Why do people sometimes sniff their finger after they scratch their butt or crotch?
Hey, I already know that everyone reading this has done it, either on purpose or by accident. So don’t try to pretend you never have, because everyone else will know you’re a liar.
And then we’d make you do the Foo-Foo I’m A Liar Dance of Shame.
Ladies.
Why is it that whenever a man and a woman have an argument over who works harder, deals with pain better, or does more around the house… actually, whenever a man and a woman have an argument about anything, why must the woman always use the Pregnancy Card?
It’s just not fair.
I mean, honestly. Where do women get off comparing cleaning the toilet to giving birth to a 6 pound baby boy? Where’s the correlation? Just because I complain that I don’t want to be your Sherpa and carry 40 pounds of your new shoes through a crowded mall while you continue to shop doesn’t give you the right to say I’m such a complainer that I’d never be able to carry a baby in my body for nine months like you. Because, really, without any proof to the contrary how do you know I couldn’t? You know, maybe I’m like a seahorse, did you ever think of that?
No? I didn’t think so.
Come on now, am I to believe that simply because I will never know the pain of giving birth that I’ve got to go visit your parents even though I’ve got the world’s worst migraine and really don’t want to go? Tell me the honest truth ladies, if a man tried to get out of asking for directions with the excuse that you would never know the shame of erectile dysfunction, how much sympathy would he get from you?
I’ll tell you how much; NONE.
So ladies, tell me how doing something that you’ve been biologically built to do since the dawn of time gives you the right to whip it out as an excuse, or valid-in-your-mind argumentative point, in every single argument you have with men? It’s getting silly that no matter what we say or do you can, and do, fling the pregnancy card in our faces to justify anything you want.
“Honey, I’m really tired. Do we really have to visit your parents tonight?”
[fwwip!] “You don’t know what tired is until after a day you’re pregnant and in heels!”“Hey, let’s stop here for a minute. I really need to use the bathroom.”
[smack!] “Try having a kids’ foot stomping on your bladder 24/7!”“It’s your stuff, why can’t you carry it?”
[pow!] “Because I’m going to carry your stuff for 9 fricking months, that’s why!”“Ow! I just stapled my upper lip to this door and it hurts!”
[bam!] “You want pain? Try pushing a watermelon through you pee-hole, wimp!”
Ladies, we get it, ok? Pregnancy sucks. Personally, I don’t think men should accept the Pregnancy Card as a valid point any more unless the argument is specifically about pregnancy or children. If women continue to use it I think we men should begin using the Sex Card, because everyone knows that sex is the only thing a man thinks about so of course we are constantly fighting off the urge to do it with every woman we meet.
“Why do you always have to spend our money on stupid electronic crap?”
[fwiip!] “Why don’t you spend more money on sexy lingerie?”“Stop watching the TV and talk to me!”
[pow!] “Only if you strip while we talk.”“You have no idea how hard it is to carry a child!”
[bam!] “You have no idea how hard it is not to have sex with your best friend!”
Aaaannnd… let the flames begin.
“GeekMan. FishMan. You’re sitting over there with the other kids.”
My brother and I looked at my mother in disbelief as she turned us away from the dining room and all the grownups chatting amicably within and pointed us towards the ‘kids’ table located in the kitchen. It wasn’t just that we were being turned away from the big people that was so shocking to us, it was that she didn’t even bother to get up from the table to escort us to our seats. In fact, she didn’t even bother to turn her head and look at us as she shooed us away. She merely made her declaration, pointed regally towards the kitchen and took another sip of her merlot. It was an almost physical slap across our faces, letting us know in no uncertain terms that even though we were in our early teens and didn’t think of ourselves as kids anymore, to ‘real’ grownups we were still thought of as nothing more than children.
Slightly taller children true, but children nonetheless.
Feeling insignificant to the max, FishMan and I left the grownups behind and made our way to the Kiddie Table. As we got closer to the table it dawned on us that of the seven kids present we would be the oldest children sitting there and thus, we were supposed to be the baby sitters of the other children during the meal so that the ‘real’ grownups could enjoy their meal in peace.
We nearly turned back then. Nearly.
After what seemed like hours of internal rebellion we realized that it was useless to argue and, sighing in resignation, we approached the table, found the only two available seats and sat down amongst the chaos that is the Kiddie Table. Now, many of you might think you know what I am speaking of when I say Kiddie Table, but on this day you would be wrong.
Horribly, terribly wrong.
You see, most Kiddie Table’s are fun affairs where children cavort with other children around their own age in freeform food flinging funfests. All the kids have fun until the meal is over and the grownups come to collect their children for the long car ride home. Or until one of the kid’s winds up with a plastic fork in their eye and blood running down their face.
