Phive Phun Photo Captions - Vladimir Putin

What, you think you're so funny? Then come up with our own captions and put them in a comment. This picture is of Russian Prime Minister Vladimir Putin talking with Russian auto workers who are apparently having the same troubles we're having in America. Yay! I mean, aww.

Douglas's List

1. "You want to know why they call me Putin? Pull this finger and I show you."
2. "So I get the package from Smiling Bob, pop one pill and Little Vladimir goes SPROING!"
3. "Just keep looking straight into my eyes. If you look at the bleachy lady you'll start laughing and then I'll start and then things are bound to get uncomfortable."
4. "Prime Minister gets two of the women. You, little man, get one."
5. "...and here is the steeple. Open the door and see...crap I did it wrong again."

Philip's List

1. "Now you listen to me, little reporter man. When I say that I'm not going to answer any questions about those pictures of me and Cher in the Studio 54 men's room, that means I'm not going to answer any questions about me and Cher in the Studio 54 men's room."
2. "That's right, I'm going to pick my nose now. And you? You're going to watch."
3. In order to feel better about his questionable fashion sense, Vladimir Putin uses the top secret Russian time machine to surround himself with women from the 1960s.
4. "Hey, crewcut boy, my eyes are up here, okay? Stop staring at my junk."
5. "It's time to make your final selection now. Do you want your Dating Game companion to be the matronly number 3, the freakishly bleached-out number 2, or that dusky little raven-haired number 1?"

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Come On Out, Y’all! - by Philip

Despite being a straight, middle-aged white man with a conservative upbringing, I still have absolutely no idea why California passed Prop 8 last year. For those of you who, for whatever reason, don’t follow California state politics religiously, we somehow managed to support Barack Obama for president last November, while simultaneously adding an amendment to our constitution stating that marriage is strictly between a man and a woman. I know what you’re thinking – it was just a matter of time before such a stalwart bastion of conservative ideology as California passed that kind of proposition. Still, I have to wonder how it happened.

Let me start by giving you a bit of my background: I grew up in a tiny town in rural north Louisiana called Simsboro, so I never really had much reason to think about the gay. After all, there were no gay people in north Louisiana in the 1980s, so what was there to think about? For some reason, there are plenty of homosexuals there now, so there must have been some kind of immigration from less Christian towns, such as Memphis or –God forbid– Austin.



In 1984, I moved to a different high school in Natchitoches (it’s pronounced “Nack-uh-tish,” you friggin’ yankee), and was interested to discover that there were exactly two openly gay people among the 350 students there – hi, Harrison and Stoney! Maybe the gays were all flocking to towns with difficult-to-pronounce names. I’ve since read that 5-10% of any given population is gay (other than Iran’s, apparently), so there was clearly something going on that I wasn't aware of.

For those of you who have seen through my subtle sarcasm, the real story is obviously that there were (and are) plenty of gay people in north Louisiana, just like everywhere else. But if you think it would have been difficult to tell your parents that you were gay in such liberal strongholds as San Francisco or Manhattan in the 1980s, try doing it in Simsboro, Louisiana, where people go to church more than once a week and spend most of their time there gossiping judgmentally about people who are different from them, just like the bible says.



But that was then, and this is now, right? Surely, there’s no reason today for us to pass a constitutional amendment that prevents gay people from being married and not, say, Michael Jackson and Lisa Marie Presley. Seriously, what was that all about? And despite all of the warnings from the religious right, there seem to be no actual consequences to gay marriage. In all of the states and countries that have legalized gay marriage, there has been no commensurate progression to people marrying livestock and no crippling implosion of the institute of heterosexual marriage. I guess even Jerry Falwell got it wrong every once in awhile.

So why did Prop 8 pass? It seems to have nothing to do with homosexuality at all, just a base human instinct to fear or at least mistrust people who are different from ourselves. And since 90-95% of the population is straight, that poor little 5-10% of different people never had a chance. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go write to my senator asking for us to start requiring the 5% of our population who enjoy bowling to register as enemy combatants. How can you trust a bunch of drunk guys who cup their big balls in their hands before hurling them at a neatly arranged stack of penis-shaped objects? If that’s not an attack on heterosexuality, I don’t know what is.

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Phive Phun Photo Captions - Michael Jackson

You know how this works, right? We put up a picture and each twin writes five captions for it. If you'd like to join in, please add your own captions in the comment section. Here's a phun photo of Michael Jackson doing something weird with a little girl. I mean it's one of the many photos of that.



Philip's list:

1. Melissa fondly remembers this as the day when she learned what "compensating" meant.


2. "No, no, Sweetie, girls aren’t allowed to touch."


3. While some people just see it as a weird reflective shirt, this is actually the official uniform of the Neptunian Interplanetary Guard.


4. As always, Mr. Jackson personally selects each visitor to Neverland based solely on their smell.


5. "Hello, and welcome to the Gathering of Future White Women."

Douglas's list:

1. "Oooh, do you have a brother?"


2. "They say, ‘You are what you eat,’ which is why I always buy plenty of white bread."


3. Some parts of Michael are less white than others.


4. "I grabbed it Mommy! When do we get the million dollars?"


5. The autopsy listed Michael Jackson's official cause of death as blunt baguette trauma.

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Spinning Wind of Death - by Douglas

Well, God’s finally going to kill me. Tomorrow, to be specific. Down here in the Dirty South, (Wazzap my North Side Recyclerz?? Hauling bottles and cans wit my Crizzew!!) we are due for some nasty weather. Tornadic incidents are (cue ominous music) somewhat likely.



I have only ever lived in the South, and we do tend to take a bit more of God’s weather-related wrath than most of the contiguous 48. We get hurricanes every summer and tornados every spring. In fall, we get the latest rounds of asinine sitcoms and in winter we get weathermen wrongly predicting snow twice a week. I have ridden out my share of all these and by my calculations, my luck has just run out. This time tomorrow, I will be felled by a tornado. Or "Better off Ted."

