A dead anime in a popcorn machine!
It was Thing Two’s turn to hide Olaf first. Thing One and I walked in to find this.
Expect more Olaf pictures (It’s Thing One’s turn next) and other Christmas posts. I’m working on a Best Toys for Christmas list (I always find the most
disturbing appropriate educational items for your little yard apes). Expect information from the front about how Reeces peanut butter Christmas trees are clearly a plot of left wing commies (and Obama!) to destroy Christmas, and other hot political news, like whether Santa is still snowy white. I’m also willing to take ideas if you have some. Or leave me links to your posts – as long as they are on the “light” side because I’m not sure if I can go much deeper than peanut butter cups. Stay tuned, and remember to say your prayers cause Santa is coming, and he knows what you’ve done.
I had a lot planned, but just when I thought I was better, I was sick again and stressed and bummed and just in time for the holiday! The one with the turkey, not Black Friday. So I figured I would throw together a few posts because starting tomorrow is gonna be the FUN countdown to Xmas! Happy Holidays, Fox!
“Thing One: The Musical”
Thing One was in the musical “Crazy for You”. She had a small role yet was the star because Thing One. We enjoyed playing “Where’s Waldo” with her each time they changed scenery. “Where is she?” I’d ask my parents. “Oh, THERE she is, in the corner.” And while she may not have had but one line “Thank you, Mr. Zangler.” she was always animated, unlike some of the other kids who learned to nap with eyes open.
The fairly new musical was built around a bunch of old songs because – because. Quick rundown of the plot. Guy’s rich mom wants him to be a banker, but he wants to sing and dance and wear shiny pants. Zangler is there with his Folly Girls (Thing One was one of them and wore this awesome slinky dress and make up and her hair done up so beautifully, aw) and he tells Shiny he’s a moron. (I liked that part) So Shiny goes to the Old West (or Nevada, whatever) and he meets this cowgirl and they are sort of in love but bad news their theater is going under, but Shiny has a way to save it – put on a musical! He pretends to be Zangler, and gets a LOT of girls to come down to do the show. For some reason, it doesn’t occur to him that there are only 13 people in the town, so this idea is probably not going to work.
Cowgirl falls in love with Zangler, not realizing that duh it’s Shiny. Then dancing girls showed up who I thought were just doing random numbers but no, they were supposed to be his delusions. They came out a LOT, so prayers for Shiny. Thing One was this lady with a suitcase, or sitting or standing off to the side, looking awesome. Since I was just a few days out of surgery, I began feeling very sore midway through. So that’s when they really brought out the songs. I mean there was a song for everyone and for everything, even stuff that wasn’t happening. But the songs finally ended, and the musical. Thing One had a wonderful time, and went back to one of her favorite activities: sleep.
I watched a show on the history channel that was, shock, about history, the history of Thanksgiving. Did you know that we made a lot of that up? Shock! Like they found a letter from one Pilgrim who said yeah some Indians did help with the planting. The Pilgrims showed gratitude by shooting off their guns in an attempt to scare off the Indians. The Indians sent out a big scout party to check this crap out, right when the Pilgrims decided to have a big meal after reaping this awesome harvest all by themselves! Well, the Indians see this, and decide to invite themselves, seeing as how there were twice as many of them as there were Pilgrims.
Guess who’s coming to dinner?
I would have loved to see the looks on the Pilgrims’ faces when they showed up. But anyway, the Things took some pictures of “A Pocahontas Thanksgiving”, which makes as much sense as the other made up version.
“25 days of Olaf”
Get ready, folks. Since I was little too disturbed by Mr. Elf on the Shelf and his network of spies, I bought the Frozen version. You’re supposed to hide Olaf the stuffed snowman in a new place every day. The Things and I have already thought of many, many places to stick that snowman. We’re planning to take a new pic each day for you guyz. Also to scare the crap out of each other with the places and situations we put the snowman in. Stay tuned!
Yay, I’m back! Well, most of me! I think!
You might be thinking this post will finally solve the case of the missing gallbladder. You would be wrong. But I’m going to tell you all about it anyway. My sick posts tend to be some of my best, or at least my pneumonia ones got a lot of praise (story starts here – link drop!). Maybe I write better with lots of pharmaceuticals and / or fever. I don’t want to repeat the fever thing, nor do I know of a way to achieve one on purpose. And pharmaceuticals – well druggies ruin everything.
