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).

One whole wheat nostril with a side order of arm pit juice please. And, no, I will not pray to your penis.

I think I am getting old.  My dendrites appear to be shriveling up, no longer able to form a connection with my mind.  Or, worse, making connections with the wrong parts.  Here is a glimpse into a day in my life:

  • Back car out of garage.  So far so good.  Get out of car and close garage door.  Good.  Then proceed to sit in passenger seat.  And wonder why car is not moving.  Oops.  Check to see if anyone saw that.  Breath sigh of relief and back car out of driveway.
  • Make wrong turn on highway and have to double back.  Realize that my gas tank is dangerously close to empty and curse myself for having to waste “fumes” on backtracking.
  • Arrive at clothing store.  “Oh” and “Aw” over new items on clearance rack.  Leave the store, and fumble to put on black jacket before going outside.  Remember that I did not bring black jacket.  Forgot it at home on couch.  Crap.  Wonder what black article in left hand is. Realize I have just left the store with clearance black dress pants in hand slung over shoulder.  Oops.  Return to store and apologize profusely.

Honestly.  This sort of thing happens to me all the time.  Damn this aging grey matter and the embarrassing situations it gets me in to.  I’m only in my forties.  What the heck will I be like twenty years from now?  A drooling, babbling, lump of stupidity with a double chin and a milky coating over one eye?

Today I felt like doing something a little different.  Rather than present three pieces of extremely valuable information relating to my rant above, I have decided to offer you three tidbits that I’d rather forget.  And it sounds like I’ll have no problem doing so.  Now, where was I?  Oh ya…

1)  Is your penis worthy of wearing a spanky fuchsia ribbon and parading itself around a public park?  You must be so proud.  But I must warn you that making an exhibition of it in just any park may land you in the clinker.  And on some lists that may have neighbours showing up at your door with torches and giant clubs.  Best to “parade” your prized possession at a venue where it will truly be appreciated.  And I know of just the place.

It turns out that in some cultures, the penis is worship-worthy.  It is the master of fertility.  (Although, I’m not sure where it would be without the lowly female’s egg.  But enough of my offended female sensibilities).  Worship the penis and your barren uterus will pump out babies aplenty.  Especially if you honour said phallus with a shiny pink bow.  And one need not worry about unsightly foreskins–only circumcised members allowed.

This image may take me longer to forget than I had originally hoped.  If you’d like to make an offering to a holy dick, yourself, these are found in a secluded spot behind the Swissotel Nai Lert Park Hotel in Beijing.

2)  So, you have just earned your Masters Degree in Fine Arts.  What will you do next?  I know.  Open a bakery where you can sell body parts made of bread.  Yes.  These morose dismembered heads are, supposedly, as edible as your harmless-looking, squishy loaf of Wonder Bread.

Kittiwat Unarrom, the artist behind the heads and appendages at Bread Head Bakery in Ratchaburi, Thailand, makes a plethora of body parts out of dough that contains other treasures like raisins and cashews, and occasionally, chocolate.  (I like to think that the chocolate is an unwilling participant, however).  Need a hand?  You’ve got it.  He’ll even throw in a foot or two.

Maybe I’m weird, but I simply cannot imagine sitting in the staff room at lunch and gnawing on a whole-wheat nose.  Ack.  Damn.  I threw up in my mouth again.

If you’d like to see the Freddy Krueger of bakers in action, check out this video.  Warning:  View with extra large vomit bag close at hand.

3)  And, you knew I couldn’t get through this post without a tribute to our friends in Japan–who, apparently, like some pretty strange beverages.

One that tastes like the juice from an armpit.   Just what you want.  A bottle of “sweat.”

Another that contains pig placenta.  Where did I put that damn barf bag?

Yes.  They’ve mixed cola and a vegetable.  I must admit, I kind of want to try this.

And what the heck does “in love? be juicy? mean?”  And what on earth would it taste like.

Need new puke bag.  This one’s full.

And I don’t even know what to say about this.

Oops.  My husband just found my peanut butter in with the coffee mugs.  It’s going to be a long day.

