One moose face, two puppets, and league of morons.

The doctor has just told me that I have pustules in my throat. This is disturbing. While it does explain my current inability to speak at anything louder than a faint whisper, the very fact that I have “puss” anywhere in my body has left me feeling rather discomfited. And oddly curious. I’d like to see these “pustules” for myself. Thanks to my shallow pallet and rather moose-like tongue, however, this is not possible.

moose tongue

Which leads to a question that I have always wanted to ask the masses, but have not had the opportunity to do so. When you close your mouth, does your tongue fit snugly inside with the bottom and roof of your mouth touching it OR does your tongue have plenty of breathing space–room to move around?

And do you say “Bert and Ernie” or “Ernie and Bert?”

And can you properly pronounce “Nuclear?”

Inquiring minds–or at least those with nothing better to ponder–want to know.

1) It would seem that there are two types of people in the world. The first camp–and, in my opinion, the more normal of the two–would include people who look upon the above moose photo and think “Hey it’s a moose with a big tongue. He’s kind of cute” or something along those lines. The second camp–the one that makes me sleep with one eye open– looks at it and thinks “that’s one tasty looking moose face.”

Yup. There are weirdos amongst us who think that a moose face is something to be eaten. ACK! According to Four Pounds Flour, Moose Face, known in the culinary world as Moose Mouffle consists of the “fibrous flesh of the cheek and the gelatinous prehensile upper lip.” First of all, lips should not be gelatinous. Nor should they be eaten. Apparently, even the moose face-munching crowd do have their limits, announcing that the cartilaginous nasal septum is not to be eaten. Of course. Lips, yes. Nose, no.

2) While Starsky & Hutch, Cagney & Lacy, and Lilo & Stitch had a consistent billing order, Bert and Ernie or Ernie and Bert do not. So it doesn’t really matter which way you say it. The Muppet Wiki’s “Bert and Ernie” VS “Ernie and Bert” cites book, album, and video titles using both combinations. But for me, Bert will always come first.

3) American politicians are not exactly noted for their mastery of the English language. Can anyone spell potato? It turns out that tuber vegetables aren’t the only thing that can stump a public official. Jimmy Carter, George W. Bush, Bill Clinton, Walter Mondale, and Dwight D. Eisenhower are all guilty of publicly mispronouncing the seemingly simple word “nuclear.” Why they insist on saying “nucular” is unclear…or “uncular.” Perhaps Homer Simpson does have what it takes to run the nation.

Well, I am going to bid you adieu and go off to nurse my pustules.

No caption required.

No caption required.

Photo credits: Moose Tongue (http://purplemoose.kenaiwriter.net/2008/09/).

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).

Homer the Crow, Larry the Lobster, and the Zillion Dollar Omelette

“If one synchronised swimmer drowns, do all the rest have to drown too?”  Steven Wright.  

What does it mean when you hear a voice in your head and this voice sounds like Homer Simpson screaming?  Don’t get me wrong.  I don’t usually hear voices.  It’s just that lately, whenever I step outside, I hear this piercing screech, much like the noise that the Simpson clan’s father figure made when he fell off the cliff.  And then out of the ambulance and off the cliff again.

I am comforted by the fact that my husband hears this voice too.  We both can’t be nuts.  Or can we?  They say that women who hang around together experience the synchronization of their menstrual cycles.  Maybe this is like that, but without the bloating and cramps.  Maybe my husband and I have concurrent periods of insanity.

This unsettling thought spurred us forward to seek out the source of this bizarre noise.  We soon realized that it seemed to be coming from the sky.  And it was not the sound of angels.  The noise seemed to pass over us intermittently.  Strange.

And then, we spotted it.  The source of our confusion.  We would not have to look in to the acquisition of a padded cell or his & her straight jackets, after all.

It was an everyday crow with a really strange caw.  Poor fellow.  What a horrible voice for a crow to be afflicted with.  I’m sure the other crows make fun of him.

Today, June 15th, is officially Lobster Day.  I had no idea that lobsters had their own day.  I guess it seems only fair.  We do dunk them into boiling hot water and listen to them scream.

In honour of this tasty crustacean, I think we should learn a few lobster facts.  So, here we go:

Lobsters taste with their feet.  So, this means their food all tastes like their feet.  Sorry, my feet may smell like parmesan, but they sure as heck don’t taste like it.  They taste like foot.  Or so I have concluded.  I haven’t actually tasted my feet.  And I don’t eat floor food–five second rule or not.  Floor food has been where my feet have been.

A lobster’s brain is in its throat.  That must be very uncomfortable.  Wouldn’t you experience a constant a-hem?  Would a hiccup cause a stroke?

Lobsters breathe through gills on their legs.  I’m glad my nose isn’t on my legs.  Too close to my farts.

You are already aware of my fascination for ordinary things made big, so it only makes sense that I feature a giant crustacean.  The photo above is Larry The Lobster, a 17 metre tall tourist attraction made of steel and fibreglass.   He stands proudly in Kingston SE, South Australia.

