In today’s post, Scott said,

the sound of custom car engines is like catnip to hot chicks.

Really, the best part of the post … the part that gave me a gut-wrenching laugh was when he said,

I’d also add the sound of a chainsaw somwhere in the distance, so the woman can imagine her personal lumberjack getting wood for the fire.

You have to read the whole post to really get that 2nd line.

Hundreds of paragliders visit Grouse Mountain every single day.  Day after day, these hundreds turn into thousands.  Of all these paragliding expeditions, few if any get stuck in trees.   Yet of all these thousands of paragliders, it takes an Oregonian to get stuck in a tree.

The paraglider was trying to land in Cleveland Park, but he noticed that his approach was a little bit low. As he tried to guide himself in the right direction, he noticed that he was heading towards some power lines.
“He decided his best option was to go into the trees rather than to go into the lines,” Cairns said.

Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t the State of Oregon pratically covered with trees?  You’d think an Oregonian would know how to climb as well as dismount from a tree … right?

I’m sure the state revoked his citizenship when he came back from Vancouver.

From Futility Closet:

“Spike Milligan was wearing traditional Scottish garb when a curious onlooker asked, ‘So, is there anything worn under the kilt?’

“‘No’, he answered, ‘it’s all in perfect working order.'”

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 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.

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.