Small & Big

In addition to being a typo, constult is a real word. It means to act stupidly together, to know nothing. It implies that two people with incorrect information actually know less than a single person who’s wrong. For example, let’s say I think cotton comes from sheep. (Sheep look like Q-tips.) Now, let’s imagine my friend Einstein and I (and me?) agree, and are discussing this, loudly and at length, in a public cafe, calculating how much cotton ear swab base material you get per sheep (per shoop?). We narrow it down to the vicinity of one million Q-tips per animal, depending on the sheep’s average fur length and when it was last shorn. (The BAA/Q=X equation.) Satisfied, we smartly part ways. Meanwhile, how many innocent bystanders overhearing our talk are now confused? (Raise your ankles.) How many people have we infected with bad information, who now hold a smidgeon of belief, or a total belief, that cotton comes from sheep? (Boy, we pulled the wool over their eyes.) How can two wron

Why do goats and sheep look the same? I mean why? They both have horns, they both give milk, they both poop those little gumball poops. To save you the embarassment I’ve suffered (oh, how I’ve suffered), I’m going to give you The Secret. The Secret involves visualizing what you really want in life (how to tell goats from sheep) in order to create your own life (a life in which you know the diff between a goat and a sheep). The Secret: It’s the tails. A goat carries her tail up and a sheep, if it hasn’t been removed, hangs it down.

In a hole-in-the-wall taco joint in Michigan, amidst cactus music and a stampede of hot sauce, you may hear the call of one proud birdie. There is no price tag upon this one-of-a-kind artwork, for if you have to ask the price of napkin art you cannot afford it. It is rumored that in mid-summer of 2008 a satiated patron snatched a napkin thumbtacked to the wall to clean up after the Exploding Jalapeño Poppers. His art of choice? None other than “T is for Tios”. So proud am I! The grapevine also reports that sections of “T is for Tios” are currently exhibiting in a pack of recycled LaserJet paper and a paper grocery bag in East L.A.

Oh, to possess a high-brow address with built-in cachet and conversation startment. People who live in the following honest-to-goodness gosh darned real places must have a wonderful... sense of humor? Shitagoo Lake - Quebec, Canada Hell - Michigan and Texas, USA Dildo - Newfoundland, Canada Chorlton Cum Hardy - Lancs, UK Titz - Germany Elephant Butte - New Mexico, USA Dikshit - India Assawoman - Virginia, USA Crotch Crescent - Oxford, UK Phuket - Thailand Humptulips - Washington, USA East Breast - Scotland French Lick - Indiana, USA Slutshole Lane - Norfolk, UK Seymen - Turkey Bald Knob - Arkansas, USA and NSW, Australia Intercourse - Pennsylvania, USA Assloss - Ayrshire, Scotland Crapstone - England Butt Hole Road - South Yorkshire, UK Sandyballs - New Forest, UK I’m proud to see the United States so well represented. Grab an extended list of laughs at Phil Brodie Band’s Fun Page or the related article on the New York Times : No Snickering: That Road Sign Means Something Else .

Because they have a manifesto and pretty cloud pictures: Cloud Appreciation Society .

    It’s the smile that gives it away. That and the bowler hat. Say, do you think Potter from “It’s a Wonderful Life” looks more like former Vice President Cheney, or vice versa?    

Hens that are fed in the out-of-doors as mine are attract turkeys. If left unguarded and free to do as they please, a tom turkey will ask your free-range flock of hens out on a date, and the probable consequence of this is you’ll never see them again. All you’ll have to remember the gals by is a “cluck-cluck bok-bok” brought to you on far-off winds, and the occasional discovery of an egg tucked into the crotch of a pine tree. Where true love is involved, chickens go feral quick.

Does your skin tend to be green or is it red? It turns out you that it’s one or the other. Why? It’s science, my dear Watson. If you possess a greenish complexion, you’re not sick, but simply female; if the latter, well, you are not tinted red due to anger or sunburn, rather it is on account of your being of the male persuasion. Also, as long as your nose is in the middle of your face, we’re good. Read the full story on this at Boston.com: Have we met? As facial recognition technology advances, new research sheds light on how we ‘read’ faces.

It’s a longy but a goodie. “ You get up in the morning and go to the bathroom and reach over for the sponge, and that’s handed to you by a Pacific islander. You reach for a bar of soap, and that’s given to you at the hands of a Frenchman. And then you go into the kitchen to drink your coffee for the morning, and that’s poured into your cup by a South American. And maybe you want tea: that’s poured into your cup by a Chinese. Or maybe you’re desirous of having cocoa for breakfast, and that’s poured into your cup by a West African. And then you reach over for your toast, and that’s given to you at the hands of an English-speaking farmer, not to mention the baker. And before you finish eating breakfast in the morning, you’ve depended on more than half the world. This is the way our universe is structured, this is its interrelated quality. ” —Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., 1967 Why yes, I am desirous of that piping hot cup of cocoa. Thanks to the Global Goodness Blog for the full quotation.