Now we Dyers do have our tornado plan memorized and we are ready to implement it at a moment’s notice. First on the list is, “Buy a weather radio.” I gotta do that. When the power or cable goes out -which it will - you don’t really know if there’s a tornado around. Well, I do actually. I’ve got a tornado siren very near to my house. When my power and/or cable goes off and I hear the loud, plaintive sound of the tornado siren I always immediately run to the window and say, “What the hell is that? Are the neighbor’s dogs stuck again? Whoa, kids come see this! Something is making Mrs. Henning’s tomato stakes fly around like CRAZY!”



You can see that I’ve pressed my luck to the point that my death is now a mathematical probability. So, to those of you who offered the unsolicited nag-vice that I should have a will now that I have children, sorry I let you down. Oh, and you too kids. Daddy’s gonna write something out tonight and magnet it to the fridge. You need to give that to Mommy or the ambulance driver tomorrow, whichever isn’t pretending to sleep. And remind me to put it in a Ziploc bag since the rain will be coming in where the roof used to be. Our house will be a just like a convertible! Yay!

As one last favor to all you nice people, I will find out who is going to win American Idol and I will tip you off somehow. If it’s that Mary J. Blige one, I’ll leave a shiny penny on your doormat. If it’s that guy whose wife died, I’ll hook up with her (We’re dead, don’t judge!) then I’ll slip something into Paula Abdul’s drink tomorrow night so she says crazy, nonsensical things. Naughty dead man! And if it’s that blind guy then please send down some sweaters because hell has frozen over. Oh no I dit-uhnt!

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Dueling Parents - by Philip

Just as love means never having to say you’re sorry, I foolishly believed that divorce meant never having to deal with my ex again. But since we have children together, it turns out that nothing could be further from the truth. In addition to the weekly dropoffs of the kids, there are plenty of school events where I can enjoy spending time with the person with whom I have legally certified irreconcilable differences. What could be more fun? Now whenever I go to science fairs, PTA meetings and –worst of all– parent-teacher conferences, I inevitably start to hear the dulcet refrains of Deliverance’s “Dueling Banjos” in my head.

“Come on,” you might say, “can’t you set aside your petty differences for just a few minutes in the interest of maintaining a healthy environment for your children?” Why would you even ask such a thing? If we could do that, we wouldn’t be divorced, now would we, Mr. Smart Guy? The next time you want to ask an imaginary question during a fictitious retelling of my recent life events, maybe you should think things through a little more thoroughly, okay?



I bring this up because my ex and I recently had a parent-teacher conference at our daughter’s elementary school. As I mentioned, this is the most challenging event of all because the two of us are sitting right next to each other in those tiny little elementary school chairs trying our best to focus the discussion entirely on our daughter while pretending to look completely nonplussed, as if our knees are always pressing into our chins like that. But no matter how hard we try, the discussion inevitably ends up in a classic passive-aggressive showdown. Here’s how I remember last week’s conference:

Teacher: "Your daughter is doing really well in all of her subjects, so I think–"

Ex: "Oh good, then all of those tutoring sessions I arranged for her are working."

Teacher: "Um… Yes, as I was saying, she seems to have a good mastery of the math that we’ve been working on, as well as social studies and reading comprehension."

Me: "I'm glad to hear that the time I spend reading to her every night is paying off. I guess the experts are right about giving your children personal attention instead of passing them off to some convicted felon working off his community service hours at the Sylvan Learning Center."

Teacher: "Right... Okay, maybe this would be a good time to move on to the project that your daughter did for the Science Fair last week."

Ex: "The one that I stayed up every night helping her with because her father couldn't be bothered to make color copies of the report booklets and to staple gold lamé around the poster board fringes?"

Teacher: "Yes, it did seem like there was perhaps a bit more parental involvement in that project than most other students had. But did you happen to read the content of your daughter's project?"

Ex: "I would have if I didn’t have to spend so much time ferrying our daughter to ballet, softball, and Pilates classes because someone can't get away from work long enough to support his daughter's interests. Besides, the nice gentleman down at Sylvan helped her with the writing part of her project."

Teacher: "Well, the subject of your daughter's research was how divorce turns parents into stark-raving lunatics. You might want to pay particular attention to the section on petitioning the courts for Emancipation."

Me: "Yes, she is so good at choosing advanced topics since some parents believe in challenging their children instead of coddling them all the time. Where do we pick up her first-place trophy?"

Teacher: "I’m sorry, the Science Fair is not actually a competition so there aren't any trophies."

Me: "Not a competition? Then how do you know who won?"

Ex: "See? See what I had to deal with? It's amazing that our daughter has turned out so well with that kind of horrible influence in her life."



Things were breaking down. I needed to regain the upper hand.

Me: "I won the Nobel Prize."

Ex: "Oh, please, you’ve never even been to Helsinki."

Me: "It's Oslo, bitch, and there’s a lot that you don’t know about me."

Teacher: "Perhaps we should focus on your daughter–"

Me and Ex: "Shut up!"

Ex: "So what did you win this Nobel Prize in?"

Me: "It's just like someone who has never won the Nobel Prize in Literature to end a sentence in a preposition."

Ex: "Whatever! You’ve never even written anything!"

Teacher: "I'm just going to go get some work done."

Me: "I had also never had a threesome since someone thought it was demeaning, but a lot has changed since we split up."

Ex: "Oh, so you've had a threesome now too? Who with, the Nobel Prize committee?"

Me: "Jealousy is such an ugly emotion. Maybe your new rich husband can fix that by paying for the plastic surgery you always talked about."

Teacher (on phone): "Could you ask the security guard to come up to room 217 please? Tell him to bring mace."

