Site Meter and the kindness of strangers.

So since I have nothing else to post about right now, I've decided once again to let Site Meter be my guide. I've culled the best searches for the last couple of weeks, and in the space of ten minutes, wrote the first things that came to mind. If it's sub-par, well...that's the way it goes. Everyone is allowed an off day once in a while. So without further ado, I present:

Fantastic Google Searches That Somehow Led People To My Site

how do I know if I've lost a tampon? - I need more information before I can help you. For instance, I need to know if you think you lost it on the inside, or if you think you lost it on the outside. Obviously, one situation is a lot easier to assist with than the other. If you've lost it on the inside, you could quite possibly require the help of a medical professional or a really close friend. In either case they will probably need rubber gloves, a headlamp and a pair of tongs to find it. If you've lost it on the outside, just listen for the sound of the people in the mall puking when you walk by. Carefully watch where they point, and follow their fingers. You should find it quite easily.

Wide Labia - Luckily, this is no longer a problem for you. I have contacted a vehicle sign manufacturer, and they are now producing these in quantity:

Demand has been heavy, so if they're out of stock don't be surprised. Just backorder it and tell'em Johnny sent you. (I'm making a killing on these things.)

what happens if I leave a hernia? - Most of the time, it will follow you, even if you have a restraining order against it. Hernias tend to be clingy and quite needy - they don't do well on their own. And once you finally do get rid of them, they have a 20% chance of coming back when you least expect it. At least that's what my doctor told me 10 years ago. So far so good.

how to wear a butt plug - There are many, many ways to wear a buttplug. Wait, no there isn't. It's a BUTT PLUG. In other words, A PLUG. For your BUTT. YOU SHOVE IT IN YOUR BUTT to PLUG IT. I'm not sure I'm helping you at all here, but if not, my advice is to kill yourself because you clearly don't know your ass from...well, anything really.

I hate it when you stare at me when i type... it makes me want to shoot you in the eyeballs. -- Holy crap, I must have been sleep-surfing and found my own blog. I have no idea what it is with people who like to read your screen over your shoulder, but they drive me insane, whether or not I'm actually typing at the time.

what makes a good rapper? - Let's see. All available information points to:

1. Street cred. (This can be in the form of bullet wound scars, doing time, wearing a kevlar vest, being arrested for unlawful possession/and or usage of a firearm, being arrested for unlawful possession/and or usage of drugs, being arrested for unlawful possession/and or usage of an underage girl.)

2. An ability to form nonsense words, and mangle actual words into forms never before heard by man.

3. A good sense of rhythm and timing.

4. Bling.

5. The ability to run quickly away from the po po while not tripping over the crotch of your own pants.

6. A violent disposition.

7. A sense of humor so you don't hunt down Johnny Virgil and shoot him in the face.

how to fuck sandra lee - I suggest starting with a good stalking. Once she is aware that she has an actual fan, you should have no problem after that. Of course, doing it on the kitchen counter will probably get old, but....

why does my septic tank stink? - Hey. Genius. Yeah, you. Come closer. You might not know this, but that tank? It's full of 3-5 year old shit. Take that little clue and run with it.

can doctors check for hernia by grabbing your balls and asking you to cough?- If you are in prison, then yes. Yes they can. People in prison can also call themselves anything they want. "Doctor" for instance.

just ordinary tits - Here is a weary soldier in the war on unnatural porn. All he wants, by god, is just ordinary tits. Instead, he finds page after page of artificially enhanced globes that defy gravity. Just ordinary tits. Is that too much to ask? Apparently, it is, since you ended up on my blog.

stuffed Lorax - You know, I've been to Suess's restaurant, and the stuffed Lorax is fan-foreskin-tastic. It melts in your mouth like filet of North-going Zax, and I am not even kidding.

Nut sack man is wanting my beautiful nut sack, I am scarred, I always watch over my back and see that he is there, Taunting me with a big knife, I know that he is not playin. - I have no advice to give except this: Run. Run from the nut sack man as if your nut sack depended on it --because it does, my friend. It does.

Italian men who look like women - I think you have a far, far better chance of finding Italian women who look like men. Just sayin'.

Yeah, so I didn't even bother to reorder them for comedic effect. Take that.


Mailboxes, Etc.

As most of you know, I live a little bit in the sticks. To set the stage, here's a picture of our post office:

There is no mail truck. The mail carrier drives around in a white 1977 chevy station wagon with "U.S. Mail" painted on the side -- in black paint. By hand. With a brush.

Given this level of commitment from the Federal Government, you can imagine that there isn't much in the way of regulations regarding the kind of mail receptacle you need to have at the end of whatever it is you call your driveway.

I took my camera to work one day, and on the way home, I took some pictures. These mailboxes are all within about 2 miles of my house.

First, let's start with my own:

It's old and rusty and loose (like me) and for some reason it looks like it took a straight-down shotgun blast to the head. The empty metal rings contained flowerpots sometime around 2002, but they've been barren ever since they filled with water, froze solid, then fell apart that winter. I am fairly certain that the ceramic shards are still on the ground underneath the ring, and years from now some archaeologist will be able to determine that the people who inhabited these lands were cheap and bought flowerpots at Walmart. All in all, though, it's a pretty bland specimen.

