Category Archives: Humor

Can Ya Help a Girl Out, Here?

Do you like a cliffhanger?

A story that traps you, makes you want to know what happens next, and then doesn’t tell you?

I hate them.  I just hate them.  And when you, my bloggin’ buddy do it to me, well, I remember.

A little while ago, I read another damn cliffhanger, this time from Doobster at Mindful Digressions.  Doobster wrote half of a really great story.  A mystery.  His characters are realistic, the scene and plot work.  The dialog flows.

UNTIL IT STOPS.

I yelled at him.  But he won’t finish it for me.

Would you?

Go on over there to Doobster’s, read it, and tell me what happens.  http://mindfuldigressions.com/2015/01/31/i-seen-it-all/

Please leave the comments over there at Doobster’s — he likes his stats.  You can also leave them here if you want.  I’d turn off comments, but well, I’m not only mystery-plot challenged, I am comment-stopping challenged.  Yeah, I know.  First World Problems.

Please go and read his story and finish it for me.  I gotta know what happens.

Thanks! You’re the best.

30 Comments

Filed under Adult Traumas, Bat-shit crazy, Bloggin' Buddies, Campaigning, Criminal Activity, Huh?, Humor, Mysteries, Taking Care of Each Other

Need Extra Cash?

Need extra cash?

OK, I guess that was a trick question because, well who doesn’t?

In keeping with my newly assumed role of bringing you all the news you need to know , I will give you this profitable tip.

The Washington Post is reporting that you can earn up to $13 K anually.  Anally.

You can sell your poop.

Poop transplants are a real treatment that I’ve read actual medical journal articles about.  The hypothesis is that our Western Culture (damn you McD’s!) has eliminated too much of the flora and fauna out of our GI tracts.  The result is lots of people like me with bowel disease.

So scientists are looking at all kinds of ways to help.

One of the latest ideas is to repopulate the good bacteria.  That’s the idea behind pro-biotics.  They put back the good bacteria that overuse of antibiotics and other hazards of Western life have, ummm, eliminated.

One of those ways is through poop transplants.  I kid you not.

At present, poop transplants are used only for treatment of poor suckers infected with c difficile* and e coli, particularly nasty bacteria that is really hard to get rid of.  They are studying it in bowel diseases like my Crohn’s and colitis, but they haven’t yet flushed out all the problem issues.

So if you are really healthy and have good aim, you can earn some bucks while doing your business.

Washington Post.  Notice how upright those treated people are

Washington Post. Notice how upright those treated people are

You know the worst thing about this for a Crohn’s patient?  The knowledge that this isn’t the worst treatment imaginable.  That goes to the one they were testing a few years ago under the same hypothesis — that our guts were too clean.  With that treatment, they had you drink worm larvae.  Yum.

Your Scientists

I wonder if the researchers know about the whale in my last post.

*Thanks to my pals Kate Crimmins and Carrie Rubin.  The article refs c diff; Ive read it is also used on e coli.  So much shit; so many uses.  So much money in the pot.

69 Comments

Filed under Adult Traumas, Bat-shit crazy, Conspicuous consumption, Crohn's Disease, Disgustology, Extra Cash, Health and Medicine, Hey Doc?, Huh?, Humor, Taking Care of Each Other

Portable Self-Defense

Many years ago when I lived in a not terribly safe neighborhood in DC, two work colleagues/friends of mine were discussing safety precautions to be used in case we were ever assaulted.

“I heard that if someone tries to rape you,” Ellen said, “the best thing to do is to poop in your pants.  Nobody wants to rape a person with poopy pants”

“That won’t be hard for me to do,” I said.  “I can poop on command.”  My colitis-that-was-really-Crohn’s was raging in those days.  “Maybe I can sell some!”

Our colleague, John, got a mischievous look on his face.  “But what if you’ve just gone?” John asked.  He then stood up from his desk, and started grunting as if he were pooping.  “Wait a minute, wait a minute, Mr. Rapist.” John grunted some more, laughing. “I’m almost ready for you …  OK, NOW try to take me!”

We didn’t get a lot of work done those days.  But it was a valuable lesson in self-defense.

Sadly, Keri Wilk, an undersea photographer, wasn’t in the room with us.  Because that self-defense lesson might have come in handy for him just recently.  Because recently he learned that sometimes, a little poop can be the best defense.

You see, according to the article in the Huffington Post, photographer Keri Wilk had a crappy experience when he got up close and, ummm, personal, with a sperm whale.  Apparently Keri and his fellow divers made the whale a wee bit nervous.

While leading a group on an underwater whale photography expedition off the coast of the Caribbean island, Keri and four others were approached by what appeared to be a perfectly calm whale.

