clock (Wikipedia), Mound of Clocks (www.triggerandfreewheel.com),  Smothering the Sun (www.morethings.com), dumpster parking  (curiousphotos.blogspot.ca), eye pain (dreamstime.com),  Barry Weiss decoliner (celebritycarsblog.com) Flo Rida Bugatti (www.celebritynetworth.com), Gallas McLaren (www.ugo.com).

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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).

Pass Me an Arm, Keep An Eye (or 3) On My Hair Hat, And Get Off My Beard

I am breathing a sigh of relief.  I am back to my blog–my comfy little corner of the on-line universe where I can unleash my inner weird and totally be myself.  Without fear of men dressed in white backing a van up my driveway and carting me away.  Mainly because they don’t know who Face Like A Frying Pan is.  I am safe in my anonymity.  My sleeves are not yet tied behind my back.

Something got me wondering the other day.  Why are there bald hairdressers?  Seriously.  First impressions mean a lot to me.  I won’t get my car fixed by someone who takes the bus.  Or rides a Schwinn.  I won’t use a realtor that lives in a shack.  Or worse, his parents’ basement.  And I won’t get my hair done by someone who doesn’t have any.

That may seem harsh, but practice makes perfect.  If someone said to me, “Please shave my face,” I wouldn’t know where to start.  I have a face, but it does not have hair on it.  Especially thanks to the girl who waxes my upper lip.  And, no, she doesn’t have a moustache.  If she did, I wouldn’t go to her.  But back to the point I was trying to make.  Homer Simpson knows how to shave.  He does it every morning.  He’s had practice.

Homer Simpson probably doesn’t know how to layer my hair.  He doesn’t have any hair to layer.  I sure as hell wouldn’t trust him with highlights, or heaven forbid, a perm.

Oh ya, and on unrelated topic.  I saw three matching gloves in the middle of the road the other day.  I know we’ve already discussed the whole “clothing on the street” thing, but this find disturbed me.  THREE GLOVES!  Who the hell needs three gloves?  Is there a strange new race nearby that has three arms?  Are they planning to take over the world?  I live really close to a nuclear power plant.  Anything is possible.

Wow!  I actually found a baby that was born with three arms.  There are many times that I wished I had an extra arm.  The world would call it a birth “defect,” but I think this little one is our superior for sure.  Three arms!  And I was disappointed that I didn’t inherit my family’s extra finger.

1)  Now here is a man that I would trust with my coif.   Seriously, this man knows his way around a hair follicle.  In fact, he is the Guinness World Record holder for the person with the longest beard.  His name is Sarwan Singh and he’s a fellow Canadian.  Maybe he grew it to keep warm.

At 7′ 9″, this hair snake hasn’t stopped growing.  I bet his he clogs the shower drain.  Does he worry about it strangling him in his sleep?

It would be quite ironic if under his turban lurked a shiny, bald head.

And if you happen to be a bald, aspiring hair stylist, there are ways to give the illusion of full and lustrous locks.  How about a hair hat?

Ravishing, aren’t they?

You can get these at http://www.prankplace.com

And, if those don’t work, try this:  

2) The Simpsons‘ nuclear (or as Homer says “nucular”) powerplant hasn’t caused three-armed humans–as far as we know–but it has created a species of three-eyed fish like Blinky, pictured here.  As far as cartoon fish go, Blinky is pretty cute.  Even with his extra feature.  But most real-life fish are–well-ugly.  My apologies to any readers who have ever  been told they resemble a piece of seafood in anyway.  And to anyone named Gill.  But let’s face it.  Fish look about as bad as they smell.  Except maybe clown fish.  They’re pretty cute.  And I hate clowns.

Okay, back to my original train of thought.  Fish are homely.  Imagine one with three eyes.  Yikes.  Not exactly something I’d want on my plate or in my aquarium.  But, apparently, an actual Blinky-type swimmer was caught in Argentina near a nuclear facility.

I rest my case.  There is a three-armed man hiding nearby.  And now he has no gloves.  He must be really pissed.

3) We’ve all heard of “hand soap,” but this is going a bit far.  Actually, these goat’s milk and glycerin amputations make me puke in my mouth a little.  I do that a lot.  Can you imagine going into someone’s guest bathroom and finding these waving at you?

I just got a huge shiver up my spine.

Does this mean that somewhere out there, there is a huge pile of armless soap torsos in someone else’s loo?

You can “arm” yourself with some of these creepy appendages at: http://aplusrstore.com/product.php?id=263

8 for 20 bucks.  It won’t cost you an arm and a leg…just an arm.  Hahaha.

Photo Credits: beard guy (mapleleafsikh.com), Blinky & Real Blinky (kuweight64.blogspot.ca) 

I’ll have a bug salad, a toe-nail in my sandwich, and one beak slurry please

I am constantly being ignored.  No, this is not merely an attention-craving rant by a narcissistic “what about me?” Generation X-er.  I am a member of Generation X.  And I do crave attention.  But neither one of these facts has anything to do with this.