Down the street from me, you'll see the ever-popular milk jug mailbox holder:

There has to be at least 5 of these in a 3 mile radius from my house. This was the hip new thing sometime back in the late 70's I think -- I remember my mother looking all over hell for one of these stupid things. I still have no idea why. The only saving grace here is that it's not actually in the ground. That way, when the snowplow knocks it into next week, you can just stand it up again like the postal weeble that it is, and not have to worry about digging holes and replacing poles. These are also fun to knock over with baseball bats. I am basing this information on the sheer number of times I've seen this thing tipped over on my way to work.

The next one on my list is this one:

Coincidentally, it looks almost exactly like a smaller version of the trailer that it sits in front of, except I think that it has more windows, and the roof is in better shape. If it had wheels underneath, it would be perfect.

This next one raises an interesting question:

Should your mailbox be nicer than your actual house? I think that if I had to look at this every day as I pulled in the driveway, it would just fill me with bitter disappointment at the suckiness of my life. I would keep wishing I could somehow make myself really small and just move into my mailbox.

I find this next one a little bit of a mystery:

I figure that instead of buying a 15 dollar mailbox post, Mr. Mason decided to build a solid brick mailbox tower and then perch his mailbox atop this pedestal of fine workmanship. Somewhere along the line, however, I think Mr. Mason moved out and Mr. Steals-Scraps-From-Construction-Sites moved in. When the mortar finally started to break down, instead of buying a bag of mortar and fixing it up, he instead decided to just nail some pressboard and 1x4's around it in an attempt to keep it from toppling to the ground. So far so good, Mr. SSFCS. Six years and counting. You go.

This guy impressed me:

Whoever lives here obviously decided that he was going to put his mailbox up ONCE and never again. After coming to this conclusion, he ordered a telephone pole, tuned up his Stihl and went to work. After a few quick cuts with the saw, he buried the post 6 feet in the ground. God help the driver of the snowplow if he hits it, because he's going to be very surprised as he finds himself sailing head-first through the windshield of his truck.

I still marvel at this next one every time I drive by:

I am pretty sure this just broke off and fell into his yard one day back when the telegraph was still the best way to converse over long distances, and he just decided to strip the wires off, stick it in the ground and hang his mailbox off of it. I especially like the homemade L brackets and the fact that he went out of his way to hand-decorate it with a floral motif, because that really ties things together. The cherry on this particular sundae? The last name written in olde english script. Nice touch, Samuel Morse.

Last, but not least, we have this fantastic creation:

There are a few things I can deduce from this fine specimen.

The guy obviously loves golf, and is also probably single. There is absolutely No Fucking Way that any wife would let their husband put this at the end of the driveway, even if they live out in the sticks. Not happening. I can also tell you this: Every single time I drive by, I wish to god I had a giant five iron.

I'd still probably hit it into the woods, 5-putt that bitch and end up with a triple bogey, but it would be totally worth it.


The Truth Shall Set Me Free.

Hypothetical question: Say you're sitting at work with your iPod on shuffle, and someone comes up to your desk to ask you a work question. When you pull your earbuds out they say, "So what are you listening to?" and the answer to the question, at that exact moment, happens to be a sappy love song from your childhood called "I'd Really Love to See You Tonight" by England Dan and John Ford Coley -- do you admit this?

I think I muttered something about OK Go's new CD and then quickly changed the subject, because I'm not talkin' bout my linen.*

I feel so ashamed for two reasons. One, for having this song on my iPod. Two, for lying about it. Also, I really do miss your smile.

*yes, that's what I thought it said when I was a kid. I figured maybe she stole his linen and he wanted it back.


Frozen treats

Here's something you don't have happen to you every day. I was driving home minding my own business, when the window to the car in front of me opens. Some sort of giant dog sticks his head out the window. I laugh, because the dog is monstrous. Like a Marmaduke kind of dog, except being a real dog he was much funnier than the one depicted in the comic strip. I don't know how this dog wasn't freezing his giant marmaduke face off.

Everything is fine for a bit, and then I suddenly realize that my windshield is being pelted by something. Big gobs of somethng foamy and wet. This giant dog is foaming at the mouth, slobbering, whatever you want to call it -- and it is whipping backwards from the dog to my windshield. When it hits, it starts to freeze. I make the split-second decision to turn on the wipers -- which, in retrospect, was the absolute worst thing I could have done. The wipers proceeded to smear dog spit from one end of my windshield to another, causing it to freeze instantaneously. Or maybe it just dried out. I wasn't entirely sure, but it was pretty effing disgusting.

To top it off, I was completely out of washer fluid. So I had to drive almost all the way home peering through frozen dog spit. Good times.

A friendly reminder from Johnny Virgil

So this sign went up in the men's room a while ago:

I've been wanting to post about it, but I was a little hesitant about just walking into the bathroom with my camera and snapping random pictures. Luckily for you all, I finally found an opportunity since almost everyone in the Northeast was working from home for the last day or so.