Where was I? Oh, right, my doctor scheduled me for surgery. When the big day arrived, my husband took me to the waiting room. Waiting for surgery is sort of like waiting for Christmas – only no gifts and they cut you open and stuff. So actually nothing like Christmas, except the expectation of something awful. Like pain. Or relatives. Yet I did get a present – my friend L came to hang with me, despite not actually needing to go to a hospital at all. This makes her insane, but a nice friend, especially for me.
They called me back and checked my vitals to make sure I was alive before they possibly killed me. Yeah, I know all about it, doctors, it’s hard to glance over that part of “possible death we are not responsible for” mentioned in that paperwork. Of course I signed it, because I felt bad enough to not care much anymore. I was nervous, so I focused on interesting and /or stupid things happening to write about later. I got some. They took me off again to a little temporary hospital room of my own with a TV and a bathroom and a bed that had to be hand-cranked because day surgery nurses are given a lot of crap.
I washed myself with a hand-i-wipe and put on my hospital gown. I’d never seen one like this before. Usually they are cloth and open to the back to better expose your behind. But this one was made of paper and had covered rimmed holes all over it. I wondered if they specially designed the gowns for doctors to peek through while doing surgery, but it turned out that they used them to, I’m not kidding, hook you up to a blow dryer. They stuck a hose on my gown and vroom instant warm. I have to get one of those things for home. It’s great.
They also hooked me up to an IV. They put it in my hand where it’s harder to find veins, so she poked around my hand with a needle and it was so fun. Luckily my husband turned on the TV to distract me with Dr. Phil. A lady suspected her husband of cheating on her, and her square-headed husband was all “No I didn’t but I’m not taking a lie detector test.” And Dr. Phil was rubbing his chin with that thoughtful look that said “I am taking this seriously” before telling the man that he was stupid liar. And he said he wasn’t. And his wife said she just had to know for sure if he was cheating on her because the marriage was totally worth saving because they’d had two kids in three years and how exactly was this guy managing to run around on her? My husband didn’t get five seconds off – I knew exactly when he was due home from work and I was maniacal enough from a day with screaming infants and toddlers to chase him down if necessary.
Once all my prepping was done, and my doctor had finished patient number one for the day, and Dr. Phil had run off before they revealed the lie detector results, they rolled me into the operating room. I have to wonder – do these operations get to be as routine as working at McDonald’s? I can imagine them rolling patients in one by one with a little number and then sending them out the door for pick up. Also with poking four holes in you, and pulling things in and out of it, I can’t help but think of the Operation game. Wouldn’t it be funny if it really buzzed if a doctor didn’t get their tools out of the holes just right? Like on that commercial, only with real patients. I would film it. Anyway, they rolled me to the operating room and then I was waking up in a totally different room and off I went back to my temporary hospital room. And people came to visit me and I said “I feel GREAT.” cause I did, I really did feel great. And they were happy I was all better now. But what I didn’t realize was that the reason I was all better now was because I was HIGH. It makes a difference.
I asked my husband what happened, since I had so many questions. Like did they actually find the gallbladder, or did they just poke holes in me and say forget it? Did they find it all shriveled up and hiding behind the liver like the freeloader it was? Was it just in the wrong place? When you carry babies inside you, your organs shift all over the place – fun fact they never tell you till you get pregnant. So maybe it was way down with the kidneys? I asked him. He said the doctor just told him the surgery went well, and they’d see me in like three weeks. Say what? I love my husband but he’s not good with the big questions. Like why was my gallbladder missing before and where was it now exactly? Not like I wanted it in a specimen jar, but I do like to have answers.
They left me with four bloody incisions covered in what some kind if sticky saran wrap – the wrap made the blood spread out so it looked about 500 times bigger than it was. The bellybutton one was especially pretty, with a jagged line looking a bit too much like the Joker’s smile. And while this was supposed to be “minimally invasive” I think if you put my abdomen up against a gun shot victim’s, they’d look pretty similar.
When I got up to walk around I felt a bit nauseous. Don’t ever tell your doctor this. They assume it’s the pain meds and tell you not to take them, and then you aren’t high, and then you realize you have been seriously snookered. I only had seven of them anyway – that’s right seven – and no refills. Thanks drug addicts. They let me go that afternoon. That evening Thing One had her premiere in the high school musical “Crazy for You.” I missed the first one, but I saw the second performance a couple days later. More on that to come, as well as the mystery of where the heck my gallbladder went. I think my story would make a fantastic musical, with dancing doctors, organs, and surgical instruments. Or maybe I’m just high.
