Tag Archives: funny

Growing Hair

So sure, I’m a middle-aged man with a forehead that has never been larger.  I find myself at the beginning stages of sporting a bald spot in the age of magic hair growing drugs.  But will you find me using hair drugs, hair foams, or spray on hair?  Nope, because I can grow back my hair anytime I want to.  It’s true.  I am choosing to progress into that middle-aged balding man without a fight.  How could I possibly start my midlife crisis with a full head of hair?  Forty-six states have laws on the books prohibiting middle-aged men from driving convertibles with a full head of hair.  Look it up.

I can grow hair whenever I want to.  In fact, I have developed the power to sprout hair located anywhere on my body.  Every day that goes by I am perfecting this talent.  I am not losing my hair, but rather, I am repositioning it to areas all around my body.

You want to see hair growing on my little finger?  Done.  You want to see hair on my ear lobes?  Done.  You want to see hair coming out of the soles of my feet?  I’ll bet I can pull it off in the next couple of years.

Recently I have been exerting my hair growing powers in an attempt to refill my receding hair-line.  My efforts are starting to pay off because there are a few hairs sprouting out where my hairline used to be.  I currently have these awesome racing stripes of rather smooth skin on both sides of my forehead.  This area once was not only filled with thick brown beautiful hair, but was also altogether closer to my eyebrows.  But now, through the use of my hair growing powers, I have started to grow a handful of hairs where I once had them.  Just a few.  Never more than three to five at a time so far.  It’s a slow start.

I know this is going to sound weird, but along with my hair growing powers I also can hear the thoughts of my new mid-forehead hairs.  I think it is some sort of side effect from my hair growing powers.

“Hey, hairline up there!  Remember when we used to hang out down here?  Man, those were good times.  Hey guys, you should stop being such old farts and come on down here with us.  Remember the time when we were flirting with the eyebrow hairs?  Dude, that was so much fun.  We should do that again.”

“No way.  Get out of here.  We are way too old to be messing around in that part of the forehead.  And besides, have you seen how the eyebrows look these days?  They haven’t had an easy life.  They’ve let themselves go.”

Unfortunately, I had to pluck the renegade forehead hairs when they started harassing the older hairs.  That, and they kept me up at night with all their stories from long ago.

You readers should know that I typed all these paragraphs using only my left eyebrow.

Harry says, “Buy my books.”

PS- That was my 100th post.  I didn’t see it coming.  Self deprecating…go figure.

Laughable Security

The wife and I are considering refinancing our home to save a little cash each month while the rates still remain low.  It’s not the first time we have refinanced.  We have been down this road with success in the past.  When deciding if the cost of refinancing will be worth it, one of the first questions you have to ask is “Do you enjoy banging your head against a brick wall?”

Why yes! Yes I do.

This is the story of very first step of the refinancing process.  In fact, its step zero—maybe even step minus one.

To begin, you’ll need to know how much you owe on your current mortgage so that you can tell the refinance guy how much you’re asking to borrow during this refinancing process.  Simple, right?

I have no idea.  Perhaps that’s foolish of me, but I got nothing.  No clue at all.  I just allow my current bank to auto withdraw from my savings account whatever amount they see fit to pay my bill and not start a foreclosure process.  A hundred dollars you ask for?  Sure.  Two thousand dollars?  Sure.  A half million?  Sure, take it.

You see, I have not received a paper statement for the last several years because I decided to go green.  Somewhere in the distant past, I can picture myself cancelling the paper statements to make a difference in the world.  Do yourself a favor and breathe in real slow and real deep.  Fresh, right?  Yeah, that’s thanks to me.

So I call my bank to determine the current outstanding loan amount.  That’s when the banking operator hits me with the “security” questions.  Which is cool.  I get it.  I don’t need every Tom, Dick, and Harry probing the details of my account.  In fact, I don’t need the three of those guys probing anything.

“What are the last four digits of your social security number?”  Easy one.

