Birth Flaming Golf Balls from my Nostrils and Other Curiousities

There are a lot of facts in this world. That statement is itself a fact. I’ve conceived a list of six facts that may or may not be profoundly…uh, profound for you, you and even you there with the glasses.

These facts will be presented to you in the same order in which I recorded them. That is to say that the order that the facts are presented in means nothing!

In fact (settle down, this is only a fact relating to what I’m saying now – the list is coming), do your best to imagine that all the facts are first; like this: “fact #1 – yada yada yada yada. That was a good one, now I’ll read fact #1 – blah blah blah blah blah. That one was stupid, maybe fact #1 will be better. And so on.

Why six facts?

Have you ever stopped to wonder why lists always go to 10? It’s ok, I haven’t either. Fact is, I could only come up with six. Furthermore, this article  asserts that there were six days in a week until Augustus Caesar’s nephew, Devon “Seven Digits” Caesar – he was born with seven fingers on his left hand, nagged his uncle into adding a day to make the week seven days long so his pinky wouldn’t feel left out when he counted the days of the week on his fingers  (err, he counted in English, and spoke in Latin).

Moving on, here is the list, starting with #1 and ending with #1 with four #1s in between –

#1(1) I recently noticed that my dog sneezes a lot. I thought maybe she was sick, but then it occurred to me she sniffs EVERYTHING. It is, therefore, a logical outcome that she sneeze a lot.

#1(2) I was at the gym the other day and I decided that I’m normal, everyone else is superhuman. I guess I was thinking that I’ve been like this for so long that I’m normal now. Then I saw a dude doing lunges across the gym floor with a 50lb barbell across his shoulders and thought holy cow! That guy is superhuman!

#1(3) Listen – I’m right handed. The fact that my left side was more affected than my right is, in my mind, divine intervention. I think about this often, but can’t think of anything else to add. I suppose that I’m saying it could certainly be worse.

#1(4) I went to Egypt at some point apparently and found the pyramids and the Sphinx to be eh. I found the Ginormous boxes of cereal to be far more awe inspiring. Here’s a pic that captures my consternation regarding the large cereal box –

We're gonna need a bigger bowl
We’re gonna need a bigger bowl

#1(5) Let’s say you order something from an online vendor (any vendor will do, but for purposes of this fact we’ll say Amazon (coincidentally, this entry it’s brought to you buy 🙂 -“Buy more sh*t, dammit!)) Further, let’s say the item you ordered came in a box. To keep the contents of the box in the box, the vendor used a sticky plastic strip (for purposes of this discussion, let’s call it “tape”). I’ve provided an example picture below. Here’s the problem, you have this shiny new box expertly sealed with tape and you’re too lazy to fetch a knife. What to do?

Not much else to say about this one
Not much else to say about this one

You look all around the place, hoping that a pocket knife will shoot out of the ground. After a few minutes you decide to take action and can only locate a…

Notice how it looks like a comb
Notice how it looks like
a comb

Then you do the rational calculus, would it be easier to find a knife or try this comb? You’re rational side screams out GET A F*CKING KNIFE! Uncharacteristically, you’re lazy side makes a stupendous effort to stifle this command – you don’t hear anything, so you proceed with the comb as pictured.

Cuts boxes AND...
Cuts boxes AND…

All that box cutting and rational calculus cramped your style. The box is open, so use that box cutter/comb to get your style back.


Now the box is open and you’re lookin pretty good.

A box that has been opened
A box that has been opened

#1(6) You can’t see it in the picture, but this bag is steaming hot. I love sushi with wasabi, I tolerate spicy stuff pretty well. I thought it probably only TASTES like wasabi, but doesn’t have the fiery essence.

I! Was! Wrong!

This should come with a warning label
This should come with a warning label

I upended the bag into my mouth, filling my mouth with a generous portion. What I felt next is best described by flaming golf balls being forced out of my nose. Here’s a visual –

Fiery GBs



Quinnism Compendium v2.1

My daughter, Quinn, says some pretty outlandish stuff. Soon after she started started speaking, I started recording some of her more memorable quotes and put them on The Bookface. This will be the third publication of the compendium. It didn’t earn 3.0 status because I’m pretty sure it’s incomplete. I suspect that the much maligned Timeline of The Bookface has eaten more than a few. For your convenience, I’ve started at 46 (obviously) and counted backwards (e.g. 45, 44, 43…etc.).

Quinnism #46 –
Watch out when liquid goes down the wrong tube, it might go down your arm tube.

Brushing our teeth, daddy takes a big drink of water and chokes
Q: “Wrong tube, daddy?”
Me: *cough* “yes’m” *cough*
Q: “Like your arm tube?” *draws a line up her arm with her finger, looking at me with the cutest sincerity*
I chuckle, try to make the liquid go through the tube in my arm that isn’t there.

