KirstenL4W

This is not a true story about someone I may or may not be related to. But it is too funny and needs to be shared with the world at large.

It all started with a Facebook update:

“i will write a book about last night!!! I put a crack in the mooon! last night was explosive,…… No pun !goin to the hospital hit the cell!”

This was posted the day after the 4th of July, by someone who is known by, oh, everybody he’s ever met to not always use the best judgment when it comes to activities that could land someone in the hospital. Out of concern, I called him.

“Hey, it’s me, I just wanted to see if you were still alive.”

He called back the next day and told me the whole story.

“Me and my buddies were at the fireworks in [insert small town here] hanging out. When it was over, we were looking at the pile and noticed that there was a canister that still had a wick in it. We found 5 of them, actually. So we took them.”

“Obviously, being you, that’s what you’d do.”

“So we took them back to my house and were trying to figure out what to do with them. We wanted to set them off but they’re too big for the neighborhood. Then someone mentioned that the putz down the street blew up my garbage cans with some M-80s. So we brought them to his house.”

“Good idea, since it’s in the same neighborhood and his yard is half the size of yours.”

In my mind, I’m sitting there trying to imagine what 5 commercial sized canisters of fireworks looks like when set off from the backyard of a quarter acre lot. I couldn’t wait to hear the rest.

“So we brought them over to Putz’s house at like 4 in the morning and set them off. It was the funniest fucking thing I’d ever seen in my life! But then we realized that every neighbor within a 5 mile radius would be calling the cops, so we took off running.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if The Family heard it - I’ll have to ask my dad.”

“As I was jumping over the 4-foot chain link fence, I hit my balls. I reached into my pants and they were all bloody. Putz said he called me on the phone because he figured it was us, but I didn’t hear the phone ring. I must have landed on it and answered it when I fell on the ground. All he could hear was me saying, ‘Oh, my balls, my fucking balls!’ I tore my ballbag open! They’re coming out - they’re all grayish and kinda look like steamers without the butter.”

“Thanks for the visual. So did you go to the hospital?”

“No, I was at a cookout today and some of my friend’s moms are nurses. One of them looked at it and put some of those little white bandages on it. They’re not staying on, though.”

“Well, it’s hard to get a bandage to stick to sweaty balls. You should still go to the doctor.”

“Yeah, if it doesn’t get better I might do that.”

Then he said the funniest thing that I have ever heard come out of his mouth.

“Kirsten, I have a date tonight. What am I going to do?”

“Well, I know what you aren’t going to do. How’s about you show her your torn nutsack? According to your FB updates, you don’t seem to have an issue showing everyone else.”

A week later he told me he was still laughing about the whole incident, even though by the time he went to the doctor it was too late to stitch them up and he had what he called “the never-ending ballbag period.” It’s people like this that, if you happen to be related to them like I may or may not be, make family get togethers loads of fun.

Some people have the misconception of me that I am a good, church-going person who would never do anything to offend anyone. That’s mostly true. I try to stay out of trouble, and have thus far succeeded. I do try to attend church on a regular basis. And I don’t like offending anyone. What I do like, however, is offensive humor.

I love the movie Borat. There’s ROFLMAO as an expression, then there’s actually rolling on the floor laughing my ass off. That’s what Mister and I did during the hotel scene. I laughed so hard that I thought I was going to barf. This movie managed to offend pretty much everyone - nothing was off limits. That’s what I loved about it. You can’t be too serious if you hope to enjoy this movie.

Clerks 2 was another one that’s on my list of movies to buy. It starts off much like the first movie, with Dante and Randall going to work, this time at a fast food restaurant. The scene that got me was the over-the-top going away party that Randall planned for Dante. To this day, every once in awhile Mister will declare “I miss my donkey.” So inappropriate, yet too funny.

I love the tv show Mythbusters. It’s a very popular show, sure, but I don’t watch it to see myths get busted or even for the science of it. I watch it because they blow shit up. Yep, I like watching explosions on tv. And I love how, when trying to get bigger results, they resort to the motto “If it’s worth doing, it’s worth overdoing.” Hee hee. Oh, and Zac, if you happen to be reading this right now, I just made this whole paragraph up. I’m telling you this for the safety of your entire neighborhood - there’s no such thing as a tv show where they blow stuff up. You don’t need cable. Really.

