Hey, everyone! It’s regular ol’ JD here. No, sorry, I do NOT know where Dr. JD or Professor JD are right now. You’re stuck with me.

It gets worse.

You’re also stuck with an old post, because the only things I’ve been doing lately are:

• Bikram yoga
• rehydrating
• Wrapping Prudence up like a burrito (she likes it!)
• Working
• Wrapping myself up like a burrito because even tho it’s 80 degrees outside, regular ol’ JD is FREEZING, y’all!

Nothing really worth writing about, you see.

So please enjoy or ignore this post from the salad days of my blog. It may be over 3 years old, but I believe its message is as relevant today as it was way back then.

___________________________________

Comma comma comma comma comma chameleon
You come and go, you come and go

We Need, Commas.

There used to be a small grocery store in Evanston I walked by just to look at the display of giant turtles. You know, those slabs of chocolate and caramel and pecans too delicious to need a particular shape. These were especially huge—as big as a baby’s head and twice as scrumptious. In my heart, I knew I could eat five. But the handwritten sign under the display was unclear.

“Try one big mama.”

Now, are they saying that the turtles are big mamas and that you, the customer, should try one? Like, “Try one big mama and you will die of pleasure”? And did this mean I couldn’t eat five after all? In my confusion, my appetite disappeared, and I walked on.

A week or so later, I passed the store again, and the sign had mysteriously changed. Now it read

“Try one, big mama.”

Oho! So now I, the prospective customer, am the big mama, in which case, maybe I don’t exactly need to be eating giant chocolate slabs. Far too sensitive to admit to being a big mama, I once again passed up the delectable treats.

But my curiosity and chocolate craving brought me back. Again! The sign had changed!

“Try a big mama.”

OK, so now I’m fairly confident that the turtles are, indeed, the big mamas, not me. The next step: to actually go into the store and ask for a big mama. But what if I was wrong? Could I trust the sign after all these changes? Could I trust a vendor with such a shaky understanding of the all-important comma? I thought it safer to wait and see if the sign underwent any more changes, possibly the addition of an exclamation point.

The next time I passed the store, the “big mama” sign was gone and the chocolate slabs were replaced with fruit.

I hate fruit.

If you want to punctuate things:

• Eats, Shoots & Leaves by Lynne Truss is an amusing and informative read.

If you want to skip the boring grammar lesson and join the Big Mama Club:

• Pixies!
• Pecan Buds!
• Make your own!

_______________________

Delicious turtles came from here

And the worms ate into his Head (brain)

Hello, and welcome to yet another (FREE!) installation of Dr. JD diagnoses and cures the sickly people of the Internet!

My esteemed colleague Professor JD recently took the blogosphere by storm when she appeared over at Cardiogirl’s VIP Lounge to help a bunch of people with their inane questions. Dr. JD was not at all miffed that SHE wasn’t invited. After all, she has her own forum right here. Harumph.

Dr. JD approves of this practice. It is unwise to deal with the full-fledged stench of two whole armpits at once, therefore, one armpit = half the stench. But Dr. JD is curious. Why exactly do you need to know what you would have smelled like? I can pretty much guarantee you, it would have been bad. Spaghettios-bad.

Er, perhaps you should start using deodorant under both arms. Also, potato chips? This is a new one. Dr. JD has heard of chicken soup, Spaghettios, and even that bacon mayonnaise everyone’s talking about. Potato chips? Huh.

Dr. JD does not know where one might find such videos. Honest. Never has Dr. JD EVER been the least bit tempted to seek out bunion fetish videos. Or (shudder) toe corn videos. Now, if you’re talking about hammertoe fetish videos, Dr. JD is all ears. Like, seriously. Send links. And screencaps.

Are you a female? A drag queen? A hermaphrodite? There are many reasons a person is minus a bulge. Perhaps you’re a man with a pathetically small penis. If that’s the case, well, not even Dr. JD can help you.

First off, do you have a bulge? I would imagine a six-foot male would have a fairly decent bulge. And you know what they say: the bigger the bulge, the longer the intestine. Dr. JD is not sure “they” say that, but it sounds about right. So to answer your question, yes.

Look, Dr. JD is sick and tired of all the queries about colonoscopy-as-weight-loss tool. And don’t try to get all sly about it either. You will neither lose nor loose weight after a colonoscopy. Unless . . .