Quinnism #45 –



Buried deep inside these seemingly random jumble of letters is the meaning of life or the key to the healthcare debate, maybe even the answer to the eternal question “Where’s the beef?”

Quinnism #44 –

She’s decides when you can make a mistake.


I put something in the wrong place.

Q: “Why you did that?”

PnQ: “Sorry, kid. I made a mistake.”

Q: “Don’t do that! You can only make mistakes when I tell you to!”

Essentially, when you make one mistake, you make two – the mistake itself and not having permission to make it.

Quinnism #43 –

Dead bees can bury themselves


*Outside at my “astructions”*

Q: “Hey daddy, come have a look at this bee. I think it’s dead.”

PnQ: “Should we bury it and sing some songs?”

*Q gets distracted, walks away from dead bee*

PnQ: “Where is this dead bee?”

*Q scans the area, can’t find the bee corpse*

Q (puzzled): “I don’t know. I think it buried itself.

Quinnism #42: the air tastes like cinnamon rolls.

This one is funny because we were in my car and we were miles away from a cinnamon roll. It’s also funny because of the way that she arrived at her answer –

Q: “The air smells good.”

PnQ: “What does it smell like?”

Q: “I don’t know; cinnamon? Cinnamon rolls?

It was as if she had to take a minute to think of something that smells good, and then she had to one up the answer.

Quinnism #41 –

Saying “please” and “thank you” make her neck hurt.

Explanation –

As is common among 4 year olds, Quinn can be pretty bossy. I do my darnedest to get her to take off her bossy britches by making her repeat the demand in the form of a question followed by “please” and if the request is granted, to say “thank you” – I have to do this quite a bit

Quinnism #40 –

                        She wishes she had a wishing start to make wishes

Q: “I wish I had a wishing star so I could make more wishes!”


                        A wishing star appears after a sparkly, bright flash.

Wishing Star: “BEHOLD! The Wishing Star is come to grant you the deepest desire in your heart of hearts. What would you ask of the Wishing Star?”

Q (nose scrunched, deep in thought): “Hmm…I wish I had a wishing star so I could make more wishes!”


                        The wishing star disappears and another appears in its place.

Next Wishing Star:”BEHOLD! The Wishing Star is come to grant you the deepest desire in your heart of hearts. What would you ask of the Wishing Star?”

and so on…

Quinnism #39 –
Her tongue produces soap that prevents her from coughing.
*In the car, I’m coughing profusely*
Q: “Are you sick, daddy?”
PnQ (me): “No. I just got some spit in my windpipe”
Q: “I never get spit in my pipes”
PnQ: “That must be nice. You’ll have to teach me how to do that”
Q: “Ok. When I get spit in my pipes my tongue lets out soap, so I won’t cough”
Perhaps the funniest part of this one is how she contradicts herself from one statement to the next.

Quinnism #38 –
Whitesboro, TX does not live up to its name.

*Driving back from Ardmore*

Q: “What’s this place?”
PnQ: “This is Whitesboro, kid.”
Q: “It’s not very white.”

This one would not qualify as a Quinnism on its own. Recall Quinnism #33: Lone Grove = Lone Grow-ve. I thought this would compliment that one nicely.

Quinnism #37 –
She has found a drink composed of coffee, soda and spaghetti.

Explanation: Taking a bath the other night, she slurps up songs bubbles and the following conversation ensues:

Q: “Daddy, would you like some coffee soda?”

PnQ: “Coffee soda? Never heard of it. Sounds delicious.”

Q: “Yeah. This batch is made with spaghetti.”

I will call this revolutionary new drink/food “SoSpaFee.”

Here is the commercial –

* man walks in the door exhausted by the day*

Man: “Honey, I’m home. What’s for dinner?”

Woman (playing video games in the parlor): “I haven’t started anything, what are you in the mood for?”

Man (face scrunched in thought): “I want coffee. No, I want soda. No, I want spaghetti. Ah heck, I don’t know what I want!”

(Stomps foot in frustration)

*announcer appears*

Announcer: “Has this ever happened to you? Here at Q foods, we understand that sometimes you just want soda, coffee and spaghetti at the same time; that’s why we’re proud to announce SoSpaFee, a delectable mixture of soda, coffee and spaghetti.

Try all the flavor combos, like cherry cola, French roast, and spaghetti with marinara. And don’t forget about dad’s favorite – root beer, penne pasta with vodka sauce with Italian roast.

Available now at your local grocery store in the pasta, coffee and/or the soda aisles. Heck, it might be with the automotive products for all I know.

Quinnism #36:

to reach your destination, all you have to do is pass a trashcan sign, turn. After you have done this, pass another trashcan sign, turn – then you’re there.

Setting – in my car, driving to swimming lessons in Denison.
Q: “I hope we’re not lost.”
PnQ: “I think they were okay, kid.”
Q: “Oh yeah, we just have to turn by that trashcan sign, then find another trashcan sign, turn; then will be there!”

