Inflatable turd orphan injurer alert!!

I like to spot sentences that have probably never been uttered.
And believe me…I have.
This hobby is like bird watching but without the inconvenience of going outside and looking for birds.
The trick is that the unique sentences have to be natural, not just a bunch of random words strung together. Take for example the following question:
Did you hear about the inflatable Swiss dog turd that attacked an orphanage?

That sentence qualifies, even though I wrote it myself, but the event actually happened.
Apparently there was an inflatable poo sculpture in a park in Switzerland that a gust of wind got a hold of, pulled it out of the ground, and slammed it into a nearby orphanage.

Luckily no orphans were injured in the attack. And no one is more relieved, so to speak, than the artist who squeezed out that masterpiece. I mean, if just once in your entire life you create a huge inflatable turd that injures an orphan, it sort of erases anything else you might do. You'll always be that guy.
“You inflatable turd orphan injurer!”

I wonder how you get rid of a huge inflatable turd when you no longer want it. Do you take it to the dump just to be ironic? Or do you rent it on weekends for kid parties?

I'd probably put stucco on it and make it my home. That way when company came over, and I hadn't bothered to clean up, I would just say, "I'm sorry, my house looks like crap." Everyone would laugh and laugh, and not even care that the floor is seven layers of CD’s, clothing, and miscellaneous Skittles. Anyway, if you accept a dinner invitation inside a giant turd, you probably started out with low expectations.

And what if the inflatable dog turd gets punctured? Would the first person to notice exclaim "Holy crap!"?
And if not, would that person regret the missed opportunity for the rest of his natural life? I know I would.
I have trouble releasing that sort of thing. For me, it would be like training all my life for the Olympics and forgetting to set my alarm on the day of my event. It would haunt me.

And on a totally unrelated note, I learned this morning that the minimum age of Olympic athletes is 16yrs old. Have you seen some of the Chinese athletes? No way they are 16. I saw one of them turn 42 flips in a row and she looked as if she was not a day over 4yrs old.

And on a totally completely unrelated note, I also learned that Julia Childs, world famous chef type lady thing, was a spy in WWII.
You gotta be fuckin’ kiddin’ me!
What did she do, cruise around with microphones hidden in basted turkeys?

I gotta go have a single serving frozen dinner and trip over some CD’s on that one.

My Doomsday Cult Cave will have a Welcome/Goodbye mat.

Because of the earthquake in Japan I’m surprised there have not been an influx of dooms day theories and, my personal favorite, “Doom Mongers” and Doomsday Cults.
I recall a Russian cult that gave up and emerged from the cave they were hiding in the day after they said the world would end. That was just pretty funny to me.

Doomsday Cult Leader: Today is the day. Do we still exist?
Doomsday Cult Dude: Yes.
Doomsday Cult Leader: Fu*k it. Let’s go home.

Allow me to give you some advice: If you ever decide to join a doomsday cult, the first thing you should ask about is the quality of their doomsday cave. A poorly constructed cave could kill you, and that would take all most all of the fun out of doomsday.
You should also look for a cult leader who is specific about the exact doomsday date. Otherwise you’re just sitting in a cave for an extra month for no good reason.

I’d want the comet/event to strike earth a minute after I wiped my feet on the cave’s welcome/goodbye mat. That way the people who got all of my worldly possessions wouldn’t have time to enjoy them. I wouldn’t feel so sad for someone who, just prior to being annihilated, was saying something like “HA HA HA!!! THAT IDIOT BRIAN GAVE ME HIS CD’s!!!” That guy has it coming.

I think it will be hard for the cult members to explain the gaps on their resumes when they try to reenter the job market.
Unemployed Doomsday Dude: “Well, I spent much of 2010 in a cave waiting for doomsday. It turns out that my infallible leader was more of a drooling nutbag than a prophet. Anyway, my point is that, you should hire me because I have excellent judgment.”
Interviewer: "Leave this place. Fu*king ass hat."

The big problem with picking a doomsday date is that it so obvious when you are wrong. For most other decisions, you can generally make a case for why your wrongness was really right. For example, you still hear people say Saddam had WMD but he did a good job of hiding them. There’s no way to disprove that sort of assertion. But when the world doesn’t explode on Tuesday, it’s hard to make a case that it did. You have to go with something like “The comet was heading this way, but we…like, uhhh…prayed it off course. Yeah, that’s it. You’re welcome. Give me back my stuff.”