“What city where you born in?”  I got this.  Although I have no memory of the event.

“What date did your dog first crap on your carpet?”  Seriously, I have no idea?

“How many fingers am I holding up?”  You’re on the other end of a phone!

Actually, joking aside, the questions were straight forward and easy for me to recall for my ever-so-pleasant banking operator.  That is, until she asked, “What was the original amount of the loan?”

Oh no!  I have no idea.  You see, the wife and I refinanced once already.  I remember the original loan amount from when I originally purchased the home, but the first refinancing amount?  I can’t remember that at all.  I explained that I don’t have that information any more.  She then said, “We cannot give you information about your current loan amount without first answering that particular security question.  However, you can log on to your account from our website to see you current account balance.  Why don’t you try that approach?”

Fine.  I like working with people better, but off to the web I go.

I haven’t logged in since I went “green”.  I think I remember my log in ID, but my password?  No idea.  So I now have to click the “I’m a moron and need to reset my forgotten password” link.  Click.  I feel yucky.

Great news!  The automatic web site people will happy to e-mail me a temporary password to the e-mail address I have on file.

Not so great news!  That e-mail account has been disabled for years.  No help there.

So I had to call back into my bank.  Of course I got a different bank operator this time and I had re-explained to her that I was looking for my current outstanding loan amount and that I am having trouble logging into the web site to retrieve it.

Her next move, you ask?  Security questions.  The exact same ones.

I grit my teeth and say, “I don’t know the original loan amount.  I will never know the original loan amount.  I have no way of learning my original loan amount.  That is, unless you reset my password.”

“I’m sorry.  But without answering all of the security questions, I do not know how I can help you.”

After a brief fruitless debate, I hang up on her—wishing I could slam the phone down, but not doing so, because it’s my cell phone and that destroying it in of spite her would suck.  So, “boop” (the noise of disconnecting the call).  Take that!

I need a new approach.  With my thinking cap firmly in place, I formulate a new plan of attack.  Planning level: Genius.  I feel like one of those Scooby Doo “meddling kids” that always stopped the bad guy from “getting away with it.”  I’m more of the Shaggy type.  Not so much the Fred type because I don’t even own an ascot.  Velma and Daphne?  No, I don’t see me in either of them.  And Scooby, well he’s a dog.  I am not.  Let’s not be silly here.

With my new plan in mind, I called back.  I got yet another different bank operator which is exactly what I needed for my glorious plan.  “Thank you for calling (insert my banks name here).  How may I help you?”  I don’t wish to throw my bank under the bus for this story.  But let’s just say it’s an American bank located in America.  In fact, you could say it is a Bank of America, that is, if you felt like saying that.

“Yes, hello!  I’m calling about my mortgage account that I have with your fine banking establishment.  My social security number is (insert my number here—no clues for you).  My wife and I are considering refinancing and we need to determine the value of the original loan amount of our current mortgage.  Can you give me that value, please?”

And she did!  Just like that.

Now I should have declared victory and hung up, but I couldn’t help myself.  “Do you realize that you just gave me the answer to one of my own security questions?  I’ve been trying to reset my online password and couldn’t do it without knowing the original loan amount!  So can I please have my password reset now?”

She was flustered—probably in some sort of trouble because “this call may be recorded for training purposes”.  Evidently, training that didn’t go far enough.

Without another second of delay, “Umm, ok. Well.  Let me transfer you to our online help department.”

Nice!

The story ends there.  Finally.  I now know the exact amount of our outstanding balance of our current mortgage.  I can now move to the next step of the refinancing process.

By the way, the lesson I learned is that I probably should fire up the delivery of the monthly paper statements.  Going green simply leads to security breaches.  Breathe in real slow and real deep.  Not as fresh anymore, is it?

Buy my books, no questions asked.

My Super Bowl Recap 2014

If you are a Peyton Manning fan, then that Super Bowl was not for you.

