I’m sure by now everyone is sick of cicadas, right? I know I am.
Ever since they emerged from the pits that spawned them a few weeks ago, I have been eagerly anticipating their departure. I can’t wait for them to crawl back into their respective holes and disappear for several years, just like that weird second-cousin who tries to make it as a street performer and only comes home when someone’s death demands it.
What is up with that, by the way? What kind of creature drills its way to the surface to skulk about only once every 13-17 years? Hellish creatures only comparable to the minions of Satan, that’s what. Not to mention that all they do once they arrive is strip naked, throw very loud, screaming orgy parties and leave a trail of disgusting aftermath in their wake.
Perhaps I’m being a little harsh on the cicadas, but that’s only because I hate them. There is no way to escape them, and God forbid you have to be outside for an extended period of time. If you must venture outside for longer than five minutes, please wear body armor. You will need it. Trust me, fashion a protective suit out of old magazines and duct tape or you will live to regret it.
I learned this the hard way on Saturday whenever I tried to have a yard sale. “Tried” is the key word here because it was not successful in the least. We can attribute this to the fact I looked insane to all passersby because I was chasing after cicadas armed with only a tennis racket and a mouth like a sailor. To be fair, the cicadas started it. I was sitting there, minding my own business, when I began getting pelted by them. And when I say pelted, I am not exaggerating. They were flying into me at full speed, and lemme tell ya….them sons-a-bitches are humongous. It isn’t like when a bunch of little flies decide to land on you. Oh no. Cicadas decide to target you and it feels like some fucker is trying to bounce gravel off your arm fat. I thought for sure a window was going to break from the sheer force of each ricochet.
The big fuckers with wings just kept coming, and this presented a problem for me because I am absolutely terrified of bugs that make loud buzzing sounds. We all know how I feel about bees. Cicadas are even worse because they are the size of my big toe and they have the red eyes of the Devil.
Also, they are apparently attracted to the smell of sunscreen. I don’t believe there is an official study about this or anything, but when the Banana Boat came out, the cicadas decided I looked like a giant blob of deliciousness. Either that, or the smell was so offensive to them that they were trying to murder me.
So that was certainly a dilemma. I could be bombarded with enormous, winged beasts the size of dog turds…or I could roast my pasty ass until the sun turned me into a raw heap of hamburger meat. I decided to brave the bugs, but the journey was not an easy one, my friends. Especially not after one of the cicadas FLEW INTO MY FUCKING HAIR. You want to know how I knew it flew into my hair? Hint: it wasn’t because I felt it try to nest in my bun. IT WAS BECAUSE IT STARTED SCREAMING AT ME.
Yes. That’s right. I was blissfully unaware the demon-spawn was in my hair until I apparently angered it and it let out the most glass-shattering screech I have ever heard. Let me tell you- you have not known fear until you hear RRRREEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH coming from your hair at a decibel that only train whistle can produce. I immediately hopped out of my chair, frantically beat my palms against my scalp and screamed for mercy. RRRREEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.
I’m fairly certain my neighbor thought I was being assaulted because I screamed, “GET THE FUCK OFF ME, WHAT THE FUCK IS YOUR PROBLEM?!” Upon seeing me thrashing my head around and flailing my arms like I was doing a rain dance, he declined to provide me with assistance. Meanwhile, I was running in circles and squealing because the cicada dub step was terrorizing my ear drums.
You know how loud they are, you can hear them from yards away. Imagine one being right behind your ear. Now imagine you have upset it. I would have preferred an air horn at that point. They sound like maracas amped up on methamphetamine at a Skrillex concert. Finally, I was able to free it from my hair and decided that just could absolutely not happen again. So I doused myself with bug spray, hoping it would deter them from coming near me.
It actually worked…for a while. They circled above me like vultures, casting their ominous shadows and screeching at me. I became so desperate I seriously contemplated befriending a bird and making a deal for protection, like one might do in prison.
Once I began this way of thinking, I decided I had lost my damn mind. I don’t know whether it was the heat, or the constant threat of being ambushed by cicadas (or as I like to call them now, meth-maracas), but I resolved to abandon my yard sale and return indoors.
I was almost home-free, but as I was carrying one of the last boxes inside, one of the cicadas, in an act of vengeance, tried to FLY INTO MY EAR. OH MY GOD. CAN YOU IMAGINE? IT TRIED TO FLY INTO MY EAR. I promptly hurled the box of junk into the air and started flailing around so hard it looked like I was overcome with the Spirit. I’m sure people were driving by and thinking there is nothing I want that bad that I am willing to pull into that lady’s driveway.