Sigh. You are not supposed to drink the shitting water. That’s what you flush down the toilet. Are you drinking the shitting water in an attempt to lose or loose weight? Because if you are, Dr. JD guarantees instant weight loss due to the intense vomiting that will occur after drinking the shitting water.

Because you drank the shitting water, duh.

For crying out loud, will you people leave your penises alone? The gristle part is not supposed to be removed. If you keep pulling random gristle out of “spots” on your penis, you’re not going to have a bulge. You DO want a good bulge, don’t you?

Uh huh. You pulled too much gristle out of there, didn’t you? You have only yourself to blame.

Dear god, I hope you’re not talking about the penis whole that appeared after you pulled out all the gristle causing the purple lump to burst. That’s the wrong whole! Don’t put it in there!

Thank you for clarifying that you are referring to the brain part of the “Head” as opposed to, say, the nasal cavity or the eyeball socket. Worms in the Head (brain) are very rare and you wouldn’t know you had them until you were dead. Dead men tell no tales, so I guess no one would know if you had Head Worms. How exactly do you think you contracted these worms?

Aha. Yes. Raw Poptarts are the number-one cause of Head Worms in the US. Everyone knows an uncooked Poptart not only tastes nasty but will give you an instant case of Head Worms. And please don’t give me the tired excuse that you don’t have a toaster. JD’s robot husband simply puts his under the broiler. (The cause of his Head Worms is none of your business.)

You can never truly get the smell of suffer off your hair. Once the hair has been through trauma, the smell of suffer lingers, often for years.

You’re welcome. And no, it was not a pretty thing to see, nor was it a pretty thing to smell. But it was better than the smell of suffer.

Well, it’s horrible dead skin, isn’t it? Really, there is no need to bother Dr. JD with questions you’ve already answered yourself.

Dr. JD tries to avoid dealing with elderly patients. Come on, they are almost always querulous and crabby. Who needs that? There is not much you can do with your stubborn old mother, altho you might try asking her why the hell she’s wearing a colonoscopy bag in the first place. You don’t need a bag! The shitting water goes straight down the toilet! Geez! Old people!

Indeed.

The answer is an emphatic YES but only if you tend to use a concrete block for a pillow and begin your sleep routine by slamming your head onto it.

Well, you obviously slammed too hard. Try switching to something less pointy.

That was no dream. That was Dr. JD, trying out a new procedure. Your friend will thank me . . . some day. Also, remind her to buy some more mustard.

Well, perhaps it’s because you’ve got a bunch of hotdogs shoved up in there. Dr. JD recommends a colonoscopy (NOT a colonoscopy bag) and plenty of shitting water.

That’s the spirit! Dr. JD likes porn too. Especially hammertoe porn.

Oh, yes! The ER nose snot story! Every doctor knows about that. Oh ho hohohohoho! It’s a good one, I tell you. HAW! Oh, dear (wipes tear from eye). Heh.

Aw, thanks, Mom.

*        *        *

Do YOU have a question for Dr. JD? Well, there’s no special treatment here. Google your question and pray you get lucky.

Hey, little sister, shot gun!

Yes, in my version of a Polish wedding, I get to marry Gabriel Byrne while Claire Danes looks on in confusion.

But this wasn’t my wedding.  Hell, we didn’t even GO to the wedding, because the deal was: wedding at 11:30, reception at 6:30, at a venue far, far away in another galaxy. We would have had to find something to do in between the wedding and the reception because, as Dave so poignantly said, “If we go home after the wedding, I’m not going back.”

So we chose the reception, but only after we were promised rare Meats of the East(ern Europe) and a House of Food.

Listen bubs, if you’re planning on attending a Polish wedding reception, the best advice I can give you is to bring a notebook. I used the Notepad app on my iPod to type a few notes, and this is what happened:

• Polisg reception
• Splanx
• Tying on old clothes
• Backup underwear
• T and h already married …. Wars the cockles
• Applying biofreeaze in car changing underwear
• Photo of purse that doesn’t zipin car taking notes told Dave “has anything happened yet “

Translation: I tried on some old clothes, tugged on a pair of Spanx, being sure to tuck a pair of backup underwear in my purse that I realized too late doesn’t zip close. Cockles of heart warmed by the groom (T) and bride (h), who, yes, were already married in a small civil ceremony but who wanted to do it right, this time with 400 guests and head cheese.

