Tag Archives: double entendre

What Were They Thinking?

You know how you’re cheerfully going along and everything makes perfect sense, and then you find something that makes your brain screech to a halt and yelp, “Wait, what?”

This week I encountered more ‘what-were-they-thinking’ situations than usual.  For instance, I sometimes use preservative-free eye drops that come in teeny individual vials:

0.4 ml: About 7 drops

You’re supposed to open the vial, use what you need, and throw away the remainder to avoid contamination.  Each vial holds about seven drops.  But… most people have two eyes.  Why would they create a vial that holds an uneven number of drops?

At first glance it seems illogical, but I guess it’s actually marketing genius — they know you’ll have to waste part of each vial; and more waste for you equals more sales for them.  (Sometimes finding answers isn’t as satisfying as one might hope.)

Also:  This weekend I was at an art conference, where I learned about a new drawing tool.  It works like a wax crayon but also has water-soluble elements so you can drag a wet brush through it and get a watercolour effect.  Very cool indeed!  But why did they call it a ‘Woody’?

The Stabilo Woody: It even comes wearing a condom… erm, sorry; “protective sleeve”.

Not even the conference presenter was able to say ‘woody’ out loud without snickering.  I can’t believe that nobody on the Stabilo marketing team ever said, “Hey, you know that’s slang for an erect penis, right?”  (Or maybe they were snickering when they named it.  Hmmm.)  So wrap your hands around your woodies, folks, and let’s get this party started!

Moving right along…

Also at the conference, I found this sign in the bathroom:

It says “Please press the grey circle for 5 seconds to flush”… and there’s a grey circle on the sign.

I wonder how many people did what I did:  Read the sign, saw the grey circle, and thought, “But pressing a dot on the wall won’t flush the toilet.”

The sign was actually referring to the grey circle on the dual-flush control for the toilet far below; and it was necessary because the other half of the control didn’t work.  But why would they put a grey circle on the sign and mount it so high it seems unrelated to the toilet?  It would have been much more helpful to place the sign directly above the actual control with a downward-pointing arrow.

I chuckled at this garbled communication, but maybe the joke’s on me.  Maybe I’m the only person who ever looked at the sign and momentarily wondered if I was supposed to press the wall.  But I don’t think so.  The grey circle on the sign looked suspiciously finger-smudged.

And now I’m giggling at the thought of people repeatedly pressing the dot and wondering why the toilet wouldn’t flush.

Any oddball events in your world this week?

Book 14 update:  I got into Chapter 27 this week.  It’s fun to be a fly on the wall when Reggie Chow and Holt The Magnificent lock horns!

P.S. For those who asked for an updated photo of the trellis project that singed my toes, here it is completed and installed:

The last of the dahlias and glads are still hanging on, and yesterday I planted another 700 bulbs. We’re looking forward to the spring blooms!

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Just A Nutjob

I have to confess:  I’m obsessed with nuts.  All sizes and shapes and colours; from soft to firm to rock-hard, and everything in between.  Such a glorious variety… mmmm!  And there’s nothing like that delicious crunch when I crush them between my teeth.

Guys, stop wincing – it’s nothing personal.

The other day I checked the grocery list and chuckled.  There were only three items on it:  Peanuts, walnuts, and pine nuts.

This was in addition to the dried-fruit-and-peanut mix that’s always in my car in case I need a snack while I’m on the road; the can of salted cashews in the snack drawer; the almonds and almond flour in the baking cupboard; and the big bowl of unshelled nuts that takes up residence on our counter every year as soon as fresh nuts become available.  (And you know I’m secretly snickering at “fresh nuts”.  There’s nothing better than cupping a nice big handful of… okay, I’ll stop now.)

And there’s always at least a gallon of peanut butter in the freezer in addition to the jar that’s currently in use; but I don’t actually include that in my nut count – peanut butter is a staple food that transcends nutdom.  (If only I could say the same about myself.)

If there’s peanut butter, there’s hope.  If there’s no peanut butter… *shudders at the thought*  I’m not even going to go there – it’s too traumatic to consider.  I’m sure most guys would agree that a nutless day is a bad day indeed.

