In Praise of Piss

May 15, 2013 / Diane Henders / 39 Comments

*F-BOMB ALERT* – CONTAINS (more) COARSE LANGUAGE (than usual)

I’m a connoisseur of rude and vulgar language. I collect it, use it frequently, and occasionally dust off some of my truly one-of-a-kind pieces to lovingly share with the world.

Hey, everybody needs a hobby, right?

But I started thinking about the nature of obscenities the other day, and after considerable reflection, I just don’t get it.

Why do we designate certain words as “offensive”?

They’re just collections of syllables and sounds. I mean, normal phonetic sounds. I could understand it if there were swear words that included, say, fart sounds or something – those would be offensive. But there aren’t any words like that.

Though now I’m feeling inspired…

Back to my point: “Ay”; “ee”; “oo”; whatever; as long as you’re not including “pbphltttt” as a phonetic building block, they’re all pretty innocuous. We use them in millions of different sequences, so why should certain combinations make people blush/titter/freeze you with a look of outrage?

I know, I’m zooming past the obvious. It’s not the phonetic sound that offends, it’s the meaning behind it. I see how someone with strong religious views might have a problem with exclamations they consider blasphemous, so I’ll leave that topic aside for now.

But what about our good old Anglo-Saxon four-letter words? Shit, piss, fuck. These babies have been around for a long time. They’re short, simple words for perfectly natural body functions.

Why should “shit” be more offensive than “bowel movement”? Seriously, the words “bowel movement” make me cringe. And what about our other euphemisms? Drop a log, pinch a loaf, take a dump – they all sound pretty vulgar. By comparison, “shit” is quick and tidy.

Ditto “piss”. What’s so doggone special about the word “urine” that makes it somehow less offensive? It’s still the same stuff. And I’m sure those folks with the surname “Uren” would prefer people to use the Anglo-Saxon alternative when referring to bodily functions. I’ve never met anybody with the surname “Piss”.

Or take “pee”. (No, I didn’t say “take a pee”. Well, unless you need to. In that case, fire away. Though I’ve never really understood why we say “take” when we really mean “leave”, either.) But digressions aside, why is it cute when little kids say “pee”, but everybody gasps if they say “piss”? What’s so cute about “pee”?

Many talented folks have already outlined the versatility of “fuck” as verb, noun, adjective, adverb, interjection, and so on, so I won’t belabour that point.

But think about this: “Somebody fucked up the copier” is instantly comprehended by virtually every English-speaking person on the planet. We hear that, and we know we won’t be getting any copies of our document today.

But if we eliminate “fuck”? Look out. How about: “Somebody had sexual intercourse with the copier”?

Bystanders flee screaming, faces contorted in horror. Those with sensitive stomachs vomit into the nearest receptacle. Scrub your hands, bleach your brain, stuff yourself into a haz-mat suit and never, ever make copies EVER AGAIN.

A simple F-bomb could have averted that entire disaster.

They’re all perfectly good words: short, easy to spell, and universally understood. And we’re not supposed to use them.

I just don’t get it.

Pbphltttt.

Rorschach Poster Child

April 24, 2013May 25, 2013 / Diane Henders / 35 Comments

I’ve mentioned several times that I tend to misread text. I’ve speculated that it may be some latent form of dyslexia, or maybe just a combination of carelessness and a twisted mind. After the picture I just saw on Facebook, though, I’m leaning toward the probability of a terminally twisted mind.

When I first saw it I thought, “That is a seriously weird picture. It looks like a little bald alien being throttled from behind by a gorilla”. Even after staring at it for several seconds, I still couldn’t figure out what it was supposed to be.

At this point, I’ll offer my sincere apologies to the photographer and to whoever posted and/or enjoyed this on the internet, because it was actually a soft-focus silhouette of a mother kissing her child. Or chewing its throat out; it was hard to be certain. It was accompanied by a touching text on motherhood, so I presume it’s the former.

Anyway, that’s when I realized there’s a tiny possibility that my mind might be wired just a leetle differently than everybody else’s.

So I did what any self-respecting geek would do: quantify. I went looking for Rorschach inkblots on the internet.

And guess what I found?

A troll riding a chopped Harley.

