Category Archives: Humor

Please Try This At Home

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My wife and I don’t have kids at home, at least none that I know of. I think it’s time I finally get permission to pull one of my favorite prank ideas, one I read about years ago. Hire a babysitter and tell him or her, “Little Brett is asleep and won’t wake up the entire time.” When we come back, pretend that our kid is missing and film the babysitter’s reaction. Bonus: if the babysitter checks in on the imaginary kid before we get back home, we can watch the meltdown on the security camera. The police love this sort of prank. Trust me. They can only sleep in their patrol cars for so long without getting too bored.

I got to thinking about stupid pranks after I reminded someone that the best way to get your point across to wayward utility painters is to go outside with your own marking paint and play tic-tac-toe there or draw an elaborate maze on the entire utility easement. It’s not necessarily nice, but hey, it’s your property. You get bonus points if you go out and paint WHILE the utility guys are marking your yard.

Also, I’ve noted that if you act crazy every once and a while, your range of acceptable behaviors greatly expands.

You’re welcome, X

¿ ?

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Yesterday, I decided to try to eat at a particular local eatery again. I gave Dawn time to roll her eyes a few times and for her to realize that I wasn’t joking. This place is atop our “Never Again” list, tied with Neal’s Diner and AQ Chicken. Being in New Orleans warped our sense of the ordinary.

We’re still in vacation mode and therefore were willing to eat a little less healthy. Our go-to place near our house is still closed due to a fire. (No, I didn’t start the fire, despite what Billy Joel might say.) East Springdale is the armpit of death for good eateries, and while I’m a fan of Springdale, our selection of restaurants compared to Rogers and Fayetteville is ‘no contest,’ especially for healthy or interesting food. We can’t even count on Subway anymore, as the turnover rate is higher than mathematically possible and they sometimes insist that a napkin is, in fact, a sandwich topping if cooked.

Since the new stretch of Old Wire Road is finished, we can drive easily to many places toward Rogers in comfort. Old Wire Road turns into 1st Street as it enters Rogers. This road is fabulous. We’re waiting on the last leg of it to be finished by Randall Wobbe Lane. At that point, we’ll have one of the most modern roads to get us around and out of Springdale.

We’ve had a few attempts at this local restaurant fail miserably. It used to be a relatively dirty dive, but you could count on decent food, even if the bathroom resembled something you’d find in an abandoned bus station. It moved to a new building. Ever since then, being able to assume you could get both decent food and decent service on the same visit became a dubious endeavor. On our last attempt, we walked out after hearing the employees argue about whether they wanted to seat anyone. It was a bitter discussion, too, not a casual one. Surprisingly, my wife agreed to give it a try yesterday. Because of the rain, cold and the early hour, I ignorantly decided to call her bluff and go. We arrived a few minutes after the restaurant opened. I walked up to open the door for my wife and the door jerked. It was still locked. This was no “it’s 11:01” situation – it was way past time to open the doors. Weirdly, there were 5 people already inside and seated. I’m not sure how they got in there unless supernatural forces were involved.

Dawn was cold, so she went back to wait in the car. Because I had decided I was going to act crazy, if necessary, I called the number on the door. A woman answered. I used the craziest, high-pitched broken voice I could muster and shrieked into my phone, “What time do you open?” She said, “11 a.m.” Using the same stupid voice, I shouted, “We be freezing out here. It’s way after 11.” The woman didn’t know what to say. She finally said, “Oh no, you’re right,” and hung up. When she came out, she said that the manager had the only set of keys and he was both late and missing, as usual. Those words inspired confidence that my culinary experience would be excellent, as you might imagine.

We both survived the experience, although it was touch and go for a few moments. Dawn’s food was strange and mine was wrong but I carefully got my situation fixed without the risk of eating a floor-wiped tortilla.

I didn’t mention the restaurant by name, as you may have noticed. When people ask about this place, I always mention this as the “don’t go” place. I’m not entirely convinced that the Mafia or a Cartel doesn’t own it.

The service there is a crime, anyway.
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P.S. We also tried the Big Orange in the Pinnacle Mall the other day. It was divine. Two people can easily share a sandwich and a side and leave filled – or you can do as I did and eat so much that I almost had to cut a vertical slit in my shirt in order to be able to breathe.

A Long List of Commentary (Best Read With Cough Syrup)

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I have a foster cat staying with me. It suffers from dyslexia. That’s what the shelter told me, although now that I think about it that sounds a little mixed up.
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I graduated from cooking school, but I’m still a really terrible cook, so my only employment option is to go work at Outback, Red Lobster, Buffalo Wild Wings, or MJ’s pizzeria.
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Also, it’s no accident that MJ’s is located next to a liquor store. Poor choices need immediate relief. *My apologies to those who like MJs as an eatery.
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As I found out this week, say what you will, but one of the best gauges of whether you’re an optimist or a pessimist is your state of mind between the time you get x-rays and you find out the results.
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After my exam, the doctor told me to stop drinking. I told him that I hadn’t been drinking, to which he replied, “Oh, then start immediately.”
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I’m not being snarky. All of us have ‘that’ friend who humblebrags about not drinking soft drinks. But he or she drinks alcohol. (Or smokes). In a recent informal poll, 100% of those questioned about this said, “WTF?” (But never where ‘that’ friend can see them doing so.)
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I was voted “Best Mom” in my knitting group. I’m not sure how to feel about this – and not just because I’m not in a knitting group.
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“No one applauded, though,” he said angrily.

