Fourth funniest blog on the web

An Opportunity to Make Fun of My Children and Criticize the Housekeeper

Good day to you, peeps.  I just had almost a whole post written that 1) justified my need for a housekeeper every other week, and 2) described the feeling of stepping into a crime scene when either kid has a bloody nose, with pictures of the evidence.  The post is no good anymore.  First of all, my 13-year-old son—who is very intelligent in most things—just vacuumed.  I was impressed because he completed the chore even though I was running errands and wasn’t here to remind him.  However, I found the dirt canister in the laundry room where the housekeeper left it after rinsing it out.  Huh?  Why did he vacuum like that?  Because he didn’t realize that anything was wrong, even though dust probably spewed up at him the whole time he was vacuuming.  Because he needs to take a class on observation and common sense.

Funny image of how my son vacuumed

He did not notice that a major part of the vacuum cleaner was missing, namely the part that holds the dirt.

The very same child-minion, the smart one who, at the age of 2 used to perform party tricks like naming all the states and capitals, has also loaded the dishwasher like this:

The odd, funny way he loaded the dishwasher, pan side up.

Pan side up, y'all. He did not think there was anything wrong with this.

So I think that justifies my need for cleaning help right there, and there is no longer any need for further explanation.

The second part of the original post was a colorful description of the crime scene that materializes when either kid has a bloody nose.  Remember, these are the same children who have no common sense, so the blood is never contained to bedsheets and Kleenex.  No, they turn into crazy people who smear blood everywhere with no regard for polite society, and then they don’t even clean it up.  Several times I’ve opened the bathroom door only to be transported to a scene from CSI Miami.

Last summer all hell broke loose when we visited my friend’s house in the New Mexico desert.  The dry air caused massive nosebleeds for both kids in one weekend.  Bloody handprints covered my friend’s white bathroom walls around every light switch, towel holder and toilet paper roll, TWICE.  Really, if you told someone to go overboard with blood smears for a movie prop, they wouldn’t even do as thorough of a job as my children did.  The messes were amazing in their sheer scope, but the kids didn’t do it on purpose.  During every bloody nose episode, I think they’re genuinely shocked and rendered incompetent by what’s going on up in their honkers.  Thank goodness the friend whose bathroom we temporarily destroyed was one of my college roommates so she probably wasn’t surprised by my atrocious progeny.

Just a few mornings ago I went to the upstairs bathroom where I found a trail of bloody tissues, which led to drips on the tile, which led to a bloody towel, which led to an entire roll of toilet paper covered in nostril-sized blood prints.  It reminded me of a fat, red corn on the cob, and it was kinda cute.

I decided to keep the bloody toilet paper roll so I could take a picture of it for this original post.  Well, that’s where I went wrong in trusting the housekeeper.  I had carefully placed the bloody toilet paper roll in a really important pile on my bedroom floor.  The pile is a collection of broken and disgusting stuff that I plan on writing about someday.  Clearly, a good maid should know not to touch a heap of destroyed binders, bullet-riddled paperbacks from my son’s 7th grade reading assignments, chipped glass, old magazines and dusty newspapers, all topped with a blood-dotted toilet paper roll.  I tried to cover my hoarding habits with fabric samples for the curtains I’ve been meaning to sew for a year now.  I casually arranged the fabric squares on top of the toilet paper so as to say, “Move along, nothing to see here.”  It’s not like I was super gross and left the bloody roll in plain sight.  But, the housekeeper THREW IT AWAY.  (On the plus side, this proves she moves stuff when she cleans.)  She never touches any of my other stashes of junk, papers and computer cords, but I guess a bloody toilet paper roll will never be more than trash to some people.  It’s sad, really.  Maybe she should take an art class.  Maybe the same school that offers Common Sense 101 for my kids will offer Trash as Art 101 for the maid.  C’mon, people.  Sometimes I feel like the only normal person on the planet.

The 4th funniest blog on the web!

DIY Collateral Damage: The High Cost of Spraying Things

I admire people who are ridiculously confident in their own abilities.  Inspired by the internet, I often think that I could do anything if I were really determined.  You want me to build a deck, replicate nuclear fission, or train a hamster?  No problem.  Self-reliance is liberating, and most people I know take on at least a few DIY projects.  I drove by my friend V’s house the other day and witnessed her accidentally spraying herself in the face with a commercial strength hose and anti-fungal lawn chemicals.  Did I think she was an idiot?  No.  I admired the fact that she didn’t let the resulting numbness in half of her face prevent her from treating that pesky grass fungus.  There is just no stopping a determined woman.  She may have also discovered a cheaper Botox alternative.

My friend Jamie of the blog Six Oak Street is another determined DIY-er.  She used to live in the same neighborhood as me, and we share a passion for home projects and funny stories.  You can read one of my favorite stories of hers here.