I have to note that there was no trashcan sign, or a trashcan to be seen. Moreover, I’m not even sure what a “trashcan sign” is.

*Removes foot from mouth*




Quinnism #35

Q LOVES onion rings…

…that’s it! I think it’s pretty funny that a 4 year old is so ravenous about onion rings!


Quinnism #34(No #) –

Who’s on first, Q style:

*Daddy hands Q a sucker*

Q: “What flavor is this?”

Me: “That’s a mystery flavor.”

Q: “Why it’s a mystery flavor?”

Me: “You have to taste it to figure out what flavor it is.”

Q: “Why you have to taste it first?”

Me: “Because it’s a mystery flavor.”

…and so on.

This conversation is still hanging over lake Texoma somewhere.



Quinnism #33

Lone Grove = Lone Grow-‘ve


Driving to my parent’s house (in Lone Grove, OK) –

Q: “Where are we?”

PnQ: “This is Lone Grove, kid.”

Q: “Ooh, we must be because I can see things growing”

My kid has very powerful senses.


Quinnism #32 (Qism #1) –

It is taboo to bite your straw on Sunday or Monday.

Setting – my apartment after picking up some food. I had just taken a drink of her chocolate milk through a straw that she practically pinched closed from biting.

PnQ: “Why do you always bite your straw, Quinn?”

Q: “Because I like to.”

PnQ: “Why do you like to?”

Q: “Because I can’t do it on Sunday or Monday!”

PnQ: “So you have to get in as much straw biting as possible on Friday?”

Q: “Yes, I can’t do it on Sunday or Monday.”

Keep an eye on your child’s straw on Sundays and Mondays – if they bite down on them they are breaking a very important social mores


Quinnism #31

When playing basketball, the ball is thrown through a “hoot”.

Scenario: at the sporting goods store

Patron: “is this basketball rim free?”

Owner: “I won’t give a hoot!”


Quinnism #30

I, daddy, will age in reverse (get “even small”) until the coming summer, at which point I will resume growing “forward”. If I appear shorter over the next ~6 months, it’s okay, things are as they should be.




Quinnism #29

Scenario: eating at Chuck E. Cheese. An employee dressed as Chuck emerges from the employee entrance to the kitchen, which helps to be by the bathrooms.

Q: “Did Chuck E. Cheese have to go to the baff-woom?”


Quinnism #28

When Q gets “knocked over” (October) she will be four years old.

Quinnism #27

There was once a one legged dinosaur.

Scenario: driving to see mommy’s new school, talking about dinosaurs (what else?) –

PnQ: “Weren’t there dinosaurs with long necks?”

Q: “Yeah, and some dinosaurs only had one leg.”

PnQ: “One leg? How did they run?”

Q: “They just stand.”


Quinnism #26

She is a as tall as she’ll ever be.

Setting: Barnes & Noble kids area; and to train playing with another kid.

Q: “I’m growing all the time.”

PnQ: “Mommy says I used to be small, like a baby. I didn’t even have teeth.”

Q: “I stopped growing three hours ago.”

She’ll be able to ride the kiddy rides and play on the play areas at restaurants FOREVER!


Quinnism #25

Scooby-Doo and SpongeBob Squarepants rule the world

Scenario: on the way home from school on a hot day

PnQ: “Quinn, do you wanna get a frosty beverage from Sonic this?”

Q: “No fanks (thanks)

PnQ: “Suit your self, I’m going to give myself something. You don’t have to get something.”

Q: “You can’t!”

PnQ: “Yes I can, it’s a free country.”

Q: “No, it’s not.”

PnQ: “is it a Quinnocracy?”

Q: “No.”

PnQ: “Who rules the world?”

Q: ”SpongeBob SquarePants and Scooby-Doo rule the world.”

Pretty soon, Scooby snacks will be the world currency and blowing bubbles will be in the Olympic sport.


Quinnism #24

Running in place causes you to catch fire.

Scenario: driving home from school, fire truck drives by sirens blazing.

Q: “Firetrucks use water to put out fires.”

PnQ: “You’re right, Quinn.”

Q: “Yeah, I will be on fire if I run in place.”

Running on the treadmill just got deadly.

Qutism (general cuteness, not related to Qs odd comments) –

Setting: exam room at Dr. Office. Q sits on the Dr. stool.

Q: “I be the doctor. What seems to be the problem?”

PnQ: “My stomach hurts. My leg hurts. I’ve been choking (throwing up). What’s wrong with me?”

Q: “I don’t know! You need ice-pack and a pinch (shot).”

Next stop, med school.

Quinnism #23 (She’s been on fire with her three year old logic!) –

Necessary = a person

Example –

(In the backyard, Q throws a pitcher full of toys and water from the top of her playhouse.)

PnQ: “Was that necessary?”

Q: “No, that was me.”