Ex: "Just because you couldn't support the lifestyle that I wanted–"

Me: "'Lifestyle?!' Embezzling money from your accounting office to spend on lavish spa getaways with your Latin lover is not exactly what I would call a 'lifestyle.'"

Teacher: "Please tell him to hurry."

Ex: "Oh, right, like all those trips to Las Vegas with your 'personal assistant' were strictly business?"

At this point, I suddenly started feeling a burning sensation in my eyes and then a large gentleman requested that we leave the premises immediately. I should have expected my ex to ruin everything like that, but some lessons are hard to learn. Next time, I might just schedule an individual conference with my daughter’s teacher to avoid all of my ex's wackiness. Maybe we can have it at the coffee shop down the street since that’s outside of the 500-yard radius from the school that the Emancipation Order requires.

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Phive Phun Photo Captions - Protest

You know the drill - we put up a picture and each twin writes five captions for it. If you'd like to join in, please add your own captions in the comment section. Here's a phunky photo of a street protest with lots of interesting characters.

Philip's list:

1. “Dental plan now! Dental plan now!”


2. The peaceful protest was going along fine until someone grabbed Sarapnong’s ass.


3. The Organization of Hemorrhoid Sufferers hates their annual march.


4. “Dude, seriously, do you need to blast that bullhorn right in my ear?”


5. After asking the photographer several times to get out of her face, Carmen prepares for her first straight-up bitch slap.

Douglas's list:

1. The protest was going peacefully but Khon-Ma decided she should still practice her mace face.


2. "Free Tibet! Free Tib...aack! A bee flew in my mouth!"


3. Another painful reminder that you should always go potty before the protest march starts.


4. The only American-born protestor unsuccessfully tried getting the crowd to chant "Ozzy!"


5. Until you free Tibet, I'm going to keep impersonating Eddie Murphy as the donkey in Shrek.

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Self Unaware Part 3 - by Douglas

This is the third of a three-part series about adults who are self-unaware resulting in the irritation of one of three senses - Sight, Smell, or Hearing. Today’s topic is Sight.

The old saying is, “You can’t judge a book by its cover.” The other old saying is, “You never get a second chance to make a first impression.” I’ll let these old sayings settle their own differences. But the reason we have both of them is that the moment we lay eyes on someone, we judge them. For instance, I know that you either don’t own an iron or your Mommy went on laundry strike. See? I can’t help it. And don’t get me started on your hair.



As a man of some girth with very strong-willed coiffurage and enough facial oils to fry hushpuppies for everyone in my zip code, I like to pretend that personal appearance doesn’t matter so much. But with those strikes already against me, why would I want to pile on with, say, a snug Kool Aid t-shirt, John Deere hat, and three days worth of a beard that rivals Keanu Reeves for unsightliness? Keanu, for realz homes!


So let’s put our best foot forward while realizing that it doesn’t take much to stumble. My personal best example was many years ago when my wife and I took our daughter and nephew to a Burger King for breakfast. I had just blown my nose (<--FORESHADOWING!) when an older couple that knew my wife came over and started talking to us. The entire conversation was awkward and there was precious little eye contact to be had. When they left (the man looked at the ground as he shook my hand), my young nephew looked up at me and said, “Uncle Douglas! With your bloody booger on your face!” A life lesson was born that day.

See, it doesn’t take too much for an entire conversation to be derailed simply through lack of personal attention. Gonna order the pesto pizza for dinner? Bring a wire brush or pressure washer. Nobody wants to talk to someone whose grill could be featured on HGTV’s “Landscapes Gone Horribly Wrong.” Hear a whistle when you breathe through your nose? Unless you shoved a flute up there again, it’s probably a mucous-based obstruction and it may well be visible. Sure way to stop a conversation.

If I don’t like you or feel comfortable around you, you’re on your own. If we’re tight, I’ll always tell you when you’re in a visibly distracting situation. I even have certain code words and phrases I’ll use if others are present. If you do have something dangling from a nostril or two, I’ll tell you I watched a rerun last night of that movie with Sylvester Stallone and the chick from that Alaska show. “Cliffhanger?” you’ll venture, then realize that you have your own little cliffhanger to deal with. If you forgot the zipper I might ask if you recall whether Punxsutawney Phil predicted six more weeks of winter this year. Pay attention.

OK, the three part self-unawareness series is over now. Please remember, I told you these things out of love. Love for when you don't annoy me. Plus your booger whistling is driving my dog apeshit.
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Spring Has Sprung! – by Philip

Good news! Spring will arrive officially at 7:44AM on Friday, March 20, signaling the rebirth of plantlife and men’s fancies all over the northern hemisphere. You Aussies can suck it. Being a big believer in self-determinism, I am using this opportunity to force myself back into a happy new state of mind, leaving behind what has apparently been the winter of my and Douglas’s discontent on the blog recently. So get ready to spring forward, everybody – a new season has arrived! Or, you know, it will arrive at 7:44 on Friday morning.

Scientists will tell you that the Vernal Equinox is that most special of Druidic days when the length of the night equals the length of the day. But we laymen know better than to take those nerdy scientists at their word. I mean, what has science ever done for us, right? We know that the true meaning of spring is that it infuses mankind with an artificial sense of optimism, which is exactly what we need right now. I say “artificial” even though spring is technically a very natural phenomenon, because the sense of optimism it brings is not based on what I like to refer to as “reality.”

But that doesn’t matter, because optimism doesn’t need this “reality” thing to be effective. Besides, I said that I was going to break out of the doldrums around here and I’m sticking to that promise no matter what I really believe. Even with the world economy faring as poorly as it is right now, a shared belief that things will get better soon could be, in and of itself, effective enough to start helping us right now. For instance, if everyone has a sudden renewed faith in the stock market, then it’s entirely possible that this could bring up my portfolio to the point that I will actually be able to send my children to college someday. See? Just because the day and night will be the same length on Friday, two more kids will be off of the streets. Nice going, Spring!



