Oh For Pete's Sake

You know that song "High School Never Ends"?  Yeah, it's terrible.

It's also a lie.  I honestly believe that once we reach fifth grade, we just stop maturing.  Sure, there's some boob-growing and lexicon-building after that, but nothing fundamentally changes.

Several grown-ass men in my office are daring each other to eat a beetle found on someone's desk.

You Didn't Find What You Were Looking For. Thank God.

I don't know about you, dear reader.  I worry about you.

Almost every day, I check what search terms bring traffic to this blog.  Frequently it's something like "sad dog" or "possum face" or "bees knees" or "hunger games nazi germany."

Okay.  I see where those are coming from.  I even see what posts those search terms would bring you to.

But every once in a while I get an outlier.

To the person who looked for "hairy ferrets":  Are there hairless ferrets?  Or are you trying to shave your ferret?  That sounds worrisome.  And wiggly.

To the person who came here looking for "hot chick with her mouth open":  What you're looking for is called porn.  This place called the internet is the land of plenty when it comes to porn, so I'm not really certain why you would choose to come to my small, self-depricating blog.  Unless you're talking about me in the summer, when my apartment is 110 degrees and I'm panting in an effort not to expire and sweating like a sweaty thing.  In which case you should know I don't post photos of myself.  And you're still a perv.

To the person who searched for "dear jesus loves everybody's":  Please finish that sentence.  Really.  Come back and let me know in the comments.  I'd really like to know.  You put in the apostrophe, so it can't be a typo.  Dear Jesus loves everybody's what?


(True:  I really hope some of these folks stick around and interesting content, even if it's not what they're looking for.  I try to be open-minded like that.  And to all you weird seach term-ers:  I wish you well and hope you find what you're looking for.  Just not here.  Because that shit's just bizarre.)

This is the best news title ever...

"Drunk Man Assaults Stormtrooper, Ghostbuster On Free Comic Book Day, Gets Tased, Arrested By Police"

That's from Geekologie, which is pretty much where all my news comes from.

Gawker also has an article, plus this super-amazing ultra-awesome pic:

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This is why I love the Internet.


(True:  You should tell me when something awesome happens on the Internet.  You can find me, right over there, to the right.  --->)

(True:  80% of adults have trouble with left and right.  So I've provided you a helpful arrow!  not that I'm assuming my readers would necessarily be in the 80%.  You're definitely in the 20% just because you're here.)

Pinterest, Don't Ever Change.

Pinterest is interesting.

In the last ten minutes, I've been introduced to a Batman Snuggie, a solar-powered bonsai tree, and someone in an absolutely ginormous panda costume being shoved through a too-small train car door by several police officers.

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(True:  I may want two of those things.  Guess which?)

You don't get it, and that makes it funnier. Because I am smart and a terrible human being.

Apparently, I have a somewhat, and occasionally, dry sense of humor.  This causes a fair bit of confusion for the people around me.

Some years ago, while prepping for an estate sale at my grandparents' house, one of the auctioneers showed me a large metal hoop and asked me if I knew what it was.

"Of course," I replied.  "It's clearly a thing."

She thought I couldn't think of the word and felt sorry for me.

And while most of the time I'm pretty excitable and freely use hyperbole to add color to my tales, sometimes the dry side of me kicks in and I employ a litotes (the opposite of hyperbole) or two.  This underwhelming technique still manages to go over a lot of heads.

So when a friend surprised me with beer and a movie I really wanted to see, my response was, "Oh, hey.  That's kind of cool, I guess."

Basically, my sense of humor makes people uncomfortable.

This makes my sense of humor better than yours.

FYI.


(True:  I also really like puns.  Here's my favorite joke:  Two fish are in a tank.  The one on the left goes, "How do I drive this thing?"  People laugh every time.  They can't help it.)

If You've Ruined My French Fries, I Will Never Forgive You

Dude.

Someone found my blog for searching for the "consummation of potatoes in 2013."

I don't think I've ever hoped so fervently that a word did not mean what someone thought it meant.  Or is this a thing?  Like furries, but with root vegetables?

And how did that search phrase bring them here?!

Clearly, my blog has a niche readership.

I worry about you people sometimes.

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(True:  I am trying really hard to not judge you right now.)

Fast Times at a School That Would Probably Not Prefer to Be Associated With This Blog

A good friend of mine from high school is having a baby in the not-too-distant future (ha, what else could it be?  Twenty years?), and it's got me remembering stuff.  So, join me on a walk down memory lane--if you dare.

