I've never understood why Italy didn't invade Japan after the release of the original Super Mario Bros.
I'm pretty sure the portrayal of Italians in that game qualifies as a blatant act of war, or at the very least, a serious act of provocation.
Maybe Italy just assumed Japan had a bunch of dudes who could smash bricks with their heads and pull bouncing fireballs out of their pockets to chuck at people, and that they'd send those guys over in a counterattack.
Upon further reflection, that would've been my assumption.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Thursday, September 16, 2010
How many woodchucks could a woodchipper chip if a woodchipper could chip woodchucks?
There's no good reason I don't own a woodchipper.
No, I don't chop down trees and need to dispose of excess branches and blocks of wood. And no, I don't need to create mulch or sawdust. But I really don't see why having a woodchipper wouldn't be really convenient for other things and/or just totally awesome.
Document shredders take way too long and don't even always do that great a job of shredding those highly-sensitive documents and identity-theft prone pieces of mail.
And if you're like me, you tend to let that stuff stack up before you finally get around to dedicating a two-hour block to sitting down and running credit card applications and the like through a shredder.
Boom: woodchipper to the rescue.
Just chuck all that stuff down in there at once. Next thing you know, you're being rushed to the hospital with junk mail particulate in your eyes and lungs — HOWEVER! — now you have no more junk mail!
You're welcome.
But why stop at shred-worthy items? And why not make a game of it? Chores are always more tolerable when you make them fun.
Next time garbage day rolls around, I'd recommend setting up the woodchipper on the front porch, pointing the out-spout at the street, and then when the garbage truck swings by, shove your week's trash down that bad boy and see if you can score it in the back of garbage truck. Or in the garbage truck passenger seat. Or in the garbage truck driver's face. Wherever.
Personally, I'm pretty sure I'd turn myself into the Wayne Gretzky of spewing trash smoothies into the back of garbage trucks, but within a few months or so I'd get bored of dominating the sport at such a high level without any real competition to speak of and I'd stop.
I fully expect at that point I'd probably take to just aiming it out the window at the neighbor's yard and throwing my biodegradable trash in it on an as-needed basis. "As-needed" meaning whenever I had biodegradable trash to throw away. Or whenever the neighbors got on my nerves.
I'd probably also rent myself out to the neighborhood kids on Halloween.
Egging houses?
Smashing pumpkins?
Pssshhh.
Just give me a mini-van with a slide-out side door, a couple hundred or so cartons of eggs, a few dozen pumpkins, a getaway driver, and you better believe I'll be drive-by Picasso-ing the neighborhood houses all shades of Halloween shenanigans.
That's it.
Time to make a trip to the hardware store.
There's not a five-day waiting period to buy a woodchipper, is there?
No, I don't chop down trees and need to dispose of excess branches and blocks of wood. And no, I don't need to create mulch or sawdust. But I really don't see why having a woodchipper wouldn't be really convenient for other things and/or just totally awesome.
Document shredders take way too long and don't even always do that great a job of shredding those highly-sensitive documents and identity-theft prone pieces of mail.
And if you're like me, you tend to let that stuff stack up before you finally get around to dedicating a two-hour block to sitting down and running credit card applications and the like through a shredder.
Boom: woodchipper to the rescue.
Just chuck all that stuff down in there at once. Next thing you know, you're being rushed to the hospital with junk mail particulate in your eyes and lungs — HOWEVER! — now you have no more junk mail!
You're welcome.
But why stop at shred-worthy items? And why not make a game of it? Chores are always more tolerable when you make them fun.
Next time garbage day rolls around, I'd recommend setting up the woodchipper on the front porch, pointing the out-spout at the street, and then when the garbage truck swings by, shove your week's trash down that bad boy and see if you can score it in the back of garbage truck. Or in the garbage truck passenger seat. Or in the garbage truck driver's face. Wherever.
Personally, I'm pretty sure I'd turn myself into the Wayne Gretzky of spewing trash smoothies into the back of garbage trucks, but within a few months or so I'd get bored of dominating the sport at such a high level without any real competition to speak of and I'd stop.
I fully expect at that point I'd probably take to just aiming it out the window at the neighbor's yard and throwing my biodegradable trash in it on an as-needed basis. "As-needed" meaning whenever I had biodegradable trash to throw away. Or whenever the neighbors got on my nerves.
I'd probably also rent myself out to the neighborhood kids on Halloween.
Egging houses?
Smashing pumpkins?
Pssshhh.
Just give me a mini-van with a slide-out side door, a couple hundred or so cartons of eggs, a few dozen pumpkins, a getaway driver, and you better believe I'll be drive-by Picasso-ing the neighborhood houses all shades of Halloween shenanigans.
That's it.
Time to make a trip to the hardware store.
