Tag Archives: Humour

A Petrified Hot Dog, A Lesbian Horse, and A Foot Named Mildred

Posted by facelikeafryingpan in January 2013 and tagged with , , , , , , , , , , , ,

The paper cut is a mysterious thing.  For instance, I could lop off an entire arm, leaving a gaping hole with a fountain of arterial blood squirting forth, and it would not hurt as much as a paper cut.  Albeit, the limb-removal is more likely to cause me to scream in horror, pass out, or perhaps, die.  But I bet the paper cut–especially one along a bending seam like a knuckle–would instill greater pain.  Not that I’d sacrifice a limb to prove my point.  After all, I was a kid who named my hands and feet.  It would be like cutting off a friend.  Left hand=Petty.  Right hand=Loyalist.  (yup, Loyalist).  Right foot=Snowy.  (Maybe I had perpetually cold feet).  Left foot=Mildred.  I was a strange child.

Forget waging war with machine guns and tanks.  We should simply throw shards of paper at the enemy.  Maybe we should be dropping bombs of 8 1/2 x 11″ sheets of photocopy stock on them.  And, if they are looking up, we may even be lucky enough to deal out a paper cut to the eye.  Yee-ouch!  That’s gotta hurt.

One of my many occupations is a part-time job in a book store.  I am no stranger to paper cuts.  You see, part of the problem is that space on the shelves is tight, so we regularly have to use Houdini-like feats to make new stock fit.  It does not matter that customers can barely pry a book loose from the Jenga-ish wall that we have created.  Our goal is to simply get the inventory out.  This leads to a lot of paper cuts.

Honest, all I did was pull out one book!

Honest, all I did was pull out one book!

But I have never bled on the merchandise.  That would simply be disgusting.  Although, I did sneeze on a book once.  I hope the pages didn’t stick together.

800px-Wrinkly_fingers

1)  Speaking of fingers, does it not strike anyone else as strange that prolonged exposure to water actually makes our skin wrinkle?  The moisture gets sucked right out.  Look at this thing.  It doesn’t even look like a finger anymore.  It looks like a dehydrated carrot or a really old hot dog.

According to researchers at Newcastle University, prune-fingers actually serve a purpose.  Apparently, digit wrinkles allow us to grab on to wet objects.  All-season radials for our fingers.

I thought this was a cool little fact.  Even if the picture does remind me of the episode of Seinfeld in which Kramer eats a really old, theatre hot dog.  Blick.  I almost throw up in my mouth thinking about it.  After all, I hate hot dogs–new or old.

Check out the clip, if you’d like a good laugh:  

Everytime I watch it, I get the dry heaves a little.

extra toes

2) Like I’ve said once before, extra fingers run in my family.  And, despite my mother’s sigh of relief when she discovered that I had the requisite 10, I have always wished that I had been born with extras.  It would have been a great conversation starter.  Plus, I wear mitts instead of gloves, so that never would have been a problem.  I probably could have conned some doting elderly person to knit me some six fingered gloves, anyway.  Plus, I think I would be able to type much faster.

I now introduce you to the feet of a six-year-old, Chinese boy who was born with 16 toes and 15 fingers.  I’m amazed at how perfect each little piggy looks.  After a 6 1/2 hour operation, the little lad now has ten fingers and ten toes.  And he has cut his risk for paper cuts in half.

3) Stocking the bookstore shelves is not always exciting.  It seems like I am forever putting out new offerings by Danielle Steele and Nora Roberts.  Ack.  How in the hell does Nora Roberts possibly find the time to write what feels like a book a week under her own name AND under her mystery-writing pseudonym J.D. Robb?  Has she undergone cloning?  Or is she not an individual at all, but rather a writing team?  Hm.  I really want to know.  If she is a real person, I suddenly feel like a lazy, non-productive writer.

I would love to stock the shelves with bizarre titles like these puppies that I found at Amazon.com.  Yes, these are real books.

weird book 1weird book 2weird book 3weird book 4weird book 5weird book 6

Even some of the descriptions are hilarious.  The “Lesbian Hair” author refers to children as pets with thumbs.  The coffin book claims that this is one project you will not want to put off and that it is perfect for people who want to be buried in their work.

And I didn’t know that horses could be Lesbian.

Photo credits:  finger (www.popsci.com), toes (www.dailymail.co.uk), books (amazon.com).

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

Posted by facelikeafryingpan in January 2013 and tagged with , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

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 Island, Project 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.

Posted by facelikeafryingpan in January 2013 and tagged with , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

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).