Quinnism #22 –

Pokey the horse cannot get sick by virtue of the fact that he is Pokey the horse.

Example –

Gumby (sick with the flu again): “Why don’t you ever get sick, Pokey?”

Pokey: “Because I’m Pokey, the horse.”

Gumby: “Oh yeah.”

I wonder, if you were to eat a toy Pokey, would you be immune to all illnesses? Medical science might be barking up the wrong tree!


Quinnism #21

‘Even’ is a modifier in and of itself, no superlative or comparative suffix necessary.

Example –

Q: “You’re driving too fast daddy”.

PnQ: (slows down) “Is that better?”

Q: “Can you go even slow?”


Quinnism #20 –

Basketball = any activity with a ball.

Golf, basketball, baseball all fall under the “baseketball” umbrella.


Quinnism #19 –

Worms live in tree “snaps” (sap) and they turn into “tigers and monsters”. So watch out when you see tree snaps, there could be worms on the verge of transforming into tigers and/or monsters. Who Knew tree snaps was so ominous?


Quinnism #18 –

I can’t really preface this one, so here it is –

PnQ: “L E T S G O! Let’s go, let’s go!”

Q: “G O S C Y (inaudible) 11 12 telemetry (I guess) blast off!”


Quinnism #17 –

As it concerns batteries, the amount is irrelevant.

Q: “Daddy, I need 4 batteries to take to mommy.”

PnQ: “only 4?”

Q: “I need 2 batteries”


Quinnism #16 –

Unless you want your free will taken away and quit whatever you’re doing, avoid these words when with Quinn:

Walk, Park, Pool, Ice cream, DVD player, Cookie, Pie

There are more, can’t think of them. Letting one of these words will open the floodgates in Qs head, pouring that item into her brain. Her mind gets so flooded that the excess flows out of her mouth into your brain, this process continues until your mind suffocates and you’re forced to give her the item.


Quinnism #15 –

Giving three reasons up front for not sleeping in your own bed is far more efficient than giving one reason at a time.

For example –

Q: in her room, screaming bloody murder.

Mommy/Daddy goes to check on her: “What’s wrong, baby Q?”

Q: I sick. I thirsty. I need to go potty.”

One of them is bound to work.


Quinnism #14 –

She’ll be “sea-turtle” years old on her next birthday.

For example –

PnQ: “How old are you gonna be?”

Q: (abruptly) “Sea-turtle”


Quinnism #13 –

A sticker is trying to kill her.

Scenario –

Picked her up from daycare on Friday, she got a sticker for using the potty all day (woot!). After we got her in her car seat she tore it off and it got stuck to her finger. This trauma lead her to conclude that the sticker was trying to kill her.

Luckily, she survived.


Quinnism #12 –

PBJ (grape) uncrustable = purple cheese.

There used to be a grilled cheese “uncrustable” but the jackasses that made it stopped (I blame Satan), Quinn basically lived off of them. After we couldn’t get them anymore (and lots of $@&””@ing expletives), we opted for the PBJ version and the “purple cheese” was born.


Quinnism #11 –

She got bit by a lion on the face.

For instance –

*Q takes a drink of water*

Q: “Ouch, a lion bit me on the face”


Don’t buy Aquafina bottled water, there are lions in it.

Aside – Q’s face is fine.



Quinnism #10 –

Unexhibit = unzip

For instance –

PnQ: “Unzip your purse so you can put in your bubbles.”

Q: “I unexhibit”

Say that last part about 40 times and it’ll work.

Original message from Q, she ran up and took over the iPad as I was typing Quinnism #10 – uxzsasaawwqwwse re t. Y ygggvtttttrrtyui ytyuibi op


Quinnism #9 –

A dress must be called a shirt. If she finds out it’s a dress, she will rip it off.


Quinnism #8 –

Any crescent shaped food is a “hamana” ( banana) –

Scenario: Q is taking an inkblot test –

Psychiatrist: “what do you see?”

Q: “a hamana”

Psychiatrist pulls out a new card: “how about now?”

Q: “A hamana”

And so on.


Quinnism #7 –

At this time of night, it’s too dark to have a mommy.

For example – no @~_\/\in clue, came outta nowhere.


Quinnism #6 –

Off = off and on.

For example –

PnQ: “It’s dark in here.”

Q: “Turn the light off (on).”


Quinnism #5 –

There are two colors, orange and green.

For example –

PnQ: “What color is that (blue) ball?”

Q: Gween!

She doesn’t have trouble identifying orange…all other colors are green.


Quinnism #4 –

Choke = vomit

For example –

PnQ: “Quinny, do feel okay?”

Q: “No, I sick. I choke.


Quinnism #3 –

You cannot be naked if your name is Quinn.

For example –

PnQ: “You’re naked, Quinny.”

Q: “No, I Quinn”

Wish that were my name, I’d never have to buy clothes again.