You know, whichever comes first.
Sometimes there’s an older child who’s designated the ‘adult’ of the table and is considered to be ‘in charge’ of the other kids. The designated adult need not actually be the oldest child present; they just need to be considered the most ‘mature’ by at least two of the real grownups in the house. One of whom has no kids and thus considers themselves an expert on all things pertaining to children even though the last bit of ‘advice’ they doled out led to the arrival of EMS and what is now known as The Toaster Incident.
Remember, if a baby wants to play with a toaster, unplug it first.
The designated adult of the Kiddie Table will then be given instructions on what is, and is not, proper behavior for all the children during the meal. These instructions can be summed up as, “Keep the noise levels down, eat what we give you and stay in your seats until we’re finished eating.”
Sometimes, “And don’t kill each other.” is thrown in for legal reasons.
The designated adult would then nod in the most mature fashion they could manage and immediately start ordering the other kids around. The other children of course, would take great delight in ignoring the designated adult until they became so frustrated that they would go running to the adults with news of the other children’s’ misdeeds. This was in the hopes of courting favor in the adults’ eyes and thus being allowed to sit with them at the adult table and become the object of envy of the other children when they were punished for not listening to the designated adult.
Obviously, more often than not, the designated adult was female.
In this instance however, there was no designated adult. For while FishMan and I at the tender ages of 12 and 15 were clearly too old for the Kiddie Table, the other five children at the table were clearly too mentally retarded to be without constant adult supervision.
And when I say mentally retarded, I’m insulting the mentally retarded.
These kids were psychotic. If ADD and ADHD were animals and you were to trace their history you would find that they were first discovered here with these children. They weren’t just hyper; they were kinetically, frantically, hypersonic! Here’s an example of what I’m talking about. We all had chairs, but only FishMan and I were actually using them for their intended purpose. One of the other kids was using their chair as a podium from which to spout high-pitched sermons on the virtues of the Transformers vs. Go-Bots, complete with visual aids involving throwing all their Go-Bots toys to the hardwood floor one by one and watching parts fly in all directions while holding their Transformer toys aloft and screaming, “Go-Bots are poopie!”
And that was one of the girls.
The other kids were worse. Two were banging their plates screaming that they wanted their food, another was playing a game of tag… all by themselves, and the last was doing his best to find out if his whole hand could fit inside his right nostril because he was positive that he could then grab his brain and pull it out for show and tell at school on Monday.
I almost tried to help him. Almost.
After what felt like hours of this torture, but was probably more like a couple of lifetimes, one of the grownups took pity on us and brought out our food. And it just so happened that on this day our meal was spaghetti. Plain, no sauce added, spaghetti. No meatballs, no garlic toast, not even some cheese sprinkled on top. Just a mound of plain spaghetti with a tiny amount of butter on top of each plate and a glass of apple juice.
It’s a miracle that I was able to hold back my tears.
The grownups were busy laughing at their table, eating fried chicken, barbeque ribs, corn on the cob and other assorted dishes of delight, while FishMan and I were stuck in hell eating plain spaghetti with little monsters. And, as if that weren’t torturous enough, the other kids didn’t seem to mind at all. In fact, they went positively bonkers with delight as plate after plate of plain spaghetti was placed in front of each of them.
[in unison] “Spaghetti!”
“I love spaghetti! Isn’t this a great dinner?”
“Hey, GeekMan! Doesn’t this spaghetti look like worms?”
“Ew! Worms are yucky!”
“No, not worms! It looks like hair!”
“Look at me FishMan! I’m wearing a wig made of Spaghetti!”
“No! It’s not hair! It looks like brains! Right GeekMan?”
“Oooo! Brains! Look, I’ll make them come out of my nose!”
[a fake sneeze and a handful of spaghetti flies to the floor]
[in unison] “Cool!”
[fake sneezing begins and handful after handful of spaghetti-brains begin flying in every direction]
“Oops! Sorry about that FishMan! I didn’t mean to get my brains all over you!”
“GeekMan! Hahaha! You’ve got brains all over your sneakers!”
“Don’t the brains look like worms when they’re on the floor?”
“Ewww!”
“Don’t let the worms eat your toes! They love to eat toes, so don’t let them!”
“Eeek!”
“The only way to stop them from eating your toes is to eat them first!”
And back onto their plates, and then into their mouths, the spaghetti went. At this point FishMan and I were in such a state of shock that we didn’t even know how to react to the fact that these kids were eating spaghetti that moments before had been on their chairs, their bodies, the floor, the walls, and even on, and under, dirty shoes. Thankfully, during this whole fiasco, FishMan and I had managed to protect our plates from their grubby little hands, so at least our food was…
“Hey GeekMan, can I have some of your spaghetti?”
