If you own a cat (we have two, and a dog), then you will understand these cartoons all too well:
Courtesy of American Digest:
I wanna live
with a cinnamon girl
I could be happy
the rest of my life
With a cinnamon girl.
— Neil Young
You can’t make this stuff up, really…
Joe is an old patient, been seein’ him since I started practice some 25 years ago. Nice guy, but a little — shall we say? — quirky. Big into herbs and alternative medicine, sees a naturopath who performs prostate massage on him until it stops hurting (or death, whichever comes first). Has some chronic prostatitis, and his love life leaves much to be desired — especially since his Asian concubine left him hanging, taking all of her magic potions with her.
“The thrill is gone,” as B.B. King would say.
So he comes in for his annual checkup.
“How ya’ doin’, Joe?”
“Pretty well, although my prostate still burns at times.”
“Been on any antibiotics for that?”
“Naw, don’t take those things, you know. Too toxic. But I did try another treatment.”
“Well, you know that cinnamon has healing powers.”
“Didn’t know that.”
“Yeah, I had a stubborn rash on my leg, and it cleared up after using cinnamon on it.”
“So I decided to try it for my prostate.”
Gulp. “How’d … you do that?”
“Well, I filled up a condom with it, and put it on, and worked it into the opening.”
Reflexly, I cross my legs, holding his chart tightly on my lap.
“How’d that go?”
“Hurt like hell!”
“Did it help any?”
“No — and I don’t think I’m gonna try it again. But I’ve got some other ideas…”
Perhaps next time he should blend it with sugar and berries, and make a tart…
Been mind-numbingly busy the past few weeks, so I’ve gotten quite behind on posting.
But here’s a little tidbit you may enjoy: It’s a little game called, “Let’s poke the bear!”
Now, this sort of satire is not really my style, but I must say: ridicule is one of the best weapons we have against the tyranny of Islamofascism.
Bring it on! Another cookie, please!
Ever wonder what they’re doing while you’re asleep?
Now you know…
Neo-neocon has discovered a peculiar but seemingly indispensable kitchen aid: the Tater Mitt, and bemoans the fact that it does not rise to the level of poetry, as some of her other kitchen items have.
Not wanting the good Neo to mourn her paucity of iambic pentameter, the muse descended and I answered her call, saving the fair damsel from her dismay:
As evening dawns, her eyes behold
The eyes of countless spuds heaped high
Their leathered skin so soiled and cold
As evening feasttime e \'r grows nigh.
All hope is lost, the hungry crowd
With grumbling stomachs surly sit
The trembling chef, no longer proud,
From cavern \'d drawer the dreaded mitt.
She gazes at the grizzled mitt,
With roughened palms, a ghastly green,
Now grasps the soiled spud which sits
With icy eyes and waxy sheen.
She rubs, she rubs, in frenzied rush
As feebled hope springs forth to wit
The shredded skin reveals the flesh,
All hail the glorious Tater Mitt!
Now, back to work…