Chicken person came from here

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Poor Dave. But he had his chance.

Two years ago, when I first started this blog, my second post was about visiting a nude beach. Dave was concerned that his family might read it and asked me to write something else. My response was to burst into tears and sob, “If I can’t blog about nudity, I can’t blog about ANYthing.” So he gave in.

He’s been regretting it ever since.

Unlike those nice bloggers who kindly disguise their husband’s name, I put it right out there: DAVE. You could probably Google “JD’s husband Dave” and figure out his identity. (Wait! Let me try it . . . eh. No.)

Dave has provided a lot of delicious blog fodder. I’ve shared with you the story of his weird choking allergy, how he rudely ate half a donut, his inexplicable Pie Rage, his preference for cheap ice cream, his refusal to say “Bless you” after I sneeze. And, yes. I’ve even shown you his snail.

So today’s post about embarrassing Dave centers around his recent statement:

I just want to hold the Gilligan’s Island DVD in my hands.

Men, if you’re married to a blogger, be careful about making such statements.

To fulfill Dave’s dream, we went to Half-Price Bookstore, where I snapped up some cheap books and Dave spent an unseemly amount of time agonizing over Season 2 or Season 3 of Gilligan’s Island. He had visited the bookstore previously but came home empty-handed. This time, however, after holding it in his hands, he purchased Season 2.

Once home, we parted ways for the evening. He to nap downstairs and me to ignore the growing pile of half-price books on my shelf to watch Real Housewives of New Jersey.

“Are you going to watch Gilligan’s Island?”

“No, I want to be alert.”

Later, I joined him for a few minutes of Gilligan-Fest. It was the one where the native family wants Gilligan to marry their ugly daughter. Boy, that Skipper really overacts. This isn’t vaudeville, Alan Hale Jr. Why did I ever have a crush on the Professor? OK, Ginger really IS sexier than Mary Ann. Mr. Howell: kind of hot?

I could only take about 5 minutes. Gilligan’s Island has not stood the test of time for me. But Dave enjoyed watching several episodes in a row.

The next morning he delivered a monologue on one of the episodes:

It was the one where there was a space probe headed for Mars and it accidentally lands on the island and Gilligan left open the pot of glue and everyone got all covered in glue and then they ran into the supply hut and got covered in feathers and mission control saw these people running around covered in feathers and thought they’d discovered the Chicken People of Mars.

I stared at him for about three seconds, then turned to my laptop.

Oh, Dave. How I love you. You and your delicious blog fodder.

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• Which of your childhood TV shows have stood the test of time?
• Who else *hearts* Dave for being such a good sport?
• Chicken People live among us!
  

Pickle came from here

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Of course I do NOT!

But some people have to. Wash themselves with a rag on a stick, I mean. And it’s not polite to laugh. In front of them.

The whole rag on a stick phenomenon began as simple cartoony fun on a Simpsons episode. Imagine my amused horror when this concept became a frightful reality.

Homies, may I present:

The Comfort Wipe (formerly Rag on a Stick™)

This revolutionary product allows you to “easily reach with comfort.” Reach where? Oh, I think you know.

THERE.

Please read on:

For over a hundred years we’ve been using toilet tissues the same old way.

Toilet paper has been around for 100 years? Huh. And before that, what: corncobs? Regardless, who knew there was something OTHER than “the same old way” to use toilet paper?

The Comfort Wipe grabs and holds the toilet tissue in perfect positions so you can easily wipe yourself.

Oh. OK, but I have hands that can do that too.

When you’re done, just dispense the soiled tissue right in the toilet with the press of a button. It’s perfect for everyone, especially if you have trouble easily reaching because of physical limitations. Now you’ll never have to touch a dirty toilet tissue!

OK, physical limitations aside, just what do these people think we’ve been doing with our toilet paper? I don’t know about you, but one of the first things I learned as a toilet-trained toddler was how NOT to hold the toilet paper. Is anyone out there actually holding the dirty part? You’re doing it wrong!

Comfort Wipe extends your reach a full 18″ while the anatomical design follows the contours of your body for perfect cleaning.

Just how does Comfort Wipe know the contours of my body? Does it come with a special attachment for the large-butted woman? I’m just sayin’. All butts are different.