Here he is, with his big ugly feet propped up on the highway pegs, his leather handlebar fringe flying in the breeze:

According to Wikipedia, this is a “nonstandard” response. Most people interpret it as a bear-skin rug or some other sort of animal hide. But it’s definitely a biker troll to me.

This one looks like two of Santa’s elves high-fiving over their recent foot amputation:

Though when I looked at it again, I could see two bears dancing upside-down on their forepaws while balancing a traffic hazard cone on each of their butts, squishing pomegranates with one paw.

When I read the first part of the wiki on that one, I thought I might be coming a little closer to the norm; it does actually mention references to blood.

But then they diverged into discussions of sexual overtones and though I pride myself on my dirty mind, that reference sailed right by me. It’s either dancing bears or elves, and neither of those makes my socks roll up and down.

The rest of the inkblot images are little more ambiguous, and apparently the final one gives most people trouble:

According to the wiki, “people who find it difficult to deal with many concurrent stimuli may not particularly like this otherwise pleasant card”.

Well, I can’t multi-task worth shit. I can’t even work on the computer and listen to music at the same time. I get intensely stressed when I’m in a situation where two people are talking to me simultaneously. Ergo, this card should bother me.

My immediate reaction: “I love it! It’s a happy little undersea garden with coral and seahorses and fish and blue crab-like critters, all tucked underneath the Eiffel tower.”

Go figure.

So I have to know: What do you see in these photos? (I won’t ask if you think I’m abnormal. I already know the answer to that.)

P.S. I just discovered that WordPress has been displaying ads here on my blog. I didn’t even realize it was happening because logged-in users don’t see them. Please accept my apologies – I loathe the thought that you’ve been ad-spammed on my blog! I just hurried off to pay the pound of flesh that will prevent WordPress from doing that again.

I don’t know what they might have showed you, but I definitely DO NOT endorse any product or service they’ve advertised here. I’m very sorry if it appeared that I did.

Grrr! *stomps off to read the fine print more thoroughly*

Boot To The Head

April 10, 2013October 2, 2018 / Diane Henders / 33 Comments

I have an embarrassing confession to make. But first, a bit of background information:

You may recall I mentioned getting hit during a sparring session a couple of weeks ago. Thanks to everyone for the good wishes; my eye is back to normal now except for a bit of blurriness and a few festive sparkles remaining in my peripheral vision. The doc has assured me it will clear and that my retina is now no more likely to detach than before I got hit, so I’m cleared for takeoff again.

However.

A few days ago, Hubby sent me this: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9g1Z3V0QBpg&feature=youtu.be

The soundtrack (excluding Unchained Melody) is from a Canadian comedy troupe called The Frantics*, from their 1987 album titled “Boot To The Head”. The performers are martial artists, and the skit was put on at a martial arts convention in 2008.

Needless to say, I laughed my ass off.

Those guys were just clowning around, but the truth is I can’t approach that level of skill even when I’m trying my best.

Apparently I have some rare learning disability that prevents me from putting on my hand wraps correctly even after being shown repeatedly. My striking and blocking technique could be matched by an inebriated orangutan, but the orangutan would be more graceful. Every minute or two, I have to stop and gasp for breath until my heart rate slows to panicked-gerbil range.

The sad truth is that I punched myself in the eye.

I had my guard up, with my face tucked down safely behind my upraised fists. I was supposed to be sparring with my trainer, which actually meant that he danced around me taunting, “Hit me, go on, hit your trainer!” while he dodged my wild swings, laughing and sticking out his tongue and doing everything but wiggling his ears.

(I’d like to note that he’s a big guy with a much longer reach than me. And he’s an experienced fighter. And about 20 years younger. This disclaimer is just a feeble attempt to retain a few shreds of my tattered dignity. Now back to our regular programming…)

He was tapping my guard approximately as fast as a boxer hitting a speed bag: whap-whap-whap-whap-whap. While he laughed. And dodged. And made faces.

I started to laugh, too. And I didn’t hold my guard strongly enough. And he hit my left hand. And my glove flew back and I punched myself in the eye.

I hardly felt it. I’m so focused when I’m sparring that I don’t feel much pain until afterward anyway, but this didn’t even leave a mark. If it had been anywhere else on my body, I wouldn’t have noticed it at all – that’s how lightly he was hitting.

But apparently the angle was perfect, and the next morning I was off to the eye doctor with floaters and bright flashes and blurry vision.