So yeah. I am impatiently waiting for their grand exit. I look forward to the day when I can mow the grass without feeling like I’m participating in an episode of Fear Factor. I can’t wait to ride the lawnmower near a tree and not have to worry that 15 cicadas will fall into my hair, or that they will leap from the ground onto my sandals because that totally happened the other day and I flung my shoe off so hard it landed in the neighbors fenced-in yard. I had to go to their front door and ask for it back, like a young child might do for a baseball. Except I was a grown woman wearing only one shoe, and the only explanation I could give them was “cicada”.
It’s really only a matter of time before I drive the mower under a tree and a gaggle of them fall into my shirt. And when that happens. everybody needs to watch out because that shirt is coming off in a hurry and so is the bra. I don’t even care. I will drive that lawnmower topless without even thinking twice about it because I am not letting them throw an orgy party in my shirt. Although, it may be a bit awkward when I go to the neighbor’s to get my bra back from his yard.
This is your life before entering the so-called real world, and it is fantastic. Just look at it. The sun is smiling down upon you, the flowers are blooming, there’s a rainbow raccoon dancing to Mambo Number 5 (as illustrated in this crudely drawn picture).
You are living the dream, my friend! Nothing to fear over here!
Now, let’s take a look at your life in the real world:
Ooph…that’s a bit of a change. There’s some serious shit going on over here. First of all, the adorably shy dinosaur has been turned into fuel (sad), the cutesy farm animals are food (sad, but delicious) and I don’t even want to discuss what the mystical unicorn has done to our jazzy raccoon (super sad). Also, it’s raining. Dammit.
As you can see, the real world is pretty terrible. I mean, just LOOK at that unicorn’s death stare! He is clearly angry about something. Anyway, you can avoid this land of depravity and pants-shitting terror by simply refusing to live in the real world. I have no advice on how to do this, but just heed my warning: It really sucks over here.
A few weeks ago, I turned 27. I had an excellent birthday, even though I am one year closer to the big 3-0, which from what I heard, is a milestone in life.
I suppose it is a milestone because it is the ‘official’ mark of adulthood. You are no longer a twenty-something, and people just LOVE to remind you of this. They especially love to remind you to get on with the baby-making because soon your eggs will just shrivel up and die. They wilt like delicate flowers with each passing day.
My uncle was sure to remind me of this on my 27th birthday by declaring, “Hey, you know you better get to having babies soon. You are getting up there in age. Don’t want to wait too long.”
Naturally, I quipped back with something along the lines of, “I have plenty of time.”
To which he responded with, “Not very much.”
Wow. It was like I could literally hear my eggs ticking on a timer.
Although I shrugged it off because he is only my uncle, and let’s face it- he lives to irritate me, I still could not escape the childless shaming that had become suddenly pervasive in my life.
For example, this weekend I was chatting with a family friend who is a mother of two at the age of 29. She, of course, plans to have more children and informed me that she wants to hurry up and have them before she gets any older.
“The older you get, the harder it is,” she explained to me. Then, the inevitable question slipped from her lips: “Are you trying for kids?”
My answer was, of course, no. I’m not “trying” for kids at the moment. I told her we didn’t feel ready for kids yet and we weren’t at that place in our lives where we were prepared to be parents.
“Well, no one ever thinks they are prepared,” she replied. “Everyone always wants to wait for the ‘right time’ but the ‘right time’ will never come. You just have to figure it out as you go.”
I didn’t really consider this stellar advice, but I listened nonetheless.
“You need to have them while you are still young enough,” she went on. “I read statistics on this. With each passing year, your child has a higher percentage of being born with horrible defects.”
I already knew this because I was not raised in an isolated cave where I ate squirrels for breakfast, but I didn’t really understand why she was lecturing me about it whenever I hadn’t even told her when I planned on having children.
“Well, my cousin is 34 and just had her first baby,” I said. “And my mom’s boss is in her forties. She just had her second.”
I thought her eyes were going to pop right out of her head and land in her cookie cake. She looked as though I just told her I pooped on her dashboard.
“That is so dangerous,” she huffed as she rolled her eyes in horror.
“I just don’t know if we want kids yet,” I reiterated.
“Oh, yes you do,” she replied. “To me- that’s what life is all about. Being a mother is the best feeling in the world. I know you guys don’t feel ready, but you should just leave it in God’s hands. Let him decide when you are ready.”
Once again, terrible advice. For me, anyway.