Look, I’m sure this product would be helpful to people with physical limitations or those who don’t understand the concept of NOT holding the dirty part of the toilet paper, but otherwise . . . there are way better other products on a stick out there:

• Wigs on Sticks! Finally! A true hair band.
  
• Fair Food on a Stick! All kinds of weird and wacky foods that just taste better on a stick.
  
• JD’s Head on a Stick! It’s my very own head! On a stick! Set to music! (Kathy made this; you’ll have to ask her why.)
• Adults Only! I hope you know I’m not above Googling “dick on a stick.”

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• What’s YOUR favorite _____ on a stick?
• Do you prefer Comfort Wipe or Rag on a Stick?
• Would you buy a JD Head on a Stick?
  

Oh, boy. It isn’t often I have insomnia, and it’s even less often that there’s something good on TV when I do. The other night I caught Mr. Sardonicus on MeTV. A classic Gothic horror flick, Mr. Sardonicus features slow-building psychological terror and creepy scary stuff like graves and fog and vague Eastern European accents. Brrrr! Despite the lack of sleep, I’ve been smiling ever since.

In a nutshell: A humble peasant guy (soon to be known as Mr. Sardonicus) digs up his father’s grave to retrieve a winning lottery ticket. The sight of his father’s horrifying corpse-face (flesh pulled back to create a seeming grimace) causes him first to scream like a little girl and second to develop a similar frozen grimace . . .

The dude can’t stop smiling.

A fright-masked Mr. S. summons a doctor to his castle in Gorslava (nice!), where we find a deformed man-servant, a frigid wife, and possibly fake leeches. The doctor first tries applications of heat and massage to rid Mr. S. of his horrifying grin, but when that doesn’t work, he’s forced to try an experimental cure—strychninus toxicus (doesn’t sound too poisonous, does it?) It works . . . a little too well. The doctor and wife run off together, leaving Mr. Sardonicus to his fate.

And what is his fate? Ah, that’s up to the viewer . . . sort of. For the theatrical release, director William Castle passed out “Punishment Poll” cards to audience members. In the movie, he pops up before the final scene to remind everyone to hold up their card: thumbs up if the villain is to receive mercy or thumbs down for no mercy. Of course there was only one ending filmed, and you can rest assured Mr. Castle knew his audience.

So what’s so bad about a perma-smile?

Um . . . this?

Why so serious?

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HAHAHAHAHAHA! OK, not that horrifying, right? But bear in mind, this movie was made in 1961. What if they remade Mr. Sardonicus, using modern special effects and CGI? Maybe the villain would be a woman. Yeah. Mrs. Sardonicus. A woman so vain, so obsessed with trying to be funny that . . .

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!!!

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• Watch the trailer here
• Watch some scenes, including the horrifying REVEAL (and leeches) here
• Buy your own Mr. Sardonicus doll . . . er, model . . . here

So? What’s your verdict? Thumbs up or down?

By speaking, I mean reading. And by reading, I mean puking.

Who wants to come and watch me puke?

It all started as a harmless joke. Junk Drawer Kathy sent me the link from BlogHer asking for bloggers to submit a favorite post. The chosen posts would be read by their authors at the Community Keynote on Friday, July 24, of the BlogHer Convention. We laughed about how if either of us had to actually stand in front of people and talk, we’d puke, have a panic attack, or die. Or all three. Kathy urged me to submit a post, so, jokingly, I did.

And . . . OH MY ZOD! They picked me! What do I do? I guess I show up and read my damn post. It’ll be terrifying but fun. I’ll have to sleep on rollers for a week and lose 50 pounds in about a month. My mom’s advice: “Buy a nice dress. And not on ebay.” But what if I puke on it? Oh, come on now. I haven’t puked in public in months. It’ll be fine.

Seriously, I’m thrilled to be participating in the company of so many awesome bloggers. There are five categories—Epiphanies, Commentary, Family, Travel, and Humor—and four speakers for each category. Please check out my fellow Humor speakers:

• Wendi Aarons from Wendi Aarons
• Georgia Getz from I am Bossy
• Danielle Henderson from Knotty Yarn

Crap! I just peeked at their blogs. They are all funny.

