Mantel Man
is
wondering whether everything, even his home appliances, will be on
Twitter soon. I can just see the tweet from my toaster oven:
"@bathroomsink: I just heated up a bagel!"
Laurie LaGrone No one talks to @bathroomsink; he's pretty antisocial. Mantel Man Oh, like my toaster oven has tons of other friends: "@dvdplayer: Dude, Mantel Man just burned the cornbread!" Laurie LaGrone Wondering what your @medicinecabinet might have to say today?
Buddy Ray Sounds
like your place is possessed. I'll opt to stay at Brad's house during
my impending visit. But then again, maybe staying at a possessed place
would be kind of cool. Mantel Man Don't count on it, Ray. Brad's toilet is sending out frequent Tweets. You don't even want to know.Feel free to look me up and befriend me on Facebook, but be forewarned: I can get a LOT sillier than this.
By now I assume you've heard about the squirrel who insinuated himself into a couple's vacation photo in Banff?
(Original photo by Melissa Brandt stolen from these guys)
We have a similar problem in Northern California.
(Illustration stolen from these guys)
A pyramid scheme is a non-sustainable business model that involves the exchange of ditch-digging
primarily for enrolling other people into the scheme, sometimes without
any product or service being delivered (though in this example the
currency is, of course, ditch-digging).
The essential idea is that the mark, Brom, digs only one ditch. Knowing Brom he'll get his wife Emeline to do it. To
start earning, Brom has to recruit others, like Charles the Bald, who will also dig one ditch each. Brom gets paid out of ditches dug, in furlongs, from those new
recruits. They then go on to recruit others. As each new recruit digs a ditch, Brom gets a cut
-- say, a half-furlong ditch from his toilet pit to the river (Brom is
tidy and prefers to send his waste downstream). He is thus promised exponential benefits
as the "business" expands.
The
whole business is unsustainable because in order for Charles the Bald
to get his own poop ditch dug, he must recruit a whole mess of other
ditch-diggers to join the ranks under him. There are only so many ways
down to the river, and most of Brom's and Charles's friends are lazy
buggers who aren't likely to dig more than a few feet. Eventually the pyramid collapses,
leaving the pyramid's bottom 88% of the lowly ditch-diggers with
blisters and callouses but with no poop ditches to call their own.
With thanks to Wikipedia
Next time: Subprime Mortgages on Hovels and Manors
(Original illustration stolen from these guys)
Name: Frederic Chopin
Age: 39
Marital status: Single
Home town: Warsaw
Where I hang with my peeps: Paris, Majorca, Vienna
Occupation: Musician/composer
Likes: Playing my piano, long walks on the beach, lying around on the Sand, Kung Fu movies
Dislikes: Liars, backstabbers, a perfectly good rebellion snuffed out like a light, and licorice
Describe yourself: I'm a Romantic at heart
What I'm looking for: One special lady to write songs about. You: petite, brunette, don't mind a little coughing. No ugly chicks.
What I can offer a lady: I
have a great sense of humor condo on the Seine piano, all my own teeth,
and "The Godfather" on Blu-Ray
Catch phrase: "Gimme a Minute"
* * * * *
Want to see Frederic's dating video? Sign up at SugarMama.com today!
(Photo stolen from xerones on Flickr)
I've been largely AWOL for two days, not that anyone lives or dies by my presence anywhere. I wanted to answer the "Name That Drama" comments as they came in Wednesday -- was it Wednesday? I can't remember -- but work, life, and drama got in the way. So I decided to address all of you in a post.
Mental P Mama scolded me for possibly being a Typhoid Mary and bringing our rabies to the Virginia Blogfest which I'll be attending in July. I assured her that I would be disease-free for the shindig. (She's got a lot of room to talk, what with her cavorting with Lindsey Lohan, and all! wink wink)
Bob Cleveland wondered about about a two-legged cat running and dragging its legs. Well, Bob, I wasn't fibbing, although I did consider it for dramatic effect (my life is nothing if not drama-filled lately). And then Bob suggested
CAT ON THE FRITZ
as a drama title. That a pretty darn good entry and definitely correct. Thanks, Bob!