2013 is a pain in the neck. And why do I smell cheese?

Posted by facelikeafryingpan in January 2013 and tagged with , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

I’ve always heard that whatever you are doing on New Year’s is what you’ll be doing for the rest of the year.  If this is true, 2013 will be a “pain in the neck.”  Literally.  I don’t know what the heck I was doing in my sleep the other night–I hope it was fun–but, for the past two days I have felt like this woman:

I wonder if this would make me taller.

I wonder if this would make me taller.

after someone removes her neck rings.  Seriously.  As much as I like having a neck (how else would I be able to wear necklaces and scarves), right now, I would gladly have it lopped off and opt to simply have my head sewn right on to my shoulders.  Except that would make me shorter.

On a lighter note, I bet Wile E. Coyote would have fun with this lady’s neck and a giant ACME magnet.

I wonder what would happen to a knife thrower if he did his act in front of one of those giant magnets?  Would he look like a piece of Swiss cheese covered in ketchup?  Sorry.  Neck pain brings out the sadist in me.

Which reminds me of a joke we used to tell when we were kids.  What’s orange and red and lies at the side of the road?  A wounded cheezie.  That one still disturbs me.  But it fails to prevent me from eating cheezies.

And my husband can't even tie ONE of these by himself.

And my husband can’t even tie ONE of these by himself.

1)  I am glad that women don’t have to wear neckties.  Especially to July weddings.  But the way I feel today, I think that donning 150 or so ties would provide an awesome amount of neck support.  Like a flashy neck brace.

Although, as I gaze upon this picture of Arnold Albert, the Guinness Record Holder for wearing the most ties at once, I must admit that he looks anything but comfortable.  Should the human neck bend back at a 90 degree angle like that?

I am impressed that he managed to tie 150 neckties though.  In my household, I am the tie tier (that looks really weird in print).  I’m glad to know that my skills developed during the “1980s women wearing skinny black leather neckties era” have not been lost.

Finally. A room I don't have to worry about staining with cheeto fingers.

Finally. A room I don’t have to worry about staining with Cheeto fingers.

2)Let’s face it.  Art work made of food is pretty cool.  I have already featured cheese sculptures and Cereal masterpieces.  Today, in honour of wounded cheezies everywhere, I present Cheeto Art.

This piece is entitled “The Cocktail Party”  by Sandy Skoglund–an artist who specializes in tableaux that marry photography and pop culture.  Too bad orange clashes with my red hair.  That cheezie dress looks pretty cool.

Then again, Conan O’Brien is a ginger and he looks pretty good in Cheetos. 

Who wouldn't want to clone a few best buddies and try their hand at indoor hot-air ballooning?

Who wouldn’t want to clone a few best buddies and try their hand at indoor hot-air ballooning?

3)  As I previously mentioned, I am currently tempted to perform a “neckectomy.”  While perusing the Internet for instruction, I came across a promising offering at Amazon–“Do-it-yourself Brain Surgery.”  Surely, if I can do a lobotomy in my living room, a neck removal can’t be that difficult.

And if that doesn’t work, I can always recruit Humphrey the hamster into the whole “breeding combat hamsters” endeavour.  If I can wake him up.  I’m not sure how effective a narcoleptic fighter hamster will be in the face of battle.

Some of this book’s other offerings appear more promising.  What could be easier than converting one’s home into a romantic ruin?  Well, a “ruin” at least.  I assume a romantic ruin is just a ruin with scented candles.

Excuse me.  I’m off to perform neck surgery.

I’d rather have a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy.

neck cartoon

Photo Credits:  Long necked woman (www.coolpicturegallery.us), tie guy (plus.google.com  Guinness World Records profile),Cheeto room (sandyskoglund.com), Conan (ellerg.blogspot.ca), book (amazon.com).

Please Stop Staring, Give My Intestines Back, and Tell That Bacon to Shut Up.

Posted by facelikeafryingpan in December 2012 and tagged with , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

As you know, there are two things that I loathe.  Clowns.  And dolls.  I don’t even want to consider the possible existence of a Clown Doll.  Clowns are grown people who throw on hideous make-up, big shoes, and over-sized, polka dotted onesies in order to be around small children.  Their squeaky noses and water-squirting flowers aren’t fooling this girl one bit.  And dolls.  Yikes.  I’m sorry, but we humans aren’t that cute.  For one thing, in order to be cute, something really does need fur.  It’s true.  Just look at the skinny pig or the Mexican Hairless.  Ick.  Factor in a plastic pallour, obvious hair plugs, and vacant eyes that seem to follow your every move and you’ve got a doll.  Your very own Chucky.