Top Gear is another great show. I’m not a car geek at all, even though my dad owns a garage and has some classic vehicles in his collection. I don’t watch it to find out which loud, shouty car is tops on their list. I watch it for the challenges. They’ve used real cars to play soccer. They’ve run an Indy-style race using camper vans. They’ve made their own stretch limos from average, everyday cars. They tried to turn a Fiat into a rocketship and launch it into space (they failed and blew a big hole into the Northumberland countryside). And they’ve turned cars into amphibious vehicles and actually succeeded in getting one of them to cross the English Channel. The challenges and all the crashes they include are what keeps me watching that show.

Oh, shit, I almost forgot. I like to swear.

My sister, being blonde, is often the butt of many blonde jokes. But we don’t tell these jokes or make fun of her just because she’s blonde. Oh no. Very often, all she has to do is open her mouth and she walks into it every time.

A few years ago, a friend of mine was visiting me from Toronto. We had been to The World’s Biggest Bookstore when I was there (the same bookstore from the movie Short Circuit 2) and I was eager to take him to Barnes & Noble, which had recently opened in my area. My friend had also told me that I shouldn’t make so much fun of my sister, because she probably doesn’t deserve it and I was being hard on her just because we’re related. I tried to tell him, no, you don’t understand, she really IS like that. But he wouldn’t hear of it.

We went to B&N, sat in the comfy chairs and got a snack in the cafe. When we returned to my house, my sister was there, eager to make friendly and intelligent conversation. Here’s how it went down:

Sis (upon seeing the B&N bags): What did you buy?

Me: Books.

Sis: What kind of books?

Me (trying to get rid of her): The kind you read.

Now, I think the next question she asked was meant to try and have an intelligent conversation about the subject matter of the newly purchased books. But the way it came out killed all chances at a conversation along with anyone’s misconception that my sister is intelligent.

Sis: But what’s, like, the meaning of books?

My friend ran up the stairs laughing so hard that he was going to pee his pants. I know, because I heard the bathroom door slam. I just stared at my sister with a blank yet disbelieving look on my face. She didn’t understand our reactions, and there was no way I could explain it to her.

To be fair, my sister isn’t dumb. She is capable of learning and can cook a chicken much better than I can. This phase she was going through, being socially incapable of intelligent conversation, lasted until she was about 30, but she’s over it now. Mostly.

Yesterday’s post gave me a great idea for today’s post.  This isn’t a story so much, but a series of small anecdotes that have to do with a dog and fireworks.

Growing up, we had two dogs at home.  One was a German Shepherd - a very smart, intuitive, scary looking but very gentle dog named Bambi.  She’s the dog that a lot of people remember very fondly.  The other dog was a mutt, a mix of a lot of who knows what - large breeds, mostly, because he was a pretty big dog.  Not the brightest creature, though his lack of intelligence was the source of much amusement for our family and friends.  His name was Rascal.

Rascal, as we discovered, liked loud stuff.  Our vacuum cleaner was greeted with tail-chasing and happy barking, and was subjected to lots of playful biting and duct tape surgery.  Shaking out a new garbage bag to open it up before putting it in the trash can brought the same reaction from Rascal.  The thing that excited him the most, though, was the Fourth of July.

In the States, we celebrate our Independence Day by blowing shit up.  We purchase specially made explosive devices and detonate these in the air to elicit ooohs and aaahs from the people around us.  Rascal loved this - it was his favorite part.  He’d spend the day getting ready for The Great Fireworks Chase by stalking the grill, waiting for choice pieces of meat to find their way to the ground so that he could fuel up for his big night.  He’d also go cool off by the pool, because it was really exciting when people would jump off the diving board and make a big splash.  The most exciting part of the day was after dark, which was the best time to see the fireworks.