But that’s not all the Vernal Equinox can do. A report came out today saying that birth rates have already started to decline because of the flagging economy, mirroring the decline in births that accompanied the Great Depression. If we’re going to have a whole new crop of consumers to keep our economy moving through this crisis and beyond, then we will need to start making more babies. That’s where Spring comes in.

As I mentioned before, Spring is apparently the time of year that turns men’s thoughts to those of fancy. I’m not sure how it will help us bolster our waning population if men started choosing the duvets with lace ruffles, but apparently it does. I personally can’t imagine how men’s thoughts could turn any more to fancy than they already are. Don’t men think about sex every seven seconds on normal days? What will change about that on Friday morning? Do we spring forward to five or six seconds? Either way, we’re still outpacing the ladies by a pretty fair margin so I'm not sure that will help anything.

But regardless of how it happens, Spring is such a nice harbinger of renewal and rebirth that we can’t help but feel a little bit of optimism when we hear the bees buzzing and the birds singing. Hey, maybe that’s what causes the fancy thing! Are bees fancy? Anyhoo, let’s hope that this Friday, at 7:44 in the AM, we will begin our new period of morning in America, or some other Reaganesque platitude. But just in case nothing big and exciting happens on Friday, I’m keeping my cranky pants nearby. You have until the end of the day, Spring.

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Self Unaware Part 2 - by Douglas

This is the second of a three-part series about adults who are self-unaware resulting in the irritation of one of three senses - Sight, Smell, or Hearing. Today’s topic is Smell.



Let’s just tackle the big one head-on. Your breath. In my experience as a person with a nose, I have found that people lack the ability to smell their own breath. If they could, some of them would have long ago suffocated or flung themselves headlong into some large body of water, sporting their favorite concrete leggings. There is a substantial difference between these people’s breath and your run-of-the-mill bad breath from lunchtime pizza or late afternoon stale coffee (but you guys should keep gum and mints at the ready too). This whole different level of halitosis is caused by poor oral hygiene practices. It’s the difference between the smell of someone who, after a couple of cucumber finger sandwiches, emits a vegetative little burp, versus the smell of someone who died three weeks ago from gangrene caused by his inability to wipe himself.

Now, I assume you’re all brushing your teeth regularlyish so my advice is this – floss. There are no reasons you can give for not flossing which outweigh the reasons to floss – namely, oral health and not annoying me. Plus, you do not want to run the risk of your significant other throwing up in your mouth during intimate moments. Bad for everyone involved.

And the pendulum swings back to those of you who stink for the complete opposite reason – you wear too damn much perfume or cologne. What must you smell like without that stuff? I guess it’s really bad but jeez! So bad that you have to order your Drakkar by the keg? Rule of thumb - if you’re spritzing more than twice, you’re wearing too much. And you know you are spritzing WAY more than twice. There are people I work with who leave their artificial smells in a wake behind them that must embed itself into the paint. And those bastards at Axe aren’t helping. Their commercials are making some of our homeliest men actually believe that if they apply enough of these scented toilet waters, the Pepperdine women’s volleyball team will involuntarily rape them in the parking lot. People, less is more.

And let’s swing that pendulum back one more time. You stink all on your own, for any number of reasons, and it’s up to you to figure out why. Yeah sure, people fart and maybe their clothes will smell like seared dumb beast flesh after eating at the barbecue joint, but that’s not what I’m talking about. EVERYTHING between your hamstrings and your belly button (inclusive) is likely to produce odors. Why they don’t make all undergarments out of activated charcoal is beyond me. But they don’t, so keep an eye on it. No, keep a nose on it. And feet are supposed to stink so double knot those laces and keep them to your damn self. Armpits are also supposed to stink. God in his infinite wisdom made them that way but he also gave us soap and deodorant. Are you saying you’re smarter than God? Or maybe you’re just dumber than Matthew McConaughey?

OK, those are the big ones but there are others too numerous to mention. In summary, no one wants to be the clueless stenchbag that everyone else is calling “Señor Stinky Britches.” Check yourself. Again, this is tough love and not easy for me to say. What with the love and all. Floss. Deodorize. Repeat. Up next – Sight.

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Pive Phun Photo Captions - St. Patrick's Day

Here's the deal again - we put up a picture and each twin writes five captions for it. If you'd like to join in, please add your own captions in the comment section. Here's a phunky photo of some adorable lasses getting their Irish dance on at a St. Patrick's Day parade.

Douglas's list:

1. Though himself an insufferable bastard, Heat Miser's daughters were just cute as buttons.


2. This is really the only day of the year these red-headed step children get to shine.


3. St. Patrick - "If I had known you drunk potato noshers would honor my memory with this crap, I'd have left the snakes there."


4. Auditions for "Charlie's Angels 3, The Prequel" were not going as well as hoped.


5. Early in his career, Carrot Top often donated to the sperm bank to help pay the rent.

Philip's list:

1. The Saint Patrick’s Day parade was going fine until the girls stepped on a high voltage wire.


2. One hates to propagate stereotypes, but wouldn’t you much rather see a dance performance by pretty much any other ethnic group?


3. As His last plague upon the Israelites, God sent unto them the three angels of bad hair and fashion taste.
   


4. The junior high dance performance was going fine until the UFO descended and sucked all of the girls up into the mothership.


5. It was at this point that fashion designers realized they had taken the symmetrical clothing trend a little too far.

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The Cunning Linguist - by Philip

The Leo constellation must be in retrograde or descending past Mercury or whatever the hell would make people who were born in August wear their cranky pants right now because, like Douglas, I’ve been a bit on edge this week. While I agree with him wholeheartedly about the ice chewing and gum smacking, the object of annoyance for me this week has been people who say stupid things. I’m not calling those people “stupid,” I’m just saying that the things that they say would sound more appropriate in an asylum for the pathologically unsmart. Here, I’ll give you some examples:

1. Stop saying “at the end of the day” when what you really mean is “the truth is.” For example, I recently heard someone say, “Our company is in a good position long-term, but at the end of the day, everyone will have to make cutbacks.” Wait, are you saying that we need to lay people off by 5:00PM? Should I start interviewing?