Jamie is a tough, smart, competent woman who always finds a way to get stuff done.  Despite her lack of official qualifications, she possesses licenses to buy an assortment of industrial chemicals for stripping paint, welding metal, and more.  She’s like the beautiful and much more fun spawn of Martha Stewart and The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo (because she can do cool stuff and might be a mastermind, not because of her looks or a history of abuse or mental illness.)  Maybe not the best analogy.

Anyway, even those with licenses sometimes overestimate their powers, and I had to save Jamie’s life once during one of her many remodeling projects.  I called her up one day, and she sounded too happy and loopy on the phone.  She told me she’d been painting the cabinets in her study and might have been in there too long.  Maybe I should come over to check on her, she suggested.  When I pulled up five minutes later, she stumbled out of the ground story window, looking like a cheerful but crazed lunatic.  Jamie doesn’t even drink coffee or alcohol, much less do drugs, but in that moment she could’ve competed with the homeless in San Francisco for “Most High and Crazy Looking.”

Turns out she’d been using oil-based paint with an air gun sprayer, so she was basically breathing fine particles of oil paint.  She had a mask, but not the right kind.  Of course, she’d opened the large window, but it wasn’t enough to ventilate the airborne paint.

We went back into her kitchen since she’d done an excellent job of sealing off the office from the rest of the house.  Then the questions started.  Once a minute, over and over again, Jamie looked at me with surprise and asked me how I’d gotten into her house.  She was happy to see me and all, but she didn’t remember how I got there.  Then she’d pass out or glaze over while I explained again.  All the while, I was trying to reach her husband on the phone.  In her only moment of semi-clarity, Jamie told me to not call him.  I realized that her husband was like my husband—despite a near-death circumstance, they’d really rather not be bothered at work because somebody has to pay for our shenanigans.

And then she’d come to again. “Angela!  Hi!  What are you doing here?”  After several rounds of explaining to Jamie how I got in her house, I decided she might need medical help.  My doctor’s office put me on hold, so I called 911.

While we sat outside and waited on the paramedics, Jamie entertained me by asking over and over again why we were out there.

HEY, those sirens sound really close!”

“They’re coming for you because you’re as high as a kite.”

“I AM?”

repeat 5x

The paramedics arrived.  Jamie is very happily married, and Normal Jamie would not be forward with hot young firemen.  However, High Jamie greeted them with a loony “HellllOOOO” and wasted no time in telling them how good-looking they were.

“WOW!  You guys should make a calendar.  You are all REALLY hot!!!  SO HOT.  It’s like a novel or tv show come true, where the cute firemen show up.  This doesn’t happen in real life, but here you are.  And you’re here for ME?  Hahaha.  Wait, why are you here for me?”

repeat 4x while they check her vital signs

The paramedics laughed, blushed, and said she’d be much better after about forty minutes of fresh air.  She did recover her senses quickly but then got sick several times that evening.  Poison Control said it was her body getting rid of the toxins.

Jamie later told me that she kind of knew she was passing out periodically while painting, but she was determined to finish everything in the room before stopping because she was almost done.  DIY costs more than just money, y’all.

Funny Pinterest style determination quote

Jamie returned to normal, but the paramedics are probably still hoping for the day she tries a new, dangerous project and has to call them.  Unfortunately for me and the paramedics, she moved to another state.  Also, I’m pretty sure she’s since researched the proper use of painting respirators.

Have you surrendered your pride or personal safety for a DIY project?  Please comment!

See also my story of sacrificing my crotch for amazing cabinets at Hanging by a Thread(s) and the Zoolander Miracle.

The 4th funniest blog on the web!

Extreme Heat Survival Guide

Hi, y’all.  It’s hot here, and my Texas drawl is out in full force.  It’s tough to enunciate when you’re on the verge of heat exhaustion.

So what’s there to do when it’s this hot outside?  My solution for enduring the summer is to embrace what hot areas do well—barbeque and country music.  The best part is that by nature barbeque and country music do not require a shower.  When it’s 100 degrees out, it’s like God is telling us to stop bathing except for immediately before bed.  It’s in our best interest to soak a brisket in Coke, put it on the grill, and pretend to work around the house in our sweat-wicking clothes.

In fact, I was a little irritated that my friends suggested we go out tonight.  Now I HAVE to shower and put on non-wicking clothes for this non-barbeque joint.  Ugh.  Oh well.  They promised to make it worth my while, and besides, they’re the best source of future blog material.