Hubby is bemused by my love affair with peanut butter.  If we eat the same leftovers a few days in a row I get tired of them no matter now delicious they might be.  But peanut butter?  I eat it for breakfast every… single… day.  And I have for decades.  I just tell Hubby he should be glad that when I find something I truly love, my commitment problems magically disappear.  😉

I do realize that peanuts aren’t actually nuts at all – they’re legumes.  But I’m still nuts for them.  I know; sometimes I’m such a goober.

And now I can’t get the song “Goober Peas” out of my head.

Any other nut nuts out there?

Book 14 update:  I made it to the end of Chapter 21, and circled back to tune up some details in earlier chapters.  It’s fun to weave in all the little loose ends!

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Me And The Boys

I’ve probably mentioned that we’ve planted several fruit trees here at our new place… or, more accurately, fruit twigs.  They’re not really big enough to be called “trees” yet.

So imagine my surprise when I spotted something on our peach twig.  Then imagine my laughter when I realized the “something” was actually two small fuzzy spheres cuddled together on one tiny branch.  I’ve always had a bad habit of assigning gender to inanimate objects, but in this case I can say unequivocally “It’s a boy!”

And while we’re in that… *ahem* …area, here’s some news in brief (sorry, couldn’t resist):  Apparently a researcher in the States is seeking over 3600 photos of men’s penises in order to determine whether Size Does Matter to a guy’s social and psychological makeup.  If you’re an investor, now might be a good time to buy shares in Photoshop.  I predict a firming trend in their stock, perhaps even a dramatic rise.

I dunno; I’m no expert, but it seems to me that if you’re looking for meaningful insights into male psychology you might not want to draw all your study data from the subset of ‘Guys Who Want To Send You Dick  Pics’.  But I notice the researcher looks a tad annoyed in the news photo, so she’s probably had more than enough razzing already.  I’ll just let the topic, um… subside.

And…

According to my blogging buddy Tom Merriman and Charlie O’Shields from Doodlewash, July is #WorldWatercolorMonth.  I’ve been envying Tom’s talent for quite a while now, so I’m happy to finally be able to join the fun.  And hey, my watercolour subject even suits the theme of this post! (Okay, I’m reaching a bit; but still.)  Anyhow, seventy-nine years ago, ‘it was a boy’ for Hubby’s Uncle Bert’s parents.

We were invited to the birthday party, and Bert’s only request was “No gifts, just homemade birthday cards”.  He has led a fascinating life that includes many years of owning his own business driving trucks and operating heavy equipment.  Bert had retired by the time I got to know him, but he still does odd jobs with his loader/backhoe.  So my imagination took flight (so to speak):

What’s up in your world this week?

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I’m Gonna Need A Forklift…

After the past several weeks of feverish work and stress-filled wrangling to get Book 13 safely into the retailers’ systems, my brain is completely empty.  Usually there are a few screwball thoughts floating around in there, but this week?  Nada.  Not even the sound of crickets.

(Although the sound of crickets would be worrisome, considering that I recently read a news article about a woman who had a cockroach take up residence inside her ear, BLEAH!)

Anyway, I had nothing but the whistle of wind between my ears, so I consulted a site that offered random writing prompts.  And I got this:  Write a post about anything you’d like, but be sure to include this sentence somewhere in the final paragraph: “He tried to hit me with a forklift!”

Something about that prompt burrowed into my brain like a… ech, never mind.

I know randomness was the whole point of the exercise, but nevertheless my mind rebelled.  Why hit someone with a forklift when there are so many more entertaining weapons?  A dead fish, for example.  A cauliflower.  A rainbow-coloured My Little Pony riding crop with marabou feathers on its… oh, wait.  Is that a little too creepily specific?

*ahem*

Moving right along…

How could I write a post about “anything I like” and somehow include a forklift?  I like music and ice cream and rare steaks and art and cold beer and gardens and a host of other things.  Excavators are fun.  Ditto highway tractors.  But forklifts?  Meh.

I considered spinning some flash-fiction:  Who was this guy and why would he try to hit me with a forklift?  Was he a wack-job smushing innocent people for fun?  Or had I done something to deserve smushing?  And why was I hanging around a forklift anyway?

