The Scoop on Poop

Cecilia and I worked on a crossword puzzle today. It's been a while since I've attempted one, and I forgot how pun-filled and intentionally misleading the clues can be.

Lots of bucks: DEER
Pronoun for the Queen: ROYAL WE
Milk man: SEAN PENN
Location of Adam's apple: EDEN

I was particularly excited to solve the clue which read simply: "Poop." I thought of many synonyms for poop, but nothing seemed to fit. Later, by virtue of filling in every other word, we felt confident that the answer to "poop" was "info." Did they mean to say "scoop" instead? Or perhaps the author couldn't think of a clue right away, then just typed "Poop" as something goofy (I've done that) and forgot to come back and change it.

Having to know, we asked someone to google whether poop made any sense as info. Ey typed in "poop info" and, as we should have foreseen, the results weren't exactly what we were looking for, though we could have learned many facts about poop.

A later, more specific search revealed that "poop" is slang for information. Really? Since when? I better practice this new vocabulary word, then. "This book is filled with poop!" "Dial 411 for poop."

Also, are the two words interchangeable? For example, can I say, "I was so scared that I info-ed my pants"?

If you have any poop on poop, please share.


More 9/11 Pick-Up Lines

It's the pick-up line that changed the face of the world -- or at least New York's skyline -- just like 9/11. Since its inception, the slightly (and by slightly, I really mean vastly) inappropriate pick-up line, "Your face is like 9/11: I'll never forget", is a hit amongst my friends. We take it to bars, and get laid more often than the firefighters on 9/12.

A committee of esteemed friends (Andrew, Christine, Angel, Lindsay, and myself) has decided to expand the 9/11 pick-up line collection after the initial line's success. We all agree that 9/11 is traditionally a downer, so by adding some sex appeal, we're helping to make it less depressing. We proudly present you with five new 9/11 pick-up lines, sure to earn the affections of everyone you admire:
  • Loving you is like 9/11: You've hijacked my heart.
  • Being with me is like 9/11: It's hot and you won't even know what hit you.
  • You make me feel like 9/11: I'm falling for you.
  • Baby, I'm like 9/11: just when you think it's over, I'll keep coming.
  • Your body is like 9/11: I want to crash into your twin towers.

We've given you some powerful tools, here; no one has an excuse for be single after this weekend.

Oh, and allow me to beat y'all to the punch: tasteless. Yeah, yeah, this blog is tasteless. It's also odorless, and you've never complained about that before.



I'm lazy right now, so I'm going to just share a short piece of writing by a former colleague that I first read four years ago and I still think is super clever.

By DrFunk

Why can't the letter "y" be a full-fledged member of the vowel family? What's with the "and sometimes y" crap? As if the sanctity of vowelhood would be so tarnished if "y" was invited in as a permanent member.

I think "Y" should immediately demand to be made into a full vowel, or it should threaten to become a full time consonant and leave A,E,I,O and U to figure out how to replace it in words like "rhythm" and "why" and "twyndyllyngs" and "sky." Yeah, have fun with that, U, you conceited, self-righteous bastard.

Y is so much more than your average consonant -- it's a question; it's a chromosome; it's a place where it's fun to hang out with all the boys.

F those elitist vowels. F them right in the A.

Via: PlanetSocks.com


Oral Communication

a cell phone conversation
K: Oh, you're at the airport?
A: I'm getting on the plane now, actually.
K: So there are people listening to this conversation?
A: Yup.
K: So I should get you to say something embarrassing?
A: Um...
K: What's 70 minus one?


Fire Works (a little too well) on New Year's Eve

On New Year’s Eve, I arrived early to a party so I helped set up by moving furniture and placing a couple dozen tea light candles in various locations around the house. I also helped myself to some drinks, so by the time the party rolled around, I was already feeling toasty and having a good time.

Just before midnight, everyone went to the roof to watch fireworks. Because the temperature was freezing, several of us returned to the house within ten minutes in order to keep warm and refill our beverages. Once back inside, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that the corner table seemed especially bright. How was such a tiny candle making so much light? I did a double take and realized that that wasn’t just a single flame, but that the table was actually on fire. I approached for a closer look and saw that, fortunately, the table itself wasn’t on fire, but the pile of napkins that had been decoratively fanned out next to the snacks had caught ablaze. Panicked, I reacted hastily by grabbing the flaming napkins with both hands and ran with them to the kitchen sink, then turned on the faucet to extinguish the fire.

