Posts from the ‘Humor’ Category

Sporked Again!

 I’m sure that just about everybody has had an experience with a spork. It’s almost a right of passage. I think it all starts just about the same way.

You stop at KFC (or your favorite processed quickly food establishment), you get your order to the table, or to the house and begin to disperse the delicacies. You eagerly find the plastic ware package, only to find that you are equipped with …. something other than the fork, spoon and knife that you  fully expected, and so justly deserve. You tear the package open only to find the meager packages of salt and pepper, the tiny napkin that you could barely wipe the mouth of a house fly with….and a SPORK.


The Average American Spork

That’s right! You’ve unwittingly been sporked. If you had hoped to eat your chosen table fare with this utensil, you are fairly out-of -luck. There’s no hope of tearing the chicken off the bone with this wonderful invention. You can’t possibly eat ALL the mashed potatoes and gravy or Mac and Cheese with a spork, but if you ordered Okra as a side, you may be in luck with that. has a somewhat brilliant observation of sporks. “A spork is a perfect metaphor for human existance. It tries to function as both spoon and fork, and because of this dual nature, it fails miserably at both. You cannot have soup with a spork, it is far too shallow; you cannot eat meat with a spork, the prongs are too small”.

It’s really kind of a slap in the face from an establishment (no matter the name) where you paid way too much for the food, possibly got the right order, and caught an attitude from the person selling it to you.
I sincerely thought that I was going to do quite the original piece on sporks, only to find that sporks have been a subject matter, sometimes even fondly, for years. There are even web sites dedicated to the spork. I even found “The History Of Sporks”!  I had no idea! It’s slightly amusing reading, capped with Spork Mythology and all. 

For Those Born With A Golden Spork In Their Mouth

There have been many variations of Sporks throughout history, proving that some people have little more to do with their lives than try to re-invent the spork wheel, or build a better spork trap. 

The Vicious Saw-toothed Spork

I’m sure that the above pictured Spork is ergonomically designed, as long as you are holding the spoon part. Unfortunately, I’m sure that if I were using it, I would saw my lips up in some way, making for a painful meal. If I were holding the “fork” end, I might inadvertently severe tendons in my hand. It was designed to cut meat you know! Not the “best” Spork for me.

Infamous Face-Stabbing Spork

This Spork is designed with nice long tines which MAY be good for fork eating folks, but imagine the law suits which could result from those tines piercing a cheek or lip. It might be handy for those who enjoy wearing fish hook piercings  in their faces though! The spoon portion looks slightly useless except when wanting to pour soup into your mouth. 

Sporks of Many Colors

It’s one dexterous person who can eat with 5 Finger Sporks! On second thought, I think it is quite the sicko that buys and uses these. It’s one thing to buy them as a joke or a novelty gift, but anyone (besides a kid) who would seriously use them is beyond dementia. 

How Pro-Life Sporks Are Made

As I began to research the manufacture of Sporks, I came across the above picture. I immediately stopped my research. I don’t want it to be said that I don’t believe that forks shouldn’t have a choice. Perhaps organization isn’t the only reason that our silverware drawers have dividers! 

I’ve been looking for some type of business to engage in, and I believe I’ve decided what I want to do….

……I’m going to open a Spork farm. I’m sure that the Spork gene pool has some fantastic bloodlines these days, and after all, how much could a Spork Breeding farm cost? But then again, looking at some of the above pictures, it would appear that there has been some incestual Spork breeding going on as well. 


On Automatic Toilets….Sort Of

Just about everybody, in this country (I would assume) uses a toilet of some type almost every day. Now there may be SOME people who use the old-timey outhouses still, and it’s not uncommon for hunters, or those who work in the woods to just…you know… freestyle. I would venture to say, however, that the majority of Americans use toilets..and we hope, on a daily basis.

There was a time when just about all toilets were basically the same. They have a bowl, a seat, a tank, and a flush handle. They were easy enough to use, and most of us grew up learning how to use them. SOME people even grew up learning how to flush them.

Somewhere along the line, someone decided to change things up just a little. Many public toilets are now equipped with automatic flushing systems. The basics of the toilet are about the same, except most of them don’t have that hulking tank back there behind you. They do however have a small pad mounted to the wall with a sensor and usually a manual button. The fact that they have a manual button to flush as well says a lot about the reliability of the concept.