The Spanx didn’t even make it into the reception hall. They lasted about as long as it took to pull out of our driveway. Thank god for backup underwear. Thank god, also, for Biofreeze, which I applied liberally in the car, managing to get the jelly-like substance all over my skirt (and backup underwear).

And as I typed frantically away, Dave noted  that “nothing has happened yet.” Oh, Dave. How little you understand the blog of JD.

ANYway, the bride was gorgeous, the groom was handsome, everyone was happy, blah, blah, blah and now onto the FOOD!

First, there were candy bars and mini champagne bottles on every other plate. I selected a candy bar plate!

There was also a platter of mysterious cheeses. Don’t be scared! JD tried each one so you don’t have to, and found them to be not only mysterious but delicious.

A bottle of vodka on every table.

The “House of Food”! Except it was more like a House of Scary Meats and Questionable Cheeses. Mmmm — is that a rib cage I see?

See that big round white thing? A cheese.

The meats of Poland!

Is head cheese a meat or a cheese? It really doesn’t matter, because who in their right mind would eat that?

As we started our delicious dinner (no photos), I anxiously eyed the dessert table. Surely after we ate, there would be a mad run on desserts. What if they ran out? I hate waiting in line! I want my desserts now!

My plate of desserts, which sat on the table, untouched, then traveled home with me on a paper plate covered in napkins, then sat in the fridge overnight, after which I promptly forgot about them.

As we watched the happy bride and groom on the dance floor, I sighed to Dave, “I wanna get married again.” “OK!” he said, more enthusiastically than I would’ve imagined. I continued excitedly, “We can renew our vows on the beach!”

“Oh, I thought you meant you wanted to marry someone else.”

“. . .”

I’m more than a little disturbed by that enthusiastic “OK!” I bet Gabriel Byrne wouldn’t let me marry anyone else.

_______________________

Polish wedding DVD came from here

Su-su-sushi don’t you cry
Take you to the sushi bar and buy you some
Fillet and claw
Clam and tuna
Gonna eat it raw

So then there was that time I was covered in tar.

The end.

Oh, you want details. Well, you would.

Listen, y’all can get covered in tar all by yourselves. You don’t need me to do it! Here’s how it works:

• Park your car 8 blocks from the sushi place because you’re always afraid you won’t find a closer parking space and you’ll end up circling endlessly while your sushi sits there getting stale.
• Walk 7 blocks in broiling heat.
• Encounter a large tar patch that has NO signs or blockades or whatever to keep you from walking on it.
• Look around nervously. There is literally no way to avoid that tar.
• Place one flip-flopped foot (yes, those adorable pink Paul Frank flip-flops that you wear 24/7 [YES, in bed!] even though you’re supposed to be wearing orthotics, but dang, it’s hot and your feet sweat) gingerly on the tarred surface.
• Pay close attention to that sinking feeling. It’s telling you that you should’ve found a detour because this tar is NOT DRY. Your flip-flops are sticking. It’s the freaking La Brea Tar Pit all up in here and YOU’RE WALKING IN IT DUMBASS!
• But what else can you do? There are no signs!
• Grimly, you pull each foot up and with it, about a pound of tar. You feel large chunks of it hit the back of your legs as you walk.
• The name “flip-flop” begins to take on a darker meaning.
• Reach down to flick off those bits of tar from your leg. Realize tar doesn’t flick so much as stick.
• Try flinging former leg tar off of hand. It won’t fling either.
• For god’s sakes, don’t . . . DON’T. Oh, man. You did. You’re going to have to cut off that piece of hair, you know.
• Your face will now begin to itch. Whatever you do . . . boy, you just don’t listen, do you?
• Enter sushi place and ignore the fact that everyone is staring in horror at this tar-encrusted monster who is flinging and flicking and shaking and scratching.
• Pay for sushi with tar-covered money from your tar-filled purse and take your sorry tarry ass home.

Once you’re in the safety of your locked bedroom, consult the experts on tar removal:

These experts will not help you so much as make fun of you, but there’s healing to be found in being mocked and humiliated.

Eat your sushi and quit complaining.

*        *        *

Hey, speaking of tar, remember that guest post on skin tag removal? Guess who wrote that?

GUESS, I said.

It was our friend Junk Drawer Kathy!

Yup. She didn’t want to say “hooha” at her place, so she dragged her triumphant but gag-inducing story of skin tags and lady parts over here, where all manner of grossness is welcome and treated with the respect it deserves.