Looking back, this was not the wisest action. While it was good to address the fire issue, there were other ways to handle the potential disaster rather than grabbing it with my hands. Being thoroughly intoxicated, however, logic wasn’t on my side. After burning my hands, my second thought was that I should have dumped my beverage on it, but I hardly think throwing a cup of rum on a fire would have helped the situation.

The hosts thanked me for saving their house and I received the hero treatment from several of the guests. I felt special, but I also felt like a dumbass, especially when the pain set in. While my inebriation had soothed the burning sensation initially, after twenty minutes, I started really feeling it. The skin peeled off and I tried to act like my second-degree burns were no big deal since I wanted to maintain my aura of hero rather than idiot wimp. Needing relief, I stuck my right thumb, which suffered the brunt of the burning, in a cup of water to cool it down.

Later in the night, I made conversation with some people at the party I hadn’t met yet. They inquired why my hand was in a cup of water, so I showed them my wound and thought I’d earn some sympathy points. “Oh, you’re the pyro!” “Pyro?!” I asked. Evidently, their interpretation of the scene was that I had set the fire myself and was running around it with it for some reckless fun. “I’m not a pyro, I’m a hero!” I slurred loudly. This turned out to be a difficult case to argue, since I was double fisting: one hand holding a cup with alcohol, the other hand wading in a cup of water. If I were looking at me, I would have guessed “crazy” rather than hero, too.

(P.S. My thumb is now almost entirely healed!)


The Stripper Pole

Of all the sentences I never thought I’d find myself saying: Currently, I’m living in an apartment with a stripper pole.

Forget coffee table books, if you want a real conversation starter at the center of a room, a stripper pole is the way to go. Christine is taking a pole dancing class (it’s athletic, not slutty) and brought one home with which to practice.

Naturally, everyone who pays a visit has to give it a try. There’s a certain naughty curiosity involved, not to mention it’s just plain fun, like a piece of jungle gym equipment. Some people are good at it and have a natural grace. They spin around smoothly and elegantly. Others, like me, can be a bit more acrobatic with the pole, but it’s not necessarily as titillating. I can do some movements, but I always just look like a monkey swinging on a tree – I’m not likely to arouse anyone.

My best trick is where in one swoop I kick my legs up, wrap them around the bar toward its top, then slowly glide down. Here’s a photo of me, the unsexy monkey, in action:

Anyway, I’m not so sure that this is my calling, but it just might be for some of my friends. This might ultimately prove to be a successful investment for some of them, despite recent economic woes. After all, sexy doesn’t go out of business.



Look no further than the First Family for relationship advice. Barack and Michelle Obama sure know how to demonstrate their affection, by touching, kissing, and... what??

Ah, fisting. They really are in love. I like how the commentator implies that they engage in fisting publicly.

In all seriousness, I suspect that this act is what she erroneously referred to as fisting.
Actually, it's called pounding. Or as another intrepid Fox reporter calls it, a "terrorist fist jab."

I, too, am guilty of using the word "fisting" when I don't mean cramming one's entire hand up another person's sexual orifice. When I taught poetry to my ninth graders, I wanted to devise an activity to make sure the students didn't just rush through the poem in ten seconds and derive no meaning from it, as they were inclined to do. My plan was to come up with several key literary terms and have the students identify these elements in each poem. After coming up with the terms I wanted them to apply, I went about trying to turn them into an acronym so it would be easy to remember. After anagramming the initial letters for a while, I decided the best acronym was FISTTTT.

Figurative Language
Title's Significance
Thesis Statement

I was apprehensive to use this acronym, considering my students were perverted and could quite easily turn FISTTTT into a crude joke. Fortunately, FISTTTT was successful on multiple fronts: it actually made the students have to reflect upon the poems and apply other knowledge and the students never realized the sexual connotation. It probably helped that I tried to pre-empt going in a sexual route by taking us down a violent one instead. I introduced FISTTTT by "giving the poem a fist!" and literally punching the poem in the textbook, a lead which many students were more than happy to follow. Being aggressive with school materials probably isn't the most appropriate approach, however, this is America, where violence is tolerated far more than sex, so I'm sure someone's willing to champion my cause.

Throughout the month-long poetry unit, the students completed the FISTTTT activity many times. The repetition is what prompted them to start making unintentionally hilarious comments like "Do we have to fist today?!" and "I'm tired of fisting!" If it was going over their heads, I wasn't to change that, even if it was my job to "educate." As hormonal as these young teenagers were, they clearly were still a dirty YouTube search away from being exposed to the concept of sitting on a knuckle sandwich. Given that the kids fisted after reading each poem, it did give some credence to my students' belief that poetry is gay, but that was something for me to chuckle about privately.