Unfortunately, creating flash fiction requires brainpower; and I was fresh out of that.  (Not to mention, you already know the punchline.)

When I searched for “funny forklift” on the internet I found a disturbing number of forklift fails, but they were more cringe-worthy than amusing.

I tried to come up with some bad puns:  A fork lift; as in an elevator for forks?  A fork-lift, as in lifting a fork?  I even tried and failed to figure out some kind of filthy double entendre about getting forked.  It’s a sad day when I can’t even come up with a dirty joke.

So… I didn’t get hit by a forklift this week (which is good); nor did I get hit with inspiration (not so good).  I hope I’ll be able haul my brain out of its swamp of exhaustion soon.

But I think I’m gonna need a forklift…

Help me out here:  Anybody know a good forklift joke?

* * *

P.S.  Book 13 is available for pre-order at all retailers AT LAST, woohoo!  Click here for purchasing links

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Well, I’ll Be Spatchcocked!

It’s odd how I can go for weeks or months without running across anything particularly funny on the internet, and then suddenly I get inundated by snicker-inducing goodies:

I was browsing Amazon for Christmas gift ideas, and I didn’t realize some vendors have such a tenuous grasp on reality (and good taste).  Check out this “Lovely silhouette art for baby nursery”:

Awww… how adorable. Not.

Um, guys… it’s a panda waving handguns.  In what world is this ‘lovely’ or in any way appropriate for a baby nursery? Although if this is how parents are decorating their nurseries these days, it does explain a few things.

So I abandoned the Amazon vendors to their delusions and went to catch up on my blog reading instead.  And within minutes I ran across the word ‘spatchcock’.

If (like me) this is the first time you’ve encountered that word, I know what you’re thinking.  I can practically see your thought-bubble from here.

You’re thinking, “There goes Diane down another dodgy research rabbit-hole that leads to a kinky sex website.”

I’d act all indignant about that; but there’s not much point since we all know it’s happened before and it’ll probably happen again.  But I swear, this time I wasn’t reading anything dodgy at all – it was a cooking blog.

There was no definition or explanation; only a note that you could “spatchcock the chicken” if you wanted.

Well.

I’ve lived for over five decades, and I’m pretty sure I’ve never wanted to do anything that sounded like that to a chicken.  Or to any living thing, for that matter (with the possible exception of a couple of guys I’ve known).

I did a Google search for ‘spatchcock’, braced for who-knew-what perversion.  And I found it immediately:  Jamie Oliver spatchcocking a chicken.

I’d love to say that it was as lewd as it sounds; but sadly, it only means ‘to butterfly’ – to remove the chicken’s spine so the carcass can be flattened for cooking.  I’m not sure why they didn’t just say that in the first place, but it’s nice to know there are cooks out there who share my childish appreciation for salacious-sounding words.

Apparently the internet was on a roll, because after serving up panda pranks and chicken chuckles, it rounded out the amusing animals with a plastered possum that broke into a liquor store and went on a bender, a scofflaw squirrel that got charged with criminal mischief and was released on bail, and some hostile hagfish that slimed a car so badly it looked like a remake of a Ghostbusters movie.

But ‘spatchcock’ is my most prized discovery of the week.  I don’t find words that are new to me very often, and I consider it a serious lapse of my professional puerility that I’d never heard of a word with such great comic potential.

’Cause now I’m imagining a new verbal expression of shock:  “Well, spatchcock my ass and call me a chicken!”

Gotta work that into a book somehow…

P.S. Just a bonus to this week’s bounty of beasts:  Yesterday I saw two women walking across the Canadian Tire parking lot in Parksville.  One was walking a large dog on a leash.  The other also held a leash… attached to a goat.  They were going for a walk.  To Canadian Tire, apparently.  Now I have yet another reason to laugh uncontrollably at the word GOAT!

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Contemplating Uranus

Hubby is an avid amateur astronomer… and an alliterative archetype, apparently.  (Sorry, I couldn’t resist the chance to string together eight A-words without using the word ‘anus’.  We’ll get to that one later.)