“I can’t imagine not being a mother at my age,” she said, holding her toddler on her hip. “And I know you guys. I know you guys will figure it out.”
At this point, my husband walked up and chimed in with, “But we love to travel! We love nice things!”
He was joking, obviously. We don’t have nice things.
She took him seriously and began to tell us a tale of her cousin who didn’t want children. She was very adamant about it because she was a self-proclaimed “selfish person” and didn’t want a kid bogging down her life. That’s why she and her husband were shocked when she turned up unexpectedly pregnant at the age of 35.
Is she telling us this story because she thinks we are selfish for not wanting children right now? I thought to myself, but I continued to listen.
“She was devastated,” she said. “She did not want to be a mother.”
I expected this to be some sort of uplifting story about how she realized she really did want to be a mother afterall and was overjoyed with love. But it wasn’t.
“Well, the kid is four years old now,” she explained. “And she’s had a real hard time with it all. She is still an incredibly selfish person.”
“Oh, ok…” I replied.
“Yeah. She sees absolutely NO problem with going on a ‘girl’s weekend’ with her friends and leaving her child with her husband!” she exclaimed, expecting me to react in disgust. “And her husband does the same thing!” she said. “He goes off on a trip with his buddies and she and the kid stay home!”
“Well, if it’s just every now and then I guess I don’t see the harm,” I replied.
She stared at me for a moment in solid evaluation. “Well, there is no place that I go that my kids don’t go with me,” she said. “They take vacations together as a couple, but they don’t always take their daughter. That’s just not fair.”
“Well, I think it will be different when she’s older, ya know?” I replied. “I mean, she can’t even remember much right now anyway.”
“VACATIONS ARE SUPPOSED TO BE TAKEN AS A FAMILY!” she declared. “It’s just not a vacation without your kids.”
“Oh,” I said as my husband and I just stared at her awkwardly.
“So you guys better get busy!” she laughed. “Clock’s a ticking.”
Okay, so I should have expected it from a young, stay-at-home mother of two. She is a champion for childbearing and would run a campaign for it if she could. But I can’t even go out to eat without being shamed.
That’s right. Last night, my husband and I went with his family to a hibachi restaurant. You know the drill, the cook picks at the guests, makes jokes, throws shrimp tales at you, etc, etc. Well, our overzealous Japanese chef was a little too eager with the questions. He was overwhelming us with interrogation. It was like dining with The Riddler.
“You two married?” he asked, waiving his spatula at me and my husband. “How old?”
We responded with our ages, 28 and 27.
“Ohh,” he nodded his head. “You have babies?”
We politely shook our heads no.
“NO BABIES!” he exclaimed as he lit fire to the hibachi. “WHY YOU HAVE NO BABIES! You don’t want babies?”
Ok, I was detecting a trend at this point. Apparently, if you answer ‘no’ to that question and you are at least 27 years of age, that means you will never have children. If you ain’t got em now, you ain’t gettin’ em, apparently.
“Mommy and Daddy want grandbabies!” he laughed, pointing at my in-laws. “You need to have babies!”
We are not a couple of stone-faced curmedgeons, so we laughed and went along with the show, but he didn’t relent. Every time he laid a piece of food onto my plate he would say, “Go home, get busy, hee hee hee!” Or he would say to my husband, “Have romantic night, ok?”
I was confused as to why everyone was suddenly so concerned with our lack of desire to procreate. It was like I surpassed the age where it was socially acceptable to NOT be a parent. Of course, several of my friends have children now. Soon, I will be in the minority if I don’t jump on the bandwagon. And my husband and I will be married for three years this October, and people are quick to let us know that is plenty of time to be married without kids. They may as well just say “Stop enjoying each other and your life together and start focusing on making children so that you will not be viewed as a menace to societal acceptance and peace.”
I never said I didn’t want kids, I just don’t want them right now. I feel I still have time, and I want to accomplish some personal goals before I venture into parenthood.
Oh well. Does anyone else hear that clock ticking?
Welcome back, sexy lady (said the imaginary readers I dreamt up just now). Yes, this is my first blog post in over two months, but I have been avidly reading everyone else’s posts on my tiny IPhone screen. So, really, I’ve only been neglecting my own posts.
You see, what I have discovered in the past couple of months is this: a new house + a new job = no time to blog. But, now that things have calmed down a bit, I can go back to pleasing my two faithful readers, one of which is undoubtedly my mother, with my rants and self-deprecating humor. So yay!