I suppose that they were created because there really are people that either don’t flush on purpose, for whatever reason, or just forget to flush. In a workplace where many people are using the same toilet, the automatic flushers are growing more common. I get the concept. There isn’t much of anything that is worse than entering a stall to do…you know…your daily duty, and some rude jerk before you has left his daily gift there. I really don’t get this. I always feel like it’s important to destroy the evidence. It’s just bad enough that we have to use a toilet behind droves of people who you either don’t know, or don’t know about their health and hygiene. Thus, I suppose the advent of the auto-flusher toilet.

So let’s talk about the freakin genius that invented the “automatically flushing toilet”. Was he some sort of prankster or just plain sadistic? There are some auto-flushing toilets that work fairly close to how they were intended, but let’s face it…there are some which are little more than aggravating at best.

I said earlier that there wasn’t much worse than entering a stall and finding someone’s pride and joy residing in the toilet you intended to use, but I would almost say that some of the auto-flushers are worse. Let’s try to set the scene.

You walk into a stall at a workplace (or public restroom) which is equipped with and auto-flushing toilet. The toilet appears empty and clean, which gives a tiny amount of comfort that you are having to use a toilet behind many asses which you do not know. You turn around, undo your clothes and have a seat. Here’s where the “fun” and unpredictability begin. Some of these evil toilets will immediately flush as you sit down. This startling event has the potential for at least two scenarios…1) you jump up quickly 2) it scares the…pooh out of you.

As a sidebar, it seems like most of the evil auto-flushers that fire off immediately when you sit down also happen to be bidet (pronounced ba-day) hybrids. Somewhere around 50 gallons of water rushes into the toilet at the same time, causing white-caps inside the bowl, and sprays all exposed parts with force that previously only nature could provide. You suddenly feel as if you are emerged unwittingly in the movie “Perfect Storm”.  It is also reminiscent of a Sperm Whale clearing his blow-hole with you sitting there. The comfort that you briefly felt about having a nice clear toilet bowl to work with is now replaced by anger, fear and dread.

What do you do? Do you continue to sit there, or jump up quickly, knowing that it is about to happen once more? There’s almost literally no way to sit back down on the same evil toilet without it happening again. If there is an empty stall beside you, do you gather yourself together and waddle over there, hoping with all hope that the sensor on THAT toilet doesn’t go off if a gnat flies past it?

Some of these wicked toilets will allow you to sit down, luring you into a sense of false security and comfort, and then when you move ever so slightly, the toilet suddenly ROARS into action. By the way…these toilets are almost never quite, but unleash their fury with sounds likely only akin to a tsunami, hurling it’s way onto land and destroying everything in it’s wake.

The water in these toilets is also invariably cold. No, not just cold…about the temperature that Polar Bears thrive on. It can be quite breath-taking, perhaps even ruining the moment which you sat down for in the first place. There’s nothing quite like having water the temperature of say, dry ice flooding the nether regions, and icicles hanging from your frozen arse.

Just what type of trickster designs toilets that literally scare the … you know … out of you? Evil sadistic wretches they are. They most likely receive notifications each time some poor soul has ridden the evil surf of the auto-flusher, howling each time with laughter that would scare the bejeevies out of Stephen King. They probably say things like, “Everytime an auto-flusher flushes, an angel gets his wings!”.

Next time you walk into a stall, and you see the evil auto-flusher, it’s motion sensor blinking innocently, just know that this may be the one. There’s at least one evil flusher in every building.

Oh…and don’t forget that unsuspecting courtesy flush!


“If I’m Drunk, I’ll Eat My Shorts!”

No!  No! No! I’m not drunk OR eating shorts…it’s my title for another interesting (relatively) headline news story.

Oh, the merits of drinking too much! It would seem by this story that any amount of drinking is too much for some people, and this man seems to be a prime example.

For some time, I have been administering drug and alcohol tests as a second job. In this field we see all kinds of things. I have had people offer me money to help them cheat…I have had donors leave cold piss, diluted piss, water instead of piss. I have had donors ferociously chewing gum and stuff to attempt to beat a breath test, but I’ve never had one to eat his own shorts to try and beat a breath test. To be fair, I should say that most of the tests that I do are either random tests that some companies require, or tests that are required to fulfill requirements  for Workers Compensation insurance after an accident.

I feel compelled to chase a rabbit here. I always found it amusing that my subjects are called “donors”, as if they are voluntarily donating money to a worthy cause, or old used clothes to Goodwill out of the sheer goodness of their hearts. I guess in an odd sort of way, it is a worthy cause….trying to save your job and get a hospital bill covered by Workers Comp insurance. To be in fact, it IS used urine….if there is such a difference between “used” urine and “new” urine. The breath is DEFINITELY used, and quite often smells like it.

