Man put acid in coworker’s shoe

Whatever happened to itching powder? We had some real laughs with that stuff. We didn’t put it in shoes. We put it in a fellow’s drawers.

You don’t see the good old pranks these days. Acid in a shoe? How about the hot foot? I’d tell a guy a joke while my buddy snuck up behind him and slipped a couple of kitchen matches between the sole and last of his shoe and lit another match with his thumbnail and touched off the matches in the shoe. I’d try to time my punch line with the moment the flames reached the shoe and set the guy to hopping. What a hoot.

We never lit shoelaces. That would be stupid.

Acid has a place in the world of pranks, but not in some  guy’s loafer. We would put a little hydrochloric or sulfuric acid, I don’t recall which, in an atomizer and sneak into the girl’s locker room and spray squirts of it over the front of a blouse in two spots. Later in the day, the cloth would crumble away and the girl’s two bra cups would poke out. You could split your sides laughing at that.

Where have all the pranks gone? It’s sad. You used to could walk into a classroom and there would be old spitwads stuck to the walls all over. How can kids go through their youth without shooting spitballs at each other. It don’t make sense.

Our classroom was next to a field with sheep in it. The flies through the open windows were awful. We’d spend hours during boring grammar and economics and arithmetic lessons, killing flies with rubber bands. That’s not a prank, but it’s something I miss just as much.

We had so much energy when we got to school. There was nothing better than running around like maniacs pulling down a guy’s pants and underpants to his ankles in front of some girls. We did that with one wimpy kid and by the end of the day he had made three dates.

You know what’s crazy? Not only is it impossible to find an exploding cigar, you’re lucky these days to smoke a regular one.

I’m  going to burn a bag of  dog poop on my neighbor’s porch tonight, just for old time’s sake.

4 Red Flags You Shouldn’t Ignore

Lead a busy life? It’s a mad whirl out there for so many of us. I forgot my pants this morning. Just kidding.

Please, take the time to look both ways before stepping off the curb. Check for bones in that forkful of haddock. Confirm that the seat is down before sitting on the toilet.

These are common-sense precautions. It takes a little luck to get through life.

Having said that, trusting to luck WILL NOT HELP YOU in certain situations. Learn to recognize the warning signs!

#1 You boss tries to kill you.

This is a warning sign. Your prospects for future advancement in the company may be compromised. Having failed to murder you, will your boss be able to give you a fair and balanced performance report during the next employee review cycle? Will killing him help or hinder your progress up the corporate ladder? Should you continue shtupping his wife, or move on?

#2 Your wife tries to kill you.

There is nothing more important in life than good, basic nutrition. When you get up in the morning, you need a good breakfast. When you get home from work at night, you need a good dinner. Anything that gets in the way of these essential meals must be eradicated without mercy. Remember, you can’t hire a wife, but you can hire a cook.

#3 Your children try to kill you.

Kids. What can you do? You give them everything. It’s why you go to work in the morning instead of turning into a homeless bum. You work your fingers to the bone and then work your wrists to the bone and then… you get the idea. Then they tear out your heart and skateboard over it. That’s not a warning sign. That’s just normal life.

#4 Your dog tries to kill you.

If you cat tries to kill you, you probably deserve it, you sorry piece of dirt. In the case of dog mayhem, you’ve got to look into breed. Your breed, I mean. What color is your skin? What is your religion? What is your orientation vis a vis LGBT. Are you conservative or liberal? Libertarian? What is your position on the right to bear arms?

Dogs care about these things, especially in the southern United States and Irish bogs. Given half a chance, they will thin the human herd.

Chicken Lays Giant Egg With A Surprise Inside

I don’t like surprises, which is why I don’t eat eggs.

I don’t open things. When I shop, I take a string bag, so I can see its contents at all times.

I take my mail next door and let my neighbor open it. FedEx delivered a box and I left it on the porch. My neighbor finally opened it because of the smell; it contained perishables.

I was considered strange in high school because on a hot date, I wouldn’t unbutton the girl’s blouse.

Later in life, when my older brother was killed in the line of work, I was the only one to attend his funeral because I insisted on an open casket. He was on the bomb squad.

I gave up my plans to become a surgeon because of this habit.

Once when I was feeling wild and crazy, I closed my eyes; naturally, I didn’t want to open them again. My neighbor had to thumb up the lids. I won’t close them again. I use eye drops and at night, eye props. I’m often accused of staring at people in a creepy way.

My marriage failed because I wouldn’t comply when my wife begged me to open up with her.

The bottom line: I live a quiet, solitary life, working at a low-paying job at a dry cleaners. Ironically, my boss makes me put out the Open sign every morning.

 

Sofia Vergara Reveals Bra Size

My husband has been trying to discover my bra size for years.

“Sofia has revealed hers,” he says to me. “Why can’t you do the same?”

Ha. No way. When I buy a bra, the first thing I do is remove the tag from it that divulges its size.

I find my husband hanging around our washer/dryer combo, hoping to lay hands on one of my bras. He figures that if he can obtain just one of them, he can measure it and deduce my bra size from that. Unfortunately for him, I hand-wash my bras and dry them on a rack in the attic, where he never goes.

He swears that he’ll figure it all out and then, just out of spite, that he’ll also figure out my cup size. Let him try. As long as I don’t let him grope me, he’s going to remain in the dark.

