Missile-alarm Activity Guide

Missile Arrival Time – Activity Before It Hits

If you have 1 hr. (the missile won’t take longer) – Put your will in a lead box. If everything mentioned in the will is located near you, don’t bother.

If you have 45 minutes – Enough time to do something fun. What do you like? Food? Indulge yourself. Rock climbing? Climb your chimney. TV? Lots of buzzkill programming probable at this time; stick to DVDs. Sleep? If you can sleep in this situation, your mind is right.

If you have 30 minutes – Way too much time for anything religious, like prayer. An eternity if you’re praying, especially if you’ve got bad knees. But speaking of eternity, you might want to spend a second or two thinking about how you’re going to spend that.

If you have 15 minutes – Cook soft-boiled eggs!  One iteration for practice and another to eat, with seconds left over to wash the yolk off your lips. A good soft-boiled egg depends upon timing. Bring your water to a boil, then maintain it at a strong simmer. Add eggs to the pot. Begin timing. If you’re cooking one or two eggs, five minutes delivers a tasty runny yolk. Cook up to seven minutes for a firmer yolk that can still be eaten with a spoon. Don’t just check your watch. Set a timer to ensure consistent results.

If you have 5 minutes – You need something simple to do. Straightforward. No time to organize. I like to floss at stoplights, for example. If your life has not been so great, count your blessings. Five minutes should be plenty.

If you have 30 seconds – Bend over. KYAGB. (Why not go out on an old, old joke?)

Time Speeds Up As You Grow Old

“Commitment problems?” I said last night. “I don’t have commitment problems.”

“Yes, you do,” said Gwenn, my date, “as do most men.”

“This is our first date,” I said. “Hyman’s Hoffbrau is my favorite restaurant. What more do you want?”

“We’re in our nineties, Morty. Time’s a-wastin. First date this might be, but we’ve been together for seven years now.”

“Bloody hell,” I said. “It seems like we just met. Outside in the parking lot.”

“The twins are already out of college.”

“Good Lord! I’ve rather lost track… Have we been served?”

“It’s cafeteria-style, Morty. The place has already gone tits up, pardon my French, just since we sat down with these noodles hanging over the edge of our trays.”

“When we were young, we had forever.”

“Our fights took forever.”

“Are we fighting now?”

“Fighting back tears, Honey,” Gwenn said.

Man Reports ‘Unexploded WWII Bomb’ That Turns Out To Be Zucchini

Headlines such as the one above can be counted upon to generate a laugh or two, and perhaps a click of the mouse. However, the tragic fact is that 46.7% of such stories contain tragic facts.

But this post is not about recursion. It is about Life, and how the facts of life are often tragic. (Not “the facts of life,” which do generate a lot of laughs, especially when explained to five-year-olds.)

Unmentioned in the news article about the man and his bomb is the fact that he made his report to the Bombenpolizei after eating the zucchini, not before. His report was metaphorical in nature and was based upon his growing fear that the ancient vegetable, once subjected to the digestive process, would truly “explode” in his nether regions.

Ich dachte, es würde mir den Mut machen,” Gunther explained. “You know, I thought it would blow my guts out.”

And so, in the event, his concerns unaddressed, his wife and children were made to suffer der Lärm und der Gestank.

Man Tries To Throw Wife Off Bridge, Instead Falls Himself: Police

[Headline, Huffington Post]

I wasn’t trying to throw my wife off the bridge. I was trying to strangle her. Then I was going to throw her off.

Our marriage has been troubled.

If I just threw her off, the drop wasn’t going to hurt her and I couldn’t depend on the gators to finish the job. Look at me. They only got one foot, one hand, and half a buttock.

If I had thrown Agnes off alive, I’d have her stumping around the house on one foot now, trying to cook and clean with one hand and unable to sit and rest without pain. She would have been unbearable! Not that she isn’t anyway.

I explained all this to the police. So did Agnes. They understood that the whole affair was an accident. Or a failure, from my perspective. But Huffington’s stringer down here, Audet Duplessis, covers a thousand square miles of swamp and bayou and and you can’t tell her anything. Which is why I arranged to meet her on the bridge later, to give her a blow by blow recreation of the events that had transpired.

I tried to strangle her and took my second trip down into the drink. That’s how I lost another half-buttock, my car keys, my eye glasses, and one ear.

How do you keep your new glasses on without an ear? i haven’t figured that one out yet.

And yet, here comes the next Huffington Post headline.

“Man Tries To Throw Reporter Off Bridge, Instead Falls Himself: Police”

She knew I was trying to strangle her. What else did she mean at the time when she said, “Ggggggggggggggg!”

I’ll give Audet this. She came out there with me again when I promised to behave. And then here comes the next headline.

