childishness

Blood Pressure And ShrinkyDinks

/ Diane Henders / 22 Comments

Every now and then I see things that tickle my funnybone.  Here are a few of the latest winners:

I found this sign beside a supermarket pharmacy.

I found this sign beside a supermarket pharmacy.

Thanks, but no thanks.  I’ve got more than enough blood pressure of my own after waiting in the interminable lineup.

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I think somebody needed to look at this a little more closely before they approved the decal.

I think somebody needed to look at this a little more closely before they approved the decal.

Is it just me, or does that say “Stop quality driving”?  I think their cause has been widely adopted in Calgary.  Ain’t no quality driving here.

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Saw this at the mall: “Elevator temporally out of order”

Saw this at the mall: “Elevator temporally out of order”

I guess it kept arriving before it left.  Or wait, is there a Tardis in there?  Ha, I knew Dr. Who would have to update his look eventually!

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This next photo confronted me on a news page.  (I added the discreet black box just for your sakes, my dear readers.  If you prefer the full monty, I’ll send you the unaltered version in a plain brown wrapper… for a price.  That’s called “monetizing your blog”.)

Just like the Sesame Street song, “One of these things is not like the others…”

Just like the Sesame Street song, “One of these things is not like the others…”

There was just so much about the first glance that made me laugh:

  1. It’s a staid and proper news site (note the seriousness of the other four items).  Business and finance, world politics.  And it had a gratuitous dick on it.  *snickers like a ten-year-old*
  2. When you look at it closely… (No, look at the background.  Stop trying to peek under the black box.) …there are several women standing around in dresses1.  How often do you see a guy hanging his junk out full spread-eagle in a public place?  Without getting arrested, I mean.
  3. It’s “Most Popular” and “Recommended”.  Guys, imagine the prestige of having your manhood voted “Most Popular”.  I don’t seem to recall that particular honour being bestowed in our graduating class – I think we just had a plain old valedictorian.  But ours was a little backwater school, so what did we know?
  4. And… just in case you didn’t realize what you were looking at, they labelled it.  In big red letters:  “The penis”.  Dang, I never would’ve figured that out on my own.  But then again, maybe they felt clarification was necessary.  Having seen the unaltered photo, I can only conclude that it must have been chilly that day.

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Or maybe their model had been using this product (which I found in the Michaels craft store, in case you’re looking for last-minute gift ideas):

I couldn’t even hold the camera still, I was laughing so hard.

I couldn’t even hold the camera still, I was laughing so hard.

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Would you buy ShrinkyDinks?  Who/what was voted “Most Popular” in your graduating class?  Am I the only one who snickered childishly at the misplaced dick pic?

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1The women were my first clue, triggering a vague recollection from my years of studying art history.  I didn’t recognize it at first glance but it’s actually a photo of a statue, which changes everything.  As we all know, marble dicks (regardless of inappropriate camera angles and cropping) are Art, and therefore Not To Be Sniggered At.  If I had known, I would’ve treated the subject with due respect.  Probably.

But it was still pretty funny that it popped up (*snicker*) on the news site after I’d snapped the ShrinkyDinks only days before.

Highway Child(ishness)

/ Diane Henders / 15 Comments

(Apologies to Bob Seger, Jimi Hendrix, and the Stones)

Before you read any further, I’d like to note that my travelling companions are (usually) mature and admirable people.  Please don’t judge them harshly.  You’d be a basket case, too, if you had to spend fourteen hours in a car with me.

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A couple of times a year, I drive from Calgary, Alberta to just outside Winnipeg, Manitoba.  The trip is about 800 miles one way (1,200 kilometres).  When I’m driving by myself, I do it in about twelve hours.  If I have company in the car, it takes closer to fourteen.

The mind does frightening things when it’s cooped up in a car for that long.  When I’m on my own, I beat my brain into submission with loud music.

When there are other people in the car, things get… strange.