If you are a funny commercial fan, then that Super Bowl was not for you.

If you are a Phillip Seymore Hoffman fan, then that Sunday was not for you (along with some of the writing that follows here).

So I was with my family watching the Broncos completely fall apart.  But at least the commercials were amusing—not so much.  In years passed, I typically update my Facebook status while watching the Super Bowl and its commercials.  This year was no different.  This morning, when I reviewed my posted statuses, I noticed that not a single one singled out the “funny” commercials.

Without further ado, here is a Super Bowl recap via my Facebook status updates:

Wait a minute.  I still have a little “ado” left.  I had to look up the word “ado” to make sure I was using it properly.  Ado is defined as “bustling activity; fuss; bother; delay”.  So yes, all is well.  I now have no more “ado” so we can, in fact, continue.

The morning of Super Bowl Sunday brought us the news of the death of a Hollywood actor.

‘If you are waiting for Philip Seymour Hoffman to come to your Super Bowl party, umm, well this is awkward…’

I posted that because Mr. Hoffman apparently accidentally killed himself with drugs.  Perhaps this was insensitive to his surviving loved ones.  It probably was.  But really, I was just trying to look out for those Super-Bowl-partying people who were counting on him to bring his crock-pot filled with that awesome chicken-cheese dip that he was known for.  I mean, those poor people.  How dry their mouths must have been after eating dipless chips.

Besides, his loved loves don’t read my blog.  If they do, they never bother to push like or leave a comment.  So, whatever.

The game was kicked off by Phil Sims escorting Joe Namath to the coin flip to determine who would be declared the winner of the Super Bowl.  Seriously, using the coin flip to determine the winner would have been far less painful for the broncos.

‘”Phil, I want to kiss you.”, Joe.’

If you don’t understand this reference, just Google “Joe Namath I want to kiss you” and you will no doubt find a clip of a drunken Mr. Namath hitting on a sideline reporter while being interviewed on national television.  Priceless.  I’ll never be able to see Joe without recalling that video segment with sharp clarity in my head.  Completely more entertaining than Sherman’s rant.

The Super Bowl half time show was being advertised weeks in advance to showcase Bruno Mars and the Red Hot Chili Peppers.

“Get ready for the oil and water half time show.”

Can this arrangement be anymore mismatched?  I couldn’t wait…

“Bruno is moving more than Denver’s offense.”

I have to say, Mr. Mars opened with an entertaining number that was enjoyable.  He banged on the drums for awhile and then welcomed the members of Sha-Na-Na onto stage.  They all sung and danced.  It was pleasant.

If you understand the Sha-Na-Na reference, you are old.  To be honest I thought they were all dead by now.  Although, I didn’t see Bowser anywhere?

And then the Red Hot Chili Peppers dropped in on the scene.  I like the Chili Pepper’s music, but trying to mix them in with Bruno’s class and style—not possible.

“I just ate a mars bar with a red hot chili pepper.  It was gross.”

Once again, I’ll note that the commercials this year were basically all forgettable.  Apparently Prince (the old pop star of the 1930’s) was guest starring on some sitcom that I don’t watch.  Many plugs for this comedy show were paid for—each highlighting Prince’s non-balding big hair.  Rogaine has treated him well.

“My 15 year old son just asked, “Who is Prince?”

So now I’m feeling old.  Apparently the sitcom show is not geared toward the 15 year old high school student demographic.

So the Super Bowl game was a one-sided flop with Peyton Manning’s offense struggling to get anything done.  So I signed off of my Facebook time line with one last parting shot.

“Phillip Seymore Hoffman is having a better day than Peyton Manning.  Just saying.”

Note: If you add, “Just saying.”  It can’t be considered inconsiderate.

Buy my book (very popular with the 15 year old high school students).

