Foolery

UroClub™, from the Makers of PoopMitt™

This is The UroClub™. I am not making this up. The text below is faithfully copied from the web site. Gubby sent the link to me several weeks ago, and I had a good laugh all over again tonight. Any thoughts, golfers? Golf widows? Groundskeepers? Well, as a long-time former men's gift retailer who made her living selling golf trinkets and Fart Books, I have a few thoughts . . .

How many times has this happened? You're playing 18 holes with your best buddies, drinking sport-"ades," water, beer, etc. You're coming up to the 3rd hole with no rest room in sight. There are no trees or bushes around* and you just have to go, what are you going to do?

I'll tell you what he's gonna do -- he's gonna drop trow behind the cart and whiz like a racehorse and then brag about it, THAT'S what he's gonna do. He's not bloody likely to fiddle behind a tea towel while his buddies snap photos of him with their cell phone cameras and send them off to the Internets. "Look at Marv, peein' into a stick!" they'll roar. Suddenly Marv has performance anxiety. His urethra slams shut and he can't pee to save his life. His kidneys explode on the back nine and it's ALL YOUR FAULT for buying him a $25 Pee Stick.

The UroClub™ is the discreet, sanitary way for your urgent relief. Created by a Board Certified Urologist**, it looks like an ordinary golf club, but contains a reservoir built into the grip to relieve yourself. The UroClub™ is leak proof, easy to clean and no more embarrassing moments. Except, of course, for the embarrassment of being Fancy Nancy with a Pee Stick in his golf bag.

Purchase The UroClub™ now for only $24.95 while supplies last!

Yes, please do. We need more capital to work out some kinks with The PoopMitt™ in R&D.




*Jeeeeeepers, are ya playing golf on the MOON?!

**An important man who rates LOTS of capital letters in The Land of Urologists.

~     ~     ~     ~     ~

Just kidding, of course. It seems like a cleverly-designed product, and I probably would have sold it in my gift store. But honestly? Can't picture a single man I know using one, and the first time a wife had to dump the thing out would be the LAST time.

One of a Few of My Favorite Things

The December 10th, 2001 cover of The New Yorker.  Chas saved it.  I want the shower curtain version, but I don't think they make it any more.





("Newyorkistan" by Maira Kalman & Rick Meyerowitz, stolen from this site)

Things That Bug Me at Christmas Time

(Photo stolen from these guys)

• When you give all of your change to the bell ringer outside K-Mart on your way into the store, and there is a shift change while you're shopping, so that when you come back out of the store, you have no change to drop in to the bucket and the new bell ringer thinks you're a cheapskate.
• When your child thinks that every person who has ever set foot in her classroom is a teacher, so when it's time to make pumpkin bread for the teachers (cheaper than buying a gift but oh-so time consuming) you end up sending three pumpkin breads with the child, just in case she's right.
• When you have time to bake and time to wrap and time to organize your children's backpacks and time to clean up the kitchen and time to wash the baking dishes (which breed when the lights are out, I swear) BUT you don't have time to watch Dr. Drew, so naturally you watch Dr. Drew.

(Photo stolen from these guys)

• When the new tenant (a very sweet man) at the house across the street where we used to live decides to do everyone a favor by picking the oranges on the trees in his yard, which all of us have access to, and he proudly presents them in big grocery bags with a huge proud smile on his face, even though he himself no tiene gusto de naranjas*, and they're too green to pick.
• When a blogger who has nothing in particular to say blogs anyway, twelve hours late, in order to complain about something, and she has the nerve to consider it a blog post.  Humph harumph.  Let's throw green oranges at her.

*Frederico doesn't like oranges

My Education Was All Wrong

(Art stolen from this lady)

Okay, I get it: everything I learned in school about history is WRONG.  Columbus, Balboa, Cook, Vasco da Gama, Custer -- all miscreants with God complexes, I know, I know.

Probably half the science I was taught in school is WRONG.  Protons and neutrons?  Not the smallest particles.  Einstein's Theory of Relativity?  Not yet skewered, but that's only because there are only about 17 people who understand it, and they're all busy people; that theory can stand a while longer.  Dinosaurs?  Cousins of Cher the birds.

The English grammar rules that were pounded into me were, apparently, WRONG, if common usage is any indicator.  We can all say "where at" now without any fear of eyebrows rising.  I can now use "only" in a sentence without worrying about where to put it.  (I'm absolutely sure that someone out there will tell me where to put it, anyway.)

In the face of all of this disinformation filling my brain, it's really comforting to have new learning streaming in via the internet.  I learn great new stuff every day.  Maybe you get the same bulletins?

