What's the catch

We were in Saratoga, Wyoming for the holidays a couple of years ago. When Matt went to the Doughnut Ranch to buy some breakfast, he had a peculiar exchange with the Doughnut Ranch pasty associate .

(Have you noticed that everyone is an "associate" these days? Weird.)

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MATT: Hi, I'd like to get a dozen doughnuts.

PASTRY ASSOCIATE : Okay. Would you like fresh doughnuts or day-olds?

MATT: What is the difference in cost?

PASTRY ASSOCIATE: They're the same price?

MATT: Does anyone ever get the day-olds?

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(That's not the kind of logic that will help her make Pastry Partner)

Fun with pharmaceutical brand names

I like it when medications sound like what they are. Cuts down on confusion. The names are catchy, easy to remember, and make our medicine cabinets safer places.

For example: Flonase. Just by taking a look at the label, you can guess that you are dealing with a product that restores normal nasal function and, perhaps, nasal flo?

Then there's Herpicin. This product is medicine for your icky little herpes vesicles. Nice.

Should be pretty easy to avoid confusion regarding the use of Anusol. (Which is -- by the way -- easily the funniest sounding medicine I can think of.)

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HOWEVER. I do take exception with Boniva -- which is not, I REPEAT, is not a medication for E.D. Make a note of it.

Sex, drugs, and ...um... bagpipes?

Here's a nifty sticker we spotted in the mall parking lot:

KILT !

Bumper sticker for Scottish hippies?

I don't know, but I find it very compelling.

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It's genetic

I came across a story this morning about a woman who died on her own plot at the cemetery.

Woman Dies Next to Own Grave

That story made me me think fondly about a visit home I had a couple of years ago. I was in the car with my parents when my mom turned excitedly to me and said, "Hey! Wanna stop by the cemetery and see the plots your father and I just bought ourselves?!"

She was excited because a number of plots in the oldest portions of the cemetery had escheated back to the cemetery because those who had purchased them many, many, many years ago never got around to using them. Given the amount of time that had passed, it was safe to assume that the original owners must have made other arrangements by now. Anyway, being in the oldest part of the cemetery means being laid to rest amongst huge established trees and other scenic amenities.

We pulled into the cemetery, and I have to admit, the folks had scored themselves some prime real estate.

There was a brief moment of awkwardness when the three of us fell silent, thinking about the sad days that would eventually bring us to this spot out of solemn obligation.

My mom spoke up, "well this is kind of depressing, isn't it?" Then she grinned, leaned forward, and suggested, "We should dance on our graves!"

My dad and I needed no encouragement, and for the next 30 seconds the three of us laughed, and danced with our arms in the air.

We finished up and got back into the car, still chuckling. My mom sighed, and said "Now won't that be a funny memory when you come back here to bury us?!"

That's right. The silliness runs deep in this kid's veins.

So the Border War went well.

Battle of Wits

It is somewhat ridiculous how much I love Halloween. I was just relishing in the season when I remembered an interesting conversation I had with my niece Jordan last June.

She had just finished up with the first grade and was pointing out the gross inequity that is a nine-month academic year compared with a paltry three-month summer vacation.

The resulting discussion was something of a battle of wits in which she clearly came out on top.

JORDAN: I don’t think it is fair that summer is only three months.

KERRY: How long do you think summer should be?

JORDAN: I think we should only have to go to school for three months and then summer would be nine months long.

KERRY: Don’t you think nine months is too long for summer to last?

JORDAN: No. No, I do not.

KERRY: But if summer was nine months long then it would run into wintertime.

JORDAN: That’s ok. We could have fires and drink hot chocolate; and it would be fun because it would be during summer!

KERRY: So would you have Christmas during the summer, then?

JORDAN: Yes. And it would be fun.

KERRY: Good point.

JORDAN: Thank you.

KERRY: But what about Halloween?

JORDAN: What do you mean?

KERRY: Well if you get your nine-month summer, then you wouldn’t be in school at Halloween.

JORDAN: So?

