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5 Christmas Gifts that Mean Everyone Knows about Your Problems

  1. Eddie Bauer Portable Collapsible Shovel

Eddie Bauer Small Collapsible Shovel

Why does anyone need a small shovel?  It seems one would need either a large shovel for snow removal or nothing at all.

Perhaps you are the Johnny Appleseed of tulip planting.

Or maybe you have little regard for convention—a rebel who likes to poop on the side of the road.  Do you travel with a band of nomadic gypsies?  No, you say?  You simply prefer the romantic naturalism of tall, swaying grass brushing against your baby-soft rump instead of the cold, plastic toilet seat of a harshly lit McDonald’s restroom?  Okay.  Maybe your friends and family know that you frequently stop on the side of the road to relieve yourself, and they think that you need to start burying that sh**.   That’s why they purchased you this convenient shovel.

Or perhaps the gift giver suspects that you may need to bury a dead body unexpectedly.  Giving a small, portable shovel is a kind gesture; it’s caring, practical, and means someone still loves the monster inside of you.

2. Forever Lazy

The commercial promotes wearing this item out in public. You too can look like a small pachyderm!

This couple gave up long ago. He doesn't even take Viagra.

This item signals the official decline of the American work ethic.  If you receive it, you are part of the problem in a major way, and everyone knows it. If someone buys you an item with a convenient hatch for going to the restroom and it’s not hunting coveralls, you need to put down the remote, wipe up the drool, and take action to improve your life.

3. Sling Couture Protective Face Mask

Is this to protect you, or to shield the gift-giver from your nasty cooties?  If you think this will make you more attractive to the opposite sex, I got news for you: if you’re wearing this, you should refrain from human contact, remember?

4. Ear Guards

Ear Guards

If your friend or relative thinks you need a protective cover to prevent earwig or other insect infestation in any orifice, you need to take off your Forever Lazys, burn your house down, and start over in life.  Don’t forget to grab your Sling Couture Mask because it will protect against the smoke for a short while as you clear the area.

5. World’s Largest Gummy Bear

12,600 calories

There is some debate at my house over whether this is a good gift or not.  Either way, I hope it’s not something you would buy for yourself.  Despite its impact-resistant chemical structure, the massive gummy will melt in the arson attack, and you can delay the onset of diabetes for another few weeks

Merry Christmas!!!  I have to go wrap the King Ah-Ah-Choo Egyptian Tissue Box Cover for my friend who has both bad allergies and a lust for history.

This guy should take some nose spray.

What’s the best worst present you’ve ever received?

 

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Bizarre Bazaar

A while back, in an email to my best friend, I accidentally misused the word “bizarre.”  I wrote something like “My grandma used to go to craft bizarres.”

My friend replied, “Craft bizarre? Are you sure it wasn’t… Craft BAZAAR???  I think you may have just made my Facebook status with that one. But the Facebook mockery (I mean flattery) will have to wait until tomorrow night. I think I might go take an hour nap on the couch before I resume work.”*

*I left this line in on purpose in order to make her appear lazy.  Revenge is sweet.

She’s the kind of friend who doesn’t lie, ever.

When I asked this friend what I could do to improve my blog, she instructed me to purchase a grammar book.

She’s also available to tell you that you do, in fact, look fat in your jeans.

Then, in the paper, I saw this headline: “Cops Detain Two Suspects in Bazaar Shooting.”  Surely they meant to print “Bizarre Shooting.”  At first, I was thrilled that someone else, a journalism professional, made a similar mistake!  Maybe I’m not so dumb if other people forget it’s a homonym, too.  Two seconds later, I questioned my decision to remain loyal to printed news.  If the paper can’t afford to hire writers who have read the grammar book my friend told me to order, who are they employing?

