Tag Archives: funny

That’s…not how lollipops work…


Okay, so it started innocently enough. A friend linked me to a gourmet lollipop site. This is the friend who’s also sending me some kind of witchcraft that’s apparently a sandwich spread MADE FROM COOKIES.  So she’s totally the good kind of friend!  We got to talking about the particular lollipops in question.

When I say “gourmet lollipops,” I mean that they make their own lollipops and feature flavours like Habañero Tequila, Chai, Maple Bacon (about which I will speak in a moment) and, my personal favourite name, the Pan-Galactic Gargle Blaster.

Maple Bacon lollies.  The description is something about being the first ever to make a “bacon-based” maple bacon lollipop, which I guess is the same thing movies mean when they say “based on a true story,” because there’s no actual bacon in them. In fact, it’s both kosher *and* vegan — two things I’m pretty sure real bacon can’t be. Then that same friend — the “I’m sending you spreadable cookies” friend — pointed out that the picture chosen to represent the fake-bacon monstrosity pop was a lasciviously posed woman being far too friendly with a bacon lollipop.

Turns out that the company is going to be changing all their lollipops pictures over to pictures chicks really enjoying these lollipops.  Aside from the whole “Lolita” aspect, which is problematic enough from a feminist perspective — but this is not a thinky blog, so don’t look to me for a sociological breakdown — there’s apparently a dark side to candy, guys.

I don’t know how to put this, especially since my mother occasionally reads this blog, but there’s a whole candy-coated perversion out there.  Lollipops are not the innocent candies of youth anymore.  I don’t think I’ll ever buy another lollipop again.

Did you know that there are people who will apparently buy lollipops that have been entirely too close to someone’s netherbits for anyone’s comfort?  (And isn’t that just begging for a yeast infection?  And… and… I don’t even want to think about this.)

Since I invented shark rockets to save NASA, I figured someone might need some proof that I’m not inventing hootiepops.  So, garnering every bit of dignity I have ever had and immediately shredding it, I googled. FOR YOU.  That’s how much I love you people.

But I couldn’t click any of the links and I felt intensely nauseated — because holy cow, people, the THINGS that turn up! — and I hated all of humanity and this time I was reasonably certain it wasn’t my own insanity pushing me toward misanthropy.

Cooterpops, people.  And that’s only the beginning. I’d tell you more, but my brain is threatening to leap out of my skull and strangle me if I even try to type — for the good of mankind — and, more importantly, I can’t think of witty euphemisms for the worst of them. It’s like humanity moved out of caves, put on some clothes and the following occurred:

Mankind: “We’ve invented the Internet!”

Internet: “Yay! Have vagina lollipops!”

Society: dies, screaming

Once you start selling herpes-flavoured crotchpops, society has broken down beyond repair.  I’m going to go loot the liquor cabinet and try to forget. Feel free to do the same.

I...I can't even look them in the eye. Wait. Since when do they have EYES?? I'm never going to sleep again.


Adventures in Cough Syrup


If you’ve ever seen television (and I know, because I almost never watch, but wait — I’m getting ahead of myself), then you have seen this stupid monkey with better fashion sense than I have on my best days. You know the one. The orangutan with

Stupid Monkey

You can tell he's evil. Only evil looks that good in green.

the Slytherin scarf? (Seriously, first hint there, guys.) This stupid monkey would have you believe that getting cough relief is simple.  This monkey makes you think that you can just go to Robitussin, click a few buttons and then they’ll give you a moron proof code for Your Perfect Cough & Cold Relief™.

This monkey is a lying sack of fuzz.

I have had a cough since last Sunday and lost my voice (much to the relief of many around me, all of whom are welcome to go eat a shoe) on Tuesday.  Then the REAL coughing began.  This came after about 3 weeks of not sleeping because fun fact about me, I happen to be crazier than a whole box of squirrels with chicken pox.

Anyway, I couldn’t sleep — again — because sleeping would let the mucus demons settle just enough and they’d get cranky and decide to rip my chest open just to make things more interesting. (NB: This version of the story could have something to do with my hitting the NyQuil pretty heavily at this point.)

Anyway, NyQuil wasn’t helping. Delsym promised 12 whole hours of relief.  Delsym lied to me AND tasted like slightly sweetened butt, grilled over a raging butt fire, sprinkled with freshly plucked BUTT.  It was insult, injury AND NO COUGH RELIEF WHATSOEVER rolled into one.  I’m a bit bitter. I hope one day with therapy that I’ll move past it, but the outlook is not good (I asked my magic 8 ball; I call him Keith).

