Friday, May 27, 2005
We're THIS Serious About Sucky Packaging!!
It's all fun and games until someone gets an eye poked out by sucky packaging. We aim to stop all that nonsense. (And replace it with our own.)
Thursday, May 26, 2005
Bloggolite Happenings
The folks here at YPS!! have realized that in recent weeks we’ve all had “a lot on our plate.” You might even call it a platter. Hell, it’s become a regular buffet of experiences around here.
From the miracle of one poster surviving shattered heart syndrome (Thank you God.), to injured kiddos, mounting medical bills, relationship high and low points, ill parents, legal battles, uterus exams, face peels, technical difficulties, new jobs, etc, etc …I hope I don’t leave anyone or any issue out…we’ve just been…LIVING. Sometimes living can just be a real bitch. Am I wrong on this?
Yet, here we are. I’m glad. It’s great being here with you. It’s great seeing some of you in person, talking with you on the phone, talking via email, or on the blog. Right or wrong, good or bad, here we are, and damn it if it ain’t fun, despite all the crap!
So this got me to thinking about how we all need to “sharpen the saw” and thought perhaps some deep, emotional, introspective, sermon-like words might bring it all home. Help put things into focus. I searched my soul, I scanned my feeble mind, I even looked through some old emails and I couldn’t find a hint of that type of meaningful sentiment. So, here’s the next best thing…a song. A song I penned back on 10-25-2004 and while I’ve forgotten the true reason, perhaps it was done in advance, to share here with you. Take each word to heart, I meant them.
[Just to set the scene and the mood of the song: Look around the room here and see that you’re in an old saloon out west. Dirty boarded floors, wagon wheel lights, handle-bar mustaches, assless chaps, giggling floozies on the wooden stairs and over in the corner, is gent with a squeezebox and another cowpoke banging on the upright, in a bowler, belting out these heartfelt words with liquor on his breath, $4 in a bottle and a lady on his mind that’s driving him crazy.] [Enjoy.]
Don’t “Just a Sliver” (Your Cake of Life Away)
Don’t “just a sliver”
Your cake of life away
Don’t “just a sliver”
Your cake of life away Ayyyyy
Even when your parents-in-law
Call you an outlaw
Because the thought of cake
Makes you guffaw
Don’t “just a sliver”
Your cake of life awayyyyyyyyy
Don’t “just a sliver”
Your cake of life away
When that girl comes scmoochin’
Don’t be no glutton
Let out a big, “Dar-arn too-tin’!”
Don’t “just a peck her”
Your cake of life away ayyyyyy
Don’t “just a sliver”
Your cake of life away
It’s true that some consider
Their’s is just
A cupcake of life
While others claim to have
The full-circle bunt cake
Without strife
Cherish every crumb
Even if it’s plumb
Don’t be a silly goose-al
And suck up all that streusel!
Just let that pastry
Go to waste-----rrrryyyyyyy!
Don’t “just a sliver”
Your cake of life away
Just enjoy your baked goods
As they’ve been given to youuuuuuuu
Oh, Don’t “just a sliver”
Ignore that quiver
Go ahead and let ‘em
Be an Indian giv------errrrr
Don’t “just a sliver”
Your cake of life awaaaaaaayyyyyyy
From the miracle of one poster surviving shattered heart syndrome (Thank you God.), to injured kiddos, mounting medical bills, relationship high and low points, ill parents, legal battles, uterus exams, face peels, technical difficulties, new jobs, etc, etc …I hope I don’t leave anyone or any issue out…we’ve just been…LIVING. Sometimes living can just be a real bitch. Am I wrong on this?
Yet, here we are. I’m glad. It’s great being here with you. It’s great seeing some of you in person, talking with you on the phone, talking via email, or on the blog. Right or wrong, good or bad, here we are, and damn it if it ain’t fun, despite all the crap!
So this got me to thinking about how we all need to “sharpen the saw” and thought perhaps some deep, emotional, introspective, sermon-like words might bring it all home. Help put things into focus. I searched my soul, I scanned my feeble mind, I even looked through some old emails and I couldn’t find a hint of that type of meaningful sentiment. So, here’s the next best thing…a song. A song I penned back on 10-25-2004 and while I’ve forgotten the true reason, perhaps it was done in advance, to share here with you. Take each word to heart, I meant them.
[Just to set the scene and the mood of the song: Look around the room here and see that you’re in an old saloon out west. Dirty boarded floors, wagon wheel lights, handle-bar mustaches, assless chaps, giggling floozies on the wooden stairs and over in the corner, is gent with a squeezebox and another cowpoke banging on the upright, in a bowler, belting out these heartfelt words with liquor on his breath, $4 in a bottle and a lady on his mind that’s driving him crazy.] [Enjoy.]
Don’t “Just a Sliver” (Your Cake of Life Away)
Don’t “just a sliver”
Your cake of life away
Don’t “just a sliver”
Your cake of life away Ayyyyy
Even when your parents-in-law
Call you an outlaw
Because the thought of cake
Makes you guffaw
Don’t “just a sliver”
Your cake of life awayyyyyyyyy
Don’t “just a sliver”
Your cake of life away
When that girl comes scmoochin’
Don’t be no glutton
Let out a big, “Dar-arn too-tin’!”
Don’t “just a peck her”
Your cake of life away ayyyyyy
Don’t “just a sliver”
Your cake of life away
It’s true that some consider
Their’s is just
A cupcake of life
While others claim to have
The full-circle bunt cake
Without strife
Cherish every crumb
Even if it’s plumb
Don’t be a silly goose-al
And suck up all that streusel!
Just let that pastry
Go to waste-----rrrryyyyyyy!
Don’t “just a sliver”
Your cake of life away
Just enjoy your baked goods
As they’ve been given to youuuuuuuu
Oh, Don’t “just a sliver”
Ignore that quiver
Go ahead and let ‘em
Be an Indian giv------errrrr
Don’t “just a sliver”
Your cake of life awaaaaaaayyyyyyy
Monday, May 23, 2005
YPS!! Brings You This Vital Message.
We Spared No Expense To Dispense This Information. Do With It What You Will.
Sunday, May 22, 2005
Bloggy Wonka & The Junk Food Factory
I am an addict. It’s true. While there’s a certain level of embarrassment about it, there is also a level of pride. I likka da junk food.
Growing up I spent a lot of time at my grandmother’s place. She and my grandfather had a corner lot at the foot of a hill. The street in front was a small neighborhood street that led up to an elementary school. The street out to the side was a busy two-lane. Essentially, the yard was split into four sections. On the section closest to the intersection of the two roads sat a trailer that was rented out to various people that would be quirky and loud from time to time. The next section was where my grandmother’s trailer sat. It was small, had one bedroom, and was pink and white and housed a lot of memories. On one of the other two sections was a vegetable garden, and my grandfather’s two-room house on the other.
When I was there, the majority of my time was with my grandmother. I spent days at a time there going from her swing to the glider, and back. We’d do some gardening, wax the trailer and I’d watch as the portable washing machine would pump blue water out a hose and down the drain in the kitchen sink. We’d hang the wash on the line, grab some corn on the cob and cook dinner. I learned a lot from those visits.