My girlfriends tell me that he asks them for their bra sizes. He wants to triangulate. Clever!

I didn’t marry a fool, just a Nosy Norbert.

Once, in a weak moment, he told me that after he got over the bra hump, he was going to start on my panties. This just demonstrates the difference between a wily woman and a dumb man. I’ve known that he wears jockey shorts in a 34 for ages.

Supermodel Spotted Without Makeup

I was working checkout on Monday, ringing up a woman with an unbelievable amount of makeup in her grocery basket.

“Who is this for?” I said, as I scanned item after item.

“Who do you think?” she said.

This was a skinny young woman of nondescript mien.

“When do you use it?” I said.

Opportunities for socialization are limited out here in South Potlatch.

“I don’t live here,” she said. “I’m here on a photo shoot. I’m a supermodel.”

“Good Lord!” I said. “I’ve never met a supermodel before. What’s your name, if you don’t mind me asking.”

“Princessa,” the supermodel said.

“I would think you’d bring your own cosmetics,” I said. “I never pictured you buying them at Walmart.”

“The makeup bus missed the turnoff and kept right on going to East Gravy Stain or somewhere,” Princessa said.

“Well, welcome to South Potlatch,” I said. “What tales you could tell, huh? What adventures you’ve had. And the funny thing is, you look a lot like Daisy over at the Dairy Queen. If you put on a little weight… Burt! Price check on this exfolient scrub with rice bran, please.”

Princessa was clicking her gum, which surprised me. You don’t see that on Project Runway. She was drumming her fingers, the nails sans polish and trimmed rather blunt.

“Are you looking at my hands?” she said.

I focused on the remaining items to be checked and shook my head.

“I don’t like people looking at my hands,” she said. She sounded like she meant it.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m not used to being around stars. I saw Phil Donahue from a distance once, but he was seventy-five at the time. Someone said he was approachable but I was too shy to try.”

Princessa also reminded me of Albert Chroner. He’s fourteen, Elmer Chroner’s boy. Just the slightest bit light on his feet.

I bagged everything up.

“Well,” I said. “Have a good shoot.”

Princessa didn’t answer. She was leafing through People Magazine with a jealous look on her plain little face.

9 Things That Might Be Wrong With You

[Headline, Huffington Post]

1. You might have a heart attack in the next five minutes. Are you driving down the freeway while reading this? Move over to the slow lane.

2. Are you reading this while having sex? That’s weird. But anyway, having sex at your age and in your shape is just ignorant. You could have a heart attack practically any minute now.

3. All right. You’re sitting down. Not doing anything stupid. You probably won’t have a heart attack after all. Relax. Nonetheless, you’re still reading and that makes you a prime candidate for a brain aneurysm. Something about the eyeballs tracking back and forth on the screen seems to bring them on. In the next few seconds. (Too late to stop reading.)

4. You know what? We’re only at #4 and you’re already so at risk of being dead. The idea that you’ll make it to #9 is ludicrous. If nothing else, you just might be the type of person who unconsciously signals everyone around you that you want to be murdered. It’s pathetic.

5. Let’s get back on a medical footing. Do you have any aches or pains? Moments of indicision? A reason to be reading this beyond a severe vacuity in your life? You know what’s wrong with you? No, wait. We’re listing 9 things. We need to build the tension.

6. Let’s skip over this one. If you’re really sick, you might not have much time left.

7. If it’s in the Bible, you probably don’t have it. you’re not religious enough.

8. What’s your worst medical fear, disease-wise? You could have that! After all, you’re worried about it for a reason.

9. Let’s face it. We’ve got one good symptom to work with here: that you’re reading this. We can make a strong argument that your problem is mental, not physical.

Woman with Longest Legs Has Surprise Neighbor

(Huffington Post headline]

“Just don’t ask me if they go all the way up,” says Lona Calvesouvo.

Lona has the longest legs in the world. The longest female legs, anyway. A number of men have longer legs, but nobody cares about them, other than a few basketball enthusiasts. Nobody ogles those legs. Lona’s legs have been ogled since she turned thirteen and began wearing heels, short skirts, and nylons.

As a teenager, she had the legs of a twenty- or thirty-year old woman with the longest legs in the world.

The Rockettes sought her out but Lona wanted to go it alone. She didn’t want to be just one more dancer in a line, even if her legs would kick out twice as far as everybody else’s.

Instead, she signed on with Acme Razor Blades. Acme claimed in its advertisements that a single Acme blade was sturdy enough to shave both of Lona’s legs without losing its edge. Perhaps this was an exaggeration; Lona would help things along with a little pre-shave waxing. Nevertheless, the would came to know and love the sight of those lengthy gams getting lathered up on-camera.

Of course there were soreheads – there always are – who pointed out that Lona’s arms were normal in length. That her fingers were not particularly gracile. Such complaints were overwhelmed by the steady stream of marriage proposals she received.

And now, ironically, who moves in next door? (Lona still lives at home with her folks.) A double amputee? Ha ha. That would be funny. But no.

Somebody with a long nose or long earlobes or suchlike? Or three legs. Hah! But no.

Lona’s Aunt Mary and Uncle John moved in next door. It was a total surprise, as they always said that they would never leave their farm. But one day they just got sick of it out there in the country, especially the rooster crowing before dawn every morning, so they snapped up the foreclosed three-bedroom, two-bath colonial that the Smorda family had owned for so long next to Lona and her folks.