There's not a five-day waiting period to buy a woodchipper, is there?
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Suzy wore her dresses tight. And in a color that matched her Crocs.
I don't care what you have to say, Crocs are awesome!
These are like the Crocs that Batman would wear around the Batcave before he goes off and fights The Joker! And, btw, The Joker doesn't wear Crocs! Because he's a bad guy!
You may disagree that Crocs are awesome! But you're wrong! Crocs are awesome!
Yes, the shoes!
Duh!
They're totally cool! Figuratively! Because they're awesome! And literally! Because they have air holes to let your feet breathe!
Crocs are comfortable and make you feel like you're walking on air!
Crocs are comfortable and make you feel like you're walking on air!
If you don't like Crocs, you're just a hater! Because they're awesome!
Crocs make me think of summertime picnics and butterflies and sunshine and happy happiness!
POEM TIME!!!
Crocs! An Ode!
Crocs are awesome! Crocs are nice!
If you don't like Crocs, you probably hate your life!
Crocs are cool! Crocs are the best!
If you hate Crocs, you have no heart in your chest!
Crocs are snazzy! Crocs are fun!
If you can't have Crocs for both feet, you should at least have one!
Crocs are footwear! Crocs are shoes!
If you say something else bad about Crocs, you'll get the "I don't really have any good reasons other than I just don't like them, but Crocs are stupid!" blues!
POEM TIME OVER!!!
If I could own any pair of Crocs, they'd be these!
You may disagree that Crocs are awesome! But you're wrong! Crocs are awesome!
Thursday, September 9, 2010
When I grow up, I want to draw airline safety cards for a living!
I've been flying a decent bit lately.
Seeing as how I'm not fortunate enough to own a jetpack, as well as that my arms aren't strong enough—nor do they have enough feathers—to do it myself, I've been forced to rely on airplanes for my travels.
My favorite part of the trip easily is the few moments at the beginning of the flight while the flight attendants go over the emergency procedures.
Although I particularly enjoy the flight attendants' casual insistence that a water landing is an unlikely event, I find myself really drawn to the drawings in the emergency instruction pamphlets.
There's really nothing like textbook-style cartoons that remind me of the mustaches and sunglasses I used to draw on the characters in my elementary school spelling books to make me feel at ease in the unlikely event that gravity pimpslaps the plane I'm cruising at 35,000 feet in.
Inflatable slides???
Seat cushion rafts???
People smiling???
This is totally like a water park! I like Splash Mountain! I want to go!!! Yay!!!
Except I can't imagine it's anything like the pamphlets make it look like. If it were my job to draw the safety cards, I'd probably get fired. Because my cards would probably look something like this one I found on the internet:
Seeing as how I'm not fortunate enough to own a jetpack, as well as that my arms aren't strong enough—nor do they have enough feathers—to do it myself, I've been forced to rely on airplanes for my travels.
My favorite part of the trip easily is the few moments at the beginning of the flight while the flight attendants go over the emergency procedures.
Although I particularly enjoy the flight attendants' casual insistence that a water landing is an unlikely event, I find myself really drawn to the drawings in the emergency instruction pamphlets.
There's really nothing like textbook-style cartoons that remind me of the mustaches and sunglasses I used to draw on the characters in my elementary school spelling books to make me feel at ease in the unlikely event that gravity pimpslaps the plane I'm cruising at 35,000 feet in.
Inflatable slides???
Seat cushion rafts???
People smiling???
This is totally like a water park! I like Splash Mountain! I want to go!!! Yay!!!
Except I can't imagine it's anything like the pamphlets make it look like. If it were my job to draw the safety cards, I'd probably get fired. Because my cards would probably look something like this one I found on the internet:
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Why did they ever call it "Book It" anyway? That's the best you got, Pizza Hut? Seriously? Actually, I don't think I'd do any better.
When I was a kid, my teachers tried to bribe my class to read books by offering us pizza.
It was actually part of that Book It program that Pizza Hut offers, which—even as a kid—I thought was a decent idea, despite the fact that I disliked reading more than I liked eating pizza.
Personally, I thought free Nintendo games would have been a better idea.
Sometimes I’d get a little jealous when I’d see other kids getting their coupons for a personal pan pizza. However, I understood the price I’d have to pay to join them: losing my mind from boredom by sitting in front of some book during precious time I’d rather spend playing Super Mario, doodling on my sketchpad, or running around outside make believing I was a ninja.
When I thought about how much more fun it was pretending to kick my friends in the face than it was to read a book, any jealousy I had for the Book It achievers disappeared.
Only once did I ever do enough reading to achieve free pizza status.
My parents congratulated me and made a big deal of taking me to Pizza Hut upon completion of my achievement, and I remember sitting there eating my pizza thinking something like, “Reading is so awesome! I want to be an author when I grow up so I can touch the hearts and souls of readers with my writing!"
