Now, which one of them do I call to fix the lock on the door?

In appreciation of this achievement, I wont pray for the slow and painful death of this author. I promise to only pray for a quick and painless death instead.

Good luck with dying, and thank you for plugging our address into your spambot!

The strange thing though is that over the last year the emails have all started to have something in common, no matter who they were coming from. Nearly every single one says, in some way or another, don’t bother replying to this if you do not agree.

See, its OK for them to send me things that I don’t agree with, but not OK for me to do the same in turn. I’m being told in advance they wont bother reading my reply anyway. Nice of them to keep the debate open, isn’t it?

The other trick is to throw in something like “Of course the bleeding heart liberals/traitors/terrorist-sympathizers will not be able to avoid typing an angry response to this” in a way to keep me from replying because somehow they magically brand me in advance.

So I looked through the last three months of email I got from just one relative of mine and made a collage. It was just like going back into grade school… depressing and full of ridicule. Most of the images used in the collage are of the ‘do not bother replying’ variety, but I threw in a few other items from some mails just to give it the right flavor.

Click on the image for a full sized version. Enjoy.

I found this bin in my old man’s shop. He’s not very good at labeling his bins or boxes, but for some reason he saw fit to label this one.

It broke my brain.

Originally from here.

Please tip your waitresses.

Dave, who is a horrible person, gave us this link after reading Warren Ellis’s Livejournal.

According to Jimbo: “that is officially the worst thing on the internet”. I dont know about worst, but I bet that at the very least it’s in the top ten.

Bon Appétit

I soon found myself unable to swallow, having difficulty breathing, and I had a headache that would make my head explode during those unfortunate circumstances when a cough would try to fit its way through my swollen throat. When after two days it became clear that this plague was not going to leave my body of its own accord I quickly carted myself to the urgent care clinic to have my body probed and prodded in hopes that some miracle of modern medicine would hold the key to curing my ailments.

It didn’t.

The first question out of the doctors mouth was “Have you been around any children in the last few days?” and then she informed me that I had a virus that would keep me sick for two to three more weeks.

Great. No cure or treatment. What modern medicine did have, however, was pain killers. Pain killers would at least enable me to sleep, swallow, and possibly even talk again!

I enjoy talking.

So the pain killer regimen started out with a dose of good old Tylenol 3, followed by a prescription for Vicodin. At first I questioned how this would help me recover faster, but soon I didn’t care. I was relaxed. I was sleeping. I was in a really good mood and didn’t care about quality control on goddamn anything. Let me say, for the record, that if I ever had to be addicted to something it would be
Vicodin.

Unfortunately the illness lasted longer than my prescription did. Plus I suffered mild withdrawal symptoms and kept waking up trying to scratch my skin off. The sudden lack in sleep and my already compromised immune system probably contributed to the secondary infection I managed to catch. When all was said and done I was sick for almost a full month.

Thankfully someone saw fit to keep me away from a computer during much of my illness so the crazy incoherent things I was thinking didn’t get mashed into my keyboard and posted here. I would have lost my readers. Both of them.

I was outside a Big Boy for lunch at work and this Triumph cruiser parked out front caught my eye. Talk about taking a theme to a different level.

For example, last night my wife called me while I was on my way home from work and asked me to pick up a vanilla milkshake. I thought this was a little strange, since we’ve both been on a diet since November. However, she had been home sick all day so I figured she thought it would help soothe a sore throat.

My first thought after I hung up the phone was “If she gets a milkshake then I get one too!” The five year old in my brain was stomping his feet to emphasize that point, and let me know that he would throw a tantrum if I did not, in fact, have a milkshake. Have you ever had a five year old throwing a tantrum inside your brain? I knew he had won.

My second thought after hanging up the phone was “My milkshake bring all the boys to the yard”. That one wasn’t the five-year olds fault, but I blamed him anyway.

Ten minutes later I was pulling through the drive-thru at McDonald’s, buying two milkshakes. Large, milkshakes. Each cup was a full quart of things that are bad for me. Each cup somehow managed to personify the reasons I was on a diet to begin with. No human being should be able to consume that much milkshake in one sitting, but I knew I was going to.

In fact, I couldn’t wait! Before I had even pulled away from the drive-thru window I took out a straw and took a good long drink from the chocolate milkshake. The five year old in my brain told me to pull over and drink the entire thing in the parking lot before I went home but I managed to convince him that I could drive and drink at the same time.

Somehow I made it home without incident, and handed my wife her milkshake. Her first question was “Why did you get the large ones?” but I didn’t have a good answer. The five year old did though. “Because”.

I sat down and continued to drink the milkshake. I had to satisfy that five year old. I had to have my head back to myself.

I drank until the back of my throat froze. I drank until there was a cold pit in my stomach. I paused only to catch my breath and let my throat heal for a minute. It was less than five minutes before I had the entire drink gone, and then I was taking the cover off of the cup and sucking out the last vestiges of milkshake residue.

Then the cold pit in my stomach started to grow.

I got up to get something warm to drink to see if that would help, but before I could even make it to the kitchen I knew I would have to detour… quickly.

I ran to the bathroom, lifted the toilet seat, got down on my knees and threw up.

It was cold! The damn milkshake froze my throat coming back up worse than it did going down. Memories of eating too much candy on Halloween suddenly came back to haunt me… and then mutated, turning into visions of me choking on an icicle while a five year old boy tried to shove a caramel apple in my mouth.

A few minutes later, while I was lying on the bathroom floor covered in sweat, I remembered something that I had already known but keep forgetting.

Children are sadistic.

I’m telling.

New Mother: What are you doing?
Me: I’m burping the baby!
New Mother: No seriously, what are you doing?
Me: Ok, I’m playing “Wipeout” on her back. It sounds really cool though!
New Mother: She seems to like it…

New Mother: So today we discovered that the ruffles on the diaper legs need to go on the outside rather than the inside or else they leak all over me.
Me: Ruffles have ridges.
New Mother: …Yes, yes they do.

Me: (Singing) Sister sister, he’s just a baby. We wanna make him stay up all night!
New Mother: Stop singing that.
Me: But its Talking Heads!
New Mother: You’re going to download it and make me listen to it now aren’t you?
Me: … Yes. Yes I am.

New Father: Ah damnit. I got boob juice all over me.
Me: That would make a good band name.
New Father: What? Boob juice all over me?
Me: You just named their first single!
New Mother: I think I preferred talking about poop.

Me: So how is the fresh mother?
New Mother: Fresh what? huh?
Me: Oh… um. How is the new mother. Sorry, I’m not very good at this.

New Mother: The baby only ate once the first day, but the doctor said that was normal.
Me: Yeah, I guess babies can go their first 24 hours without eating if they have to. Thats why all those dumpster babies that get discovered manage to survive.
New Mother: You are never holding my baby again.

New Mother: The umbillical cord is drying up, and should fall off in the next few days.
Me: Ooh! Baby jerky!
New Mother: What the… No. Just… NO.

Me: How many years until its housetrained?
New Mother: You mean toilet trained? Also, its a SHE, not an it.
Me: Right. Well, do you just put some paper down, or what?
New Mother: You better be joking. You’re never babysitting.
Me: Mission accomplished!
New Mother: Oh, Just for that you’re babysitting all the time now.
Me: Damnit!
New Mother: Stop swearing in front of the baby!

I have money on her husband trying some of the “Baby Jerky”.

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