Credits:  Cartoon (http://ershu.wordpress.com/2008/03/13/forgetfulness-at-its-peak/), penises wearing bows (silencedmajority.blogs.com), breadheads (www.geekologie.com), sweat (pocarisweat.com), placenta (www.ebaumsworld.com), cucumber (www.japanprobe.com), juicy (www.ebaumsworld.com), weird eye trick (www.funnyjunksite.com).

Pass Me My Shark, Put Extra E Coli on my Burger, and Drown That Damn Toothbrush

In a previous installment, I told you that I have strange dreams.  This week, my nighttime forays have been particularly interesting.  A couple of nights ago “dream-me” was walking through a creek while Storage Wars‘ Barry Weiss defended me from sharks.  Tiny man-eating sharks.  In a creek.  “Dream-me” was so impressed with Barry’s heroic efforts that I let him make love to me right then and there.  In the creek.  Surrounded by little sharks.  Needless to say, watching Storage Wars is now like foreplay.

Last night, I dreamt that I discovered that I had a two-year-old.  I guess that up until that point it had been very quiet and invisible.  Well, it turned out that this kid was like a walking Webster’s Dictionary.  Its vocabulary made for great entertainment at parties.  Hey, if you’re going to have an imaginary toddler in your forties, you might as well have some perks.  And, yes.  I realize that I have been referring to the kid as “it,” but it’s okay.  It’s not real.  I much preferred the Barry Weiss dream.

Barry Weiss…no creek-dwelling shark is too much for him

I had a beef sandwich the other day.  You’re probably scratching your head and thinking, “I know this chick has the thought-process of a red squirrel, but what does that have to do with anything?”  Bear with me.  Right now, eating cow in Canada is like playing a deli version of Russian Roulette.  A huge beef processing plant in Alberta has been shut down due to an e coli outbreak.  Can ingesting e coli cause strange dreams?  If I eat more, can I pick up the Barry Weiss dream where I left off?  I think I’ll go out and get myself a big steak.  With a side order of bacteria.

1) Let’s face it.  Humans are strange.  And some humans are stranger than others.  I couldn’t possibly bring up Russian Roulette without checking to see if our friends from the Far East have tried re-inventing it.  Sure enough, they have.  From the nation that has brought us the girlfriend lap pillow, the plunger helmet, tomato chocolate, the remote control toilet, and square watermelons, I now bring you Japanese Russian Roulette.  

This kind of makes me want to dust off the old Nerf guns.  Kind of.

I would rather use this toothbrush after the pig than buy one of these.

2)And trust me, the Japanese do not have a monopoly on bizarre products.  I was in the local Walmart the other day and saw something that horrified me.  Justin Bieber toothbrushes.  They actually sing.  Four different colours are available and each one plays a different Bieber hit.  Yikes!  Waking up and having to endure the Biebs singing.  In my mouth.  Is it just me or does that seem dirty?  And not in a pleasant “dreaming-about-Barry-Weiss” way.

This clip pretty much sums up the reaction I had at Walmart.  Except in my head.  I didn’t think I should exclaim my disbelief out loud.  By myself.  To no one in particular.

 

3)  So, what kind of shallow-water dwelling shark could Barry Weiss have been rescuing me from in my dream?  I think we can safely say it wouldn’t be Bruce from Jaws.  Yes, that was the shark’s name.

Apparently, the world’s smallest shark is smaller than a human hand.  Well, not mine.  Mine are freakishly small.  Like Minnie Mouse‘s hands.  But with four fingers and a thumb.

This harmless little shark is the Dwarf Lanternshark, believed to be found only in Columbia and Venezuela.  The Chihuahua of sharks, it doesn’t exactly instill fear.  So, it would appear that my dream took place in a South American creek.  And the only danger I faced was having my heels over-exfoliated by Snickers-sized sharks.  Perhaps, Barry wasn’t being heroic after all.  He just really wanted to touch my smooth feet.

No small sharks were harmed during the filming of my dream.

Related Links:  Searching For Barry Weiss

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).

I was driving in my furry car to see the Captain of Beans when my arm fell off.

Last night, I made the mistake of saying aloud, “I like wind.”

My husband, who never passes up a chance to be funny, quickly responded “Is that why you fart so much?”