P.S. It’s been over a week since surgery. I’m feeling much better now. :)
Some of you were wondering what happened with that whole missing gallbladder thing. Okay, one of you was, which is more than enough for me to spill my guts. So to speak. Anyway, after the test, I went back to work, probably getting radioactive cooties all over my desk, and an hour later I got a phone call. If you get a phone call from a doctor that quickly, it’s usually not a good sign. My GP’s office informed me that I was to see a specialist and they’d set up the appointment and everything. “Uh, for what?” I asked. And they said “The hospital didn’t tell you?”
Well, of course not. I asked why I was seeing a specialist and the nurse lady said it was because my gallbladder was dead. Look, I realize we’re not talking about hearts or brains or you know, popular organs here, but I still don’t think you should just tell a person a part of their body is dead just willy nilly over the phone. So I was rather shocked, since my doctor was sure they’d find nothing wrong (and he was partly right as they did find nothing), that there was actually something wrong. I told them that the doctor hadn’t even seen my gallbladder and the nurse said “oh” and covered the mouth piece and I heard muffled talking in the background. “She says they didn’t see it?” This did nothing to reassure me.
“Oh a non-visual gallbladder still means it’s not working,” the nurse said. “Your appointment’s on Friday!”
And she went off to get her latte. This test and phone call took place on Monday. Which meant I had until Friday to Google “Non-visual gallbladder”. I don’t recommend doing this. Pretty much everyone recommends NOT doing this, but I am both a masochist and an obsessive researcher, which makes for a good librarian but kind of a nutball otherwise. I found out that gallbladders aren’t visual on scans sometimes because they’ve shrunk all up and stuff. I bet my award-winning liver is just so embarrassed to have that pathetic gallbladder nearby.
I found plenty of tales of people who got their gallbladders out, and their entire lives were ruined forever and ever. Many warned “Do not let them take your gallbladder!” and I pictured Mel Gibson shouting it in a fake Scottish accent. But the thing is, if the organ’s not working, leaving it in your body isn’t exactly going to do you a lot of good either. Because I read, you might want to put that sandwich down, that gallbladders can rot and get gangrene. Delightful!
So I told people about my dead gallbladder and people were about as enthused as if I’d told them about my dead goldfish. “Ah, happens all the time!” they said. “I know like my sister, aunt, dog, etc had theirs out! Why some people just go get it taken out for giggles! Nothing to worry about.” So I spent the week being annoyed at the people who said this was the end of the world, and annoyed at the people who completely dismissed it. I finally went to the doctor on Friday, and mostly spoke to the nurse, who seems like a nice lady. She told me her husband, the doctor, took out her gallbladder. That must have been interesting. I let my husband work on my car all the time, but I’m not sure I’d let him work on my body. What if he put something back wrong? Awk-ward.
I’ve learned so much about gallbladders. I liken our knowledge of our bodily anatomy to our knowledge of foreign geography. There are many organs in the body that we don’t know the name of, the location of, the purpose of, or that they even exist until there is an attack. Sort of like how we never knew anything about the Middle East till we starting bombing them. I had no idea where my gallbladder was, or my liver for that matter. I’m pretty sure the only organs people know much about are the brain, heart, and lungs, since it’s kind of hard to live without any of them, and you don’t need a road map to find them.
The doctor gave me a pamphlet about my surgery that had a picture of this weirdly happy lady on the cover. There were gross pictures inside it of the gallbladder and the liver, and other pictures detailing the surgery. It’s called Laproscopic, meaning they poke four holes in you like a potato before you put it in the microwave, and then they stick a camera in one of the holes, and their operating instruments in the other holes. I have no idea how they do this, or who first thought up the idea, or how they first tried it out. Did some aspiring doctor just feel like poking holes in his cat one day as a kid? No idea.
So they cut your gallbladder off and seal it and then just whoosh, pull it out through one of the holes in a baggie. I’m not even kidding. They stick it in a baggie, like you might bring your sandwich in (I told you to put your food down). And after that, they re-rout your liver to take a right at the intestines and bang, you’re good to go. Recovery from this takes no time at all! Saying they don’t screw it up somehow! Anyway, it has to be done cause that’s why I’m so sick. So naturally the first time they could get me in to do the surgery was in two weeks, which I’m told is actually very fast for doctors. If it blows up (I’ve heard it can) then I might get in faster.