Quinnism #2 –

You can’t be pretty and busy at the same time.

For example: pnQ – “Quinn, you’re so pretty”

Quinn – “No, I busy”

Makes perfect sense, eh?


Quinnism #1 –

You can’t be cute and wear a shirt at the same time.

For example – person who is not Quinn(hereafter referred to as PnQ): “You are so cute”.

Quinn: “No, I wear shirt”.


Where is Grammarland at? :P and State of the Art BO Defense

TBI is…Topics Bereft of Independence – There are many topics on my mind other than surgeries and hemorrhages. Problem is, most of these topics won’t provide enough content on their own. What am I to do? Do I allow these topics, brief as they might be, to die and rot like so much roadkill? NYET! I’ve saved all this stinking detritus and will now empty it into your head like so much garbage truck dumping its refuse at the dump. That’s right, I pretty much just said your brain is like a big heap of stinking trash. Speaking of things that belong in the trash, and not in a travel mug approaching your mouth, I made the mistake of mixing honey with black tea. I don’t know what made me think this combination would taste good (it was probably Satan). I take that back, it tasted “great”; by “great” I mean it tasted like bug guts sandwiched between two pieces of sadness. This traumatic experience and my love of words lay together and conceived a new word, this word was officially birthed on July 13th on the Twitter. It read thusly – Hoblate (Ho-blah-tey. Honey+Black Tea)-A very bad combination. Hoblate eg Dude: I’ll wear brown shoes, black slacks, brown belt & blue sport jacket to the wedding. ok? Gal: How hoblate! That doesn’t match. I redeemed myself a few days later with a scrumptious combination of cinnamon, honey, peanut butter & blackberry jelly (cinhopeabublajel). This happywich tastes like rainbow guts (I assume they’re pretty tasty) sandwiched between two pieces of happiness. The above information, when considered a particular way, can be considered data. When you read that last word, how did you pronounce it? The correct pronunciation is “DAY-TUH”. If you pronounce it “DADDUH” you are wrong and you have my scorn. The only thing that insults my ears more than “DADDUH” is when someone asks me where someone/something is at. It upset me to write the above sentence for demonstration purposes. For those of you who don’t know, ‘at’ is a preposition and prepositions can not end a sentence. When someone says this a fairy dies in grammarland; when I hear it, I feel like I’ve become a little less intelligent. Finally, we come to a topic that’s been weighing heavily on my mind. I speak, of course, of the “technology” employed to improve the stink fighting power of deodorant. Take a look at this picture –

Armpit funk has met its match – technology
Armpit funk has met its match – technology

The stick on the left is more technologically advanced because of the “Fresh Defense Technology”. When I think of technology, I think of the wheel and computers and phones and blinking indicator lights, not scented goop that I smear on my armpits. I suppose the marketing guys thought more people will buy their deodorant if they clearly labeled how technologically advanced it is. The following monologue might play out in a discerning consumer’s head – Maybe I should get Speed Stick. *Reaches for Speed Stick* Wait! I’ll be stinking in a matter of minutes with its outdated stink fighting technology! *Quickly pulls hand away* If only there was a stick with the technology to defend my freshness. *Eyes zero in on Mitchum Professional Strength* BINGO! What a relief! Later, another savvy consumer goes looking for deodorant. I wish girls couldn’t smell in the third dimension, most deodorants nowadays only eliminate odors in two dimensions. You’d think that one of these companies would capitalize on the fact that no other brand offers odor defense in all three dimensions. *Eyes widen, throat squeals with delight* Holy sh*t! Right Guard answered my prayers! No more “I’ll go out with you when your third dimension doesn’t smell like bug guts sandwiched between sadness.” I should mention that the only “technology” mentioned on most anti-perspirant/deodorant is focused on the deodorant. It seems that anti-perspirant “technology” has plateaued. I will now close the gate on the garbage truck that is my thoughts. Hopefully, you have the technology to defend against the smell 🙂 FIN @JarrettLWilson

Sh*t Happens, Part Two +1

The exciting conclusion to “Shasterikit Happens” –

Ben didn’t make it to work that day to inform his staff to avoid using the pre-treated “Germicide” wipes on the east wing of the third floor. Ben was called into Dr. Hoenikker’s office the day before and told by the lab supervisor that they were working on a chemical called “item #9” for the Army and they’ve stabilized it, but exposure to noxious chemicals would cause it to become very volatile.

Unaware of this change, the evening custodian,  Aaron Ellis, used copious amounts of the wipes to clean up what appeared to be spilled milk.