Anyhow, Hubby is my go-to guy whenever I spot something in the night sky that intrigues me.  I’m not much of an astronomer – I can spot the Big Dipper and Orion and the North Star, and that’s about it.  So, early in the evening I’d point to a bright dot near the horizon and sing out, “Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight…”

And Hubby would say, “That’s not a star, that’s Venus.”

Oh.

So I learned to say, “Oh, look, there’s Venus!”

Then we got wrapped up in our move, and summer arrived with its long hours of daylight, and we didn’t have much time for stargazing.  But the other night we were sitting beside a little bonfire enjoying a cold beverage and I pointed happily to the bright dot in the southern sky.  “Oh, look, there’s Venus!”

Hubby said, “That’s not Venus, that’s Saturn.”

“Oh.  Where’s Venus?”

“You can’t see it now.  Planets move around, you know.”

“Right, so that explains why you haven’t mentioned Jupiter or Venus lately.  What about Neptune?  And weren’t you talking about seeing Mercury a few years back?”

“Yes, but you can’t see them right now, either.”

Mellowed by beer, my next question slipped out before I even considered it.  “But you never mention Uranus.  Can you ever see Uranus?”  As soon as the words left my mouth, I started to smirk.

In the firelight, Hubby didn’t notice my expression, or maybe he was ignoring it in an attempt to keep the conversation above a third-grade level.  “I saw Uranus the other night,” he replied seriously.

I couldn’t resist a straight line like that.  “Dang, I guess I should have put on some underwear.”

He gave an ‘oh-lord-here-we-go’ eye roll, and I attempted to veer back to the path of maturity by adding, “So what does it look like?  Can you see it with your naked eye?”  (Yes, I said ‘naked’ with a completely straight face.  See, I can act like an adult… for several seconds at a time.)

“No, it’s not very bright.  Even with my telescope, it’s just a fuzzy gray ball.”

I blame the beer.  My moment of maturity vanished without a trace.  “Uranus is gray and fuzzy?  That can’t be healthy.  And you say you can’t see Uranus without a telescope?  How does that even work?  If you have to look in the eyepiece at one end to see your other end, you must be very flexible…”

By this time we were both snickering.

“Yep,” Hubby agreed.  “It’s hard to get a glimpse of Uranus.  I can’t even spot it without help; I have to enter coordinates into my telescope to make it point in the right direction and then I use a computer program to track Uranus…”

“Okay, I’m never gonna turn my back on that telescope again.”

The conversation ended in a blaze of glory… literally.  We spotted a big meteor sailing erratically through the sky shedding sparks, and at that point we lost interest in Uranus… or anyone else’s, for that matter.

But now, inquiring minds want to know:  Have you ever seen Uranus?

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Getting The Goat

I’m on the road again this week, and one of my stops was my old stomping grounds in Calgary.  I don’t miss the city at all, but I sure have missed my wonderful friends.  We all got together for dinner, and after catching up with the last eight months of everyone’s lives the conversation turned to more general topics.

That is to say, the moral tone of the conversation plummeted like a rock pitched into a cesspool.

I was the unwitting instigator.  But really; it wasn’t my fault.  Much.

“So my friends were looking for a goat…” Jill began.

“Wait, what did you say?” I inquired.

“They were looking for a boat that was big enough to fit everybody into.”

“Oh!  I thought you said ‘goat’!”

Laughter ensued.  Then Mike, the usual shit-disturber, spoke up.  “Now every time you say ‘boat’ I’m going to think ‘goat’.”

Jill went on in the misguided hope that she might be allowed to finish her story.  “…so anyway, they wanted a boat and they were looking for a slip for it…”

The table erupted in bawdy speculation.

“A slip for the goat?  I didn’t know you could buy lingerie for goats.”

“Well, obviously it was a seductive goat if it would let all those people into it.”

“How many people can get into a goat, anyway?”

“Depends on how, um… accommodating… the goat is.”

I can’t remember whether Jill ever actually finished her story.  We were all convulsed with laughter, and the other patrons of the restaurant were eyeing us with expressions ranging from disapproval to envy.  (Or maybe it was all disapproval – I was laughing too hard to be certain.)  Oddly enough, the waiter seemed reluctant to return to our table after that.