Anyway, I need to ease myself back into the world of blogging, so I’ve decided not to make this post about my biological father’s recent announcement of his plans to wed a Filipino woman he met online. That little gem will just have to wait. Instead, I will take this time to reflect upon the search terms that have led people to my blog.
Keep in mind, many of the terms are just your everyday run-of-the-mill words one might expect would lead someone to my blog, such as the phrase what is in crisco or unicorn vans. I wasn’t even surprised when I saw steakhouse explosive diarrhea. These are what I would describe as “normal” search terms and I can see why these terms would lead someone directly to my site. I can even understand why I pooped in the shower or falling off a treadmill may inevitably steer a reader in my direction. These are sort of odd search terms, but they aren’t far-fetched considering the material on this disgrace of a site.
However, how does one end up here from Googling family of lions on LSD? Better yet, why would anyone feel the need to Google that? Is there some sort of epidemic of lion families ingesting LSD of which I am not aware? Was there a documentary about lion cubs who are born unto addict parents and must provide the means to live for themselves because Mama and Papa Lion are too busy trippin’ balls in the Congo to fetch a zebra for them?
Where was I when this aired? I know what I was NOT doing, and that was totally Googling chimps getting hosed and sorry I pooped in your shoe like some people were apparently doing. Someone even searched for rubbing one out and it led them straight to me. That’s not concerning at all.
My favorite, however, was the search term this fat woman let me fuck her fat rolls. First of all, what the actual fuck? And second of all, HOW DID THAT LAND THEM ON MY SITE? I may talk about a lot of messed up topics on this site, but I have never breached that particular line of inappropriateness. If I start divulging that sort of information it means I no longer have any social boundaries whatsoever and everyone should be frightened.
Pinterest can light a crafty fire under anyone’s ass.
Don’t know what to do with all those spare tires strewn about your yard? Pinterest knows!
Need a new headboard but you only have some old wine-corks and a roll of duct tape? No problem!
Want to decorate your house using only paint samples and crap from the street? Sounds good!
Yes, Pinterest is the mecca for home decor tips and artsy fartsy fun. It can be a great resource for someone who is looking to build a greenhouse out of recycled pallets and a hobo’s stolen tarp, but it is also home to disastrous ideas that can only end with a priority story on the 10 o’clock news. So take caution, friends. I wish I would have.
You see, I am a crafty-ass bitch. So naturally, I flock to Pinterest like it’s Tom Hiddleston holding a month’s supply of Toaster Strudels. Most of the time this is great because I enjoy “upcycling” old furniture, making wreaths and putting my energy into crafting instead of bull-whipping the shit out of people. But, I don’t want to talk about work.
Anyway, one of the very popular pins circulating these days involves turning a salvaged window frame into a fabulous picture frame or mirror. Sounds easy enough, right? It pretty much was, except it took a little time to find a salvaged, wooden window than Pinterest had led me to believe. Everyone on Pinterest seemed to have miraculously stumbled upon these windows on the side of the road. The only things I found on the side of the road were McDonald’s cups and dead opossums.
Long story short, I bought a rather large frame from a guy who had several sitting out in his yard. Perhaps he was capitalizing on the latest Pinterest craze and decided to stock up on the stuff. Either way, I was very happy with my window. My hubby and I turned this:
Shabby chic, ammiright?
So anyway, this window-mirror has been mounted in our bedroom since early January. Keep that in mind.
As I was lying in bed the other night, I began to hear a distinct buzzing sound that can only be given off by a flying insect. This, I tell you, is a sure-fire way to get me to panic.
I’m not sure if it is the actual buzzing sound that terrifies me or the suspenseful game of ‘will it sting me or not’ that I get to play each time I hear the noise, but I really don’t like bugs that have the ability to hurt me. It’s a bit embarrassing because I can’t stand for any sort of bee or wasp or other Hell-spawn to get near me, so if one does…well, it ain’t pretty. Once during a staff meeting, a wasp began levitating towards me with that ‘Imma-gonna-getcha’ look and I freaked out. After yelling, “There’s a wasp!” and flipping my chair backwards, I ran out of the conference room swatting at it with my folder while my coworkers looked on in disbelief.
So anyway, hearing the noise in my bedroom didn’t exactly give me the warm and fuzzies. Luckily, my cat swooped into action and tackled the thing to the floor.
“What is that?” I asked my husband who picked it up with a tissue and proceeded to flush it down the toilet.
“Some kind of bee,” he said, as he got into bed and turned on the TV.