Damn scientists, he thought to himself. He put on a labcoat that was wrapped around the back of a chair and started mocking the scientists. He looked through a nearby microscope, gasped and jumped back in mock amazement, shouted “I’VE DISCOVERED THE SECRET INGREDIENT IN THE COLONEL’S SECRET RECIPE!” He clasped his hands together and shook them from side to side around his head. He picked up a nearby Petri dish and held it up like it was the Nobel prize. Acting choked up with emotion, said “I would like to thank my parents for being rich and powdering my ass until I went to college; where I learned how to make drugs that help cure cancer, but never learned how to clean my own messes.” As he spoke the last few words, he reached into a large container of “Germicide” wipes and slapped them onto the counter and lazily wiped the milk stained area, leaving a sopping puddle of   “Germicide” on the countertop.

In his haste to get to the break room to eat the cheese enchiladas he snuck out of the new Mexican buffet the night before he overlooked an errant wipe on the counter.

The next morning, Dr. Frettoloso, an intern from Italy, arrived very early to show his zeal and commitment to Cheney labs. He went to the vault with all the chemical samples, grabbed a few vials of Item #9 and walked back to his work area.  He took the lid off of one and reached over for a Petri dish, but it wasn’t where he had left it the day before, his tired hand tipped and let a small drop of item #9 hit the counter.

Dr. Frettoloso really didn’t have time to observe safety precautions. He looked over and a saw a moist towel. He grabbed it and very hastily wiped up the chemical, leaving a slight residue on the counter.

The day passed on without incident until lunch. Sitting at the same counter with the item #9/Germicide mixture, he ate his lunch, the usual – a pepperoni pizza Hot Pocket with a small bottle of milk.

He tore into the Hot Pocket, anxious to finish and continue working. He had skipped breakfast that morning to save time, making him all the more ravenous.

After one particularly hearty bite, the pouch split open and spilled out a single pepperoni. It landed in the residue. Instinctively, he snatched it up and threw it in his mouth.

He felt fine for the rest of the day, even took his wife to that new Mexican buffet for dinner. He wasn’t sure about the cheese enchiladas. He made sure no one was looking and used the serving spoon too cut off a bite from a nearby enchilada, lifted the spoon to his infected mouth, leaving behind an ample amount of his tainted saliva. He decided that the cheese enchiladas were sub-par and moved on to the chicken enchiladas to sample them.

Later that evening, Dr. Frettoloso started having stomach pains – he attributed them to the buffet. Like the other diners at “El Comedero Mexican Buffet” that night, his symptoms started as what seemed like food poisoning, but quickly evolved into bloody feces and vomit, ataxia, hallucinations and paralysis before an agonizing death by stroke or heart attack.

The virus, having been spread to so many at the buffet, slowly spread across the whole town by means of bodily fluid exchange and unwashed hands. FEMA seemed to have it all contained, but it was engineered to go airborne to propagate itself. After that, it quickly spread across the nation and, with the help of some disgruntled customs officials at an airport in China, across the world.

Back at Rob’s apartment complex, patio ornament lady took her dog, Shiva, for a walk. She noticed the headline she walked past the newspaper vending machine by the apartment mailboxes, “PANDEMIC! Deadly Virus Spreads to Asia.” She contemplated this as Shiva pooped in nearly the same spot where Rob’s foot found that mound of poo weeks before.


I’d like to hear your opinions on this story, please comment.

Sh*t Happens, Part Two

As promised, here is part two of “Shasteriskit Happens” –

Mrs. Sanderson was making pretty good time until she reached the intersection of Main and Lyle streets. The light turned yellow, she was going to run it, but an old Ford pickup turned right onto the road ahead. She peered at the driver, an older man with long grey hair coming out of a brown cowboy hat. Stupid hick, probably late for a date with his cousin. Wouldn’t wanna be late. She chuckled to herself, amused by her own wit.

The light finally turned green, but by that time she was on the other side of the intersection; she had been eyeing the adjacent light, as soon as it was yellow her foot pounded the gas pedal.

The Jetta screamed as she flew through another intersection. She looked at the clock – 7:52 – things were looking up. She could still make it in time and have the whole hour to make her butt as tight as that waitress’s. She was coming to the intersection of Main and Whitley. The light turned yellow; even though she was sitting, she felt her butt jiggle. Not this time. She tightened her grip on the wheel and put the accelerator on the floor. After clearing this intersection she’d only be a few miles away – no more lights.

There was a long line of cars to her left, waiting to turn onto Whitley. Other than that the roadway looked clear. On the other side of Whitley was a blue Ford Econoline van marked “Squeaky Clean Maid Service – We Were Maid to Clean,” trying to turn left. The driver, a middle aged man named Flint, was having a lively debate with his passenger, Janice Jenkins.

“If Pinocchio says, “my nose will grow,” he’d be telling the truth and his nose would stay like it is.” Declared Flint smugly.

Janice shook her head, “No no no, he just lied, so his nose would grow. Are you gonna go?”

Flint smirked, “He said his nose will grow, suggesting he might lie in the future. I can’t see past this line of cars.”

