Booger eaters will rule the world

They say there’s a time and a place for everything. I suppose at some point in my life, I would have agreed. But that ended abruptly the moment I was told I should consider eating my own boogers for my health. Yes. You heard me right.

Eat. my own. fucking. boogers.

Ordinarily, in a situation like that, I would have ventured somewhere between a choked-back puke and an, “ARE YOU INSANE!?” But at that second I was unable to verbalize even a single syllable. It took me a moment, after snorting with nervous laughter to determine that he was serious. The deadpan look on his face confirmed it.

“No, seriously. Studies show that eating one’s own boogers can boost the immune system and help with allergy problems.”


Lord knows I’ve had it with the seasonal plague of allergies. But the mere thought of …*gag*… I can’t even go there. I get the theory, people. The gut is the key to our immune system. And if we introduce seasonal environmental allergens through our gut/digestive tract, the body is less likely to go on the attack when they come through our respiratory system. BUT, and this is a big fucking BUT… WHO decided on the booger-eater study, and WHO participated… willingly?

I know college students will do a lot of things for beer money cash for food. That’s why they call them starving college students. But, holy shit… that’s a whole new level of starving. (Note to my children: if you’re ever desperate enough while away at college, that taking money to eat boogers sounds ok, please call home. I will send money. And xanax.)

I’ve done some searching for more natural allergy relief. Ok, ya, I know. Boogers are natural. But NO. No way. No how. Someone actually mentioned trying locally-sourced honey. It’s the same theory as the boogers… local environmental allergens, collected by our bee friends, introduced through the digestive tract. But honey rather than… eeeeeeew.

I can wrap my brain around the honey idea. I’ve already spent a small fortune on medications. So spending $24 on $6 worth of honey seemed like a worthwhile experiment. Plus I’m supporting the local economy… ‘cuz you know those poor Newport Beach people need the cash. And let me say the honey is delish. I’m only half way through my supply. One tablespoon a day in my pitcher of green tea isn’t a tough way to go. However I do expect it to take a while, if it helps at all. But it’s not boogers. So I’m not complaining.

Studies show it tastes better than boogers.

Studies show that locally-sourced honey tastes better than boogers.*

There is plenty I would do to stop the flow of allergy boogs. I’ve run the gamut of medications. And they either don’t work, or make me feel like crack-monkeys have invaded my skull. I’m not good at drugs. So I choose to stumble through allergy season, snotty and coughing. It’s not pretty, people. But I guarantee you, it’s one hellava lot better than eating boogers. *ohmygodgag*

Sure, I suppose there may be a time and a place for everything. But eating boogers will never be one of them. Though I guess the upside is, if their booger theory is solid, and you believe the Darwin thing, booger eaters will eventually take over the world. So, there is that. Yay, booger eaters.



*Ok, it was my own study. And no one here will eat boogers.
I think that says enough. My conclusions are solid. Trust me, people.

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My name is Lynn, and I’m a Candyland addict.

It’s time for me to stand up and admit this to you all. My name is Lynn, and I’m a Candyland-crack addict. I’ve come down off of a weekend trip… trying to steal away private moments to get my fix. Ignoring things that needed to be done, just to nab some time for my Candyland habit. I knew I had a problem when my husband walked in on me… mid-snort… caught up in giggle convulsions. Yes. It’s true. I’m an addict. And I need help.

I’m not a selfish addict though. I am all about sharing. There’s plenty of Candyland to go around. It’s always more fun for an addict when everyone else is hooked too. I’m setting out to create my own Candyland addiction circle. I’m not talkin’ the board game either, people. I’m talking about the wildly entertaining web series, set in a snobby, Palisades preschool. These aren’t your typical kidlets. Each of the Candyland cuties is a concoction of innocence, conniving and evil, all rolled into a pint-sized package. They’ll draw you in, and have you begging for more. More hilarity. More drama. More fun.

I’m not turning you on to garbage here… I swear to you. I only do the good stuff. The production quality is solid. And the acting is actually pretty impressive for these little darlings. I have no shame. I’m proud of my addiction and happy to pass it on.

Season One is already on the books. Yes, that’s right, people. I’m late to the party. But these are quick little episodes, 5-6 minutes, and you can catch up on the first season in a flash. And then, like me, be begging for more. OOOH, the agony of a cliffhanger. I’m jonesin’ here, people.