Now, there are several things here worth mentioning, the first of which is the improbability that someone would actually need directions on how to wash their hands.

Secondly, the people who generally DO wash their hands are pretty good at it. It's the people who don't wash their hands who are at issue here. Maybe it's just me, but I figure that if you are in too much of a hurry to wash, you are definitely not going to read this 300 word missive on handwashing technique. I think a giant sign that says "WASH YOUR EFFING HANDS, YOU SLOB!" would probably work better on the non-handwashing folks, who, let's face it, are the ones that concern us all.

Assuming that someone actually does stop to read the sign, I'm thinking that some of this is pretty obvious.

Let's take a look.

Bullet one -- wet hands with clean, warm, running water and apply soap. Let me ask you this: Where would you actually get dirty, cold, non-running water? There is only one obvious answer to this question, and if you're dipping your hands in there it better be because you just kerplunked your pager or cell phone. Even then, you're probably better off just flushing it and cutting your losses.

Bullet two -- rub hands together to make a lather. You know what? Just the other day, I walked in on a guy with soap goo all over his hands, just standing there dripping goo all over the floor. You wouldn't believe how thankful he was when I told him to rub his hands together. He told me that for his entire life he had never gotten any lather and could never figure out why.

Bullet three -- wash all hand surfaces for 20 seconds. (Imagine singing 'Happy Birthday' to a friend twice.) Two things here. First, I wasn't sure if these two statements were connected at all. Should I count to twenty as I wash, and then imagine myself standing in front of a cake, wearing a pointy hat, and singing the happy birthday song? Twice? Or was I supposed to do these two things simulataneously?

Eventually, because I am a smarty pants, I determined that they intended the length of the birthday song to be a suggested timetable for washing "the hand surfaces." So in order to keep you from counting out loud like some sort of OCD freak, they felt compelled to give you a song idea instead. Unfortunately, they have to pick a song that everyone knows, because telling people to sing the first 20 seconds of the new tune by Red Jumpsuit Apparatus probably wouldn't have cut it. So they tell you to sing Happy Birthday to a friend. Preferably one who was born on this day, the day of the hand washing. Since I find that song a little boring to wash to, I wrote my own somewhat more topical version. Feel free to sing along with me:

Happy birthday to you,
I may have touched poo,
I'm counting the seconds,

'til I shake hands with you!

Bullets 4 and 5 -- Rinse well under running water and dry using an air dryer or paper towel. I am assuming here that again they are trying to dissuade you from rinsing in the toilet bowl, or deciding against not rinsing and drying at all. This one sort of took me by surprise because I routinely just leave the men's room with my hands all lathered up and foamy. After reading this sign, I can say this: From now on I will rinse them well --not in the toilet-- and dry them. Don't judge me. I just didn't know.

Bullet six is just a complete admission of defeat by management and building maintenance. In effect, they are saying, "If you touch anything in this bacterial breeding ground with your bare hands, you are completely insane and deserve whatever festering pestilence you end up with. And for god's sake, please tell me you flushed with your foot."

Personally, based on the amount of absolutely non-necessary ass-stank I am forced to deal with on a regular basis, I think they need one on the inside of the stall door that has a picture of a butt crack on it and a bulleted series of wiping instructions.

Keep 'em Clean, people. And somebody, do me a favor and bring back the "fist bump" greeting so I don't have to shake hands anymore.


New Rule.

I thought of a new rule on my way home from work today, as I drove for close to 20 miles behind someone who apparently had absolutely nowhere to be.

If the back of your car looks anything like this:

You are NOT ALLOWED to go under the speed limit. Ever.

In fact, if you have any numbers at all stuck to your car -- whether it be a sweet Audi or a piece of shit '72 Pontiac -- and these numbers actually belong on the cars of NASCAR drivers living or dead, you are required to go AT LEAST ten miles per hour OVER the speed limit at all times.

To reiterate my point: Even if by some chance a deadly virus killed everyone in the world but the cops and YOU, and their single, all-consuming purpose for living has become repeatedly pulling your sorry ass over, BY GOD YOU WILL DRIVE FASTER THAN THE POSTED LIMIT.

Do you hear me? Good.

Now go home and pull that sticker off your car because you're an embarrassment to NASCAR, and that's a pretty effing hard thing to accomplish.


Come on baby light my fire.

I was driving home last night and saw this:

The things I learn from the driver's seat of my car never cease to amaze me. Completely acceptable alternate spellings of common wirds, for instance.

And I have to say -- they certainly know how to take all the romance out of it with the strict timetable and all. I can only hope that after the early evening 7pm "regular" drill, there is an extra-special drilling of some sort. Maybe after the kids are asleep.

Also, I never knew you could get an emergency drilling by simply dialing 911.

I guess that's good information for all you women to remember just in case that "extra-special" late-night drilling didn't quite do it for you, and you require a strapping young firefighter to roll out his fire hose and quench a smouldering blaze somewhere.