Posts Tagged ‘reasons to laugh’

Some people

Thursday, September 3rd, 2009

As if we needed further proof that people are nuts…or easily angered…or both, along comes this guy to make my day.

“Who is this man?” you ask. Well, let’s do some deductive reasoning together.

They say your nose and ears keep growing your entire life, and obviously they do.

They say your nose and ears keep growing your entire life, and obviously they do.

Look at this snarly mug. Does this man look angry?

Yes! Yes, he does!

Does he look like he forgot to take his meds?

Right again!

And does he look like a man capable of delivering a beat down onto a stranger’s two-year old child in a Georgia Wal-Mart?

Well, it should, because he did.

STONE MOUNTAIN, Ga. – Police say a 61-year-old man annoyed with a crying 2-year-old girl at a Walmart slapped the child several times after warning the toddler’s mother to keep her quiet.

A police report says after the stranger hit the girl at least four times, he said: “See, I told you I would shut her up.”

Roger Stephens of Stone Mountain is charged with felony cruelty to children. It was unclear if he had an attorney and a telehpone call to his home Wednesday was unanswered.

Authorities say the girl and her mother were shopping Monday when the toddler began crying. The police report says Stephens approached the mother and said, “If you don’t shut that baby up, I will shut her up for you.”

Authorities say after Stephens slapped the girl, she began screaming.

I think the saddest sentence of this article is the last one, because it highlights the audacity of arrogance: Here this man was bragging about his ability to shut up babies, and when given a chance (or seizing a chance…either way) to demonstrate his skill, he failed miserably and made the baby even MORE upset. And then he decided to applaud his failed efforts by tossing a saucy, “See, I told you I would shut her up,” out for all to hear.

But you didn’t, Roger. You didn’t shut her up, you made her scream more.

On the other hand, just looking at him, maybe he didn’t know the difference? Or maybe general screaming sounded more pleasant to him than whining for cookies? It stands to reason he hasn’t had much contact with kids. Or at least I hope he hasn’t.

At the same time, there is a silver lining to be had. Now I’m not saying the toddler deserved this, but let’s break it down objectively here:

1. Kids are annoying. You know they are. You’ve met kids. You may even have kids. In either case, I can guarantee you’ve been annoyed by kids. And if you haven’t? Watch two minutes of that “Nanny 911″ show (whatever it’s called where the British nanny comes and straightens out the hopeless, raising a brood of horrifically spoiled brat parents) and prepare to be ANNOYED. Look, I’m not picking on kids: We were all kids once. We were all annoying. I’m not saying they’re ALWAYS annoying and don’t have their cute or charming moments, I’m just saying that a screaming two-year old – no matter how you slice it – is annoying.

2. In a way, Roger Stephens, Wal-Mart shopper and occasional looney toon, was doing this toddler a favor. The next time she sees a face like that? She’ll know what to do: Shut up and get the hell out of Dodge as fast as humanly possible. There’s no need to lecture this little one on ‘good touch’ or ‘bad touch’ or ‘getting a funny feeling about people.’ Just remind her about that time she was at Wal-Mart, and was physically assualted by a stranger, and she’s good to go.

3. In my opinion, any time you enter a Wal-Mart you really are on your own. All bets are off. Never wanted to see a 400-pound woman in a halter top? Too bad, because there’s one waiting for you by the toilet paper. Have no desire to be hit on by a toothless man in his 80s? That’s a shame, because there’s one hovering around the mangos hoping to pretend that he doesn’t know whether they’re a fruit or a vegetable in order to extract unnecessary cooking advice from you as part of a poorly constructed come-on. Don’t want to be bitten by a pygmy rattlesnake? Well, as we’ve all learned, stay out of Wal-Mart, because you are shooting your odds way up, baby.

And as for you, Roger Stephens (whose name I keep typing as Gary Stephens for some unknown reason)?
I can’t wait to see you making the talk show circuit once you get let out of jail. I’m sure there’s someone somewhere that’s interested in your views on child psychology and will extend your 15 minutes just that much more! Yay for America!

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Five signs you might be living above your means

Sunday, July 26th, 2009

So I saw an article on Yahoo with this headline and followed it, hoping for some kind of awesome insight. Sadly, it was super boring and predictable. Mortgage is some gargantuan chunk of your income? Can’t pay your credit card bills? Duh.

It occurred to me that some of you may be living beyond your means and not even know it (and besides, since when does a 600 or less credit score mean you’re living beyond your means? It could just mean you’re a deadbeat or a total f-ck up or think repaying student loans is for chumps).

Regardless, I thought I’d offer some REAL tips to clue you in that maybe it’s time to cut back a little on the champagne wishes and caviar dreams.

1. Your revolving credit card balance is in the high-six or low-seven digits.

The key word here is REVOLVING. It’s one thing if you’re racking up the big bills every month and able to pay them in full, and it’s another thing if not.