Just goes to show that I’m unlikely to achieve my life’s ambition, which is to NOT die of my own stupidity.

But “injured in a sparring accident” makes me sound like a badass if you don’t know the inconvenient truth. Maybe that’s why Hubby also sent me this in the same email: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vaVtSES6esQ&feature=youtu.be

At least I prefer to think that’s why he sent it…

Anybody else suffer klutzy sports moments? Please tell me I’m not the only one.

* * *

I’ve set this up to post automatically since I’m on the road today – another 800-mile marathon across the prairies, woohoo! (No, I’m not being facetious; I love the drive.) But I won’t have time to respond to comments today, so I’ll catch up tomorrow instead. “See” you then…

*The Frantics were best known for their song, “Boot To The Head”, to which they added new and different rants at each live show: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZljpTx_tJ78&feature=youtu.be

MWF Seeking Woman With Gun

March 6, 2013 / Diane Henders / 46 Comments

This week I’m working on the cover art for the sixth book of my series, and I’m wading through images that range from OMG to WTF and everything in between.

As you may have noticed, the visual theme for the Never Say Spy series is “woman with gun”. Try searching that phrase on a stock photo site. You won’t believe the range of results. Apparently there’s an enormous need for stock photos of women from all walks of life holding firearms.

Brides, women in schoolgirl uniforms, soldiers, police officers, business women, rednecks, slutty cops in lingerie, bikini models in sky-high heels, punks, cowgirls, pregnant women, pioneers, spies, pirates, Cossacks, construction workers, Muslim women, duck hunters, and female SWAT personnel are just a few of the variations I’ve found.

Wardrobe choices range from leather, lace, fur, camo, denim, and spandex to more unusual garb like plastic wrap, tartan micro-minis, hard hats, headscarves, men’s pajama tops, parkas, sailor suits, a Napoleon uniform, metallic gold body paint, and nothing but a hat.

Clearly most of these women have never actually fired a gun, though it would be fun to watch them try using those grip positions. And maybe I’m just a strait-laced old lady, but I’ve never felt the urge to shoot in the nude (or even wearing a nice conservative string bikini). I prefer to keep my tender parts covered when there are hot brass cartridges flying around. I guess I’m just a wimp.

Weapon choices vary wildly. There are the usual assault rifles, semi-auto pistols, shotguns, revolvers, and air rifles, but bananas seem to be an extremely popular choice of weapon, too. I wonder if the gun control advocates realize that these deadly weapons are readily available in every supermarket, stored within easy reach of children. It’s shocking, I tell you.

If you’re looking for more unusual weapons, there are dangerous-looking women brandishing paintball guns, water pistols, fingers, hair dryers, tattoo guns, drills, cannons, gasoline nozzles, muskets, flintlocks, nerf guns, cameras, caulking guns, or a heavy-duty perforator. If I ever write a thriller about construction workers, I’m gonna use the photo of the blonde with the hard hat and perforator. That chick’s got muscles.

And… in all the thousands of photos retrieved by searching “woman with gun”, there was one picture of a cowed-looking young guy in a shirt and tie, holding a little-bitty gun and looking apologetic. I’m not sure whether the photo was tagged wrong or whether they popped that one in there just for fun, but I got a good laugh out of it.

Which was nice, because I figured they owed me after making me look at a naked woman posing with a bleeding, severed pig’s head. No matter what you need, there’s a stock photo out there for you. Though if you need that one, please don’t tell me. I’d rather sleep tonight.

But I really can’t complain. There are worse ways to spend a day than looking at pictures on the internet while blasting my favourite tunes.

I’m off to work now…

What are you up to today? Brandishing your banana? Decapitating pigs? Do tell.

I’m Losing It…

February 20, 2013 / Diane Henders / 43 Comments

*F-BOMB ALERT* – CONTAINS (more) COARSE LANGUAGE (than usual)

Motorcycle season is still a few months away, but I think it might be time to get out my boots and leathers anyway. In the past couple of weeks, I’ve been referred to as “dear”, “little”, and “girl”. I’m in serious danger of losing my badass self-image.

Note I said “self-image”. In reality, I’m probably more good-ass than badass, but I’m a loyal and happy resident of the state of delusion. I like it here. I’m staying as long as I can.