2. Also, please stop saying “going forward” when what you really mean is “in the future.” For example, “We’ll be instituting all of these policies going forward.” Does this mean that we have to keep moving forward like sharks or the policies will drown? Or did you really mean, “in the future,” which is what you would have said if you weren’t a brainless cog? (Ouch! Hurry up, Leo, and move into, I don’t know, Aquarius or something. My snarkiness is up to 11.)


3. Speaking of “going forward,” I want to take this opportunity to remind everyone that the word “forward” has two ‘R’s. It’s pronounced “four-word,” not “fuh-word.” Please make a note of this, Andy.


4. "Irregardless" actually means the opposite of what you're trying to say.


5. Unrelated Question: If Chevrolet is as American as baseball, hot dogs, and apple pie, then why does it have a French pronunciation? And will Toby Keith be writing a song about this?


6. Please, please stop using “the thing is” as the subject of your sentence. Do you not realize how ridiculous it sounds to say, “The thing is is that we have to start speeding up our rollouts going forward”? Perhaps if you typed it, you would see that you just wrote the word “is” twice, which Microsoft would tell you is a no-no. BTW, the same thing applies to “the problem is is that…” so cut that out too. I said "please."


7. The second-person southern plural pronoun is spelled “y’all” and not “ya’ll” It’s short for “you all,” not “ya will.” Please make a note of it.


8. Please stop supporting your viewpoint by making lists of items that mean the same thing. For instance, don't try to convince me to buy your new software because it's "simple, easy and convenient." Even that's better than the lay people who don't even bother to come up with a third thing, preferring to conclude their lists with phrases like "and stuff like that" or "and this, that and the other." Seriously, dude, make an effort.


9. The final request I have is please, for the love of all that is holy, stop saying “a whole nother.” You can’t just break a word in half and stick a whole nother word right into the middle of it. If we let people do that, it would be the end of so frickin’ ciety as we know it.

Okay, I’m glad that I got that out of my system. The thing is is that, going forward, would ya’ll please be sure to stop using the kind of language listed above because, irregardless of your grammatical preferences, at the end of the day, it’s everyone’s responsibility to talk correctly, and to speak well and that sort of thing. I’d love to discuss this further, but I'll have to save it for a whole nother post.

Do you have any miscarriages of grammar that you'd like to share? Add a comment to tell us which combinations of words just drive you crazy.

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Self Unaware Part 1 - by Douglas

This is the first of a three-part series about adults who are self-unaware. By this I mean that they seem like perfectly normal adults in most respects but they have some characteristic that makes them desperately offensive. This offense generally takes the form of one of three of the five senses – Sight, Smell, or Hearing. Today’s topic is Hearing. If you are annoyed by the feel or taste of other people, get your own damn blog. Perv.

 

First, please know that I love you. Really, I do. But sometimes, you can really annoy the crap out of me. Whatever that freaking noise is that you keep making, well…CUT IT OUT! I’ll start with myself – I am a hard breather. I know this and I try my best to be aware of it. In my defense I have broken my nose twice and my sinuses wouldn’t fetch the minimum bid in Ebay’s “Used Rhinology” section. But the key is, I am aware of it and I’m making an honest effort. You, Mr. Tony Soprano Wannabee, are not aware of it and you are not making an effort. When I get stuck sitting by you at a restaurant or a meeting or whatever, it takes every ounce of self restraint not to jam my fingers in your nostrils and remove whatever boulders you fell face-first on the last time you visited Pike’s Peak. Just to be safe I’m going to hang a live rat from your upper lip as a lure in case a couple of terriers are in there rooting for vermin.

And you…what do you have in the cup there? Gravel? Industrial-strength pop rocks? Wood chips for a hamster cage? Oh, it’s ice. No beverage in there with it? You just got a cup of ice with no intention of using it to cool a drink? So, you’re going to just sit there and crunch that ice until the local university’s seismology department calls to make sure everyone’s OK. The good news is that your aggravating habit can only last for the next thirty years or so until your teeth grind down to the pulpy root. Revenge served cold, beeyatch.

Sweet mother of Elvis, tell me that is not gum in your mouth. I’m sorry I can’t hear that incredibly amusing anecdote you’re trying to relay, but the guy next to me apparently just hocked something up from his fourth stomach and is busy working it over with his molars like it stole his daughter’s favorite Barbie. Why oh why would you think I want to see that mashed-up mound of Juicy Fruit you are rolling around your bubbly saliva and bouncing off your nasty adenoids? And that tongue – such an ironically distasteful pudgy pink thing pushing the gum around and artfully dodging your spring-loaded teeth. What do you think is in that gum that needs to get out so bad? The Arc of the Covenant? Jimmy Hoffa? Couldn’t you just waterboard it until it gives you whatever information you’re after?

OK, I feel a little better. And I think you’ve had enough for one day, you clueless decibel-ejaculators. On behalf of the rest of the world I’m asking nicely, get self aware. And as for you people who offend my sense of smell – you’re next.

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Phive Phun Photo Captions - Scary Guy

As a reminder, here's the concept - we put up a picture and each twin writes five captions for it. If you'd like to join in, please add your own captions in the comment section. Here's a phun photo of a scary naked guy jumping up behind a group of smiling girls. Happy captioning!



Philip's list:

1. Though terrified by suddenly falling through a hole in his upstairs apartment, Johnny would soon recognize the potential upside.


