Just because I love this video:
Just because I love this video:
You know how they say one picture is worth a thousand words?
I found this picture on The Last of the Milleniums today. I often steal stuff from my buddy Father Kane. Not all of them hit quite this close to home, though!
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.”
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.”
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.
As a kid, one of my very favorite snacks was a Devil Dog. A Drake’s Devil Dog.
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.
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.