My dad and his friends figured out early on that Rascal loved bottle rockets, because he’d jump up in the air after them.  He’d hover dangerously close to the bottle, waiting for the rocket to take off, so someone decided that instead of shooting the rocket straight up, they’d shoot it straight across the yard (the typical bottle rocket will travel maybe 100-300 feet, and my dad’s yard is much, much bigger than this).  Rascal loved the bottle rockets going across the yard, because he could chase them much better than he could jump up after them.  That dog sure got his exercise.

I don’t know what breeds Rascal had in him, but one of them must have been a fast one, because Rascal caught one once.  Oh yeah.  He caught a freaking bottle rocket.  In his mouth.  It blew up in his mouth.  He came running back to the launch area, panting with excitement, smoke pouring out of his mouth, and he was just waiting for the next one to be set off.  He was a bit annoyed at us trying to hose him down.

Another type of firework that Rascal liked was Jumping Jacks.  These are firecrackers, but they spin and take off a bit before exploding.  One thing I should mention - Rascal was a longer-haired dog, with really thick fur on his chest.  He went running after the Jumping Jacks, and one of them got caught on the thick fur on his chest.  A small flame erupted as it exploded, so Dad grabbed the hose to put the fire out.  Rascal was having fun, and this time started barking, biting at the water and chasing his tail.

I want to stress that Rascal never seemed to get any injuries that required any sort of aftercare - other than exhaling smoke and a bit of burnt fur, he was fine.  He was always ready for another go, always having fun.  We never deliberately let him catch any, either, because we didn’t want to cause him harm on purpose.  Keeping him in the house or on a leash would have done more harm to him - he would have hurt himself pretty bad trying to get free to experience the excitement, so we just let him run.  The best thing was to just let him be, and he was happy.  A happy dog, as dumb as he could be, was a great dog to have.

What is it about the inexpensive, off-brand, dollar store adhesive bandages that makes the manufacturers think they need industrial strength glue?  I got a small cut on my thumb at work today and asked for a bandage since I didn’t wan to bleed on the mail, and of course they don’t buy a certain brand name that we all know so well.  Nope, I got the cheap ones.  I mean, I shouldn’t knock them because they won’t come off, no matter how many times I have to wash my hands.

But that’s the thing.

They don’t come off.

After I got home this evening, I figured it was safe to take the bandage off because my wound wasn’t bleeding any more and sitting here at my computer, my hands will stay a lot cleaner than at work.  So I started peeling the damn thing off.  It stuck pretty good, and felt like it was taking a layer of skin with it as it came off.  But when it was all done, I was stuck with a super sticky layer of adhesive.

I went into the bathroom and washed my hands, hoping that the soap would get rid of it.  No dice.  After drying my hands, I now had towel fuzz on my thumb.  Then I tried rubbing alcohol.  That works when I have stuff stuck to glass, so I figured it would work here.  No dice.  Not only did it refuse to remove the adhesive, it also dripped into my wound and burned.  It hurt more than when I cut myself in the first place.  Now my thumb burned, and was still covered in adhesive and towel fuzz.

I went and showed my wound to Mister, because he wants to make sure that I’m not mortally wounded, and tried to think of what would get this sticky stuff off.  I might have been tempted to give up the effort, but this is the thumb of my right hand. I can’t go around getting stuff stuck to my thumb all night long.  I thought and thought.

Then it came to me.

WD-40.

The Holy Grail of adhesive removers.

It would definitely work on the adhesive, but how would it fare with my wound? I decided to chance it.  We have one of those fancy WD-40 pens that allow for a fairly precise application, so I knew I wouldn’t end up spraying the stuff all over my hand and whatever part of the house was nearby.

I went into the kitchen and removed the pen from the utility drawer.  I removed the cap and dabbed a bit onto my thumb.  Then I rubbed it in and removed it with a paper towel.  I checked the area I just treated, and lo and behold the adhesive was gone!  And get this - my wound didn’t burn, either (though I wouldn’t recommend using large amounts of this near larger wounds.  I was trying to be very careful not to get any in my wound.)  I finished removing the adhesive from my thumb and nail, and replaced the WD-40.  I was happy, and my thumb was no longer covered in adhesive or towel fuzz.