[grubby little hand that moments before was shoved deep into right nostril grabs a handful of my spaghetti]
“Thanks!”
“Hey! That wasn’t nice! You shouldn’t take from other people like that unless they’re done and he hasn’t even started yet. You should go get him some more spaghetti!”
“I’m sorry, sis. She’s right GeekMan, I’ll go get you some more spaghetti, OK?”
[goes to giant pot in kitchen, reaches in with his dirty, snot encrusted hand and plops a handful of spaghetti onto my plate]
“Ok, that’s it. Mom, check please, I’m done.”
“Me too.”
“But GeekMan, FishMan, you haven’t even eaten anything yet!”
“But somehow, I don’t think we could eat another bite, right FishMan? Isn’t that amazing?”
“Well. Are you sure you don’t want some more spaghetti?”
“Mom, I think it’s fair to say that we are so done that we may never be able to eat spaghetti again. Ever.”
And, to this very day, I still have trouble eating spaghetti.
I just got back from the doctor.
No, no. Don’t get all worried. It’s absolutely nothing to worry about, I assure you. It’s just some routine shots in preparation for some travel I’m going to have to do for work over the next few months. It seems that you can’t go to some countries without getting a plethora of vaccinations to protect you/them from diseases, infections and silly food related illnesses.
That reminds me, I need to pick up some butt cream…
So, after taking five shots in the arm without shedding a single tear, what do I get when I demand my lollipop at the end of the visit? A concerned look and a strong recommendation that I see a psychiatrist, is what. And an appointment for more shots next month.
My arm hurts.
…
I want a lolly, dammit!
Just wondering.
If you were told that you could spend up to $5,000 on any single item, but only one item, what would you buy? What if you were told that for every dollar you spent five dollars would be donated to your favorite charity?
And what if, for every dollar under the $5,000 limit that you don’t spend, you would have to pay $10 to a group or organization you hated?
Guy walks up to a bartender and says…
“I’ll bet you a hundred bucks that I can piss in a glass way over there behind the bar and not spill a drop.”
A little surprised by the obviously inebriated fellows brash wager, the bartended examines the distance and shakes his head in disbelief.
“Mister, that’s got to be about six feet. There’s no way you can do that without getting your piss all over my bar, but if you want to throw your money away, I’ll gladly take it. BUT, I won’t clean your piss off my bar for anything less than a thousand bucks.”
The guy thinks about that for a moment before answering.
“Well, that seems only fair, man. You set the glass back there wherever you want and I’ll stand on this stool here. When you’re ready, I’ll begin.”
The bartender sets up the glass, the guy pulls down his pants and the peeing begins. The guy pees on the bar, on the bottle behind the bar, on the floor and even gets some on the bartender. Everywhere except in the glass behind the bar and during the whole scene the bartender is smiling and laughing thinking about the easy $1,000 he just made. When the guy is done, he gets down off the stool, zips himself up and orders another drink.
“Man, I knew I’d win that bet. Easy money. Why would you ever make such a stupid bet like that?”
“Well, I’ll tell you. See that guy crying at the corner table?”
“Yeah?”
“Well, I bet him ten grand that I could piss all over you and your bar and you’d LOVE it.”
Thankyouverymuch. Remember, the 9:30 show’s different from the 7:30 show, try tonight’s veal, it’s delicious, and don’t forget to tip your waitress.
Goodnight!
“I want a Toy.”
“What?”
“I said I want a Toy, GeekMan. You always buy yourself cool toys like cameras, computers, dolls…”
“Hey! How many times do I have to tell you that they’re called action figures not dolls, huh?”
“Right. And the one that looks like a teenage girl skipping in a sun dress?”
“She’s the main character from a Japanese anime movie! She’s, like, totally an action figure! Duuuh!”
[crickets]
“Uh, you were saying?”
“I was saying that it’s not fair that you always get the toys. I want one.”
“You want a toy?”
“No. I want a Toy. A TOY.”
“Ah. You want a Toy.”
“Yes. And not just any Toy, it’s got to be a cool Toy. A really cool Toy. iPod-like, y’know? But not an iPod because I already have an MP3 player and I don’t need another one, ok? But something like that. You know, cool.”
“…”
“What are you thinking?”
“Well, I was just thinking of a cool Toy I wouldn’t mind seeing you play with…”
[crickets on ice]
“Right. Bad GeekMan. You were saying…?”