So two strikes so far. Then I decide I’ll believe the freaking monkey even though I know enough about pharmacology to know that the only difference between Delsym and Robitussin DM (the one the monkey said I needed) was guafenesin. Basically, the D part is supposed to make you hork less, but the M part (guafenesin) is supposed to make the times you hork useful.  (Also, spell check believes that instead of guafenesin, I mean “deafening.” Draw your own conclusions there.)

Not only did it not stop my horking, I now had overdried sinuses, so the horking was all dry and non-productive and yes I’m writing a paragraph about snot, but I’m done now. Go on to the next one.

So, miserable and convinced that I would die of the lamest chest cold ever — though if I could convince people it was mucous demons, at least my obit would be interesting — I did what any sane human does when all of one’s arsenal of non-professional knowledge has failed her. I called and croaked at my grandmother.

Granny fixed me up, all right. Her instructions were, “Sip it if you can. If you can’t stand it, drink it hot; you won’t taste it.” These words terrified me. I didn’t ask what was in it because I was almost sure it was better not to know. But that night, I took a swig, gagged — and didn’t cough. MY GRANDMOTHER WAS A GENIUS! She’d invented a cure for the EVERYTHING. It tasted like donkey butts, but it was WORKING. …and I was a little dizzy.

That’s when I called and croaked at Granny to find out what was in this genius blend.

She told me: 1/3 lemon juice, 1/3 honey & 1/3 whiskey.  Yup. My granny had cured me with a bottle hot tottie.

Still, the cough isn’t entirely gone yet, but… I don’t really care much.  (hic)

Adventures in Tea


I realize that the last time I wrote an entry my excuse for not writing was that I’d been sick.  This time, I’m writing because I’m sick and it doesn’t seem to be over yet.  Before that, I was just uninspired. But I’ve realized that having no immune system means that I have a lot of adventures that most normal humans just don’t get to have. So I felt obligated to share with you.  See, normal people have a degree of coordination and mental clarity that allow them to navigate the world relatively unscathed by things like tea and wine racks and door frames.  I’m not one of those people.

I’ve had a chest cold that leads me to cough inexorably for the vast majority of the time I’m awake — which isn’t much until the last few days. And I wanted hot tea. Hot tea is good for me because of REASONS and also SCIENCE.  Apart from that, I happened to have some rather good tea that I wanted to use and I’ve successfully made tea on a number of occasions in the past.  This was not to be one of those times.

Things started as per usual. I selected my tea — a Teavana blend, cocoa praline tart — and my mug. While I might have been tempting the tea gods by trying a loose tea with an addled brain, I did at least use a standard mug.  It wasn’t like I was trying to figure out the proper proportions of tea to, say, this thing:

Even on my best days, this mug would not render unto me tea.


This is apparently a “fuddler mug” or something. Wikipedia gave me lots of bizarre mugs to choose from, but they were all substantially more boring than this one.  But I didn’t use a fuddler mug. I just used a normal, standard, thrown clay mug with a smiley face on it because I’m 32 and sometimes I need tea in a smiley face mug. Don’t judge me.

Anyway, what I wound up with was something like vaguely chocolate gravel with lumps of something not-quite-milk. My tea ball infuser apparently failed at its job, too, so we sat together in shame for a  while. After I recovered (though I think the tea ball will need therapy), I mixed up a faux lime soda instead. Originally, I told twitter I “engineered” faux lime soda because saying I engineered something made me feel marginally less stupid.

And now if you’ll excuse me, my sore throat, lack of voice and abundance of snot are going to sit over here and figure out whether I still qualify as a human if I’m 37% phlegm. I’ll be drowning my sorrows in faux lime soda.

My dog has been useless.  Sarah’s dog is understandably traumatized, apparently, and has PTSD of Labradorian proportions.  My dog is just a sad cocker spaniel. I think perhaps she fell prey to a brain-commandeering alien squad of sorts when I wasn’t looking, so it’s probably my fault she’s no use.  Also, she has no thumbs. Lack of opposable thumbs makes one rather useless as a nursemaid.

If I were you, I’d go disinfect your eyeballs after reading this. Just in case.

Adventures in Absence (Or: How I spent a month in my pajamas)


Yes, I realized I’ve been gone just over 3 months. I have an excellent reason for it — I just haven’t, you know, thought of it yet. I know that for at least 1/3 of the time, though, I’ve been in my pajamas and that’s not much of an adventure. Plus, if I wrote an entry called “Adventures in Flannel” we’d have to go back to that whole “Why My Mom Sometimes Thinks I’m A Lesbian” post and I’m far too lazy to link things.

So what have I been doing other than being in my pajamas? Well, I’m glad all three of you asked. I last wrote in mid-September, right after the nephling went back to school and I came down with martian death flu. (I once said “Venusian mumps” and someone said, “Oh, I’ve heard that’s awful!” She was totally serious, so I went back to Martian death flu because as far as I know, no one really takes me seriously when I say that….)