The inside joke was not as easily concealed with adults, however. My teaching mentor did an observation and asked about the homework assignment on the board: "Read 'The Road Not Taken' by Robert Frost and FISTTTT it." "It sounds funny," she admitted with a smile, so I explained the logistics of it. She put a positive spin on it. "Well it looks good. If it's easy for the kids, then great. You've got to try a lot of different things until you find something that works for you and makes you happy, and if that means using a FISTTTT, then go for it." I had thought she was in on the joke, but I'm still not sure whether or not she was double entendre-ing like crazy on purpose.


Eat Your Magic Mushrooms, Kids

I don't know much about children's literature (I couldn't read until the age of 22), but when I spotted this book on the shelf at a thrift store, I immediately worried about the message it might send.

Mushrooms, a hazy environment, visions of a little green man... this book proves what I always suspected: reading makes kids do drugs.  And to think they teach "reading" in our schools!  If my kids are "tripping," I hope it's an accidental fall down a staircase, thankyouverymuch.

It's time to get back out our Harry Potter-burning barrels and reignite the fires of the "ship" that matters most: friendship censorship.


Pick-Up Line

I've never used a pick-up line. I'm just not that suave. Or cheesy. Or confident. Plus, pick-up lines are almost always cliches, and I prefer to be an original.

Several margaritas into last night, I floored myself (literally and figuratively since I couldn't quite stand) as inspiration struck me in the form of a pick-up line:

Your face is like 9/11: I'll never forget.

Take me to a bar, I am prepared to collect my booty.


They Should Make Abortion A Law

When I was a student teacher, I spent half my day with students attempting to repeat ninth grade English as a summer school course. Since many normal laws and regulations don't apply to summer courses, we had more than 130 students enrolled in this one class at the beginning -- standing room only. I watched over the course of four weeks as the number of students dwindled to about 20. While I found the students' lack of dedication ridiculous, I at least understood that if they were not going to do the work anyway, they might as well enjoy their summer. What perplexed me more were the students who showed up every day until the end yet still didn't turn in any work. Sure, summer school was significantly dumbed down, but you were still expected to do something.

I had one student in this class who was perfectly nice, but wouldn't complete written assignments. I pleaded with her to turn in a persuasive essay so I could pass her since it wouldn't happen otherwise. Other students were coached through drafts and showed marked improvement and a handle on some persuasive techniques, but this student didn't have that benefit since she didn't keep up with the deadlines. Instead, she turned in her essay, "Abortion," late and it is one of the most unintentionally hilarious pieces of writing I have ever read. I photocopied it, complete with my (perhaps overly sassy) comments.

NOTE: Stretch your browser window so it shows the whole image, or click on each page to see the essay in a larger size

Reading this back after two years, I'm partial to my quip on the second page where I ask, "fun?"

Say what you will, but this essay might be more persuasive than I initially gave it credit for, seeing as I haven't had an abortion since I read it.


Every Rose Has Its Thorn

Like many nights when I drink at the local smokey bar, just past midnight, a woman enters this bar with a couple dozen roses looking to sell her goods.

"Flowers?" she asks as she came to our table. I keep my eyes on the band performing, not willing to acknowledge her. It's not that I wouldn't buy a friend a flower, but I figure in this context, buying a pitcher of beer is a more appreciated gesture.

Ben makes eye contact with her, so the vender pushes her pitch. "Buy a flower for the lady," she urges. She motions toward Laura, who is not Ben's lady. Actually, Ben's fiancee, Jocelyn, is visiting the restroom (you know, to examine the aesthetics, I'm not being crass and suggesting urination is occurring). In Jocelyn's absence, however, Ben decides to be sweet. "How much?" he asks.

"Five dollars," she says, so Ben purchases a rose from her. The vender, holding a Polaroid camera then asks, "A picture with your lady?"

"No thanks, it's actually not for her," Ben explains.

The vender either doesn't pay attention or doesn't care. "Get a picture with your lady, come on."

Peer pressured and figuring what's the harm, Ben and Laura snuggle, smile, and pose with the rose. It's all cute and funny until the vender demands payment; "Ten dollars," she says. Ben has assumed the picture was part of a package deal and finds himself without any more cash on hand. The vender is not amused by this predicament. She turns to Laura who is kindly fishing out some cash from her pocket to help out. Her five dollars is rejected because she's not looking for ten dollars total, apparently the grand total is now fifteen since the photo itself is ten dollars.