Well, not really.
Actually, I’m pretty sure the only thing I was thinking was “AAAAGHHH!!! ME LIKE PIZZA!!! MINE MINE MINE!!! PIZZA-AAAAA!!!”
There are moments today that I wish there was a Book It club for adults so I could be enticed to read. Because even today, I’m all about some free pizza.
But then I think about how I’d be subjecting myself to boredom sitting there in front of some book during precious time I’d rather spend playing PS3, blogging, or make believing I’m a responsible adult.
And then when I think about how much more fun it is to do bills than it is to read a book, well, nevermind. Actually, speaking of bills, some free pizza sounds good.
So, like, Garfield counts as reading, right?
It was actually part of that Book It program that Pizza Hut offers, which—even as a kid—I thought was a decent idea, despite the fact that I disliked reading more than I liked eating pizza.
Personally, I thought free Nintendo games would have been a better idea.
Sometimes I’d get a little jealous when I’d see other kids getting their coupons for a personal pan pizza. However, I understood the price I’d have to pay to join them: losing my mind from boredom by sitting in front of some book during precious time I’d rather spend playing Super Mario, doodling on my sketchpad, or running around outside make believing I was a ninja.
When I thought about how much more fun it was pretending to kick my friends in the face than it was to read a book, any jealousy I had for the Book It achievers disappeared.
Only once did I ever do enough reading to achieve free pizza status.
My parents congratulated me and made a big deal of taking me to Pizza Hut upon completion of my achievement, and I remember sitting there eating my pizza thinking something like, “Reading is so awesome! I want to be an author when I grow up so I can touch the hearts and souls of readers with my writing!"
Well, not really.
Actually, I’m pretty sure the only thing I was thinking was “AAAAGHHH!!! ME LIKE PIZZA!!! MINE MINE MINE!!! PIZZA-AAAAA!!!”
There are moments today that I wish there was a Book It club for adults so I could be enticed to read. Because even today, I’m all about some free pizza.
But then I think about how I’d be subjecting myself to boredom sitting there in front of some book during precious time I’d rather spend playing PS3, blogging, or make believing I’m a responsible adult.
And then when I think about how much more fun it is to do bills than it is to read a book, well, nevermind. Actually, speaking of bills, some free pizza sounds good.
So, like, Garfield counts as reading, right?
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
If you play with fire (and/or anti-wildfire educational cartoon bears), you're bound to get burned.
Confession time:
I don't trust Smokey the Bear.
There. I said it.
I never have, and I'm not sure I ever will.
Now, maybe this has something to do with that I've lived my whole life in the Midwest. We don't really have forests, per se. We have forest preserves and, like, parks with bunches of trees and stuff, but mostly we just have farms and open fields with butterflies and kids flying kites.
So am I familiar with bears?
Only the ones in Chicago.
Except they play football. Next to a lake. And they're humans.
All I know about Smokey the Bear is that he likes pointing at me, sometimes while he's holding a shovel, and he doesn't wear a shirt.
Firstly, why are you pointing at me? I didn't do anything to you.
Secondly, a shovel? I sure hope it's not to bury some extra crispy forest friends.
And thirdly, no shirt? Look, if you're an anthropomorphic bear, I can't take you seriously unless you're either fully covered up or not covered up at all.
If you're buck-naked, you're just a bear keepin' it real doing mostly bear things, but you do human stuff too. You could probably still roar and crush my skull with your teeth if you wanted to. But you choose not to.
If you're fully-clothed, well then you're pretty much a human, except you have fur. I might be able to take you in a fight, but even if I lost, I wouldn't be inside your stomach being digested.
But if you're half-clothed? Well, then you haven't decided who you are. If you can't figure that out, why should I let you push a cause on me?
I'm all about letting the Berenstain Bears dispense some wisdom to me, or tagging along with Paddington Bear on a road trip, but the most I'm gonna do with Yogi Bear do is hit up a picnic and let him tell me some jokes. And don't get me wrong: I like Winnie the Pooh. He even says some pretty deep stuff, but I'm pretty sure it's because he's totally high. I mean, he's wearing a shirt but no pants. At least Smokey has that part the other way around.
Except I think he's high now, too. Remember Smokey's whole "Only YOU can prevent wildfires" spiel? Apparently now he's more into everyone getting their Smokey on.
I'm confused.
So, like, Smokey the Bear's a pothead now? This is a bear I'm supposed to trust for wildfire prevention tips and advice? Doesn't that make him more likely to start a wildfire? And doesn't that make him a total hypocrite with three claws pointing back at himself?
Okay, fine.
Let's just pretend Smokey's not on weed.