So I’ve made it one week, and am looking forward to preop and more tests, and then the actual surgery next Thursday. You can bet I’ll have a report, saying I survive and all. I have missed a lot of work, so asked the doctors if I could have a note for work. They said they couldn’t write a note for nothing, cause I hadn’t had the surgery yet, their logic being that I was having the surgery for absolutely no reason, and would only need time off to recover from the not-needed surgery. Apparently. At least my Thing Two was concerned about me.
“How long will you be in the hospital, Mommy?” she asked.
“Oh, I’ll probably get out the same day,” I reassured her.
“Then I don’t get to have fun spending the night at Grammy’s, like when you had Pneumonia?”
Thanks, Thing Two.
It is almost time for the election, you guyz, and after only four years of endless preparation and annoyance! A lot of stuff has really been happening out there like the Republican debates (that I didn’t watch) and the Democratic debates (that I also didn’t watch). Some candidates have stood out more than others, like Donald “toupee” Trump for instance:
Oh wait, I’m sorry, that’s an insult to Bozo. I was meaning this guy:
Of course candidates can stand out in various ways. Either for being stupid blowhards (see above) or for having something decent to say. In the Democratic debate, I heard that Bernie Sanders actually requested that they not talk about Hillary Clinton’s emails, not so much for Hillary’s sake as for everyone else’s. Thanks, Bernie. I don’t recall what her emails were supposed to be about. I’m just concerned that she is so old she’s out of touch with America. Everyone these days texts their stupid, possibly illegal crap on their smart phones. Get with the program, Hillary.
But you might be wondering about the title of my blog post, saying you read it. I haven’t felt so good physically lately. I’ve had bronchitis, reaction to antibiotics, stomach virus, more stomach virus, a partridge in a pear tree lodged in my sternum, etc. So I’ve been a bit out of touch (more than normal that is). So if something major has happened, I don’t know because I haven’t been getting my dose of fb news. But I do remember that Trump really got his panties in a wad over Jeb Bush supposedly planting a cute little red haired girl (no relation to Charlie Brown) in his audience to ask him impossible questions like “Do you respect women?” I mean, what is he supposed to say to that?
They did a little research and it turned out that the redheaded girl, oopsie, worked for Jeb Bush’s campaign. Which makes one wonder about why she was asking Trump if he was going to treat women well when clearly Jeb isn’t going to do it, unless he just lost his Republican dos and don’ts flash cards and forgot. At any rate, Jeb claimed that he had NO IDEA she would be there. Trump, in a rare moment of brilliance, said that was a bunch of crap. I watched with glee. I love it when they fling poo on each other.
But what about the dream part, Alice? Does that have something to do with Jeb throwing an egg at you, or did you just decide to get involved as a lobbyist after all? Well, it was a dream. Yup, I dreamed about Jeb Bush. No not like THAT! I would only take Obama to the prom, as I did in another whacked out dream years ago. This dream had to do with eggs, and Jeb, and ebay. I’ll explain.
See I was walking down one side of the street, and on the other side, there was Jeb Bush with some of his cronies. And they were riding along behind this old lady on an old mare and Jeb asked his aide “What’s that in front of us?” And his aide said “Old mares!” And they both laughed and laughed. And I thought that was not very funny so I yelled over there. In response, they pelted me with eggs. But not just any eggs. When the egg exploded on my shirt it read “Jeb Bush for President” in sticky egg goo. Rather ingenious way to get your message across, but I was quite irritated. I marched over to him and asked why he did that. In response he looked at me in that adorable, befuddled way he does:
So I just took a picture of him and went on to some conference or circus, or something like that. I explained to my friends about getting Bush egg on me, and how I planned to sell my shirt along with the picture (for absolute proof) on Ebay. Makes sense to me. Or it did, until I woke up. Now I will never know how much money I got for getting pelted by Republican eggs. Darn it.
What does this have to do with politics or the issues or any of that stuff? Absolutely nothing. Which means I have told you just as much as your average news report. This is your raving reporter Alice, signing off.
By the way – have you ever had a dream with politicians in it? Or, er nightmare? Let me know in the comments below! Or just tell me why you hate politicians, that will do too. I’ll be getting to work on my political egg bombs – I think the idea shows promise.