I’m a bit of an attention hog, myself, so I deftly replied, “Yes.  And I’m really upset that I can’t put my ass in front of my face.”

This is the sort of banter that takes place in my house all the time.  But that’s not where I was going with this post.  The fact is that I LOVE wind.  The type created by Mother Nature, not Libby’s brown beans.

I so wish I could pretend to be a dog and stick my head out the car window, but let’s face it–I’d probably get my head lopped off by a mailbox or something.  Instead, I play it safe by sleeping in front of a fan.  Yes, we have central air, so it’s not because I’m hot.  In fact, sometimes I’m downright cold.  But the wind feels damn good.  Even if it is frigid.

And in the car, I never use the a/c–which is a major accomplishment.  It gets pretty darn hot and sticky here in the summer.  (Yup, I’m Canadian.  And, yes, we do get heat.  Eh?)  My husband, however, loves air conditioning.  You might think this causes a dilemma.  Not at all.  Our car is the Switzerland of automobiles.  His half of the vehicle is like a chilly, sealed-off, tomb with all the artificial air-pushing vents pointed in his direction.  My side has the window wide open and my arm flapping in the fresh, “real air” breeze.

The only problem is that insects travelling at 85 kms an hour hurt.  My arm has seen–or rather “felt”–it all.  Errant beetles, fuzzy bees, and God knows what else has been smucked against my tender flesh.  I know.  You’re saying, “How do you think the poor bug felt?”  I’m not without a soul.  I also feel sorry for the bugs.  But I cannot stop.

On an unrelated topic, I heard this joke on Ellen the other day.  What did the zero say to the eight?  I like your belt.

1)  What do you get when you cross a beetle and a rhinoceros?  Apparently, the ugliest bug ever.  Seriously, look at that thing.  It’s name is the “rhinoceros beetle” and I must say that both I and my arm were relieved to learn that it resides in the Far East.  And I don’t mean East as in Newfoundland–I mean China and Japan.  My heart does go out to my Japanese and Chinese arm-flailing counterparts though.  Having one of these careen into your arm would probably leave you…well…armless.

If you’re a regular follower of my blog–and if you aren’t, what is wrong with you?–you will know what a fascinating place Japan is.  Well, the home of the girlfriend pillow, tomato chocolate, the suction cap helmet, and so much more has struck again.

While we wimpy North Americans play with our pet Labradoodles and listen to the Snuggle Bear sell us laundry products, the Japanese are seemingly immune to such soft and cuddly façades.  They appear to prefer sharp and crunchy, particularly when it comes in the form of the rhinoceros beetle.  Pet stores sell them for $5 to $10.  In some places in Japan, you can even get one in a vending machine.  Hopefully, not the same one that dispenses Coke and Doritos.

They are also popular cartoon characters.  This makes me wonder what we are missing out on.  Perhaps, we should also embrace the insect world.  Monty the Mosquito?   David Dung Beetle?  Maybe these should be the subjects of the next Pixar flick.

2) One Beetle that I am a HUGE fan of is the Volkswagen variety.  You’ve got to love a vehicle that gives you permission to punch people.

The clever folk at the Dallas Arboretum have discovered a way to create soft fuzzy, colourful Bugs.  Meet the VW topiary Westfalia and Beetle pair.  These former street vehicles have had their proverbial guts removed and some sort of plant-friendly caging or meshing attached and “voila”–look at how pretty they now are!

This would make Herbie proud.

3) Japan is not the only place where I find strange things.  The UK has its fair share.

Meet “Captain Beany”–yup, that is what he “officially” goes by–the Curator of the Baked Bean Museum of Excellence.  Mister Beany–I refuse to recognize his self-appointed ranking–has amassed over 200 artefacts in his Port Talbot, Wales museum.  Um, he refers to it as a “virtual haricot heaven.”

So, there you have it.  If you consider yourself to be a bean fiend, this just may be the place for you.  But I don’t see any Libby’s.

In honour of all you busy-bowelled bean eaters, here is a clip of the famous Blazing Saddles bean scene:  

And, course, I couldn’t have a blog that mentioned “beans” without at least one clip from Mr. Bean.  