Twenty minutes later as I was drifting off to sleep, I heard buzzzzz buzzzzz lingering through the air once more.
“There’s another one in here!” I yelled, as the cat proceeded to go crazy.
“Maybe that other one came back up through the toilet.”
Oh great, just what I needed to hear. After that comment, I wasn’t able to pee without fear that a bee was going to sting my butt…or worse. The good news: nothing came back up from the toilet. The bad news: it was a totally different bee.
I began to worry there was a nest or something in the bedroom, but there wasn’t one to be found. I slept with one eye open that night in case their bee buddies decided to enact vengeance upon me.
The next day, I had nearly forgotten all about my bee-trauma, came home from work and took a hot shower. As I opened the door to the bedroom, I HEARD THE NOISE AGAIN! Then, I saw it. There, on my pillow, was another bee! And then, buzzing in circles above the bed was yet a different bee! And another! And a few more!
I screamed for my husband who started beating them with a shoe. “WHERE ARE THEY COMING FROM?!” he yelled as he swatted them with a flip-flop.
“They all seem to be coming from the dresser area,” I said, praying we wouldn’t move the dresser to find a large bees’ nest attached to it.
“There’s nothing back here,” he said, putting the dresser back.
We both stood glancing around the room, when I heard buzzzzz buzzzzz. Only this time, we saw no bees.
“Oh my God,” my husband said, staring at our window-mirror. “I think they are in the window.”
Yes. Yes they were. I looked at a hole in the window and saw one of their heads poking out at me. We could hear them moving around in there. Come to find out, they were carpenter bees who had made a home in the window and had been hibernating in it since long before I picked it up. The day they made an appearance was the first warm day of the season.
I had been sleeping in the same room as a hive of carpenter bees for nearly 3 months and I had no idea. If you don’t know what carpenter bees look like, here’s a little visual:
LOOK AT ITS MOUTH! LOOK AT IT!
So, lesson be learned fellow Pinteresters: be weary. All that glitters is not gold. And sometimes that salvaged window you picked up from someone’s lawn is full of bees.
Cabin fever can really mess you up. I would know. Last week, we had a freak snow/ice storm that forced us indoors after we were just getting used to the idea of a warm spring. I was salivating at the idea of breaking out my flip flops and sundresses. I was dying to wear anything other than a chunky sweater, and just when I thought I was in the clear- Old Man Winter waltzed right up and kicked down my door like a dirty bitch.
It wouldn’t have been so bad if we hadn’t previously witnessed what seemed like 15 other snowfalls this season. Snow is a magical and beautiful occurrence that can awaken the inner child in even the most stale adults, but when you’ve been surrounded by it for 90 consecutive days it feels less like fun and more like dying. It begins to feel like the snow will not melt until well into June, and only then will someone find you curled up in a blanket next to a window trying to soak up any sunlight you can manage to see. You can braid the hair on your legs, and your skin has become so pale the rescue workers can literally see through you.
But, we can’t control the weather, so we had no choice. Since my husband and I were held up in the house, we decided we didn’t just want to plop our pasty, sun-deprived bodies in front of another marathon of Criminal Minds. Well, mostly I decided this for us because I had been watching WAY too much Criminal Minds for my own good. I was having horrible dreams involving stabbing deaths and stalkers, and I began to grow paranoid that everyone I had ever met was a serial killer.
The guy who works at the deli? Serial killer. The woman who delivers my mail? Serial killer. My trusted and beloved friend of 14 years? Definitely a serial killer.
So, in favor of keeping what remained of my sanity, I opted for doing something a little different with our snowy night. We…drew an activity from our jar! Yes! We have a jar. We are those kind of people. Well, mostly just me. He would be fine with the couch and his IPad.
The jar is full of slivers of paper that contain ideas of things to do when we…well…can’t think of anything to do. Most of them are simple, like getting ice cream or renting a really bad movie for the sake of making fun of it, but some of them are a little more interesting. It’s the luck of the draw, really. However, we were at a disadvantage because we really couldn’t go anywhere due to the ice, so we had to reject any activities that involved leaving the threshold of our home.
Finally, we settled on a few different activities, and one involved blind-folding the person and feeding them food to make them guess what it was. This is a dangerous game, I tell you. If your partner is particularly mischievous you can end of with a spoonful of mayonnaise when you were hoping for yogurt. Luckily, my husband and I don’t hate each other, so we were nice about the items we chose. I know it may sound sexy- the whole sensually feeding a strawberry to your blindfolded lover thing- but, our experience was more like throwing shards of BBQ Sunchips into the mouth of someone who has turned their blindfold into this:
Don’t be alarmed. He decided to make himself look like a cat ninja using only my sleep-mask and a scarf.
