This was taken at the same kid’s play as fashion dad. This place was blogger heaven. And what a perfect mother’s day post #1 (#2 will be the sentimental one where I refrain from parent bashing).
First, let’s run by the definitions of dope.
There is the Webster version, surprisingly puts drugs above stupidity:
I like to think that the last one is really ‘the poop’, but hey, I tend to lean towards bathroom humor.
Moving to Urban Dictionary with their many versions of the drug definition, culminating with this one which is my favorite:
Good old Smokey is one angry dude but he uses Gary’s favorite term, rat’s ass, so I love him x 10.
Then there is the definition that something dope is something cool (I am guessing this is the one she was going for). But we can’t rule out the fact that this mom could have just been… a dope. With the need to let everyone know.
Sitting in my warm house (so far), we are hunkering down for what the media has whipped us all in a frenzy about: Winter Storm Juno.
Preying on the PTSD of a still Sandy-shocked population, they have had a field day with this one, and the supermarkets were evidence of that. I will share two observations and then I am off to start some serious drinking.
First, the empty bread shelves in the supermarket. I live in an area where more people are living a gluten-free, carb-free life than I care to think about. Why then, are the bread shelves in the supermarket close to empty. I predict there is going to be a lot of closet gluten-rich activity going on out there through this storm, no? Oy, the inflammation!
Second, is the insane desire to make sure one has eggs, bread and milk in the house at all times. What is this? Is there a direct correlation between a pending storm and the need to eat french toast?
As my dear friend Joanne pointed out just around the time that she talked me off the ledge about my Snow Warrior husband having left too late and being caught on the road forever, this is a misguided list. There are, in fact, 3 things that one must have in a storm, but they are not eggs, bread and milk… they are wine, toilet paper and coffee.
Stay safe everyone, and I will see you on the other side. Hopefully with power.
This man is an actor. He fuckin’ wants to act. Cast him.
Indeed. Let’s cut right to the chase, shall we?
I love this guy even if I have no clue how to pronounce his last name. Fabrice Yahyaoui seems like the type of guy who will not take no for an answer. Talk about passion and nerve! This poster was plastered on the outside of a bus shelter in the East ’30s. I became intrigued and did a little research on him. He posts these all over the world.
The quote from the video below that hit home for me was this one:
“In life you have to fight. He doesn’t give up. I want him to make it.”
We can laugh. And maybe ponder that this guy is a little crazy, but I applaud his method and hope it gets him work. It is this kind of risk-taking that sets you apart. He makes me want to root for him. I want to see this guy succeed. If I were a casting agent I am not sure if I could resist the curiosity to call this guy in. He certainly seems to have a myriad of looks, and definitely has the fire in his belly to work.
Hey Fabrice, I hope you have some decent monitoring going on. I would love to hear from you in the comments and find out how things are going.
I want to preface this with the fact that I live in a suburban area known as the North Shore of Long Island. That would be the Nawth Shaw of Long Guyland if you buy into that whole stereotypical dialect thing.
I do not.
This magazine was at the checkout of our local Whole Foods. Modern Farmer? Really? Talk about missing the demographic! There are no farmers in this ‘hood – modern or otherwise. The only thing better than this close-up shot would have been one with a woman dressed to the nines in front of the magazine rack. Keep in mind this particular Whole Foods is across the street from The Miracle Mile, a Rodeo Drive style shopping area.
You’ve heard the expression, “It goes together like donkeys and Manolo Blahniks“, right? Of course, everyone has.
At first I thought this was an Onion type magazine. With that Headline: Donkeys, the new goats. And the Redonkulous seal (with an excellent use of hyphenation)
Other wonderful headlines that are a bit more relatable for this zip code:
Pot Farming Goes Big
How to Grow a Winter Garden (was this the follow-up to the Pot Farming article?)
Drink Bitter Booze (while you are Pot Farming?)
I cannot, for the life of me, explain why I did not pick up a copy of this publication. I would like to point out that if you visit their website there is currently an article titled, New Year’s Resolution: Eat More Squirrel in 2015. Yep, that was definitely on my list this year! You?