Thank you, Kathy! (AKA: “Some Lady.”)

Jump by your will or be taken by force
I’ll get you either way
Trying to keep the hellfire lit
I am stalking you as prey

Welcome! Professor JD here. You might already be familiar with my esteemed colleague Dr. JD, who helps troubled and diseased souls across the Internet with their medical issues.

My role is similar. If you have a question, I will answer it! For free! As a professor of . . . things, I consider no question too bizarre or too personal.

So let’s get to it!

Just how often are you puking on your shower curtain? You do know you’re supposed to puke in the toilet, right? When it comes down to cleaning up puke or installing a new shower curtain, it’s a toss-up (see what I did there?) I suggest moving to a new house, one that has a shower door. But aim for the toilet.

Well, first you need to ask yourself if you even like porn. Maybe you’re one of those weirdos who doesn’t get turned on by photos of naked dogs posing on furry rugs. But if you’re not one of those weirdos, perhaps you have a collection of porn videos that is confusing and scaring you. Please forward these videos to Professor JD for a more in-depth resolution to your query.

Ending this question with an exclamation point makes me feel excited about big butts! Yes, I agree, you must get a big butt no matter what. If butt implants (WARNING: photos of butts!) are too expensive, consider either eating lots of donuts or eating lots of pizza or both. (It worked for Professor JD!)

Let the other person make the first move. It’s horribly embarrassing to find your tongue jammed into someone’s mouth when they were just going in for a polite peck.

It’s simple: One tongue goes in the opposite mouth. This is assuming we’re talking about two people. If it’s more than two, you’re just going to have to draw a diagram or something.

Men show their tongues when working out as a way to attract women, duh. Also, why all the interest in tongues? Tongues are better when you ignore them. Once you start thinking too much about your tongue . . . damn it.

This may actually be the title of a Lifetime movie as opposed to a question. Either way, my answer is: Maybe.

Are you responsible for that topless person from above? If so, give her back her underware. This game is no longer funny.

The thong may start out lying on top of the butt, however, chances are as you move around throughout the day, it will begin to slip inexorably up the butt. Some people claim that this sensation is not annoying. These people were obviously born without nerve endings in their butt cracks.

No.

This question has baffled scholars and scientists for years. How the fuck potatoes grow is that you stick a potato seed in the fucking ground and wait a while. Then you pull it out of the ground and fucking eat it.

While this is not exactly a question, I feel compelled to point out that “netherregions” is only appropriate as a single word when referencing Robert Plant. Example 1: “My nether regions are all itchy.” Example 2: “Robert Plant’s netherregions look like they’d be all itchy.” (Because Robert Plant wears such tight jeans, is my reasoning.)

Yes, although in America we spell it “fetus,” which makes more sense because it has fewer letters. That “o” is totally unnecessary. Where are you from? I bet you pronounce “lieutenant” with an “f.”

Of course not! Who told you that? I hope Dr. JD isn’t filling your head with nonsense about green leafy vegetables and “high cholesterol” again.

Well, the statute of limitation on poison is nineteen years, so you are pretty much shit out of luck unless you happened to have a video camera set up in your bedroom. Did you? Were you able to capture any ghosts or other paranormal entities? Were the ghosts friendly or did they try to scare you? I’m beginning to think the ghosts were responsible for your poisoning, in which case, once again, you are shit out of luck.

I would imagine Amazon.com sells Pentagon-shaped crackers. They sell freaking everything. I’ve ordered Washington Monument-shaped crackers from Amazon, and man, are those things pointy.

If you see a moth that looks like a pork chop, you should run. If, by chance, you are feeling brave and creative, I would recommend that you compose a song about this moth to the tune of Aerosmith’s “Dude Looks Like a Lady.”

No. It’s a way of saying you are a pork chop.

Yes. If you listen to Metallica’s “One Potato, Two Potato, Three Potato, Devil!” backwards, you will hear the line “How the fuck do (green) potatoes grow.” Any song that includes the F-word is automatically about the devil; hence green potatoes = the devil.

HA! Everyone wants to know this. Believe me, you wouldn’t even know what to do with a JD if you got one.

What I mean is, I like it burnt to the point of the liquid turning to ash, which is actually impossible, so I think then what I mean is that I like it really hot? (Does anyone else know the answer to this one?)