The whale approached them, stopped, pointed straight downward, and then in Keri’s words, “the storm began.”

If only Keri and his friends had given the poor whale a little privacy, well then, the storm might have been short-lived.  But noooooooooo.

Instead, Keri and friends experienced a “Poopnado.”

“At first, it seemed like a regular bowel movement… sperm whales are often seen defecating, especially while diving, so we didn’t think much of it initially. It pointed itself down, but then, rather than continuing its dive, it remained at the surface, continuing the bowel movement for a startling length of time,” explains Keri.

“The 4 of us looked at each other with confusion, then back at the whale, expecting that any second its call from nature would be ended, and that it would descend to the depths for another meal as they usually do. Instead, the whale bobbed up and down, spun around in circles, and waved poop in every direction for several minutes while 4 of us in the water sat back and watched!”

The minute by minute photos are pretty amusing, but I think you might just want to go to the full article rather than see that much poop on my blog site.  I do have my standards, you know.  Low as they may be.

The full spread of pictures is, ummm, more overwhelming.

There simply is no reason for you to bother reading the news.  Or watching it.  Because I promise you, if there is anything you need to know, anything at all, I will tell you about it.

Including things you didn’t even know you wanted to know about.

84 Comments

Filed under Bat-shit crazy, Climate Change, Conspicuous consumption, Crohn's Disease, Diet tips, Disgustology, GOP, Huh?, Humor, Wild Beasts

One Badass Broad

In 1973, I went on a field trip with my high school acting group.  To London.  To a week of plays in London’s West End.

Because I was far too cool to be a tourist, I did almost none of the typical tourist things while I was there.  (I was an idiot.  There is a reason folks want to visit the Tower of London, etc.).  There was one exception, though.  I went to Madame Tussaud’s — the famous Wax Museum.  While there, I was still too cool to be impressed by how realistic the wax figures were.  Well, until something happened to really make me smile.

My friends and I had just about finished touring the museum, when we entered the exhibit for The Royals.  From behind me I heard the sweetest voice.

“Mummy!  That’s Our Queen!

A little English boy, no more than four had entered the exhibit.  He wore navy blue shorts and suspenders, and his cheeks were as rosy as a young English boy’s should be.  He lit up the room with his pride.   In his Queen.

“Yes, Darling,” replied his Mum.  “That’s our Queen.”

From Madame Tussaud's Website

From Madame Tussaud’s Website

At that time, Richard Nixon was President of the U.S.  I was quite sure that there was no little boy in my country who would speak with similar pride about Nixon.

The image of that boy comes to mind every time I see Queen Elizabeth.  And I always smile.

Today I read something about the Queen, though, that makes me smile even wider.

The Huffington Post reported a delightful anecdote about a visit from the newly-late King Abdullah of Saudi Arabia to the Queen’s Scottish castle, Balmoral.  The story was recounted by Sir Sherard Cowper-Coles, who was the British Ambassador to Saudi Arabia.  He’d been told the story by both the Queen and the King, and relayed it.

“After lunch, the Queen had asked her royal guest whether he would like a tour of the estate,” wrote Cowper-Coles, who is said to have heard the tale from both Elizabeth and Abdullah themselves. “Prompted by his foreign minister the urbane Prince Saud, an initially hesitant Abdullah had agreed. The royal Land Rovers were drawn up in front of the castle. As instructed, the Crown Prince climbed into the front seat of the front Land Rover, his interpreter in the seat behind.”

Queen Elizabeth and King Abdullah.  Photo Credit, Associated Press (but I got it from the Huff Post)

Queen Elizabeth and King Abdullah. Photo Credit, Associated Press (but I got it from the Huff Post)

Little did Abdullah know, however, that his driver for the day would be none other than Elizabeth herself.

“To his surprise, the Queen climbed into the driving seat, turned the ignition and drove off,” Cowper-Coles wrote. “Women are not — yet — allowed to drive in Saudi Arabia, and Abdullah was not used to being driven by a woman, let alone a queen.”

Not to mention a queen who can drive like the wind. According to Cowper-Coles, Elizabeth didn’t just drive the SUV, but rapidly whizzed along the estate’s roads as she chatted, prompting Abdullah to become increasingly anxious.

“Through his interpreter, the Crown Prince implored the Queen to slow down and concentrate on the road ahead,” the diplomat said.

Queen Elizabeth II is one badass broad.  On behalf of drivers of my gender, as well as men far more enlightened than King Abdullah, I bow to you.  I’d curtsey but I’m not that kind of girl.