Chesapeake Bay Woman weighed in on the topic 10 TIMES, by my count, but I lost count of the number of names she came up with. She won't admit it, but she is VERY scholarly, and was exhibiting good brainstorming practices: write down everything in your head, without editing or eliminating, for seven full uninterrupted minutes, then STOP cold turkey and pick one. CBW followed this rule to the letter, except that she mistook MINUTES for HOURS. The woman is a MACHINE! My favorite entry of CBW's was the first one:
PSYCATIC
Awesome.
Elaina was laughing too hard at CBW's submissions to leave one of her own, but she did say hello, which is always welcome, and admirable when one's back is out. Thinking massage therapy and Oxycontin thoughts for you, my dear.
Jason made a stab at it, but he got bogged down on the word "pussy." So many apparently did. We love him anyway and are always glad to see him.
Bob Cleveland popped in again with another good one, and Chesapeake Bay Woman totally emptied her brain on us, making me laugh sixty-eleven more times. I'm pretty sure she didn't leave the house that day.
Cactus Petunia offered this gem:
IF YOU WANT GRATITUDE, GET A DOG!
which was approved by her felines AND is spot on, of course. I am considering that option, especially a cat-eating dog.
Kathi D was saying Hail Marys and Hare
Krishnas and prayers of contrition in 16 languages that the current cat
fiasco is MY life, not hers. I raise my glass to you, Miss Kathi, and
your cats are in the mail.
Marcy at The Glamorous Life Association offered this opinion:
CATEGORICALLY INSANE
which may be letting me off the hook and giving me entirely too much credit at the same time. Thanks, Marcy! That's actually a huge compliment!
And Musing* had the last word:
CAT-ASTROPHE
which is, of course, both true and clever.
I have some mulling and musing, hemming and hawing, but mostly drooling
and snoring, to do. I will update you on all of it SOON. Thanks for
playing with me, all ya'll -- and visit a couple (or all) of those
links when you can! They are all quality people, quality writers. You guys ROCK. : )
*I have edited her name to her PROPER screen name, MUSING. I will explain more in a post later today 4/21/09.
For Smedley, who yacked all Saturday night, and for Sparky, who's been yacking since Monday bedtime. Poor babies.)
(Photo stolen from this guy)
Hey girl whatcha doin' down there?
Hugging the throne all night long while I hover above you
I can feel your body quakin'
I can see your tummy shakin'
Two feet below me you don't need to show me
It's go time
chorus
Oh my darlin'
Yack three times in the trash can if you want to
Twice on the rug if you're ready to blow
Oh my sweetness
RALPH!
RALPH!
RALPH!
Means you made it to the hallway
Twice on the floor
WOOF!
WOOF!
Means you're movin' too slow
(Photo stolen from benjamines)
This is Midge. Midge came to me when I was still young enough to love
Barbies but old enough to know an ugly friend when I saw one. Still,
what a body, eh? And just like Barbie, Midge's
tan/sexy/vapid/materialistic friend from Malibu, Midge has legs that go
on for miles. Even if she can't bend them or touch her heels to the
floor.
There's a funny story about Midge.
The first thing any girl
does with a new fashion doll is strip it naked and dress it in
something trashy, right? Please tell me it wasn't just me.
Well, my best friend Cheryl and me. Cheryl is part of this story.
When the strange-looking Barbie came to live with me, handed down from
an older girl (who had moved on to cool 1970s teenage stuff like
"Saturday Night Live" and The Bay City Rollers and Pong), Cheryl and I
were fascinated by the doll's silly beehive hairdo and '60s vixen
make-up. We immediately stripped her out of her housewife dress and
discovered that she had a factory-inscribed stamp on her butt cheek.
(Photo stolen from this site)
"Midge," read the inscription, along with a copyright and some other stuff.
Choking
laughter ensued. This was the first we knew of the doll's name,
"MIDGE." The only person either of us had ever known named Midge was a
crabby middle-aged woman from our general neighborhood who chain-smoked
and bitched all day long, at least in our presence. Okay, so Mattel
got the permed hair right, but nothing else about this doll was
anything like the Midge from our world, unless the doll chain-smoked
and bitched in private.
I turned to face Cheryl and stuck out my hand for a handshake.
"Hi, I'm Midge!" I began as she grabbed my hand and shook it. "I know
because it says so on my BUTT!"
(Photo stolen from this site)
Shrieks of laughter. This was WAY more fun than Pong.
To this day, when I hear the name Midge I surreptitiously stick out
my hand and mouth the words, "Hi, I'm Midge! I know because it says so
on my BUTT!"