KERRY: So, Halloween parties at school are the best! You get to wear your costume to school and eat candy in class.

JORDAN: Uh . . .

KERRY: See! You don’t really want a nine-month Summer.

JORDAN: Yes-huh!

KERRY: Nuh-uhn!!

JORDAN: No! Because Halloween would be in the summer, then I could wear my swimsuit!

KERRY: A swimsuit is not a costume.

JORDAN: Yes it is. I would be Barbie for Halloween.

KERRY: Barbie is a terrible costume. That is not scary at all.

JORDAN: (Pauses for effect) I would be . . .

. . . DEAD B A R R R R R B I E !

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At that point, there was nothing for me to do but concede the debate.

Thank God that sign was there.

My fingers? Or the fingers of another?

Neither?

Okay. Got it.

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Those in glass outhouses . . .

This ad in the newspaper made me giggle a little . . .

I was going to make a poop joke about Ms. Blake's bachelors degree, but then I remember that I hold a BS degree.

So . . . nevermind, I guess.

Unhinged!

This Commercial has left me feeling deeply disturbed . . . yet hungry.

How have I never noticed this before?

I spotted James Carville vicariously basking in Bill Clinton's recent dispaly of Democrat Backbone this week. For the very first time I noticed his eerie resemblance to Skeletor.


Calrville is like a real-live Master of the Pundit Universe. Cool!

Veggie Peril

So here's a news story that would have made absolutely no sense a week ago . . .

'Smoking Gun' Spinach Found in Victim's Fridge

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This headline reads a bit like word salad . . . HA!

(ok, I'm a little ashamed by that one. My deepest apologies.)

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So anyone have an interest in joining in a class action against Popeye for his negligent advocacy of the green stuff? Let me know . . . I may be putting something together.

The Burninator

Did someone say . . . TROGDOR ???



Sing it with me: "Thatch roof Cottaaaaaaages!!!"

I also always giggle whenever I hear "That guy wouldn't know majesty if it came up and bit him in the face."

The Trogdor ditty is almost, almost, as catchy as this one.

Questionable Commentary

STATEMENTS UTTERED DURUNG

SATURDAY'S COLORADO v. ARIZONA STATE GAME

THAT INDICATE THAT SPORTSCASTER

CHARLES DAVIS MIGHT HAVE A SOMEWHAT

LECHEROUS INTEREST IN THE GAME:

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1. He just wanted guys to put other guys on their backsides
2. He's got a nice big tight end
3. Oh, oh, oh, easy you!
4. That was a nice big hole
5. He did a great job of tucking it up inside
6. He was able to get down and take the sack without a bigger blow
7. Nice penetration

Gridiron Guideline

It is football season once again.

(Go Pokes!)

Just a basic reminder for you athletes out there:

It is NOT okay to rough the Jesus!

(I'm thinking #21 just cost his team 15 yards)

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My Big Break!!!

I have waited for this Opportunity all my life, and finally it is here !

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LONDON (Reuters) - Wanted: 20 diminutive actors who can sing. Hairy feet are a distinct advantage.

Producers of a musical version of "The Lord of the Rings" are looking for candidates to play the hobbit heroes in the epic fantasy based on J.R.R.Tolkien's classic.

"The producers are looking for male and female actors and singers aged between 16-35 who must be under five feet seven inches. Hairy toes and feet are a distinct advantage," a spokesman said Tuesday.

The musical, which received its world premiere in Toronto but has been reworked after some damning reviews, is to open in London in June next year.

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I am diminutive! I can sing! I would rather not get in to the amount of hair on my feet!

Time to quit my day job!!!

(I realize that is s an awful lot of !'s. I am comfortable with that; I stand by my !'s)

Nagged

You know ... I am pretty good with putting up with constructive criticism, reminders about upcoming deadlines, and cajoling from those people responsible for keeping me organized. I appreciate it indeed. However, I suddenly become much less cooperative -- and much less friendly -- when I feel like I am being talked down to.

