Poop Is Brown

A few weeks ago, my mom enlisted my services to help clean out her closet the next time I visited. This past weekend, I entered the walk-in to find enough trash to fill a small country. As I sorted through the mountains of clothes, receipts, old newspapers and shoes not even worthy for Goodwill, I came across an old duffel bag. Now, I will inform you I was instructed to clean only my mother’s side of the closet and to leave my father’s side alone. She did not want to be blamed for any garbage he viewed as collectible and irreplaceable to be thrown out by me. I figured the duffel would most likely be filled with more garbage, seeing as I had already found two other random satchels filled with crumpled school reports and a 12-year-old stack of promissory notes from my little brother’s elementary school cafeteria for never bringing his lunch money. So I open the bag. And no, I do not find the report cards, receipts or rumpled accident reports I had scavenged earlier, I find porn. Lots of it. From the ’80s. An entire duffel bag filled with crumpled nudie magazines belonging to my father. And that’s not the worst of it. Near the porn I find another duffel, this one the monster Army regulation kind. I try to move it but no, it won’t budge. I open the bag to another surprise, bullets. Every size you could imagine. Tiny little ones (I was told these were .22s) to giant shells for rifles in a range of colors. Behind the bag? Well of course, the guns. Four to be exact. All at least half my size. There is at least one semi-automatic (I was told this was an AK-47) and I know of the sawed-off shotgun from prior mentions, although for all I know that one wasn’t in there. These were stacked next to two other rifles, well, at least they were, before they all toppled over. Upon inquiring to my father about the arsenal, he reveals that we have a total of at least seven working (not loaded) guns in the house. This means that there are enough guns for each of our family members, if we all happen to be visiting at the same time, and an extra, just in case. Now, mind you, I don’t live in Montana and we aren’t a part of any crazy militia, so why all the guns? I got no real answer. So I did my best to organize them.

But how do I organize guns? By size? What about bullets?

Not wanting to disturb the dangerous posse, I gave up and did my best to shove them all in the corner, balanced by the bullets, right next to the high heels.

I saw this doodle on The Consumerist about Subway® finding yet another way of ruining their already terrible sandwiches. Please to enjoy this diatribe on the use of Isosceles Cheese:

Some of you may remember Michael Winslow from his multiple appearances in the Police Academy movies. To my fantastic luck (or lack there of) this is who I sleep next to every night. OK, well not the real Michael Winslow, but judging from the odd array of sounds I’m greeted with some nights, you’d swear you were watching the man himself. Strange whistles, hums, animalistic grunting, something akin to honking, and unexplainable lip smacking chewing sounds that would lead you to believe there was a feast of Roman proportions on the other side of the bed. Last night, I was privy to a symphony of rare and impressive proportions. It began precisely at 3 am with teeth grinding and continued its grandeur until 5:30 am (just slightly before my alarm was due to wake me for yet another fun filled adventure in scheduling). Perhaps it would be better if it happened every night so I would know to expect it. Or even maybe if the sounds were continuous throughout the witching hours. But no. The sounds are wily and deceptive. They start slow, grow to a glorious crescendo, and then taper off slowly, lasting between 5 and 10 minutes for each performance. Then it stops. You think it’s over. Nay may friend, that was just the opening performance. At completely random intervals, sometimes 2 minute respites other times 20, it will begin again washing over you like a horny, unfed warthog, filling your ears with sounds that shouldn’t be possible from an ordinary human. Coupled with the Bloodhound Foot (this is the foot that seeks you out wherever you are on the bed & insists on rubbing against you for minutes on end) my nightly sleep is ALWAYS an adventure in entertainment. I wish I had the computer skills to record these special moments for you, but as I am the only honored audience for this unparalleled display, I’ll just leave it at, “I laughed, I cried, it was better than Cats”.

A few weeks back I posted a rant on creationism vs. evolution. I think this editorial cartoon kinda covers my argument: click here

Ha ha ha ha-snort-whooo-ha ha ha ha ha…this so belongs in a “Serves you right you moronic assholes” file. I wonder if the cops have one of those? Yes, I know, it’s sad when someone dies, but a whole frickin lot less so when it’s Darwin capn’ their asses!

Seriously folks, this has got to be one of the most pricelessly incompetent criminals I have EVER seen. In fact, I’m shocked this didn’t happen in Florida (land of the weird, home of the strange).




Click on the picture for a link to the whole story. But really, taping branches to yourself as a disguise to rob a bank…really?! “I swear officer, it was the mightiest oak I ever did saw!” And the most fucked up thing of all…they actually gave him $$ & he got away! Shock & awe, shock & awe, that’s all I got!

Ok, a few posts back I mentioned I’m not exactly politically correct. In addition to my non-PC tendencies, I am also probably the biggest proponent of evolutionary psychology you’ll find east of David Buss, south of Denys deCatanzaro, west of William Hamilton, and north of Charles Darwin. In this vein, I would also like to preface I’m generally vehemently against pop-psychology (yes you, “The Secret”) and not a particularly big fan of Psychology Today (it’s alright but a bit too open with their publication qualifications). However, I think this article is a very interesting read and a damn good read for the lay person. Please to enjoy Ten Politically Incorrect Truths About Human Nature

Good G-d, does Oregon have NOTHING better to worry about?! The best part is that “The city is looking into retrofitting the posts with metal collars and chains that run between them, which they hope will change the look.”

Scrappy-doo ain’t got shit on this dog!