In any case, I can’t even begin to fathom how someone would think of eating their underwear to soak up the alcohol, or whatever he was thinking would happen. To start with, breathalyzers take air from the LUNGS, not the stomach! Maybe the poor dope should have inhaled his underwear instead of eating it.

Furthermore, the story says that he tore the CROTCH out of his underwear! I’m sure that at this point we all have collective amounts of disgust and thoughts of TMI (too much info). As bad as that is, let me add to the disgust. Did that include stripes and all??? Was he a big fan of the al-Qaeda bomber, Umar Farouk Abulmutallab, who tried to detonate a bomb in a plane that was hidden in his underwear?

Incidentally, the underwear bombers device failed to detonate because he had worn his underwear for two weeks and the device had been soiled. The story here doesn’t indicate how long Mr. Zurfluh had been wearing his drawers, but the thought is somewhat provoking, and more than somewhat disgusting.

I’ll just bet his mom was so proud! Just think of the stories that he can tell his children and grandchildren. Oh wait…never mind. I have sneaking suspicion that the next time we all see Mr. Zurfluh’s name in print, it will be in the obituary or in the Darwin Awards.

He was acquitted of the drunk driving citation, but I’ll bet they didn’t tell him that it wasn’t because he ate his underwear. It was more likely because he just wasn’t QUITE that drunk. This begs to question … if he wasn’t THAT drunk, was he just THAT stupid to begin with? I don’t think that I really have to answer that question.

Mr. Zurfluh, you almost made it to the Darwin Awards once. I’m quite sure that it won’t take much extra effort to clinch that award in the near future.

The Water of All Discriminant Aliens

How much do I really need to say about this now? I couldn’t help but giggle at this display in my local grocery store. I saw it just a couple of weeks before the new “Star Wars” movie came out. Seems like everyone is cashing in on that flick but me.  


Why couldn’t I have thought of this? I guess I’ve never heard anything about Aliens needing water, but then perhaps I haven’t watched near enough Sci-Fi. Of course Aliens need water! Heck we’ve searched high and low (loosely translated “the Moon and Mars”) for water in the Solar System to prove or disprove that life existed on other planets, or in outer space. So far we haven’t found any, except some scientists have determined that some canyons MUST have been carved by water a gajillion years ago. 

Those Aliens are probably dying of thirst by now! I do have questions though. How come they always seem to land around deserts instead of in Lake Tahoe or something? How come they land in wheat crops and make stupid circles instead of looking for water? How come they always used to say, “Take me to your leader” instead of, “Take me to your water”? 

No wonder these guys are green! Heck, just imagine what their urine must look like with no water to drink. That’s probably why they are green and all shriveled up! That can’t be good for any alien.

That wasn’t the only thing that tickled me about this display though. Look at the water company! 

I guess NASA thinks these guys don’t really know the difference, but I don’t know that I would give my dog water from Niagra! I guess it sounds pretty catchy and all though, and perhaps the Aliens don’t know about the poor souls through the years that are probably still bobbing around down there under all that spray, nor the splintered barrels down there. 

Those poor Aliens probably just think it’s a famous place so the water must be good. Plus that, it’s a really colorful package with their version of Michael Jordan right on the package!

I guess I should watch Star Wars so I can have a better understanding of alien thought patterns.

Come to think of it, perhaps the Aliens were not saying, “Take me to your leader” at all. 

It MUST have really been, “Take me to your liter“!

detnaW sretniaP teertS

From time to time people ask me where I come up with material. Judging from the amount of work I haven’t gotten finished recently, I tend to see the concern! Pretty much all I have to do is stumble out of the house for pretty any reason, and stuff just hits me right in the face! Ouch.

This first picture is one that I shot myself a few minutes ago. Given the theme, I HAD to search for more supporting evidence! I had a feeling that it wouldn’t be a difficult task, and I was right!

This is for dyslexic drivers who can ONLY read upside down.

This crew shouldn’t have spent so much time at Hooters for lunch!


How do you say, “Make the lines straight!” In Spanish?  

“Paul’s ambition of a logistics engineer came to a screeching halt after the first job”

Uh, who the hell did this? Is there a sober person on the job?  