This is why I have come to loath my snooty, self-righteous, calendar program. Too much attitude from a computer program, if you ask me. Let me share with you the admonition I received this morning.

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You have 19 to-do items which are overdue. Deadlines should only be
specified when the are real; otherwise they lose their reminder value.

Your to-do list is so long that it may not be realistic to have it all on

today's list, and some of those items are getting rather stale.

You should go through the list to see what you can assign to other days so that today's real tasks are more effectively organized.

_____

Fair enough. Computer says I need to update my to-do list. Who am I to argue with reason?

Illiterate

Question Authority!

Even when that authority is the super mighty SPELLCHECK -- especially when that authority is spellcheck.

I won't get into the details, but I happen to know from experience that correcting a misspelled word such as GENEROUS with a somewhat similar word like ... oh, let's say ... GANGRENOUS can seriously nullify an intended compliment.

Learn from my mistakes.

Don't just go clicking willy-nilly at any old suggested spelling. That's all I'm saying.

more on toes

I have been called out on the fact that I have a disproportionate number of posts about toes (most recently there was this one and a while back I posted about my own toe saga and my subsequent investigation).

In response I look to the eloquent wisdom of Patty Tanager the Cady Manager, "big woop, wanna fight about it?"

So . . . I have another toe issue. Let me back up and lay the appropriate foundation for this riveting yarn.

Until a few weeks ago, I had never had a professional manicure or pedicure -- primarily because I know where to secure nail polish, and possess the technical know-how to use it. But my little sister was getting married, so I decided to join in on the girly-girl-pre-wedding festivities.

My manicure went off without incident. Sadly, I can't quite say the same about the pedicure. Once my fingernails were pink and shiny, I looked around the shop for some sort of chair or fancy ottoman which would serve as the manicurist's working surface while she polished up my toes, but nothing of the sort was to be found.

It turns out pedicure-furniture is for chumps.

The manicurist lifted my feet under the table, grabbed my heels, and put my feet on her lap. I'd by lying if I said I was completely comfortable at that point, but my discomfort shot off the charts when she wedged the foot she was not polishing smack-dab in her crotch.

Yikes.

I can only imagine the look of horror on my face once my heel registered the warmth emanating from her hooey. Was this a pedicure or a date?

So I must ask: Is this normal, or have I just been naïve to what goes on inside nail shops?

This is not an idle question. Please educate me. I need to determine whether I have undergone a typical pedicure experience, or if I am, in fact, the victim of sexual assault.

Thoughts? Crotch-mounted-pedicure the norm? I MUST KNOW.

a grievance

More and more of my friends are beginning families and have an abundance of cute little kids. In light of that fact, it is with heavy heart that I say this. I don't think I like strollers.

In fact . . .

. . . I think I hate them.

(strollers -- not babies, I have no particular beef with babies)

I would never give strollers much thought if they were a normal, appropriate size. However, a stroller that transports a 10-pounder is approximately 150% larger than the motorized Rascal that transports the four-hundred-pounders that roam the isles of Sam's Club.

`

The size of these babymobiles is counterintuitive. We're dealing with tiny hands, tiny feet, tiny heads, tiny tushies. One might think the conveyance for these tiny people would consist of a tiny seat, tiny wheels, tiny space, tiny inconvenience to others. But one would be wrong on all counts.

`

Babies are small. Strollers are HUGE!

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Why? I ask you, why? Why does a stroller require a canopy, a food tray, a cup holder, a complex system of compartments, shelving, and storage units? How many survival provisions are necessary for a trip to the mall?

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When one of these things is fully loaded with baby accoutrement, heaping with bags and Build-A-Bear boxes, the stroller becomes a dangerous roving menace.

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Strollers are the urban assault vehicles of the pedestrian world.

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God help the poor souls that find themselves in the path of the stroller. Get out of the way; the stroller is most definitely coming through. There will be no slowing down. There will be no polite "pardon me." There will be no swerving. There will be no mercy. Save yourself and get the hell OUT OF THE WAY!