And if I ever decided to get a tattoo? You guessed it, Sweetcheeks.
When
you are little you believe in Santa Claus, who comes down the chimney
at night while the household sleeps, and leaves presents under your
Christmas tree, all without leaving a speck of soot on the carpet or
waking the dog.
You may also believe in the Easter Bunny, an animal fairy who hides
brightly-colored eggs and candy and 24-ounce ales for your father in
your yard. This he does under cover of darkness, while you are asleep.
Linus Van Pelt believed in The Great Pumpkin, who, it was said, would each year select a pumpkin patch which he deemed the
most sincere, and bring candy and presents to all who waited there. At
night, while Linus slept, missing that particular fairy.
Some also believe in the
Tooth Fairy, who leaves you a quarter or a dollar or a tiny toy or gold
certificates and mutual funds under your pillow IF you leave her the
gory tooth which just fell out of your head on accident, even though
you've been wiggling it for six weeks and your father threatened to get
the pliers -- THAT tooth. Also at night, while you are sleeping.
When you grow up a bit you believe in a garden variety of fairies,
who hang on your walls in poster form and whom you fall asleep thinking
about. At night, while you are sleeping.
If you are very, very
lucky to still be able to believe in anything once you have hit The
Middle Ages, you may find a politician to believe in -- one who
promises to bring you lots of wonderful things, like universal health
care and tax relief. One who doesn't break into Washington apartments
at night, while you are sleeping.
But these days I believe in just one fairy, and that fairy comes in
the daytime, while I am desperately trying not to fall asleep. That
fairy is The Dove Bar Fairy, and he waltzes in through your office door
and gives Dove Bars to all the little office workers of the world, as
long as their offices are sincere.
My office is Oh So Sincere. I am ready. I believe in you, Dove Bar Fairy.
Sincerely,
Foolery
This morning as I came to, I realized I was writing in my head again.
I do that a lot. Sometimes it's good stuff, but most of the time it's
bad. But this time my ideas spurred me to do a little research.
I had in mind a poem -- yeah, I know, poetry. Believe me, I am
no poet, nor a . . . um . . . poemist? But I had this nagging feeling
that the idea I had in my head was already written, so I checked.
It didn't take me long to find this. Damn. Oh well, you have been
saved by Google once again, this time from sophomoric poetry at the
hands of an illiterate freshman.
BUT
I will reprint this poem for you, in case you've been having trouble
sleeping. According to the site from which I pilfered this poem, it was written by a
Dutch dude, an English teacher named G. Nolst Trenité, from the city of
Haarlem.
Lifted right from the site with little skill and even less shame: "Trenité wrote articles under the pen name CHARIVARIOUS and a little booklet entitled 'Drop Your English Accent,' in which the poem appeared.
And here is the poem in question. I dare you to pronounce all of the words correctly.
The Chaos
Dearest creature in creation,
Study English pronunciation.
I will teach you in my verse
Sounds like corpse, corps, horse, and worse.
I will keep you, Suzy, busy,
Make your head with heat grow dizzy.
Tear in eye, your dress will tear.
So shall I! Oh hear my prayer.
Just compare heart, beard, and heard,
Dies and diet, lord and word,
Sword and sward, retain and Britain.
(Mind the latter, how it's written.)
Now I surely will not plague you
With such words as plaque and ague.
But be careful how you speak:
Say break and steak, but bleak and streak;
Cloven, oven, how and low,
Script, receipt, show, poem, and toe.
Hear me say, devoid of trickery,
Daughter, laughter, and Terpsichore,
Typhoid, measles, topsails, aisles,
Exiles, similes, and reviles;
Scholar, vicar, and cigar,
Solar, mica, war and far;
One, anemone, Balmoral,
Kitchen, lichen, laundry, laurel;
Gertrude, German, wind and mind,
Scene, Melpomene, mankind.
Billet does not rhyme with ballet,
Bouquet, wallet, mallet, chalet.
Blood and flood are not like food,
Nor is mould like should and would.
Viscous, viscount, load and broad,
Toward, to forward, to reward.
And your pronunciation's OK
When you correctly say croquet,
Rounded, wounded, grieve and sieve,
Friend and fiend, alive and live.
Ivy, privy, famous; clamour
And enamour rhyme with hammer.
River, rival, tomb, bomb, comb,
Doll and roll and some and home.
Stranger does not rhyme with anger,
Neither does devour with clangour.