No matter what year it was, or is, a young boy can get bored pretty easily. I’ve all too frequently said, since having worked in a children’s psychiatric facility, “If you don’t find something for kids to do, they’ll find it for you. And you might not like what they find.” While I didn’t get up to too much mischief back then, there was a time or two I wished I’d held up a little and thought first. One time that comes to mind would be when we were burning a pile of trash and I intentionally left an aerosol can in the pile before I lit it. What I thought would be a cool site to see, turned into an explosion followed by a burning projectile of metal that came straight at my head. Big as my head is, the molten metal missed me, and I never repeated that experiment. But it was always cool to see foam egg cartons melt and wrap around other burning junk. Cardboard milk cartons are coated in wax and can do some neat stuff when on fire. Ah, burning packaging! THOSE were the days!
The more and more I visited; the more I got to cook meals for us. We’d have spaghetti, or pancakes or I’d use a Tupperware burger patty press to make hamburgers for dinner. In fact, I did so much cooking that food turned into entertainment on occasion.
Love them as much as you can, but there are only so many times a young boy can watch Liberace and Lawrence Welk without getting a little bored. I remember seeking relief from chopped bananas covered in Hershey’s syrup. Drop biscuits with butter and honey was also a favorite. Several times I would eat a quarter of a head of cabbage, raw, sprinkled with a net of salt. A few times we even made candy with sorghum molasses.
Cooking takes a lot of work. Work, which can get in the way of a young boy’s amusement. That’s when I’d turn to store-bought snacking. What could be better than ripping open a box of Hostess Ding Dongs, Ho Hos or Twinkies and jumping onto the foldout bed and watching old Lawrence “a-one-a and-a two-a” right into his next polka? Not much I tell ya.
I remember one golden year in particular that was the zenith to my munching. That year Hostess had, in my mind, a brilliant idea. One lucky person (perhaps a young boy like myself) would find a winning Twinkie that would be the ticket to receiving a solid gold Twinkie. Just try mentioning the words “solid gold Twinkie” to a 10 year old junk food eating punk and see if he won’t beg your last gallon of gas to get to the store to buy a box of Twinkies. If he doesn’t, that boy just ain’t livin’ right. Why, a boy’d have to be half-crazy not to want to chew his way through dozens of brightly colored cardboard boxes that contain 10 individually wrapped Golden Sponge Cake with Creamy Filling!
Unless of course he doesn’t like to deal with the packaging of those individually wrapped cakes. Back then one had to pry away the cardboard top that was glued to the base of the box. It was impossible to do so without ripping the colorful exterior. I’m sure I can say that I NEVER have successfully opened a box of Twinkies, even after having all the experience of a gold-Twinkie-winner wanna-be. Mangling the box is one thing, but one has to be careful not to jostle the goods within. Too much pressure on a golden cake can cause premature ejaculation of the filling, cracked cake or cause a mixture of the filling and the cake to be liquefied and adhered to the wrapper.
They’ve done away with that old-style box design in favor of the zipper box. Hate the zipper. Cardboard zippers on a cardboard box just don’t work. Either you get half-way and the shit rips in two, or you peel off the top half of the zipper leaving the box still closed…with the bottom layer of the damn zipper. They’ve also done away with the nice little piece of white cardboard that the Twinkie delightfully sat upon. Remember those? You could get rid of the wrapper, and then peel this little slim index card type thing off the bottom of the Twinkie and expose three little round dots of cream that you could lick right off the smooth surface of the card. Mmmm!
All this happened around 25 years ago. This year Hostess is celebrating 75 years of Twinkie goodness. I don’t know about you, but despite the sucky packaging, I’m having one right now! (Literally.)
(And it was good.)
Growing up I spent a lot of time at my grandmother’s place. She and my grandfather had a corner lot at the foot of a hill. The street in front was a small neighborhood street that led up to an elementary school. The street out to the side was a busy two-lane. Essentially, the yard was split into four sections. On the section closest to the intersection of the two roads sat a trailer that was rented out to various people that would be quirky and loud from time to time. The next section was where my grandmother’s trailer sat. It was small, had one bedroom, and was pink and white and housed a lot of memories. On one of the other two sections was a vegetable garden, and my grandfather’s two-room house on the other.
When I was there, the majority of my time was with my grandmother. I spent days at a time there going from her swing to the glider, and back. We’d do some gardening, wax the trailer and I’d watch as the portable washing machine would pump blue water out a hose and down the drain in the kitchen sink. We’d hang the wash on the line, grab some corn on the cob and cook dinner. I learned a lot from those visits.
No matter what year it was, or is, a young boy can get bored pretty easily. I’ve all too frequently said, since having worked in a children’s psychiatric facility, “If you don’t find something for kids to do, they’ll find it for you. And you might not like what they find.” While I didn’t get up to too much mischief back then, there was a time or two I wished I’d held up a little and thought first. One time that comes to mind would be when we were burning a pile of trash and I intentionally left an aerosol can in the pile before I lit it. What I thought would be a cool site to see, turned into an explosion followed by a burning projectile of metal that came straight at my head. Big as my head is, the molten metal missed me, and I never repeated that experiment. But it was always cool to see foam egg cartons melt and wrap around other burning junk. Cardboard milk cartons are coated in wax and can do some neat stuff when on fire. Ah, burning packaging! THOSE were the days!
The more and more I visited; the more I got to cook meals for us. We’d have spaghetti, or pancakes or I’d use a Tupperware burger patty press to make hamburgers for dinner. In fact, I did so much cooking that food turned into entertainment on occasion.
Love them as much as you can, but there are only so many times a young boy can watch Liberace and Lawrence Welk without getting a little bored. I remember seeking relief from chopped bananas covered in Hershey’s syrup. Drop biscuits with butter and honey was also a favorite. Several times I would eat a quarter of a head of cabbage, raw, sprinkled with a net of salt. A few times we even made candy with sorghum molasses.
Cooking takes a lot of work. Work, which can get in the way of a young boy’s amusement. That’s when I’d turn to store-bought snacking. What could be better than ripping open a box of Hostess Ding Dongs, Ho Hos or Twinkies and jumping onto the foldout bed and watching old Lawrence “a-one-a and-a two-a” right into his next polka? Not much I tell ya.
I remember one golden year in particular that was the zenith to my munching. That year Hostess had, in my mind, a brilliant idea. One lucky person (perhaps a young boy like myself) would find a winning Twinkie that would be the ticket to receiving a solid gold Twinkie. Just try mentioning the words “solid gold Twinkie” to a 10 year old junk food eating punk and see if he won’t beg your last gallon of gas to get to the store to buy a box of Twinkies. If he doesn’t, that boy just ain’t livin’ right. Why, a boy’d have to be half-crazy not to want to chew his way through dozens of brightly colored cardboard boxes that contain 10 individually wrapped Golden Sponge Cake with Creamy Filling!
Unless of course he doesn’t like to deal with the packaging of those individually wrapped cakes. Back then one had to pry away the cardboard top that was glued to the base of the box. It was impossible to do so without ripping the colorful exterior. I’m sure I can say that I NEVER have successfully opened a box of Twinkies, even after having all the experience of a gold-Twinkie-winner wanna-be. Mangling the box is one thing, but one has to be careful not to jostle the goods within. Too much pressure on a golden cake can cause premature ejaculation of the filling, cracked cake or cause a mixture of the filling and the cake to be liquefied and adhered to the wrapper.