• Pigs have thirty minute orgasms
• The ocean liner QE2 burns a gallon of fuel for every six inches traveled
• The average person swallows eight spiders per year while sleeping
• Always wash your canned goods or you'll die a horrible death from mouse pee

I really don't need to waste any time wondering whether or not any of it is true, because there will be brand-spanking new factoids coming along any minute to take their place.  My question is, right or wrong, who figures out all this stuff?  Who spent part of his or her career to determine that if your poop floats, you're eating too much fat --  how was that determined, or do I really want to know?  No, I don't.

If the pig orgasm guy turned his attention to the relativity theory, maybe someone could debunk it and I could stop worrying about how much Earth time has passed when I get back from my speed-of-light trip through time and space.  On the other hand, time is all relative anyway, and that pig has given me an idea . . .

All About Dora

This is Dora the Explorer.

(Graphic stolen from these guys)

 

Most of what Dora says is in English, punctuated with Spanish.  Everything Dora says sounds like this:

(Photo stolen from these guys)

(Photo stolen from this guy)

(Photo stolen from this site)

 

(Original photo stolen from these guys)

 

Dora performs the vital role, in this culturally-diverse society of ours, of teaching little Anglo kids to scream in Spanish.

 

(Graphic stolen from this site)

 

I'm very, very thankful for Dora the Explorer.  I'm that much more thankful that my daughters are no longer interested in screaming in Spanish.

 

This is also Dora the Explorer.

(Photo stolen from this site  )

 

I found this one too disturbing to comment.

He's A Shoe-In for the Nomination

I have a new name for John McCain.

 

Are you ready?  Are you sure?

 

Senator Moccasin.


(Photo stolen from these guys)

 

Yes, I know -- I'm clever as all get-out, and you just can't imagine where I come up with this sh stuff, right?  But I didn't make it up, I swear.  No, that little bit of brilliance is owed to fast-typing AP journalist Liz Sedoti, who forgot to turn off her spell-checker-word-replacer thingy (I'm quite the techie).

 

This is the sentence from yesterday's article that came through Yahoo news:

"As of today, more than 4 million people have given me their vote for president, that's of course, less than Senator moccasin's 4.7 million, but quite a statement nonetheless."

"Wow," I said to myself as I read this.  "Romney must be bitter to come up with a snarky nickname for his opponent!  Not a very good snarky nickname, but a snarky nickname just the same."

 

And then I realized the journalistic prize bonanza I had been handed -- Romney didn't say moccasin; this was a TYOP!  I mean a TYPO!  And I was the only one to see it, other than that journalist's mother, who I'm absolutely sure proofreads all of her daughter's work within seconds of it hitting the wires.  Poor Liz Sedoti.   And the tyop is in a run-on sentence to boot.

 

Thinking quickly, I copied the sentence and e-mailed it to Gubby.  I was hoping he'd open his Grab program -- it's a Mac thing, and I don't have a Mac at work, goldurnit -- and I had hoped Gubby could grab a shot of that article before they fixed it BUT --

 

It was not to be.  They fixed it within seconds.

 

So, sadly, Liz Sedoti and her mother and I are the only three people who saw John McCain's new nickname first-hand.  You'll have to trust me on this.  Hey, it's an election year -- it shouldn't be TOO hard to suspend disbelief, right?

Time to Get the Mail, Bert!

This is Bert's house, somewhere in one of the snowy Mountain States (Bert is not his real name, and Bert is a lawyer, and it wasn't Bert who sent me these pictures, so I'm covering my hiney, here).



Bert just got a new toy.

It's not a skateboard.  It's not a plasma TV.  It's not a convertible.  Give up?

This is Bert's new toy -- the blurry thing there on the right.



Yup.  It has a CAB.  With a heater.  Do you think Bert will ever get out of that thing?

Not a chance.

Guess who shoveled these steps?



Right -- NOT BERT.  It was Bert's wife, Tess (also not her real name, but read aloud the part about Bert being a lawyer).

So what did Bert do while Tess shoveled the front steps, and the back steps, and created this huge berm with her shovel?

Bert got the mail.



On his tractor.  After he cleared the way.  While it snowed, so it took all morning.



I imagine Bert singing to himself in his toasty warm cab.  This is what Bert probably sings:

Oh I'm picking out a thermos for you
Not an ordinary thermos for you
But the extra best thermos you can buy
With vinyl
And stripes
And a cup built right in

Oh I'm picking out a thermos for you
And maybe a barometer too
And what else can I buy
So on me you'll rely?
A brand new
Thermometer
Too

Meanwhile, Tess:  NOT SINGING.  Sweating.  And freezing.  Quite possible cursing.