Maturity for Sale

I like being witty, being that funny guy, and getting people to laugh.  I really enjoy making people smile.  My teenage children recently asked me if I will ever mature into an adult.  “Come on Dad, are you ever going to grow up?  Are you sure you’re even an adult?”  I took it is a complement, but I could be wrong.  They would be totally bummed out if my humor dried up just because I turned into a mature grown man.

The scenario was still on my mind as I was on my way home from work.  I have just under an hour drive to place of employment.  I was buzzing down the highway watching the exits fly; my mind contemplating deep thoughts about what needs to happen to become a mature responsible adult.  And that is when I saw it.

I saw the sign.

I saw what I needed to do.

There was hope for me.

There was a place for me to go to increase my maturity and hang on to my sense of humor at the same time.

Did you know that there is a business that sells items designed to increase your maturity level?  I didn’t.  I was amazed at what I had found.  I stumbled across this little place that I was completely confident that it would change my world.

The owners of this place weren’t being too creative when they selected their name for this extraordinarily helpful little road side shop.  They called their store simply “Adult”.

Yes, it was the perfect store for me and my new desire to become a grownup.  A place where I can purchase products that will increase my maturity.  I pulled my car up to the door.  Already I can feel an excitement in the pit of my stomach.  Is this what mature people feel all the time?  I have to be careful here.  If my goal is to enhance my maturity while maintaining my sense of humor, I must proceed with caution and not to buy too much “Adult” product at one time.

Well I threw the car into park and charged into the shop.  I was a little surprised at what I saw.  I meandered up and down the aisles checking out the items for sale that would help change me into a mature adult.  I really couldn’t understand how these products were going to help me become a more serious adult, but this was an “Adult” store.  So clearly, they know what they are doing here.  I kept an open mind and continue to browse.

So, you want me to put this in where?  I really don’t think that will help my goals.  Are you sure?

I didn’t try that approach.  Instead I looked into their self-help DVDs.

Their self-help DVDs really took a strange approach.  Sure, the people in these videos had an interesting grasp on “self help”, but the methodology just didn’t seem like a match for my objective.

I left the so-called “Adult” store without finding what I needed, disappointed, and confused.  I went in looking for a new level of maturity, a new sense of wisdom, and I exited the store with nothing that would help.

But you should see my new wardrobe.

Buy my mature books.

On Being Dental Floss

When I count my blessings, I never forget to note that I am not a piece of dental floss.  There are a tremendous amount of “things” in this world.  I could have been any of them.  Fortunately, I became a human—master of the floss.

Can you imagine being a piece of dental floss?

First, the most obvious point, is that it would be gross to live out your existence with the sole purpose of  removing un-swallowed bits of nearly completely chewed food from in-between the cramped quarters of a couple of teeth.  However, since that is the only purpose for your existence, maybe that’s what would bring you the most joy.  You would have an amazing sense of accomplishment as you pull off the “flick the food bit onto the bathroom mirror” move.  You would be praised by generations of dental flosses to come.  Songs would be written.  Stories would be exaggerated.

“Your great-great-grandfather once catapulted a piece of corn on the cob so far and so high onto the bathroom mirror, that the human being controlling the string of your floss ancestors had to get the bathroom stool to reach the once stuck food crud.”

So the other reason why I’m grateful that I am not dental floss is that there is little possibility of being the hero or of even being productive.  Only a very small percentage of pieces of dental floss actually get to journey in-between the teeth to do the job of food extraction.  The rest of the floss pieces either get wrapped around the human’s finger or stuck out in never-never land between the finger and the ever-so-lucky piece of dental floss that gets jammed into the tooth crack.

“I was so close!  I was right next to the floss piece that reached into the abyss and pulled the popcorn kernel out.  I saw everything from the front row.  I was right there.  It should have been me.  I could have been a contender.  Instead of a bum, which is what I am.”  Said a piece of floss named Marlon.

“Dude, relax.  At least you were there.  I was wrapped around a finger, crushed up against other loser pieces of floss that didn’t even stand a chance of contributing.  And besides, the ever-so-great food flicker ended up in the same trash can as the rest of us.”