“But what if he doesn’t lie? Then he woulda just lied and his nose would grow. I think it’s clear, gun it! We need to get to Dr. Hoenikker’s house by 8:30, that way we can finish by 11:30 and have a long lunch at that new Mexican buffet.” Said Janice with anticipation.

“Then that statement would turn out to be a lie and his nose would grow, which brings us back to the start. I’m gonna go for it.” Flint could see the steaming plates full of enchiladas and refried beans as he started to turn.

“Is he a real boy or…HOLY SHI…”


Before he could finish his expletive, he bit off the end of his tongue as his head snapped forward violently.

The passenger window exploded, showering Janice’s face with shards of glass.

Mrs. Sanderson, in too much of a hurry to put on her seat-belt, flew through her windshield, hit the asphalt about 40 feet away and slid another 20 feet, leaving a bloody trail laced with pink cotton from her Juicy sweat-suit. Her butt jiggled as she came to a stop.

A few miles up the road from Mrs. Sanderson’s bloody, jiggling posterior, Ben Jenkins was getting ready for work. Ben was the head custodian at Cheney Labs. Getting ready for work didn’t take long – put on clean underwear, a plain white tanktop, then slide on coveralls and he’s ready to go.

He was about to walk out the door when the phone rang. Why won’t Janice get rid of that damn thing? We both have cell phones. He reluctantly walked over to the phone, picked up the receiver, “Hello?” He huffed.

“Is this Ben Jenkins?” Asked the voice on the other end.

“Yes, and I need to go to work; I’m not interested in whatever you’re selling.” Replied Ben, impatiently.

“Mr. Jenkins, this is Officer Ozey with the highway patrol, are you the husband of Janice Jenkins?”

“Yes sir.”

“Mr. Jenkins, your wife has been involved in a collision at the intersection of Main and Whitley.” Said Officer Ozey, solemnly.

Mr. Jenkins gasped, “Is she ok?” He asked, half knowing the answer.

“There’s no easy way to say this sir, so I’ll just say it – she died. I’m so sorry.”

Ben dropped the phone and started weeping.

End of part two. Tune in tomorrow to find out if Ben broke the phone when he dropped it and if the phone was under warranty…

Sh*t Happens, Part One

Don’t forget that I don’t curse, so the title is pronounced “Shasteriskit Happens”. I’ve mentioned before that I fancy myself a writer, and do so enjoy writing. I would like to share some of my fiction writing with you. The following is a short story I wrote for a short story contest (that I somehow did not win, I blame Satan). It’s pretty long ( fast what she said!), so I dare not post the entire thing. I’ll put up the first part today, this third part tomorrow, and the second part the day after that (approximately).

The inspiration for this story comes from Kurt Vonnegut and the way he trivializes major events. ENJOY!

“PEE-PEE!” Shouted Rob in the highest octave he could muster.
Sandy buzzed with excitement at those words. Rob bent down to clip the leash onto his dog’s collar, but the dog was so spastic with excitement, he couldn’t secure the clip.
“Sandy, help me help you!”
After a few more minutes, Rob had the leash clipped on, potty treats in his breast pocket and a baggie for poop in a back pocket, with that they were out the door.
Sandy led Rob on their usual morning walk – on the sidewalk in front of his apartment, then around the corner into the courtyard of his complex. She went pee, Rob gave her a treat. They continued to the other side of the complex, Sandy scrunched over and pooped on a patch of grass close to a window. Rob decided that, since he was in a hurry and it was dark with no one around, he’d leave the poop there. No one’ll walk there, he assured himself. Rob and Sandy started walking back to the apartment. Sandy was leading Rob through a grassy field. The walk was going speedily until *squish*. Rob slipped a little as warm poo spread onto the bottom of his workboot.
Rob composed himself and used the rest of the walk to scrape his shoe against the grass in hopes that it would remove all traces of poo.
Rob lifted his boot to see the damage, the sole still had a heaping glaze of feces, with a few ambitious clumps that, in an outright “up yours” to gravity, were crawling up his ankle.
Rob thought back to the last tenants meeting. Patio ornament lady brought up the issue of dog owners not picking up their dog’s “excrement” – she refused to say or respond to any slang word for shit. The tenants at the meeting all agreed that they’d do a better job of picking up their dog’s “excrement”.
All the same, Rob’s foot found a very stinky, sticky and gooey pile of “excrement”. Rob didn’t want to show up smelling like poop, so he started scrubbing off his shoe, choosing to be late instead.
Rob woke at six, extra early that day because the central office called him late in the evening on the previous day to assign him the job. Rob, an AC repairman, already had a job lined up for that day; but Mrs. Sanderson, his boss’s sister in law needed a technician right away, she said her AC wasn’t cold enough. She gave strict instructions that he was to be there no later than 7:15.
He arrived about 7:40. Mrs. Sanderson was pacing back and forth on the steps of her porch, yelling into her phone; no doubt at Rob’s boss.
She noticed the van pull up, abruptly ended her phone conversation and stormed down the steps. “WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?” She shrieked.
“Well you see, there was this grizzly bear chasing after some orphans…”
“OH, CAN IT! Do you know how much Zumba classes cost?”
“Eleven dollars?” Rob said sarcastically. “What’s a Zumba, anyway?” He asked with mock sincerity.
“I don’t have time to answer your bullshit questions, you’ve already made me late. Air conditioner is in the attic. I’ll be back in an hour, try to be outta here by then!” Before Rob could respond, she was halfway to her Jetta.
She sat down and turned the car on. Neil Diamond blasted through the speakers. She mouthed the line, “Hurting runs off my shoulders. How can I hurt when holding you?” She took her iPhone from her purse, she stopped to examine the new pink and white checkered case she just got for it, “Sorry, Neil. It’s Steve’s turn.” She said apologetically to her stereo. She plugged her phone into the cord coming from her car’s auxiliary port, pecked at her phone and Journey flooded the inside of the car. Mrs. Sanderson always listened to Journey before working out.
She usually leaves at 7:30 sharp. It takes about 20 minutes to get to the gym, ten minutes to check in and get situated. For a minute, she thought that being a few minutes late would be ok; then she thought about catching her husband staring salaciously at the waitress’s butt at Olive Garden last week. The young girl’s tight ass whirled in her mind’s eye – she floored the accelerator.

