He’s on a roll today.

I ask myself if I would prefer to be whacked with a rolled up newspaper when I pooped on the carpet or be forced to stay in a coffin-sized cage for several hours while desperately squeezing my butt cheeks together to keep the turtle in the shell.

Read the entire post here.

I think his life was doomed when his parents named him … Parley Jeffs Dutson.

Do you think that Parley has any chances of turning his life around?  When he finally came down from his high, do you think he took an accounting of all the good and bad that he has done in his life?  I wonder to which side the balance tipped.

He’s accused of killing his 15-year-old girlfriend.  There’s a murder story every day in the news, but what caught my attention was what Parley did when the cops arrested him.

According to this article, he doesn’t remember “humping the floor and then a police car after he was arrested.”

If he ever gets out of this pinch and does a 180, he can always support the ‘I humped your Hummer’ cause.

In describing the American Idol concert he recently attended, he said,

The sound system in the Arco Arena was like four winos farting in a steel drum.

Read the whole post here.

We had a security guard at the front gate.  She was older and was a roughneck … leathery skin, balding, no teeth, smoked two packs a day, wore glasses thick as my hand.  But she was cheerful.

Every morning when I pulled up … “Geeewed marnin!”

“Hello Lorinda”

For her birthday one year, we all pitched in to buy her a pie.  We sent Peggy to get the pie.  She went the cheap route and bought a pie that was discounted.  We gave it to Lorinda who proceeded to cut into it and partake.  She gave us each a piece too.

Lorinda ate it up like a cow eats hay.  I took a bite and nearly barfed.  The cherries in it had the texture of plastic.  The crust was rubber-like.  I shuffled over to Peggy and leaned into her ear.

“Where the hell did you buy this artifact?”

“The baker said he messed up on it.”

I grabbed the box the pie came in and looked for a date.  It was made a month ago.

I looked up to tell Lorinda to stop eating, but it was too late. She was snarfing down her second piece.

A few days later, Lorinda was unexpectedly admitted to the hospital for kidney failure.  She died shortly after.  Peggy felt horrible.

Good ‘ol Lorinda.

The squids are out of school and enjoying the summer.  One of the summer’s first activities for the kiddos was basketball camp.  We enrolled Little Apollo in the Josh Howard basketball camp back in March.  Little did we know that it would change our son’s life forever.

“How was your first day at basketball camp?”

“Wiiiikeeeed” he calmly replies.

“Are you OK there sport?”

“It’s all good man.  It was high times to sundown baby.”

“C’mere bud.  Lemme see something in your hair.”

I pretend to be taking something out of his hair and then I bend a little closer and take a whiff.  Yup … Mary Jane.

“Hey listen bud, you’re going to go to a basketball camp a little closer to home tomorrow, OK?”

“No problem dad … it’s all good.”

I can’t believe I’ve missed adding The Smoking Gun to my list of links.  There is always something interesting to read over there.

Here is a story from The Smoking Gun about a father and son who share the distinct passion of tattooing their foreheads.  I’m filing this story under Discovery Moment because now that father and son have their faces plastered on The Smoking Gun, perhaps they will take a few moment to reflect on their position in life.  Maybe they will turn their lives around and find a cure for cancer or win the $300M McCain car battery prize.

Of course before that happens, these boys would have to make a few minor course corrections.  Getting a steady job that requires the use of ones brain might be a good start.  I can only imagine how a job interview might go.

“What skills do you possess for maintaining a Unix server environment?”

“I can git-r-dun.”

“Indeed, but specifically, what kind of Unix or any kind of server experience do you have?”

“I can git-r-dun.”

“Thank you for your time Mr. Bebees. You may be excused.”

“Can I take some of that there candy?”

“You may.”

I honestly don’t know how I got them.  I am a clean person … regular showers, clean clothes every day, I wash my hands … I’m clean except for those ogre toenails.

Several of my toenails have some sort of fungus ailment.  My big toenails have ridges like Ruffles and are a dirty pearly white.  My pinky toes are thick.  When I clip my pinky toenails, it’s like cutting cheese.

On the bright side, I’ve been able to sell my toenails to a local witch.  She uses them regularly in her brews.