They’ve done away with that old-style box design in favor of the zipper box. Hate the zipper. Cardboard zippers on a cardboard box just don’t work. Either you get half-way and the shit rips in two, or you peel off the top half of the zipper leaving the box still closed…with the bottom layer of the damn zipper. They’ve also done away with the nice little piece of white cardboard that the Twinkie delightfully sat upon. Remember those? You could get rid of the wrapper, and then peel this little slim index card type thing off the bottom of the Twinkie and expose three little round dots of cream that you could lick right off the smooth surface of the card. Mmmm!
All this happened around 25 years ago. This year Hostess is celebrating 75 years of Twinkie goodness. I don’t know about you, but despite the sucky packaging, I’m having one right now! (Literally.)
(And it was good.)
Saturday, May 21, 2005
Thursday, May 19, 2005
Back...in black
With a snoutful of sinus crapola, antibiotics meandering through my veins, a throat that feels like someone parked an SUV in there somewhere, and Slayer on the workplace hi-fi, I bring you love.
Tuesday, May 17, 2005
Perfect Attendance!
Bloggy could NOT be more proud of Bloggy Jr, and not just for perfect attendance alone. He's a big second grader now. LUV my boy!
(Privacy protected for those posted without permission.)
(Privacy protected for those posted without permission.)
Monday, May 16, 2005
Guest Post: With Thanks to Swampy & Family!
Swampified Trip Packaging With Son-of-Swampy Getting a YPS!! Saaaaaaa-lute. (Mmmmm, pastries!)
Wicked Action Shot! Tx to Hello
Sunday, May 15, 2005
In Light of Recent Icky Weekend Happenings...
I offer you a twofer Sunday, from my yard to your monitor.
Though rare, true beauty does still exist.
Though rare, true beauty does still exist.
Thursday, May 12, 2005
Entering the Tunnel, I Was Encased In Light, Blue Light
My old gray memory ain’t what he usedta be. It seems though, that I remember reading recently that men spend an average of $40 dollars a month on hygiene products. (I sorta think it said “beauty aids” but I’m trying to butch it up a notch.) It’s no secret, but no cash have I. Therefore, I’m pretty darn sure I’m the low-end of the scale and I’m bringing you down boys, I’m bringing you down.
Flipping through various blogs I saw a comment where someone was to take a picture of their toiletries and would post them soon on their blog. I’m thinking that’s fairly interesting, a peep inside someone’s life like that, a barrier removed. But I am not about to post pictures of the crud I use to get to the current horrid state I’m in, from the dried and crusty horrid state I start in each day. Not only would it not be a very big series of photos (if a series at all) but I’m not sure my personal products would be of interest to anyone. Sure there’s some packaging there, but since I don’t throw down the $40 a month, it’s not salon level packaging you’d be seeing.
But even at my low maintenance way of doing things, life as a boy in Kentucky these days is surely more complicated than what it used to be. Maybe more so than what it ought to be. I like the products I use well enough, but how many are really necessary? Heck, I even use two different types of shampoo…and of course keep my conditioner separate from both. Just last night I had both feet plunged into a peppermint and plum soak. My feet are refreshed and smooth as a baby’s …foot.
Now some of you will need to sit down for the next bit of information. Just a few days ago I made my first EVER visit to a tanning bed. Yes, you read that correctly. I’m 2.7 billion years old, and I’m just now finding my way to a tanning bed. I was so self-conscious that I drove by the place like 4 different times trying to pick a slower time so there wouldn’t be anyone around hearing me ask “Should I use a bronzer? What the hell is a tingle factor?”
I broke tradition of being a pale humanoid shrinking away from the sun because of packaging. It’s all about the packaging. Saturday I’ll be going to a wedding. It’s an important wedding for me, and I want to look my best, working with that which I am stuck. I try to keep thin as an ongoing thing. I already bath every 6-7 months and try to keep the facial hair at bay. And maybe The Angels are right, a little color couldn’t hurt.
Before I worked up the courage to actually go into the tanning bed joint, out of concern for the appearance of my package at the wedding, I boldly told the hair chick the other day, “Cut it as short as you want. Do whatever you want so I can look as good as I can for the wedding. Oh, and if I have to do anything different with it, make sure I’m awake and taking notes while you comb it so I can *attempt* to repeat what you’ve done.” She laughed and the hair chick next to us said, “Uh oh.”
After I squealed like a sheep in nekkid packaging after a good sheering, she was nice enough to throw water on me so I could wake up and watch her work her magic. Intently I watched. It took her seconds it was so simple. I liked it, and even smiled. So easy, I could do it!
I cannot do what she did. I watched! I really did! See, I even said intently up there. I have no hair skillz. None! But the hair is as good as it’s going to get with the skillz I have – which are limited. Now the hair was out of the way, in more ways than one.
A few weeks back The Angels helped in getting me some duds for the wedding. My hair was now whacked; now it was time to cause a melt down of a tanning bed with the highly reflective white slab I loosely call “my body.” I made a similar comment to the hottie at the tanning bed joint and she was very polite, laughed and said, “Trust me. You are not that white.” She lied because she pulled her sunglasses down just before making the comment. But I appreciated she took the effort to try and make me feel good about my shiny bright white packaging.
While at the tanning joint, I’m given my room number, my goggles, my packet of lotion (which was not a bronzer and I was informed it would be ok to use it on my face) and I’m set. The lotion, made by California Tan, came in this little pouch. Not a bottle, not a tube, but a non-closing pouch. My pouch was not huge (Did I really just say that?) but I could see it would be enough for two visits. Enough yes, but how the hell could I save it for another visit? THIS was sucky packaging indeed. Not only could I not close it, but I also had to bite it to get the damn thing open.
I begin sliming my face up with the non-bronzer stuff. The shit it smelled so good. Mmmm! I’m sliming the face to my sucky packaging all up with this stuff, looking intently in the mirror not wanting to miss a spot and have an entire cheek be a red splotch…when something caught my eye in the mirror. The something was behind me. I stop my facial application to investigate.
HOLY SHIT! The tanning bed is freaking networked and connected to the point-of-sale terminal up front and has automatically started my session x-number of minutes after my transaction has taken place! How the hell long have I been putting this shit – gawd it smells so good thank you California Tan! – on my face?!?!?! (Yes I thought those exact words.) So I spring into action and I pulled up my goggles (I had the foresight to put them around my neck before the slime-up so I would be able to just pop them over my eyes when the time came). I jumped into the u-shaped glowing thingy and closed the lid.
The first thing I noticed was that the noise of the fans nearly muffled the awful music they were playing completely. For this, I was thankful. I also noticed it wasn’t hot like I thought it would be. Not at first anyway. Soon I was basking in the glow, taking it in, recharging my solar cells. It was as if I was 14 again, trying to impress the hottie two houses up.
I asked for only a 7 minute visit not wanting to melt down more than one bed with my reflective white body, and not to turn myself into a large blister and flake away to nothing. Despite that, I got a little bored, a little curious. So I peeked out through my goggles. BLUE. Glowing BLUE light! (Ouch, my eyes.)
After the fun was over, the blue went out, and I got out, I checked and no red splotches on my face! I hadn’t missed a spot! My California Tan Step 1 did a wunnerful job, despite it’s sucky non-closable packaging, and I smelled so good that I was going to go home and sex myself up.
My sucky packaging was going to be tanned, trimmed and dressed when it would be time for the wedding. I might not even be thrown out of the church if I properly go through the ritual of getting ready. With my myriad of personal hygiene products, maybe my packaging won’t suck too bad. Wish me luck!