2. Reginald was mortified when he realized that he left his unitard and winglets at home.


3. The effects of a sudden testosterone overload can be devastating to behold.


4. At that moment, Tim realized that maybe the dude in the lamp was a Genie after all.


5. Brian hates it when his invisibility spell wears off early.

Douglas's list:

1. Forgetting to fasten her tutu in the back, Sarah's "full moon" unwittingly turned Lester into a werewolf.


2. See if you can figure out which Wayans brother forgot to put on his "White Chicks" makeup.


3. "Lord help me, it's a white girl buffet!"


4. OK, everyone line up in order of pigmentation.


5. Had he known the time machine would really work, Buckwheat would have at least thrown some clothes on.

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Friday The 13th - by Douglas

OK, OK, just nobody panic. For the second month in a row, the 13th falls on a Friday. I’m not sure what we’ve done to anger the gods but…oh crap!!! I just realized that there will be another Friday the 13th in November!!! I can’t recall in my lifetime ever having three Friday the 13ths in one year! People, we are screwed.

Deep breaths. Deep breaths. OK, do you own or live near a cat that is solid black? Some spots are OK but solid isn’t. You do? We can handle that. If the cat is yours, you need to kill it. Wait, wait, you don’t have to kill it. Maybe just lock it in a room until Saturday with no access to windows or air ducts or any possible avenue of escape. I don’t care how much it meows or claws at your favorite throw pillows, do NOT let it out! If the cat belongs to your neighbor it is OK to kill it but you only have a few hours until the 13th and we wouldn’t want a mercy killing to turn into a sacrifice, now would we?

All right - ladders. Are you doing any painting or remodeling of any kind? Do you walk anywhere that someone might be painting or remodeling? Forget that, just stop walking until Saturday. You can NOT run the risk of walking under a ladder. Yes, that includes fire escapes! Use your head, man! No, I don’t care if you have a burnt light bulb that you can’t reach! You will remain ladder-free for the next 48 hours!

So…I suppose you’ve already taken care of the mirrors? You haven’t taken care of the mirrors? Why not just slap a bumper sticker on the hybrid saying, “Honk if you have a bifurcated tail!” Or “I heart the cloven-hoofed underlord!” I mean seriously! Get to Home Depot right now and buy a giant roll of bubblewrap and start covering those mirrors! They aren’t gonna break on my watch!

Now this last one is a little non-traditional but may be the most important. Do you have access to a freshly-dug grave? No, not the one you just made for your neighbor’s cat – it has to be a human grave. Why? Because the Dark One can’t cross over it to enter your house when you’ve sprinkled fresh grave dirt in front of your door. I mean, what do they teach you in school these days? How to enjoy the eternal smell of sulfur? How to decorate using only lava and brimstone? Just find a grave, man! Put the dirt in a paper (not plastic!) bag and cover your threshold!

OK, now that we’ve gotten all that taken care of, we might as well start planning for November 13th. The trifecta! No, I know it’s not a joking matter. I’m sorry. Now…do you have a particular child that maybe isn’t your favorite?
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Phive Phun Photo Captions - Purim

Here's the concept - we put up a picture and both of us write five captions for it. I mean phive captions. See, it's spelled with a "ph" like Philip's name. You know, for added wackiness. Oh, and please feel free to add your own captions in the comment section.

This is a touching photo of friends and/or family pushing an elderly man up a hill to a Purim parade.



Douglas

1. Why does Ephraim always get to start the Conga line?
2. On Eli! On Herschel! On Shlomo and Melvin!
3. That's right Mr. Silverman, this wheelchair is a whopping FOUR Jew-power!
4. My ancestors were delivered from Persian genocide and I'll I got was this lousy yarmulke.
5. I'd rather wander the desert for forty years then push this meshuga fartbag another inch.

Philip

1. I'm not an astronomer, but I think I see Uranus.
2. As the years went on, the village's Pied Piper reenactments became more and more lame.
3. "Hey, I thought you said we were going to the candy store. Why are you pushing me toward that big white van? Somebody answer me!"
4. "Honey! I picked up those four new Jews you asked for!"
5. The Inuit have been known to set their elders adrift on an ice floe. The Polish apparently prefer to shove them up a tall hill in a wheelchair and just let nature take its course.

Gauntlet thrown. Comment with your own caption, if you've got the matzos.
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The Coolest Dad in the World - by Philip

My older daughter has a bunch of her friends over right now, so my house is teeming with rowdy teenagers. While this might prove to be an annoyance for some parents, I couldn’t be more excited – this is the perfect opportunity to show all of them how cool I am! I mean how tight I am. I mean how dope I am? Anyway, my efforts sounded much better in person than this post does so far, on the real. If all of my daughter’s homies didn’t think I was incredibly cool, why else would they keep stifling their laughter like that? They just can’t contain their happiness that someone my age would still be hip to all of the happenin’ new lingo.

When my daughter rolls her eyes and begs me to stop embarrassing her in front of her friends, I know it’s just false modesty. Poor kid probably feels bad for all of her friends whose parents are totally square and wouldn’t know the Fat Boys from Em and Em. So I play along with her as she pretends to be mortified: “Girl,” I say, “why you gotta front? Don’t be steppin’ to me like that,” I continue, “You get up in my grill and I’m gonna bust a cap in your behind.” Tight as I may be, I still don’t like swearing in front of the youngsters. I have to say, my daughter is really good at playing along since she somehow made herself burst into tears and then ran up to her room.

But I don’t just share my coolness with family members. Yesterday, I was chilling with my black friend and that was a great chance for me to see just how good my chops really are. It was nice of him to pretend to look confused as I walked up to him and performed the requisite handshake/fist bump combo ending with two snaps up. He even looked around to make sure that everyone was watching. He asked how things have been going and was delighted to hear that not only have I been chillin’ like a villain, but that I also know how to handle my scandal, nahmsayin’? Clearly, my frequent viewing of TRL had stood me in good stead because my friend stared at me like he was looking at Biggie hisself. It’s a shame he had to leave early because I was going to tell him how much I appreciate the lyrical progression from the Sugarhill Gang to Puff Daddy, whom I’ve totally heard of. Next time.