Of course, we also danced together, played scrabble and cooked together. Pasta, not meth. Although that would have made the story more interesting. All-in-all it wasn’t a bad night to be locked indoors.
I’m still glad the snow is gone, though. Any more winter weather and I will look like this:
Do you know how easy it is to start a fight online? Of course you do. Everyone does. The internet is filled with all types of people with all types of opinions, so there is bound to be a moment of discontent from time to time in the comments section of any online article or status update or picture.
Most of the time, you can just state your opinion and wait for the backlash. It doesn’t even have to be anything on a taboo subject. For example, here’s a controversial statement: Bacon is overrated. Now, if I were to say this on a comment board of some sort, Jesus Tap-Dancing Christ can you imagine the horror? I’d probably be called any number of derogatory terms.
Still, sometimes you just can’t help but to get sucked into an argument. It happens so easily- someone says something incredibly moronic and you feel the need to correct their dumb ass. Does it do any good? No. It only splashes gasoline onto the already powerful flames that are engulfing all areas of reason and logic left in the world.
Granted, some people are just looking for a fight. These trolls, or “neckbeards” if you will, are lurking in the underbelly of the internet, waiting for you to say something- anything- just so they can metaphorically spit in your face and call you a “lonely fat ass” or something to that effect. They really just want to ruin your day and are looking for any excuse to argue with you. Each comment they make is evidence of the fact they have no lives outside of their mother’s basement, and each statement they make is made with the utmost enthusiasm. It’s like they have been waiting for your comment their whole lives.
Sometimes, these dwellers have a platform of which they would like to speak. They can turn any innocent statement into a soapbox rant about politics or religion or de-clawing cats. For example, someone writes an article about the record-breaking snowfall of 2014. This is innocent enough on its own, right? It’s just an article stating a fact about the weather.
WRONG! IT’S JUST ANOTHER ATTEMPT AT GOTCHA JOURNALISM REVEALED BY THE LIBERAL MEDIA TRYING TO PUSH THEIR HOMOSEXUAL AGENDA ON THE AMERICAN PUBLIC BECAUSE THEY ARE AFRAID OF GUNS AND LIKE TO EUTHANIZE THE ELDERLY!
Or, that’s what the comments will say anyway, and reading them can cause irreversible damage to your brain. One minute, you are reading an article about how chicken nuggets are made, and the next thing you know you have been sucked down an internet rabbit hole after reading some comments mentioning PETA and the war on illegal aliens.
It’s because of this that I often avoid internet debates (I use the term ‘debate’ loosely). I do not have to participate in every argument I am invited to attend, so I just don’t. I especially do not acknowledge trolls because I read somewhere that if you ignore them, they shit themselves. It might not be true, but it’s worth a try.
Despite my lack of interest in internet debating, I occasionally find myself unable to resist the urge to wave my pimp hand strong and slap some sense into these mofos. One such occasion was last night when I was casually browsing Pinterest, per my nightly ritual. I came across this little nugget of humor:
Get it?! It’s funny, right?! You see, because they are talking about a person in a vegetative state, not an actual vegetable! And the person who ate the popsicle didn’t understand the dark nature of the joke at first! Ha! Comedic gold!
Anyway, this thing had about 6 comments from people who just couldn’t understand the punchline of the joke. They were saying they didn’t ‘get it’ and asking if someone could explain it. I’m guessing these people don’t work for NASA.
Just then, a miracle occurred! The cries of the people were answered by a girl of brazen intelligence, who descended from the heavens to deliver the explanation that would set them free from their emotional anguish! She said:
“Mentally retarded people are known as vegetables.” That. That is what she said. Shall we count the things wrong with this sentence? No, we shan’t. But, we can agree this is not the correct response, as being mentally disabled does not automatically warrant a wheelchair. You would need a physical impairment of some sort, would you not? Everyone (I thought) knows that one can be physically disabled without being mentally disabled, and vice versa.
After seeing responses from people who were taking her word as gospel, I became fearful that these misinformed kids were going to unleash their newly-found knowledge onto the world and start using ‘vegetable’ as a socially acceptable term for the mentally impaired after asking them where they parked their wheelchairs. I had to say something. Anything. I thought about explaining the term “vegetative” to her, and letting her know everything that was wrong with what she said, but I knew it was in my best interest to type it as simply as possible, so I replied:
I tried. I really did.