So I kind of spent like 2 weeks being mostly dead. But then I got past that. I hoped that when I recovered, it’d be all like Sleeping Beauty or something, but turns out if you spend 2 weeks being dead of Martian death flu? You wind up more like “Ew, please get a shower; you’re 80% lint and fever residue.”  So I got a shower. I even saved a glamour shot just for you people!

Glamour Shot!

See? All kissy face. (It gets better, I promise!)

See? Not much of an improvement, you think, but I’m doing you the courtesy of not including BEFORE pictures. Those are pretty sad and I only took them to text to my mom to illicit sympathy and invoke special favours like “Can I have cherry 7up, please? So I won’t die?” [Insert pathetic photo of me, looking dead]. (I’m not above emotional blackmail when it’s warranted — as in the case of cherry 7up and Bold Ten Dr. Pepper — I love that stuff!)

Anyway, lest you fear that this is as good as it gets, I promise, I did clean up better.  I refuse to admit whether I am currently, at noon:02, wearing my pajamas at the moment — okay, well, I am, but there’s a reason!  I’m watching my nephew today as part of his Christmas break and his stipulation was “Can we have a relaxed day?” What’s more relaxed, I ask you, than pajamas?  Nothing. Unless you have pajamas and xanax, at least, but that’s a little far afield for our conversation at the moment. SO: we are having a pajama day. Even the dog is being lazy.

But just to prove that there are indeed times when I am not in my pajamas, I’m going to include this photo, too, as additional proof that I don’t always look like a pop art exercise in absurdity.

Me, looking less dead

See? Not so bad, right? Right. (If you think this is no better, then, um, HUSH.)

I clean up better, I promise! In this picture, I am upright, driving (well, not at the point of taking the picture. I hadn’t even started the car at that point.), wearing makeup, have combed and washed hair, and I’m even kinda smiling. There are no pajama pants in sight — not even the fuzzy blue snowman pants, and those are like fluffy fleece security!  Nope, I’m wearing colour coordinated big girl clothes! It was a really grey day, though, and for some reason, the only logical shade to counter grey with is bright green and lots of it. So I’m wearing quite a lot of green in that picture. Including my Kiva t-shirt. I’m a fan of Kiva. You should be, too. GO EXPLORE KIVA OPTIONS!

I got a little off track there. What else was I going to say? Come on; you were meant to be paying attention so you could chime in when I forgot where my brain was going! I’m considering this a failure on your part, personally.

Anyway, except for the fact that I am indeed wearing my pajamas currently, the pajama days are over for the foreseeable future. I think I’m good with that. The pajama nights, however, will continue, because that’s why God made pajamas anyway.

I have exciting news I can’t tell you yet, by the way. So you’ll all just have to wait to find out what that is.  But to distract you from the thing I’m not telling you, I’ll tell you something else!

Last month, somewhere near the end of November, we celebrated Thanksgiving, which was awesome. It’s not usually my favourite time of year, but it was good. This year was so much more laid back than the years before. In the past, seriously, Thanksgiving prep started a month ahead of time and by the time the holiday rolled around everyone was exhausted and cranky and it just wasn’t much fun. This year, we kind of scrapped all that. So my holiday was pretty good. I spent it with people I genuinely liked doing things we all genuinely enjoyed and it was pretty relaxed for the most part.


The day after the “official” day of Thanksgiving, I stalked the Sparks clan to their super secret hideout in Pocahontas, AR.

Pocahontas, AR


Don’t be fooled by the presence of Smiths and Brookses; this is a Sparks hideout.  For those of you not yet familiar withPocahontas, though, let me give you an idea of the sort of metropolis we’re dealing with (though how you could be ignorant of such an important port of commerce and culture, I have no idea; I blame your parents).

This is Pocahontas, Arkansas. All of it — right there.  And it’s exactly that big. My only guess as to how they manage to have a population of non-microbial persuasion is possibly TimeLord physics and I think city hall might be a TARDIS.

And later, when I’ve recovered from the exceptional amount of work this simple entry has become, I’ll tell you what I found there.  Stay tuned; it’s possibly fascinating. (But probably not.)




Yesterday’s Adventure (What, I gotta be clever all the time?)


Yesterday was “Take Mom To The Dentist Day” again.  She’s having a series of things done and we never know up front which days might wind her up drugged, so I get to be designated driver again. (Seriously, if I ever decide to get drunk, she owes me at least 3 free butt-crack-of-dawn get-out-of-drunk-free passes now.)

Anyway, I tell her we’re just practicing for her inevitable senility. I intend to haul her around to her various appointments when she’s old and feeble and I’ve promised she can become a benign alcoholic as long as she can pay for her own booze. (What? It works; don’t knock it.)