Flipping through various blogs I saw a comment where someone was to take a picture of their toiletries and would post them soon on their blog. I’m thinking that’s fairly interesting, a peep inside someone’s life like that, a barrier removed. But I am not about to post pictures of the crud I use to get to the current horrid state I’m in, from the dried and crusty horrid state I start in each day. Not only would it not be a very big series of photos (if a series at all) but I’m not sure my personal products would be of interest to anyone. Sure there’s some packaging there, but since I don’t throw down the $40 a month, it’s not salon level packaging you’d be seeing.
But even at my low maintenance way of doing things, life as a boy in Kentucky these days is surely more complicated than what it used to be. Maybe more so than what it ought to be. I like the products I use well enough, but how many are really necessary? Heck, I even use two different types of shampoo…and of course keep my conditioner separate from both. Just last night I had both feet plunged into a peppermint and plum soak. My feet are refreshed and smooth as a baby’s …foot.
Now some of you will need to sit down for the next bit of information. Just a few days ago I made my first EVER visit to a tanning bed. Yes, you read that correctly. I’m 2.7 billion years old, and I’m just now finding my way to a tanning bed. I was so self-conscious that I drove by the place like 4 different times trying to pick a slower time so there wouldn’t be anyone around hearing me ask “Should I use a bronzer? What the hell is a tingle factor?”
I broke tradition of being a pale humanoid shrinking away from the sun because of packaging. It’s all about the packaging. Saturday I’ll be going to a wedding. It’s an important wedding for me, and I want to look my best, working with that which I am stuck. I try to keep thin as an ongoing thing. I already bath every 6-7 months and try to keep the facial hair at bay. And maybe The Angels are right, a little color couldn’t hurt.
Before I worked up the courage to actually go into the tanning bed joint, out of concern for the appearance of my package at the wedding, I boldly told the hair chick the other day, “Cut it as short as you want. Do whatever you want so I can look as good as I can for the wedding. Oh, and if I have to do anything different with it, make sure I’m awake and taking notes while you comb it so I can *attempt* to repeat what you’ve done.” She laughed and the hair chick next to us said, “Uh oh.”
After I squealed like a sheep in nekkid packaging after a good sheering, she was nice enough to throw water on me so I could wake up and watch her work her magic. Intently I watched. It took her seconds it was so simple. I liked it, and even smiled. So easy, I could do it!
I cannot do what she did. I watched! I really did! See, I even said intently up there. I have no hair skillz. None! But the hair is as good as it’s going to get with the skillz I have – which are limited. Now the hair was out of the way, in more ways than one.
A few weeks back The Angels helped in getting me some duds for the wedding. My hair was now whacked; now it was time to cause a melt down of a tanning bed with the highly reflective white slab I loosely call “my body.” I made a similar comment to the hottie at the tanning bed joint and she was very polite, laughed and said, “Trust me. You are not that white.” She lied because she pulled her sunglasses down just before making the comment. But I appreciated she took the effort to try and make me feel good about my shiny bright white packaging.
While at the tanning joint, I’m given my room number, my goggles, my packet of lotion (which was not a bronzer and I was informed it would be ok to use it on my face) and I’m set. The lotion, made by California Tan, came in this little pouch. Not a bottle, not a tube, but a non-closing pouch. My pouch was not huge (Did I really just say that?) but I could see it would be enough for two visits. Enough yes, but how the hell could I save it for another visit? THIS was sucky packaging indeed. Not only could I not close it, but I also had to bite it to get the damn thing open.
I begin sliming my face up with the non-bronzer stuff. The shit it smelled so good. Mmmm! I’m sliming the face to my sucky packaging all up with this stuff, looking intently in the mirror not wanting to miss a spot and have an entire cheek be a red splotch…when something caught my eye in the mirror. The something was behind me. I stop my facial application to investigate.
HOLY SHIT! The tanning bed is freaking networked and connected to the point-of-sale terminal up front and has automatically started my session x-number of minutes after my transaction has taken place! How the hell long have I been putting this shit – gawd it smells so good thank you California Tan! – on my face?!?!?! (Yes I thought those exact words.) So I spring into action and I pulled up my goggles (I had the foresight to put them around my neck before the slime-up so I would be able to just pop them over my eyes when the time came). I jumped into the u-shaped glowing thingy and closed the lid.
The first thing I noticed was that the noise of the fans nearly muffled the awful music they were playing completely. For this, I was thankful. I also noticed it wasn’t hot like I thought it would be. Not at first anyway. Soon I was basking in the glow, taking it in, recharging my solar cells. It was as if I was 14 again, trying to impress the hottie two houses up.
I asked for only a 7 minute visit not wanting to melt down more than one bed with my reflective white body, and not to turn myself into a large blister and flake away to nothing. Despite that, I got a little bored, a little curious. So I peeked out through my goggles. BLUE. Glowing BLUE light! (Ouch, my eyes.)
After the fun was over, the blue went out, and I got out, I checked and no red splotches on my face! I hadn’t missed a spot! My California Tan Step 1 did a wunnerful job, despite it’s sucky non-closable packaging, and I smelled so good that I was going to go home and sex myself up.
My sucky packaging was going to be tanned, trimmed and dressed when it would be time for the wedding. I might not even be thrown out of the church if I properly go through the ritual of getting ready. With my myriad of personal hygiene products, maybe my packaging won’t suck too bad. Wish me luck!
Wednesday, May 11, 2005
Keep Your Package Clean. Please and Thank You.
With Sugar on Top! (Careful, no infections please!)
Wicked Action Shot! Tx to Hello
Saturday, May 07, 2005
Joan jett is rawking in Evansville, IN
Joan jett is rawking in evansville folks!! Bone, Blogg and Guest (the almighty)
Friday, May 06, 2005
Thursday, May 05, 2005
Take a Trip with Bone Machine and Mr. Bloggerific Himself - Part III
For proper continuity, I highly recommend re-reading part 1 and part 2. If you are well-acquainted with the story thus far, I say read on, Ponce De Leon, read on. Away we go…
After witnessing the carnage of the Watusi-impaired and vehicle-impaled deer, the butter-head boy, and having a gut full of IHOP’s finest cholesterol-drenched wares, it was time to seek out what every growing boy needs. Since the chicks weren’t taking our bait, we got the consolation prize. In this case, the consolation prize would be new music to fuel our respective fires and provide the soundtrack to the weird shit that we do.
One of the stops on our quest for goodness was Best Buy. Since we reside in a one horse town (and since I haven’t seen said horse in a while, perhaps even the horse got wise and split) where the sole music store insists on charging $19.99 for a disc, entering a store with borderline reasonable prices is like turning sailors on shore-leave out on an unsuspecting town full of lovelies. It generally involves a bit of frothing and foaming at the mouth and perhaps the showing of gritted teeth to anyone stupid enough to get in the way.