Stomach viruses suck. So do rotten stomachs, which is something I’ve had since I was a little kid. All my worry is processed in my stomach, so I often hear people groan “You and your stomach.” My depression wasn’t diagnosed until after they first performed a bunch of stomach tests including the “drink liquid chalk and let them take funny pictures of your insides with radiation and pretend they see something while hiding behind protective walls” test. They didn’t find anything with all the tests, so they said “Passin’ the ball to you, mental people!”
They do this a lot because it is well known, by doctors anyway, that the brain and other bodily organs have absolutely nothing to do with one another even though they are all part of the same body. Each organ should have someone different taking care of it, these people should not communicate, and if it happens to be something none of these specialists understand, it’s off the the psychiatrist. The psychiatrist being the one guy who does not issue funky tests unless you want to count the “Hey, try this drug. It probably won’t kill you.” test.
But, wait, Alice, you might say, isn’t there research saying there is a strong mind-body connection? Haha, don’t be silly. Where did you get that from? John Hopkins? Mayo Clinic? Frauds, I tell you! The majority of doctors are far too busy misdiagnosing people and making sure their malpractice insurance is up to date to look at stupid research.
Well it turns out I do have depression and anxiety which do affect bodily systems, like my gut. My GP ran some tests and informed me that my liver test wasn’t normal – it was like, way better than other livers! Like, go liver! Except that hey I still feel like crap. So he decided I would have a Cholescintigraphy (Also Called Gallbladder Radionuclide Scan or HIDA scan) performed. It’s a test that checks gallbladder function. And you read that right, boys and girls. It involves radioactive crap – only instead of just a scan, they shoot this little tracer thingy up into your veins!
I was super excited about this test, especially after the nurse said I got to be a super hero and just in time for Halloween! I always wanted to be Spiderman. Shooting webs from your hands and bouncing from building to building sounds like fun. Superheroes get all the perks. Like I bet Superheroes don’t have to work, not if they’re smart. Why blend in with the population when you can be totally famous just being yourself? Huh, Spidey? Enough whining about personal responsibility and crap. Have some fun.
So they injected me with the radiation, but I didn’t immediately get super powers. Instead they had me lie under this table with my arms held up in a sling and this scanner looming over me while they took pictures of my organs. I wonder if they saw my liver and thought to themselves – there is a LIVER. Give it first prize. I hope they saw my liver anyway. Because what they didn’t see was my gallbladder.
Yup, supposedly I was to lay there thirty minutes while they took glamour shots of my gallbladder, then they were to give me some other stuff, possibly nitroglycerin so I could explode my radiation all over the place, that was going to show them how my gallbladder functioned. This was all supposed to take an hour. Only they never took any pictures of my gallbladder because, after a lengthy search, they couldn’t find it. Yup, that’s right, they lost an organ. I’m pretty sure I’d remember having an organ out. Clearly these doctors could have used a good map.
I figured they were going to send in another tracer to help with the search party, or consult with a specialist like that dog from Blue’s Clues, but no, she just told me to go. So I asked like, “What was the doctor going to get from this if they didn’t find the organ?” “Oh, he’ll know something just by not finding it”, she said. Know what? She couldn’t say. Right. So after that, and a rather hefty bill, I’m left more confused than I was before the test, which I’m pretty sure is how they are designed.
But that’s okay, because according to the nurse, I am still radioactive for the next couple of days at least. Don’t mess with me. I’m the Nuclear Librarian, you guyz.
This is what happens when I let Thing Two put my dolls back in the case. I come back to find this. These dolls are from the movie Tangled. The sleeve belongs to Mother Gothel, who didn’t quite make it into the shot. She is holding a knife over Flynn while Rapunzel recoils in horror. Not sure whether to be proud or worried . . .
There have been many shootings in the news lately, so much so that people seem to barely notice them. That’s pretty creepy. Here are some things I’ve learned via Facebook “trending” news. Don’t give a five-year-old a loaded rifle for his birthday. Don’t leave loaded guns around children. Don’t give loaded guns to stupid adults. And most importantly, don’t ever let Rover have a gun.
Yeah, that’s right, there have been several cases of dogs shooting their owners, two of them within weeks of each other. I’m not kidding here. You think it’s okay to give Rover store brand dog biscuits? Or leave him outside alone in a dog house with no Cable? Well it’s not. Rover isn’t taking it anymore. It’s time for dogs everywhere to fight back!