Read the entire list of keynote speakers here

Are You Going to BlogHer?

Please come watch me puke—I mean, read. The Community Keynote starts at 5:00 on Friday.

Find me! Or tell me how to find you. The first ten people who come up to me and say, “You do things so I don’t have to” will be handed a FREE I Do Things sticker.

How will you know me? Oh, my darlings, have you not been paying attention? I’ll be the one with the big butt, the snarly hair, the huge honker, the scarred foot, the curvy spine, the bulbous goiter, the missing tooth, the mutant tongue. I might be eating bacon. I will not, however, be nude.

Also, I’ll be carrying a tote bag with my Sleeping Cat logo and I’ll be with Kathy, whom you will all recognize by her fabulous hair and and the constant stream of hilarious snark coming out of her mouth. I may also have a giant novelty flower in my hair. I’ll let you know.

Can’t Make It to BlogHer?

I have a fun, play-at-home game for you. The post I’m reading? Is a secret. So . . . you get to guess. GUESS THE POST! That’s it! The first person to guess which post I’ll be reading at BlogHer will WIN an item of their choice from my I Do Things store. Please write the title of the post in your comment. I cannot accept vague descriptions like “That one where you’re naked.” The contest will end at midnight, Thursday the 23d. After BlogHer, I’ll announce the winner.

I’ll also post the video. I’ll be the one puking, and Kathy will be the one holding my hair.

Giant cupcake comes from here

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You know those 100-calorie snack packs, right? They come in all kinds of shapes, flavors, and colors: from bright orange Cheetohs to pastel-pink cuppy cakes. It’s a great idea. Because each 100-calorie snack is packaged separately, you’re not tempted to gorge on a whole bag.

Please.

Does this approach really work on actual humans? Believe me, if I wanted more than 8 Goldfish crackers or 6 infant-sized Oreos, I would have absolutely no qualms about ripping open a second, third, fourth package. It’s just cellophane, people! Do you really feel that bad about taking another little bag from the ridiculously overpriced box of six and tearing it open?

I decided to give it a try and see if I could stop after only 100 calories.

Typically, I prefer my cupcakes to be the size of dinner platters. If they’re particularly good, I can stop at six. Unless there’s a ton of frosting. Then it’s eight.

TA DA!

Look! Instead of two normal cupcakes, you get three wee ones. And people, they are wee.

Observe:

Yeah, the cupcake really is that small (It is also that blurry. So is the penny. Shut up.)

Who can eat anything so small? It’s ridiculous. It’s a novelty cupcake. It doesn’t even deserve the name “cupcake.” Maybe “thimblecake” or “atomcake.”

After I get over the shock of the teeny tiny size, I’m assaulted by an overpowering strawberry aroma. Oof, it’s like Mr. Bubble, and yes, I do speak from vast experience. Geez! OK, it’s strawberry. I get it. No need to knock me unconscious. The label says “Cream Cheese Icing,” but this is a lie.

Theoretically, these cakelets can be eaten in two bites. This really only works if you’re imitating a prissy old lady  pretending to be having tea with other old ladies, where everyone is nibbling tea cakes with pursed lips and a delicate mincing of teeth. You know. Like, “Chomp, chomp, chomp, chomp. Oh, my dear Harriet. These are really ever so delicious but I cannot possibly eat another morsel! 3 atoms of crumbs is all I’m allowed per day!”

I’m no delicate old lady, but I bit one in two here for the purpose of science:

What a joke. There’s barely enough in my mouth to chew. If you take one bite, be prepared to just swallow it whole, because how do you chew three crumblets? The other two I popped into my mouth as if they were gumballs.

They’re not bad, once you get over the smell. The creamy inside is rather pleasant, and the “frosting” isn’t even as hard and rigid as you find on your typical Hostess Cupcake.

The verdict? I am NOT tempted to rip open another package. Possibly because I paid almost four dollars (Dave! Stop reading!) for a box of these so-called cupcakes, but more likely because I’m saving my appetite for that giant cupcake at the top.

How many bites to finish off that one?

LATER THAT DAY, eagle-eye reader absepa sent me this:

Wow. USA Today’s sports blog “Game On” posted something VERY similar to my Kobe-Grimley post here, a good two hours after my post went up.