Even though I can often delay the urinary process like a camel’s liquid intake in reverse, there comes a time when it’s time to shake the dew from the lily, so to speak. After consuming the tiny 16 ounce flask of Diet Code Red Mountain Dew to inaugurate the journey and who knows how many refills at the International House of Peculiarities, the bladder was screaming out in pain. When your bladder yells at you, it’s time to pay attention. Otherwise, you’re likely to be dropping your abused drawers in an IHOP toilet like lost Barney Fife and there is no way to do that with dignity. I don’t speak from experience, but I’m just hypothesizing. An educated guess, if you will. So rather than browse the available goods, I made a beeline for the available facilities with the words of the great philosopher (go ahead and click it, you know you want to) gently echoing through my noggin…”Go for the stall”…
In my haste and urgent need to de-liquify my dainty self, I betrayed the voice and went to the urinal far right in a line of three. I thought I could strike like a cobra and get out without incident. However, I was wrong in this case…so very, very wrong. There are certain sacred times in a person’s life where they like to reflect on things like the intense intake of caffeinated and carbonated beverages and the removal of said beverages. These times are generally best when encased in silence excluding the sound of porcelain being chipped away by a vicious blast of recycled soft drinks. But it was not to be.
As I stood there taking care of business, the annoying screech of rusty door hardware wrecked the relative bliss of my urinary moment. Like a scream in the night, the peace had left the valley. The territory was no longer all mine, but I am willing to share. I figured it would be okay to let the intruder spring a leak as long as it didn’t hit my shoe, it would be okay or so I thought.
My time in the pissatorium was winding down and the person that I so generously allowed to enter the sacred plot of ground apparently has not read the Official Instruction Manual for Proper Toilet Etiquette. He must be one of those unsophisticated, illiterate cretin types. Rather than go far left and stake his claim to urinal #1 (no pun intended), this person insists on sliding up to the center pisser directly to my left and proceeds to take care of his business. We could have rubbed elbows if we were so inclined and speaking only for myself, I wasn’t inclined to do such a thing. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. While this invasion of hallowed ground was a bit odd, I had no idea just how odd it was going to get. As soon as he said “So, do you like Henry Rollins?”, it shot right through odd and landed firmly in the creepy zone. For a split second, I thought “Damn, this guy is a toilet psychic and can read my musical preferences by the sound of porcelain being chipped away lovingly by my recycled soft drinks. He’s a visionary. A creepy visionary, but a visionary nonetheless.” Of course, this thought came crashing to the public restroom floor as soon as I realized that I was wearing a Rollins Band shirt. My mind spoke and it said “He’s no visionary toilet psychic, he’s just creepy and he’s a creepy Best Buy employee.” My mind was right, for a change.
My reply was probably a shocked “Uh, yeah” hoping that would end the dialog, so that I could just get the hell out of this situation in tact. But no, the conversation didn’t end there. Oh hell no. He asks me if I ever saw such and such television show where Rollins was the host. In all honesty I had not and even if I had viewed the show, I would have lied and said no thinking it would once again bring this verbal exchange to an abrupt halt. Apparently my own evil karma was roaring down the road to run over my dogma, like a deer that can’t Watusi, and I can say that I wouldn’t leave my ass in the air like the deer. While he rattled on about the show, my business was done and I was making my way to the door in order to get the hell out of pissatorium at a rapid clip. I think the term is “hotfooting” it out of there.
However, I must not have realized that the conversation was not over as the defrocked toilet psychic followed me down the hallway to the store proper and he’s still rattling on about Henry Rollins. For the love of all that is holy, man, would you shut the fuck up about Henry Rollins and more importantly, leave me alone. As soon as my black shoes hit the floor of store proper, I took off like a champion steed hell-bent for the winner’s circle. The goal was to find Mr. Bloggerific and work our way to the exit. Shopping or not. We were leaving. As I zipped through the aisles like a child separated from its parents, I heard the subtle sounds of Black Flag’s TV Party (which features Mr. Rollins on vocals) playing at one of the work stations and sure enough, it was the defrocked toilet psychic chatterbox that happened to be a Best Buy employee.
As soon as we hit the exit door, I said to Mr. Bloggerific, “You’re not going to believe this shit…” In light of the rest of the day’s events, I guess it makes sense in an overly creepy kind of way.
After witnessing the carnage of the Watusi-impaired and vehicle-impaled deer, the butter-head boy, and having a gut full of IHOP’s finest cholesterol-drenched wares, it was time to seek out what every growing boy needs. Since the chicks weren’t taking our bait, we got the consolation prize. In this case, the consolation prize would be new music to fuel our respective fires and provide the soundtrack to the weird shit that we do.
One of the stops on our quest for goodness was Best Buy. Since we reside in a one horse town (and since I haven’t seen said horse in a while, perhaps even the horse got wise and split) where the sole music store insists on charging $19.99 for a disc, entering a store with borderline reasonable prices is like turning sailors on shore-leave out on an unsuspecting town full of lovelies. It generally involves a bit of frothing and foaming at the mouth and perhaps the showing of gritted teeth to anyone stupid enough to get in the way.
Even though I can often delay the urinary process like a camel’s liquid intake in reverse, there comes a time when it’s time to shake the dew from the lily, so to speak. After consuming the tiny 16 ounce flask of Diet Code Red Mountain Dew to inaugurate the journey and who knows how many refills at the International House of Peculiarities, the bladder was screaming out in pain. When your bladder yells at you, it’s time to pay attention. Otherwise, you’re likely to be dropping your abused drawers in an IHOP toilet like lost Barney Fife and there is no way to do that with dignity. I don’t speak from experience, but I’m just hypothesizing. An educated guess, if you will. So rather than browse the available goods, I made a beeline for the available facilities with the words of the great philosopher (go ahead and click it, you know you want to) gently echoing through my noggin…”Go for the stall”…
In my haste and urgent need to de-liquify my dainty self, I betrayed the voice and went to the urinal far right in a line of three. I thought I could strike like a cobra and get out without incident. However, I was wrong in this case…so very, very wrong. There are certain sacred times in a person’s life where they like to reflect on things like the intense intake of caffeinated and carbonated beverages and the removal of said beverages. These times are generally best when encased in silence excluding the sound of porcelain being chipped away by a vicious blast of recycled soft drinks. But it was not to be.
As I stood there taking care of business, the annoying screech of rusty door hardware wrecked the relative bliss of my urinary moment. Like a scream in the night, the peace had left the valley. The territory was no longer all mine, but I am willing to share. I figured it would be okay to let the intruder spring a leak as long as it didn’t hit my shoe, it would be okay or so I thought.
My time in the pissatorium was winding down and the person that I so generously allowed to enter the sacred plot of ground apparently has not read the Official Instruction Manual for Proper Toilet Etiquette. He must be one of those unsophisticated, illiterate cretin types. Rather than go far left and stake his claim to urinal #1 (no pun intended), this person insists on sliding up to the center pisser directly to my left and proceeds to take care of his business. We could have rubbed elbows if we were so inclined and speaking only for myself, I wasn’t inclined to do such a thing. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. While this invasion of hallowed ground was a bit odd, I had no idea just how odd it was going to get. As soon as he said “So, do you like Henry Rollins?”, it shot right through odd and landed firmly in the creepy zone. For a split second, I thought “Damn, this guy is a toilet psychic and can read my musical preferences by the sound of porcelain being chipped away lovingly by my recycled soft drinks. He’s a visionary. A creepy visionary, but a visionary nonetheless.” Of course, this thought came crashing to the public restroom floor as soon as I realized that I was wearing a Rollins Band shirt. My mind spoke and it said “He’s no visionary toilet psychic, he’s just creepy and he’s a creepy Best Buy employee.” My mind was right, for a change.