“I want a cool Toy and after that last comment I think you need to buy me one.”
“What?! Are you kidding me?! If you want a cool Toy so bad, why don’t you just go and get it your…”
[spider-sense tingles]
“Uh… I mean, do you have any idea what you might like to receive as a… uh, Show Your Significant Other Your Undying Love and Affection for No Apparent Reason in the Form of a Cool Toy on a Tuesday in April gift?”
“As a matter of fact, wiseass, I do.”
“Be gentle…”
Look out world, HoBiscuit’s got a new Toy. And dammit, I’m jealous.
I was on a ship called The Dripping Faucet.
I didn’t remember boarding the ship and I didn’t have any idea why I was on it, but for some reason I didn’t question that I was definitely on a ship in the middle of the turbulent sea and that my actions would lead to the salvation or death of all those on board. I was cold standing there on the deck, but being cold didn’t matter. Nor did it matter that I was naked and surrounded by people waltzing to a full orchestra in their Sunday best. All that mattered was that I act quickly to save us all. Grabbing a box of clean underwear that was lying at my feet, I wandered the lido deck in search of answers.
And nearly tripped over the monkey.
He was standing in the middle of a circle of dancers wearing a white tuxedo and holding a silver tray upon which rested a single envelope. Suddenly, I realized that I might be underdressed for such a fancy ship and I quickly put a pair of the clean underwear on my head. For some reason this put me at ease.
“Sir, a telegram for you.”
“Wow! You can talk!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Cool.”
“Undeniably, sir.”
“I’m sorry for being rude; I just didn’t know monkeys could talk.”
“With this type of reaction can you blame us for keeping silent, sir?”
“Point.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Picking up the letter I immediately knew that it was vital that I read it. Somehow I knew that this letter contained the answer to all my questions. Questions like, “Why was I on a ship?” “How did I know it was named ‘The Dripping Faucet’?” and “Why are striped, button-down men’s shirts so hot this year?”
“Uh…”
“Monkey Moo-Moo, sir.”
“Your name is Monkey Moo-Moo?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s too funny! Monkey Moo-Moo! What a stupid name! Hahaha!”
“Sir, please don’t make me fling my feces at you.”
“You’re right. I apologize. I’m sorry.”
“Think nothing of it, sir. Happens all the time.”
“Right. Well Monkey Moo-Moo, I seem to have forgotten how to read. Could you tell me what this letter says?”
“Of course, sir. It saEek-eek! Ooo-ooo ee-ee!”
“What?”
“Eek-eek-eek! Oo-oo eek oo!”
When Monkey Moo-Moo began throwing his feces at me, I ran.
Not knowing what to do, I went below deck where I found a dark hallway with walls made of blackberry Jell-O. As I wandered in search of… something, the walls began moving. Not finding this the least bit strange I continued my search until I came across a yellow basketball stuck in a giant spider web. Knowing that this was what I needed to find, and not knowing what I should do with it, I decided to just rip it out from the webbing and escape from the freaky Jell-O dungeon.
Jell-O which had changed from blackberry black to peachy peach.
But when I touched the basketball it exploded into billions of tiny yellow and orange dots that flew straight down the hallway on a sudden gust of wind. Knowing that if the yellow demons reached the end of the hallway I was doomed, I began chasing after them. Suddenly I had my trusty butterfly net (that I knew was named Zyrtec) in my hands and I was scooping up thousands of the little dots as I raced down the hallway.
But I knew it wasn’t enough.
Somehow I got ahead of the dots and I was standing at the end of the hallway facing them as they raced down towards me. My net had become a laser pistol and I was shooting the dots as fast as I could trying to keep them from getting past me when I realized that I wasn’t in a hallway at all, but inside my own nose! Suddenly I was the squad leader of Team Antihistamine and the Pollenators were attacking our fortifications in a last ditch attempt to capture our flag. I only had my pistol and three shots left and I knew I was a goner. Looking at my squadmates, I gave them a grimace and prepared to go over the wall and take down as many of the Pollenator bastards as I could before I took a dirt nap. Screaming our battle cry, “For nostrils and breathing for all!” I threw myself over the wall and…
“Honey?”
“Mmeph?”
“Ooo. GeekMan Honey, you look horrible. I’m sorry to wake you, but it’s dinner time and I thought you might be hungry.”
“Glargh. Mmm shleeping. Nuh foods, schleep.”
“Ok, Honey. But you do know that you’ve been locked inside for a week now and people are starting to worry, right?”
“Ugh. Duhn care. ‘Lergies shuck ash. Die. Khill meh, pleash…”
“Aww. You sleep, Honey. I’ll save your dinner for later, ok?”