`

Might I recommend a more simple infant transportation system?

economy travel

French Tip Toe

I have a question for women who get the fancy French pedicure:

Why do you want your toes to look like fingers?

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Therasmoosh

Every time I spot this logo, I cannot help but laugh.

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Why do I laugh? I'll tell you why.

(Don't you hate it when people ask themselves a question and then answer it? SO annoying.)

It really looks like one of Work Systems' rehab clients was squished flat with a giant Theraball, and remained stuck to it as the Theraball continued to roll along its path of destruction.

I'm actually chuckling as I type this.

Saved!

Have you found your Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ?

I did!

Last night. In my laundry room.

Okay, well, I didn't actually see the Allmighty [sic], but I did spot His travel container. That has to count for something right?

(Too blasphemous? Maybe just a little? Don't blame me, blame the detergent manufacturer. They are the ones creating false gods. Write them a letter; proclaim your displeasure!)

Oddly enough, this is not the first time I have been impressed with cleaning products .

sleep junkie

I hate mornings.

A lot.

Have you done this? Bargain away your shower, your nourishment, your VERY soul, with every slap of the snooze button?

I was trying to remember how many time I hit the snooze this morning. Here's my snooze-button-math (I like to show my work). Let's see . . .

. . . each snooze unit equals 9 minutes (why is that, by the way?) . . . alarm went off at 6:25, but I didn't get up until 7:46 . . . there's 60 minutes in a an hour . . . carry the one . . . that is 81 minutes of snoozin' . . . 81 divided by 9 . . .

I hit that son of a bitch 9 times!

That means that I had to make 9 desperate bargains to be able to sleep in later.

Snooze Slap 1 - I'll just have to hurry a little bit this morning.

Snooze Slap 2 - No TV while getting ready.

Snooze Slap 3 - I'll skip breakfast, and eat a Pop Tart in the car.

Snooze Slap 4 - I won't shave my legs in the shower.

Snooze Slap 5 - I'll just pull my hair back, then I won't have to waste time blow drying.

Snooze Slap 6 - A Shower? Nah, that's not happening this morning. Scented lotion and a double spritz of perfume should do the trick.

Snooze Slap 7 - I'll just lay in bed for the next 9 minutes to think about what I want to wear.

Snooze Slap 8 - If I wore my pajamas to work, would anyone notice?

Snooze Slap 9 - Maybe I should just quit my job.

Who's yer daddy?

You should really check out the nifty face recognition program on the My Heritage website. If you are like me, and enjoy fostering your own vanity (and I do), you can spend all afternoon discovering which celebrities you most resemble.

I was tinkering around this website when I made a startling discovery.

BING CROSBY IS MY FATHER !!!

Well, I guess that would explain my affinity for the aroma of pipe tobacco, crooning, and White Christmases.

more on questionable logos

I just couldn't leave well enough alone, I guess. But it seems I am not the only one to notice the proliferation of the penis in corporate logos. Take a moment to check out b3ta.com's phallic logo awards .

Here are just a few fine examples:

Is it just me?

Does anyone else think that Monster's logo containes a suspiciously phallic image?

It's just me?

Okay then. Sorry to have bothered you.

Due for a weekend

So far . . . it has been a long, long morning.

It all began when I was walking though the courthouse while trying to disguise my limp.

The reason for the limp: on Wednesday, I took an unpleasant spill down the stairs at my office. My left ankle got banged up and is a bit tender and swollen. I will say this with great pride, though, I did not cry (even if I may have wanted to a little bit). That's right, this kid is a toughie.

Oddly enough, my ankle feels much more comfortable pointed than flexed, so high heels continue to be the most appropriate footwear -- which is good, because I have a fantastic new pair of shoes -- strappy numbers with an itty bitty skinny heals. Love 'em!

Fortunately, I managed to keep my hobbling to a minimum as I jogged though the courthouse.(YAY!) Then, as I was hustling down the courthouse's marble staircase, my dainty little shoe caught on the step. (BOO!)