We finally settled down, and Judy threw a pointed glance a Mike.  “You can dress him up but you can’t take him anywhere.”

Mike and I exchanged a glance at our T-shirts and jeans, and I countered, “You can’t even dress us up.”

I thought about suggesting that maybe next time Mike could throw on a sport goat over his T-shirt, but I decided it was time to put that topic out to pasture.  After all, people can only stand so many ba-a-a-ad jokes.

I parted from my friends reluctantly, with another warm and funny memory filed away.  And from now on a single word, either spoken or texted, will be capable of inducing paroxysms of laughter:  “Goat!”

Anybody else have a word or phrase that never fails to make your buddies guffaw?

P.S. I’m travelling again today so I’ll be checking in to respond to comments later in the day.  ‘Talk’ to you then!

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Having Words With Myself

Every now and then the playback needle in my brain skips a groove and ends up on a different track altogether.  (And if you don’t understand that reference, you’re probably too young to be reading my blog.)

When the needle skips, it’s as though I’m a foreigner looking at our language for the first time.  Words I’ve used for decades suddenly look weird and unfamiliar, and I feel compelled to discover their origin.  And if I stare at a word too long, no matter how familiar it is I’ll begin to question whether I’ve spelled it correctly – it looks wrong no matter how I rearrange the letters.

That happened to me earlier this week, and I’m hoping it’s only because the last couple of weeks have been immensely stressful:  It’s the usual craziness of releasing a book plus a spate of family illnesses and deaths, all in addition to the never-ending gong show that is our house construction.

At least, I’m hoping it’s only the stress that’s making my brain twist.  But even if my word-weirdness is the harbinger of some dire malady, at least I’m getting a chuckle out of the symptoms.

For instance:

The phrase “He’s holding his own” is meant to indicate that someone is holding up under pressure and not requiring the help of others.  But whenever I hear that expression my mind immediately demands, “Holding his own what?”  Which is quickly followed by, “I hope he washes his hands afterward.”

In the same vein, ‘He knows how to handle himself’ is also supposed to be an admiring comment, but you can probably guess where my brain goes with that.  (I wrote ‘he knows how to handle himself’ in Kiss And Say Good Spy; and I admit I was grinning when I did it.)  Whenever I hear or read that phrase I wonder whether it’s being used as a compliment or a filthy innuendo.

…And don’t even get me started about the word ‘innuendo’.  To me it sounds like The Godfather describing a kinky sex act:  “In-u-end-o!”

‘Feckless’ makes me giggle, too.  The online dictionary tells me it’s derived from the Scottish word ‘feck’, which means ‘effect’; therefore ‘feckless’ means ‘useless, incompetent, ineffective’.  I always think of ‘feck’ as an Irish expletive, so in my mind ‘feckless’ should mean ‘not giving a feck’.  E.g. “I’ve been doing this stupid job for so long I’m feckless about it.”  Or “If he fell off the face of the earth, I’d be feckless”.

‘Gormless’ is an intrinsically funny word.  Unlike the others, it doesn’t remind me of any other word (except maybe ‘worm’) but even if I’d never heard it before, I think I’d still identify it as an insult.  Like ‘flaccid’, ‘gormless’ is a word whose sound suits its meaning perfectly.

And speaking of the way words sound, I have to smother a smile when anybody says ‘Doing his/her duty’, too.  Unless the speaker enunciates very clearly, I hear ‘doing his/her doody’… which is another thing entirely.  (Please pass the toilet paper.)

What word or phrase never fails to make you snicker?

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This Week’s Been A Gas!

We’re slowly settling into our new place, but, like the nocturnal swamp shuttle, there are still a few kinks to work out.  Y’know, little issues like sewer gas.

Sewer gas wafts into corners and creeps along floors and trickles down stairwells, making it nearly impossible to trace its origin.  So I was nosing through the house snuffling like a deranged bloodhound and muttering, “Dammit, I smell sewer gas!” while Hubby, who lacks my sensitive sniffer, thought I was going crazy(er).

