Hell’s Candy

Something that one of my FB friends shared with me.  I’m not convinced that it isn’t some kind of twisted joke.

It sounds innocent enough.  Basically a bag of gourmet sugarless Gummi bears.

gummi bears from hell

But then you get to the reviews.  Dear God, the reviews.

Possibly NSFW, due to the gasps of horror and/or peals of laughter that may be disruptive to a work environment.  Read at your own risk.

Especially when you get to the parts about sending a case to every member of Congress, as well as the WBC.

Hope you enjoy your morning.

Monday morning funny

I’ve got too much serious stuff on my mind, and a lot of it either comes out or will come out shortly in this blog.  And I spent Saturday evening watching our church’s General Conference, so I feel somewhat guilty about posting this.

But this little vid made me snarf Pepsi out my nose last night.

So seriously- put down the coffee… I’m not kidding, put it down… before viewing.  And finish chewing and swallowing your  breakfast before it ends up all over your monitor.

Disclaimer: mildly NSFW

after the fold…

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Conversations while taking out the trash

Before I get much further, let me preface this post by saying that Yes Dear (wife) and PBJ (youngest daughter) look so much alike they can pass for sisters, particularly from the back or a side profile.  There’s been more than one occasion that I’ve come home from work, had one of them sitting at the computer with their back turned towards me, and had to take a peek at their face to verify which one they were, lest I try to sneak a kiss or make some lewd remark reserved for spouses ears only and end up with a “Dad…GROSS!!” in return.

Nah, that’s never happened before.  Seriously.  Cross my heart and hope to fry die.

Anyways, cut to myself in the kitchen the other afternoon after waking up (remember, I work nights), tying up an overflowing garbage bag.

As I’m leaning over the can, trying to pull the full bag out without tearing it or dumping the top layer of garbage on the floor, I notice out of the corner of my eye PBJ entering the kitchen.

Immediately followed by the unmistakeable sensation of my badumbumbum being goosed, punctuated by a “woo-hoo”.

Startled, I looked up and was relieved to see Yes Dear standing there instead, with a quizzical look on her face.

“What, I can’t cop a feel on my husband once in a while?” she asked.

“For a moment, I swore you were PBJ.”

“Really?  Really?  Your own daughter?”

“I was hoping and praying it wouldn’t be.”

“Not to worry.  She thinks your butt is lumpy and gross.”

“Hey!  That’s not a nice thing to…” I trailed off, thinking better of my answer.  “Uh… that’s probably the only acceptable thing a daughter can say about her dad’s butt.”

“Ya think?”

“Yep.  Maybe I should take it as a compliment, that we have a normal, healthy father-daughter relationship.  No Jerry Springer in this house.”

“You’d better.  Too many weirdos already on my side of the family.”

“Now if she’d start thinking that all guys’ butts are gross, we’d have fewer problems.”

I can only dream…

What women in Colorado need is a hero.

Boy, Colorado sure has been drinking the koolaid marked “STUPID” lately.  Makes me ashamed to admit I once seriously thought of moving there.

Then again, I was once a resident of the People’s Republik of Kaliforniastan for fifteen years, including two spent in the San Fran Bay Area.  Lots of good times there, but couldn’t stand the bass-ackwards politics there, or the steady erosion of the rights of the people.

I mean, seriously, Colorado.  Pissing, crapping, and puking on cue is something reserved for species lower on the evolutionary chain in the animal kingdom.  Like reptiles.  So in order for women to defend themselves from being demeaned they must demean themselves further by behaving like a pissed off alligator, or snake.  Or a turkey vulture.  Or perhaps one of these.

If women could do any of these things on cue, they’d never have a thing to worry about, ever again.  Guns, knives, tasers, pepper or bear spray would be totally unnecessary.

And not to stray too far off the subject, but Uncle Joe’s sage advice about shotguns has some problems as well.  Mainly the legal kind.  (h/t Instapundit)

So what’s a poor girl to do to stave off the hordes of rapists?

She needs a hero to save her.  A superhero.

She needs Doodieman!

A masked crime crusader who will thwart the most brazen of criminals with his scatological leavings.  Who will bury rapists under an avalanche of his fecal offerings.  Who will make the baddest of the badasses leave the scene so quickly, they may well leave skidmarks of their own!

It’s a bird!  It’s a plane!  It’s…. (fraaaaap) Doodieman!