I frequently drive with my sister and a friend whom I’ll identify only as Swamp Butt, in order to protect the guilty.  Since she can’t retaliate without revealing her true identity, I’ll also disclose her nickname for me:  “TB”, short for “Tiny Bladder”.

Three grown women in a car for fourteen hours.  What a wonderful opportunity for deep discussion, bonding, and meaningful dialogue.

Snort!

There’s something about the trip that makes us revert to the mental age of ten.  Some examples:

When you drive directly into the sunrise, the angle of the light reveals the fact that we all spit when we talk.  And not just on plosive consonants.  It’s a constant, fine spray of spittle.  There’s no way to prevent it.  Sorry, but it’s true.

Being the refined and sophisticated person that I am, I pointed this out within seconds of discovering it.  My sister heaved a huge sigh of relief.  “I thought it was just me,” she admitted.  “I’ve been trying to stop doing it for miles.”  She then proceeded to demonstrate various facial contortions designed to reduce the spray.  Much merriment (and aerosolized spit) ensued.

Later in the day, we passed the umpteenth pasture with cattle dotted across its expanse.  I glanced over and said, “Black cows…”  Fateful pause.  “…Look BETTER in the SHADE.”  At which point all three of us did the head bob as we chanted the instrumental part:  “NAH-nah-nah-nah-NAH-nah-nah-NAH!”  Swamp Butt followed up with the solo from the back seat, “Dee-DEE-dee!”

I’ve never really liked Gino Vanelli’s music, or the song “Black Cars”.  To me, the 80’s were a musical wasteland, mercifully relieved by a few outstanding artists like Bob Seger.  But the point is, the “Black Cows” segment was repeated over and over, apparently getting funnier each time.  It’s now a tradition.  Such is the hideous danger of long-distance driving.

Eventually, the brain becomes so sodden with fatigue that it’s not actually necessary to have a stimulus for mirth.  We’ve dissolved in helpless giggles while standing in line at Subway.  Not talking.  Not even looking at each other.  The mere words, “I’ve been in the car too long…” are enough to make us weep with laughter.

Oh, and Swamp Butt?  She snorts when she laughs.  Not every time.  The snort is reserved for special occasions.  But when it finally erupts in all its raucous glory, pandemonium ensues.  Hysterical, helpless hilarity.  We haven’t actually had to pull over yet, but it’s been close a few times.

And then there’s the reason for Swamp Butt’s nickname.  Farts become excruciatingly (and I mean the word in all its connotations) funny after too many hours in the car.  They’re also pretty much unavoidable.  Medical science tells us that humans pass gas 15 – 25 times a day*.

Well, guess what?  Fourteen hours is over half a day.  Times three people.  Equals somewhere between 26 and 44 farts in the car (‘cause I’m a geek and it’s math.)

Here’s another thing you need to know.  Canola smells like cabbage farts.  (Honest.  Those pretty yellow fields?  When it’s cut, it reeks.)  And there are a lot of canola fields between here and Manitoba.  So the next time you let one slip while driving, just nod wisely at your passengers and murmur, “Canola”.  You can thank me now.  Note:  This may be less convincing in the wintertime.

Anyway, on our last trip, Swamp Butt seemed to spot a lot more canola fields than there actually were.  And just as we drove into the parking lot in Brandon to drop her off, she cracked off another one.

Loud.

Seconds before she got out of the car.

We all tumbled out, laughing, shrieking and choking.  I’d like to say that we drew some attention, but we didn’t.  Guess folks in Brandon are used to that sort of thing.

We have not yet devolved to burping contests (well, usually not), armpit noises, or mooning other drivers.  We’re much too mature for that.  I hope.  Please, God, let me be right about that.

What’s your pinnacle of silliness while long-distance driving?

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*Who gets paid to do these studies?  There’s one for the ol’ resume:  “Undertook in-depth research of human gaseous emissions.”