“Locavores, listen up: if you want to eat non-GMO, antiobiotic- and hormone-free, lean, free range, local, healthy meat, you need to look up. Limb chicken, as squirrels are affectionately known in many hunting circles, is arguably better than grassfed beef or organic pork when it comes to planetary health.”
Affectionately, indeed. Limb chicken… I can’t.
And you are in luck, there is a recipe at the end of the article. (no I am not making this up)
I saw this in a parking lot last Sunday and it struck me as so funny. Is this where the little investigators go to train? Instead of blocks and legos do they do fingerprint dusting and dna testing?
Oddly enough, CSI does not stand for Crime Scene Investigation, but rather Congregation Sons of Israel. Apparently no one thought about how ridiculous this might be when they abbreviated their synagogue name. But then to make a sticker for the nursery school (I thought the PC name for that is pre-school), and use a handprint, no less… no one? Not a soul thought about the humor?
Personally, I would have done a fingerprint as a logo instead of a handprint, but hey, not everyone is a graphic professional.
Having sat on a synagogue board in the past – where the discussion of roof tiles and catering chairs, traffic patterns and fundraising efforts are discussed for weeks on end… this?
Yep, I will crown this with the famous MFTA status.
(And yes, I think I might be back to blogging. There are simply too many wonderful things that amuse me lately not to share.)
If you have ever visited one of the many communities in South Florida, this will not surprise you. The level of detail is astounding.
You have to believe that this was not written in the spirit of prevention. I would like to know how many poor people got locked in there before this very detailed set of directions was drafted.
I keep envisioning the condo association from Seinfeld spending the better portion of a month drafting this sucker.
The scary thing about this is that I am surely the most likely person to get locked in there. In fact, this was the third time I had thrown out the garbage and the only reason I noticed the sign was because my dad told me to take my cell phone.
This post is a little gift for my big bro, for he will love this the most.
A note to preface my infantile ramblings; I grew up in a house where we never tired of bathroom humor. Or bathroom discussion, for that matter. The planet Uranus always got a laugh and was constantly used out of context. There has been major discussion about the quality and frequency of voiding one’s bowels; including joy, empathy and shared enthusiasm over each swing of regularity. Frequency was of the utmost awe-inspiring of discussions. Yes, I am sure a shrink could have a picnic with us.
Come to think of it, my parents never really contributed much to this conversation, so I guess this is more a sibling thing. Although later in life I have to admit my mom did join the discussion often. As the kids grew up they embraced this odd family tradition. Marrying into this is not easy. Gary, well, of course he jumped right in. But my poor sister-in-law did not like this one bit. Poor thing, she was cursed with two sons that brought this to new heights. One of whom, I might add coined the term ‘doody baby’ when he had gone a particularly long time without going. We actually have a full vocabulary based on this topic.
Enter the newest member of the family, my new niece… she vows that she will put an end to this age old tradition. A very strong woman indeed, but no match for our love of bathroom humor. I predict she will be joining in soon enough.
Which brings me to the photo. This bathroom resides at the old Pfizer building in Brooklyn. Yes, all the stalls were numbered, it wasn’t as if this was the only one designated for making “#2”. But the fact that I serendipitously wound up with this stall simply had to be fate, no? Of course I had to take this picture… it was my obligation. I mean, I am the one who has brought you such posts as We are #1…, It’s Toilet Season, Toilet Paper Advertising Smackdown and my absolute favorite Can it Fit in a Toilet?
You could say I am a professional bathroom blogger. Perhaps I should start a new blog dedicated to the topic. Hmmm… names? WhoGives a Sh*t? or maybe Give a Sh*t! is more positive. Or how about Here’s the Poop. Any other suggestions? Show me some love for coming back to blogging and give me some names in the comments.
There I was picking up Houdini Iko after she tortured every person at the dog groomer her bath today, and this sign taunted me from the counter.
Me: Laura, I’m asking about your bag of 20 duck feet. Are they real?
Laura: Yes they are.
Me: Ok, that is more than I needed to know about them.
Then I spent the rest of the day picturing Iko with 20 duck feet in her mouth at one time because she jams as many items in there as she possibly can. Someone please tell me why giving your dog duck feet (20 or any number for that matter) is desirable.