(Disclaimer: link is NSFW.  If you are offended or grossed out by juvenile and immature poop humor and poop animations, don’t follow the link.  This one dips a little below even my own liberal standards, but I thought it would serve as great satire.)

Captain Klutz, one year later

Been too long since I posted, that’s what 60 hour workweeks will do to you.  But gotta share this one.

Last year I posted a lamentation about my unwanted alter ego and the grief it tended to cause me, including a trip to the doctor to get my very first set of stitches in my finger after some workplace clumsiness.

One year later, although I didn’t do anything to myself quite as harmful as last year’s Frankenfinger, I still managed to earn myself a klutz award at work.

Next to my workstation is a large hopper into which dumps metal chips coming out of my machine via a magnetic conveyor.  Next to this hopper I keep a hoe (the tool kind, not the slutty kind) which I use to make more room for the chips until the end of my shift when it gets dumped.

Last week I was moving the hopper in order to sweep up some chips that had fallen out next to and under it.  As I was moving it, the hopper sideswiped the hoe which started to fall over.  I could’ve just let the thing fall over with a loud clatter and then retrieved it, but twelve hours of night work on your feet tends to make you too lazy to even bend over or stoop down to get it.  I might’ve caught it with my hand before it fell over, but it was just out of my reach.  Or so I thought.

So, in a split second, I exercised a third option.  The worst one.

I reached out to stop it with my foot.

My foot caught the blade of the hoe.

What followed was a classic Wile E. Coyote moment:

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Linky laughs

My blogmom/blogsister/blogguru Shannon posted something yesterday morning that made me choke on my cini-minis and snarf my milk at the same time.  Go here to read about the crudest, evilest, but most satisfying way to deal with rude people I’ve ever heard.  Most of us can only dream up such moments, but Shannon outright made it happen, and with a flourish.

(Disclaimer – not responsible for injuries resulting from choking or gagging, or damage to computers from beverages sprayed through the nose.  Click and read at your own risk.)

Morning giggles with the kids

On the bed, snuggled up with a couple of little guys (AJ and nephew L’il Buddha) watching Sesame Street.  And all of a sudden, what comes on?

Starring Captain Keith Heartburn, and the crew of the Gizzard.

Hilarious.  Would love it if they spoofed the rest of the captains and their boats. I wonder what the real Captain Keith, and the rest of the Deadliest Catch crew, thought when they saw this?

Made my morning.  Even though the boys couldn’t figure out why I was laughing harder than them.

Little giggles

Now that the school year has started, the craziness of watching kids has mostly subsided.  Meaning: we don’t have to deal with JJ and the twins anymore, except on isolated occasions when SIL is stuck at work or doing something else.

Don’t get me wrong, I never had any major problems with the kids themselves, and I miss having JJ over sometimes.  But SIL was kind of abusing us as a cheap babysitting service this summer, assuming she’d pay us at all, to the point where Yes Dear would pretty much shake her down for payment upfront, before we’d let the kids in the door.

But with school in, we don’t have to worry about them anymore.  The only child we have during the days (other than AJ of course) is three-year-old L’il Buddha, aka Youngest Nephew.  Sometimes if mom Stevie is working late we have to pick up seven-year-old niece Bea from school, but that’s okay.  Stevie is much better about paying for babysitting services than her mother, and her kids are most of the time enjoyable to have around.

This morning Yes Dear had some things she needed to do so she left PBJ and I with the boys.  Monday being my day off, this isn’t much of an issue (I love having Mondays off, everybody should work a job in their lifetime that allows this luxury).

At one point this morning L’il Buddha wandered in while I was perusing my Facebook.  The following conversation ensued:

L’il Buddha: Whatcha doooing, Uncle Dave?

Dave: (on bed, focusing on screen) Looking at my Facebook.

LB: (staring at my screen) Who dat?

Dave: Those are my Facebook friends.

LB: (pointing at my family pics) Who’s dat lady?

Dave: That’s my big sister.

LB: (interested) Really? You have a big sister too?

Dave:  Yep.  I have a big sister just like you.  And that’s my brother beside her.

LB: (now as intensely curious as a three year old can get) You have a mommy too?

Dave:  Yep.  Want to see?  (clicks over to my mom’s profile and her pics)

LB:  That’s your mommy?

Dave: Yep, that’s my mommy.

(LB stares at my mom’s profile pic for a moment, his forehead scrunched up in thought. Then he speaks.)

LB: Does she fart?

(cue visual of Dave blowing his Koolaid out his nose)

God, I love my nephews.