As far as adhesive removers go, WD-40 is the best stuff I have ever tried.  I’ve used other brands - the ones that have OFF or GONE in their names, but they just don’t work as well as this stuff you can find in a blue and yellow can in the automotive aisle.  All hail WD-40!

Oh, and try to avoid the off brand adhesive bandages.  Unless you really don’t want them to come off.

The Aussie Blogger’s Blog came out with a great new blogging tool - the Lazy Blogger’s Post Generator.  There’s lots of options for coming up with a post.  Here’s what I got:

Holy Snapping Duck Do! I just got a bajillion whiny emails saying I have not updated this since Hammertime was in the charts… You would not believe the amount of people that are totally stalking me. I hope you still love me!.

I will try to remember I promised you if one more person emails me to ask why I haven’t posted today I will start posting pictures of toe fungus, or fecal murals. Seriously! What do you mean you don’t believe me?

If you want to post, and don’t know what to say, head over to the Lazy Blogger’s Post Generator today!  And while you’re at it, check out the Aussie Blogger’s Blog and the Aussie Blogger’s Forum.  You don’t even have to be Australian or pretend to like vegemite, you just have to like blogging.

This is freaking hilarious, especially considering the recent electronics issues I’ve been having (which, btw, I think I’ve fixed, at least on the laptop.  Hello updated driver!)

Go to Jen’s Blog to view this - she’s the one who sent it to me.  It’s not a YouTube video so I don’t know how to properly embed it.  Alternatively, you can go here to see it directly.  And don’t worry, it’s safe for work and non-offensive, unless you have issues with office machine abuse.

Last night Boyfriend and I went out to eat. The restaurant wasn’t very crowded, but there was a couple seated in the booth next to us. The woman was very loud, almost as if she was talking to someone who was hard of hearing. The man barely spoke. The conversation was unremarkable until the woman started talking about medicine. She talked in great detail of a colonoscopy she recently had, and talked about all sorts of other tests she had. Gallbladder, kidneys, MRI, more mention of the colon, etc. And yet the doctors don’t know what’s wrong with her.

A bit later in the evening the waiter came by and asked if they would like their food wrapped to go home. This is the first we heard the man speak. He said, "I’m feeling sick." Ya think?

And this damn laptop is really driving me nuts. The damn apostrophe/quote mark key is fucked up. Apostrophes don’t show on my screen until I type the next character, and when I try to type "I, for example, I end up with Ï. WTF? It only happens with vowels. Strange, very strange.

Why is it that when one receives an offer to participate in a 419 scam, the dollar amount is very even? I received one of these offers today, and the amount that has been deposited that needs to get out is an even US$17,000,000. I love reading the creative use of the English language in these notes too. This particular amount has been “domiciled with the Finance/Security Company overseas”. And if this guy’s health is so bad, how is it that he cannot make a bank withdrawal, but he can spend so much time and effort on trying to get someone to participate in his scam? And here’s my favorite: why oh why did this scam offer come by FAX???????????????

Email the spammer - flood his inbox!
y_plotnikov@moscowmail.com
y_plotnikov@mail.ru

I love this stuff, really I do.

I was recounting this anecdote to someone over the weekend, and thought I’d post it here - especially seeing as how Crowjoy posted pics of yummy looking appetizers made with quail eggs.

When I was a kid, my dad used to like to do silly things to amuse us kids. By silly, I mean lame. One time we were having Deviled Eggs, but Dad kept calling them Eggs Deviled. In trying to correct him, the conversation went something like this:

Dad: Mmm, these Eggs Deviled are pretty good!
Me and/or Sis: Daddy, they’re Deviled Eggs.
Dad: That’s what I said, Eggs Deviled.
Us: Nooooo, it’s Deviled Eggs.
Dad: Eggs Deviled!
Us: Dad, say ‘Deviled’.
Dad: Deviled.
Us: Say ‘Eggs’.
Dad: Say eggs.
Us: Now put it together.
Dad: Deviled Say Eggs.

I have not eaten another Deviled Egg since then, but I have eaten many, many Deviled Say Eggs. Perhaps now someone outside of my household will enjoy the delicious wonders that are Deviled Say Eggs.

Photo courtesy internet search