I still remember getting a Baby Alive doll for Christmas.  Great.  A doll that craps its diapers.  Just what every child wants.  Maybe that’s why I never wanted kids.  The thing just ate, cried, and crapped.

The secret lives of dolls.

The secret lives of dolls.

Thanks to my part-time job at Amazon’s number one competitor in Canada, I have recently been introduced to the only thing that ranks beside a Clown Doll on my Top 10 Creepy Things list–the Elf on the Shelf.  First of all, male or female, they are butt ugly.  Sort of like Pinocchio without the long nose.  And they all wear the exact same attire–like a militaristic regime of tiny snitches in red.  Second, their sole purpose in life is to spy on small children in the privacy of their own homes.  Even creepier, these mini Big Brothers are operating with parental consent.  I’m afraid that if my mother had recruited an ugly little elf to “keep an eye on me” I would have been damaged for life.  More than I already am.  Seriously, look at this thing:

I'm hoping that the snowman stabbed it with his stick arm.

I’m hoping that the snowman stabbed it with his stick arm.

Not only do I have to get used to the fact that one of these hideous creatures lives in the store, watching my productivity, but I also have to convince other people to adopt one of their own.  I have been forced to be complicit in unleashing an army of ugly, little, seemingly footless and thumbless creatures on to unsuspecting minors.  Ugh, the guilt.

Oh, joy. Oh, bliss. Erwin undergoes a complete "organectomy" without anesthetic.

Oh, joy. Oh, bliss. Erwin undergoes a complete “organectomy” without anesthetic.

1)  I suppose there are worse things to find on your shelf than an elf.  How about a disemboweled doll, perhaps?  I don’t like dolls, but anything that has to endure having its organs yanked out and pushed back in the wrong place on a daily basis does deserve my empathy.  This pretty much sums up Erwin the Patient’s life.

Oops.  Did I put your lower intestine in your esophagus?  So sorry about that.  Just let me rip it out and put it back where it belongs.  Sort of.

And when his guts get just a little too…um…gooey, they can be machine washed.  I’m sure that’ll make him feel much better.

You can purchase an Erwin for your future Jack the Ripper here: http://www.wildandwoolly.co.uk/epages/BT4261.sf/en_GB/?ObjectPath=/Shops/BT4261/Products/37599.

  2)  Yes.  It is a pair of dancing lederhosen.  Ants in the pants without the ants.  I’m not quite certain as to why your child would want to play with an empty pair of rubber pants.  I’m even less sure as to why an adult felt a need to create it.  The only thing that I am sure about is that the remote control looks like an orange penis.  Play with the penis and the pants dance.  Sounds about right to me.

You can get your very own “knockwurst” (ya, right) remote-controlled, dancing pants at McPhee.com for $19.95.

Who wouldn't want to hug a slab of bacon?

Who wouldn’t want to hug a slab of bacon?

3)  It happens to me all the time.  I’m in the middle of frying up a few slices of bacon and I suddenly become overwhelmed by the urge to hug one.  Obviously, my childhood was seriously lacking something.  Stuffed animals obviously weren’t enough.  I needed the affection of a stuffed animal by-product.

With a catchy slogan like “You’ve Got a Friend In Meat,” this cuddly lump of saturated fat is sure to nurture your children’s love for pork.  And it talks.  Every time your child hugs his “My First Bacon” friend, it will reward him with a little self-promotion stating, “I Am Bacon.”  No subtle subliminals here.

Yes, it would appear that there are worse things than an Elf on the Shelf.  But I still think the damn thing is creepy.

And, in light of my most recent project–to have Storage Wars‘ Barry Weiss find my blog–I will share a clip of him going through a locker of Canadian memorabilia with This Hour Has 22 Minutes‘ Mark Critch.  It’s funny and it just happens to feature some butt ugly “toys” from my typical Canadian childhood.  I must warn you that you will need to let it fully upload first…Not sure why.  And you may have to sit through the commercial TWICE.  Again, not sure why.  CBC gets enough public money that it should have a better system.  We’re Canadian.  I guess we’re not supposed to sweat the small things.  But it’s worth the wait.

Barry Weiss on This Hour Has 22 Minutes

 

If you’d like to see Barry’s Christmas appearance on This Hour Has 22 Minutes, check it out at my social media experiment:  Searching For Barry Weiss

Photo Credits:  Chucky (Wikipedia), Elf (followpics.com), Erwin (thingamababy.com), Bacon (Amazon.com).