I finally figured it out by posing myself a simple question:  “What’s the stupidest thing our homebuilder could have done?”

Yep, nailed it on my first try.  They had routed sewer vent lines up to the second floor for the future bathroom, left the lines uncapped, and then installed the plywood subfloor over top.  So the longer we used the septic system, the more the house reeked of decomposing shit.

It wasn’t a huge chore to saw open the floor and cap the lines, but the whole episode definitely impaired my sense of humour for a while.

Then again, my sense of humour is usually a little messed up:

Hubby, my evil enabler, bought us three big bags of Kernels popcorn.  While we were happily munching, we noticed that their plain popcorn looks like home-popped corn, while the caramel popcorn is puffed up into near-perfect spheres.  (And aren’t you impressed that I didn’t even make a dirty joke about chowing down on tasty balls?  Good Lord, I must be growing up.)

Anyhow, I wondered if caramel corn is actually a different variety of popcorn.  Turns out it’s not; but I got as far as “why is” in my Google search when their top four searches popped (sorry) up:

What?!?

It makes sense that a lot of people might wonder about the sky; and since I don’t have kids I can’t knowledgeably dispute the importance of Caillou’s baldness.  But green poop is the third most common internet search?  Are that many people pushing out technicolor turds?

And I didn’t think the FBI showed up at people’s doors frequently enough to warrant fourth place; but even if they do, I wouldn’t have thought people’s reaction would be, “Oh, hang on, Mr. Cranky Gun-Toting Lawman.  I realize by the way you kicked down my door that you might be in a teensy bit of a hurry, but I just want to do an internet search before you drag me away…”

The next giggle happened when we were getting ready to configure my step-mom’s new FitBit.  I looked up the installation procedure, read the first step, and laughed.

Maybe I should kiss it first…

You’ve gotta love it when the first item on the configuration list sounds like a kinky sex act.

And speaking of dongles and related words, I ran across this vintage game in a little store:

From a more innocent time…

I probably wouldn’t have snickered quite so much if I hadn’t just researched gender reassignment surgery (don’t ask why; you know how my internet searches tend to go down oddball rabbit holes).  I discovered that they usually use a skin graft from the forearm to construct a new penis, and one of the potential complications is ‘hairy urethra’.  So you really can end up with a wooly willy…

Okay, I’ll stop now.

How’s it hanging for you this week?

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Too Many Balls

It’s been one of those weeks – our house still isn’t done, and I’ve had to do the exterior trim painting because we can’t find a painter to do it (the market is booming and all the trades are insanely busy).  Between doing part-time construction work while living out of a suitcase and (still) trying to finish Book 12, I have far too many balls in the air.

That causes quite a bit of stress for me, but it also creates ample opportunities for my mouth to run amok while my brain is momentarily occupied with juggling the aforementioned balls.  (And just never mind what my hands are juggling… but at least Hubby’s smiling.)

Moving right along…

A few days ago I discovered that one of the deck railing systems we’re considering has the option to install an ornamental ball as a post cap.

And yes, you know I’m snickering at using “post” and “ball” in the same sentence.  After all, I’ve written a post about balls and a post about posts, so it was practically foreordained that I’d end up putting a post and balls in the same, um… post.

Anyway, the conversation went something like this:

Me:  “We’re going to have to spend an extra $27 on the deck.  I just found some ornamental post caps I like.”

Hubby:  “Oh?  What do they look like?”

Me: “They’re balls.”

*silence*

Me:  “You know, an ornamental ball that sits on top of the post.”

Hubby:  “Okay… How many for the deck?  One on each post?”

Me: “Oh, no, only three; one on each outside corner.  There’s such a thing as too many balls, you know.”

Hubby:  “Yeah, I’d say three might be one too many…”

So there you have it:  Too many balls in the air, and too many balls on our deck.

And I’m nobly restraining myself from making any more deck jokes, but I’ve just gotta say that I think we’re going to like it here.  Hubby’s deck is bigger than it’s ever been!  And with three brand-new balls; well, what’s not to like?

What’s bouncing in your world this week?

 

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