My image crisis started in a restaurant in Parksville, BC. The ten-year-old (okay, fine, maybe she was eighteen) waitress called me “dear”. Repeatedly. Just like the group of sweet little old ladies beside me. Granted, I don’t know if they actually were sweet. I couldn’t overhear their conversation, so maybe they were swearing like sailors and swapping stories of their latest sexual conquests. I kinda hope so.

But the point is, she called me “dear”.

And just like Rodney Dangerfield, I don’t get no respect. Later at the airport baggage carousel, I was waiting for my luggage when a guy pushed past and stood right in front of me.

Hey, buddy, am I fucking invisible?

I wistfully contemplated giving him a nice solid elbow strike to the back of the head, but I had a feeling my apparent invisibility wouldn’t fool the security cameras.

Then “little” and “girl” got thrown at me at the gym. At 5’10” and 48 years old, neither of those words have applied to me for a very long time. I’m willing to concede that “little” might have been a comparative term since it was used by my muay thai instructor, who’s over six feet of muscle. It wasn’t like I was going to argue with him.

But then I was waiting behind a couple of guys at the security gate to the change rooms, and one turned to the other and said, “Let the girl go first.”

I glanced around just to be sure, but I was the only female in the vicinity. What the hell was that? “The girl”? Reminded me of the “good” old days, when the boss used to say, “I’ll have my girl do it.”

Just to be clear, I’m not necessarily offended by being called a girl. In fact, one of my most treasured compliments was one I overheard a couple of years ago when I was at a show & shine (outdoor classic car show, for those who aren’t car nuts). I was checking out a 1970 Challenger with the 426 big-block when I overheard a guy behind me: “There’s a girl over by the car that just makes you wanna…” His more politically correct companion interrupted with the words, “…go over and say hello.”

I checked surreptitiously, but again, I was the only female in the vicinity. At 46, I took it as a high compliment, cheerfully ignoring the possibility that I might have misinterpreted his sentence structure and it was actually the car that made him wanna. Hey, I don’t judge. There were lots of cars there that made me wanna.

But I digress. My point is, short of starting to spew f-bombs publicly (and as I mentioned before, I’m too Canadian to do that), I need to find a way to polish up my badass image.

Wonder if the gym’s dress code allows boots and leathers?

Skipping Down Memory Lane

February 6, 2013 / Diane Henders / 48 Comments

I have the strangest selective memory of anyone I know. It usually plays back as smoothly as a good LP (kids, look that up). I have a few minor pops and crackles, but it’s generally fine.

And then suddenly my needle skips a track.

I can effortlessly spout off all my credit card numbers with expiry dates and PINs. I even remember my very first Mastercard number from nearly 30 years ago. If you’re interested in the value of pi to 9 digits accuracy or the torque spec for my lug nuts or my grandparents’ phone number from the late 1960s, they’re instantly retrievable. I also know all my business and personal bank account numbers, PINs and access codes… except one.

For reasons known only to my brain, that one bank account number won’t stick. Usually I can look at a number a few times and it’s effortlessly stored, but no matter how many times I try to memorize that one, it just won’t stay with me.

I take a pill for acid reflux every night. Literally within minutes of swallowing it, I forget I’ve taken it. So I’ve developed a system. I take the pill, and then I eat a cracker. I can never remember taking the pill, but I always remember eating the cracker. Don’t ask me why it works, but it does. I’m afraid to question it.

And then there are the not-so-shared memories. One of my siblings will begin, “Do you remember when…”

I don’t. Ever.

And it’s not just obscure reminiscences. A few years ago, the conversation turned to grade school, and somebody (I can’t remember who, go figure) asked me, “Do you remember when you beat up (name redacted to protect the guilty)?”

I didn’t.

The guy in question was four years older and twice my size, and apparently I got in trouble. You’d think something like that would’ve stuck in my mind, but I have absolutely no recollection of it (though I’ll proudly claim the victory just on general principles).

My dad once said, “While everybody else is still thinking about it, Diane’s already got it done.” I took it as a compliment, but the truth is I’m not exceptionally industrious or dedicated. I get things done simply because if I don’t do them as soon as they’re mentioned, I’ll forget about them completely.