Falling down the stairs Wednesday sucked. Falling down the stairs this morning S-U-C-K-E-D! I would rate the overall painfulness of both falls somewhat equally. However, in the embarrassment category, today's fall blows Wednesday's clear out of the water. Here's how it went down:

• I was talking with a client while going down the stairs.
• My heel caught, and I went down like a sac o' potatoes.
• I slid down four or five steps while the file I was holding went flying into the air -- papers scattering in every direction.
• Two very nice gentlemen ran to collect my papers.
• The commotion apparently attracted the attention of the security guards who darted up the stairs with hands on their firearms to see what the hell was going on.
• Eventually, I brushed myself off, told everyone that I was OK, and tried to scrape together some degree of decorum as I passed the people on the ground floor who were trying to disguise their giggles. (bastards)

After I got back to my car, I took inventory of any potential injuries. Sure enough, my left ankle had begun swelling to match my right ankle. This was the first time I noticed that my elbow, calf and finger were bleeding. I sighed and started to pull out of my parking space.

That's then the parking attendant flagged me down. Perfect! Why not add parking-ticket-insult to injury?

Fortunately, Parking Attendant Dennis did not want to issue me a ticket (YAY!). Parking Attendant Dennis just felt like chatting (BOO!).

Here's an overview of the topic that Dennis and I discussed: (Well, he discussed, I uncomfortably smiled and nodded)

• The weather;
• Dennis' childhood home in Boston;
• His father's military service record ;
• Dennis's Naval experience;
• Somebody's cremation and tastefully tall urn;
• Submarines and Rolls Royce limousines;
• Dennis' trip to the North Pole and his coming to terms with the realization that Santa Clause was nowhere to be found (I really, really wish I was kidding).

After a good FOURTEEN MINUTES, Dennis decided that his ramblings had reached a satisfactory conclusion, and allowed me to leave the parking lot.

While I may not always learn from my mistakes (like how not to go down stairs), there are some lessons that do stick with me. For instance, I did not offer to buy Parking Attendant Dennis a giant sandwich.

Thank you for listening to my Dennisesque rambling tale of woe. I feel better now

(Dear God, I am due for a weekend)

Safety First

We spent last week in Wyoming (ahh mountains, how I missed you!). On our way home yesterday we stopped at an iffy truck stop in Nebraska. I was fumbling with the restroom door in an effort to open it without touching the doorknob when I overheard an interesting exchange between a mom and her young daughter.

DAUGHTER: I'm going back out to the van.
MOM: Don't get kidnapped!
DAUGHTER: Okay, I'll try not to.

Now there is some fine, fine parenting. Mother was protective yet firm. Daughter was responsive and promised to give it her very best effort. That's really all anyone can ask of a child ... that they try.


Here's another interesting item we noticed in the lovely state of Nebraska -- Gas Camp -- which I can only assume is a summer program for children suffering from gastrointestinal maladies. Neat!

Like Nails On a Chalkboard

Do you know what sound drives me absolutely nuts? That sticky squealing noise of fingers squeaking and clawing at a full balloon. You know, that horrible whining sound you hear just moments before the inevitable POP! The very same sound can be produced by gnawing on the balloon with your teeth.

*shudder*

That sound is just terrible.

You wanna know what makes that squeaking sound even more annoying? I'll tell you what makes that squeaking sound more annoying (thanks for asking, by the way).

WHEN THE AIRPLANE

YOU ARE ABOARD

MAKES THAT SOUND

DURING TAKEOFF!!!

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On the bright side . . . I have a new item to add to my list of "Annoyances Irritants and Pet Peeves."

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Geoducks

I had never heard of a geoduck before last night. I'll be honest; I was far more comfortable with the world I knew before I became aware of the existence of geoducks. Dear GOD those are disgusting little bastards.

This freaky little creature, my friends, is a geoduck:

Looks a bit like a clam gnawing on a unwell phallus, does it not?

Here's what little I know (which, if you ask me, is too much) about the geoduck, or panopea abrupta for you fancy book-learnin' types.