With a headline like that, you really have to check it out. Well I did, anyway. I was picturing Rover armed with a shotgun, forcing his owner to eat from a dish on the floor. Or better yet, you know those dogs they make sad commercials about because they are forced to fight one another for money? And they don’t even get a cut of it! Yes, I would like fighting dogs to get together, turn a gun on owners, and make them be the gladiators. I bet they could make a show out of it. I know I’d watch. They could put it on right after “Pitbulls and Paroles.”
It didn’t go quite like that. But it was still funny – I mean, such a shame for the stupid gun owner. See there was this hunter in Utah, and he was going duck hunting with a friend. And he shot the friend in the face. Wait, no, that was Dick Cheney. On the plus side, Huffington Post also referred to the story as “Dog “Cheneys” Owner” after the infamous case in which, yes, the Vice President of the United States accidentally unloaded birdshot into a campaign donor’s face. That’s a good way to repay your supporters! And you think Joe Biden has made some mishaps. Pretty sure while he often puts his foot in his mouth, he has never put birdshot in a supporter’s face.
But back to the dog! This hunter laid his shotgun on the bow of his boat. He got off and Rover, excited as always, hopped up on the bow, landing on the gun and causing it to shoot a burst of fire into the man’s posterior (that’s butt for anyone not in the know). Doctors later removed 27 pellets from his as . . . posterior. After I had finished laughing (hey the guy had the protection of waders and a lot of butt fat) I thought about this incident for a while. First off, why was the gun loaded before he was ready to fire it? Why didn’t it at least have a safety on it? I mean, sure, a cat’s gonna get around a safety – that’s just how those guys are designed. But not man’s best friend!
I can just imagine this case. Man bent over, yelling curse words while his pal, Rover, tries to help out by licking him and barking happily. This is one of the times I wish they’d actually gotten it on Youtube. I’m sure his human friend was sad not to have his camera phone ready.
But that’s not all folks!
The article starts with “Bad Fido!” Hahaha, you gotta love how the news treats all stories seriously. This was again from the Huffington Post, although under “Crime” not “Weird News” like last time. I’m not sure why, because they have a heck of a lot more fun with it under the Crime label.
This time the man – his full name given, lucky guy – Gregory was traveling in his truck on his way to an elegant black tie event. I mean hunting. He had his gun sitting conveniently beside him. Once again, his dog (his name was totally Rover, not Fido, get it right Huffpost) jumped on the gun and shot the guy in the thigh. Just -really people. If you’re going to leave your gun loaded (and if you aren’t sure – check. Preferably when it is not aimed directly at you, a friend, the President, whatever.), for goodness sake’s restrain your dog in a properly installed car seat. Everyone will feel safer, though EMTs will not have nearly as much fun on their coffee break.
Huffpost reports “Police have ruled the shooting accidental and did not detain the dog for questioning. No word on whether Lanier gave him a treat when they returned home, however.” Accidental, they say? I don’t know about that. Maybe Rover had a grudge. Maybe he didn’t like hunting. Maybe the cat made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. You shouldn’t rule things out.
They also report on another incident, back in 2011, of dog with gun violence. Another man, Billy E. Brown, was shot in the thigh by his dog while driving to a hunting spot. I wonder if it was totally separate, or if we have a canine serial killer. Shockingly, many accidental shootings reportedly occur during hunting.
Just this September, another hunter, this one a French one (goes to show that French people are so not more sophisticated than we are) was shot by his gun when his dog tried to cuddle with him. This guy had to have his right hand amputated. That would put a damper on hunting, unless he’s a left hander. Or maybe they could do like in the sci-fi movies and just install a gun on the end of his arm. Best to be prepared, people.
At least the French guy was decent enough to excuse his pet, saying, and I quote “It wasn’t the dog’s fault.” Well, thank goodness, now we can forgo that lengthy trial, with Rover often wetting the witness seat and leaping onto the judge’s desk in excitement, only to knock the judge unconscious with his own mallet.
The worst case by far was of a man unable to find homes for his puppies back in 2004. So he took them to an animal shelter. Yeah, no, don’t be stupid. He decided the best thing would be to shoot the puppies.