Oh, and I’m thankful that I am not toilet paper too.

Buy my books (no strings attached).

Seasonal Monsters

Here comes Halloween!  My favorite holiday!

Every year I set up a haunted front yard.  And every year it gets more elaborate.  My boys participate with their scary masks and blood stained shirts.  We take pride in making the little ones scream.  I warn all the parents that bring their children into my yard, “if you enter, your child probably will have nightmares.”  Several years back, my boys were happy to tell everyone they saw the next day that “we made an adorable little Scooby Doo cry!”  Ah, good times, good memories.

scary

My monsters in my haunted yard.

I got to thinking about some of the various monsters of Halloween.  You have your werewolves, demons, vampires, and mummies.  What makes these monsters scary?

Glad you asked.  You did ask that, right?

Werewolves:  They are basically overgrown dogs that will eat your flesh.  Sure, scary.

Demons:  Supernatural craziness.  They go through walls and from time to time they will put your body on pause and cause black smoke to come out of your wide open mouth.  It’s kind of a coalminer’s black lung thing without the years of mining.  (Maybe that was aliens, not demons.  Whatever.)

Black smoke is about to come out of my mouth and perhaps a nasty nose bleed.

Black smoke is about to come out of my mouth and perhaps a nasty nose bleed.

Vampires:  They suck your blood and turn you into one of their kind—which apparently leads to immortality.  That’s not really scary unless you get a really hungry vampire that drinks 100% of your blood.  Momma vampire barks out, “Listen here you little blood sucker.  You’re not leaving the table until you finish all the blood from your human!  There are vampires in this world that only get to suck blood from the necks of small animals—some of which don’t even have necks.  You should be grateful for your full human dinner!”

Mummies:  Seriously, what is scary about a mummy?  Even the way you spell the plural form of mummy makes it look cute with that “drop the Y and add I E S” thing.  “Ah, look at all the little mummies!  So adorable!”  So, mummies are long dead people wrapped up in several layers of toilet paper.  Yeah, not scary.  “Oh no!  Look out!  That mummy is wrapped in un-quilted single ply toilet paper!  Run for your life!”  He isn’t going to bite you without first choking on a wad of toilet paper.  I suppose that it might be scary if they all banded together, stormed your neighborhood, and toilet-papered every tree, top to bottom, on your street.  What a nightmare that would be!  Oh, worse if it was drizzling outside.

Buy my horror novel (wrap it in toilet paper)*
*must supply your own toilet paper

Summer Poetry

I have never really tried my hand at poetry, but I couldn’t shake these words ringing in my head.  Although I am feeling a little hesitant and vulnerable, I thought I would just put myself “out there” in order to allow you to continue to hear the voices in my head—even when they are shouting from the less masculine side of my nature.

With the end of Summer break upon us, I’ve recently reflected upon the last handful of months.  My boys are back in school—one of which is starting his high school career.  When did I become the father of a freshman student?  Crazy.  So here goes (I’m a little nervous), a completely original poem written solely by myself which I will simply title:

Summer of 2013

Welcome to the new age, to the new age
oh, oh, oh, I’m radioactive.

I’m gonna take a good girl
I know you want it
You’re far from plastic
I hate these blurred lines

I’m up all night to get some
She’s up all night for good fun
I’m up all night to get lucky

I’m waking up, I feel it in my bones
Enough to make my systems blow

You make me wanna roll my windows down
…and cruise

I know you want it

This poem, my one hundred percent original poem, simply wrote itself.  I was just hanging out this summer, listening to the radio, and the words just came to me.  That doesn’t normally happen, so I hope you enjoyed it.