Definitely not singing.

This is Bert again, just for emphasis.



I think Tess could use a convertible this spring, don't you?

Captcha Later, Dude

Have you ever tried to leave a comment on a blog or web site (in this case, using a Blogger comment box) and encountered this?



This is their word verification, or "captcha" feature, designed to thwart SPAMbots and other buttheads.  We've all used these, right?  Well, what's up with the little disabled symbol?  Is there a special ramp to use?  I take that back; that sounded snotty.



No!  No, I won't take it back!  AACCKK!  I almost submitted willingly to the PC Police!  That was NOT snotty, or disrespectful.  I need someone to explain to me how this captcha is disability-friendly.

Maybe you get to use a special parking space afterwards.

Isn't "thwart" a great word?

Quite Possibly the Funniest Thing You'll Read All Week

Have you seen this yet? Get some eye drops, and maybe some Tums, 'cause this one's gonna hurt. Excerpted from this Reuters article (the notations in red are mine, all mine, baby):

Spears' mother plans parenting book

By Dana Ford

LOS ANGELES (Reuters) - As lawyers for Britney Spears and her ex-husband fought a court battle over custody of their two young sons [the battle may be OVER their two young sons, but it’s FOR show], a publisher said on Friday that the pop star's mother is writing a book about parenting.

[Get up, go to the bathroom, throw up a little, have a shot of whiskey, kick a puppy – whatever it takes to suspend disbelief long enough to read the next paragraph]

Religious publisher Thomas Nelson said it will publish "Pop Culture Mom: A Real Story of Fame and Family in a Tabloid World," by Lynne Spears. Nelson spokesman Curt Harding [how’d you like to have THIS guy’s job today?] said the book, to be out next spring, will be about Lynne Spears' raising three children and will have a religious element [yeah, and Baghdad has QUITE a religious element, but it doesn’t make it wholesome, and I wouldn’t wanna go there].

Feel free to read the rest by your lonesomes. I have to go throw up a little.

Please Help Me Name These Sculptures

Public art (the "f" is silent, by the way) fascinates me.  Somewhere out there tonight, a city council or public arts committee is voting to approve a piece of public statuary.  Once the vote goes through, the artist will diligently begin the production process.  The finished work will be paid for with public funds.

Some of the finished pieces will be admired by most of the community.  Some will even become known works of art, attracting visitors from far and wide.  Some will look like these.



This is the Golden Driller (photo stolen from these guys).  I'm not even gonna comment on the name.  In case you missed his belt, he's from Tulsa, Oklahoma.  I have no explanation for the tiny penguin in work clothes between the Driller's feet, but I think I might have preferred a 40-foot penguin, frankly.

"Typewriter Eraser, Scale X" (photo stolen from this guy).  To be completely honest, I have no idea who paid for this, or why.  This little lovely can be found in the art park adjacent to the National Archives in Washington, D.C. Apparently it is by Claes Oldenburg and Coosje van Bruggen, who were Very Important Artists who haunted the "happenings" of the 1960s.  This is what was happening, apparently.

This one rather frightens me.  It's somewhere in Ohio, and it must have great meaning for the people of the church cowering in its long, scary shadow.  This guy took the picture and he named it "Jesuszilla," which tickled a local or two.  They left comments on the photographer's site indicating that the statue is locally known as "Cheesus," which tickled ME.  I have no explanation for Jesus standing under a sprinkler, waist-deep in water.  It kinda looks as if he's playing catch with the typewriter eraser above,
however . . . how far apart are Washington D.C. and Somewhere In Ohio?

There is nothing I can (or should) say about this, except that it was once located outside the McDonald's in Edmundston, New Brunswick, Canada.  O, Canada.  It is no longer there.  I realize that it was not publicly-funded statuary, but privately-funded market-driven patio seating; still, I felt it fit in well with this group.  Okay, I'll ask it -- where would YOU sit?  (Photo stolen from these guys)

Which brings me to what started all of this in the first place.  This is not news, mind you -- the sculpture I am about to show you was installed in the year 2000 -- but I never got my two cents in at the time (not then having a blog, and being fairly engrossed with plucking my eyebrows).



These are the Chico Hands (photo stolen from The official City of Chico Website).  The sculpture is a granite and marble chip terrazzo, and the artist was Donna Billick (in case you want one of your own).  From the text:

"Funding Source: Municipal Center Building construction budget
Selection Process: Northern California request for qualifications.  Selection panel consisting of arts professionals, community members and project manager."  [This says "it's not only MY fault!" to me.]