58 Comments

Filed under Driving, History, Huh?, Humor, Hypocrisy, Stupidity, Traffic

Devil Dog

As a kid, one of my very favorite snacks was a Devil Dog.  A Drake’s Devil Dog.

Google-lishous

Google-lishous

 

Folks who live in Maine, or whose moms baked know them as Whoopie Pies.  But every day after school, I’d come home and open that plastic package, inhale the chocolate-y goodness, smush the two cake pieces together, and lick the cream inside. Kind of like a giant Oreo.

Devil Dogs were wonderful, although I’m pretty sure my memory is selective.  I hardly remember the taste of plastic from the package at all, although I know it was there.

Some time in my 20s though, I realized I had to stop eating them. Because, when I DID eat them, I couldn’t stop eating them.  So I stopped eating them.  (Life begins to get complicated in your 20s, doesn’t it?)

Giving them up was a smart decision.  Because about 5 years ago I had a cupcake that tasted just like a modern non-plastic-y Devil Dog.  I still dream about it.  And I am afraid to ever have another because, well, I can’t stop.

Still, even with out the chocolate-cream goodness, I still have a Devil Dog every day.

My Current Devil Dog Picture taken by Jacob

My Current Devil Dog
Can you see his horns? (Picture taken by Jacob)

 

Duncan is now nearly 9 months old.  He is mostly sweet, but sometimes his horns show.

Don’t worry, though.  I love him differently than I loved Drake’s Devil Dogs And I never lick the cream out of him because I  am not a perv.

89 Comments

Filed under Bat-shit crazy, Dogs, Duncan, Family, Farts, Huh?, Humor, Maine, Pets, Wild Beasts

Got History?

There is a restaurant I just keep going back to.  Sweetwater Tavern in Sterling, Virginia.  I don’t know why I keep going back, exactly because it was the scene of one of my most embarrassing moments evah.

Still, I return. Went there just a few days ago, as a matter of fact.  They have terrific food and good beer. So I guess that explains it.  Plus, it keeps me humble.  Humbler.  Yeah.  Humble-est.  Or at least quiet.

Nevertheless, if you go with me, I’ll tell you the story. Unless John’s with us. Because last time, when I tried to tell Jacob the story, John hushed me up. Imagine! Now why would he do that?  He looked around the room and kept saying “keep your voice down!”

Actually, if it weren’t for my husband, it would never have happened. Not at all.  So it’s his fault.

And, if it weren’t for our friend Rob, who was visiting us from Geneva, well, it absolutely wouldn’t have happened.  So it’s Rob’s fault, too.

Me?  I’m innocent.

You see, both John and Rob are Civil War buffs. When Rob was visiting a couple of years back on Martin Luther King Day and it was a beautiful, warm, sunny winter day, well, what else was there for us to do but visit a Civil War battlefield?

Luckily for us, we live in Virginia. Civil War battlefields are a dime a dozen, ’round here. [Fortunately, the fears I wrote about in Great Balls of Fire have not materialized. Yet.]

Anyway, the three of us decided that we would head off to visit the Manassas Battlefield. For those not living in Dixie (Civil War – Land for the non-initiated) I’ll just let you know that Manassas was the very first battle of the Civil War, on July 16, 1861. Folks from Washington made a day of it – they packed picnics and took carriage rides out there from the Capitol to see the Yankees whup the Rebs. They called it the Battle of Bull Run.*

Only it didn’t happen quite that way.

The Rebs won. And when they had a do-over  the next year  on August 28–30, 1862, well, the Rebs whupped us again.

Of course, that’s not how the whole war went, though, was it.  Nope.  The NORTH won the Civil War!

Actually, Google Wins

Actually, Google Wins

But when you wander around Virginia, and probably other parts of the Old South, well, you don’t really get that impression.  Nope. Not at all.

As it was, John, Rob and I should have been prepared for what we found when we arrived at the Manassas Battlefield that morning. Cars with Confederate Flags were everywhere. Mostly pickups and cars that were auditioning for the Dukes of Hazard.

 

There are more cars around here like this than you can shake a stick at. Google Image, Natch.

There are more cars around here like this than you can shake a stick at.
Google Image, Natch.

 

Because, unbeknownst to us at the time, here in Virginia, the weekend of Martin Luther King Day also includes a Virginia State Holiday:  Lee-Jackson Day. Yup. Nothing says “We Lost” more than having a holiday to honor the vanquished generals.  And one that just happens to coincides with the National Holiday honoring slain black civil rights leader Martin Luther King Jr!  Folks can get up to all kinds of merriment!

All morning long, there were whoops all around us of “The South Shall Rise Again!”  Men sporting Confederate Flags on their jackets, their cars.  And they were there to honor Stonewall Jackson whose birthday (January 21, 1824) was nearing.  Oh boy!

