Dry Humor, Neither Shaken Nor Stirred

It is common for me to make jokes that fall dead in the middle of a room.  I find myself quite entertained, however, those around me must awkwardly start new conversations in hushed tones, slowly gaining confidence as their topics take off where mine simply expired.

Here are a few examples gleaned from my penchant for switching the first letters of two words. (Th’s, Sh’s and Ph’s count as a single letter)

When you go shopping, you generally utilize a shopping cart. However, if you were a police officer on a traffic stop and the suspect began shooting at you, what is the first thing you would experience?

Answer: A copping shart.

If you are shopping and don’t have all of the items you intend to buy, you keep shopping. However, if you are a police officer who receives a call about some sheep blocking the roadway, once you respond you are sheep copping.

And now, another sort of example:

Imagine you are a foreigner visiting America. You don’t completely understand the language or culture, so, as you pass a racist sitting on his porch and he/she utters a slur and you become offended. Unsure of how to respond, you scream “I take of fence!” You then remove a section of the racist’s fence and storm off, indignant.

Perhaps you are an American visiting Scotland. On a long walk in the countryside, you pass a shepherd in his…sheep field? You ask him how many sheep he has and he replies “A few.” His accent causes your American ears grief and you misinterpret his answer. “That’s rude!” You reply. “I was just curious about the size of your flock.”

“And I said a few!” replies the Scotsman.

“Oh yeah?”, you scream. “F you too, sir! F you too!”

And you storm off, indignant.

I bid you adieu…and a don’t.

Adieu…find humor in what’s funny, whether others appreciate it or not.

A don’t…do as I’ve done and attempt humor when you are less than masterful. You might offend someone.

 

 

 

Advertisements

A Non-Christian Christian Church

Hello, folks. If you’re offended by the mere mention of Christianity, close your browser or navigate to another page now. If you’re still here, let me assure you that this post is not preachy and will in no way attempt to sway you from one religious belief to another. If you are a follower of Christ, let me assure you that this post is in no way meant to denigrate or demean the Christian religion.

This is simply a post about an idea that I find funny, hilarious and otherwise entertaining.

And now, on with it.

I want to found a church that is not so much pro-Christ as it is anti-satan. Instead of preaching the values taught by Christ, this church will demean the immoralities of satan.

Cherished hymns that glorify God will be altered to denounce satan.

For example, the beloved “How Great Thou Art” would become “How Great Thou Aren’t”.  “Shall We Gather by the River” becomes “Shall We Gather by the River of fire to Curse the Name of satan”.  “The Old Rugged Cross” become “The Old Rugged Hateful Hoss”. “Holy Holy Holy” obviously becomes “Unholy Unholy Unholy” “All Hail the Power of Jesus’ Name” is “No One Hail the Power of satan’s Name”. “What a Friend We Have in Jesus” is, of course, “What an Enemy We Have in satan”.

And so on and so on, ad nauseum. I think this method would be effective in today’s society. Many of us focus on the negative and find satisfaction in practicing hatred. Instead of hating our fellow man, why can’t we all hate the archdemon together?

Mutual hatred of an evil entity could be the key to human unification. If we can’t get behind love, let’s hate together. Our problem seems to be that we hate each other. Let’s knock that off and bind together through our hatred of a mutual, non-human evil entity.

I bid you adieu…and a don’t.

Adieu…find some reason to bond with your neighbor. We need strong communities.

A don’t…hate anything that shouldn’t be hated. Or any person. We might have differing ideas, and the ideas could be hate-worthy, but the people behind them would likely benefit from unconditional love. Forgive the smarm.

Hellicans, Weird, Annoying Chickens and Flying Dinner Rolls: Strange Children Express Themselves to the Delight of Strange Parents

Over the weekend, we took the kids to the zoo. I posted about this particular zoo previously. My wife and I spent a weekend in Wichita, Kansas for her birthday a couple of years ago and the Sedgewick County Zoo was where we spent most of our time. It is the only zoo in our weekend travel radius that houses gorillas. I love gorillas. I digress in speaking of my love of gorillas.

Ever since my wife and I spent that delightful day there, we have dreamed of taking the kids. Yesterday, that dream came true. Our spring trip was befouled by an earache, but we weren’t about to let the 45 degree temperature and 21 mph winds stop us this time. We stocked up on beanies, long johns and hand warmers and headed out at 7:30 Saturday morning. I usually drive 5 over, unless you’re a law enforcement officer in which case I drive 5 under with my hands at 10 and 2, but yesterday I drove exactly the speed limit as I watched the car thermometer slowly rise from 20 degrees at our departure to 36 by the time we arrived. We crammed hand warmers in every available pocket, pulled our beanies down low, and shivered our way through the gates. After surrendering our $70 (yes, $70 even after a veteran discount, but worth every penny) we proceeded to experience the animals. The flamingos were pretty and the sheep in the petting zoo were skittish. The camel seemed recalcitrant and the giraffes stood in a small indoor pen literally licking the walls with boredom. The elephants pooped at us in their Jurassic Park style indoor pens, but at least the tiger brushed up against the glass in greeting. The gorillas ignored us completely. The baby orangutan was cute but preoccupied with play.