Dog walkers

The other day as I was at a red light near downtown, I saw a guy walking several dogs. He was a dog walker. You can thank me later for that marvelous revelation. He had six or seven dogs, which seems like a lot to me. I was amazed at the amount of control that he had. Each dog seemed to be perfectly choreographed, walking almost in his/her own lane. There were dogs of various sizes, but the biggest dogs weren’t necessarily in the front. It was hard, just by looking, to get an idea how the dogs/walker might have assigned hierarchy. I suppose that it may have been a hearty combination of size, attitude, and copious amounts of growling and butt-sniffing.

One reason that I am so amazed is because I have a four pound Chihuahua and a few bigger outside dogs. I can’t imagine walking all of them at the same time. Heck, I can’t hardly walk the Chihuahua by himself, much less try to add any more dogs to the mix. There isn’t any telling what would happen.

The guy pictured above has AT LEAST 20 dogs at bay. It looks like he might have even picked up a stray or two. From the looks of the picture, the only problem is that the brown and white dog in the foreground has his leash over the back of the St. Bernard, and it looks like he’s taking a squat right there under the St. Bernard’s feet. He even has somewhat of a look of contentment like he’s thinking, “This is gonna be great! Bernard is going to step right in this!”.

This raises questions for me. I am assuming that “dog walkers” are also “dog poopers” as well. Once again, I must refer to the amazing 4 pound Chihuahua, Tigger. When he was younger and had to be on a leash to go out and poop, he would hunt for his spot (this should be another story), then he would launch into a kind of spin, pivoting his ass around his front feet. It was quite comical and looked like he was using “centrifugal force” as a method of dispatch. Ok, let’s install THAT into the day of a dog walker! What a nightmare that would be! I know that in the bigger cities they have pretty stringent laws about picking up poop. So….how does this guy do that? I read in one article that dog walkers can be fined $250 for each offense of not “curbing”, or picking up the pooche’s poo. Of course an officer (especially assigned to poo patrol), has to witness the infraction to be able to issue a citation. I believe that the article said that there were 163 officers in the Bronx or Queens that were on “Poo Duty”, and added that there aren’t near enough.

We might add a bit of perspective and point out that I can tell you that if I was a dog walker, it would be a daily menagerie of calamities. I can imagine that by the second or third dog I picked up, things would be a nightmare. It would be my luck that I would have one female dog in heat and nineteen male dogs who had not been snipped. It PROBABLY wouldn’t even take THAT. I would have the Great Dane or St. Bernard who just HAD to hump the leg of every passerby who was in reach. There would be incessant barking and gnashing of teeth.

My dogs would all take after the “meat truck”, like so many cartoons or episodes of Andy Griffith, and I would be dragged to a bloody pulp all the way to my grave. They would stop only to hike a leg up on something, and that something would likely be me!

I would have the dog who has to poop (by the way, how does that work? …do they pull a tiny cord signaling the need to stop the train?) so everyone has to stop and wait, while Spot pitches a loaf? How embarrassing that must be! You are already delegated to taking a dump in public, and now you have to have 19 other dogs all waiting impatiently and making fun. See, in MY pack of “walkees”, the 15 dogs behind Spot would step in “it”, and track it back to their owner’s homes. The second possible scenario is where ALL the dogs have to poop at the same time, leaving a pile that is utterly disgustingly humongous. There would be no way to scoop that poop! without a front end loader and a dump truck!

In MY pack of dogs, the most expensive of my charges would probably get loose and run away, and the owner would want my head! I’m not sure what he would do with it, but I’ve heard the expression used before! That dog would either be run over by a trash truck or a taxi driven by a foreigner who could not speak English.

I have no earthly idea how well these individual dogs are trained, but they must be trained to an extent. I wonder how much of that stuff really happens? I mean, it HAS to happen sometimes, doesn’t it? I can promise you that if I should EVER turn to walking dogs for a living that I will invest in a videographer to prove my story. We may be able to start a new reality series based purely upon “Folly by Perry”!

Support your local “Poo Patrol”! They have your soles in mind!

Mama’s Down Home Cooking

This story took place in my bricklaying years, possibly about 1996 or 1997. Bricklaying and all work associated with it is very, very hard work. It even gets mentioned in the Bible how that bricklaying made the Israelites bitter! How many professions are talked about like that with a history dating back thousands of years? 

I really have no idea what the trade being hard work has to do with the story. Perhaps it was to draw readers in with sympathy? I’ll just leave this in, just in case it’s the funniest part of the story. 