I’m sure there are a lot of doomsday cults. I wonder if they have some sort of convention. I can imagine rows of vendor booths for white robes, hair clippers, and canned food. I suppose there would also be a cave realtor or two.

When a doomsday cult blows yet another “end of the world date” I wonder if the other doomsday cults are sitting in their own caves, listening to the news on their radios and thinking “Those idiots! They totally got the wrong date!”

I imagine the various doomsday cults are highly competitive, always trying to recruit the nuts away from the other cults. “Our cave has a flat screen TV, and every Friday is casual. Except the Friday after next, ‘cause you know…that’s the one.”

Cults are funny. I think I’ll start one.

The Alaska Pipeline is filled with orange soda. And you have no napkin.

“Hello thanks for choosing the Mc Donald’s drive through window. Now please pull up and park and wait on your very simple order because we are morons and it’s going to take us a few minutes to get your order wrong. And don’t forget, you won’t be getting a napkin. You will however; be getting onions so thick they look like fungus toenails and a straw that could replace a section of the Alaskan pipeline to suck your orange soda through. We know you ordered Dr Pepper but like I said, we’re morons. Here’s your incorrect change. Thanks again!”

Old milk and cigarettes. Over One Billion Served!

So I pull up to the golden arches. You know the ones.
Where, for some reason, there is always a garden hose stretched from the building to the dumpster and some borderline transient is showering the area. Pushing the mystery sludge to the “toxic waste area” (either TO or FROM…it’s hard to tell which because the lovely smell of old milk and yesterdays McMuffins is always wafting through the air).
Anyway, I pull up to the inaudible speaker (which now has a tendency to actually feed back and I find that hilarious) and I order the usual from the artery-hardening menu.

Scccccchreeeeeeeehhhhhhh crrrrrooowwwww aaaaaagggghhhhhhh ggggurrrrsssshhhh
Translation – “Welcome to McDonalds. What can we make for you today?”

“I’ll have a #4 with a coke. Supersize. That’s all please.”
I’m quick to say, “That’s all please”, because I’m well aware of the apple pie sales pitch that is soon to follow and I’m trying to head it off.

Gggggggggghhhhassssshhhh Cuuuuullllllllwwweeeeeeitttttzzzz Meeeeerrrrrrrrrrr
Translation – “We don’t be Supersizin’ no ‘mo.”

“What? You don’t’ Supersize? Why?”

Sssssssssswwweeeeedddrrrnnnasssssh Ooooouuuuuuutttttttissssss
Translation – We be’s out.

“Ok (but I’m not buying it for a second) I’ll have the #4 with a coke. Large. That’s all please.”

Wooooouuuuuuugggrrrrrssshhh Caaaaaaattttttiiiiillllaaaaaazzzzh?
Translation – “Would you like an apple pie with that?”

(damnit! I thought I had ‘em) "NO! I don’t want an apple pie!"

While I’m waiting in line, which is a least 10 minutes because the moron in front of me just ordered a burger without a damn pickle on it and some dumbass inside is on the phone to the main office wondering what to do, I begin to wonder WHY I can’t have Supersize fries.
Then I remember. It’s the little fat ass kids. Apparently McD’s, with the most dangerous menu on the planet, has decided to try and be socially aware of my health because some parents complained that their kids were too freakin’ fat from all the Supersize fries they ingested. Sure as hell couldn’t have been the double quarter pounders or the freakin’ Big Macs now could it?
So there ya have it. Because some parent decided it was more comfy to feed their problem child massive amounts of fries rather than deal with the little bastards problems; I can’t Supersize my damn fries!
What lobbyist organization pulled THIS off? The Organization for the Betterment of Fat Ass Little Bastards with No Friends?

Maybe we should have an age restriction on fries. No that wouldn’t work, and I’ll tell ya why.

So I go into the local Walgreen’s. You know the one. Where every time you go in there, no matter what day or what time, it’s the SAME people working in there. That scares me.
Anyway, I go in there to buy some cough syrup and some cigarettes ( yeah, I know, I know… but that’s a whole other rant). When I get to the counter the sweet little ‘ol lady, the one that’s back there EVERY SINGLE TIME says,

“Are you forty?”

“No.”

“Are you OVER forty?”

“Yes...Why?”

She explained that she had to ask because I was buying cigarettes.
I’m afraid to even think what Phillip Morris is thinking behind this brilliant ploy.
I guess you can be any age to buy the cough syrup that is loaded with enough drugs and alcohol to get Timothy Leary to come to your party but you have to be forty to buy cigarettes.