“More druhgsh. Nee’ more druhgs.”
“Ok. I’ll get you your medicine. Sleep now.”
“Yah. Schleep guhd. Schleep… schleep…”
I hate allergies.
I always wondered what they ate.
When I was very young, I truly believed that there were people living in the television whose sole purpose in life was to entertain me. Don’t misunderstand me, I knew cartoons weren’t real. I just thought that the people in the TV could draw really, really fast.
So fast that I never saw their hands, no matter how hard I squinted.
For a while I wouldn’t even turn off the TV in the middle of a show for fear of accidentally killing one of the TV gnomes who lived inside it. Once, I even watched a whole episode of Bonanza desperately doing the pee-pee dance, scared to death that if I turned the TV off, or even walked away, one of the poor miniature horsies would die. I wouldn’t even change the channel unless there weren’t any ‘real’ people on the screen, just in case they got caught in the dial.
Yeah, dial. Remember those? No? Smart-alecky whippersnapper.
Anywaste, one day, I was watching some stupid show when one of the people turned directly to the camera and said something along the lines of, “You can’t hide from us!” I think it was a detective drama and the character was supposed to be talking to the suspect, but I swear to you I actually believed he was talking to me.
And I was frightened out of my mind.
The TV gnomes were watching me! They knew everything I did! They could tell my mom that I had hidden my brother’s favorite toy in the toilet’s water tank! I’d be in trouble, big trouble, and the TV gnomes would probably just laugh at me when I wasn’t allowed to watch them for a week. They’d probably even be happy to have a week off. They could go on a vacation, or something. Get out and see the… world…
Oh. My. God.
What if the TV gnomes could get OUT of the TV whenever they wanted?! They could be sneaking around the house at night trying to find where my mother hid the knives so they could kill us! Oh no! What was I going to do?! I knew, even at such a young age, that no one else would believe me because the kids on TV were never believed until it was too late.
And I didn’t want it to be too late.
So that night, after everyone had gone to bed, I set a TV Gnome trap. I don’t remember the actual mechanics of it, but I do recall it involving Tinker Toys, a very large Tonka dump truck, marbles and peanut butter. Yeah, peanut butter. I don’t know how I knew, but somehow I did know that the TV gnomes just adored peanut butter. But, because I liked chunky Skippy peanut butter, I was using the crappy creamy Jiffy that we kept in the house for peanut butter emergencies.
What? Yeah, like you never had a peanut butter crisis as a kid.
Well, I set my trap and went back to bed. I had been careful not to go anywhere near the living room as a safety precaution so as not to give away my plans to the TV gnomes, and I was sure I had succeeded in keeping them in the dark. And even though I knew my trap was perfect, I just couldn’t fall asleep. I kept going over my plans in my head, sure that I hadn’t made any mistakes, but also positive that there was something I had forgotten. If only I could remember what it was. If only I could think of the thing I had forgotten about. If only I could stop that annoying licking sound so I could think of the stupid thing I…
Oh.
Quietly getting out of bed, I went to the hallway where I had set my perfect TV gnome trap and found it in shambles as Sam, our family dog, licked up the lovely, super-delicious peanut butter I had been using as bait for the TV gnomes. As she realized she was being watched she stopped her licking and shamefacedly looked up at me with her eyes, but without lifting her head from the floor. Mustering all the authority I had in my tiny four-year-old body I put my hands on my hips and frowned.
“What are you doing?”
[shameful look]
“Do you know what you’ve done?”
[sad look of confusion]
“You’ve ruined my TV gnome trap! Now they’re free to get me!”
[hanging head of shame]
“What am I going to do now?”
[ears perk]
“What? You think you know?”
[single wag of tail]
“Huh? You’re going to protect me?”
[head up, tail high]
“But they’re clever, the TV gnomes. Are you sure you can protect me?”
[wagging tail]
“Ok. But, and it’s not that I’m scared or anything, but you’ll have to sleep in my room, ok?”
[spastically happy tail]
“Right. We’ll have to be very quiet. You’re not allowed in there and if FishMan hears you he’ll tell mom and we’ll get in trouble, so don’t make any noise, ok?”
[orgasmic tail wagging]
“Oh, and if the TV gnomes get in the room, you have to protect me, but you can let them eat FishMan, ok?”
[Sam goes into convulsions and sees a tunnel and a white light]
“You’re such a good dog.”
[joy-induced heart attack, hamburger-frisbees and fire hydrants await in heaven]
And that is when I stopped being afraid of the TV gnomes.
Did anyone notice the new TMG Favicon?
No?
I didn’t think so.
Damn.