It was fall and we were working on a QualChoice building in West Little Rock. I had been working there for quite some time, and had been blessed with a good laborer/helper. We got along well and always enjoyed working with each other in spite of cultural differences; he was a black man, and I am BEYOND white. I’m pretty sure his name was Earl. 

In the course of an 8-hour day where the majority of time is spent between two people, many topics can come up, and often do. In this case, it was the Monday before Thanksgiving, and so at some point, the conversation turned towards the upcoming Holiday. 

I asked Earl what he was doing for Thanksgiving and he replied that he was “going home” for Thanksgiving. Being naturally curious, I asked him, “So what kind of food does Mama put on the table for Thanksgiving?”. 

He began to rattle off many of the same things that most people who do Thanksgiving would serve, then finished by stating, “What I’m really looking forward to is Mama’s Chittlins! I haven’t had them in quite a while.”.

Now I would be willing to try many things considered, “soul food”, but Chittlins isn’t one of them. I know how carefully people clean them and everything but for some reason, “Colon Rings” just does not appeal to me at all. It never has and never will. I just can’t get past the former job of the so-called “Chittlins” before they were deemed to be a part of any food group. 

That does bring to mind a story that a friend of mine used to like to tell about how poor they were as kids. He always said that they could count the chickens and dogs under the house through the floorboards. He also said that he and his brother both played a legendary trick on his Mom or Grandma. After watching the women torturously clean and boil a batch of Chittlins, they snuck into the kitchen, and began to randomly stick a few kernels of corn INTO the Chittlins, making it look like they hadn’t been cleaned properly, which is a major no no. The prank went over as poorly as it sounds and Bill and his brother fell prey to some action by the proverbial “Woodshed”. They may have gotten lit up good for the stunt, but he believed it was worth it, and maybe it was since they still talk about it 50+ years later.

When Earl shared his eagerness to eat some of his mommas Chittlins, I couldn’t help but speak up. “I’m sorry”, I said, “I just don’t know how you could eat that stuff, knowing what it is!”. He shot me a quick look that obviously had worry etched all over it, and replied, “I don’t know what it is, but it sure is good the way Momma fixes it!”. He then cautiously asked, “So what IS Chittlins?”. 

I exclaimed, “ARE YOU SERIOUS??? You REALLY don’t know what it is?” I continued, “You’ve been eating that ALL your life and never asked or wondered what you were eating?”. Convinced that he really didn’t have a clue and was kind of worried, I began to have some fun with him. My explanation to him was rather crude and “redneckish”, but there was no doubt what I meant. “It’s pig colon Earl!….You’ve been eating pig asshole for years!”. I was laughing, but Earl wasn’t. He was dead serious. “You just ain’t right man!”, he said. He said he wasn’t going to believe me either. 

Each day I chided Earl about the Chittlins, or “pig ass”, which is how I referred to Chittlins. I told him things like, “Heck, even the name should give it away! Chit, which sounds and is almost spelled like Shit. The proper spelling is “chitterlings”. Chit+ter = shitter + lings (lings – A diminutive modifier of nouns having either the physical sense of “a younger, smaller or inferior version of what is  …”). I really am not one to torture people on purpose about stuff that upsets them, but this seemed to come up every day one way or the other. 

By the time Wednesday rolled around, Earl was almost bummed out about facing a plate of Chittlins and eating them after finding out what it was. I honestly was not going to bring it up at all, but it came up anyway. Earl sulked his way through the day and grunted “later” when I told him to have a nice visit. He really thought that I was picking at him about it!

We returned to work the following Monday and when Earl showed up it was obvious that he was an unhappy camper. He was pretty much silent as he prepared my work station. He would shoot me an angry look now and again. 

I finally decided that one of us had to break the ice. “Well, did you have a good visit with your family?”, I asked. He shot me a look of utter disgust and said, “Just so you’ll know…..half my family is pissed off at you! I tolt my brothers what you said, and then we went and asked our Auntie. Mama said, “I don’t know what business that dumb cracka gots tellin ’bout stuff in the kitchen that he don’t even know about!”.”. He continued, “She even called you ‘some kind of trifling cracka!”

By the end of the week Earl was talking to me again, but he said he still wouldn’t ever forgive me. He ended up telling me that he did eat some of “mama’s Chitlins”, but it just didn’t taste quite the same and he knew that they never would. He said his family was still mad at me and probably always would be. 

You never know when one little thing brought up in a casual conversation will affect so many people. There are several brothers out there who took offense to my saying that a ham was as close to eating a pig ass as I cared to get.