We had fun, and got a lot of exercise, but it wasn’t until we saw the pelicans, near the end of our excursion, that I nearly fell to the ground laughing. As we watched them simply stand, we imparted to the kids some pelican facts. Pelican under-beaks expand to accommodate whole fish. The bird that saved Nemo was a pelican. And other such. The kids soon grew bored and, as we walked away my six-year-old son said, “I like those Hellicans.” As fans of  “The Big Bang Theory”, my wife and I immediately thought of the card games that the guys play in which they throw down cards and enunciate their ridiculous pun names. I pictured a bird with fire streaming from its nostrils as its under-beak expanded to admit the souls of the drowned damned.

After we left, we stopped at a Cajun place so that I could get a fried alligator sandwich to go (which, to my dismay and disbelief, was mostly eaten by my kids on the way to our planned dinner joint) and then proceeded to a 50’s style diner called Spangles. I got some hot sauce to dip my fries in and challenged the kids to drink the (large) remaining amount in exchange for a ridiculous prize. My 8 year old daughter screamed, “I’ll do it if I get a weird chicken!” She then made noises that the English language hasn’t the letters to describe. “I want a weird, annoying chicken!” she screamed to the thankfully empty dining room. When I told her she, herself, is a weird annoying chicken, she emitted the weirdest, most annoying laugh anyone ever heard. I laughed a normal, but no less annoying, laugh in response.

Today, we extended the fun by going to the massive Bass Pro outdoor shop in Springfield. If you’ve never been, it’s free and almost like a museum. If you’re in the Springfield, MO area, its worth a stop just for the visual feast that is Bass Pro. That really isn’t the point I wanted to make. Consider it an honorable mention. Springfield is also home to a place called Lambert’s Café. The food is good, but what really sells it is the “throwed rolls”. This is literally what it sounds like. The dinner rolls are “throwed” across the dining room to desiring patrons. We purposefully neglected to tell the kids that this would happen. That weird, annoying chicken wanting 8 year old was so in awe of the tradition that, when I threw up my hand to request a “throwed roll”, she screamed “WHAT!!” after it nearly hit her in the face. After the first one I caught, every time the roll man came around, three little hands flew up into the air. Halfway through the meal, my Hellican loving son had to use the bathroom. Lambert’s is a very busy place at all hours of operation. As we moved across the massive dining area toward the bathrooms, I focused solely on not tripping the waitresses moving about with the free “pass-arounds” (comfort food side dishes such as fried okra, black eyed peas, fried potatoes and macaroni and tomatoes passed out free of charge by roving wait-staff). While I was trying to make it to the bathroom without tripping them, calculating the optimal, no-food-spillage route in my head, I tripped over my suddenly still-as-a-stone son. I recovered and glared at him before breaking down laughing. The little guy had spotted a roll thrower and stopped in the middle of the walk-way with his hand raised in what he thought was an optimal roll-catching claw, staring intently at the traveling baked-goodsman. “You can’t get a roll on the way to the bathroom!” I exclaimed breathlessly. “Wait until we get back to our table!” When we did, we learned that my oldest, a 9 year old daughter, had caught a roll in the crook of her elbow and it was caught on tape!

I bid you adieu…and a don’t

Adieu…enjoy the weirdnesses of children, despite the annoyance it may cause. Let them be weird. Normal isn’t nearly as fun.

A don’t…be afraid to participate in the strangeness. You only live once. Let the propers proper themselves in the corner.

A Limerick

There was a birdwatcher from the ‘burbs,
Who had unusually long optic nerves.
When his eyeballs popped out,
They hung down by his snout;
Now instead of his birds he sees turds.

I bid you adieu…and a don’t.

Adieu…share any limericks you may have written. I can’t get enough of limericks.

A don’t…judge mine too harshly. All the good ones are already taken.

My Son, The Bigfoot Sighting

Please realize that the title of this post is not “My Son and The Bigfoot Sighting”. My son himself is a Bigfoot sighting. Note that he is six years old. This is an important contextual clue.

Herewith I shall describe the theorem thus presented. (I know the previous sentence may be grammatically or semantically incorrect. I don’t care. It sounds good to me.)

When my son is outside, he is nothing but a blur as he runs off to complete odd missions only his unknowable mind can understand.

