So the other day I was reading this article about poop and thongs (it’s my way) when a line of text reached out and grabbed me:
Wipe thoroughly but gently. Too much friction may cause microtears, which are more prone to infection if fecal matter gets inside them.
If you’re anything like me (and you’re probably not) your first reaction might be, “Hey, motherfucker! That’s some goddamned useful information.”
My lot in life is to be behind the times and bring up the rear.
Now I understand as well as the next person that in our fear-based taboo-driven culture we’re supposed to figure out most valuable life knowledge via “self-exploration.” But where do we draw the line? Perchance maybe this nugget of wisdom should have risen to the level of being lore that might have been passed on?
Young people have to rely on adults to share the true mysteries of life. We simply aren’t born with the ability to glean it all on our own.
Where adults fail, education is supposed to finish the job. Yet, somehow, none of my classes ever got around to a topic like this. Not health class. Not home economics. Not wood shop. Not even my favorite class, Septics 201.
Now, in my twilight hours, I’m forced to rely on a snarky internet post to finally explain the facts of life when, really, it’s information that should have been brought to my attention yesterday. Only now, at the end, do I finally understand.
I can’t help but wonder what else I don’t know.
The random number generator suggested this post. I got a kick out of reading it again. From time to time I pause to think about my old boss and his sausage-like fingers. I often wonder if he’s sliced them up yet to feed the poor? Somehow I doubt it. I won’t hold my breath.
Originally posted on Shouts from the Abyss:
A wealthy man was generously offering his counsel to a poor man. He said, “The truth of the matter is this: Money can’t buy you love.”
The dispensing of wisdom was briefly interrupted by the arrival of a UPS delivery driver. “Ah. If you’ll excuse me, I see my daily delivery of useless plastic consumeristic widgets made in China has arrived. A box! A box! Oh goodie, a box!”
Spittle flew from jiggly jowls as the man lurched for his box cutter and sliced open the cardboard like a battlefield surgeon. There wasn’t even time for triage. In moments he held the widgets up before his eyes, which briefly glazed over as various pleasure centers in his brain were involuntarily activated, then in a few mere seconds he carelessly tossed the items aside. He was already bored with them.
“Now then, where were we? Ah yes, true happiness must come…
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Don’t you love it when those with power form their own “rights group” to protest the long-overdue system correction? My reblog of the week is a sadly funny take on why men kept women from having those oh-so-dangerous careers.
Originally posted on we hunted the mammoth:
Once upon a time, you may recall, women were denied the right to vote, couldn’t own property, were prevented from having careers of their own. Well, it turns out that all of these pesky “restrictions” weren’t really restrictions at all! They were protections that men provided women out of the goodness of their hearts. Men protected women from the terrible burdens of voting and property-owning and so forth, because they just cared about women so much.
Or at least that’s what a lot of Men’s Rights Activists seem to think, judging from this highly edifying discussion in the Men’s Rights subreddit.
It wasn’t just sierranevadamike who was “blown away” by rogersmith25’s comment: the Men’s Rights mods were so impressed that they reposted it and pinned it as the top post in their subreddit.
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Al Dente? Who the hell is he? LOL! No, he’s not a person. He’s a thing. Al dente is actually Italian. It means “this bites.” (Disclaimer: This is a guess. I was too lazy to google. –Ed.)
In honor of my wife asking me to think about what I’ve learned during ten years of marriage (our anniversary is next week) I thought really hard and remembered spaghetti.
That’s using the old noodle!
My wife, although technically not a “chef,” is nonetheless extremely accomplished and talented in the kitchen. She really knows how to cook. Naturally this is both good and bad. Good in the sense that there are a lot of good eats. Bad in the sense that every meal dirties every pot, pan and kitchen implement in the house.
It’s bad in one other small way. It’s such a slight of a trifle that it’s almost not worth mentioning. Almost.
Every single thing I do is wrong. In the kitchen, I mean.
So there I was this one time making spaghetti. That means I had dumped some packaged noodles in a pot of boiling water. To me that’s “cooking.”
As was often my wont, when the timer went off I picked up the pot and dumped the noodles in a colander in the sink.
My wife saw. “What the hell are you doing?” she yelled.
Oh shit. Little Tommy in trouble.
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