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.  http://abcnews.go.com/WNT/video/gumby-robber-produces-laughter-14463863

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?

razor

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.

nightmare_890445

Photo Credits:  hairy bush (http://themostfabulousme.wordpress.com/2011/08/26/hairy-bush-woman-has-got-the-right-idea/), Gumby (http://fridayfunnylol.wordpress.com/2011/09/09/friday-funny-abracadabra/), Star Trek (www.allposters.com), razor (www.dailymail.co.uk), peach fuzz (badgerandblade.com), birdbee (www.toonpool.com).

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2)  Rubber Trees remind me of the Osmond’s and their brief TV Show, The Osmond Family Show.  Here’s a clip of a young Marie singing about that very “plant” in 1979…

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

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

Jennifer & Michael.

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

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

Now, I must go blow my nose.

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