My reply was probably a shocked “Uh, yeah” hoping that would end the dialog, so that I could just get the hell out of this situation in tact. But no, the conversation didn’t end there. Oh hell no. He asks me if I ever saw such and such television show where Rollins was the host. In all honesty I had not and even if I had viewed the show, I would have lied and said no thinking it would once again bring this verbal exchange to an abrupt halt. Apparently my own evil karma was roaring down the road to run over my dogma, like a deer that can’t Watusi, and I can say that I wouldn’t leave my ass in the air like the deer. While he rattled on about the show, my business was done and I was making my way to the door in order to get the hell out of pissatorium at a rapid clip. I think the term is “hotfooting” it out of there.
However, I must not have realized that the conversation was not over as the defrocked toilet psychic followed me down the hallway to the store proper and he’s still rattling on about Henry Rollins. For the love of all that is holy, man, would you shut the fuck up about Henry Rollins and more importantly, leave me alone. As soon as my black shoes hit the floor of store proper, I took off like a champion steed hell-bent for the winner’s circle. The goal was to find Mr. Bloggerific and work our way to the exit. Shopping or not. We were leaving. As I zipped through the aisles like a child separated from its parents, I heard the subtle sounds of Black Flag’s TV Party (which features Mr. Rollins on vocals) playing at one of the work stations and sure enough, it was the defrocked toilet psychic chatterbox that happened to be a Best Buy employee.
As soon as we hit the exit door, I said to Mr. Bloggerific, “You’re not going to believe this shit…” In light of the rest of the day’s events, I guess it makes sense in an overly creepy kind of way.
Wednesday, May 04, 2005
YPS!! Leading the Way in Potty Humor since 1869.
Yes, it's right down here, Honey, you can't miss it! First bush on the left.
Wicked Action Shot! Tx to Hello
Tuesday, May 03, 2005
Take a Trip with Bone Machine and Mr. Bloggerific Himself - Part II
We left off…
“Beavis and Butthead” looked like a pair of Mr. Rogers twins on Prozac, compared to Bone Machine and Mr. Bloggerific Himself, two hopped-up hoodlums.
With the purchases purchased, and in more ways than one, they were off…
And we continue…
Farm implementation devices can hinder a good time. That said, over time, the hopped-up hoodlums began making their way via Route 66 to get their kicks. No, that’s not right, they actually ventured out on the highway to hell, the highway to the city of hilariously poor-ass drivers. You may not know it, but Owensboro is apparently the epicenter of the NASCAR waves of pleasure. Sports are evil, but apparently they all drive to win in the Big O. That is NOT the case in Evansville, IN and in fact some should just stay in the pits. So, to take farm equipment and *some* of the bad drivers out of the equation, the two take the toll road.
[Note: The toll road between the Big O and Evildriversville unfortunately does NOT employ Edgar Winter’s twin sister, but you can find her at a tollbooth near you if you head southward-ho to Bowling Green, KY. But don’t look she’s mesmerizing.]
As they hit optimum speed on the dippity-do toll road, what begins is the Junk Food Juggle. Due to the undulating surface of the wave-like pavement, the junk food connoisseurs have to watch how they go about their intake. In order to avoid Snackage Carnage, one must time the sipping and or crunching just right. Unless you live on the edge, do not try to take a mouthful of Red Hots on the up or downswing of an undulating sheet of black top.
Part of the way to Evildriversville the pair go through Hendersonia, KY – right in the 3 Feet Stop part of town. It may not be what you think. It’s not one of those “blink or you’ll miss it” towns. No, “3 Feet Stop” refers to how far you can go, before you slam on the brakes. There are that many lights, that many lanes, and that many Evildriversville bleed-over drivers that spoil the fun. Towards the end of the boot scootin’ boogie of the 3 Feet Stop is where this story gets a little odd, even for these hopped-up hoodlums of ours.
There are these twin bridges just on the other side of a state park (See Swampy? We got your nature right here!) that decorate the path as you exit Hendersonia. Normally it’s a beat-everyone-to-the-punch-so-you-can-ride-in-a-comfort-zone-on-the-birdge type thing, but this time around our heroes have more decoration than just the two bridges. Their conversation, normally unflappable, came to a grinding halt. Apparently one of nature’s finest got past security at the John James Audubon Nature Park and decided to do the watusi in the two-lane. I can assure you, the dynamic duo were duly amazed to find out that deer do not do the watusi well enough to avoid on-coming traffic. Apparently, when deer attempt this, their gravy gets licked and they end up “end up” on the median.
Normally, Bone and Bloggy don’t laugh at the dead. They just don’t. (Granted there are a select few, but hey.) On this occasion however, they did…and loudly. It seems that not only was it a simple matter of a dead deer end up, but it was QUITE obvious that SHE…was not wearing pants.
If ever there was a time when a pair of laughing schoolgirls were weaving and bobbing down the lane, this was that time. After the initial five minute non-stop burst of laughter rang throughout the nature park and the neighboring horse track, the remainder of the ride was an intermittent shower of giggles and snorts, separated by brief moments of silence. Fear that any discussion would lead them back to the gutter…literally…held them somewhere between bitten lips and machinegun-fire laughter. Miraculously the elated twosome made it to Evildriversville, despite having to clean off the interior side of the windshield of candy spew and beef jerky bits.
The two managed, at this point, to make a wise decision. Rather than go off all giddy and full of life (Ooops, sorry Bambi) and go hit up the music stores, it was off to get nourishment. Sure they’d just eaten all that junk food, but it was time for REAL food. So they made a b-line straight for the IHOP to order the “Rooty Tooty Fresh and Fruity” (and whatever the hell the meal that Bone orders is called.)
http://www.ihop.com/menu0.html
Time to unwind and catch a breath. Bone and Bloggy are relieved to be able to calm down and have some vittles. Whew! That was fun, but it’s time to chill. Ooops, Bloggy then realizes it’s been over 23 minutes since his last potty break and zip bang he’s off to the boys’ room.
Some of you may not realize it, but Bloggy is a creature of habit. He does things, and he does them a certain way. Even when he goes to the restroom, there’s protocol. To Bloggy, it’s all about the stall. You see, you’ve got your urinal and you’ve got your stall. REAL men go for the urinal and they stand there, back erect, whip it out for all to see their glory and whiz their troubles away. Hell, these REAL men can bore a hole right through the porcelain. This way, is not the Bloggerific Way. Remember folks, do as Bloggy says: “Go for the stall.” Even though he sees the restroom is completely empty, since Bloggy doesn’t play well with others, this IHOP trip is like all the others and he goes straight for the stall and closes the door. Life is good. His Rooty Tooty Fresh and Fruity is cooking in the kitchen and he’s mid-stream. But wait, he hears the restroom door. He realizes this is no bother because he’s got the stall and the door is closed. Then something bothers the emptying Bloggerific; he doesn’t hear anything outside the stall any more. He decides that the gent left because he too, was a StallMan.
It was at that exact moment Mr. Bloggerific came to know someone was, in fact, in the restroom. He knows this because he heard the most melodic and ear-friendly tonetastic toot of his life. It wasn’t the usual tons of rubber hitting the tarmac sound you hear as a plane lands, but more of the morning wake-up call of a bugler. Bloggy immediately turns red with laughter, but manages to hold back due in part to the aforementioned deer episode. He even manages to hold it back when a gravelly voice says, as if falling down a well, “Scuuuuuuussse meeeeeeeeee.”