Coincidence . . . or THIEVERY?

Eh, probably coincidence. But it could be thievery! And wouldn’t that be exciting? Either way, I saw it first. You guys will back me up, right?

I would greatly appreciate your support in publicizing this egregious . . . coincidence. PLEASE Digg, Stumble, Reddit this post. Send it to your local newspaper! Paper your neighborhood with flyers. Comment on the USA Today blog. I seek neither revenge nor remuneration, only recognition.

I SAW KOBE GRIMLEY FIRST!

Kobe Bryant

Ed Grimley

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

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Watch! Kobe scowl

Watch! Ed Grimley waiting for Christmas

Baby came from here

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Usually I’m in bed around 9, but last night I simply had to have some peanut butter toast. I plopped down in front of the TV, which proceeded to freeze as I channel-surfed. After I did the ol’ unplug/plug trick, some random channel came on. The online guide was still powering up, so I had to play: What Movie Is This?

It was an Asian guy, Lauren Holly, who was on that show, and Michael Learned, who I always mistake for Beverly Sills, even tho she isn’t an actress. (SIDENOTE: Isn’t “Learned” a cool last name? What about “Scholarly” as a last name? I personally [and heretofore secretly] have always wished my last name was “Eminence.” How awesome would THAT sound? “Ms. Eminence? Your order is ready.”)

Anyway, it takes me two seconds to figure out that this movie is probably about Bruce Lee. Never mind that the Asian actor looks nothing like Lee; the producers probably felt the typical American audience would see an Asian guy, rifle through their brain Rolodex for “Famous Asian Guys,” and be quite content to label this actor as 1. Bruce Lee, 2. Yo Yo Ma, or 3. Emperor Hirohito.

Jason Scott Lee, actor portraying Bruce Lee

Bruce Lee

I cain’t hardly tell ‘em apart!

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Anyway, Bruce Lee and Lauren Holly are trying to tell Michael Learned that they want to get married. She isn’t having it. She’s all polite and “Mr. Lee” and pinky finger raised whilst lifting her teacup, but she says gross things like “Oriental” and “yellow babies.” Mr. Lee somehow manages to refrain from karate chopping her ass and books right out of there.

Lauren Holly is pissed. She’s fine with whatever kind of baby she gets. And this made me think. Your plain old white American baby is usually cute, but . . . let’s admit it: we’ve all seen some ugly ones. But Asian babies? ALL CUTE ALL THE TIME. So Lauren Holly is no dummy. She knows she’s increasing her odds of having a cute baby.

She runs after Bruce who has taken off on his motorcycle. Somehow he hears her call him over the roar of the engine, a block away, in the rain, and comes back. They ride off.

I’m done with my peanut butter toast, so that’s it for me.

But later, I sneak a look on imdb.com.

YES! Dragon: The Bruce Lee Story (1999).

Bruce Lee was played by Jason Scott Lee, and for one horrifying second I’m afraid I’m going to have eat my words about how he looked nothing like Bruce Lee because in actuality he’s his damn son, but no. Different Lee.

I learned everything I need to know about the movie from the message boards:

They should call it “Dragon: The Stupid Story!”

This was like doing an autobiography on Arnold Schwarzenegger and casting Guy Pierce. Hey, don’t laugh! They are both white and have good bodies.

Why on earth would they make the story of someone’s life with SO MANY factual errors? Getting his back broke in an underground fight? Did they do any research at all with this?

It’s called a movie stupid. Getting his back broken from lifting a heavy weight isn’t as interesting as getting his back broken in a fight.

I get what you mean but the term “factual errors” is an oxymoron.

And the response to someone who dared say this was the worst movie ever:

And some of your favorites must be:

-Gigli

-Date Movie

-From Justin to Kelly

-Glitter

Oh, SNAP!

So what do you think? Was it just a movie stupid? Is “factual errors” an oxymoron? Is it bad to eat peanut butter so close to bedtime (hint: yes)? Asian babies: all cute all the time? But most important:

Beverly Sills

Michael Learned

I cain’t hardly tell ‘em apart!

Man, I’m sorry, but this happened and you’re gonna have to read about it.