Photo Credits:  Ugly bug (http://life-bite.blogspot.ca), VW topiaries (http://www.dallasplanttrials.org), Mister Beany (http://www.bakedbeanmuseumofexcellence.org.uk/).

Giant Farts, Epic Ear Fur, and Vultures That Stare

“How old would you be if you didn’t know how old you were?”  ~Satchel Paige

It is happening.  Ugh.  I’m getting old.  The proof is on the top of my head–right in the middle. Where the part is.  Boldly sticking up in odd angles amidst my red curly hair are–I can barely force myself to admit this–GREY HAIRS.  As I have mentioned previously, I really screwed up when I went through the DNA-selection line-up.  It would seem that I opted for all the negative traits from each of my parents–the short, hammer-toed, freckly genes.  And the one that makes my hair shift from copper to white in my early forties.

My husband noticed them first.  Likely because he is a foot taller than me and spends a great deal of his life looking at the top of my head.  And also because he is the most observant person I have ever met.  Seriously, I live with a real life Columbo.  Except less bumbling and without the  wrinkled clothing.

So how have I coped with my unwelcomed white hairs?  I haven’t.  I pluck the ones at the front and my husband does the rest.  We are extremely careful not to pull any of the treasured reds.  It’s the ones that are white on the ends and red by the root that confuse me.  Is this a hair that couldn’t decide what colour it wanted to be?  I could see it starting out red, then getting tired and turning grey.  But why go from grey to red again?  Is my new Pantene condition the equivalent to Geritol for hair?

Can anyone explain this phenomenon?  Am I just a freak with mutant hair?

1)  OMG.  I nearly pee’d myself.  I realize that incontinence comes with getting older, but this time it was due to laughter.  Lots of it.  The source of my mirth–the Guinness World Record Holder for  the longest ear hair.

Seriously, who lets themselves look like this?  Apparently, India’s Victor Anthony does.  His flowing earlocks are 18.1 cm (7.12 inches) long.  Who lets their ear hair get longer than their head hair?

How the hell does he hear?  Just now I wound up some of my head hair and shoved it in my ears.  It significantly muffled the Jeopardy theme song.   Ah.  Now I know why he keeps it.

2)  Have I told you how much I love the Japanese?  Seriously.  The more I blog, the more I want to go to Tokyo and have a square watermelon, a tube of hard-boiled egg, and eat a square of a tomato chocolate bar.

I might even have to check out one of their cutting edge fashion shows like the one pictured here–An Adult Diaper show.  Seriously, first it’s grey hair.  Next, it’s Depends.

Actually, it turns out Depends is not our only option.  Diaper manufacturers showcased their newest models as happy and extremely dry men and women paraded the catwalk to 80’s hits like Frankie Goes to Hollywood‘s Relax.  How can anyone relax when they are wearing a diaper over their clothes?  On stage to boot?  And to make matters more complicated they are raising their arms in the air.  I could never do that on stage wearing diapers.  The nerve-induced pit-stains would clear out the whole front row.

Obviously, the Japanese are much braver people than I.

  3)  The older I get, the more I fart.  And they aren’t cute little popcorn farts either.  They are foamy-sounding monsters.  It’s like a giant balloon being deflated in my pants.  I’m not worried though.  No matter how bad they get, my flatulence will never pose a threat to Global Warming.

Yes, I went from farts to Global Warming.  Why?  Well, it turns out that scientists are now blaming the dinosaur’s intestinal tract for ancient Global Warming.  Yes, their farts were that bad.   It is believed that dinosaurs produced more methane than all of today’s natural and man-made pollutants combined.  Damn vegetarian diet.

Photo Credits:  Ear hairs,  (missosology.info),  Diaper Fashion Show (inventorspot.com), Vultures (http://bigeyedeer.wordpress.com/2007/07/03/this-cartoon-is-circling-in-the-sky-above-you/).

Fish Heads, Canoe Heads, and Ones That Wear Suction Cups

Boycott shampoo! Demand the REAL poo!”  Steven Wright.

Some humans have way too much time on their hands.  Like bloggers, for example.  But at least we try to put this excess time to good use, entertaining and educating the masses.  Or at least that’s what we say to justify what we do.  Or at least that’s what I say to justify what I do.  I’m still not sure if anyone believes me though.