I went to private high school.  Most of the students boarded, but there were a few of us "day students" who lived close enough to not have to live on campus.  We had our own lounge, and off that lounge was a small glass room nicknamed "the cubicle," which was just down the hall from the locker rooms assigned to the day students.  The cubicle had enough room for about four people comfortably, but we usually crammed about eight in there.  That's the boring part.

The interesting stuff is what we witnessed, safe on our side of the glass.  We saw break ups, make-ups, and make-outs.  We saw drama on a level that just isn't possible anywhere but a high school where most of the students live together (with teachers!) with no access to cars.

On one memorable occasion, however, the drama breached our safety glass.

A teacher stormed down the hall, coming from the boys' locker room, and slammed open the cubicle door.

"Who has been misusing their genitalia?!"

I honestly don't recall a single other time when all of us were simultaneously silent.  Cue astonishment and absolute confusion.

Eventually we figured it out:  someone in the boy's room missed the urinal.  Which was disgusting, but not nearly as bad as we had originally assumed.  Even better, none of us were guilty of the transgression--not this one, anyway.

But I do remember thinking, This is high school.  Those of us who aren't wish we were.


(True:  It was a special sort of high school I went to.  After I graduated and was legal to drink, I got conned into playing poker with my old high school teachers.  They got me drunk and won away all my money.  But I got an A for effort.)

Well, That's Just Embarrassing...

I work in the commercial lighting industry.  Friday, I quoted this fixture, and the photo they used to market it, well, I'd post it here, but it's probably NSFW.

That's right--a website I frequently use for work is not safe for work.

But here's the real mystery--is that photo proof that Spiderman is a hipster with a little too much affection for his web?

And who the hell thought, You know what will sell this light fixture?  A skinny, hairy, naked guy in the fetal position.


(True:  In a testament to how awesome my supervisor is, when she saw the web page I'd accidentally-on-purpose pulled up, she laughed and called over the rest of the department to come see.)

Ads, Schmads.

I do not click on the ads on my blog.  That would be click fraud, and anyone with hands as soft as mine really shouldn't be spending any time in the Big House.

But, I do like to check out what my adbot thinks makes sense.  Sometimes, it doesn't:

I'm sure it's a very nice family.  But I sort of resent the ad's attempt to look like a personal photo of mine.  I dress way better than that.  And my hair is better, too.  Sometimes.



After my recent (panicked) musings (pleas for help) regarding soda, it's only natural that I'd get some ads targeting other caffeine fiends.

But really, adbot?  This?

Ad reads:  "Discover how soda in moderation can be a part of your diet."

I have a few issues with this.  First--who said I was on a diet?  Are you calling me fat, adbot?  You are a jerk adbot, and I don't like you anymore.  You are not invited to my birthday party.  Second, I object to the word "moderation."  That word and my love affair with Mt. Dew do not belong together.  And not in a star-crossed lovers way, either.  In a full-on, everybody-hates-the-Heathers kind of way.  (I'm referring to the movie, not any Heather-named readers.  We're non-nomenist--I just made that word up--here at Five Legs Between Us.)  Third, soda and diets probably don't work too well together, either.  I declare this a "pipe dream" ad.

What weird ads have you seen--here or as you peruse the Internets?  I have the feeling everybody has a story...


(True:  Odd ads aren't limited to my blog.  I changed my Facebook status to "single" some months ago, and ever since, Google has been bombarding me with Russian singles ads.  And lighting ads, because that's what I do for a living.  It's a strange coupling, though, "Hot European Singles Want To Meet You" right next to "30% Off 35W MR16 GU10 Lamps!")

Pinterest Makes Me Hate Everybody

WRONG.  Let's try this again:

• Goodmorning = Good morning.  You clearly are not going for a concise, 140 space text here.  Get it right.
• i = I.  We humans are ego-centric, and the first-person subjective pronoun is capitalized, which I learned in first grade.  I'm so sorry you didn't.
• Makeup = Cosmetics.  Making up is what you do naked after an argument.
• inseperable = incorrect.  Spell shit correctly.
• bestfriend = best friend.  You are still two separate (See what I did there) people.  You can be close, but your cells are not physically bound together.  The term "best friend" works the same way.
• your = you're not intelligent enough to use second-person pronouns correctly.
• people are like "your stillll together = fuck you in so many ways.  If someone is saying something, and you are using a tag such as "they say" or, less-intelligently, "people are like," then use use a comma to separate (See what I did there?) the tag and what is being said.  Just putting in quotation marks implies irony or a lack of truth.  Apparently, people are implying that you as a couple are not, in fact, "stillll together," or are only "stillll together" in a technical (but not a practical) sense.  Also, I don't know of a single word in the English language that uses four consecutive Ls.