I generally retain names with no trouble, but every now and then one vanishes, never to return. I remember that my orthopedic surgeon’s first name is Kevin, even though I have never addressed him as Kevin or heard anyone else call him Kevin. I saw it once on his office door, and I’ll know it forever more. His last name escapes me despite the fact that I’ve referenced it repeatedly on various medical records for years. I know it’s a common name that starts with ‘H’. Every time I look it up, I think, “Aha. Now I’ll remember it!”

I don’t.

Back in my interior design days, I once swore I’d never visited a building. The drawing notations indicated I’d done the site measurement, but I was positive I’d never been there. Until I stood in the lobby and went, “Oh. Yeah…”

It’s a good thing I like surprises because with a memory like mine, I get lots of them.

Anybody else have a wonky memory?

I Like Young Guys

January 30, 2013 / Diane Henders / 46 Comments

Fortunately, my husband is extremely tolerant and secure. I had just gotten back from an appointment with my young male massage therapist when I announced, “I like young guys!”

Hubby grinned, said, “Yeah, and…?”, and waited for the explanation I hastened to supply.

I mean, I do like young guys; what’s not to like? But I didn’t exactly mean it the way it came out. What I meant was, as an old(er) woman with a brain that refuses to accept that I’m not twenty anymore, it’s really nice to work with my young male martial arts trainer, my young male massage therapist, and (when necessary) my young male physiotherapist.

Because they don’t give me any bullshit about how I shouldn’t be kickboxing, or I shouldn’t be shooting, or I should back off on my weights, or whatever.

My middle-aged GP was horrified when I told her I was kickboxing. She issued me a prescription for a topical anti-inflammatory along with a severe admonition to quit. While she was at it, she suggested I go a little easier on my weightlifting, too.

The surgeon who fixed the torn ligaments in my wrist a few years ago eyed me cynically and told me if I was going to kickbox, he’d see me in his office begging him to fuse my wrist in another few years.

I know they’re probably right; I just don’t want to hear it.

What the hell, I could get hit by a bus next week. Then I’d be lying there dying in the road, all pissed off because I didn’t need those joints after all and I could’ve been kickboxing all along.

So instead of going to the doctor this time, I went to my massage therapist. He listened to my description of my various aches and pains and said, “But do you like kickboxing?” And when I said ‘Oh hell yeah’, he said, “Okay, you’re getting pain because your muscles are imbalanced here, here, and here. Here’s how to fix that…”

He gave me exercises, stretches, a massage that made me writhe in agony but feel better afterward, and most importantly, encouragement.

My martial arts trainer does the same. “Okay, you can’t bend your wrists. That’s all right, you can do this on your knuckles. Okay, you can’t kick today, so instead you’re going to learn two ways to break a guy’s arm and three ways to choke him. And here are a couple of submission holds.”

I love these guys!

No, they aren’t irresponsible. They’re professionals. They make sure I understand the potential consequences of my actions… and when they realize I’m going for it, they cheer me on and find ways to make it happen. They totally understand the ‘Go hard or go home’ mentality.

In a few years, I might look back on this and say “What the hell was I thinking? I’m in constant pain now because I was a moron who didn’t have the brains to quit while she was ahead.”

But maybe not. Maybe I’ll just grin.

Anybody else doing things you’ll regret later?

Not Dressed Up And No Place To Go

January 23, 2013 / Diane Henders / 46 Comments

This week, I did the annual dusting of my dress-up clothes.

I may have mentioned in an earlier post that I hate dressing up. Thanks to benevolent fortune and my own avoidance tactics, these days I work from home and employ other people to represent my computer training company much more professionally than I. So I have a closet full of business clothes I never wear. Dust gradually accumulates on them, and every now and then I go in and vacuum it off.

I like it that way. It’s a good system.

I’ve always hated dressing up. When I began Grade One, my mother thought it was proper for little girls to wear dresses to school. She crammed me into cute little outfits and sent me off clutching my tartan-patterned tin lunchbox and my utter disregard for propriety.

The “dress” phase lasted until the teachers gently informed her that I spent most of recess hanging upside-down by my knees from the monkey-bars.

After that came the phase of “dress with matching bloomers underneath”, which rapidly morphed into “fine, slacks it is”.

But it was still slacks. I didn’t get my first pair of jeans until Grade 5, by which time I had already been labelled hopelessly uncool. That was probably due more to my personality than to my clothes, but I prefer to cling to my illusions.