The geoduck (aptly pronounced "gooey duck") is the world's largest burrowing clam. When fully grown they weigh approximately three pounds. Even more disturbing is that geoduck has a life expectancy of up to 150 years with the oldest recorded at 163 years.

THAT'S TOO LONG!

Apparently . . . . and this is awful . . . people eat the geoduck.

Sweet Jesus why?!

This "delicacy" reportedly has a sweet flavor and crunchy texture that is best appreciated when eaten raw. I've often wondered, is the word "delicacy" synonymous with "incredibly creepy?" I have perused the internet and found recipes.

RECIPES!

Do me this one favor, if you ever find yourself in a restaurant, and happen to read Geoduck Sashimi on the menu, slowly back away from your table and RUN!

Never before have I actually wished complete extinction upon an entire species . . .

I'm fairly sure whatever sicko made children pose with geoducks should be required to keep his address up to date with some sort of offender registry.

The Quest Continues

You may have read about my search to locate my creepy toe pictures. They have to be out there somewhere, and I won't rest until I have found them.

So far, I've had no luck finding pictures of my toes, HOWEVER I may have a lead on the physician that took them . . .





Boo Creepy Foot Doctor, Indeed!

Also, I contacted the good people at Bent Medicine, optimistic that Doctors Flim and Flam might be able to provide valuable information to my creepy toe investigation. However it seems I have hit another dead end there, as well.

I'll still be sure to keep listening to the Bent Medicine Podcast in hopes that they might yet turn up some useful information.

The Hobo and the Hoagie

I finished up working late downtown the other night. I decided to run over to the sandwich shop across the street to grab some dinner before heading home. This is where my story ceases to be normal.

I got my food and was exiting the front door when a so-crazy-I-though-he-must-have-been-KIDDING gentleman blocked my egress and began to spew forth random words in my general direction.

I don’t know what the hell he was saying, but was waiting for the eventual request for money.

So he gets to the end of his gibber-spiel, and says “so maybe you can help me out … so I can buy some dinners or something.” I was kinda happy, because I had no cash to give him, should he have asked, so I said, “Sure! Let’s go back in and buy you a giant sandwich!”

The part that troubled me was that he found the offer to be agreeable enough that he made some barely audible comment about how NOW, he wouldn’t try to hurt me, or touch me, ‘er nuthin.

Why, thank you, for that, crazy-man!

While the crazy and I waited in line, he indicated to me that he is somewhat uncomfortable with the kid at the counter thinking that I was buying him food out of some charitable motivation . . . so could he please do the talking?

"Fair enough," I say, "order yourself silly. "

He orders 2 sandwiches: “one for me, and one for my girlfriend”

He orders 2 bags of chips: “one for me, and this here, my lady”

He orders 2 cokes. When asked if he preferred bottles or fountain drinks, he indicates that he would prefer bottles: “I like to get nice things for my woman.”

(swear to God, I would NOT make this up)

When he is done ordering -- which was tough considering all of the superfluous words and noises he threw in for good measure -- I gave the kid at the counter my bank card, signed the slip and gave him a hefty tip in consideration of the fact that he was going to have to deal with this guy after I left.

I don’t think I mentioned that throughout our encounter, my crazy companion kept whispering “I’m not gonna touch her . . . . I’m not gonna touch her …NO! ... not gonna touch her . . . not gonna touch her … not gonna …”

Anyhoo . . . I apprised him of the process by which he would take his seat, and that they would bring his food to him.

“Don’t you want to stay and eat your dinner?” he asked me.

I pointed to my own bag and said, “Thanks, but I think I’m set.”

“Well, at least take your Coke.”

So I did. And I thanked him for treating me.


While he was waiting inside the store for his food, I made record speed back to my car.

Dying Declaration

I really wish I could find the entire debate presented in this episode of the Family Guy. Here's the rest of the sparkling dialogue not included in this clip:

PETER: It’s not a great scene. I have no idea what they’re talking about, it’s like they're speaking a different language. That’s where I lose interest and fade away.