I could be doing much worse things with the extra hours in my day–I could sing a song about decapitated fish heads and dress them up in assorted outfits.  Right now, you are probably thinking that this is just some random, weird thought that I just pulled out of my head.  I wish.  In actuality, the comedy duo, Barnes & Barnes, did just this. In 1980, this video was everywhere…and my adolescent self thought this was very entertaining.  Now, I just find it disturbing.  Seriously, someone had to collect a pile of smelly fish heads and, then, find fish-cranium-appropriate Little League outfits, knitted sweaters, and someone who would actually consent to dead fish parts be placed on their drums.  And how did they ever convince Chip & Dale to do the vocals?

If you would like to see this video in it’s entirety, go here.  Warning: the actual song doesn’t start until past the two minute mark.  

And, it would appear, that some of my fellow Canadians had a little too much time on their hands–and, perhaps, a wee bit too much to drink.  I admit that I love to canoe.  And I have had to portage from time-to-time.  And that I have often wondered what would happen if, while I am balancing my canoe over my head, I am struck by lightning.  Apparently, someone else entertained this thought too–and turned this thought into a character on the comedy show Four on the Floor.  The character, of course, was called “Mr. Canoehead.”  And, surprise, surprise, it was aired in 1986.  The 80s were strange.

To watch Mr. Canoehead’s inaugural episode, click on this:  

1) Fish Heads, Canoe Heads–I see a pattern developing here, so I might as well run with it.

As this blog has shown, the Japanese are a very innovative people.  The have a solution for every problem.  I, for instance, am a pretty dumb commuter.  Like the woman pictured here, I love to sleep on the bus, but I have failed to adopt bus-ride-head-protection-safety-gear.  I actually didn’t even know that such a thing existed.  I usually rest my head on the window, which results in my head pounding against the glass at every bump or turn.  (Can repeated small blows to the head inflict brain damage? Hmm.  That could explain a few things.)

She, however, is a  genius.  Why didn’t I think of suction-cupping my head to the pane of glass?  And, just in case she doesn’t wake up at her stop, she has posted a sign on her forehead telling other passengers where she is supposed to get off.  Not only is she clever at preventing head injuries, but she has also found a way to shirk her passenger-ly responsibilities.

I, however, cannot read in a moving vehicle without vomiting, so I wouldn’t be able to look at her sign at all, let alone know when to wake her up.  And wouldn’t her helmet give her her hat-head?

2)  I thought my allergies were a bitch, but then I came across an ailment called “Exploding Head Syndrome.”  Seriously, I will never joke around about my head exploding again–no matter how much snot I have in my sinuses and no matter how much pounding my migraines cause.

Now, don’t get me wrong.  People who suffer from this affliction do not actually experience the rupturing of their craniums (what is the plural of cranium, anyway?)  Rather, they hear extremely loud noises much like a gunshot, a roar, or a scream.  The noises come from “inside” the head.  And they usually occur when the person first falls asleep or within the first two ours of sleep.

Is it just me or does this condition sound freaky?  Voices in the head are bad enough–particular if that voice sounds like Fran Drescher.  But even she’s slightly more soothing that the sound of bombs or guns going off.  I repeat–slightly.  This would be enough to make me never want to sleep again.  Ever.  And I love sleep.

3) I couldn’t do a blog dedicated to heads without including an ode to the best one of all–The Mayor in Tim Burtons The Nightmare Before Christmas.  I have always loved both of this politician’s faces–his happy one and his stressed out one.

I just discovered that his voice was provided by the late Glenn Shadix (pictured here), an actor that has a very familiar face for good reason.  I remember him as Otho on Beetlejuice, Harold (Jerry’s landlord) on Seinfeld, and, of course, as the mayor of Halloween Town.  His list of credits is quite lengthy.

Shadix passed away at the young age of 58 due to a fall that caused blunt trauma to his head.