But then I read the full article and realized that the headline was correct because—get this—the shooting took place at the Big T. Bazaar shopping center in east Dallas.  It was indeed a “Bazaar Shooting” under not-so-bizarre circumstances.  It was just a regular ol’ drug money fight.  Too bad it wasn’t a gun fight between time-traveling transgender aliens battling for control of supernatural plasma and the right to procreate with Barry Manilow.  Then we would have had a Bizarre Bazaar Shooting on our hands.  It makes me sad that the criminals passed up this opportunity.  Couldn’t one of them have done something a little weirder?  Of course, we could always go down to the Big T. Bazaar and stage something….any volunteers?  Barry?

If you have any ideas, please post them in the comments section below.  Let’s discuss.

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The Muppets!

My husband makes me laugh with his killer Kermit the Frog impression.  And when my kids rolled on the floor from laughing at this video, The Muppets gained an even more special place in my heart — the kind of special space that’s reserved for Murdock from The A-Team and my dad when he replaces song lyrics with cat meows.

I’m excited about the release of The Muppets, in theaters tomorrow!

Whether you are a fan of cloth and fur characters or not, you should read the excerpt below, written by a British blogger I stalk, Scaryduck. He accepted my Facebook friend request, probably against the advice of his lawyers and confidants, and I immediately sent him a message declaring my admiration and loyalty.  He responded with, “cor, thanks.”  I hope that means “Cool! I really like your blog and think you are awesome, too” in UK slang.

Here’s what Scaryduck wrote:

“Kismet. The frog. Kermit’s brother. He stayed in the swamp while his famous sibling found fame and fortune in the big city. Married, had loads of little tadpoles, made something of himself in swamp society, but all the time resented Kermit and his high-fallutin’ ways, and it all came out in one bitter, drunken outburst at that family get-together of which they never ever speak. ‘A pig!’ he shouted, ‘You married A BLOODY WHORE PIG!’ and everybody looked away, embarrassed that he’d gone and shown them all up in front of their famous cousin by doing that ‘What’s green and smells of bacon?’ joke…”

Kismet, Kermit's jealous, hick brother from the swamp.

At Disney World, when the family was in line for The 3D Muppet show near the end of a long day, I was tired and couldn’t stop repeating “He married a bloody whore pig!” to myself and laughing wildly.  And if the world revolved around comedy, my in-laws would have looked lovingly at my husband, glanced back at me with disdain, and thought “touché.”  But they really like me, so that didn’t happen.  That I know of.  And that makes this story less funny.

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I’m Alright, Nobody Worry ‘Bout Me (even though I’m turning into Bill Murray)

I’m becoming more and more like Bill Murray in Caddyshack.  We both wear the idiot expression quite well, and now I have a severe rodent problem in my yard: MOLES.  In case you don’t remember the movie, Murray’s character tries unsuccessfully to rid a fancy golf course of a pesky gopher.  The gopher survives poison, flooding, and explosives, and at the end of the movie, he celebrates his victory with a sassy little dance to a Kenny Loggins song.  Three years ago at Christmas, my mother-in-law bought us the official dancing Caddyshack gopher doll.  It’s in my son’s room, so the impudent rodent remains at the forefront of my mind.  Thank you for that, Debbie.  Until you’ve seen a mechanized gopher doll do jazz hands, you really haven’t lived…in America.

Bill Murray and I are merging into one being.

I’ve been fighting the troublesome moles in my yard for five years now, but I’m still foggy on the the nature of my enemy.  Why do they like my lawn and not my neighbors’?  How many are there?  ‘Cause the tunnels are huge.  He/she/the family/the sasquatch burrows through my entire front yard, creating visible mounds and hidden holes, eating plant roots, destroying grass, and making a general mess of things.  The battle has taken its toll, including me accidentally poisoning my dog.  He lived, thank goodness.  I didn’t even know that he had ingested mole poison, but I’ll never forget the aftermath.  While we slept through what must have been a horrific night for him, his bowels suddenly released and evacuated with all the mighty power of Zeus himself.  We awoke to diarrhea anarchy.  A new world order was created — one that required us to get new carpet immediately.

The dog poisoning was an awful accident.  However, if you would still like to send hate mail, you should know that in addition to being an incompetent dog owner, I am terrified of cats, which causes me to despise them and mumble hate speech in their direction whenever they come into sight.  And I inadvertently killed several goldfish in an unrelated electrocution incident several years ago.  If anything, your hate mail should be thorough.