I was always the kid in school who would put up her hand and never get called on.  Unless it was during math class.  I always got called on in math Class.  I think the teacher secretly enjoyed my blank, clueless expression and stammering.  But all my other teachers seemed oblivious to my very existence.

Even as a grown-up, my presence is often over-looked.  Particularly in line-ups.  The other day, I was next in line at the deli and the server asked the woman behind me what she wanted.  After years of this sort of thing happening, I have grown bolder and simply said to the woman behind me, “I guess I am invisible.”  Cheeky, eh?  The server looked astonished that I had called her out on her blatant disregard for my paltry synthetic smoked poultry needs.  “Oh, were you waiting to be served?” She asked.  Seriously, did she think that I was standing in line because I was short of better things to do?

This “ignore that red-head girl” attitude is not only foisted upon me by my fellow humans, but machines tend to ignore me too.  Especially automatic doors.  They refuse to open for me.  I could do Richard Simmons-styled arm flailing followed by a dash of Elaine Benes‘ awkward kick-dancing and still, the doors won’t budge.

That would look like this    with a touch of this added 

Not exactly something that is easy to ignore, is it?

At first, I attributed my failure to be noticed to my extreme lack of height.  It’s easy to overlook someone that is a foot shorter than you.  I ignore kids all the time.  Oops.  Did I say that?

But then, another thought occurred to me.  What if I’m not being ignored?  Maybe I’m invisible.  Or worse.  What if I am simply a figment of my own imagination and I do not exist at all?  Note to self:  Stop filing income tax.  I bet that will get me noticed.

1)  Sometimes being ignored at the deli counter is not a bad thing.  What the heck is mock chicken anyway?  Something else pretending to be a chicken?  And, I’m sorry, but baloney is just a flattened hot dog.  And we all know that hot dogs consist of a slurry of leftover animals parts.  And what’s with meat/macaroni loaf?  We know the meat isn’t meat, but is the noodle noodle?

I suppose it could be worse.  If I ever walked in to the Walmart canned meat section and found a can of water bugs–not just the ordinary ones either, but the GIANT ones–I would drop my groceries and flee the store emitting a scream so shrill that it would put Richard Simmons to shame.  I know.  Quit picking on the poor man.

Well, apparently our friends in Thailand do not possess this North American squeamishness.  Canned tuna is for wimps.  Cloverleaf salmon for the faint at heart.  If you want a hearty meal, whip up a water beetle salad sandwich.

Okay, that time I really did throw up in my mouth.

2)  There may be some things worse than a bug salad sandwich, albeit not many.  One would be a sandwich lovingly prepared by someone’s feet.

Yes, that’s exactly how comedian Rob Williams of Austin, TX likes his lunches.  Foot made.  Gross?  Very.  But his nimble toes have earned him the Guinness World Record for the fastest sandwich made with one’s feet.

He whipped up a culinary masterpiece stuffed with baloney (he had to remove the rind), cheese (his toes managed to rip off the plastic wrapper),  tomato, mustard, mayo, pickles and lettuce , complete with olives on sticks, in a mere 1 minute and 57 seconds.  This included slicing the sandwich in half with his toes.  That’s some fancy footwork.

Toe jam sandwich, anyone?

Homer Simpson only has four toes.  He could never make sandwiches with his feet.

3)  I’ve always maintained that TV can be highly educational.  Unfortunately, I gravitate to more low-brow fare; therefore, my nightly education is limited to…well…this–the stuff you see in my blog.

Last night’s episode of Shipping Wars proved very enlightening.  To me.  One of the shipments turned out to be a 400 pound replica of the Simpson’s clan sitting in their trademark pose on the family couch.  According to the seller, only 86 of these movie theatre props were released to the public.

As much as I love it, I seriously could never justify dedicating a prime sofa location to fibreglass people–no matter how cute they are.  Plus, they look like a bugger to dust.

Photo Credits:  canned bug (www.sodahead.com), foot sandwich (http://www.robsho.com/), simpson clan (www.trendhunter.com), Bart (www.photoshoppix.com).

Pig Eyes, a Unibrow, and a Dude With 23 Names

My head hurts.  I don’t know if anyone else gets this, but I have an eye that from time-to-time decides it no longer want to sit alongside my other eye.  It chooses, rather, to align itself with my left nostril.  Seriously.  The eyebrow always does what the eye tells it to, so it ventures downwards also.  Needless to say, I look like a freak.  On days like this, it is very difficult to apply eye make-up.  (I admit that I am a “girly” girl and venturing out amongst the humans with naked eyes is not something I do on a regular basis).  I have fare eyelashes.  Without my mascara, I have pig eyes.  Honestly.  Have you ever looked at a pig’s eyes?  I know that pigs are cute, but they’re cute despite their eyes.  And pig eyes really don’t work on a person.