CHRIS: They’re speaking Italian!

LOIS: The language they’re speaking is the language of subtlety, something you don’t understand.

PETER: I love The Money Pit . . . That is my answer to that statement.

LOIS: Exactly.

PETER: Well, there you go.

LOIS: Whatever.

CHRIS: I like that movie too.


*** UPDATE ***


Here it is!!

Family Guy - Godfather

Strict Constructionist

If I promise to get a project done before lunch, the project is not late until after lunch.

Right?

However, it was never specified whose lunch. Here's how I figure -- unless and until I have eaten my lunch, I'm still ahead of my
meal-centric deadline.

So here it is 9:00 pm. I'm still at the office ... still have a couple projects to finish ... still haven't eaten my damn lunch.

My dinner prospects are looking rather bleak as well.


* I had the exact same lunchbox as shown above
from 1st through 3rd grade. How cool am I? Huh?

Self Discovery

I learned three important truths about myself while working a crossword puzzle. Here they are in order of significance:

3. I tend to overcomplicate things;
2. I spend way too much time at Starbucks ; and
1. I need to brush up on my spelling skills.

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A 5-letter word beginning with "D." The clue was "a coffee order."

I wrote in D O P I O .

The correct word, of course, was D E C A F .

It's all about the packaging

Call me fussy. I really, really do not like cleaning up after my dogs. I think I have pretty much mastered the skill of bagging that loathsome stuff with a minimum degree of ickiness. That notwithstanding . . . I never developed anything akin to affection for the whole process.

Until today.

Check out this bag. How goddamn cute is this ?!

Let me take a moment to point out the finer points of this bag.

First, I can't tell you how much I enjoy the fact that this bag was designed with handles. This way, if I just can't part with my dog's latest creation, I can comfortably carry it with me for the duration of our walk.

Next, the bag has a great name: "Poopy Pouch." How clever. It truly does change my whole perspective. While a steaming sac o' crap is just disgusting, a Poopy Pouch Doggy Poo Bag is friggin' adorable!

Finally, while I am toting this bag all over my neighborhood, I can be proud of its fantastic graphics.

Let's take a closer look, shall we?

OMG! There is a pooping puppy on the poopy pouch!!!! Not only is this just the most darling little picture, but should I ever forget the reason why I am carrying this bag . . .

I am so excited about this new product. Now I can't wait for my dogs to shit!

This is the greatest idea since the Britax Shipping Containers.

Thank you Poopy Pouch!

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I have to tell you . . . I still cannot figure out why the bag's little defecator is wearing a crown. What the hell is that about?

Tragic.

Jeffy's drug habit begins to spin out of control . . .

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That really is a terrible shame.

No thanks, I'll rent

I don't like you in that way

Dear Utility Company:

I always suspected that you had a little crush on me. At first it seemed harmless enough, and I would be lying if I said I wasn't a little bit flattered.

However . . .

I am a little weirded out by your new stationary. Okay, a lot weirded out.

Obsessive and relentless service is not only way too much attention, Utility Company, it is downright creepy.

Just look at yourself. You just sit there, typing away, growing more and more out of shape ... your head growing more and more hydrocephalic.

Why don't you step away from that computer, get some exercise, perhaps have that noggin of yours drained? Then start thinking about finding yourself a nice girl who will appreciate you for the squirrelly little freak that you are.

I will continue to pay my bills, but that is as far as our relationship can ever go.

Please consider this letter my good faith effort to resolve this issue without a restraining order.

Your CUSTOMER,

Reluctant Kerry

Get Well

To Rick, who suffered a most unfortunate SLIP 'N SLIDE-related injury this past weekend, we want to wish you a complete and speedy recovery.

Again, Mom was right. It's all fun and games until someone gets hurt. . .

. . . Then all that is left to do is shuffle around in your bathrobe and try to sleep off what promises to be a world-class hangover.

Who's better than you, Rick?!