We are used to the traditional red lobster.  Heck, they even named a restaurant chain after them.  But in the cold waters that extend from England to Morocco, you can find the blue lobster.  This Smurfy lobster’s bright colouring makes him vulnerable to predators.  Plus, he is supposed to be even yummier than his North American counterparts, so humans are willing to pay big bucks to chew on his claws.  I would still never eat at a place called Blue Lobster.  A little too Green Eggs and Ham.

Okay.  This just goes to show that there are some people that have more money than brains.  Meet the “Zillion Dollar Omelette”–10 oz. of American Sturgeon Caviar, an entire lobster, a whole lot of egg, chives, cream, and more.  All this for a “mere” $1000. US.  Only available at Norma’s in Le Parker Meridien Hotel, Manhattan.

How am I ever going to face my boring PB on toast breaky tomorrow morning?  So pedestrian.

Apparently, about 12 people order this each year.  If you want to have a less expensive (and less decadent) version, you can have a scaled down, 1 oz of caviar omelette for $100.

And if a little lobster doesn’t have enough to worry about–being eaten by other sea creatures, being boiled in a pot, or winding up in a rich person’s omelette–they have incredibly horrible mating rituals.  They pee in each other’s faces–apparently, this is a turn-on.  It also allows the male to know that he has, indeed, found himself a female lobster.  If he is in the mood, he’ll flip her over and they’ll assume the missionary position.  Seriously.  But, if she isn’t in the mood–perhaps she has a headache (Would this be in the throat, where her brain is?  Or is it because he just pee’d on her head)–she will not allow herself to be flipped.  And the male will have to gulp down some liquid and pee on someone else’s head.

Photo Credits:  Larry the Lobster (TripAdvisor), blue lobster (justonemorepet.wordpress.com), omelette (dailymail.co.UK), BOB ( by Jeff Pert, Mike Lynch Cartoons), Stupid (Jeff Pert Cartoons).

The Not-Black Box, When Second is First, and The Pee that Wasn’t

That guy impressed me and I am not easily impressed. Wow! A blue car!”  Homer Simpson.

I love summer.  Sunshine, flowers, flip flops.  Seriously, what’s not to love.  Well, maybe one thing.  Zits.  I am a giant, red pimple.  You may be wondering what the connection is between summer and zits, so let me explain.  Summer warmth and outdoor activity leads to increased perspiration in most people–and I am an expert sweater (someone who sweats, not a warm woolly garment).  And I sweat best on the lower half of my face.  For the next three months or so, I will have a blemish beard.  I can’t believe I waited all winter for this.

1)  A friend of mine sent me an e-mail today with a trick question in it.  What colour is a plane’s black box?  One would think it would be black.  Turns out that it is actually orange–a colour that probably makes it easier to find in a pile of rubble scattered over a vast area.  So, why don’t they just call it what it is–an orange box?  Actually, it isn’t really a box.  It’s more of a rectangle.  It should be an orange rectangle.

One theory, according to Wikipedia, is that the “black box” actually refers to the inside of the box.  In early days, darkness was required to prevent light from entering the box and compromising the film-based records.

We may never know with great certainty how it’s colour-blind name came about.  All I know is that it’s a good thing I’ve never been sent out to retrieve a black box.  I’d still be out there looking for something that doesn’t exist.

2)  Quick question…what is the most common street name in the United States?  I’ll rattle on aimlessly for a few paragraphs while you think about this.

I’ve lived on lots of different streets.  Some had royal names like King, Queen, and Palace.  I think these names were meant to make we apartment dwellers feel important.  Some were named after trees–ElmRidge, Birchwood, and Cedarwood–even though none of them had a significant number of elms, birches, or cedars.  My personal favourites didn’t make any sense either, but they sounded nice–Sandcastle (miles away from any water…and even more miles away from a decent beach)and Alta Vista (my “vista” was the post office and the bus transit route–not exactly “alta,” but words that end in a vowel are prettier, so the name was pretty x2).

I’d love to hear any street name stories that you’d like to share, by the way.

You’ve been very patient with me, so I’ll now reward you with the answer to the question.  The most common street name in the U.S. is (drum roll please)….Second.  Yes, not First, but Second.  Weird.  The Second most common street name is Third.  And First is Third.  This is starting to sound like a baseball joke.  Ironically, Fourth is fourth.

3)  I watch Dragon’s Den and Shark Tank and I know that some people have some really stupid ideas.  Thankfully, the wise investors from the Den and the Tank can smell stupidity a mile away.  Unfortunately, the people at “Jaloop,” a company which claims to provide the public with products that are unlike anything else available, thrive on stupid products.

Meet Exhibit A.  The Pee Puck.  This is no ordinary urinal puck.  This doesn’t clean the toilet–it dirties it.  Apparently, this gag gift is designed to make people laugh.  Excuse the pun, but this product would just piss me off.

According to peepuck.com (yes, it has it’s own website), you place the puck in the reservoir and it will create pee-coloured water for days.  Your intended victim will go nuts wondering why they keep forgetting to flush.  Maybe they will think someone has been sneaking in to use their toilet.  Or maybe, they’ll call in the City Works Department to see what’s wrong with their water.  Either way, I’m sure they will really appreciate all the “laughter” you created with this wonderful gift.  Where’s Kevin O’Leary when you need him?