“Nice vein,” she leers, phlebotomy-green eyes coordinating with determined Winnie the Pooh scrubs, from behind the plastic tray of shiny silver poking sticks. I look down at my left arm, at the blue squiggle written beneath pasty white skin. She holds my inner elbow tenderly, but firmly, as if it’s our third date. “Easy stickin’,” she nods, lips smacking. “Easy stickin’.”

I laughed heartedly at this series of photos over at Cute Overload: No Exit Strategy Whatsoever . It’s a do-it-yourself animation in six frames. I recommend you take your time examining each image, absorbing the intermingling of fur, claws, and fangs, before proceeding to the next.

FADE IN: INTERIOR LOBBY OF YOUR TYPICAL BLAND OVERACHIEVING U.S. COMPANY - DAY WOMAN meets CO-WORKER in lobby.                             WOMAN          Hey. Hi. Want to get falafel for lunch?                             CO-WORKER          Falafel?                             (pause)          What’s that? Does it taste good?                             WOMAN          Yeah. It’s Middle Eastern food. It’s          made of chickpeas and spices. They          make them into balls and fry ’em.          It’s served with a sauce and          usually pita bread. Want to taste some?                             CO-WORKER          I don’t want to taste something          that’s already awful.                             WOMAN          Awful?                             CO-WORKER          Didn’t you say it was full-awful?                             FADE OUT:                             THE END A fun read: How to format a screenplay, but the Academy of Motion Pictures

Just about any topic can be enhanced by the addition of humor. Even stuff that’s already popular. Like sex. Or a critique of a book about sex. Ariel Levy writes in this week’s issue of The New Yorker magazine: If you were a child of the seventies and were raised on “The Joy of Sex,” you are not likely to have forgotten the illustrations. The woman depicted in these drawings is lovely, and, even nearly forty years later, quite chic. Her gentleman friend, however, looks like a werewolf with a hangover. He is heavily bearded; his hair is long, and, it always seemed, a little greasy. His eyelids are usually at half-mast, adding to his feral appearance. In some of the pictures, you can practically smell him. (The smell is unpleasant.) Har har har! (Wipe eyes.) She had me at “werewolf with a hangover”! It’s funny because it’s true. If you wanna, the entire article is called “Doing It: A new edition of “The Joy of Sex’” and is found here . (Warning: It talks about what you’d expect.)

Part two in our exciting series on talkin’ like a Southern person. ( Part one’s here. )    Scarcer than trout feathers.    Quicker than a cow in a wind twister.    Straighter than churchfolk.    Messier than snakes fighting a chainsaw.    Slower than an oak tree.    Harder than teaching a housefly to sit

FADE IN: ANYWHERE. MAYBE A MEDITATION CENTER. - DAY MAN making small talk.                             MAN          As a child, I thought for sure          that by 2005 I would have been          in space.                             WOMAN                             (silence)          Have you ever been in space?                             MAN          What?                             WOMAN          Have you ever been in space?                             MAN          No.                             (silence)          I have been in airplanes.                             FADE OUT:                             THE END A fun read: How to format a screenplay, but the Academy of Motion Pictures

Purr while awake, while sleeping, and when somebody steps on your tail. All clothing is suspect and torture. A nice necklace is okay. Lick your own butt. You don’t always have to land on your feet. Ice cream is worth the wait. If you gotta accidently wee wee, do it where somebody slips in it. Run away. If that doesn’t work out stick up for yourself. Sleep around, sleep with whomever’s available. Do it 18 hours a day. Rush to meet friends and strangers. When the opportunity presents itself stick your butt in their face. Leave it like that as long as possible. Sometimes it’s okay to eat until you throw up. When embarrassed, lick your shoulder. Given a choice between any two items, pick the nearest. Even when it’s grasshopper versus chipmunk. Follow your sunshine. Yeah, so there’s turd between your toes. So what? It’ll come out. Avoid the weekly nail appointment. The adventure’s not over ’til you’re covered in cobwebs. (Also, spiders are delicious.) At least once in life,

2008 was an exciting year. Three biggies happened: 1) Earth’s economy pooped its bloomers, and 2) the United States made history by electing its first not-quite-100%-caucasian man, Barack Obama. In between, my little life happened. Mine. What follows is my diary for the year, as recorded in personal status updates on Facebook. Pretend you found it snooping, hidden under my bed, and I’m coming upstairs any moment. JANUARY 4, 2008 THROUGH DECEMBER 31, 2008 (I first joined Facebook at January 4th) P.L. is breathing. P.L. is rearranging her molecules. P.L. is bloggin. P.L. just returned from Connecticut. P.L. saw DJ Spooky. P.L. ate an omelet. P.L. contemplates the hobo. P.L. thinks about hobos again. P.L. wakes up UP. P.L. didn’t exercise today. P.L. voted today. P.L. did lots today. Lots. P.L. was given a nice long walk by Zilla dog. P.L. wonders what’s up with the Kenny G cds - Kenny G?! - for sale at Starbucks. P.L. looks out the red-yellow stained glass window. P.L. looks out the red-