On my way back home, I ran into a bunch of young fellas straight kickin’ it in the ‘hood, and noticed that one of them was smoking a very unusual cigarette. Not wanting to miss out on any hot new trends, I approached the whippersnapper and asked him about the strange-smelling tobacco in which he was partaking. “'Sup, home slice,” I said, noting his look of incredulity that someone of my advancing years would be down with such slammin’ verbiage, “where did you get that bitchin’ fattie?” “Keep moving, narc,” he replied, and who can blame him? If I were the first kid on my block to participate in such a scintillating new fad, I would also be reticent to reveal my connection. “Ahhaight then. I gots to head back to the crib and get my Brit Hume on, for rizzle. Catch y’all n-words on the flip side,” I reply while beating a hasty retreat.




I arrived at home to find my daughter sulking in her room. It seemed that my previous demonstration of awesomeness had somewhat of an adverse effect on her friends. They apparently felt so threatened by my hipness that they all decided to remove my daughter from their MyFace Top 8 lists. I hate it when the youth these days misuse their interweb privileges and engage in the cypher-bullying, so I promise my daughter that I’ll try to check myself before I wreck myself, though I know it’s really her friends who are wrecking themselves. Poor kids probably wish their parents were as cool as I. Not everyone can be so lucky.

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Daylight Savings Time - By Douglas

Look, I’m not trying to scare anyone or flaunt my super powers or anything but there is something you really should know. Last night, I moved time. I know, I know, it sounds crazy and I’m not sure what I’d think if you were telling me this instead of the other way around. But it’s true. I do it every year. Twice actually. I’m surprised you haven’t noticed.



Yeah, I used to get all huffy about Daylight Savings Time. Who is my government to tell me that I need to set my clock forward an hour? I mean, maybe I was gonna cure cancer during that extra hour. Or maybe rewatch this week's episode of 60 Minutes. It's just all, you know, inconvenient, and stuff. And in this hectic world, it’s hard to get behind an idea that’s going to cost you an hour of sleep. But it is a fact that the days get longer and it’s a pretty cool idea to move the clock ahead so we don’t just sleep through that extra daylight. Maybe I’m getting less cynical in my old age but I don’t really have a problem with Daylight Savings Time any more.

I do know that introducing the concept of DST today would never happen. “My esteemed colleague from New York thinks we should wave a magic wand every six months and (wiggling fingers mysteriously) moooove tiiiiiime.” (Condescending laughter from the other Congressmen.) “Clearly my colleague has been watching too much TV like the ‘Lost Anatomy’ and ‘Desperate Heroes’.” DST is one of those “ask what you can do for your country” ideas that don’t translate to votes these days.

There are many who argue that this concept is antiquated and was just some agrarian idea to get the harvests in on time or save electricity during the war. Which war? You know, the one where they needed all the electricity. I bet if that Leno fella did one of his walk-around-the-city-with-a-microphone deals, most people would say that DST was invented by Benjamin Franklin. Except for that one clueless guy who would probably guess that it was Clay Aiken or maybe Gandalf. According to the factually infallible Wikipedia, it was actually William Willet, an outdoorsy type who thought people were wasting daylight. Well, mission semi-accomplished Mr. Willet. Today I read the paper, went to church, went out to lunch with the family, and then napped until it was dark. You got me up early. You tried your best.
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Watching Watchmen - by Philip

I just got back from seeing "Watchmen" with a few friends, and I'm sorry to say that it wasn't nearly as good as I thought it would be. I might have gone into it with excessive expectations because the trailers were so damn cool and our local movie reviewer gave it the highest rating possible. I was also looking forward to seeing a superhero movie that didn't feature a unidimensional morally upright defender of humanity who really has no chance of failing in his mission. The superheroes in this story are mostly very human, with the accompanying frailties and prejudices, which is so nice to see in this genre. Unfortunately, this movie forgot about one thing - the story.



If you are already a big fan of the original Watchmen comic series, then you will probably love this movie. I had never read any of the comics and didn't know anything about the storyline, so I spent most of my time wondering when the story was going to start. It's always difficult to adapt a story to the screen that already has a passionate fan base, but this script suffers from the most basic adaptation mistake - it tries to remain so true to original story that it sacrifices a cohesive plot line. This is like taking an excellent radio show and making a TV series out of it that just features a bunch of people standing around a microphone reading their lines. If you're not going to write a script that is structured for the screen, then your movie is not going to work.

In addition to the adaptation problems, this movie also suffers from its ensemble cast. There are so many major characters in this movie with so many things going on that it's difficult to follow the plot. "The Big Chill" did a pretty good job of this, but I can't remember another movie since 1983 that has pulled off an ensemble cast well. It is extremely rare for a movie to work well if it doesn't have a strong protagonist and antagonist, and this movie has neither. Without those two main characters battling against each other, there can't be a story line that the audience can really get behind. In this movie, we almost never know what anyone is trying to accomplish and who is trying to prevent that from happening, and that is the essence of practically every critically successful movie ever made.



On a good note, Jackie Earle Haley is amazing as Rorschach. If you have any inclination at all to go see this movie, he alone is reason enough to do so. It's not often that an audience really roots for a masochistic psychopath, but the audience at the IMAX Theater in San Francisco's Metreon Center cheered every move he made. (BTW, if someone had dropped a bomb on the theater where I was watching this movie, it would have decimated the nation's IT capacity. Total geekfest, present company included.) How many times have you seen a movie where a superhero walks into a bathroom to kill someone and his two superhero friends just wait outside rolling their eyes while the audience roars with laughter? "That's just Rorschach being Rorschach!" The characters were well conceptualized and the portrayals were mostly pretty good, though some were pretty stilted and wooden. I actually found the Night Owl to be fairly annoying, outside of a couple of good scenes.