The other day, I got tired of navigating the hairballs and dust bunnies and tumbleweeds that have taken up residence in our home, so I decided to vacuum. After about ten minutes, the vacuum cleaner started to let off a horrifying combination of stenches. My sensitive nose twitched. Burned rubber . . . dusty catnip . . . old shoe . . . something vaguely Italian. Lasagna? But mostly the unmistakeable aroma of burned hair.

I spent the next half hour unwinding gross hot hair from the brushy-rollery-thing . . . y. You know that thing. By the time I finished, there was this:

(stapler in photo for scale)

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Man, that’s almost a whole head of hair. OK, I’m exaggerating a bit. It’s not all hair. There’s other stuff in there, which I do not feel obligated to comment upon. (Lasagna?)

Dave noticed the smell as soon as he got home.

“Are you cooking rubber?” he asked.

Uh . . . let me think.

I explained that the vacuum cleaner, despite having been cleaned out thoroughly only 2 weeks ago, was once again not eating my hair. You see, this has happened before. We literally have to take the damn thing apart every time we vacuum to pull out the hair. Luckily, we don’t vacuum that often. Hey, I wonder if we vacuumed more often . . . nah.

I showed Dave the bag of hair and he drew back in revulsion.

“Throw that away!”

“I will, I just have to take a picture of it.”

But now I’m regretting throwing it away. I could have donated it to Locks of Love or perhaps to their lesser-known but still worthwhile sister charity Garbage Wigs. Or, I could’ve kept it on hand whenever I needed to make the point that someone was dumber than a bag of hair. OR, I could’ve let Dave make another doll with it.

Oh, well. I’m sure I’ll have more in a week or two.

So, who’s weirder? Me for posting this or you for reading it?

I think we all know the answer to that question.

EXTREME CLOSE-UP!!!

And you know, now that I think of it, it wasn’t even ME who gave away the ending. It was the barista.

Anyway. Rewind to two years ago, the season 3 finale of Lost. Remember? Desmond kept trying to save Charlie, but no matter what he did . . . “You’re gonna die, Charlie.” And die he did, drowning to death in a sealed-off room in the Looking Glass station after Patchy exploded a grenade. See ya in another life, brotha.

THAT was Wednesday. Flash-forward to Sunday at Starbuck’s, where I’m having a friendly chat with one of the baristas. We have discussed Lost before.

“Did you see the finale?” I asked.

“YES! Do you think Charlie’s really dead?”

“Seems like it. Tho you never know . . .”

I was interrupted by a gasp so loud and forceful it blew the froth off of my latte.

“Oh. My. God. I, like, haven’t watched that episode yet.”

We turned to the scary-looking young woman who had made this announcement. Her expression was one of outraged disbelief.

We stared at her, waiting for her to crack a smile or laugh and say how stupid was SHE for going to a public place before she’d watched the Lost finale, but no. She was genuinely and palpably pissed.

“I cannot believe you just gave away the ending.”

We were still in shock at her reaction. How could she seriously be so mad? The barista stood there with her mouth hanging open, and I felt uncomfortable enough (and, for a few seconds, guilty enough) to try to make amends.

“Well, now, he’s probably not dead. You know how it is on Lost. Dead people pop back up all the time. Maybe he’ll be back as a ghost or something . . .”

She was having none of it. She paid for her coffee and left in a huff. Of course as soon as the door shut, the barista and I erupted into wild if somewhat nervous laughter.

Later, tho, I was kind of mad. Because here’s the thing: If you’re a big enough fan of ANY TV show to care that much, you DO NOT GO OUT. Get it? You don’t leave your house. You don’t turn on your TV, computer, radio. You don’t answer the phone. If you have to look out a window, keep your eyes toward the ground in case one of those airplane banners happens to be flying by. You buy earplugs to avoid hearing your neighbors talking about it. You don’t talk to anyone, you don’t look at anything, you don’t listen to anything.

You especially don’t go prancing into a Starbuck’s FOUR WHOLE DAYS AFTER THE SEASON FINALE where there might be even the most remote chance of coming across two women yammering about Lost.

Dumbass.

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Watch Charlie die here! (Warning: it’s real sad)