The moral:  If you are trying to impress someone, do try not to look illiterate.

These are gift boxes--made from toilet paper rolls.  Because nothing says, "I'm a shitty friend," like giving a gift in a box that's been hanging next to your toilet for a week.  (Except maybe using a tampon box instead.  But that says more, "I'm a bloody awful friend," to me, and less, "I'm a shitty friend."

Yeah.  Fuck you, too.

I'm sure she'll love that when she grows up and becomes the man she always felt she was meant to be and gets married in a tux.  Also, who the hell is supposed to do that much planning? 

Ah, yes, the ubiquitous hipster version of the "Hang in there!" kitten motivational poster.  Shoot me now.



And finally:

• Braids and other hair styles that are touted to be "easy."
• Reasons to be fit.
• Recipes with six ingredients I've never even heard of requiring a kitchen mixer technical know-how equivalent to running the International Space Station.
• Bridal boards.
• Outfits.
• Anything DIY.

Are you on Pinterest?  Do you also have a love/hate relationship?


(True:  You can find me on Pinterest here.)

Sources:
http://pinterest.com/pin/74098356340133965/
http://pinterest.com/pin/18084835974700895/
http://pinterest.com/pin/125749014566546699/
http://pinterest.com/pin/246431410831140505/
http://pinterest.com/pin/66991113178229741/

If the World Ends, It's Probably My Fault

You know how the Doctor always has a companion?  Keep that in mind.

I was at the store, waiting patiently in line to purchase my items.  There was a man chatting in front of me, and it was unclear whether he was in line.  I figured, no big deal, either he'll move forward with the line, or he won't and I can step up then.  The woman behind me did not agree.

"Can you move up already?" she asked.

"I think he's in line," I said politely, continuing to wait.  A few moments pass.

"Well, I guess because I asked, you're not going to move up, then.  Bitch."

Everyone who has been waiting patiently turns to stare at her, because she's clearly missed her medication.  A passing employee opened their register just for her, because this woman seriously looked ready to slug me. 

But I've figured it out.  If I had interrupted the man's conversation and asked if he was in line, explaining that I had to interrupt because if I could move up about a foot and a half, the space-time continuum would bend, making time go faster, so the woman behind me could buy her cheetah print press-on nails in less time and therefore meet the Doctor back at the TARDIS in time to save the world from alien invasion.

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And now, we're all probably going to be infested by alien/plant/parasites and leafy fronds are going to grow out of our eyesockets, and it's all my fault.

Sorry about that.


(True:  If I had the opportunity to time travel, I'd take a lot more naps.)

NOT How I Prefer to Meet People

I saw Magic Mike with some girlfriends yesterday.  Not because it looked like a good movie, of course, but because it looked like a good-looking movie.  I'll admit it:  I like a pretty shirtless man.  I also discovered that seeing a man in a thong makes me giggle like a twelve-year-old.  Especially when there are sock garters involved.

But I think what really made this movie-going experience memorable is what happened after.  The very instant the credits started rolling, the woman two seats down jumped up and rushed out of the aisle.  This normally wouldn't be any big deal, but she was in such a hurry that when I took .3 seconds to reach down and try to grab my purse off the floor and out of her way, she decided to climb over my head instead of waiting.  This struck me as a little odd, and I gaped and stuttered for a moment after.  At which point, she turned around, looked at me like I was crazy, and asked, "Are you all right?"

Honestly.  She had just straddled my head in a movie theater, and she asked what's wrong with me.

Sometimes, my life is so much more interesting than it needs to me.

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(True:  I nicked my armpit shaving this morning.  I'd say it's the worst thing ever, but I had my head straddled by a stranger yesterday, which really puts things into perspective.)

Judge, Jury, and Prescriptioner

Let me start this post by announcing that I am in my late twenties.  I haven't lived under my parents' roof since college, and I have been more or less financially independent since just a bit after that.

Also, my mom is awesome.

Also, periods suck.

Also, I hate my hometown drugstore.