End of part one. Tune in tomorrow to find out if Mrs. Sanderson was able to work the jiggle out of her bottom…

Oh, The Iron-y! And The ROOT of the Problem

I find myself struggling to think of something to write about. This is a good/bad (bood? Gad?) thing. Good because that means that all is quiet on the brain front. Bad because I fancy myself a writer and this blog is about my brain.


Fortune smiled upon me the other night and had my younger sister (trying out a vegetarian diet) ask my older sister (a registered dietitian) about the symptoms of iron deficiency.


You see, most of our iron comes from meat. As a herbivore, my younger sister was concerned about not getting enough iron (btw, the initial symptoms are, among others, pale skin, cold hands and feet, and fast heartbeat).


I can only speculate about what becomes of you if you continue to defice (?) yourself of iron – it seems to me that if the above symptoms were to continue to escalate you’d become a zombie.


That makes sense, zombies run around ravenously consuming flesh; they do this because they need precious iron. More specifically, zombies crave brains – this brings us full circle.


Listen, my brain would quite a treat for an iron deficed(?) zombie. This is because, 1. It’s a brain, and we’ve already discussed zombies’ love for brains, and 2. My brain has more iron than the normal brain.


Where did this additional iron come from? The guy in the this VIDEO could very well be me, except she injected the iron directly into my head. I’m not sure why she did it, I don’t guard evil mutants or even work at a detention center.


I jest. After the hemorrhage, the blood in my brain said, “It’s boring in here, I’m gonna go back to the bloodstream and circulate. Iron, you wanna come?” Iron had grown pretty comfy in his/her (?) new surroundings, sunk down a bit further in the cozy brainstem, “No thanks, blood. I really like it here, you’re too salty anyway.”


In essence, the iron is squatting in my brainstem. This wouldn’t be an issue, but iron is not very considerate of the brain cells as they go about there daily business.


For instance, a brain cell (let’s call him/her (?) “Pat”) needs to tell another brain cell (we’ll call him/her (?) “Jesse”), “Hey, I just got a message from Left Hand, he is going to carry a mug of hot coffee, will you tell cerebellum to walk smoothly and be mindful of the orientation of the cup?” As he’s saying this iron pops up and screeches while banging pots and pans.


Jesse only hears bits and pieces of the message.


The point is that there is a lot of screeching and pot banging going on up there.


Furthermore, iron content in your body needs to be just right or you’ll become a zombie or a tasty treat for one.


TBI is…Tampering is Bad when Impudent. I tweeted this one yesterday, here’s more explanation – I got a shiny, new, sexy red Samsung Galaxy s3 last week and just as soon as I could get to a computer with a micro USB cable, I rooted it. I had never flashed a custom ROM before so I thought “what the heck?”

It took me a few hours to get the ROM installed (it shouldn’t take that long), after which I proudly proclaimed, “I DID IT! It’s about f*ing time!” I don’t curse, so I did actually say “it’s about fasterisking time!” While I reveled in my victory, the phone got caught up in a UNFORTUNATELY, SETUP WIZARD HAS STOPPED WORKING and UNFORTUNATELY, THE PROCESS COM.GOOGLE.PROCESS.GAPPS HAS STOPPED WORKING routine. I keep pressing ok, all I’m thinking about is playing Angry Birds or even *gasp* making a phone call!

Turns out I flashed a zip file with all the Google apps that was fasterisking out of date. I went through quite an ordeal to get it back up and running again. If you would like more details, leave a comment.





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