‘Cause you know what I’d be doing if I were at home, after piddling around in the yard and before showering and catching up on True Blood?  I’d be doing the only thing better than listening to country music, and that’s listening to funny country music.  Y’all, I highly suggest that you fix yourself a plate of brisket and beans and watch this Guy on a Buffalo video right now.  This is the first in a series (you should watch them all) from my favorite funny band, The Possum Posse—the greatest band in the world.  Possibly, ever.

Even if you don’t like barbeque you’ll probably like this band—they’re funny!  My favorite Possum Posse song goes something like this: “You’re pretty ugly by most people’s standards, but you’re alright by mine.”

That line reminds me of recent local news where a man was caught raping a horse.  Thanks to my friend Ramsay for alerting me to this news story; he also wisely pointed out that the pervert should have kissed the horse first.  It’s only polite.

New anti-horse raping country song: “Neigh Means Neigh.”  Genius.  But until that song is produced, please enjoy the Guy on a Buffalo video series!

The 4th funniest blog on the web!

Who’s With Me Up in this Humor Blog Controversy?

The other day I got all up in some controversy.  I usually try to avoid fights and negativity, except for when it comes to Kenny Chesney.  I absolutely refuse to cut that guy a break.  His last album was entitled Hemingway’s Whiskey, for goodness’ sake.

You see, I applied for and was accepted to the Community Voices program for the local big city newspaper.  I made it clear that I was a humor blogger—even submitting a blog post as one of my essays—but I guess the editor believes that serious news sells better than humor news.  The dude published my silly rant about a private school sending teachers to Bali as a sincere letter to the editor.

While composing an email bragging about my publishing feat to the President of the Tall Curly Biscuit Fan Club (my aunt), I looked up the online version of the newspaper opinion section.  What a surprise to see that my goofy little piece had 28 negative comments, including some calling me names such as bellyacher and others accusing me of having too much time on my hands.  If I wanted to be a lazy bellyacher, I’d try out for a spot on The View.

Y’all, in the last post I told you about a drug addict who uses his bladder as a Human Decanter (guess which body part is the spigot!), and that article didn’t even get 10 comments.  Apparently negativity and controversy work better than true and shocking entertainment.

So, I’m gonna dive headlong into some controversial statements so Tall Curly Biscuit can get more buzz.

Controversy 1: Archaeologists in France recently discovered that early humans brewed beer sooner than anyone originally thought.  At about the same time, Bulgarian archaeologists found skeletons with iron stakes through their chests.  Researchers believe the stakes were used in attempt to prevent the dead from being reborn as vampires.  Cool!  The French archaeologists need to step it up big-time; they have a long way to go compared to the exciting Bulgarians.  Until those Frenchies can come back with news that will inspire spine-tingling novels or movie scripts, they need to put up the shovels and bake us some croissants.

Croissant for humor blogger Tall Curly Biscuit

Time to hang it up, French archaeologists, and start baking us some flaky pastries instead.

Photo credit:

Controversy 2:  A writer for a local fashion magazine recently praised benefits of raw denim jeans, which are jeans made from virgin, unwashed denim.  Apparently they don’t really fit better, but it’s super cool if all the wear on your raw denim jeans comes from you and you alone, like a historical record.  The author’s American-made jeans were not acid washed in a Chinese factory—no.  They were faded, worn, and tattered by his daily activities, such as biking, working, and browsing his local Nordstrom.  Sounds patriotic, right?  The embarrassing part for the writer is that he admits—even advises—that raw denim should not be washed for at least a year.  And he wears his jeans a lot.  His longest relationship is with a seven-year-old pair of jeans that are worn five days a week and washed once per year.  To subdue the stench, he occasionally pops them in the freezer overnight to kill the offending bacteria.  Might I suggest that’s why his longest relationship is with jeans?

I, too, have some dark jeans that are fading naturally with my everyday activities.  They recently acquired a really cool dot pattern at the hems of both legs where roughly a gallon of my child’s vomit forcefully splattered against tile walls and splashed back onto my dark denim, causing an abstract fade design.  AND THEN I WASHED THOSE JEANS BECAUSE I’D LIKE TO KEEP MY HUSBAND AROUND.

Heart shaped image in washing machine on the funniest blog.

Limiting your body odor is one key to lasting love. Wash your jeans, y'all.

Controversy 3: Shooting yourself to promote your work is generally a bad idea.  An author writing a memoir, Kindness in America, reported to authorities last week that he’d been injured in a drive-by shooting while traveling down a rural Montana highway.  After talking to the cops, he begrudgingly confessed that he shot himself.  Police think it was a “desperate act of self-promotion.”  I occasionally have to indulge in desperate self-promotion, but I think asking you to like Tall Curly Biscuit on Facebook and Twitter is a better idea than shooting myself.