There was no expenditure listed in the text; I checked.  I know it's a matter of public record, but I'm sure they were just being modest, really, by omitting something like that.  Well, how much would YOU pay for these hands?  Don't answer -- WAIT!  There's LESS!

Here's where you come in.  There's no prize, other than my undying affection and simpering gratitude, but I'm hoping both of you will submit new names for these sculptures.  Post them as comments.  Think fun!  Think children may be reading this (though probably not very BRIGHT children, obviously)!  Think outside of the box, then get a big board and smash the snot outta that over-hyped box!

One, two, three, GO!

In the News

From Yahoo news a few minutes ago, this headline:

 

Scientists find parasitic star that feeds off nearby companions

 

Silly scientists -- Pauly Shore isn't missing.


Poster stolen from these guys

I Hope For His Sake This Is An Old Picture

Okay, my buddy Gubby sent me this and encouraged me to post it.  I resist most of the stuff he sends me -- not because he doesn't have good ideas, because he does.  Not because he doesn't have his finger on the pulses of both popular culture and politics, because he does.  No, I resist his suggestions because most of them are not All About Laurie.  Unbelievable, but it's true.

 

Thanks, Gub!

 

(From Gubby's favorite morning radio show, the Armstrong and Getty Radio Show, which originates in Sacramento; regarding Steve Perry, the lead singer of the 80s poprock group Journey):

 

"Steve Perry skied through the Ugly Forest and Bono'ed every tree" -- Jack Armstrong

 

http://www.armstrongandgettyradio.com/

 

Note to Mantel Man:  Don't bother asking, "Steve WHO?!  Bono WHO?!"  I've seen your record collection.

 

"I got you, Babe."

Poor Bob

A message blackberried to me Friday evening.  I don't have permission to reveal the source, and frankly, I'm too damned lazy to e-mail him to ask . . .

"I think you'll be amused to know that I'm at a bob dylan concert right now . . . . It's excruciating."

This message arrived after the sender called from the concert to yell a greeting to Chas.  Chas had no idea what the noise going on in the background was.  Now we know.

Jeepers Creepers

Everybody's always heard about Liz Taylor's violet eyes, right?



But have you ever actually seen violet eyes?  I hadn't, and so I thought it was just a PR trick and a great photo colorist.

But then along came Smedley.

She has blue eyes, but there's something else there, and it's violet, lurking within the blue.  I can't tell you how many pictures I have of her in which her eyes jump off the page -- vivid blue-violet, like the color of the old mimeograph ink or ditto sheets (I'm dating myself).  Some days, like this morning, Smedley will put clothes on that enhance the hidden violet in her eyes, and it takes my breath away.

So violet eyes really do exist.  Sorry, Liz -- try to beat this.

I Could've Been a Model . . . a CHERUB Model

I just saw a headline which read "Winter Storm Disrupts Valentine's Day Plans."

Hmmmm.  Now, I don't know about you, but the kind of plan I tended to make (way back when Valentine's Day was an issue) wasn't inhibited by winter storms in the least.  Storms would probably only make the plans BETTER, actually.

Here's to naked cherubs all fattened up on Sees candy, going around shooting people in the chest with arrows.  Here's to the Holy Catholic Church for sharing their saints with heathens like me, who have no understanding of the original intent of the holiday.  Here's to that 1-lb. bag of peanut M&Ms I managed to wipe out in 3 days (or was it a 3-lb. bag in 1 day?  I can't remember).  Here's to Hallmark for keeping advertisers in business and making the rest of us guilt-ridden and crazy.

Mostly, here's to the loves of my life, Chas, Smedley and Sparky.

Cheers!

Tamale Pie and Rhubarb Comments

Tamale Pie and Rhubarb Comments I’ve heard from both of my brothers this week in regards to the Mormor story. Bocci added, “I did choke down some tamale pie, but that may have been the last time ever.” And as Mantel Man pointed out, “I had been home for spring break, not on leave from the Navy; and Mormor died only two or three weeks after that dinner.” He also pointed out that the pie had actually been apple-rhubarb, which explains how I was able to eat any or it at all: “The offending pie was actually an apple-rhubarb pie. I remembered that just this morning because, as I recall, Papa, poking suspiciously at his slice, told Mormor, ‘This doesn't look like apple pie, Esther,’ and she replied evasively, ‘Oh, it has apples in it.’ She should have been some politician's press secretary.” Mantel Man closed with this thought: “Papa, get out of the house -- it's *&^%$#! RHUBARB!"