The bottom line is that, if you are a Watchmen fan or just want to see some spectacular visuals, then you should probably go see this movie on the big screen. If not, then you might as well wait for the DVD, which will undoubtedly have a huge amount of bonus material. Nota bene - Be prepared to spend about 20% of this movie looking at a big blue schlong since it turns out that Dr. Manhattan isn't shy about doing full frontal. You've been warned.

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Cutting My Losses - by Philip

You know how you get into certain patterns in life? You just do something a certain way because that’s how you’ve always done it and you’re so used to it by now that you don’t even consider whether or not it’s the best thing for you? Much like the butt-groove on your Barcalounger, there are certain ruts that people get into that are hard to get out of. That’s why, against my better judgment, I went back to Supercuts yesterday.

Thankfully, this trip was finally the one that convinced me never to go there again. When I walked in, the two women there were arguing loudly in Chinese. After about 2-3 minutes of this, the older of the two women turned to me and said, “Just minute.” Then they went right back to yelling at each other until the younger one stormed out, at which point the older woman gestured for me to sit in one of the chairs. I would soon find out that she gestured to the chair instead of telling me to have a seat because English was not her first language. I think it was probably her fourth language behind Mandarin, sneering and gesturing. This would make the next fifteen minutes all the more entertaining.



I sat down and she asked me, “How you want hair?” So I gave her my usual spiel: Number 4 around the bottom and trim the top, please. (Note that if you ever ask for this at D.J. Leathers in The Castro, it means something entirely different. You should still do it, I’m just saying it will be an altogether unique experience.) She repeated this back to me and then turned around to clean the clippers. Then she said again, “Number 4 clipper?” I said yes. She put the number 4 attachment on the clipper and again said, “Number 4 clipper?” I nodded. She cut a little swath of hair off of the side of my head then turned the clipper off and again said, “Number 4 clipper?” I forced a little smile and said, “yes” through clenched teeth.

She mercifully finished with the clippers after a few minutes and pulled out the spray bottle. She began spritzing all around my head and even managed to get a little bit of the water on my hair. When she was finished, my face looked like I had just run the whole way there – it was red and wet with little wisps of steam emitting from my forehead. I squeegeed off some of the water drops with my hand and flung them to the ground to communicate in the most passive-aggressive way possible that she might want to work on her spritzing skillz.

Once I was nice and dripping wet, she pulled out a pair of scissors and said, “Trim on top?” I said, “Yes, please.” She cut off a tiny bit of hair and said again, “Trim on top?” Again, I forced a smile and said, “Yes. Trim on top.” She cut a bit more and said (I promise that I’m not making this up), “Trim on top?” At this point, I started to think that there was something funny going on, so I said, “Okay, where’s Ashton Kutcher hiding?” She looked at me like I was crazy and said, “Trim on top?” Why did she keep asking me if I wanted a trim on top after I had already confirmed this several times? She clipped a bit more off and then (I swear I’m not making this up! Except for the part about Ashton Kutcher. And the flinging water droplets to the ground was a bit of an exaggeration, but not much. Also, in a minute, I’m going to make the fingernail thing out to be a bit worse than it really was, but I thought it was important for comedic effect. You’ll see when you get there.) she asked again, “Trim on top?” My mind raced with the possibilities:

Was she an escaped mental patient? If so, should I be this close to her while she’s holding scissors?

Was she trying to give me a not-too-subtle hint that I should not be getting a trim on top? That’s certainly possible because I place about as much care into the appearance of my hair as I do into buffing my cuticles, which is to say, none.

Was she giving me some kind of secret spy code phrase in the hopes that I would give her the predetermined reply? Maybe I should have said something like, “If the top could trim itself, then Duran Duran would drink pudding on the Riviera.” I was seriously thinking about it, but then it occurred to me that making “trim on top” the CIA challenge phrase for a Supercuts employee would have been a pretty bad idea.

Just when my efforts to figure out what was going on had sent me into a deep state of catatonia, the stylist woke me suddenly by jabbing her fingernail into the back of my head. I mean literally “into” the back of my head. I couldn’t tell if I was bleeding profusely or if it was just the water that she sprayed all over my head dripping down the back of my neck. Apparently, she wasn’t confident enough in her English to say, “Look down please,” when she wanted to trim along my neckline. So she did the next best thing – stuck her Fu Manchu-like talon into the back of my head and shoved it forward until I was looking down, presumably for sutures to sew up my gaping head wound.



This would become the theme for the remainder of my hair cutting experience as she was extremely keen for me to tilt my head in a number of directions. She was whipping my head around so much that you’d think the Saw dude just told her that the pin to her mouth grenade was hidden in my scalp. I again tried to communicate my displeasure with her by using my best passive-aggressive gesturing, which mainly entailed jerking my head away from her and reaching up to my head to check for open wounds. I can’t tell you how difficult it was to do that with my hand trapped underneath the apron that she put on me.

Thankfully, my sadistic stylist was actually very fast with the scissors, so she wrapped things up quickly. As soon as she finished, she walked around in front of me and said, “You okay?” I said, “I should be fine. It’s probably just a couple of small scratches.” She looked confused and pointed at my head and repeated, “You OKAY?” It was then that I realized that she wasn’t asking how I was doing, but if the haircut was okay with me. There was no way that I would subject myself to one more minute of her hair “styling” so I said yes and sprinted toward the cash register. I probably should have let her take off the apron first.

For those of you who are wondering what I ended up doing about this situation, let me assure you that I wasn't just going to stand idly by while the Supercuts lady gave me such bad service. So I did what any other red-blooded American would do under these circumstances: I left her a moderate tip and headed straight home to write about her in my blog. In just 4-5 weeks, I hope to be telling you all about my fun new experiences at the Great Clips over by Lucky Supermarket. Stay tuned!

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