For a glimpse of his character in The Nightmare Before Christmas, click on this: 

This post wouldn’t be complete without at least one Bobblehead.  And who’s a bigger Bobblehead than Dwight Shrute?  (Rhetorical question.  Please do not answer.)  If you’d like to buy this bobblehhead of Dwight Shrute, you can visit Dwight Shrute Bobblehead at NBC.  I’d love to know if anyone actually has this Bobblehead or any other strange ones.  

Well, enough of this “heady” topic.

Photo Credits:  Subway Sleeper (www.weirdworm.com), Exploding Head (fishinmama.blogspot.ca), Glenn Shadix (aveleyman.com), anteater (http://justoutsidetheboxcartoon.com/tag/brain/)

Trees with Eyes, Tube-shaped Eggs, and Packages That I Haven’t Read Carefully

It is no coincidence that in no known language does the phrase ‘As pretty as an airport’ appear.”    Douglas Adams.

I hate wearing sunglasses.  I have an oddly shaped head or face or something, because they always make me look very strange.  Like a beetle on crack.  I’ve tried every type from teeny-weeny intellectual ones to motorcycle cop “you-can’t-see-my-eyes” styles to the ones with lenses the size of garage doors.  None of them give me that sophisticated Jackie-O look–no matter how many scarves I wear.

And they make my eyes sweat.  Well, not my actual eyes–that would probably land me a spot in some optical medical journal–but the space under my eyes.  All summer I look like Alice Cooper.  I realize that I could invest in some waterproof mascara, but that just opens up a whole new can of worms.

My husband’s glasses fog up a lot.  That must be frustrating.  One minute the world is a crisp vision of loveliness and “pwoff,” it is transformed into a chasm of blurriness (do you like my attempt at Mad Magazineish sound effects?)  Which raises another question?  Do contact lenses ever fog up?  Or worse, if they get cold can they stick to your nice, warm eyeballs? Think of Flick’s tongue and the flagpole in The Christmas Story.  

1)  I have recently discovered that I am an idiot.  Seriously, I am a total numpty-head.  I don’t know how many times I have endured the frustration of pulling out a sheet of Saran wrap, having the entire tube come with it, and struggling to hold on to my sheet of cellophane without allowing it to stick to itself, while I fight to return the roll to the box.  A box with a jagged metal “tearing strip” that usually winds up ripping my flesh during this battle.  It happens to me on a regular basis.  And I always blame the Saran wrap.  Or its equally frustrating cousin, tin foil.

It turns out that I am to blame.  Apparently, the thoughtful manufacturers of these products have gone to the trouble of creating a device to keep these rolls in place.  I’m just too stupid to read the packaging and make this discovery.

If you, too, are a moron–I’m in no position to judge your mental prowess–simply take a glance at the photo to your right.  See the little triangular-ish shape on the side of this (and all other) Reynolds Wrap boxes?  Well, apparently, if you push that puppy in, the roll will stay in place.  Who knew?  Okay, some of the world’s “smarty-panted” people probably knew.  But, surely I can’t be the only one who didn’t know.  Could I?  (Cue sound of crickets).

2)  I love trees.  My favourite is the weeping willow.  They’re great for climbing and their long, draping foliage is perfect for hiding in.  Maples are nice too.  Seriously, a tree that makes pretty colours in the fall AND gives us sweet sap for pouring on our pancakes.  Plus, I’m Canadian.  Maples are sort of our thing.  Check out our flag.  And our pennies.  Although you’ll have to check out the pennies soon since they have been put on the minting chopping block.

I recently discovered, however, that not all trees are pretty or stately or eager to provide us with shade.  Some are downright scary.

This “screaming tree” lives in Hither Hills State Park, NY.  I’m sorry, but if I ran in to this, I’d probably run the other way screaming.  Trees just simply aren’t supposed to look like this.  I am grateful that a very brave photographer managed to take this shot though.  Seriously.  Can you imagine seeing this through a camera lens?  Or taking your eyes off it long enough to take your camera out and turn it on?  I’d be far too worried about what its branches were up to.  Like, are they reaching around to grab me?  I mean look at the mouth!  Trees generally don’t have mouths.  I can only imagine what someone would find if they peered down inside this bark-covered beast.

But, as ugly as the American offering is, the UK has an even more horrific forest dweller.  Not only does it have teeth, but it appears to have actual eyeballs.  Or eye sockets, at the very least.