I’ll hook you up. Here’s Episode One. The rest of the season is on the site or youtube. And then join me in the anticipation of Season Two. “Like” the Candyland Series on Facebook or follow them on Twitter, and you’ll be the first to know when the new batch of Candyland is ready for the snorts and giggles.

You’re welcome…

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Stuff that cracked me up this week

There were a handful of things that made me giggle this week… and even snort. Sorry this is a little hastily thrown together tonight. The chuckles speak for themselves. There’s some funny shit out there, you guys. So here you go…

You’ll love this. Some people have all the fun. I need to hang out with this guy… too dang funny.


Now here’s a thought. Ever wonder how you’d survive a zombie apocalypse? A hamster ball, people.
These people are genius……. pure genius. I find the toilet facilities slightly lacking, however.





When your translator has had more of a “street” education, you end up with some pretty entertaining signs.



Nope, there’s nothing better than a good old botched translation. Check out the rest here. I promise you’ll laugh. You may even snort a few times.






Wooohoooo… it’s Friday. I don’t know about you, but it’s the weekend and that makes me happier than a corgi on stilts. And PS, someone really needs to buy me this for my birthday.

Have a great weekend, everyone. Like a corgi on stilts kind of great. xo


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PTSD and Minty-fresh Panties

My husband’s favorite old shirt still bears the battle wounds of the Great Crayon Incident of 2003. The scarred-for-life mark of the laundry near-casualty is however, not a deterrent—my man will wear the most cherished Reyn Spooner to the death. The story of the stowaway crayon is one of family lore. And the tale, replayed with fish-story accuracy each time the battle-weary shirt emerges from the closet, is the reason that not a single crayon has made its way into a pocket in many. many. years. Just as the shirt is scarred, so too are the crayon-toting psyches of my kids. Emotional scars, people—it’s the shit we moms LIVE for. *curtsy*….. My work here is done.

The stories have instilled quite a productive terror within our clan. Crayons now remain at home. And only at home. I learned a similar lesson when I was a kid. It’s amazing how poorly crayons fare in the back seat of a car. I swear, people, Southern California summer heat is pure magic. It turns crayons into rainbow unicorn vomit. And as impressive as it is, dads are surprisingly unimpressed by unicorn vomit. And consequently, dads become very screamy at the sight of it. I’ll bet if they had been glitter crayons, he’d have been more impressed. Because everyone knows unicorn vomit has sparkles. That’s probably why he wasn’t impressed—no sparkles.

Over the years, I’ve applied the crayon exemplar to all things laundry. The litmus works with anything I consider putting into my pockets. “Should I forget to take this out of my pocket, what would it do to a load of laundry?” From that question forward, I proceed with ample caution. I found however, after I washed my phone, that my litmus required amendment. “Should I forget to take this out of my pocket, how yelly would my husband get?” That was a scene I don’t care to replay. Although, oddly I still get more grief for the phone that accidentally bumped into the bedroom wall. In my defense, it was totally the phone’s fault for being in my hand when I was really pissed. It should have known better. That phone was really stupid. It deserved to die. You’d think I’d get a little support for ridding the world of stupid phones. Jeez. My husband can be so short-sighted and judgy.

I’ve told him that he too should learn from the crayon incident. Over the years I’ve had to rewash laundry fouled by a wide range of pocket goodies, including Chap Stick, chalk, pens and an impressive array of candy. My husband pockets candy like a squirrel hoards nuts. We’ve even had gum in the laundry, which fortunately stayed within its wrapper. Because unwrapped gum in the wash makes an impressive mess. By mess, I mean shit everywhere… think hard boiling an egg in the microwave. If the microwave was a washer and dryer. And the egg was six sticks of warm gum, tossed like a cluster fuck salad. We had been very lucky not to have a mess like that.

Until last night.

Yup. That’s what I said. The nightmare of laundry-doers everywhere descended upon us. I hadn’t noticed until after the load was ready to come out of the dryer. There, on the edge when I opened the door… four balled up sticks of gum within their wrappers, perched there, as if to tattle on the rest for not having remained sheathed.

Shit shit shit. Please God, let this be all of it. *pffft* As if a deity of any kind would be concerned with the well-being of my load of shorts. My momentary religious experience had no affect. Because as I pulled them out of the warm dryer, I could see the evidence. It was the Great Crayon Incident of 2003, all over again. Except this time, it was gum rather than red crayons. But of course not merciful gum that would blend into khaki shorts. Black gum. My husband left a handful of sticks of black gum in his pocket.