So, now I look doubly freakish.  Not only do I have pig eyes, but they are asymmetrical too.  I look like a Picasso painting in the flesh.  Don’t even bring up the possibility of hiding behind my sunglasses.  For one thing, I misplaced those a couple of days ago, so I have been reduced to wearing a pair of old ones.  And they have green frames.  I think they’ve been kicking around since the early 90’s, but that’s no excuse.  Forest green frames.  What was I thinking?  Plus, due to the recent migration of my left eyebrow, I now only have one furry caterpillar sitting over my frames.  Sunglasses look weird when you can only see one eyebrow.  And drawing one over the left frame is not an option.  Imagine taking my sunglasses off and showing the world that I now have three eyebrows.  Okay, one is down around my nose.  More like a moustache to one side, but still.

Sorry for the whinefest, but I really needed to vent.  Does anyone else have this problem?  Seriously, my eye professionals are stumped.  I will now focus on the task at hand–my three facts of the day.

1)  Speaking of Picasso, I haven’t actually delved into the world of Art for any strange new facts yet.  So, here it goes.  The name “Pablo Picasso” is a good name.  Has a nice ring to it.  It flows.

Unfortunately, for Mr. Picasso–his real name is not quite so simple.  In fact, his full name has 23 words.  His complete moniker is:  Pablo Diego José Francisco de Paula Juan Nepomuceno María de los Remedios Cipriano de la Santísima Trinidad Martyr Patricio Clito Ruíz y Picasso.

Apparently, he was named for several relations and some Saints.  And everyone his mother had ever met.

I bet he never signed a cheque.  Who could blame him?

Van Gogh lopped off an ear.  Picasso whacked off 21 names or so.

Which brings me to this freaky little car.  This is a re-designed Citroen dedicated to and inspired by Picasso.  A British mechanic spent six months creating this masterpiece he calls “Picasso’s Citroen.”

Ironically, Citroen does have a model called the “Picasso” (pictured here).

Not quite sure how it got this name–it is rather staid for something inspired by the legendary artist who created humans out of cubes.  There is a Grand Picasso as well and it is rather mini-van-ish.  Picasso was known as a great Playboy–hardly the mini-van type.  I rather imagine him driving a giant phallic symbol like a 1970s Stingray or a modern-day Dodge Challenger.

Maybe it’s just  me.

2)  Like I said, pigs have small blank eyes.  Not that there’s anything wrong with that.  This little pooch pictured here, however, does not have that problem.  He has the antithesis to pig eyes.  The Marty Feldman of the dog world, one could say.

This dog’s penetrating stare has earned him the Guinness World Record for the dog with the largest eyes.  Not bad for a little lad that was once a pound puppy.  Bruschi the Boston Terrier‘s owner, Victoria Reed, says she didn’t notice her dogs large eyes until her friends commented on them.  Really?  Is she blind?  Is this her first time seeing a dog?

It was these comments that led her to contact the Guinness World Records people and the rest is history.

Not only are his eyes big, but they seem to point in different directions.  She didn’t notice?  Really?  I think she deserves some sort of award.

3)  When I think of a unibrow, Sesame’s Street’s Bert comes to mind.  Let’s face it.  Bert pulls off the unibrow look with style and finesse.  Maybe it’s the lemon yellow skin.  Or his tuft of black hair.  Whatever it is, it works.  On him.

Outside the Muppet world, sporting one large, unending eyebrow is not exactly going to win you dates.  Unless you are in Tajikistan.  According to Wikipedia, the women there are wild about the unibrow.  Apparently, it is a sign of virility.  Personally, I think it is a sign of not owning tweezers.

It turns out that George W. Bush also has a proclivity for synophrys (the official medical term for this condition.  Yes, it is a condition).  During his tenure as President of the U.S.A., George Double-Ya’s unibrow was divided in to two.  But in his early shots, like this one here on vacation with his wife, he clearly sports a Bert brow.

According to a Victorian criminologist by the name of “Cesare Lombroso“, people who are genetically inclined to having one giant eyebrow are also more likely to engage in criminal activity.  Hm.  Not only does George W. prove this theory, but many of TV’s not-so-nice characters possess unibrows (Bert, of course, is the exception.  If I were a Muppet, I’d marry Bert).  But here are just a few of TV’s un-friendly unibrows:

The Simpsons , Maggie, may be young, but not too young to have an arch nemesis.  This is him.  Notice that this evil baby sports a unibrow.

Lemony Snickett’s A Series of Unfortunate Events’ Count Olaf dons a handlebar-style unibrow.

 And, of course,  The Men Show’s Mr. Stubborn and Mr. Grumpy (the ones with the negative traits) also have eyebrows that meet in the middle.

If I had a unibrow, would it stay in place or would I have one giant lopsided eyebrow?  Thanks to my Tweezerman pointed tweezers, I’ll never have to find out.

Photo Credits:  Picasso’s Citroen (neatorama.com),  Citroen Picasso, (carautoportal.com), Big-eyed dog (Guinness World Records.com),  George W. Bush (unibrowclub.com), Simpsons baby (tvtropes.org).  Count Olaf (fanpop.com),