My son is often hard to find, but traces of him are always prevalent. If I can’t find him I start by sniffing out horrible stenches. If he is not the immediate source of a particular stench, I follow odd footprints. My son often walks or runs in odd fashions with odd things on his feet. If the footprints peter out and give way to gravel or cement, I listen for the sound of something being smacked by tree branches. I can tell the difference between a tree branch smacking a tree, a swing, my shed, my lawnmower, one of my daughters, my house or my truck. All thanks to my Bigfoot sighting son. If the tree-branch-smacking-noise stops before I find him, I follow the sound of the unidentifiable screeching. It may be a distressed squirrel. It could be a kid my son smacked with a tree branch. Most likely it is just my son being himself.

My son is a Bigfoot sighting. He is unexplainable and often hard to find. When he is found, he is sweet and inexplicable. He isn’t Bigfoot, but he is the essence of Bigfoot. Not everyone knows he exists, but those who do are delighted to be among the chosen few who know him despite his stench, noises and the messes he makes.

I bid you adieu…and a don’t.

Adieu…find Bigfoot in your everyday life. He is a philosophy more than a creature. As such, there is much he can teach us.

A don’t…squash the quirks of your children. Life is made sweet in through such oddities.

Searching for M.o.E. and Two Girls Named Roger…Even I am Scratching My Head

I search for M.o.E. More accurately, I anticipate M.o.E.  I suppose a bit of clarification is appropriate before you throw up your hands and unfollow me, wondering what I mean by M.o.E.

M.o.E. stands for Moment of Eruption. Moment of Eruption is when a warming Lava Lamp releases its first bits of lava. I have thus far witnessed only the afterbirth of this event, but I imagine the event itself to be somewhat transcendent. I glance over at the lamp in between whatever academic sentences I happen to be writing and only ever see the lava swelling evocatively or in a state of having already erupted. I’ve thought a lot about why this is such a big deal to me and I’ve settled on the idea that I dream big, hypnotic dreams that distract me from my actual life and the eruption of a lava lamp is quite similar to this. For instance, the M.o.E. I missed while writing this post resulted in what appears to be intestines rising from the surface of the lower lava clump to the underside of the colored fluid.

Dreams swell. They erupt. Imagining success, you stare at them but they often remain frozen in place for a time that seems interminable. Then, before you know it, massive blobs of success are floating to the top of your life Lava Lamp. They undulate as they ascend, representing the mild hiccups that every dream endures, but, try as you might, you simply cannot remember the M.o.E., or time before fruition.

Weakly put, perhaps, but I’m sure you get a sniff of the philosophy I wish to convey.

On to girls named Roger…

I was shaving before work the other day when my 8 year old daughter, still needing to eat her breakfast even though school was only 20 minutes away, came to the bathroom holding back tears.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, worried.

My daughter hemmed and hawed for a while before saying, “Brother said ‘The girls are named Roger.’ Wah wah wah waaaaaaaah.”

“Are you named Roger?”, I asked.

…”No”…

“Then don’t worry about it.”

-sniffle- -sniffle- “Ok.”

I bid you adieu…and a don’t.

Adieu…endure despite the setbacks. I’ve been telling my daughter for years that what other people say doesn’t matter. She still thinks that it’s worth being offended that her brother thinks her name is Roger.

A don’t…discount their feelings. But definitely let them know when they’re being absolutely ridiculous.

Oh the Humanity of the Humanities: A Terrible Title for a Touching Post

Oh irony of ironies. As I opened what I thought was a new notebook to take notes on the Humanities class I just started (a class that studies the intricacies of human expression, I must add) I was greeted by a very simple, and yet sublime, human expression.

“Princess Sparklel (*sparkle) Farts”.

I haven’t laughed as hard as I did in quite a while. My wife laughed also. This one won’t go on the refrigerator though.

Her Majesty deserves a place of honor. She shall be framed in the finest dollar store frame and hung prominently upon our living room wall.

Although I don’t know the period during which the piece was produced, I can comment on the context.

Recently, my son ran up to me as I sat in the bleachers watching my daughters cheer a football game. He said, in front of God and everybody, “Let’s have a farting party!” I expressed extreme distaste in regards to my participating in such an event. My son promptly jammed his hand up his shirt and produced several armpit farts. As my son continued to squelch and giggle, I adopted a somber expression and sternly spoke his name. His farting party came to a screeching halt as he prepared to receive a reprimand. “Do you know what happens after a farting party?” He slowly shook his head. “People have been farting all night and, as they begin to leave, they find themselves parting farty.” A strange smile lay upon his lips and he uttered a half-hearted final giggle before running off to find his mother.

I had hoped to raise a family of nerds. Instead, it seems I’m raising a family of bodily function aficionados. They art about farts, for crying out loud.

I guess it’s ok. Their passion inspires in me an emotion that results in one of the more pleasant bodily functions: laughter.

I bid you adieu…and a don’t.

Adieu…engage in farting parties. Not literally, though. Use it as a metaphor for whatever strange, and less disgusting, activity your children may wish to engage in.

A don’t…part farty. Just don’t.