At that moment I grabbed the fireplace poker and whacked him over the head with it. Ok, that was just in my mind. I didn’t kill him. I didn’t even hit him. I’m not the murdery type. I really wanted to go all dad-not-amused-by-unicorn-vomit on him. But I just didn’t have the heart. He felt really bad, jumping into action, cleaning out both the washer and dryer… spotless and free of gum. It took him over an hour. He was deadass tired, and it was midnight before he was done. He was like Superman. I married Superman, people. Except ridding the world of nasty, black gum rather than super villains. And not the world. Just our washer and dryer. But he’s still totally Superman in my book. If Superman washed his gum.

There were signs of casualty amongst the load of shorts. Me and my badass skillz with an ice-cube and a knife managed to get most of the gum off of everything. However the black gum did leave permanent reminders scattered all over his shorts. Now he has something perfectly matched to wear with his red, crayon-stained Reyn Spooner. Lucky for him I only had one pair of shorts that suffered permanent damage. The stains will probably fade over time—unlike the memory of the Great Gum Incident of 2013. I’m hoping my family suffers from PTSD from this for years to come. There’s nothing more useful than a painful I-fucking-told-you-so incident to forever rid the laundry of gum. And crayons. Then again, maybe not. But a girl can hope.

I suppose at some point in the future we’ll find some humor in this. We may even rerun the story of the Great Gum Incident of 2013 every time one of the battle-scarred shorts emerge. Probably no laughs for a while though. It’s difficult to recall gum in the laundry with warm fondness. There’s really nothing good about it. Except perhaps that my last load of freshly dried underwear smelled minty fresh.

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Stuff that cracked me up this week

I know I’m a bit late this week. The holiday threw me off a tad. But I did run across a couple of good giggly nuggets to share. Please… do yourself a favor. If you haven’t discovered The Oatmeal yet, and want to get lost for a while, go there. I’ve killed more time, laughing my ass off on their site this week. I love this sweet story about his whacked out cat. My particular favorites… the greeting cards. Four pages of pure hilarity. Get ready to cackle your asses off, y’all.




I love this. I think the best is the back tattoo…
“Yes, buying me a drink will totally work.”
Check out the rest of the giggle fest.







Handing you a justified excuse to get soused on a work day seemed like the greatest gift I could offer up today. Especially since this week I’m a little thin on the laugh-wrap-up. It’s been a busy week with all the BBQing and blowing shit up on Thursday.

So take your flask to work. And the next time your job requires a little creative thinking, here’s your solution. Check out the full chart.

I’m sure you can make some very good use of it this week. Just refer your boss to this. Now I don’t suppose after handing you this little tidbit, that I have to tell you to have a good week. Do I?
You’rrrrre welcome!


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Shouldn’t We Live by the Golden-Brown Rule?

I hate it when I see things that I wish I could unsee. Like donkey show photos. Or the fucking lemonparty web site. Holy crap… can someone please pass the brain bleach? Ack. Seriously? But the other day I cyber-tripped upon something that took this to new levels. What I saw pushed me into a pit of bullshit and disillusionment. I know. I’m a total drama queen. *straightens tiara*

I ran across someone online, whom I’ve considered to be a savvy social media chick. People seem to value her opinions and advise. But I was dumbstruck that she was using an artist’s work as her online identity… without the artist’s permission, she was using it everywhere—facebook, twitter, google+, web icons—wallpapered everywhere. But worse still, without so much as a credit or byline. But wait. This woman is the purveyor of knowledge of all things internet. We know better than to do this. Don’t we? *forehead slap* Or do we?

I know the images were used without permission, because the artist was as surprised and pissed off as I was when I asked her about them. As an illustrator and graphic designer, I’ve also been ripped off countless times. So I tend to be a little sensitive about copyright infringement. And by a little sensitive, I mean peevy. Really fucking peevy. Like I want to take them down peevy. Like the copyright thief is a cobra, and I’m the badass honey badger. Rawhr. But that’s only in my mind. In reality, I’m a big. ass. wuss… So here, enjoy this Honey Badger rant intermission while I calm the fuck down. Thanks to Randall.

Anywhooooo… I get it. Copyright laws are confusing. And copyright attorneys are pricey. Like Gucci loafer kind of pricey. So much so, that only Disney can afford to hire them to send out cease and desist orders. Ok, maybe Disney and a few others. But they’re expensive.  (Note to self: in my next life be a copyright attorney copyright attorney’s wife only child.) No one is here to decipher the law, image by image, for us real folk. What can we use? What’s off-limits? *sigh* But as a cop told me once, when I told him that I didn’t know the keg in the back seat was illegal, “Ignorance does not provide exception from the law.”