Souls but foul, haunt but aunt,
Font, front, wont, want, grand, and grant,
Shoes, goes, does. Now first say finger,
And then singer, ginger, linger,
Real, zeal, mauve, gauze, gouge and gauge,
Marriage, foliage, mirage, and age.
Query does not rhyme with very,
Nor does fury sound like bury.
Dost, lost, post and doth, cloth, loth.
Job, nob, bosom, transom, oath.
Though the differences seem little,
We say actual but victual.
Refer does not rhyme with deafer.
Foeffer does, and zephyr, heifer.
Mint, pint, senate and sedate;
Dull, bull, and George ate late.
Scenic, Arabic, Pacific,
Science, conscience, scientific.
Liberty, library, heave and heaven,
Rachel, ache, moustache, eleven.
We say hallowed, but allowed,
People, leopard, towed, but vowed.
Mark the differences, moreover,
Between mover, cover, clover;
Leeches, breeches, wise, precise,
Chalice, but police and lice;
Camel, constable, unstable,
Principle, disciple, label.
Petal, panel, and canal,
Wait, surprise, plait, promise, pal.
Worm and storm, chaise, chaos, chair,
Senator, spectator, mayor.
Tour, but our and succour, four.
Gas, alas, and Arkansas.
Sea, idea, Korea, area,
Psalm, Maria, but malaria.
Youth, south, southern, cleanse and clean.
Doctrine, turpentine, marine.
Compare alien with Italian,
Dandelion and battalion.
Sally with ally, yea, ye,
Eye, I, ay, aye, whey, and key.
Say aver, but ever, fever,
Neither, leisure, skein, deceiver.
Heron, granary, canary.
Crevice and device and aerie.
Face, but preface, not efface.
Phlegm, phlegmatic, ass, glass, bass.
Large, but target, gin, give, verging,
Ought, out, joust and scour, scourging.
Ear, but earn and wear and tear
Do not rhyme with here but ere.
Seven is right, but so is even,
Hyphen, roughen, nephew Stephen,
Monkey, donkey, Turk and jerk,
Ask, grasp, wasp, and cork and work.
Pronunciation -- think of Psyche!
Is a paling stout and spikey?
Won't it make you lose your wits,
Writing groats and saying grits?
It's a dark abyss or tunnel:
Strewn with stones, stowed, solace, gunwale,
Islington and Isle of Wight,
Housewife, verdict and indict.
Finally, which rhymes with enough --
Though, through, plough, or dough, or cough?
Hiccough has the sound of cup.
My advice is to give up!!!
(Photo stolen from xmarine1973 on Flickr)
A noted by xmarine1973, the Flickr user I stole this from, read all of the RED text as one sentence. If this doesn't separate the grownups from the seventh graders, I don't know what does.
(Photo stolen from Ferna Zahsum on Flickr)
Another day went by without a post as you have probably noticed but since this is technically a post and it is the next day after a post then I guess if I do actually get this post UP I will be negating the comment in my opening sentence which is also the current sentence because HEY it is NO PUNCTUATION WEDNESDAY and I am celebrating to the utmost of my ability which is minimal today sorry
Yes, I was home last night.
No, I didn't post last night.
Yes, I was on the computer last
night.
No, I didn't fix my e-mail problem last
night.
Yes, I worked on it over the phone with Gubby
for almost three hours last night (thanks again, Gub).
No, I haven't had enough coffee
yet.
Yes, I have something to post
today.
No, it isn't brilliant.
Yes, it is real.
No, I didn't discover it myself.
Yes, I did the circle. And the
arrow.
No, I'm not receiving any federal funds for my
obvious mental deficiencies.
I'd credit the website source of the screen
grab, but you can see it for yourself, and they're probably just as happy not to
be linked for this.
Have a good day, everybody, and Yes, I'll be back on
some kind of meds tomorrow.
We, as a people, spend an awful lot of time and energy following and analyzing celebrities. If only we could put that time into something worthy, like community service or lock-picking! Alas, it has always been this way, and will always be.
The latest craze is celebrity mug shots. Sadly, our glitteratti often reveal sick hobbies and interests when their asses are hauled in to the pokey. A disturbing fascination among the Beautiful People has developed recently, as you'll see in the following photos. It is with great regret that I share with you a few recent celebrity mug shots showing some of our once-favorite men caught red-handed experimenting with the extremely kinky dark side.