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

Posted by facelikeafryingpan in December 2012 and tagged with , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

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 nipple smells funny, my friend is an idiot, and Flashdance gives me flashbacks

Posted by facelikeafryingpan in November 2012 and tagged with , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

I have always had big boobs.  Part of me is thankful for my “girls”, but having massive mammaries has it’s problems.  Particularly if they start to blossom before Junior High.  An eleven-year-old in the 1970s had no desire to wear a bra–especially the stretchy, beige, utilitarian number my mother picked out for me.  I think it was made from leftover girdle material.  Horrible thing.  It was ugly even by seventies standards.

It felt like the whole world could see my ugly bra.

Generous sweater puppets proved to be an asset in High School.  Unless you happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.  I have always been a little person.  Only five feet tall.  And in grade ten, I had barely hit the hundred pound mark.  And most of it was boob.  My best friend, however, had ten inches on me and several pounds.

This is not what I mean by “sweater puppets.”

My wardrobe selection on that fateful day is important to note.  I donned my brand new, cashmere-like (my bank account was not in proportion to the size of my boobs), sweater–the kind with a steep V in the back and front that balanced precariously on the shoulders. Also the kind that you can’t wear a bra with because the straps would show.  And let’s be totally honest, there has never been a strapless bra that screamed out “Wear me.  I’m comfortable.”  My girls went commando.

Imagine this sweater is black and fuzzy. Damn sweater.

Now, my tall, full-figured friend also chose this day to debut a new article of clothing.  High heels.  Hitherto, she had never graced anything higher than the sole of her Adidas.  And she wasn’t a quick learner.

When choosing friends, height is an important and often overlooked consideration.

The bell rang, motioning the ant-like throng of pastel and argyle-wearing (it was the early 80s) teenagers to head to the next class.  Me in my sexy sweater.  My friend in her sexy heels.  Then it happened.  My 5’10” friend lost her balance and in her struggle to remain vertical, she reached for the nearest object–me.  In a split second, my new sweater lost its precarious grasp of my shoulders and, thanks to the gaping back and neckline, fell to my midriff.  The girls got their first glimpse of the general public.  And vice versa.

Needless to say, it took quite a while to live that one down.  But, thankfully, the next year someone lost their cheerleading underwear (yes, there is such a thing) in the middle of the football field.  My boobs were relegated a distant memory as her snatch catapulted to stardom.  Pantiless trumps braless every time.

When I stand too long, my nipple hurts.

1)  Okay.  Chandler Bing had his nubbin.  Zac Efron, Mark Wahlberg, and Lilly Allen have third nipples too.  This condition known as supernumerary breast tissue usually occurs along the “milk lines” of the body.  You know–in the boob-al region.

It has been recently discovered, however, that a 22-year-old Brazilian woman actually possesses a third nipple of her foot.  A condition that I call Nipple Foot.  Apparently, this misplaced nipple has been there since birth and doesn’t cause the woman any pain at all.

Talk about a conversation starter.  “Wanna see my nipple? Just a sec.  I’ve got  to take off my socks.”

2)  Any avid Seinfeld fan will remember Frank & Kramer’s business venture into male undergarments with the “Bro” or “Manziere.”  It turns out, they may have been on to something.

Meet Guo Qingpo, a 53-year-old Chinese man who has been cursed with giant moobs (a.k.a. man boobs).  After consulting with over 20 specialists, he was diagnosed with lipodystrophy syndrome, a condition that leads to uneven distribution of fatty deposits.  While most men would welcome the depositing of said fat in their zipper region, few would celebrate the onset of breasts.  No matter how much they initially enjoy playing with them.

Thankfully, Guo has successfully had his hooters removed and has been reunited with his pecs once again.

3)  I totally blame Flashdance for my brief dalliance into exhibitionism.  Damn those oddly shaped sweatshirts and the inevitable consequences to the fashion world.  It does, however, securely place my most embarrassing teenage moment (the adult ones have been much worse) in the year 1983.

While I was bearing my breasts, the most popular song was Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic by the Police, the highest rated TV show was Dallas starring the recently deceased Larry Hagman, and the number one movie was one of my all-time favourites, The Christmas Story–a movie that, befittingly, showcased another body part.  The leg.  In the form of a lamp.  And en masse, people were naming their children Jennifer or Michael.

I loved the 80s.

Here’s a boob-bearing clip from Montreal’s Just For Laughs Gags.  