You see, it was at the First Battle of Manassas, that General Thomas Jonathan Jackson became “Stonewall.” It’s where he earned his famous nickname when as put by Wikipedia:

[Confederate] Brig. Gen. Barnard Elliott Bee, Jr., exhorted his own troops to re-form by shouting, “There is Jackson standing like a stone wall. Let us determine to die here, and we will conquer. Rally behind the Virginians!”

John, Rob and I had a nice time touring the battlefield. I’ve often said that we Americans do great battlefields. There are maps and audio buttons, knowledgeable park officials wandering around to answer your questions. Demonstrations of the firearms used, the uniforms. The works.  But it was clear from their words (and their bumperstickers) that folks around us, well, they didn’t really know their history.

 

My Picture. Take that, Google Images!

The answer, based on what we were hearing around us was: NOPE. My Picture.
Take that, Google Images!

 

As we wandered, and as we left, the three of us shook our heads constantly. Because you see evidence everywhere, not just at the battlefield, that Virginians haven’t heard the news yet — that that they’d lost the war.

Afterwards went for a late lunch at the Sweetwater Tavern. It’s a big, fun restaurant and bar, with great food and a terrific atmosphere.   We drove to the restaurant, crossing Lee Highway, John Mosby Highway. We passed the Sully Plantation, and took a wrong turn leading us towards Leesburg. The names of the Confederate heroes of the Civil War were everywhere. There is no Lincoln Highway as far as I’ve seen.  No Grantsburg.  No Sherman Boulevard.  Nope.

“Whoever said ‘History is told by the victors,’ has never been to Virginia,” John quipped.  You’d really never know that they lost, that they surrendered right there in Virginia, at Appomattox.  Because, really, they haven’t given up.

So how did that lead to my most embarrassing restaurant experience ever?

Well, we continued our conversation after we got to our table. We asked for a round of beers, placed our lunch orders, and continued commenting on all of the things in Virginia that, well, that you’d expect would be named differently. To be named by the Victors – The Yankees. Named by ME in fact.  Well, my ancestors.  Who were still in Ireland during the war.  But still …

Anyway, we talked about how, even today, folks in the states of the former Confederacy, don’t accept that they lost and are still fighting the Civil War. I mean, the War Between the States.

Our beers arrived, and, shaking my head at the bizarre attitude of folks in my adopted state, I raised my glass in irony:

“The South Shall Rise Again!” I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm.  With Irony.  With my superior knowledge of history.

And I said it, just as our African-American waiter placed a basket of bread on the table right next to me.

I stammered, shuddered, tried to evaporate.  I wished a cannon ball would fall on me – from either side, it didn’t matter.  I sincerely hoped that someone, anyone would run at me with their bayonet at the ready.  I wanted a quick death, not to be left dangling in my humiliation.

Because, really, what could I do?  I considered explaining myself to the poor waiter, but I knew it wouldn’t matter. That really, even a Connecticut Yankee like me couldn’t make reparations.

I stayed pretty quiet for the remainder of the meal.

We did leave a ridiculously large tip, though.

 

*     *     *

* For some reason nobody seems to know, streams and creeks in Virginia are called runs. I presume that’s because they run to the rivers and then to the sea. But still, if anybody knows why they are called that, I’d love to know. Because nobody I’ve ever known knows. It’s a mystery.

73 Comments

Filed under Adult Traumas, Bat-shit crazy, Diet tips, Disgustology, History, Holidays, Huh?, Humor, Mysteries, Politics, Stupidity, Wild Beasts

People My Age

It happens every year, try as I might to avoid it.  Annually.  At about the same time each year.  On the same damn day, even.

Every bloomin’ year! What’s with that?

For the last 15 years, I’ve tried to avoid it.  I just put my head down and muddled through the whole month.  Looked forward to February.

Yeah, it’s my birthday.   Ho hum.  Everybody has one.  Still, I figure I need to do something to mark it.

So to celebrate, I’m going to insert one of my very favorite birthday songs for those of us who are in their our post- years.  The perfect song for the post-teens; post-Yuppies; post-childbearing, child rearing, post-careerists; post-menopausal; for the pre- and post-retirement set.

The perfect song for the pre-dead among us.  And I do hope you, my dear bloggin’ buddy, are among us.

Ho hum.  Where’s the wine?

100 Comments

Filed under Adult Traumas, Awards, Bat-shit crazy, Birthday, Bloggin' Buddies, Disgustology, Family, Farts, Health and Medicine, Hey Doc?, Holidays, Huh?, Humor, Mental Health