Unrelated to the poem composed above, these other words came to me too:  Copyright infringement, Florida Georgia Line, Cruise, Imagine Dragons, Radioactive, Daft Punk, Get Lucky, Robin Thicke, Blurred Lines.  Although these words don’t seem to flow as nice as my completely original poem, I thought I would include them here anyway.  I’m not exactly sure why I feel compelled to do so, but my gut feeling says that it may be for the best.

There once was a book from me.
Who’s contents were filled with glee.

…never mind.  I think my poetry career ended before it began.

Murder in the Cul-de-sac

There is a dead raccoon in the middle of my street.  I once believed that my neighborhood was safe.  My now murder runs rampant, everyone is a suspect.

My street is a short cul-de-sac.  Beyond the road kill, there are only ten driveways.  Each of these houses are occupied by couples with children are not yet old enough to drive.  Which means, of the eighteen drivers that call themselves my neighbors, one of them is a raccoon murderer.  Nineteen if you count my wife.  Twenty, if you think I should be a suspect too.

Did you know that cul-de-sac is Swedish for “no-way-out”?  Use that fact the next time you’re looking to impress someone with your sophisticated knowledge base.

My wife is out of town this weekend.  The lifeless carcass was discovered shortly after her departure.  What if the slaughterer-of-Rocky is actually the woman I call my wife?

Did you know that cul-de-sac translated in old English actually means “raccoon-death-trail”?

Now, I have to look at my neighbors in a completely different light.  All of their behavior seems suspicious to me.  Was that my neighbor’s garage door that I heard in the middle of the night?  It could have been.  I think it was.

Did you know that Native Americans used the term cul-de-sac as a way of saying “you-hit-it-you-clean-it-up”?

It seems to me that everyone on my street has reduced the time it takes to get their car into the garage as quickly as possible. Was that a little patch of fur on your front bumper?

Did you know that when using American Sign Language to convey the word “cul-de-sac” it is a common mistake to interpret the hand motions to mean “would-someone-please-clean-that-crap-up-already”?

Somewhere out there in the nine houses surrounding mine, is a cold blooded killer pushed over the edge by the crazed nocturnal beast with an appetite for household garbage.  If only their garbage can lids snapped shut with a resounding click.

Did you know that if you use the term cul-de-sac in Western Australia, you might be mistaken for saying “someone-needs-to-push-it-into-the-sewer-before-it-starts-to-stink”?

Rest in peace, my little night dwelling consumer of household garbage.  May your afterlife be one big gigantic landfill.

In most translations, cul-de-sac actually means “buy-my-books”.

Hot Cars Kill Dogs

Recently I have seen a sharp increase in a particular message being display on my Facebook newsfeed.  “Hot Cars Kill Dogs”.  Many of my friends have posted this message as a plea to help the poor animals.   I find this statement just slightly misleading.  The car isn’t killing the animal, the owner is.  It’s time to wake up and stop blaming the vehicle.

But what I find even more perplexing is why the owners of hot cars kill more dogs than the owners of average cars.  Almost all models of the Jaguar and the Porsche brand names are considered “hot” cars.  What happens to the mind of the owners of these hot cars after they purchase their hot vehicles?  Suddenly they become blood thirsty with the strong desire to kill household pets.  What is difference between them and people who purchase a Honda Accord or a Chevrolet Aveo?

Average cars:  Honda, Chevy:  Dog lovers

Hot cars:  Jaguar, Porsche:  Dog slayers

Frank just bought a Porsche, now when people walk their dog across his sidewalk, he chases them down and he kicks the helpless animal.

Bob just bought a Honda, now he volunteers at the neighborhood animal shelter.

Can you image how much hatred of dogs must course through the veins of the owners of a Lamborghini or a Ferrari?  These cars are extremely hot cars.  I’d bet that if you ran a nationwide survey of missing dog reports and correlate the results to areas surrounding households in which the owners possess a Ferrari, you will find significant overlapping statistics.

You need more evidence?