In fact, Mr. Bloggerific was able to finish voiding and do a zip-and-flush without even so much as a reverse-snort. He even had the foresight to wait until the flushing noise had ceased to listen and verify that there were no other bodily functions taking place outside the stall. Silence - the melodic farter, like Elvis himself, had left the building. Eagerly Bloggy burst open the stall door, but to his utter shock and dismay, there, at the urinal, stood the melodic farter! But that, oh no, was not all! It seems that the melodic farter (picture if you will, an older Don Knotts) had his pants down to his ankles. Bloggy knew this because he could clearly see that Old Don also had his diaper down to his knees! This, Bloggy knew, because he could clearly see OLD DON’S COTTAGE CHEESE ASS!
With GREAT courage, Bloggy quickly exited the restroom. Too quickly. Why was it too quickly? Because, Bloggy forgot to leave a couple of things behind in the restroom; he forgot to leave two things that ALL men should leave behind in the restroom. A glowing red-hot face, and a smile, a very BIG smile. It’s just not done folks, men should never walk out of the restroom with a red face and a big smile.
Smiling all the way back to the table, passing strangers with confused looks on their faces, Bloggerific manages to seat himself in the booth, nearly upright. Bone Machine looks at him with a raised brow but was unable to get in a question what with the snickering and the delivery of the Rooty Tooty Fresh and Fruity. At that moment, Bloggy catches a glimpse of Old Don exiting the restroom and motions to Bone Machine to take note of the kind gent. Bone gives a raised-eyebrow nod as if to say, “Yeah, I see the geezer, what gives?” In between the chuckling and the return volley of the waitress coming back with the Sugar Free Syrup for Bone, the coffee refills for Bloggy and butter pats all around, the Melodic Farter story was relayed and again, laughter eruption.
For ten minutes the food goes untouched, because the giggling schoolgirls have returned.
Whew! Finally, they eat, and heartily. Rooty Tooty Fresh and Fruity pieces go a flyin’. On the other side of the table, hash browns are being downed like whack. Boysenberry syrup is adding to the fruitiness and flavor of the Rooty Tooty Fresh and Fruity and all is well…until…it happens.
Maybe about 3/4's of the way through the gorging Mr. Bloggerific Himself spies what just might be a problem, a sort of bottleneck in service if you will. The booth in which B & B are sitting is situated at a crossroads within IHOP. On the lane coming from the kitchen straight through to the booth, is a waitress loaded down like whack with food. On the perpendicular path to destruction, is a smiling, beaming and happy family of four. “Jr.” in front with his little booster seat, Mom and baby sis are next, with Dad bringing up the rear. (Probably thinking about the urinal.) Both the waitress, and the beaming family are oblivious to each other. Bone, is again watching Bloggy with confused amazement. Both have their mouths full. Whammo! The waitress, at the very last possible split-split-second manages to look down and see Jr. with this booster seat and she slams on the brakes and skids to a stop. Bloggerific is disappointed, but smiles at Bone Machine until he looks to see the sheer TERROR in the eyes of the waitress. To determine what was the matter, he looked down at Jr. to see that Jr. was (with his back to the booth, looking away from B & B) looking up at the waitress. Mom and Dad were still smiling, looking down at Jr. So what the hell was wrong with Miss IHOP?! Just then, Jr. turned away from the waitress and all the way around…to look at Mom and Dad. As his cherub gaze passed B & B, tears streamed from his eyes. Startled, B & B looked on, until the young boy’s right cheek was revealed as the boy turned. It seems that a LARGE pat of butter slid off of the waitress’s plate, landed and stuck with a SPLAT! on Jr.’s cheek.
B & B learned that you CAN inhale pancakes and sausage directly into your lungs, and survive.
Finally, the meal was over. Bone Machine and Mr. Bloggerific were able to sit a few quiet moments as Bloggy slurped down his second pot of coffee. They hadn’t laughed, giggled, snorted, guffawed or anything for several minutes. They just sat quietly and enjoyed the moment. (Quiet for IHOP anyway.)
Bloggy’s second pot must have stirred something deep within. Something evil. Herky-jerky chest movements, a reddened face, and snot bubbles evidenced this rising evil. Bone Machine, half-bent on finding out what the hell was so funny now, practically insisted on Bloggy giving up the goods. Mr. Bloggerific, however, was uncooperative and made Bone Machine wait until they’d completely exited IHOP.
The two gathered themselves the best they could, paid and as Bone Machine exited the building he found Bloggerific standing just outside the door. Bloggy asked if Bone wanted to know what he’d found so damn funny. When Bone nodded that he did, Bloggy stated in a large, booming, resounding voice…with arms outstretched:
LAUGHING AT THE PUSS OF ONE OF GOD’S CREATURES!
“Beavis and Butthead” looked like a pair of Mr. Rogers twins on Prozac, compared to Bone Machine and Mr. Bloggerific Himself, two hopped-up hoodlums.
With the purchases purchased, and in more ways than one, they were off…
And we continue…
Farm implementation devices can hinder a good time. That said, over time, the hopped-up hoodlums began making their way via Route 66 to get their kicks. No, that’s not right, they actually ventured out on the highway to hell, the highway to the city of hilariously poor-ass drivers. You may not know it, but Owensboro is apparently the epicenter of the NASCAR waves of pleasure. Sports are evil, but apparently they all drive to win in the Big O. That is NOT the case in Evansville, IN and in fact some should just stay in the pits. So, to take farm equipment and *some* of the bad drivers out of the equation, the two take the toll road.
[Note: The toll road between the Big O and Evildriversville unfortunately does NOT employ Edgar Winter’s twin sister, but you can find her at a tollbooth near you if you head southward-ho to Bowling Green, KY. But don’t look she’s mesmerizing.]
As they hit optimum speed on the dippity-do toll road, what begins is the Junk Food Juggle. Due to the undulating surface of the wave-like pavement, the junk food connoisseurs have to watch how they go about their intake. In order to avoid Snackage Carnage, one must time the sipping and or crunching just right. Unless you live on the edge, do not try to take a mouthful of Red Hots on the up or downswing of an undulating sheet of black top.
Part of the way to Evildriversville the pair go through Hendersonia, KY – right in the 3 Feet Stop part of town. It may not be what you think. It’s not one of those “blink or you’ll miss it” towns. No, “3 Feet Stop” refers to how far you can go, before you slam on the brakes. There are that many lights, that many lanes, and that many Evildriversville bleed-over drivers that spoil the fun. Towards the end of the boot scootin’ boogie of the 3 Feet Stop is where this story gets a little odd, even for these hopped-up hoodlums of ours.
There are these twin bridges just on the other side of a state park (See Swampy? We got your nature right here!) that decorate the path as you exit Hendersonia. Normally it’s a beat-everyone-to-the-punch-so-you-can-ride-in-a-comfort-zone-on-the-birdge type thing, but this time around our heroes have more decoration than just the two bridges. Their conversation, normally unflappable, came to a grinding halt. Apparently one of nature’s finest got past security at the John James Audubon Nature Park and decided to do the watusi in the two-lane. I can assure you, the dynamic duo were duly amazed to find out that deer do not do the watusi well enough to avoid on-coming traffic. Apparently, when deer attempt this, their gravy gets licked and they end up “end up” on the median.
Normally, Bone and Bloggy don’t laugh at the dead. They just don’t. (Granted there are a select few, but hey.) On this occasion however, they did…and loudly. It seems that not only was it a simple matter of a dead deer end up, but it was QUITE obvious that SHE…was not wearing pants.