So this is what it has come to:
Any kid can buy all the alcohol they want if it says “Vicks” on the label but there is no way in HELL you can Supersize your fries and you have to be forty to buy a pack of cigarettes. WTF?!
And here’s the kicker…you only have to be 18 to go to Iraq and get your ass shot off or vote for the nimrods that came up with all this shit.
I understand perfectly.

Where banana seats came from. Or, why coffee tables wink.

There is a guy from Scotland that was arrested for having sex with his bike.
It’s really true so I’ll let that soak in a minute…..tap, tap, whistle, whistle, tap, tap…..

This story disturbs me on many levels but I can only imagine the police interview after his arrest:

Detective: Do you confess to having sex with a bicycle?

Bike Humper: Yes.

Detective: Was it a woman’s bicycle or a man’s bicycle?

Bike Humper: Dude, I’m not gay.

Detective: The fuck????!!!

I have to wonder if this freakazoid is exclusively attracted to bicycles, or are other inanimate objects just as sexy? If so, I envy him on some level. There would be no such thing as a boring night at home. “ Well, helllllooooo…Lamp! Wadaya doin’ later?”

He probably has his own set of private jokes he uses around the house:
“Well, there’s nothing on TV tonight,” …pause for humorous effect…”except ME!”

I’m thinking he might have done a unicycle but his mom told him it would make him blind.

Gravy is a beverage at Gate A. Clear!

I’ve recently been thinking of making a trip back to Denver to visit some friends and while I was looking at the price of plane tickets today (they are freakin’ ridiculous) I was reminded of the Denver airport. The Denver airport isn’t actually in Denver, it’s about 30 miles in the middle of nowhere but it’s very nice.
When my friends and I arrived at the Denver airport we were starving. Now, I don’t know much about the restaurant business but I would think that some important elements to success would be location, luck, and – assuming the chaos theory is correct – a spastic butterfly somewhere south of the equator.

As I was looking at eatery choices I noticed on my left was a restaurant that served whatever is the opposite of heart-healthy cuisine. I think the name of the restaurant was something along the lines of “Dead Cows and Fried Stuff.” Or at least it should have been. Normally, this would be an excellent business concept in the perfect location. In some places gravy is a beverage. It would take a lot of bad luck to keep this business from succeeding.

Then I noticed the bad luck.

I assume that when the owners of the restaurant negotiated their lease, they didn’t ask about the location of the emergency heart defibrillator. It was tragically mounted on the wall next to the Dead Cows and Fried Stuff eatery. I have to believe that was bad luck, and – in all likelihood – bad for business. Across from them was a Subway sandwich place. Subway is most famous for promoting their low-calorie menu options. Ouch.

You might think that no one would make an eating decision based on the location of the emergency heart defibrillator. But as soon as you read “heart defibrillator,” you imagine your own enlarged, blood-starved heart, and hear the paramedics yelling, “Clear!” And that’s if you’re lucky enough to collapse when a trained paramedic is around.
Otherwise, the cashier from Dead Cows and Fried Stuff is going to be the first one on the scene. He’ll have one paddle on your forehead and one on your crotch. It might restart your heart, but you’ll wish it hadn’t.

So where did my friends and I eat? Well, Dead Cows and Fried Stuff of course.

What the poop??

Ok, I know there is something wrong with me because I enjoy reading stories about frozen waste from airplane bathrooms that falls to Earth and almost kills people. Seriously, it happened in Calgary. A bag of frozen poop from an airliner came hurling through a lady’s roof and nearly killed her.

When I think of the ways I could die, almost all of them are better than being killed by flying poop. That’s the sort of thing that could erase a lifetime of accomplishment. I would instantly stop being as “me” and forever be known as the dude whose head was crushed by a turd. If I die from frozen restroom waste, my friends and family would have trouble stifling a laugh. And who could blame them, really?
“How did he die?” someone might ask. “I guess you could say he got pissed off,” one of my ex-friends would reply, before laughing heartily.

It seems unlikely I would be killed by airplane waste, but it seems just as unlikely we would have had a woman, and black dude, and a Mormon in the running for president and that happened. I don’t rule anything out. From now on when I hear jet sounds, I’m standing under a doorway.

I recently went to see The Foo Fighters. I can imagine standing in line and the guy next to me getting knocked the fuck out by a bag of frozen poop. When telling the story later, would I be able to resist saying “The shit hit the fan”?
I think not. And that is why I probably deserve to be killed by frozen poop.