(By the way, if you’re of the former group, could you shoot me an e-mail or buy me a beer or several hundred beers or whatever seems reasonable?)

2. You have a gold plated swimming pool with a custom mosaic of your face on the bottom…and you’re paying that off with your job as night manager of a Taco Bell.

Enough said.

I know I keep picking on him, but it's meant affectionately. Really. Probably.

I know I keep picking on him, but it's meant affectionately. Really. Probably.

3. You’ve turned your face into a sphinx, have a $50,000 a month pill habit, your own amusement park in your yard, and at least three doctors on permanent staff, one of whom puts you to ‘sleep’ with anesthesia.

Doesn’t sound so bad?
Did I mention you haven’t really had a hit album since like 1988?

4. You just chartered a private jet to Mustique for a week and got home to find your gas, cable, and electricity have been shut off.

Not judging. Just saying you might want to make sure you can cover the basics before you start sharing Mai Tais and tanning oil with David Bowie and Mick Jagger.

5. You’re on a first-name basis with your local repo-man.

Once again, enough said.

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May the fourth be with you

Monday, May 4th, 2009

Last night I had a dream that I had four kids at same time. Quartuplets? Is that right?

Why is it you hear about triplets and quintuplets, but never the quartuplets? Or is that because it’s quadruplets? Either way, they don’t seem to get the coverage they deserve. Having been the mother of quadruplets – albeit in a dream and not in any way, shape, or form that could be considered ‘real” – let me tell you, it’s not something I would wish on an enemy.

Normally I wouldnt think anything of this, but after last nights dream this image makes my blood run cold. And its short one baby.

Normally I wouldn't think anything of this, but after last night's dream this image makes my blood run cold. And it's short one baby.

There were two boys and two girls, and I was not doing a very good job at keeping up. Worse, I greatly favored one over the other three. In my defense, he was by far the cutest.

Possibly worst of all? I had only vague memories of even diapering them, let alone feeding time, bathing them, or showering any kind of attention necessary for proper development and/or to prevent them from growing up to write hateful memoirs about me and my sh*tty parenting skills.

Once I ‘came to’, as it were,  I set up a diaper, bath, and clothing assembly line. And that pretty much took all day. Midway through this, I started wondering how the hell this happened without any kind of medical intervention and why there didn’t seem to be a father (i.e. equally guilty party and fellow baby slave) involved to give me a hand with the chaos.

What kind of chaos? Well, let me tell you: While I was out walking on the sidewalk with all four of them (happily, as dreams sometimes go, there was a random time jump such they had all aged enough that they could walk on their own. I have to presume if I’d stayed asleep they’d have outgrown diapers and maybe gone on to become concert pianists or physicists or somehow or other done me proud. Or at least not wound up in jail.) and one of the girls bolted toward the curb and into the street. I ran and grabbed her right before a speeding car got there, but obviously leaving the other three behind me to get into god knows what kind of trouble, and the apparent stress was enough to wake me up.

That stated, I feel extra bad for the John and Kate + Eight people, especially now that the headlines show that John is stepping out on Kate.

John and Kate + 8 = 10

John and Kate + 8 – John = Nine and one life-crushing child support payment.

You and your friends will have a real laugh over this prank!

You and your friends will have a real laugh over this prank!

In other news, it’s May the Fourth, which (apparently) makes it Star Wars Day in a ‘may the fourth be with you’ sense. I didn’t get it at first, but now that I do, I’m none too pleased. I hate puns. They’re always stupid. My ears get angry whenever I have to listen to them.

Nonetheless, let me offer up some suggestions as to how you might go about celebrating Star Wars Day:

  • Use a Taunton (ton-ton? Tauntaun?) as a sleeping bag
  • Get a Tattooine
  • Freeze one of your friends in carbonite
  • Howl like a Wookie
  • Grovel like Jar Jar Binks
  • Talk all obscure like Yoda

(Any of the above three are guaranteed to massively annoy everyone in a ten-foot radius)

  • Make your own Death Star plans
  • Put on a hoodie and pretend to be the Emporer
  • Worry like C3PO
  • Become a senator
  • Find a trash compactor, get in, and hope for the best

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Reunited and it feels so good…

Friday, April 24th, 2009

Okay, are you ready for this?
Are you seated?

This blog post is coming to you from my new old computer!!!!

Me, a broken motherboard (which Im willing to let go of for a bargain price of $99!!!), and a still-alive dog. Life is good.

Me, a broken motherboard (which I'm willing to let go of and sell to you for a bargain price of $99!!!), and a still-alive dog. Life is good.

It’s back!

I had to call them to learn it was repaired…but let’s not sweat the details.

And in case you thought those brain dead, weed-soaked losers at the computer place just PRETENDED to swap out my motherboard with a used motherboard for a mere $400 USD…well, take a gander at the picture posted here. They gave me part of a stereo and sold me on a fairytaleland story that this uber-electronic piece of whatever was the old motherboard. Or maybe it really is the old motherboard?