“Man Tries To Throw Self Off Bridge, Instead Falls Himself: Police”

37 Things In Your Home To Get Rid Of Right Now

[Headline, Huffington Post]

1. Anything dead that you aren’t going to eat.

2. Anything that will incriminate you or other family members in a felony.

3. The thing farthest back in the ice box.

4. The monster under the bed.

5. The dust bunnies (aka “slut’s wool”) under the bed.

6. Uncle Charlie.

7. Great-grandma Myrtle

8. Broken glass on the floor, especially in front of the sink and around the toilet.

9. Any chair that no one has sat on over the past year.

10. Make that the past, oh, six months.

11. The contents of any drawer unopened in the past five years.

12. Glassware from the very back of the top kitchen shelf.

13. Spices you’ve never used, such as epazote, fenugreek, and machalepi.

14. All those wedding gifts stored in the attic.

15. Bottles of alcoholic products with less than a quarter-inch of fluid in the bottom.

16. Hair in the bathroom sink and tub. Once it has fallen out, it’s of no further use to you.

17. Any homeless people living on or about your premises without your knowledge or permission, although you don’t want to be a meany about it. Perhaps sit down with them for a cup of coffee or a cocktail, discuss their situation, see what you can work out. Try to make it win/win. Maybe they can babysit your newborn infant, for example.

18. Speaking of newborn infants, don’t throw out the baby with the bathwater, ha ha.

19. Old hair nets.

20. Unmatched socks. Be ruthless.

21. Solved rebuses.

22. Solved mazes.

23. Solved crossword puzzles.

24. Those annoying unsolved interlocking iron rings.

25. Any toilet brushes with the bristles worn down to nubbins.

26. Engine blocks in the garage, if you’re absolutely sure that you’re not going to go ahead and rebuild them.

27. Used motor oil.

28. Dead batteries.

29. All those spare vacuum tubes in a shoebox in the closet.

30. Anything tangled that you’ll probably never untangle.

31. Anything broken that you’ll probably never fix.

32. Something that you’ve always hated but nobody else in the house does. Take it out in the dead of night, whatever it is, and smash it to flinders. Spend a few minutes gloating over the remains.

33. Whoa. Don’t let #32 get out of hand there.

34. It’s time to start looking at your personal situation. Why are you relying on us to tell you what  to do? We’re not your mother!. You’ll notice that “Take out the trash” isn’t on this list. Did you do it? No? You’re hopeless!

35. That picture on the wall in the living room… No, the other one… Do the world a favor. Burn it.

36. You listen to Rush Limbaugh? Throw out all of your radios.

37. Go out on the front porch, turn around, step back inside, and begin grabbing objects one by one as you encounter them. Carry or push each one to the door and chuck it out onto the porch… Jeez, you’re doing it! I was just kidding. You really are impossible.

Florida woman, 81, arrested for feeding bears lots of dog food

[Headline, Huffington Post]

Feed a bear a can of dog food for lunch and the bear is hungry again at dinnertime.

Teach a bear to hunt down, kill, and eat a dog and the bear… well, it’s still hungry again at dinnertime.

But you don’t have to keep opening cans of dog food for it! The bear is self-sufficient! It can go out and kill a dog and eat it without you picking up a can opener. Is that so hard to understand?

But look. Once all the dogs are gone, all you’ve got left is cans of dog food. And a lot of hungry bears. If you don’t feed the bears, because they can’t open the cans for themselves, what with having paws instead of hands, whom do you think the bears are going to eat next? People! When my electric can opener broke, I was damned lucky to come out of it alive!

This all started when the highway patrol pulled me over with a truckload of dogs.

“Do you need all those dogs?” said the patrolman.

“Does a bear poop in the woods?” I said.

You see, the whole misunderstanding came about because of the ambiguity inherent in the words “dog food.” After my close calls with the cans, I decided to eliminate the middleman and just give the bears dog food, i.e., food made out of dogs, i.e., what I said above. Only, when the dog population waned, I had to start trucking them in.

This seemed easier than teaching the gators to eat the bears.

While in the pokey, I did figure out how to handle this bear situation. It’s so simple! Teach the bears to open the cans of dog food!

If you’ve ever watched the My Little Pony shows, you know that animals without hands can still manipulate just about anything. Flutterfly and Pinkie Pie always use a toothbrush at bedtime, for example. I’ve seen them do it. They hold the brush with their little hooves somehow.

Also, when you’re planning to live with the bears (not the Care Bears, ha ha!): get married, so that if you do run into a situation where the bears are going to eat a human, you’ll have one handy.