Ben rightfully begins to argue with this highway robbery, and the vender says, "The lady will pay for it." Suddenly, the vender is not all about the chivalry she's peddling. She takes the ten dollars from a shocked, yet amused Laura who has shelled out a lot money for a keepsake of a flower of which she is not even the recipient.

When Jocelyn returns from the restroom, she finds the rose and the photo sitting at her place at the table. She looks at the Polaroid, which is essentially photographic evidence of her fiance hugging and giving another woman a flower. "What is this?!" she asks, confused.

What? Who doesn't appreciate a flower and a commemorative photo of your fiance sharing the flower with someone else?

(No worries, this incident is immediately cleared up, no jealousy or apologies are necessary, everyone just accepts the sequence of events for what they are: hilarious.)


Marry, Fuck, or Kill: Your Sister

J: You should be a bartender, B's sister does that and she cleans up.
Me: Okay...
B: Yeah, but she's also an attractive female.
Me: (feigning offense) What are you trying to say?!
B: That I'm attracted to my sister.
J: He would marry his sister if he could.
B: She's not the marrying type. But I'd fuck her and kill somebody else.


Songsmith Will Rock Your World

Go figure that right after Christmas passes, I finally discover something that I desperately want. Microsoft has come out with a new product called Songsmith, software that allows you to sing into your computer and it'll compose music to accompany your vocals. Finally, you don't have to worry about being out of tune, since the tune will be crafted around your abilities. You can never hit a wrong note!

Microsoft's advertisement for Songsmith is magical. It's four minutes, but worth every second. Microsoft really needs to fire their marketing team, unless the are intentionally trying to make their supposedly hip, new product look like an utter joke.

Those songs are horrible. And while it makes sense that a preteen would enjoy it, the notion that someone would use Songsmith to advance eir career is preposterous. (It's a good thing glow-in-the-dark towels practically sell themselves, I don't understand how I've lived this long without them.) Almost as absurd as someone in a band using Songsmith to "write" songs.

I haven't simultaneously loathed yet wanted a product this much since the Snuggie. Mix CDs will never be the same! Just think how much better "Fuck Yes, Poop I Would Eat Hers" could be.

Mark the day: music and technology have concurrently officially peaked. It's all downhill from here. I think I'll "write" a song about it.


It May Not Be Summer

It may not be summer, but I'm in the mood for some camp!

Lately, I've been watching two videos incessantly, and they're so stellar, I figure I ought to share them.

The first video I found on YouTube when hunting for Eurovision songs. If you aren't familiar, Eurovision is a popular annual competition in Europe; each country sends a song to represent it and battle it out in a sort of American Idol style competition, with the winner determined by call-in votes from across the continent. Generally the entries are pop ballads and other formulaic compositions, but sometimes a nation will take a risk and try something unconventional. Leave it to Latvia to not only enter a novelty band, but a pirate novelty band.

My favorite lyric: "We are robbing you blind, I hope you don't mind." Evidently, an easy rhyme justifies an absurd request. "Wolves of the Sea" by Pirates of the Sea finished twelfth out of twenty-five in Eurovision's final round. There couldn't possibly be eleven songs better than that hot mess.

The next video is by MGMT, a band that put out three of my favorite songs of 2008. Though "The Youth" was not one of those three, I'm prepared to reconsider now that I've seen the video, which features four kids who embody apathy and awkwardness simultaneously. Each kid has a striking face -- not attractive, yet not unattractive, just distinctive. There's no shortage of glitter and sequins as these kids poorly perform some ill-advised choreography. It's inexplicably captivating, I swear:

Which one do you prefer?


My Five Favorite Infomercials

Contemporary inventors have it rough. Not only have most of the best ideas already been taken, but any products they do manage to develop are immediately regulated to late night television infomercials. Each of these ads starts with a preposterous scenario in which someone struggles at an everyday task that any normal, functioning person would never have a problem with, and the commercial does its best to convince you that you, too, are crippled by this mild inconvenience. I might never buy the products, but I love the pitches. Here are my five favorite infomercials:

5. The Clever Clasp

(note: this video plays twice in a row)

Who is it for? People who struggle to put on jewelry.
Why do I love it? The narrator subtly suggesting that overweight women can’t reach behind their own necks.
Why am I skeptical? Adding magnets to your expensive jewelry doesn’t seem like the classiest move. Plus, if the magnets are as strong as the ad suggests, it could become a choking hazard if you got too close to a refrigerator.