Moles have been the root cause of the dog poisoning, the new carpet expense, the near-death of a tree, the demise of other numerous other plants, and a two-inch strip of sunburn that included the top part of my butt-crack skin.  (It was 100 degrees out while I was repairing mole damage, and either I didn’t know that I was exposed, or I was enjoying the refreshing breeze.  Are you happy now?)

In past seasons, I’ve fought the moles with a half-assed effort (haha!), much like the U.S. in Vietnam.  However, my husband has put an ultimatum on me: rid our yard of the moles, or he will call a professional.

NO!” I shouted when he threatened the nuclear option.  “Don’t call anyone!  They will use poison and/or traps and tear up our yard!”  And I can do that myself, for FREE.

I’m rigging up the dynamite tonight.

 

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I Saved an Old Lady from Elder Abuse

Recently I’ve tried to change my attitude towards myself and BE NICER.  This all started on the tennis court.  Beating myself up after every missed shot didn’t help my game any, plus my throat would get sore from whisper-yelling “You missed another ball, you sloppy buttchunk!” to myself after every play.  I decided to start treating myself as if I were cheering for my kids, meaning I would stop ranting under my breath, stay cheerful, and remind myself to get ready for the next ball.  The positive approach has worked better.  I don’t know that my game has improved, but at least nobody is saying mean things to me play after play.

(A word of warning: Don’t treat yourself too much like your own kid, or else you might take away all the Halloween candy and make yourself go to bed.)

Anyway, my tennis league includes two elderly women who have mad ball-placement skillz but limited body movement due to frail knees and advanced cases of age.  I see them every few weeks, and in my head, I’ve nicknamed them “Happy Beret Lady” and “Teddy Bear Sweatshirt Lady” because of their tennis apparel.

You would think that someone who regularly displays teddy bears on her sweatshirts would have “Happy” in her nickname, too, but that’s not the case.  Teddy Bear Sweatshirt might be a cheerful person when she’s not on the court, but she spews the most horrible things to herself when she misses the tennis ball.  Her ranting is even worse than mine used to be.  Teddy Bear Sweatshirt is overly competitive with Happy Beret; I think they get on each other’s nerves.  Perhaps they are battling for a Best Dressed award (Creative division) that I am unaware of.

Teddy Bear Sweatshirt and I recently played against Happy Beret and another lady.  Teddy Bear Sweatshirt was meaner than ever to herself, probably because Happy Beret smoked us a couple of times.  Teddy Bear Sweatshirt yelled at herself, and the fuming sounded awful.  I couldn’t stand to hear anyone being treated that way.  If you’ve ever witnessed a parent getting too frustrated with a small child and stayed for a bit longer just to make sure you didn’t need to call Child Protective Services, you know the feeling.  Plus, there is something disturbing and incongruent about a woman in a saccharin sweatshirt calling herself a “stupid idiot who can’t do anything right.”

Can anyone wearing a shirt like this be a stupid idiot? Okay, don't answer that. Frail old ladies who wear these shirts are not stupid--they're kinda cute.

I went up to her and said, “Teddy Bear Sweatshirt, you need to stop saying mean things to yourself, or I won’t play with you anymore.”  She looked at me with surprise, and I explained how I felt about the abuse.  She laughed, and we’re cool.  She was nicer to herself after that, although she told me I was a numbskull pusswhip for missing a volley.  Just kidding.

I think I deserve kudos because I probably improved her life.  Either that, or she went home and dwelled on how she can’t even talk kindly to herself and spiraled into a deep depression.  If she’s out of the tennis league due to her incapacitating misery, then I stand a chance at the Best Dressed award (Creative division), especially once it gets colder and I wear my huge, ratty black parka to the courts and become known as “Homeless Tall Curly” in everyone’s heads.  Homeless is totally avant-garde this season, especially on the tennis courts.

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Tall Curly Biscuit and the Annals of Whizdumb: The 4th funniest blog on the web!