Anyway, as I’ve explained before, I live in a somewhat rural area of the world. In order to get to her dentist’s office from here, we go through Farville, Goobertown and Brookland before we hit Paragould. It’s all trees and bean fields.

Bean Field

See? This is a bean field. Except the parts that are trees. I'll leave you to sort that out.

And for some reason, someone decided a few years ago that two lanes through the beanfields and trees weren’t quite enough, so it got a 4-lane highway. This is nice, especially since there’s never any traffic.  It gives you a better view of the bean fields. And the trees.

I’d post a picture of the trees, but that’s just unnecessarily cudgeling of the deceased equine. (Big words are basically my only talent. DON’T JUDGE ME.)

Anyhow, 4 lanes through the bean fields and random stoplights scattered throughout. I guess they’re so that we can pause and properly appreciate the bean fields. Normal trek takes about 20 – 30 minutes.  That is, of course, unless you’re me and unless it’s yesterday. But you’re not and it isn’t, so I’ll explain:

Yesterday, I seriously had to have ticked off some lesser god of asphalt or something and caused this 4-lane highway of indulgent convenience to become something other than its normally clear, carefree self.  In fact, it had become a traffic jam. Traffic STOPPED.  If you live in a regular metropolitan area, this is probably de rigueur  for you, but in an area where the highway has more lanes than cars, it’s a bit of an oddity.


Seen here, the autopocalypse. Or maybe a Chrysler. Anyway, it's not moving.

See that over there?  That’s not normal. That doesn’t happen on this highway at this time of day. I’ve never even seen that many cars on this road at one time, leading me to believe they’d been there for at least a week. They were probably about to go cannibal.  I’m probably lucky to have escaped with my life (and Twizzlers)!

Okay, so actually at this point I was wondering what happened. The only thing I could think of was that it had to be a wreck. And it had to be a bad one. And I started going over CPR steps in my head just in case. (Step one is to take CPR classes, right?  Remind me to do that…).

The longer we waited the more I was certain that it wasn’t just a wreck. It was probably an earthquake and the whole road had caved in. Or, since I had been reading abnormal amounts of H. P. Lovecraft lately, Cthulhu was picking off cars one at a time. Either way, it was obviously not good.

So I used my handy-dandy iPhone app to tune into police band radio for my area only to find it had mysteriously gone off the air! I’m not really surprised, though, because when Cthulhu attacks, all kinds of weird crap happens. Or, um, so I’ve read. So no radio, no visual cues beyond the stopped traffic and no plan for riding out the autopocalypse beyond “Eat my Twizzlers before anyone else spots them.” I began to feel a bit less optimistic about  my chances for survival.

As we crept along, I tried to scootch ever so slightly into the turn lane to angle for a better view up ahead. No dice. See that white van? It was blocking me at every go. Probably Cthulhu sympathizers.

Eventually, though, we came to the part of the road called Farville Curve.  It happens rather handily to curve at that point and we had an opportunity to see what lurked ahead (and to provide me with a better estimate of how fast I’d have to eat my Twizzlers before Cthulhu stole them).

That’s when I saw this:



Do you see that?  That’s not Cthulhu!  That’s a HOUSE.  I felt so cheated. Here I was prepping for disaster and hoarding my Twizzlers and all it was is a lousy oversized HOUSE.

Why they were dragging a house down the road, I’ll never know. We passed some more chunks of house, too, because they apparently had to saw the thing into thirds to get it to adequately block the entire highway. And right as I snapped this picture, that house tried to turn left into a bean field.

I live in a dumb state.

It swerved back through all 4 lanes of traffic and carried on its way for a bit until, I guess, the drivers sensed they were in mortal danger and pulled all chunks of the house off the main road long enough to let the 3 miles of cars that had piled up behind them cruise through.

It was the dumbest adventure ever. I had prepared myself for Cthulhu and I got a house — not even a full house.  A THIRD of a house!  Hey, lesser god of pavement or whoever?  Next time you plan to block the road, try to call up an elder god or at least (AT LEAST) get an airplane or something to block traffic.

I was sorely disappointed. So disappointed, in fact, that I actually feel kind of bad for dragging you through all of that for such an anticlimactic resolution.   So, hey, how about some ice cream?  Yeah?

Okay, not for real (for you, I mean, but for me).  A few days before, at Burger King, I asked for a vanilla cone. The woman handed me one and then her manager called out, “Ma’am?  I’m sorry. I can’t permit you to take that ugly cone.”  (My cone looked fine…. I was just gonna eat it, not frame it….).  Anyway, she took my apparently sub-standard comb and instead handed me this:


Note the aesthetic ... something.

It was basically a monstrous tower of ice cream. Hope that makes up for it.  You’re welcome.