4. Listen Up

Who is it for? Elderly people who have never been introduced to a hearing aid.
Why do I love it? Evidently, strangers constantly talk about how sexy you are, and now you’ll finally have a chance to hear it.
Why am I skeptical? If your wife is regularly screaming at you, would you really want that noise amplified? I’d rather give up hearing altogether.

3. The Snuggie

Who is it for? Satanists incapable of using a blanket.
Why do I love it? The lack of shame people have toward wearing blankets in public. The mother who is so cold she wears a Snuggie, yet leaves her baby un-Snuggied and exposed to the elements.
Why am I skeptical? I thought I found one in my closet, but it turned out I had just put my bathrobe on backwards.

2. Tiddy Bear

Who is it for? Brittle people who can’t handle wearing a seat belt.
Why do I love it? It’s called what?! Ah, T-I-D-D-Y, thanks for spelling that for me. This bear miraculously relieves seat belt pressure on any part of your body. Rest it against your shoulder – or atop your tiddies.
Why am I skeptical? A bead-filled bear pressed against your body doesn’t sound any more comfortable than the alternative. Also, I suspect that driving around with a stuffed animal on your chest leaves you that much more susceptible to being pulled over for a DUI.

1. My Lil’ Reminder

Who is it for? Forgetful, illiterate people who can’t use a pen and paper.
Why do I love it? The acting in this ad is especially superb. I think I once saw the lady who flatly delivers the opening line, “Where did I park my car? Oh no.” on Broadway.
Why am I skeptical? Though a technological upgrade for the post-it note is a godsend, what do I do when I forget where I put my My Lil’ Reminder? Perhaps that’s why they send you a second one for free, so one can be used to keep tabs on the location of the other.

I can only imagine if the wheel were invented today what ridiculous marketing campaign would result. Each wheel comes with free fire to read cave drawings at night.


Porn Industry Takes a Blow

It seems that the economy is screwing everyone these days… except for porn stars. Now that hard times have penetrated America’s adult entertainment industry, Girls Gone Wild’s Joe Francis and Hustler founder Larry Flynt intend to ask Congress for a financial bailout. And I thought they liked it when things were rough.

Flynt believes that a porn bailout is crucial to raising the nation’s morale, explaining, “People are too depressed to be sexually active.”

Thus far, no member of Congress has orally responded to the proposition, leaving it unclear whether the U.S. government could even supply the requested amount – a staggering $5 billion – all in single dollar bills. I suppose anything’s worth a money shot.


My Blog Is Like a Christmas Card

Christmas cards are a direct predecessor to blogs. These mass produced missives share (and often over-share) updates on families' and individuals' lives. Most of the included information is of the boastful variety, detailing who is now happily engaged, who purchased a new vacation home, who got into an Ivy League school, and who swam the English Channel to raise money for muscular dystrophy, complete with photographic evidence. Each year, my family receives dozens of these Christmas cards and our voyeuristic impulses prompt us to pour over each and every one, hypothesizing whether their lives are really as amazing as they portray them to be. At least half of the cards we receive are from people we haven't been in contact with for many years in any manner aside from these annual letters. In this way, Christmas cards allow people to fulfill their need to have acquaintances they no longer desire to call or visit still know their business.

At some point in time, someone, I think it was Al Gore, thought it might be nice to babble about oneself on a more frequent basis and invented blogs. With blogs, in the same manner as Christmas cards, people can now talk about themselves from a safe distance, while others can anonymously peek in and form judgments with no pressure to respond.

There's no need to thank me for my blog, which is like having the joy of the Christmas season all year round. Besides, the metaphor has its limitations, as I tend to be a bit more self-depricating than your average holiday card. As I've learned, however, not all Christmas cards are completely cheery. My neighbors received a particularly interesting card from people with whom they no longer keep in touch.
Unfortunately, I was only able to take a picture of it with my phone rather than giving it the scan job it so richly deserves. For this reason, I'll transcribe the BEST.CHRISTMAS.CARD.EVER here:
Two [unintelligible] beautiful grandchildren were born to us this year! We had to say goodbye to Adam* when our son's marriage fell apart and the paternity test proved that Adam was not ours to keep. We are thankful for the blessings and support that God has given us to show that all have a purpose under heaven!

We wish all a blessed Christmas Season and a Happy New Year!
It goes to show that you can maintain a warm, fortunate tone and slap some tinsel on it, but drama still reads like drama. I feel like there's a lot more to this story than a half page can convey; these people need a blog.