I just finished watching the final installment of the Twilight movie series with my family.  In case you live on the moon (Netflix won’t ship DVDs there), this series of movies was about the Cullen family—a family of vampires.  In this story, the vampire named Edward drove a hot silver Volvo S60R and he was a blood sucking consumer of animals, some of which I’m sure were dogs.  Rosalie drove a BMW M3 convertible; a very hot car.  She too enjoyed eating helpless animals.  Carisle’s Mercedes S55 AMG was another hot automobile and once again, she would enjoy a good dog roast.

Bella, prior to her transformation into a vampire, was driving a beat-up red pickup truck.  Not a hot vehicle at all.  She had no desire to drink the blood of dogs.  None what-so-ever.

Oh no!  Was that a movie spoiler?  I’m sorry.  I should have written “Spoiler Alert”.  Obviously, I’m not that sorry since I still have a chance to edit this piece.  Odd.

And speaking of spoilers, you know those “tail fins”, otherwise known as spoilers, that young men place on the edge of their car’s trunk in order to make their car appear slightly faster without any costly changes to the engine.  Yeah, I’ll bet those boys suddenly have a slight, but noticeable urge, to trip dogs down a flight of stairs.  I’ll have to do more research.

(blogging trend goes here:  wrap up your article by asking questions)

Are you now suspicious of people driving hot cars?

What kind of hot car do you drive?

How many dogs have you killed?

Buy my hot book (which statistically has no dog killing correlations)

Voices in Pictures

This blog entry is what would happen if I wrote a picture book.   Pictures are not necessarily my thing–I enjoy words more than photos.  I very rarely include photos in my blog.  So this is me going too far with pictures.  …hopefully still enjoyable for you.

All of the following pictures were created by me.  Please share them at your desire.  This collection of photos is not one of those “share everything that is already floating about the web and that you have already seen on seventeen people’s Facebook pages”.  Perhaps I can make you smile with photo captions.  Let’s try.

ashtree

That was the biggest tree in my yard.  “Was” is the key word here–stupid Ash Tree Bug.   It has since been replaced with a much smaller tree.  I’d invite you over to sit in the shade of my new tree that we put in place of this one, but the shade created only provides shade for one person.  I’ll pencil you in for the summer of 2034.  See you then.

crawpudding

Apparently my mother failed to tell me not to play with my food.  And who would actually raise that thing to their mouth?  It’s looking at you while you’re about to eat its head.  Creepy.

dogpee

My dog has a question for you.

europeansoda

Perhaps my dog’s question was: What happens after you drink a bunch of European Soda?

fruitcracks

How can you not like this fruit?  I’ve never purchased it so I don’t know what it tastes like, but it makes me smile.  And I always take the time to arrange them properly when I pass by them.

happyeggs

Apparently eggs make me smile too.

healthylinving

I thought this picture was so awesome that I included it in my book.  Healthy Living and Candy in the same aisle.  My kind of store…

holybread

Too much time on my hands.  Someone pass the butter, please.

hooterssause

Did you know that you can get wings at Hooters?  I usually just ask for a glass of water and sit behind my sunglasses.

mexican

The same store that sells that “Healthy Candy” also attempts to hide the good mexican food.  Make sure you walk all the way down this aisle.  Don’t settle for the fake mexican food.

pringlesseason

And when exactly does Pringles Season end.  I need to stock up for the off-season.

pubesandhoses

When artistically designing a sign for your small business, don’t make the “T” look like a “P”.  Would you stop in and browse around at Pubes and Hoses?  I kept driving.

slowcookerhooker

Thank you Hamilton Beach for bringing to the public the world’s first set of “Slow Cookers for Hookers”.

speedhumps

Perhaps with the invention of the Slow Cookers for Hookers there will be extra time to slow things down a bit.

thought_graph

This is an accurate representation of how my wife’s brain works.  Although there probably should have been an extra bump in the level drawn in just after she lays down to fall asleep.

woodplug

Naturally occurring electricity without all that pesky lightning.

Buy my book which includes a handful of pictures.