This is true. Many people erroneously believe that bones can actually burn if a fire is hot enough. This is absurd! Bones cannot burn! No, there is a giant bone dumpsite just outside of Newark. That’s where your bones (and too-hot coffee) go.

Cube heads can be the most difficult to shop for, especially when it comes to sexy underware. The thing to remember is, the shape of the head does not necessarily have anything to do with the shape of the nether regions. At least I don’t think so. Because, man, that would be bizarre, wouldn’t it?

Yes, you are. Sorry. Blood relatives who share sex germs usually end up with cube-headism, which may or may not affect your nether regions. I’ll have to confer with Dr. JD, but I think the only cure is to eat a steady diet of green potatoes.

What the hell kind of parent are you? You probably let your son play with your sex toys too. For god’s sake, pick out the bugs first. As for the bugs he’s ingested? It’s too late. I hope you feel guilty.

Ah, yes. I remember there was a bit of a kerfluffle when everyone forgot Prudence’s first birthday. Don’t let it happen again. Mark this down in your calendar: March 28. She will be three years old next year.

Yes. Yes, they do.

*        *        *

Do YOU have a question for Professor JD? Does it have to do with tongues? If it has to do with tongues, please just Google it.

___________________

Mutant tongue came from here

They’ve given you a number and taken away your name

Let’s blame this one on lack of sleep, shall we?

First off, I have an iPod Touch. Man, it’s awesome. I love it like a boyfriend, even tho that “Vibrate” function doesn’t work. Pity. What it DOES do is play music and . . . apps. It has apps. Things that do things that I don’t necessarily need but, they’re apps. APPS!

Before my iPod, I didn’t even know what “app” meant. I think I sort of thought it was short for “appetite.” I don’t know.

Like I said, lack of sleep.

I have an app that rolls a pair of dice, one that makes a buzzer noise, one that gives you a crystal ball answer, one that links to the Homeland Security Advisory System, and yes, a clinometer.

So this morning, when I blearily looked through my e-mail, I was not all THAT surprised to see that I had a message from . . . my iPod.

The fact that my iPod is now sentient wasn’t as disturbing as the message itself:

Secret agent man

Wow. Obviously I am a double agent with amnesia. I probably programmed my iPod to send me this message to alert me of danger. Next, I’ll get a message telling me where all my fake passports are. This is exciting. I’d better check my nooks and crannies for a microchip that will reveal my true identity.

Or.

Did I . . . ? Oh. Yeah, I remember now. In the car yesterday, I heard a song I wanted to download. I used my Note app to email me the title, so I wouldn’t forget. I didn’t even think it worked! But it did. My iPod reminded me to download the awesome “Secret Agent Man” by Johnny Rivers.

But why that song? There’s a reason. And it’s all on that microchip. I’ve just got to find it. Surely there’s an app for that?

What’s YOUR favorite app?

_____________________________

Secret agent man came from here.

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Um . . .

Last night, while reading my favorite news publication, I found out that I’m supposed to be wearing a bra.

This whole “bra” craze has totally passed me by. In fact, I’ve never been very preoccupied with my breastal area.

I do vaguely recall being 16 and reading about a young woman who was a “late bloomer.” Phew, I thought. So, then, am I (I wasn’t). I also remember those chest exercises where you’d push your palms together and chant, “We must, we must, we must increase our bust, The bigger, the better, the tighter the sweater, the boys depend on US!”

But, as it turned out, boys didn’t depend on us for just big boobs, so I was cool.

Anyway, according to this magazine exposé, I need to spend approximately $50 on a bra. That’s the equivalent of two sushi take-outs from Sea Ranch. Which is more important to me? Proper support and nipple coverage or spicy teriyaki salmon with extra-EXTRA wasabi? I think we both know the answer to that.

But I was curious about this strange form of undergarment, so I read the descriptions.

Victoria’s Secret has a “7-Way” bra that allows you to change or remove the straps. That sounds way too complicated. There is apparently a type of bra called “balconette.” And something called a “bralette”! HAHAHA! Adding “ette” to words amuses me. For smaller chestlettes, why not purchase an Itty Bitty Bra? Because who wants to buy a bra named Itty Bitty, that’s why!

For a mere $44 I can “let this pretty bandeau peek out from under a tank.” For $44 it should do more than peek. I will wear that damn thing OVER a tank to completely confound the neighbors.

Spanx’s “Bra-llelujah!” promises the end of unsightly bulging, and I wonder if I can wear it on my butt.