The internet isn’t our personal free-without-strings image bank. We need to be mindful of ownership and courtesy. I’m not talking about viral memes. Good luck figuring out where those babies come from. I’m envisioning a kid in a basement somewhere, with a computer with only one font—Helvetica Black—and a broken keyboard that has a stuck caps lock key. Those memes seem to be dropped out of the heavens somewhere, and are fair game. But I could be wrong. Come at me, bro.

Mind you, I’m not talking about the casual twitter and facebook users either. Social media have blurred the lines in excruciatingly, mind-boggling ways. No one is going to serve you with papers for posting a copyrighted photo of Justin Bieber on your fb timeline. Your friends, may however bitchslap you into next week. We all make choices. And some are worse than others. I have high school pictures that prove that point. But unless you’re under fourteen, Bieber posts are inexcusable. Stop that. And look, just don’t take credit for someone else’s work, even as a casual social media user. That makes you a dickweed.

What I’m really talking about here are those who derive an income from their exploits in the interwebs, and those who get paid for their presence in blogville. But I’m sure you’re one of the majority who is already conscious of copyrights, and not one of the handful of party poopers, ruining everyone else’s fun. I’m talking to the poopers.

The thing is, if something is not yours, and it’s not public domain, ask permission to use it, or at the very least, provide a link back so they can find you to thank you, or tell you take it down. Especially if you’re using it dominantly, like in your identity. The artist may or may not want to be associated with you, your causes, your opinions, or your sagging boob pictures. Oh wait, sorry. That last one may be just me. Anyway, it’s the artist’s prerogative. They are the talent behind that which you want to steal use. The least you can do is afford them that. Just ask. You may think it’s a public domain work. But think about it. If you’re ripping it off from an artist gallery web site, chances are slim-to-none that you should be using it.

Acknowledge the creator. Not God, the Creator. The creator of the stuff you’re stealing using. GIVE A BYLINE. Most of us are neurotic fucks, and just appreciate the credit for our work. Right? Don’t be a douche canoe. Seriously, some of us still get usage fees for our artwork. Helloooo. Think about it. I know, there are times that it’s impossible to find the creator. (Some people find Jesus though. Which is apparently easier in some cases.) But Jesus aside, if you can’t find the content creator, because the image has whored around the interwebs a few too many times, use it at your discretion. Kind of like other things that have whored around a bit too much. Discretion is key, people. And if you ever remove someone’s byline from a piece to pimp as your own, may fifteen rabid, horny monkeys attack your face.

The artist, whose work was used without permission by the nameless media maven, is highly recognizable. She’s all over the internet. Finding her, in order to request permission, or at the very least providing a byline is child’s play. I just did a search on the content of the composition of her painting that media maven is using. (Let’s just say the painting was of humping ninja zombie lizards. I would have searched “humping ninja zombie lizards.“) And guess what… in doing the search, her images with her name attached were some of the first to pop up.

I want to believe that media maven didn’t realize what she was doing was copyright infringement. Or that she somehow thought she was doing this artist a favor by giving her exposure. I really really really want to believe that this person was not putting herself above the law and others. Oh my God, someone slap me.

I had to throw back a martini just now, to get over the fact that even someone who knows better would still take such blatant liberties. Ok, ya, you’re right. I would have had the martini anyway. *pffft* I know this is a somewhat anonymous medium. However it’s probably best to think of it as less so. Just play nice in the sandbox. If you want to play with the other kids’ stuff, ask.

It’s the golden-brown rule, people. Don’t steal others’ shit and they won’t steal yours. Your good karma will come back to you. As will the bad karma. Who wants to come back as a dung beetle next time? Not me. They eat poop. And I’m not fond of poop.

*steps down off of soap box* *tips tiara*

I risked sounding like a pedantic dickwagon here, to initiate some chatter.
Comments are encouraged. So let’s talk about this.

Here’s some light reading on copyright law.

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38 Long is the new 38C

I’ve always been one of those natural chicks… never really saw the need for a boob job. It just seemed odd to me, having someone stuff plastic chicken cutlets into my body… let’s face it… mostly for someone else’s enjoyment. I guess they’re all they’re cracked up to be, when it comes to self-esteem. But my self-esteem has always been pretty low, and no amount of stuffing was going to help that mess. So it seemed like a futile endeavor.