(Original Shia LaBeouf photo stolen from this guy)
(Original Ryan O'Neal photo stolen from these guys)
(Original O.J. Simpson photo stolen from these guys)
Even when dealing with the unsavory, some guys can pull it off, and then there's Nick Nolte.
(Original Nick Nolte photo stolen from this site)
Kids, stay away from orange man perms. Nothing good can come of it, and they are the gateway drug to more serious salon addictions.
Stay safe.
(Photo stolen from these guys)
Why is it that the air freshener at work, which claims to be scented of meadows and rain, smells EXACTLY like my body wash, which is Mangosomething?
(Photo stolen from these guys)
And Mangosomething smells like
an aging white woman who stealth smokes from dawn to dusk and tries to hide the
aroma with breath mints, lotion and perfume.
(Photo stolen from these guys)
Yeah, just about right. (My apologies to Carol Channing, whom I actually like, but who looks like she might smell like my body wash.)
I'm selling a kidney. It's little-used, I think, but then how the hell would I know?
I'd like to make some extra money, and my friend Gubby tells me I shouldn't go for a gub'ment job I've recently heard of, so there you go.
I'm selling a kidney. Any takers?
This is what a healthy kidney looks like.
(Photo stolen from these guys)
This is what the kidney of a kangaroo rat looks like:
(Photo stolen from this guy)
Oops, sorry -- he's still using it. Oh well, Gubby has been telling me
and telling me
and telling me
and telling me
all about the highly-developed "loop of henle" of the kangaroo rat, which concentrates the urine, and takes all of the nitrogenous waste, and keeps all of the electrolytes, like potassium, magnesium, calcium -- wait, how do you spell that Gubby? -- and yada yada do we have any more wine, Chas?
Chas?
Shit, he went to bed.
So, what was I saying? Oh yeah. This cute little bugger has the best bodily waste system ever, since maybe Larry King, or some other side-bagger. And somehow this is the model of perfect kidney health. Only Gubby didn't explain how I was supposed to achieve this? So, back to my idea, which was
sell
my
kidney.
This is what my kidney looks like, probably:
(Photo stolen from these guys)
It's just a guess, but I'd say it's as good a guess as any.
Maybe I'll sell my liver. No -- scratch that; I need my liver.
What other body parts could I sell on the internet? Any ideas?
Thanks in advance for your helpful suggestions,
Love,
Laurie
I blame Suzanne.
Suzanne at Alive in Wonderland turned me on to Yearbook Yourself, and, well, I just had to try it out.
You see, I know how hard this will be to believe, but I wasn't always this stunning.
I KNOW!
Yes, I was rather a bow-wow in high school. And college. And the 18 years between college and the moment this photo was taken, but help me stay on track here.
It's true.
I was a plain jane.
A two-bagger.
A mulligan.*
So here came Yearbook Yourself, and I was eager to drop my face into hair styles from other decades, to find my best era.
I quit after just two. See, I had a pretty big nose in high school -- well, it wasn't so awful, but it was too big for my face at the time. See what you think.
This is how I might have looked in 1966:
The hair softens the effect a bit, and black and white is always flattering, but I was sure I could do better. Here's another shot at it, from 1960:
This is where I gave up. I was sure that bangs and glasses could draw attention away from my nose, but even they didn't work.
I'm glad my face finally grew into my nose. Thanks a LOT, Suzanne.
*Chas and his friends made up the term "mulligan" to describe an unattractive female. It's from the world of golf (of course -- isn't everything?), and it means a "do-over." Think of a woman with whom a man might regret a dalliance and wish he could just erase from his conscience, and she's a mulligan, or "mully," in the ChasWorld parlance. In Chas's own words, "Picture an Irish prize fighter. Not the best look for a woman. That's a mully."
I have no post tonight, as I have been sneaking around having a torrid affair with my brand spanking new shiny refrigerator, right under my husband's nose.
It's hot, let me tell you. And I already know it won't call me in the morning, because a) we live under the same roof now, and b) with the move we don't have phone service until something like "Cows Come Home Tuesday."
So I am alone with my sleek new hottie of a refrigerator. It gives me goosebumps. I have chills. My computer is TOTALLY jealous.
Yeah, my fridge is COLD, and kind of a player, but hey, I dated Nick Asshat for something like TWO YEARS -- I'm clearly quite suited to degradation.
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