I visited my doctor about this ailment.  When I took my shoes off and then peeled away my socks, she clapped her hand over he mouth and gasped in horror.

“My heavens!  How long have your toenails been like that?”

“About 10 years.”

She took a few samples to diagnose the fungus.

A few days later, I was reading the newspaper when I came across an article entitled “Medical Office Shut Down by Fungus”  Upon further reading, I learned that the lab had been overcome with an aggressive fungus.  The technician was doing late evening work on toenail clippings when the sample unexpectedly began growing exponentially.  By the next day, the fungus had overtaken the entire office.

The day after that, two federal agents in bio-suits and masks knocked on my door.  I’m finally going to get my toenails cured.

I was shooting the basketball at the local gym.  Ten of us had just finished a game in which my team won.  Then everyone left except me.  I stayed to practice my deadly 3-point shot.

The ball swished through the net and bounced to the wall behind the basket.  I walked over to pick it up.  I bounced the ball once and then stopped.  My right (shooting) hand was gooey and discustingly wet.  The ball had bounced in a puddle of spittle.  It wasn’t the watered down kind … it was the snotty white-greenish kind … absolutly sickening.

I threw the ball away and dried my hand off with the towl and picked up another basketball.  I continued to shoot 3-point shots.  I hit the first, the second and the third.  I shot a fourth and nailed it.  Ten shots later and I still had not missed.  No … no way … it couldn’t be.

I backed up three feet behind the NBA line - swish.  Halfcourt - off the backboard and in.  Insane.

I have an appointment today with an NBA team representative.

Twenty-one years ago today, Mathias Rust rented a Cessna and flew it to Moscow.  He managed to avoid the USSR’s air defenses and then landed on Vasilevsky Spusk next to Red Square.

Here is a video of an interview he did last year.

My cousin emailed me this one:

I had a bunch of Canadian dollars I needed to exchange, so I went to the currency exchange window at the local bank.  Short line. Just one lady in front of me . . an Asian lady who was trying to exchange yen for dollars and she was a little irritated.

She asked the teller, ‘Why it change??  Yesterday, I get two hunat dolla fo yen. Today I get hunat eighty??  Why it change?’

The teller shrugged his shoulders and said, ‘Fluctuations’.

The Asian lady says, ‘Fluc you white people, too’.

This one has been going around on the blogs and email. I find it worthy of knee-slapping.

Potty Talk

My little guy, Cade, is quite a talker. He loves to communicate and does it quite well. He talks to people constantly, whether we’re in the library, the grocery store or at a drive-thru window.

People often comment on how clearly he speaks for a just-turned-3-year-old.  And you never have to ask him to turn up the volume. It’s always fully cranked.

There have been several embarrassing times that I’ve wished the meaning of his words would have been masked by a not-so-audible voice, but never have I wished this more than last week at Costco.

Halfway, through our shopping trip, nature called, so I took Cade with me into the restroom. If you’d been one of the ladies in the restroom that evening, this is what you would have heard coming from the second to the last stall:

‘Mommy, are you gonna go potty? Oh! Why are you putting toiwet paper on the potty, Mommy?  Oh! You gonna sit down on da toiwet paper now?  Mommy, what are you doing?  Mommy, are you gonna go stinkies on the potty?’

At this point I started mentally counting how many women had been in the bathroom when I walked in. Several stalls were full … 4? 5? Maybe we could wait until they all left before I had to make my debut out of this stall and reveal my identity.

Cade continued, ‘Mommy, you ARE going stinkies aren’t you?  Oh, dats a good girl, Mommy!  Are you gonna get some candy for going stinkies on the potty? Let me see doze stinkies, Mommy!  Oh .. Mommy! I’m trying to see in dere. Oh! I see dem. Dat is a very good girl, Mommy. You are gonna get some candy!’

I heard a few faint chuckles coming from the stalls on either side of me. Where is a screaming new born when you need her? Good grief! This was really getting embarrassing. I was definitely waiting a long time before exiting.

Trying to divert him, I said, ‘Why don’t you look in Mommy’s purse and see if you can find some candy? We’ll both have some!’