I spoke out equally against any and all cosmetic procedures. In retrospect, I wish there was a way to reach back into time and slap a generous amount of duct tape over my dumbass mouth. What an idiot. Of course I didn’t see the need… with my perfect, unlined skin and perky tits. What a moron.


Photo: National Geographic

This month I’m having one of those year-before-a-monumental birthdays. I’ll save you the guesswork… 49. I’ll be forty-fucking-nine years old. What. the. hell? How did that happen? I remember being in my 20’s like it was yesterday. Ok, that’s a total lie. But I was an idiot then… we’ve already discussed that. So there’s honestly no need to remember that decade. I remember my wedding… that’s all I need from my 20’s. Well, wait a sec. It would be nice to remember my 21st birthday. From what I understand, I had a great time. But that’s not a memory I’ve ever had, nor ever hope to regain. I’ll have to enjoy the epic tales, and leave it at that.

Now as I look in the mirror, I’m seeing an old person. Who IS that? And why the fuck are her tits down there?! I’m beginning to wrap my mind around the value of cosmetic surgery. I’m not saying I’ll rush out and get me a set of Dolly Partons. But hey, ladies, now I get it. For the moment, I’ll embrace this new me. Yes. A 38 Long is the new 38 C. Ya. I said embrace it, not like it. I’m not on crack, people. They’re not quite to National Geographic standards. But I may have to do something about this. And don’t even get me started on the gravity vs. my ass war. *goes to do some squats*

Perhaps I’ll start small with this whole me vs. aging thing. I can’t see a photo of myself lately without fixating on what my husband calls my forehead vagina. Ya, you’re right. It’s very bold of him, considering I have control of his food supply. *evil grin* He claims it gives me character. Ya. Well so do my saggyass tits. But I’ll bet he’d be all over the idea of me getting those back to their former glory. *pffft*

I’m thinking for my year-before-the-monumental-birthday, I’ll see about getting rid of one of my vaginas. I’ll keep the useful one. I see this as a win for my husband. Right? Then perhaps next year I’ll start thinking about a hoister for the girls. Again, another win for my husband. And since his birthday is the day before mine, I suppose I can call it his gift, and still request that sweet convertible for my birthday. I can totally see this logic working in my favor.

They say that 50 is the new 40. I guess that means 50 is now the age that things really start going to hell in a hand basket? Alright then, bitch. Game on. I’ve got one more year to be the new 39. And then the war begins. Fuck you, 25-year-old me. I get it now. I totally get it.


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Stuff that cracked me up this week


I’ve had a week that’s felt a bit like this guy’s… all tangled up in a fucking tree. I’m not sure exactly where it went. Because I got nothing done. I found myself sucked into twitter more than I should have been. Dang… what a time suck that is. But you guys are so funny! Good times. If you haven’t followed me, come get in on the conversation… @bullcasm. Or you can click the follow link in the sidebar.

Come to the dark side. We have cookies.





Anyway, yo… some good shit going down this week. I found this little tidbit “in the news.” I think I may have to get me soma this action. How sexy is this!? Chinese ladies are getting into “hairy manleg stockings” to “turn guys off.” There is such an array of things I could say here. But I’ll refrain. Mostly because I hate nastygrams from readers. But can you imagine? If this isn’t just a publicity stunt, this would ROCK. I could stop shaving and pretend I’m hot… just wearing “stockings” to stave off would-be lechers. Too bad the hair lasering is working. I lack a truly impressive coat. Dammit. I guess I’d look like I bought the cheap knock offs. Oh well. That’ll work too. Check out the whole story.


poop-appWhile we’re talking about stuff we’ve got to have, check this out. When they say, there’s an app for everything, they’re not kidding. Have you ever worried that you’ll forget where you’ve pooped? “Hmmm. I seem to have misplaced something. Where did I leave that?” Or perhaps you’re not facebooking quite enough. And an app that simplifies telling everyone where you just took a dump is just what you’re looking for. Well here you go, people. There’s an app for that. I swear, I think some people I’ve seen on facebook are already using this. Facebook: the place where oversharers go to talk about their last meal and their last shit. There’s a golden tag line in there somewhere. You’re welcome, facebook.

The rest of these photos are compliments of Epic Fail. Which, if you haven’t checked it out, beware. It will suck the rest of your time that you have left after twitter, and cause you to snort in line at the grocery store. Learn from my mistakes, friends.