If ever there was a time when a pair of laughing schoolgirls were weaving and bobbing down the lane, this was that time. After the initial five minute non-stop burst of laughter rang throughout the nature park and the neighboring horse track, the remainder of the ride was an intermittent shower of giggles and snorts, separated by brief moments of silence. Fear that any discussion would lead them back to the gutter…literally…held them somewhere between bitten lips and machinegun-fire laughter. Miraculously the elated twosome made it to Evildriversville, despite having to clean off the interior side of the windshield of candy spew and beef jerky bits.
The two managed, at this point, to make a wise decision. Rather than go off all giddy and full of life (Ooops, sorry Bambi) and go hit up the music stores, it was off to get nourishment. Sure they’d just eaten all that junk food, but it was time for REAL food. So they made a b-line straight for the IHOP to order the “Rooty Tooty Fresh and Fruity” (and whatever the hell the meal that Bone orders is called.)
http://www.ihop.com/menu0.html
Time to unwind and catch a breath. Bone and Bloggy are relieved to be able to calm down and have some vittles. Whew! That was fun, but it’s time to chill. Ooops, Bloggy then realizes it’s been over 23 minutes since his last potty break and zip bang he’s off to the boys’ room.
Some of you may not realize it, but Bloggy is a creature of habit. He does things, and he does them a certain way. Even when he goes to the restroom, there’s protocol. To Bloggy, it’s all about the stall. You see, you’ve got your urinal and you’ve got your stall. REAL men go for the urinal and they stand there, back erect, whip it out for all to see their glory and whiz their troubles away. Hell, these REAL men can bore a hole right through the porcelain. This way, is not the Bloggerific Way. Remember folks, do as Bloggy says: “Go for the stall.” Even though he sees the restroom is completely empty, since Bloggy doesn’t play well with others, this IHOP trip is like all the others and he goes straight for the stall and closes the door. Life is good. His Rooty Tooty Fresh and Fruity is cooking in the kitchen and he’s mid-stream. But wait, he hears the restroom door. He realizes this is no bother because he’s got the stall and the door is closed. Then something bothers the emptying Bloggerific; he doesn’t hear anything outside the stall any more. He decides that the gent left because he too, was a StallMan.
It was at that exact moment Mr. Bloggerific came to know someone was, in fact, in the restroom. He knows this because he heard the most melodic and ear-friendly tonetastic toot of his life. It wasn’t the usual tons of rubber hitting the tarmac sound you hear as a plane lands, but more of the morning wake-up call of a bugler. Bloggy immediately turns red with laughter, but manages to hold back due in part to the aforementioned deer episode. He even manages to hold it back when a gravelly voice says, as if falling down a well, “Scuuuuuuussse meeeeeeeeee.”
In fact, Mr. Bloggerific was able to finish voiding and do a zip-and-flush without even so much as a reverse-snort. He even had the foresight to wait until the flushing noise had ceased to listen and verify that there were no other bodily functions taking place outside the stall. Silence - the melodic farter, like Elvis himself, had left the building. Eagerly Bloggy burst open the stall door, but to his utter shock and dismay, there, at the urinal, stood the melodic farter! But that, oh no, was not all! It seems that the melodic farter (picture if you will, an older Don Knotts) had his pants down to his ankles. Bloggy knew this because he could clearly see that Old Don also had his diaper down to his knees! This, Bloggy knew, because he could clearly see OLD DON’S COTTAGE CHEESE ASS!
With GREAT courage, Bloggy quickly exited the restroom. Too quickly. Why was it too quickly? Because, Bloggy forgot to leave a couple of things behind in the restroom; he forgot to leave two things that ALL men should leave behind in the restroom. A glowing red-hot face, and a smile, a very BIG smile. It’s just not done folks, men should never walk out of the restroom with a red face and a big smile.
Smiling all the way back to the table, passing strangers with confused looks on their faces, Bloggerific manages to seat himself in the booth, nearly upright. Bone Machine looks at him with a raised brow but was unable to get in a question what with the snickering and the delivery of the Rooty Tooty Fresh and Fruity. At that moment, Bloggy catches a glimpse of Old Don exiting the restroom and motions to Bone Machine to take note of the kind gent. Bone gives a raised-eyebrow nod as if to say, “Yeah, I see the geezer, what gives?” In between the chuckling and the return volley of the waitress coming back with the Sugar Free Syrup for Bone, the coffee refills for Bloggy and butter pats all around, the Melodic Farter story was relayed and again, laughter eruption.
For ten minutes the food goes untouched, because the giggling schoolgirls have returned.
Whew! Finally, they eat, and heartily. Rooty Tooty Fresh and Fruity pieces go a flyin’. On the other side of the table, hash browns are being downed like whack. Boysenberry syrup is adding to the fruitiness and flavor of the Rooty Tooty Fresh and Fruity and all is well…until…it happens.
Maybe about 3/4's of the way through the gorging Mr. Bloggerific Himself spies what just might be a problem, a sort of bottleneck in service if you will. The booth in which B & B are sitting is situated at a crossroads within IHOP. On the lane coming from the kitchen straight through to the booth, is a waitress loaded down like whack with food. On the perpendicular path to destruction, is a smiling, beaming and happy family of four. “Jr.” in front with his little booster seat, Mom and baby sis are next, with Dad bringing up the rear. (Probably thinking about the urinal.) Both the waitress, and the beaming family are oblivious to each other. Bone, is again watching Bloggy with confused amazement. Both have their mouths full. Whammo! The waitress, at the very last possible split-split-second manages to look down and see Jr. with this booster seat and she slams on the brakes and skids to a stop. Bloggerific is disappointed, but smiles at Bone Machine until he looks to see the sheer TERROR in the eyes of the waitress. To determine what was the matter, he looked down at Jr. to see that Jr. was (with his back to the booth, looking away from B & B) looking up at the waitress. Mom and Dad were still smiling, looking down at Jr. So what the hell was wrong with Miss IHOP?! Just then, Jr. turned away from the waitress and all the way around…to look at Mom and Dad. As his cherub gaze passed B & B, tears streamed from his eyes. Startled, B & B looked on, until the young boy’s right cheek was revealed as the boy turned. It seems that a LARGE pat of butter slid off of the waitress’s plate, landed and stuck with a SPLAT! on Jr.’s cheek.
B & B learned that you CAN inhale pancakes and sausage directly into your lungs, and survive.
Finally, the meal was over. Bone Machine and Mr. Bloggerific were able to sit a few quiet moments as Bloggy slurped down his second pot of coffee. They hadn’t laughed, giggled, snorted, guffawed or anything for several minutes. They just sat quietly and enjoyed the moment. (Quiet for IHOP anyway.)
Bloggy’s second pot must have stirred something deep within. Something evil. Herky-jerky chest movements, a reddened face, and snot bubbles evidenced this rising evil. Bone Machine, half-bent on finding out what the hell was so funny now, practically insisted on Bloggy giving up the goods. Mr. Bloggerific, however, was uncooperative and made Bone Machine wait until they’d completely exited IHOP.
The two gathered themselves the best they could, paid and as Bone Machine exited the building he found Bloggerific standing just outside the door. Bloggy asked if Bone wanted to know what he’d found so damn funny. When Bone nodded that he did, Bloggy stated in a large, booming, resounding voice…with arms outstretched:
LAUGHING AT THE PUSS OF ONE OF GOD’S CREATURES!
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