‘No, I’m trying to see doze more stinkies.

Oh! Mommy!’ He started to gag at this point. ‘Uh oh, Mommy.  I fink I’m gonna frow up. Mommy, doze stinkies are making me frow up!! Dat is so gross!!’

As the gags became louder, so did the chuckles outside my stall.  I quickly flushed the toilet in hopes of changing the subject.  I began to reason with myself:

OK. There are four other toilets.  If I count four flushes, I can be reasonably assured that those
who overheard this embarrassing monologue will be long gone.

‘Mommy! Would you get off the potty, now?  I want you to be done going stinkies! Get up! Get up!’

He grunted as he tried to pull me off.

Now I could hear full-blown laughter.  I bent down to count the feet outside my door.

‘Oh, are you wooking under dere, Mommy?  You wooking under da door?  What were you wooking at, Mommy?  You wooking at the wady’s feet?’

More laughter. I stood inside t he locked door and tried to assess the situation. ‘Mommy, it’s time to wash our hands, now. We have to go out now, Mommy.’

He started pounding on the door. ‘Mommy, don’t you want to wash your hands? I want to go out!!’

I saw that my ‘wait ‘em out’ plan was unraveling. I sheepishly opened the door, and found standing outside my stall, twenty to thirty ladies crowded around the stall, all smiling and starting to applaud.

My first thought was complete embarrassment, then I thought, ‘Where’s the fine print on the ‘motherhood contract’ where I signed away every bit of my dignity and privacy?’

But as my little boy gave me a big, cheeky grin while he rubbed bubbly soap between his chubby little hands, I thought, I’d sign it all away again, just to be known as Mommy to this little fellow.

(Shannon Popkin is a freelance writer and mother of three.  She lives with her family in Grand Rapids, Michigan, where she no longer uses public restrooms)

I’m becoming more convinced that Oregon is or is becoming a castrated state.

These poor 12-year-old boys can’t handle playing basketball with a girl.  The 6′1 12-year-old girl’s mom explained how her daughter got kicked off the team.

“She scored 30 points,” Jaime’s mom, Reiko Williams, told The Oregonian. “I remember one play. She stole the ball, dribbled up court and made a behind-the-back pass to a teammate. He missed the lay-in, and she grabbed the rebound and put it in. I think it was just too much for some of those parents.

“The next day, she came home and said they wouldn’t let her play with the boys anymore.”

Instead of playing like boys around this girl, the boys whine to their parents and complain that they can’t really play like they “normally” do around the other boys … so the parents complain and get the girl kicked off the team!

They are all wusses - the boys and their parents.  Jaime, the 6′1 12-year-old girl (I’m still in awe) should be allowed to continue to play on her team.  The boys just need to grow some nuts.

I had somewhat of an embarrassing situation yesterday morning.

During shift turnover, the supervisor I was relieving unexpectedly came into the office.  I didn’t see her coming.  Had I seen her coming, I would not have unleashed the violent gaseous storm that had been brewing in my gut since the previous night.

Unfortunately for her, I let ‘er rip mere seconds before she walked in.  She was taken by suprise as she entered the room.  She stumbled a bit, became a little loopy and her eyes began to water.  She covered her mouth and nose and let out a groan.  She stuttered as she tried to go over the turnover log with me.  I felt a little sorry for her.  I am used to the horrendous smell.  I’ve wilted flowers with my farts and this one was no exception.

She completed the turnover and then staggered out of the room like a drunken lemur.  I hope her drive home was safe.

Just a few questions ran through my mind when I saw this picture.

How does she brush her teeth?  Does she just use mouthwash?

Eating can’t be too comfortable.

Boogers … need I say more?

Air-travel must be out of the question.

I love the word “wacky”

I like to search wacky on news.google.com … the results are entertaining.

Like this one for example: “Wacky Cult Leader Beds Naked Virgins, Son’s Wife” by Dave Shiflett

Here’s a precious quote,

One day I was in my trailer just relaxing and there was nothing on my mind in particular and then God said to me you are the Messiah,” Travesser recalls.

Wacky indeed.

