A Blocked Spam Comment

This came up in the old Akismet spam queue the other day:

“It’s really entry degree with respect to black color metallic without reserving unyielding love to suit another purpose. Phantom’s cries are actually characteristic in the style, which includes long distance given to its cruelty.”

Interesting.

Thank You For Attempting To Donate A Fecal Matter Splattered Toilet Seat To Charity

Dear charitable donor:

Greetings and salutations, you altruistic bastard! Thank you for your recent philanthropic contribution of one toilet seat with human feces on it. Our organization is grateful. I love dung—we’d all become very sick if our bodies didn’t produce it. Having said that, it is with great regret that we decided to reject your attempted donation.

I know, I know. The toilet seat was in good condition. I’m the first person to admit that. No cracks, well oiled hinges. Can’t ask for much more than that. And remember, in the opening sentence of this letter, I professed my love of scat, so please don’t take this next part as offensive. I’m not the bad guy here.

Apparently, there are “health codes” here in Minnesota. I hadn’t heard of them until this, either. I mean, it’s your right as an American to get as much soft serve on your personal toilet seat as you want. I’ll defend to the death that freedom. Supposedly, and I’m just quoting my superiors here, we are allowed to accept toilet seats as charitable donations, those are fine and dandy, but any residual splatterings that accompany them are strictly verboten. It’s a bunch of bureaucratic brew-ha-ha, if you ask me. Bowel movements are a part of life, like breathing. Next thing you know, we won’t be able to accept anything that has been breathed on. Thank you, liberal America. Or is it the conservatives? Either way, they’re both screwing people like you and me—the real heroes, the “little guys”—over in one way or another.

Yes, we need your “gently used” items. The term is a bit misleading, I see that now. In this floundering economy, our charity needs anything we can get our hands on. So what if you walked into the bathroom and spray-farted before you were properly seated, then decided the toilet seat that took the shot was good enough for those less fortunate? In my jaded vision of a perfect world, that would be acceptable. But, like I said, it’s my boss, not me, that’s putting the kibosh on this. I would loved to have picked up that festering poo-poo-platter, I really would have, but I’ve got a job to worry about here. Otherwise I’ll be the one needing your discards!

It is our benevolence that propels us forward as a species. But alas, as we continue on, sanitation is becoming an ever-enveloping issue. It just is. I’m going to fight this, believe me. Until the higher-ups pull their heads out of each other’s (probably properly-wiped) butts, can I ask that you please humor them and clean any trace of solid waste off of anything that you plan on donating to charity?

Thank you,

The guy who picks up the stuff you donate to charity

One Solution To The Child Obesity Problem

I’ve been stuck behind a number of school busses in a number of neighborhoods. Despite differing localities, one common thread runs through the routing scheme: kids are getting really fat, so have a bus stop as often as possible.

This very morning, the school bus in front of me made a pick up. The kids got in, the flashing lights turned off. It moved forward about one hundred feet, stopped again. Another successful pick-up made, it accelerated off to its next stop, a hundred feet from the previous stop, two hundred feet from the original.

My radical solution: combine all three stops into one. If someone complains, inform them that kids can walk, and tell them to drive their stupid, fat, lazy kid to school themselves.

And we need more kids at each stop, because I recently saw a man with thick glasses and a comb-over standing near a stop looking very abductive-y and pervy. I’m pretty sure he wasn’t a parent. Safety in numbers.

Columbus Day

In honor of Christopher Columbus, I went exploring the other day. I drove south and discovered Minneapolis. Though I did forget to demand gold from the natives and cut off their hands when they didn’t bring me enough. Next time.

 

How To Make A Lame Story Not Lame

I’d like to share something I heard on the radio this morning. It’s a perfect way to make sure you never tell a boring story.

Example:

Today, at the grocery store, I asked a guy that worked there if they had any more peanut butter. He went into the back, checked, then returned and said, “Sorry, we’re all out.”

Pretty lame, right? Now listen to this:

Today, at the grocery store, I asked a guy that worked there if they had any more peanut butter. He went into the back, checked, then returned and said, “Sorry, we’re all out,” and then he crapped himself.

It’s a pretty simple device, but it works. If you find yourself telling a story, and halfway through you realize it’s not as good as you thought it was, just add “and then he/she crapped him/herself” at the end, and boom, you’ve just told a hilarious anecdote.

Hamsters, Birth Control, and Me — A Cautionary Tale

When I was a boy, I came into possession of two young hamsters. Due to the infinitesimal nature of rodent genitalia, I found it very difficult to figure out the sex of my new pets. Nature informed me a few weeks later, when a batch of hamster pups arrived. All I could think about was how badass these hamsters were, becoming parents after being alive for less than two months. Where had they learned this behavior? Why would they choose to become pregnant at such a young age? I began to get the feeling that even if I had given them “the talk,” they would have gone and had weird hamster sex on each other anyways. As it happened, the hamster mom ended up eating all the babies after a few days. Why would she do that? I did some reading, and found that if a mother hamster feels that her pups are in danger, she’ll eat them. It’s better to be eaten on purpose by someone you love than to be hypothetically harmed by a stranger, or so goes Rodent Philosophy. During my research, I also learned that these critters pump out babies like a soft-serve machine. The proverbial hamster wheel in my head began to turn:

“There’s a pet store near here. Pet stores always need pets. I can provide those pets. There’s all these squirrels running amok in the yard, and if I can catch a few of those, I bet the store would give me some money for them.”