Maidenform’s “Ultimate” push-up bra is the most appealing. Not only is it the cheapest of the bunch, it comes in leopard-print! Unfortunately, you need something to push up in the first place, and THAT is why I don’t even bother.

I do own a bra. My mom gave me one of her cast-offs. So it’s a Mom Bra. It’s very constricting, but isn’t that the very nature of bras? Also “bras” is a funny word. I think I’ll go with “bralette.”

And nipple flowers.

_______________________

Bra came from here

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Years from now when you talk about this
—and you will—
be kind.

My mom is 74.

She has COPD.

And a few other issues.

This week her COPD rehab class is having a Halloween party.

My mom is going as a belly dancer.

And she will dance.

You got a problem with that?

‘Cuz she doesn’t.

DANCE, MOM, DANCE!

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I've always wanted to have a neighbor just like you

Pretty L-of-the-V came from here

Oh, peeps, this was so creep-ay!

When we moved into our house 11 years ago, the previous owners told us they had never seen the elderly woman two doors down but that her daughter came around every so often to bring her supplies or whatever. Cool. Our other neighbors seemed really nice, and we settled into a happy existence, never thinking about the mean old lady on the corner or her daughter. Except one time I saw the alleged daughter in her backyard, throwing an empty milk carton into the next yard. I gave her a hard look, tho I was wearing sunglasses, which might have mitigated the effect.

ANYway, it’s the present. In the entire 11 years, I’ve never seen the crazy old lady on the corner. (Yes, she went from being an elderly woman to a crazy old lady.) Not only that, her windows are papered over. Not only THAT, when I’ve skulked around the alley behind her house . . . oh, but surely you get the picture.

ANYway, it’s the present. Again. I was enjoying a cookout with my family and I happened to look over between the gap in our bushes and saw The Trash-Throwing Daughter. She looked friendly enough, and she wasn’t whipping garbage into other people’s yards, so I gave her a wave.

She responded by yelling something I couldn’t hear, so I hollered back some gibberish of my own: grass, weather, flowers, sky. She kept yelling, and it seemed that something more than gibberish was required, so I motioned that I would go around to the front of her house.

So there I was! Face to face with the daughter of the evil witch from the haunted house! She seemed harmless, but I kept my distance, for that is my way. She asked me if I wanted some lilies of the valley and I DID! I figured she had been gardening (her mother being too old and infirm and busy eating young children) and had dug up a bunch that she didn’t want.

Wrong. She handed me a trowel and motioned to her garden. Oh. I was supposed to dig them up. This was weird, to say the least. I could see my family looking anxiously through the bushes. I wanted to eat my hot dog! I didn’t want to garden with my creepy neighbor. I stalled by making small talk.

“So, how long has your mom lived here?”

“My mom doesn’t live here.”

???

“Do YOU live here?”

Long silence. Then finally:

“Yes.”

“Oh! How long have you lived here?”

Creepy smile.

“A long time.”

“Well, we’ve lived here 11 years, and I’ve NEVER seen you!”

“I’ve never seen YOU!”

OK, now, that’s impossible. People see me! I’m out and about. I’m on my driveway taking pictures of the fetus, I’m scooping up dog poo, I’m walking the cats on their leashes. I am a presence in the neighborhood! You cannot say you’ve never seen me!

I looked toward her house and could have sworn I saw a curtain twitch.

I practically threw the trowel at her. “I think I hear my mom calling me!”

I ran home and buried myself under a bunch of sofa cushions. Dave was still in the yard, manning the grill, but everyone else was inside. I proceeded to tell them the story of the creepy neighbor when . . .

OHMYGOD THERE SHE IS! I scream-whispered. She was walking down our driveway! Did she have the trowel? Someone rescue Dave! He’s out there! Alone!

But Dave came in shortly thereafter. He was holding a bunch of lilies of the valley.

“Uh, your neighbor brought you these.”

“Oh.”

My family gave me a collective side-eye and went back to enjoying the cookout.

I ate my hot dog inside.

And I threw away the lilies of the valley. Because I know if the wicked witch who lives in that scary house can shape-shift, she can sure as hell put a curse on flowers.

Is it just me, or . . .

Kobe Bryant

Ed Grimley

. . . is the Kobe Scowl suddenly not all that menacing?

_________________________

Watch! Kobe scowl

Watch! Ed Grimley waiting for Christmas