This sign was, of course my favorite. Given my recent experience with the local poo flingers, (need to catch up?) this sign would have been very useful to avoid issues before they became steaming bags of crap in my planter. Though I don’t have grandchildren. I would cross it off and put, “my husband.”







And then we have this gem. Dude. Where have you been all my life? I can only imagine this is pure chick magic. Boy, you charmer, you. The man of any girls’ dreams. Ok. Maybe some.





I wonder if t-shirt guy ^^^ has a kid. But no, seriously dads, farting is hysterical. Especially when you let ’em rip in the car. With the windows up. Those are especially funny. Which is why mom’s post cute things like this on the internet. Note: my children did not do this particular work of art. If they did, it would have said, “when he farts on the dog’s head.” He’s a giver. Not a waster.





And lastly, I know we’re always harping on the importance of punctuation. Ok, maybe we’re not. But roll with me on this. Punctuation can be the difference between helping your uncle Jack, off a horse; and helping your uncle jack off a horse.

Proper spacing can be just as crucial.



Have a good weekend!

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… and this was BEFORE happy hour

For sure, it’s time to bump up the kegels. I’m not quite to the piss-myself-when-I-sneeze phase yet. But sisters, we know what childbirth does to a girlfriend’s body. And it does suck. Seriously. This morning I had a moment with my kids, and nearly laughed myself into an embarrassing situation. I feel like karma may be requiring the need to offer a moment of empathy-silence for the already-there Depends and Poise pads market. I’m going to cover my bases here. Shall we bow our heads?

Were you doing some kegels just now? ME TOO!

So this morning we were on our monthly shoe size upgrade for my son. Nothing, I repeat nothing grows faster that a teen boy’s feet. This is the first time in his life that he outgrows his shoes before he destroys them. We were watching TV the other night, and I was looking at his massive monkey feet on the ottoman. And I swear to God, people. I could SEE them getting bigger. It’s like fucking corn. I could HEAR them growing.

We had some fun in the shoe department… other than realizing that he’s nearly maxed out the sizing at Target, and will shortly not be able to find shoes to fit him anywhere. Yes, the kid is growing faster than the retail market can keep up with. What the hell? Do ape feet run on my husband’s side of the family? Have you seen my mother in law’s feet? I’m certain it’s his side. Moving along. Maybe I can get banned from next year’s Christmas too.

shopperSo check this out, people. Who knew the Target shoe department had such a sense of humor? It’s like a fun house. Our mirror-placement discovery required a silly photo to share with you all. It was a nearly-Depends-worthy moment. Prompting my realization that I’ve grown far too lax on the kegels.

I think my daughter disappeared, hoping no one would think she knew us. I don’t know many boys who would pose for an epic fun-with-mirrors pic like this. He’s a pretty rad kid. Despite the ape feet.




Happy hump day!
And if it’s not raining where you are, happy dry hump day!


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If a camel winks at you, just run.

I know, this is an old one. I saw it a few years back. And I’m pretty sure I laughed my ass off at that point. Though I can’t be certain. Let’s be honest. The older I get, the less I remember. But it’s totally in my nature to disregard the horrifying reality, and go straight for laughs at the expense of someone’s life… or lack thereof. Ya, I suck like that. Stop nodding your heads in agreement. You people are here, which makes you just as bad, by association. Isn’t it cool how I drag you down with me? Welcome to the trailer park, people.

Anyway, I ran across this again the other day. Initially I laughed myself into a snort. But I started thinking about it. Poor Pam woke up that morning, and may or may not have thought about a camel ride. But I’m thinking her expectations probably would have been more like her in the saddle, rather than her ginormous furry friend doing the riding. I’m certain she never expected to go this way. Who would, right?

I mean, for crying out loud, I hope the last thing I see before I die isn’t a camel penis coming at me. There are for sure worse ways to go. But how much would it suck, knowing that what was going on was the funniest thing that’s ever happened to you, while at the same time knowing you’d never be able to tell anyone. Mostly cuz you’d be dead.

So I just wanted to say, R.I.P. Pam. I’m sorry your camel was so rapey. What an asshole. Although I think we’ve all known for a long time that camels are assholes, right? And I’m really sorry I laughed. Both times. And to the rest of you, if you ever see a camel with a boner, it’s probably best not to stick around. Just run. I don’t know why I’m thinking in a zig-zag pattern. Or maybe that’s just alligators. Oh well, it probably can’t hurt. You’re totally welcome.


P.S. Spell check is telling me there’s no such word as boner. No wonder this spell check is so uptight.

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