Some years ago, when I did still live with my parents, I sat down with them to discuss the possibility of me going on birth control.  Because, you know, getting your period twice in one month is no fun, and also I'm a huge whore.  (I'm kidding on one of those.  I'll let you guess which.)  My folks, being reasonable and cool, agreed it was a good idea, and we never really talked about it again.

Fast forward to two summers ago.  I am visiting my parents for the weekend and realize I need to renew my prescription.  This is why I use a national chain drugstore--you can pick up your stuff anywhere.  My hair is growing out, and is a weird length where the only way I can get it out of my face is to put it in pigtails.

(This is probably when I should tell you that I look like I'm about twelve.  Especially when I'm in pigtails.)

I ask my mom to swing by Big National Drugstore on our way back from running errands, and of course it's no big deal to her.  She and I walk back to the prescription counter and I give my name and tell the pharmacist, a not-old man, which prescription I need refilled. 

He stares at me.  Then he flicks a glance at my mom.  Then he scowls at me.

"What's your last name again?" he finally asks.

I say it. 

"Can you spell that?"

I spell it, speaking slowly and clearly because I once worked as a receptionist, and hearing letters clearly isn't always as easy as you think.  He continues scowling at me, not typing or writing down my name.

"Can you spell that again?"

I do.

"One more time..."

(This is probably a good time to point out that I do not have a particularly long or difficult last name.  Sure, it's a bit on the Dutch side, but this is my hometown--plenty of other names like it.)

After he asks me to spell my name six times (I wish I were exaggerating), he finally turns to his computer and puts his hands to the keyboard.  He looks at me, waiting.  I spell it one last time. 

Very loudly.

Very slowly.

Very are-you-fucking-kidding-me.

He types.  He pulls up my info.  He sees my age.  He goggles and then finally does his job and starts filling my prescription.

(My mom held me back from throttling him.  Barely.)

Moral of the story:  Work more, judge less.

Asshole.


(True:  This.)

Possum Face! (Or Not.)

You guys.  Today is the first day in more than three weeks that someone didn't find my blog by searching for some variant of "possum face."  Which makes me wonder whether people are searching for other, really ugly people, or whether they just think possum faces are particularly fascinating.  Maybe some marsupial fetishist is out there, collecting photos for their pin-up calendar.

Sadly, though, most phrases bringing people to this site still have to do with weird porn.  It makes me a little uncomfortable to think some of these people might be staying and browsing.  Meh, it's not porn, but I guess it'll do...?

I always imagine these people in really ugly sweaters.

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I am so creeped out right now.

A Very Bad Day

I am having one.

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But not that bad, I guess.  Somehow, I've always found that thinking of my blessings doesn't help a bad day as much as thinking of how absolutely FUBAR someone else's day has been. 


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 My mom must be so proud.

"No man can worship God or love his neighbor on an empty stomach."
~Woodrow Wilson



Back up nort', I had some interesting neighbors.  They lived right above us (us being my roommate Z and me and my old man dog Hans).  They also had a dog, but being too lazy to bring it outside, they simply laid a tarp on the floor of their patio and let it pee there.  Z and I never sat on our own patio--too high a chance of being dripped on.

Ugh.

They did everything loudly.  Arguments, videogames, movies, music, and sex were all conducted at top volume.

So was cooking.  How can cooking be loud, you ask?  Good question.

Early one summer evening it began.  The incessant pounding from above.  It sounded just like a hammer hitting something only sort-of solid.  After a moment's worry that one of my neighbors was in the process of murdering or dismembering the other, I decided at least that would half the noise and tuned out.  After about an hour, though, other neighbors started getting irritated.  Every so often, I heard someone pounding on the upstairs neighbors' door, asking them to keep it down.  Some of them just shouted it through the walls.  It was a classy joint like that.

After about four ignored pleas for silence, I hear the upstairs neighbor dude shout from his kitchen.

"Shut up!  I'm making fucking smashed potatoes, all right?"


(True:  Some of Mr. Roger's sweaters are at the Smithsonian.)

Run for Your Lives!

Good God, you guys, this.  This:

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I saw this at Deals (a grown-up version of the Dollar Tree), and I've got a picture of my own on my phone that I took in thrilled horror.  I mean, look at it!  This is meant for children!

I'm pretty sure it's an undead, zombie-blue, buck-toothed horse with a messed up tail and a thirst for blood fresh from the jugular of your child.  I'm calling it Tweedle-Dead.


(True:  Anthropomorphic pillows freak me out.)

Even Sunny is in a rush to get her people out of the path of that monstrosity.