Right, so he had one pup under his arm, and was holding another in his hand. In the opposite hand he had a gun. The puppy put its paw on the trigger of the .38 caliber revolver. Bang. Talk about the ultimate case of poetic justice there. Good job, puppy! The guy was shot in the wrist, but sadly only after four other puppies were killed. What a guy. Next time, puppy, think like Cheney. Go for the face.
By the way, I was interested to learn that there are many, many more cases of dogs shooting owners. I didn’t find any about cats, probably because they are smarter and don’t get caught.
Ah, divas, everybody knows one. She thinks she’s like all that, you know, and shows off and wears rhinestone studded sunglasses and uses menstrual cups. Oh, uh, sorry about that. I should have put in a warning for any male or squeamish readers.
Warning: This post talks about periods and va-jay-jays!
Okay, then. Everybody gone yet? I was looking at Facebook for news again and this Buzzfeed article just popped up. Pop! It was about something called the Diva Cup, which I had never heard of before. Yes, I have a hippie-ish friend who once mentioned using a cup thing for her period but I think I changed the subject because yuck. Cups don’t go up there. As Buzzfeed clearly points out in the
linkbait title of their article:
I’m not sure what was the most whack – the title, the tagline “phantom in my vagina” or the picture of a clearly uncomfortable woman. What on earth did she stick up there? Is it like those balls that Anna put up there in 50 Shades of Grey? Wouldn’t it have been funny if those balls had gotten stuck up “there” in Ana? I think so.
Before any passionate users of these cups – and there are apparently several different brands of this thing with names like “Fleurcup”, “MeLuna”, “Lunette”, and “Round Sucky Bell Thing” – complain, the article is actually not overtly negative about this form of period management. Some of the women seemed to like it, though most of them, understandably, looked a little uneasy about the idea of using one for the first time. I mean, who hasn’t pondered how wise it would be to stick foreign objects in an orifice? And then done it anyway? Lots of people on TLC for one! Sometimes it results in embarrassing trips to the ER (where it is all filmed). Other times you get a baby (without knowing it was in there either). This is not to be dealt with lightly, folks.
Of course some women have stuck tampons up there for years (not at a time), something I never did back when my “Auntie Flo” used to visit me against my wishes. I used sanitary pads which are not at all like diapers (which my Thing Two mentioned to my Thing One who was not amused) even though the commercials are almost exactly the same. Except the women crawling around in the period commercials are not as cute. Thing Two has not yet experienced the joy of becoming “a woman” although she told us years ago when she was about seven that she knew just what a period was – a punctuation mark at the end of a sentence. We just nodded and told her she was exactly right.
I actually quit having my “little friend” come by when I had my baby-factory removed years ago, a result of my last uterus renter liking to jump very hard on the floors. I haven’t missed it one bit. But some women still have to use this stuff, including my Thing One, who would die to know I was talking about her in this article but will never find out because she’ll never get this far into my post. I think her initial reaction had to be the most perfect one ever.
“Just – what? What is this? Seriously?”
But back to the cup! Isn’t it cool that now women and men get to have one? Only a guy’s goes on the outside, whereas women have it inside, just like reproductive organs which were, as Dave Barry says, designed by Mother Nature apparently as a joke. Yet it’s a normal monthly inconvenience for half the population, so why are we so squeamish talking about it? Just cause it’s blood leaking out of our hoo-has and . . . I just grossed myself out there. Maybe that is why. I definitely remember being a teen and absolutely, positively not wanting anyone else to know I had a period, even going so far as to frantically cover up the pads in my grocery cart lest someone find out that I . . . was like every other woman on the planet.
So we have these women trying on the cup on film – blacking out the bottom of the frame so we don’t see anything dirty. I’m sure they were actually inserting these right in front of the camera person. They had different reactions. One complained of leaks, and another that she was concerned about getting it out again, and then some thought it was okay. Kind of like when you’re asked to select your form of torture – the rack or the thumbscrews? Lemmie think.
So the women put it on up there, and had cups of blood (that would have been convenient for Edward in Twilight – sorry) they later got to dump out. This is better for the environment and all that, but I don’t think I’d personally want to pour one out. Or put one in to begin with, because I know I’d be one of the morons who did it incorrectly and had to go to the doctor for removal. So I’m glad that’s all behind me. Uh, so to speak.
Many people in the comments were very irritated that Buzzfeed used such a misleading title on their article (which isn’t like them at ALL), and enthusiastically rejoiced in the benefits of their Diva Cups. You go, girls! I couldn’t help but notice there were no comments from guys.