Photo credits:  Huge bra in street (http://blogs.herald.com/dave_barrys_blog), sweater puppets (www.amberdusick.com), dangerous sweater (www.thisnext.com), Mutt and Jeff (scoop.diamondgalleries.com), made you look (CartoonStock.com) Nipple Foot (www.dailymail.co.uk) moobs (www.asylum.com).

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

Posted by facelikeafryingpan in November 2012 and tagged with , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

“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

Posted by facelikeafryingpan in October 2012 and tagged with , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

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).

How to embarrass your car on a budget.

Posted by facelikeafryingpan in October 2012 and tagged with , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

“You take the money and I’ll grab the eyeballs.  Oddly enough, that’s not the first time I’ve said that.”  Barry Weiss, Storage Wars.

I want a nose for my car.  Every now and then, I see a car driving down the road sporting a shiny, red proboscis and I think to myself, “Self, we’ve got to get our paws on one of those.”  And, no, I am not making this up.  There are people in my town with car noses.  There’s even one automobile that sports eyelashes.  Maybe it’s just my town.  Must be the drinking water.

My car is not totally without facial features.  It has teeth.  Yes, I just said “teeth.”  Not the ghastly, “I-want-to-suck-your-Carotid-artery” kind.  Just happy, smiling, Osmond-white chompers.  You are likely wondering where I found such an awesome ornament.  (What?  You are not wondering where, but “why?” I don’t understand.)  They are the non-edible part of a candy/toy combo that I spied at Walmart.  It’s amazing what you can find when you possess the intellect of a small child.  My apologies to small children everywhere.

Yes. My car longs for one of these (or so I like to imagine).

During my search for the perfect breathing apparatus for my car, I discovered “Red Nose Day,” a Comic Relief-inspired, British charity event that encourages people and automobiles, alike, to sport a shiny, red nose.  Sure, we idiots across the pond will adopt blood pudding, Haggis, and other UK-spawned spare animal part dishes. Heck, we even opened our airwaves to…ugh…Benny Hill.  Why on earth have we not embraced the opportunity to wear giant red nostrils?  It’s even for charity.

What the hell is that grabbing my leg?

1)  Spotted dick aside, the Brits have given us a number of things that I am thankful for–Blackadder, Hyacinth Bucket, The Smiths, Death at a Funeral, and fish & chips, to name a few.  But here is one tradition  that I’m not sure I’d greet with such fervour.  Yes, from the people that brought us the treacherous sport of Cheese Rolling, I now present–Bog snorkelling.

Once a year, strangely dressed, muck-and-mire enthusiasts descend upon Powys, Wales for their chance to win roughly $200 US and a mention in the Guinness World Records.  All breathing must be done through your snorkel and you can only move using flipper power.  And, apparently, the water is nut-shrivelingly cold–not that I own a pair.  I’ve just been told.

Seriously, I love to swim as much as the next person.  But swimming in a bog carved out of peat moss?  There’s isn’t enough chlorine in the world that would make that seem alright.  Ack.

I bet a removable nose would come in handy, especially during flu season. Or would the snot just run freely down your face? Hm.

2)  Some noses are cute.  Bert and Ernie’s bulbous orbs of felt.  Long aardvark snouts.  The whiskered hamster variety.  And perfectly round, red ones on cars.  (I know.  Give it a rest already).  It turns out that they are more than just cute and useful in oxygen intake.  They have many uses.    Noses hold eyeglasses in place.  They give you something to pick when you’re bored.  They make it possible to “thumb your nose” at annoying neighbours.  And, apparently, they can blow up balloons.  Honest.  Here’s the proof…

Just what you want to explode at your child’s birthday party–a mucous-filled, booger-encrusted balloon.  Ack.

But, wait!  It gets worse.  A nose can also be used to blow a marshmallow across the room into a moron’s open mouth.  Yes, two gifted individuals from Illinois achieved the world record for pitching and receiving this nose candy over a distance of 16 feet.  I hate marshmallows at the best of time, but this would truly be a marshmallow nightmare.  Let’s hope they used the green ones.

3)  Noses, eyelashes, and teeth aside, I love cars.  Especially ones that sound mean.  Rather than spending a lot of money getting a tricked out exhaust, I’ll think I’ll just drive around with this guy making throaty car noises over a loud speaker.  Check it out…

watch?v=RSDUcKw-GOk

And no automotive blog would be complete without this baby…

Barry Weiss’s awesome 1955 Ford Bubble-top Beatnik. No nose required for this baby.

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

 

Photo Credits: Smart nose car (flickr.com), bog snorkeling (www.aquiziam.com), the Beatnik (autoholics.com).