Police: Spy Likely Died Naked In Gym Bag By Accident

My husband? Yes, he was a spy. He loved his country, enough to sneak around and snitch on folks like a rat. That’s how patriotism has got to be sometimes. Like that time when I was in the bathroom trying to… Never mind. Suffice it to say, my husband was a spy 24×7.

When he first became homeless, after I forgot my own love of country and lost my head and kicked him out of the house, he lived in a cardboard box in the back yard. Outside the bathroom window, now that I think of it. A nice big cardboard box.

You see where I’m going with this.

Fact: The gym bag was waterproof. Important during the rainy season.

Fact: My husband, technically, wasn’t naked, as he had one of my merry widows wrapped around him, though not fastened.

Should you try to make coffee or fry an egg in a gym bag? In retrospect, no. Wait for the rain to stop and build a little campfire in the dog run. Begging at the back door won’t do any good, storm or no storm. And move the damn bag away from the down spouts. Show some common sense.

Plus, anyone who tries to climb a ladder while in a gym bag, to peek in a window during a raging storm, deserves whatever befalls him.

Fact: The old scarring on his body was, yes, caused by accidents, him being a clumsy guy, though wait, the big one on his forehead was another example of me being unpatriotic.

Fiction: Drago and Dajbog (our pit bulls) would not attack a man for taking their food. Well, yes they would, but probably not my husband. The wounds seemed too deep and ragged to be inflicted by squirrel or skunk, but a raccoon could have done it. As for an opossum, I don’t know.

Was I responsible for my husband’s death in any way? No. But just in some cosmic case I need to make restitution, I’ve signed up for a yoga class at Gold’s and I’m going to carry my leotard to it in the gym bag, once the bag is released by the police and thoroughly cleaned.

Dog Brings Home Human Leg

Milojica is a black flat-coated retriever. Last summer I trained him for a month to find and retrieve wallets. No luck. Now he brings home a leg.

I tossed the leg in the freezer in the garage and posted an item on craigslist. Nobody wanted the limb, not even, evidently, its owner.

It’s a male leg, or that of an exceptionally hirsute, muscular female. No polish on the nails. A little lint between the toes. (The leg has a foot on one end.)

There is a small tattoo above the ankle – two Chinese characters, taken together meaning “Huizhou tamale.”

Next day I took the leg out of the freezer, let it thaw, and had Milojica sniff it once or twice. Between his nose and bringing the thing home in his mouth in the first place, he had to have its scent firmly embossed upon his canine brain. I led him out the front gate, aimed him down the road, and said “Fetch.” Slapped his rump to get him going. He sped away, down the street and into the woods.

“Will he bring back the other one?” said my daughter Jasna.

I shrugged. While we waited, I went inside and posted a picture of the leg on Facebook. Friends registered many Likes (trolling spam) but no Wants. Well, one want, but for totally inappropriate reasons.

On Twitter I posted “What to do with my leg?” As I have no followers, no one responded.

Milojica returned empty-mouthed. He trotted into the open garage and sat down whining in front of the freezer.

“That is not your personal chew toy,” I said.

“Aw, Dad, please?” said my son Javor.

“We don’t let the cats toy with the birds they catch,” I said. “This is the same thing.”

“Well, can we play with it?” Jasna said.

“No you cannot,” I said. “Stay out of the freezer or I’ll give you a good thrashing.”

In the dark of night, though, with Milojica at my side, I took out the leg myself, and warmed it with a hair dryer. I can’t say why, but I had sentimental feelings for it. Perhaps it reminded me of my father’s leg. Or poor Yorick’s.

The leg went all the way up, but stopped just before it would have got, you know, weird.

6 Unusual Ways To Clean Your Toilet

I don’t have even one unusual way to clean your toilet, but I will by the end of this article.

We’re not talking about the toilet in Trainspotting here. Just a normal day-to-day toilet, like the one(s) in your house.

By a “clean” toilet, I mean one that you look at and don’t see anything adhering to its interior porcelain. Enough said.

Why would you want an unusual way to clean your toilet? I don’t know and I don’t want to know. I’m getting a nickel a word and syndication in the Far East, where toilets are different than in the U.S.

Having said that, I’m giving myself sixty seconds – no, two minutes – to think of unusual ways to clean your commode. Six of them, or more, or less.

Setting the timer… and I’m off:

1. Hire a weird guy.

2. Use your toilet as an aquarium.

3. Eat no solid food.

4. Poop directly into your compost pile.

5. Hire one of those guys on the corner down by Home Depot to clean it.

6. Use baking soda. Or baking powder. Isn’t that usually the ticket for chores in the kitchen and bathroom?

7. Visit your neighbor every morning, “for coffee.”

8. Clean your toilet once and for all, and henceforth do your business at work. You’ll get points for coming in every weekend.