I’m starting to wonder if I will have any comments. No matter! Someone had to tell you about this, and I was just the girl to do it. You’re welcome. Here’s the link and the video, in case you for some bizarre reason, want to know more.
Same old thing as yesterday.
Thanks, Sting, I knew you’d understand. It’s raining today. I live in Texas, which being the size of about half the rest of the United States (we exaggerate sometimes here) has several of its own climates. The one I have is semi-arid which means mostly desert except when the weather feels like throwing stupid stuff your way. Like rain and snow. I don’t really like either of these, unless the snow is so significant it cancels work and school. Then snow is like, my pal.
Fun fact: There are more suicides in Seattle,Washington than in Alaska cause light bounces off of snow, but rain is just gray and dreary. There’s a source for this, but I’m not looking it up.
It’s raining right now. Everyone is supposed to be happy about this because sometimes we are so dry a loose spark can set off massive dry grass explosions. But it messes with my asthma and my depression – a double combo so to speak. I cough and I’m bummed. And I can be bummed when it is bright and sunny (how dare it be bright and sunny?) so I don’t need actual dreary. I don’t think I’m the only one who dislikes rain. I’m pretty sure rain is at least partly why England was off conquering other nations once upon a time. They didn’t want to be at home.
There’s even a song about rain everyone knows. “Rain, rain, go away.”
“Rain, rain, go away
Come again some other day.” (like never)
I learned it as a kid, and I remembered there were some whack lyrics about an old man in a coma, but I wasn’t sure what they were so I actually researched some for this one. According to my authentic source, Wikipedia, the modern English song dates back to the 17th century when James Howell wrote “Raine raine goe to Spain: faire weather come againe.” I like this version. Hey, bad weather, go to Spain. We hate those guys. I wish my rain to go to political conventions. Either party. Please do so when the candidates are out there speaking. I’d love to see the Donald’s hair piece wash away.
But the Wikipedia article didn’t touch on the old dude, so I had to do more searching. I found an educational site that, predictably, screwed up the lyrics making it “Rain, rain go away, Mommy / Daddy / Sister / the dog / Donald Trump wants to play” but that was lame and not the real song at all. Boo. I had to add in “the old man is snoring” to get a positive result. Turns out the song can be called “It’s Raining, It’s Pouring” as well as “Rain, Rain, Go Away.” So here is the version they didn’t make PC for today’s children, but which was perfectly fine for me to learn.
The old man is snoring.
He bumped his head
When he went to bed
And he couldn’t get up in the morning
Cue the chorus “Rain, rain go away.” Just – wait, what? I always wondered about that part. I mean, what the heck does a snoring old man who gets a concussion and is now in a coma have to do with rain? Why put this in a song for kids? Were we not traumatized enough by the mutilation of the three blind mice? Well, I say traumatized, but we were kids and took great delight in singing about chopping off rodent tails and unconscious old dudes in comas – who are lying in the rain? But kids are evil. As adults we should be wondering – who is this old guy and won’t someone shut off the camera and go get him medical attention?
Unless it’s foul play. Now I can believe hitting your head on the headboard of your bed hard enough to cause a concussion because I routinely smack my head and other body parts into things on accident. But while I’m no doctor, I think you really shouldn’t go back to sleep after this. Unless someone MADE you. Like say a disgruntled wife who was bugged by her snoring husband so hit him in the head when he went to bed so that he couldn’t get up in the morning. Consciousness go away, come again another day . . .
It should be noted that I found the real lyrics on another teaching site that advises teachers after singing the first part to ask the kids to put their names into the song. “Blah blah old man dead, rain, rain go away, little (Madison, Madisyn, Maddisson) wants to play.” Yes, let’s put our names into a song about an unfortunate old dude. Sounds fun to me! Go on, little (Brayden, Britin, Braxton) sing! It’s fun!
And we wonder why our children grow up to be stuff like serial killers and politicians. But I digress. It’s raining here and the water is seeping under my house where wood will probably rot and suck us into a giant hole one day. Maybe I could make a song about it?
As this post was inspired partly by Merbear’s inspirational Annie post, I feel I should give her credit here while stealing the cartoon she found.
Have a nice day, rain or shine. And pay no attention to Eddie Rabbit, who “loves a rainy night”. He clearly never heard of that poor old guy.