I’m sure many people have experienced the post-lunch drowsy attack.  It’s happened to me dozens of times.  I really hate attending meetings after lunch.  The manager will drone on and on about how our group performed in the last quarter and I have to prop my eyes open with toothpicks.

Yesterday was really bad.  I ate at Outback for lunch.  I had the steak and potatos.

When I got back to my desk, I checked my email and started reading some blogs.  Pretty soon my eyes felt like a pinball machine on steroids … they were darting back and forth and then I’d jerk back into the upright position.

After several attempts to wake up, I decided to put my head down for a moment.

Ten minutes later I awake to the sounds of a fire alarm and chaos.  People are running in the hallways and screaming.  I look at my desk and there is a huge puddle of liquid and it is dripping down behind my desk.  There is a distinct electrical smell and some smoke in the air and it seems to be coming from under my desk.

I lift my arm off the desk and wipe off the liquid ooz that it was sitting in.  I notice the side of my mouth and chin are wet and sticky.  I wipe them and stumble out of my cubicle and find an exit.

Just as I turn down the hallway,  I see a fireman flood my cubicle with with water.  Uh-oh.  I quietly exit the building, get in my car and go home.

I’ve got to hand it to Reuters reported Bob Strong.  He did a hellava job writing “Icelandic museum offers long and short of male organ”

Here are a few selected quotes from his piece with the chortling parts in bold.

Sigurdur Hjartarson is missing a human penis.

The American, 52-year-old Stan Underwood, supplied a written description of his penis — which he purportedly nick-named “Elmo” – for display alongside a life-size plastic mould of the member as well as his pledge to donate it.

A growing number of people from all over the world view the collection each year, 60 percent of them women.

Hjartarson has paid for only one — an elephant penis nearly 1 meter long that hangs, stuffed and mounted on a wooden board, in the museum’s “foreign section.”

On a related note, you really need to read this blog entry by Scott Adams about the world’s tallest man getting married.

Today on his blog, Scott said,

she only licks the things she loves the most, including soft cat food, my chin, and her own ass

Read the whole post here.

I’m a really laid-back sorta guy.  Most of my life’s accomplishments have come because of excessive prodding of parents, friends, wife, church and family.

I honestly think that if it weren’t for my parents, I’d be a beach bum somewhere in California or Florida or I’d be a farm-hand in Idaho or Nebraska.

I digress …

When I was in high school, I would regularly dream about how my life would be.  I sometimes ponder that dream life and wonder if I could ever do it.

But I’ve been taught and have bought into the idea that a long, solid, money-making career would best suit two of my life’s most important goals of supporting a family and retiring happily.  So I continue on the long, upward latter of corporate America.

But if I had $1,000,000 deposited into my checking account tomorrow, this is what I would do:

I would set up $100,000 accounts for each of my kids.  They would’nt get a cent of it until they finished college.

Then I would set up a large portion of the cash left into a mutual fund or something similiar and let it work for me.  I wouldn’t touch my 401k … I’d let it continue to grow.

I’d sell my house and move to Montana, Wyoming, Colorado, Idaho, Oregon or Washington.  I’d pick a small town with a population of over 8,000 but under 20,000.  I’d go directly to local school district and explain to the administrator that I had recently retired and was willing to work as a high school teacher (computers and/or math) and coach basketball and cross-country.  If they had a chess team or program, I’d sign up to coach/teach for that too.

I’d get up every morning and exercise and then be to work by 7:00am.  I’d teach classes all day long and then when school lets out at 4pm, I’d coach/teach the extracurricular activities.  I’d get home by 6:00pm every evening and play with my kids and be with my wife.

In the summer time, my family and I would head to the mountains.  We would camp and fish and hike for several weeks.  I’d probably buy a boat and go water-skiing too.  I’d BBQ every night.  I’d stay up late and lay on the grass with my kids and wife and watch the stars.

Oh to dream.

Those wacky Oregonians are at it again.  Exploding whales, grooming eyebrows and now this.

Inside a voters’ pamphlet, a 1-800 number is listed for voters to register on the phone.

1-800-ORE-VOTE points to adult sex line.

So instead of getting registered for an election, the voter gets an erection.

Link: Voters’ Pamplet typo point to adult sex line