Whatever. What the hell do I know motherboard from Ouija board?

Anyway, I’m happy to have it back. Basically unaltered. Still of the smudgy screen and food-filled keyboard. But actually turning on and still with those (better be goddamn brilliant at these prices) first ten pages of the new book.


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Not sure where this one is headed…

Thursday, April 16th, 2009

So I’ve had a number of blog mis-fires today. In part because of the usual (don’t ask, and I won’t go there), and a bit because I just wasn’t feeling it.
I started a piece about my dog’s counter surfing problem…and saved it for later (to a certain degree because I couldn’t upload the accompanying incriminating photographic evidence).

I had another one about a recent list of popular funeral songs (‘Highway to Hell’ is a surprising chart-topper), but I was having trouble nailing down my own song list. Hopefully I don’t die tonight, because my iPod is sorely lacking a solid set of selections for the funeral. Just make sure it’s absurd, but upbeat. Like maybe Tom Jones ‘It’s Not Unusual’?

And then there was one about how much I repeat myself.

But nothing was clicking.

And then I turned on the TV and saw – for the second time in 24-hours – a commercial for a product called “Your Baby Can Read!”

Have you seen this?

It’s alarming.

It would be funny if it was a joke, but it’s not a joke. It’s got footage of a preemie reading aloud from Shakespeare and then an 18-month old perusing the Wall Street Journal, interspliced with exciting voiceovers about how babies are born to read. Babies LOVE to read. Babies who aren’t reading and writing letters to the editor and splitting atoms are just wasting their and your precious freaking time. Babies were put on this earth to read..and YOURS CAN TO.

And then, in a seemingly random and non-correlated event, I was looking on, and you know how they have that feature at the bottom where people start random conversations about whatever wacky thing is on their mind (usually wanting to fight about god or creation or overly-assert some kind of rigid opinion) and hundreds of people chime in?

I don’t know why this is there and what it has to do with selling books, and I never chime in, but sometimes I lurk, and tonight I saw a subject line about proper reading materials for a voracious book-loving 4-year old Einstein. The mother was worried about Harry Potter being too scary, and dozens of people (also the parents of genius reader babies) were chiming in about how their pre-schooler loved Tolstoy and James Joyce.

And I just start thinking…what IS this?


Admittedly, I don’t have a baby.

To the best of my knowledge, in the next nine months there will not be a baby.

But I was a baby once.

Apparently a very dumb baby.

And this strikes me as worrisome.

Let’s break it down: When I was four years old I could not read.

I maybe knew the alphabet, but I think I thought ‘elemenopee’ was a letter.

At four years old I played with gypsy moth caterpillars, cut all the hair off my Barbie, and was deathly afraid of the rock band KISS. And I knew that the house on the corner housed a witch and if you looked at the windows too long, she would sense you and eat you. And believed that if I was wearing Keds, I could jump over a tree (despite numerous failed attempts).

Basically, stacked up against your average under-achieving nobody reads to him and nobody bought him ‘Your Baby Can Read!’ 2009 4-year old, I was Rainman idiot stupid…without the savant part. No toothpick counting here. Just underpants from K-Mart.

And I guess I’m saying even if your baby can read, WHY should he/she read? Is this really advisable?

Should it just be, “Your baby can read and watch CNN and worry about the economy and their future and whether or not the planet will be habitable in 50 years before they’re even out of diapers!”?

Read what?

And why?

I get rushing to adulthood when life ends at 35. I’m fine with that. In that case, get married at 13, be a grandparent at 26, and in the ground by my age. Smoosh it all together, hit the ground running, and make sure your christening gift is a subscription to the New Yorker.

But if you’re probably going to make it to 75 or 85 or even more? And (if you’re like 99% of the population) worry your @ss off through the bulk of it?

Why bother?

Be an idiot kid for a while. Struggle to stack some colorful rings on a plastic rod. Do work with your bubble mower. Make tons of long-distance calls to imaginary friends and potted plants on a play phone. Eat some poop. Marry your dog. Whatever.

Just don’t start reading.

And for god’s sake, don’t start blogging.

The last thing I need is more competition.


All genius babies who are also surfing the internet looking for soft porn and somehow – disappointingly – end up at this blog instead, but then decide you would like me to start a special blog just for you, send me an e-mail with some subject matter of interest, and I’ll see what I can do.

  • Want to know if Santa is real?
  • Confused about how the Tooth Fairy gets in and out undetected?
  • Can’t find Waldo?
  • Wondering if that dead goldfish your mother flushed really went into the ocean?
  • Confused about the difference between ‘by accident’ and on purpose’? (That confounded me until I was about seven – bad confusion to have, let me tell you what…)

If you’re willing to buy me beers (or click on ads until you have blisters)…then I could be the demystifying adult you’ve been looking for!)

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