I still just have this gut feeling he's at least 70 percent likely to walk up to you and give you some sort of stern fire safety lecture before lighting your house on fire while laughing maniacally and yelling things like, "Not even YOU can prevent this wildfire!" or "You want to know why I'm doing this? BECAUSE I CAN!" and sticking around to tell the firemen you started your own house on fire for insurance purposes.
And then no one will believe you when you say Smokey burned it down, because he's Smokey the frickin' Bear! SMOKEY THE FRICKIN' BEAR!!!
Smokey the frickin' Bear.
I don't trust Smokey the Bear.
There. I said it.
I never have, and I'm not sure I ever will.
Now, maybe this has something to do with that I've lived my whole life in the Midwest. We don't really have forests, per se. We have forest preserves and, like, parks with bunches of trees and stuff, but mostly we just have farms and open fields with butterflies and kids flying kites.
 |
| What you see |
So am I familiar with bears?
Only the ones in Chicago.
Except they play football. Next to a lake. And they're humans.
All I know about Smokey the Bear is that he likes pointing at me, sometimes while he's holding a shovel, and he doesn't wear a shirt.
Firstly, why are you pointing at me? I didn't do anything to you.
Secondly, a shovel? I sure hope it's not to bury some extra crispy forest friends.
And thirdly, no shirt? Look, if you're an anthropomorphic bear, I can't take you seriously unless you're either fully covered up or not covered up at all.
 |
| What I see |
If you're fully-clothed, well then you're pretty much a human, except you have fur. I might be able to take you in a fight, but even if I lost, I wouldn't be inside your stomach being digested.
But if you're half-clothed? Well, then you haven't decided who you are. If you can't figure that out, why should I let you push a cause on me?
I'm all about letting the Berenstain Bears dispense some wisdom to me, or tagging along with Paddington Bear on a road trip, but the most I'm gonna do with Yogi Bear do is hit up a picnic and let him tell me some jokes. And don't get me wrong: I like Winnie the Pooh. He even says some pretty deep stuff, but I'm pretty sure it's because he's totally high. I mean, he's wearing a shirt but no pants. At least Smokey has that part the other way around.
Except I think he's high now, too. Remember Smokey's whole "Only YOU can prevent wildfires" spiel? Apparently now he's more into everyone getting their Smokey on.
I'm confused.
So, like, Smokey the Bear's a pothead now? This is a bear I'm supposed to trust for wildfire prevention tips and advice? Doesn't that make him more likely to start a wildfire? And doesn't that make him a total hypocrite with three claws pointing back at himself?
Okay, fine.
Let's just pretend Smokey's not on weed.
I still just have this gut feeling he's at least 70 percent likely to walk up to you and give you some sort of stern fire safety lecture before lighting your house on fire while laughing maniacally and yelling things like, "Not even YOU can prevent this wildfire!" or "You want to know why I'm doing this? BECAUSE I CAN!" and sticking around to tell the firemen you started your own house on fire for insurance purposes.
And then no one will believe you when you say Smokey burned it down, because he's Smokey the frickin' Bear! SMOKEY THE FRICKIN' BEAR!!!
Smokey the frickin' Bear.
Monday, August 30, 2010
If I ever catch my kids cussing, I'm loading up a loofah with some body wash and stuffing it in their mouths
I'm convinced that softsoap was invented by some mom who was tired of the dentist bills after constantly chipping the teeth of her foul-mouthed children.
I can just imagine her joy the next time after that one of the kids dropped an F-bomb out in the sandbox.
In my mind, I always see her face light up in a smile upon hearing such talk, which is followed by her exploding off her lawn chair, leaving her sunglasses, iced tea, and Good Housekeeping in the dust, and frollicking into the house.
Moments later, the back door swings open loudly, casting a wide shadow, and—softsoap in hand—mom approaches the kids briskly and intently like the Terminator.
She grabs the offending child by the hair on the back of his head, pulls his head back, and starts pumping in a half-dozen or so squirts of soap right before making some sort of cold-toned witticism, like "Don't forget to rinse," and then drops her kid to the ground before walking back to her lawn chair and resuming her afternoon.
I can just imagine her joy the next time after that one of the kids dropped an F-bomb out in the sandbox.
In my mind, I always see her face light up in a smile upon hearing such talk, which is followed by her exploding off her lawn chair, leaving her sunglasses, iced tea, and Good Housekeeping in the dust, and frollicking into the house.
Moments later, the back door swings open loudly, casting a wide shadow, and—softsoap in hand—mom approaches the kids briskly and intently like the Terminator.
She grabs the offending child by the hair on the back of his head, pulls his head back, and starts pumping in a half-dozen or so squirts of soap right before making some sort of cold-toned witticism, like "Don't forget to rinse," and then drops her kid to the ground before walking back to her lawn chair and resuming her afternoon.
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