Does anyone remember the evil trees in H.R. Pufnstuf?  In case you don’t, you can catch them here….

I think I’ll go outside and hug my faceless oak.

3)  I have  simply got to go to Japan.  As you know, this is the land of square watermelons, the girlfriend pillow, and tomato chocolate bars.  And in case those aren’t enough to send you out for airline tickets to Tokyo, I have just found another draw. The Japanese egg roll.

How efficient is this?  Instead of taking the time to boil an egg and set the timer to ensure it’s hard-boiled, you simply take out your tube of egg and hack off a slice or two.  I wonder what type of bird lays cylindrical eggs?

Photo credits:

Reynolds wrap:  http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_gJCMpC3I-ng/TAkYjt80sXI/AAAAAAAAGxc/-grfoaKwtvg/s320/foil.jpg

Egg tube:  Marci Wittwer Butterfield

Screaming tree:  brothergrimm

UK Tree: David Garnham/Newsteam/Getty Images

Mutant Fruit, Lost Arms, and a Funky Highway

“First the doctor told me the good news: I was going to have a disease named after me.” – Steve Martin

I must apologize for my absence yesterday, but quite frankly, I had better things to do.  Haha.  Seriously though, the penance for my blogless day involved driving the cell-phone signal no-man’s land that is highway 41 in the dark.  Furry creatures with marble eyes scurried to and fro in front of us.  Porcupines threatened to puncture our radiator with their menacing quills.  And, of course, it was so very boring.  And long.  And did I tell you it was boring?

Well, we did make it home.  Finally.  And I now must present you with the daily blog fix that you have been waiting for–

1)  Japanese researchers have found a solution to a problem that I didn’t even know I had.  Apparently, I have experienced a great deal of frustration surrounding the storage of my round fruits.  It seems that I have also had great difficulty slicing said objects.  Thank God they pointed this out because now I really want to buy the product they are pushing…square watermelons.

Yup.  You heard me right.  Forget curing cancer or solving the word’s hunger problem.  We have bigger fish to fry…melons are rolling around willy-nilly in the bottom of fridge’s all over the globe!  What if one of these giant orbs accidentally squishes the Wonderbread?

Using tempered glass boxes, scientists have managed to alter the shape of the watermelon without compromising its quality.  The only problem is that when these babies first rolled (oh ya, they can’t do that anymore) into Japanese supermarkets in 2001, they cost the equivalent of $83 US.  I think at that price you could afford to replace the squashed Wonderbread.

2)  Okay, this is the strangest piece of information that I have come across yet.  It made me laugh and cringe at the same time.  And, according to Snopes, it’s true.

In 1997, a huge tug-of-war was held in a Taipei park to celebrate Retrocession Day.  1600 people pulled with all their might on a 5 cm thick, nylon rope.  They should have known a disaster was likely to happen.  The rope snapped with tremendous force, taking with it a pair of arms.  No really.  Two men each had an arm torn off just below the shoulder.

Thankfully, both arms were returned to their owners during 7 hours of surgery.

3)  I don’t know if this is new or if up until now, I have been the world’s least observant person, but there is a stretch of the 401 between Belleville and Kingston that is a manufacturer’s road paint test strip.  On our way back from Newmarket yesterday, we kept seeing signs forewarning us of “test paint strips.”  My husband and I obviously aren’t the brightest bulbs in the box because we both looked at each other with dumb, blank looks on our faces and said in unison, “what the hell does that mean?”  Well, we received our answer a few metres later–in techno-colour.

While this picture shows drivers off to one side, forbidden from driving on the psychedelic markings, we had the privilege of running right over them.  Plus, not all of these strips are tidy, horizontal lines as shown here.  That would be too boring to mention (although maybe this is still too boring to mention).  There were dots and slashes and vertical lines too.  I, of course, have to wonder what effect these would have on an illiterate (thus unable to read the explanatory signs) person at night.  Would they think they had fallen asleep at the wheel and had somehow wound up driving onto a banquet hall’s carpeting?  (I’m sorry, but those places really do seem to have the ugliest prints on the floor).