BUT WAIT—Maybe that author got tired of spinning his wheels on Facebook and decided that a shooting would work better.  Just like I ditched my usual humor and brought up some serious controversy today.  I mean, his shooting and my editorial bellyaching got us both in the paper.  I’m going to search my weapons arsenal now.*

*Help prevent a needless Nerf weapon incident: please like Tall Curly Biscuit on Facebook and Twitter, and share this humor blog with your friends!  Also, I love your comments—I don’t even care if you call me names as long as one of them isn’t Kenny Chesney.

**Hey, Kenny–I have a really good promotional idea for you.  Do you have a gun?


The 4th funniest blog on the web!

Genius solutions for your concert and party needs. But first, we make fun of Joyful Noise starring Dolly Parton.

Hello, Dear Readers!

Yesterday my daughter had to get stitches in her leg because some kid at Chinese camp had broken glass in her backpack.  It wasn’t a malicious incident, but this just goes to remind everyone that even though children can do amazing feats like speak Chinese, solve tough math problems, and wow us with their expert navigation of television remote controls, sometimes they still think like little kids.

One good thing is that the doctor and nurses never even questioned that it might have been a safety issue on my part—you know, how they make sure they don’t need to call child protective services.  When a Caucasian kid’s story starts out with, “Well, I was at Chinese camp…”, it’s so random that it’s totally believable.

After our tough day—she had stitches and I missed my afternoon mug of tea—we decided to indulge in cookies and watch the new Dolly Parton & Queen Latifah movie in bed last night.  The flick is called Joyful Noise, and it’s a love story, choir competition, feud between Dolly and Latifah, and a touching tale of redemption all wrapped up in one.  Like one of those gross appetizers of tortillas rolled up with cream cheese and lunch meat.

Tortilla pinwheels are disgusting and full of stuff that should not go together, like Joyful Noise.

As a TexMex and lunch meat purist, don't even get me started on this abomination of ingredients. Remembering the way these cold bites of gooey disgrace stuck to the roof of my mouth makes me shudder, as did Joyful Noise.

Joyful Noise is the kind of movie where Dolly’s choir robe was really fitted up around her boobs to make her look like a Barbie doll, but everybody else had on normal, baggy robes.  I feel like the director probably wanted Dolly to wear a standard robe, but Dolly had it in her contract that she could wear an hourglass robe and be the only blonde in the entire movie.

The plot is exactly what you’d expect: Latifah is an unsung hero, young lovebirds get together, a teen’s Asperger’s syndrome is pretty much cured, and Dolly breaks out a shotgun.  The writers added surprise by having unlikely characters do the splits when you least anticipate it.  Confession of love…splits!…face that says character hasn’t spread her legs that far in years.

That’s the kind of movie you’re missing out on.  I might have even oversold it a bit.

Now that you’re caught up on the latest in romantic comedy horrors, let’s explore a product that you should be aware of, just in case.

If you like to partake in alcoholic beverages AND you like to go places where that’s frowned upon (funerals) or where alcohol is expensive (anywhere that requires admission fees), my friend V has found a solution for you.  It’s called the Wine Rack.  You just fill up the plastic lining of this handy sports bra with alcohol!  If you’re a woman you’ll look like Dolly, and if you’re a man you’ll look like John Travolta with his fleshy man-boobs.  Either way, you’ll never be questioned by authorities.

wine rack drink dispenser

You can find this on and at every Kenny Chesney concert.


However, I have to warn you of the dangers of sneaking alcohol into places.  My friends and I once filled water bottles with vodka and smuggled them into an outdoor concert.  It seemed like a good idea, but it lead us down the path of bad decisions.

My pretty friend and an old guy with man boobs

My tipsy friend danced with an old dude who had moobs. She would have never done that without vodka, mainly because we never would have been at a Steve Miller Band concert without vodka.


If you’re afraid that you’ll get caught wearing the Wine Rack or you need extra storage space for your alcohol, I have another convenient solution for you of Ikea-level genius.  You can turn yourself into a Human Decanter, like the drug addict I heard about from a doctor friend.  The Human Decanter hires himself out for entertainment.  What’s his party trick, you ask?  He uses a catheter—usually used in hospitals to drain urine out of people—except in reverse.  He fills his bladder up with wine.  Sounds incredibly painful, right?  He’s on lots of drugs.

Once his bladder is full of wine, HE WILL PEE IT INTO A GLASS FOR YOU.

You should ponder that for a moment.

.Imagine this as a human decanter with a penis for a spigot.

The spigot turns itself on automatically at the release of a sphincter!


Whichever method you use to sneak in wine, it’s sure to taste extra classy.

You know, that sounded snotty, but I don’t want to pretend I’m above drinking body-temperature wine.  If someone ever forces me to see Joyful Noise again and contraband wine is my only option, I’ll drink it no matter what private parts it drains out of.


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