I made it through my remaining school years in blissful slobbishness, but when I went to university to take my interior design degree, I decided it was time to grow up and make an effort. I wore slacks and blazers and sometimes (gasp) skirts and pantyhose.

That lasted about six months, and then it was back to jeans and T-shirts. Styles changed, and I got rid of the outdated clothes.

The same pattern repeated when I entered the workforce: I bought sleek business clothes and high heels, which I wore for several months, followed by increasingly casual slacks and flat shoes.

At last I quit interior design (which was a relief to all concerned) and switched over to IT where my frumpy slacks and flats made me look like a fashionplate. So I got rid of the dress clothes entirely and started wearing jeans and sneakers to work.

When I started my own business, it was back to the stores for more damn dress-up clothes. Then came the inevitable decline, at which point I decided it was a much better idea to hire somebody else to represent my company. At least my staff wouldn’t be mistaken for vagrants who’d wandered in off the street to cadge goodies from the networking events.

Which brings me to the present, slouched happily in my home office. My only human contact occurs at a weekly staff meeting (I wear jeans), the gym, and Friday pub night with friends. No need to dress up at all.

I’m happy.

But I’m afraid to get rid of the dress-up clothes. As long as they’re gathering dust and quietly going out of style in my closet, I’m safe. The instant I get rid of them, I just know the cycle will start all over again.

Anybody else keep out-of-style clothing as insurance?

And Then It Got Ugly

January 9, 2013 / Diane Henders / 45 Comments

I used to be able to count on spammers to tell me what a marvelous writer I am. Every day I’d get dozens of compliments about my wonderful colour schemes, my mastery of writing, and my expertise in the subject area. To the spammers, I was a demigod.

In fact, I was so good I even got compliments from beyond the grave: “You are an excellent wrteir even if I have thought your writing seems sad sometimes! I am so glad you are honest! The truth will set you free, is true! I love you and I am so blessed to be your Mom!”

Wow, thanks, Mom. I’m amazed at your mastery of the keyboard even after you’ve been dead for thirty years. Does this mean you’re coming for Sunday dinner?

Okay, so I was pretty sure that last one was from a spammer, but still. It’s flattery, right? It’s all good.

Only lately I’ve noticed a subtle and disturbing change. I mean, I still get “an amazing article dude” and “This really designed my day” and “Wow, fantastic blog fmroat!”. That’s all fine and dandy. But some of the comments are veering into ambiguity: “This blog is just as well cool to become missed”.

Um, thanks… I think…

Or how about this one: “A hilariously complex write-up”. Is “hilariously complex” a good thing or a bad thing?

But a couple of weeks ago, the comments took a turn for the worse: “My brother suggested I might like this website. He used to be entirely right.”

So what are you trying to say? He was always right before, but this time he was wrong and you hated my website?

And then it got ugly:

“I have to say that Im really unpisresmed with this. I mean, sure, youve got some very interesting points. But this blog is just really lacking in something. Maybe its content, maybe its just the design. I dont know. But its almost like you wrote this because everybodys doing it. No passion at all.”

And

“Hello, you used to write magnificent, but the last few posts have been kinda boring”

And

“of course like your website however you have to test the spelling on several of your posts. Many of them are rife with spelling problems and I to find it very troublesome”

And

“why throw away your intelligence on just posting videos to your weblog when you could be giving us something informative to read?”

Wow, what a tumble from my previous exalted position. I guess that’s just the price of fame. Sooner or later, your fans turn on you.

Spammers never fail to make me laugh. It’s fine if commenters respectfully disagree with me, but I can’t believe these idiots think I’d leave gratuitous insults posted, or (even more improbable) that I’d click on a link attached to an insult.

Isn’t spamming all about getting people to click on your links?

Repeat after me: S-T-U-P-I-D; stupid.

But despite the chuckles, I must say I’m unpisresmed with the trend. Someday it’ll be “Click on this link or we’ll send Guido and Luigi over with the baseball bats”.

The day I get that comment, I’m outta here.

Is anybody else still getting spam love? Or are the spammers turning on you, too?

Blood Pressure And ShrinkyDinks

December 19, 2012December 19, 2012 / 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.

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

* * *

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.

* * *

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!

* * *

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…”

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

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*
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.
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?
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.

* * *

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.

* * *

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.