This morning I saw two wild turkeys standing on the front step of a local beauty salon, as if waiting patiently for it to open.
It wasn't quite as worrisome as when I saw them standing in the parking lot of "Ready Meats."
Perhaps they realized their narrow escape from death and are now seeking self-improvement. They want to live, dammit! LIVE!!
And that starts with some highlights.
Random text from my sister the other day: If you had a band of Mr. Potato Heads, what would you call it?
My text back: It would either be a religious revival group called the Idaholy Rollers whose hit single is "Out of the Dirt," or a reggae band called Baked and Fried.
I then asked my mom the same question. Evidently her secret love of hip-hop also applies to imaginary food-based music, because she went with Spuds N' Thugs.
Either way, I think we'd sell out the garden.
#1. Wailed by a gangsta on his cell phone in City Center: "I ain't gonna get all gooey an' fuckin' sentimental . . . nah . . . nah . . . Mom! . . . She just talks too much shit!"
(He's got 99 problems but his moms ain't one.)
#2. Wailed by a crusty old man on Hennepin who was ogling young girls: "Where were all you beautiful ladies when I had hair?!"
(Sir, I'm no mathematician, but I'm going to go with: in utero.)
A few years ago, my friend Linnea traveled in India and treated us all to a hilarious blog. What follows is one of her posts that I specifically saved for future enjoyment. And now, because she is brilliant and because I think this account deserves the widest audience possible, I pass it along to you.
I went to a movie in McLoud Ganj Friday night. I saw the DaVinci Code. Perhaps you are imagining your own experience at your local cinema? Perhaps you also saw the DaVinci Code? Though we may have seen the same movie, it is unlikely that there are any additional similarities in our experience. First, the theater had the look and feel of the inside of a bus - most likely because the theater’s seats came from a bus. I believe there were still seat belts attached to some. There were only about 30 seats in the theater and no screen. The movie was shown on a large television. Barb – not exaggerating – it was half the size of yours. If you could haul that thing to India, you could set up shop. It might not be the most lucrative endeavor however as I only paid 30 rupees for my ticket (less than a dollar). You may be shocked to learn that the version of the film I saw was a bootleg – it was grainy, a bit off center and the opening credits were in Russian. Though the film is in English it was shown with English subtitles displayed. It was clear that the subtitles were written by someone for whom English was a second or possibly fifth language. I don’t think a single line of dialog was correctly represented in the subtitles. When Tom Hanks exclaims “it can’t be, a fleur de lis” the subtitles read, “it can’t be, flute is bleeding!” I found myself wishing I couldn’t hear the dialog because it would have been fascinating trying to decode the plot from the subtitles. Knowing the magical “holding grill” people kept talking about was actually the holy grail would have been key. At least, perhaps sensing its importance, they actually attempted to translate that. Unusual words and those with more than two syllables were frequently spelled “….”
I have heard the movie is not good. I can’t really say whether it was good or bad but I can say the version I saw was the funniest movie I have seen in a while.
Saturday evening ended with an encounter with the largest spider I have ever seen. The spider was perched on Sherry’s ceiling. The spider had fangs. The spider had biceps. The spider was flashing gang signs and waving a stick at us. We had encountered the spider earlier that morning and had attempted to capture it but, when poked with a broom, it spewed a bunch of tiny spiders and ran for cover. Oh, the humanity.
There was a fair amount of high pitched squealing and some scurrying in and out of the room (people scurrying, not the spider – the spider was frozen in place on the ceiling) as we discussed a plan to rid our flat of the menace. A vote was taken as to whether this would be a catch and release operation or if the solution to our spider problem would be final. It’s a do-gooder lot, the volunteers, and we’re surrounded by Buddhists monks everywhere we go. Given this it was surprising how narrow the victory was for catch and release. The plan involved a bucket, Elliot, a fellow flatmate, on a chair with aforementioned bucket pressed against the ceiling over the spider and me sliding the cardboard from a board game along the ceiling. Thankfully the plan worked. The spider plopped into the bucket and was rushed outside. It was deposited a safe distance from the house and order was restored.
One morning, a friend of mine took her two boys (let's call them Frick and Frack ... names have been changed to protect the innocent) to the coffee shop with her. It so happened that Frick was potty training at the time.
Shortly after arriving, he approached his mom and told her that he had had an accident. More specifically, that he had dropped a deuce. He didn't exactly put it that way, but it works well for the purpose of this story. She quickly hustled the kids to the bathroom, pulled off her son's pants, and was immediately puzzled. There was nothing there.
It should also be mentioned that, because of the heavy toll on underwear taken by the potty training, my friend had thrown pants on the kid that morning without anything underneath. Was this a bit cavalier, desperate, or just outrageously hopeful? These are the kinds of decisions you make more effectively after coffee.
Anyway, circumstances had combined to beg the question that she then whispered in horror:
"Frick, where's the poop?"
Did she dare to dream that, from this point onward, it would simply evaporate? His reply snapped her back to reality.
"It fell out in the coffee shop."
So she did what any good mother would do, and went looking for it. Midway into her surreptitious investigation, she spied a lonely turd on the floor. And to make matters worse, it already had a footprint in it.
Now, at this point, you're probably thinking, how can this situation take yet another embarrassing turn? I'll leave you with one last sentence: The footprint belonged to Frack.
A friend of mine once told me that she knew someone who worked at a company that rented moving equipment. One day, a guy came in wanting to rent a trailer. The guy behind the counter ran down some specs for him, and then asked what kind of vehicle he drove, since it would determine the maximum trailer size.
"I've got a Goolie," the customer said.
"A what?"
"A Goolie," he repeated.
"I'm . . . not exactly sure what that is."
"Well, it's right outside. Take a look if you want."
Confused, the clerk headed out to the parking lot and found a beat-up old car with part of the name worn off. The man drove a Pontiac 6000 LE.
This pic comes courtesy of my friend Amanda and her friendly neighborhood Cub store.
I'm not sure if I should view the labels as a progression in an interesting night, or as an amendment to the five stages of grief. I know only one thing for sure: Aisle 18 is where it's at!
Occasionally, I say something funny. Out loud, I mean, not here in the blog. Sometimes, those comments are well-received ... and sometimes they aren't. Two examples of the latter:
Once, I was in the elevator at the end of the day with my coworker John and another woman. John looked over at the number pad, pointed to the button that read "DH" and asked if I knew where it went. I said no. Then he said, "What do you think DH stands for?" And I said, "Direct to Hell."
In response, I got crickets. Then a tumbleweed blew across the elevator floor.
Another time, a coworker was telling me that the people in her neighborhood have a progressive dinner every fall. The previous year, the theme was Italy, so they had Italian food and wine. For the next event, my coworker suggested they do a Southern theme, or a Loveboat theme, or (my favorite) a 1930's Prohibition theme. So I said, "What are you gonna do for that, get hammered and run from the cops?"
Nothing. Nada.
Ah, well. I amuse myself, and I guess that's what counts.