So I went and chased squirrels for a few hours, with nothing to show for it but scratched legs and a slightly increased knowledge of local acorn reservoirs. While I was rubbing dirt in the wounds, it hit me: “Wait a second, why am I chasing squirrels, when the geese in the park are bigger, slower, and probably easier to catch?”

A couple hours later, as I was splashing pond water on my goose bites, I had another thought — “Why am I trying to catch geese to sell to a pet store when I have two young, horny hamsters at home?”

So began Project-Make-My-Hamsters-Get-Pregnant-A-Lot-And-Sell-The-Babies-To-The-Local-Pet-Store, and naturally, a rigorous breeding regimen. Soon enough, they had another batch. I tried to make the mother feel as safe as possible, in order to avoid another cannibalization of the herd, as it were. It worked. Once the babies were big enough, I brought them to the pet store. I had spent the entire morning cleaning out my wallet to make room for all the money I was about to have in there. After demanding to see the manager, I was informed that they don’t take undocumented hamster children. I in turn informed him that maybe they should have a sign outside the store that says “We Don’t Buy Hamster Babies,” and therefore save us all some time. So I flipped him off, threw the hamsters in a garbage can on the way out, and became addicted to hardcore street drugs.

The moral: had those hamsters had access to birth control, none of this would have happened.

I Threw Up A Lot On Monday

This is how I spent my time on Monday and Tuesday:

Monday was dedicated to doing the vomiting documented in the above chart, and Tuesday’s efforts were put into creating the chart in Microsoft Paint.

I apologize for the poor graphic, but I believe it still gets the point across. What we can see from this chart is your classic mountaintop pattern – the early vomitings slowly ascending in volume, ultimately culminating  in what I like to call the Crest of Expulsion, represented here by the highest point. We then see everything descend quickly after that, with the vomitings ceasing around 8:42PM. The times are all approximate of course, as I didn’t take the time to look at a clock as my inner juices were surging up my throat. I have deduced that this was the result of some sort of food poisoning, but foul play has not yet been ruled out.

So that’s what I’ve been up to.

Blong (Blog Song) of the day. Kraftwerk – Spacelab.

Monday, January 10, 2011

The numbers for the fiscal year ending 12/31/10 were recently emailed to me by the good folks over at WordPress. As it so happens, since February of 2010, this Blog has been Online, On Demand, and On Fiyaaaaaaah!!!!!!!! I was informed that, allegedly, there were enough readers to fill nine Boeing 747s. What an odd unit of measurement. That reminds me, there used to be this one teacher I had who pronounced “measure” as “MAY-sure,” and “pleasure” as “PLAY-sure.” I never really understood that. And then I had another teacher who pronounced “penalized” as “PEEN-alized.” As in, “If you get that assignment to me before lunch, you won’t be PEEN-alized.” What?! I would sure hope I didn’t get peenalized. It sounds painful, and kind of gross. Well, as you can probably tell, I did absolutely no prep for this post, so I’m gonna get out of here.

Blong. Don’t worry, this whole polka thing will probably blow over in a few weeks. Until then, we shall continue to ride the rhythms of this wonderful genre.

The New Paradigm for 21st-Century Ushering

Good tidings to you all. The book is coming along rather swimmingly, thank you for being curious. I can only hope that as the publication date nears, you will become buy-curious. The text has SWELLED to a voluminous 4,500……………words. That’s like eight pages, so I only need 76 more to reach my minimum goal, and I haven’t even drawn the graphs and flowcharts for it yet! These are truly exciting times, not just for me, but also for those who inhabit my intricately woven social circle. For instance, at my friend’s wedding this past weekend, I witnessed the single greatest showcase of ushering talent that mine eyes doth hath ever casted their gaze upon. I should know, I’ve been to like eight weddings. My good pal B-Rad, aka Johnny Two Tone, aka Jazz Fingaz, displayed such nimble-toed dexterity and unparalleled empathetic vision that I had to double check the program to make sure I was at the right place! I could have sworn this was Hollywood! Until now, I had not witnessed such precision, such grace, such civility, other than in the dreamy faux-reality of a major motion picture. He herded each bovinial-minded guest to a seat that he deemed fit, all while avoiding a level of rambunction that I can’t even begin to fathom. It was almost as if he had received a copy of the guest list in advance, taken into account the factors of height, girth, and disability, and created a detailed rundown of who could sit where. Although the venue was located in a naturical setting, on flat ground, a view obscured was not to be found. If a late-comer was confined to the back, he was seated in such a fashion that he still had a line of vision through the valley created between some of the more portly attendees and the nadir of hunched seniors. It was claimed that this unobstructed flow of perception was all unintentional, but as a woman with a rather prominent bouffant was escorted to the row in front of me, she was at the last moment directed to the outermost seat in the row, thus preserving an unfettered vantage point of the area in which the nuptials were about to take place. It looked as though B-Rad gave me a sly “I got ya covered” wink as he strode past, but we may never know, as he was wearing those kind of glasses that get dark when you’re in sunlight.

Here’s the Blong. Handsome Boy Modeling School. Sunshine. Featuring Sean Lennon and Paula Frazer.