“Well, it was abdominal surgery, Dr. Peters.”
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Best snark I heard yesterday: “Someone with purple hair or press-on nails shouldn’t be telling others how to behave like an adult in public.”

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I really enjoy the elf smoothing filters people are using on Instagram. I like that 19th-century photography and self-delusion have become acquainted.
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Niche and customized marketing are out of hand. After I ordered a coffee pot from Amazon, it arrived. They sent me the one with the ‘not-so-hot’ feature, based on my social profile.
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I returned to Walgreens this morning, which is evidently the adult equivalent of Chuck E. Cheese. A platinum-haired woman in front of me babbled incessantly on her cellphone as the clerk struggled to be polite and assist her. Even though she held the phone to her immense head of hair, I could clearly hear the strange masculine voice from several feet away. What should have been quick and painless stretched out to a couple of minutes. At one point, as the clerk tried to save the woman some money on her cigarette purchase, the cellphone goddess said, “Please don’t interrupt me. I’m talking to my booboy on the phone.” (She was definitely in her late, though well-preserved, forties.) As she walked away, we all shook our heads. “Keep a spray bottle next to the register and just spray them, like a misbehaving cat,” I told the clerk. The clerk, as well as the woman behind me, all laughed. The cellphone goddess turned to look back suspiciously as she passed the security bars on the way out. I think she suspected that we were laughing about her because based on her vinegar-based choice of faces, she was above it all. “Call me,” I pantomimed at her as she left, shaking her head. When I left, I noted she was driving an expensive Hummer, one customized and adorned with vanity plates. She was still on her cellphone, of course. I hope all is well with her booboy, a word I had only seen and never heard until this morning.
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Monday morning, I pulled into the dark parking lot of Penguin Ed’s. It was very early. I stopped to use the phone. A US Foods truck pulled up parallel to the building facade. The driver exited the truck, opened the rolling door and pulled out a long ramp. The building was dark, so I was interested in where he might unload and how much work it might be with a two-wheel dolly. I couldn’t see the driver very well from my vantage point, despite the quantity of residual light in the parking lot.

For some reason, I just knew he was going to fall, even though it rarely happens. US Foods drivers routinely work in sub-optimal conditions, often even when the businesses aren’t open. In my opinion, everything is done in the most unplanned and haphazard way. It’s not the driver’s fault, though, as he or she must figure out a way to avoid killing himself.

As the driver piled and transported several trips around the dark building, I marveled at how he managed to keep the heavy loads from tipping on the sharp incline of the narrow ramp.

The next trip, he swung around to allow the dolly to precede him. Boom. He fell off the ramp on the side closest to the restaurant, several feet from the ground, while most of the dolly fell and shattered on the side closest to me. The driver sat there for a moment, obviously stunned by the unexpected fall.

After a moment, he got up and walked around to pick up the spilled food and supplies.

There’s no moral to this story. I just wanted to share it.
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A controversial observation, one without much defense: it is hard for me to believe that there are large employers here in NWA which ban microwave popcorn but allow handguns on the premises. There’s a disconnect here that’s difficult to explain but easily recognized.
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Someone anonymously reported that I had illegally fled the scene of an accident on foot. When the officer rang my doorbell, he looked me over from head to toe. He sighed and said, “No way you fled on foot,” and left.
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As bizarre as it may sound, I’d rather pay extra federal taxes or burn twenties in the street than pay dues to an HOA/POA.
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Note: you know your spaghetti squash addiction is getting out of hand when you keep a hacksaw specifically to make it. If you don’t know what spaghetti squash is then your life hasn’t yet begun.
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CBS All Access is one of the worst TV packages ever devised. And calling a reboot of “The Twilight Zone” an original series makes my head hurt. I’ll bet it is going to be great – just not an original concept.
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For most people, 90%+ of identity is tied to geography and tribe, rather than choice. Reminding yourself of this will help you to ignore a portion of the nonsense people say and do.
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One of the most unbelievable things in modern tv shows and movies is that no one is sleeping with a box fan turned on. What are they, savages? A huge portion of the population sleeps with a fan on.
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Someone replied to one of my blog posts about Mondays and calculating my total days alive and said, “So you’re saying that your life is literally 14% Monday.” Yes, and if you live a good, long life you’ll experience about 4,000 Mondays before you croak. Happy Monday!
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For most of you, it’s likely that your name will die out. In my case, my name will live as long as the English language (and/or math) includes the letter “X.”
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I thought I knew it all until someone online told me I was wrong about sunsets: “Sunsets are observer-only events. Provided you could travel evenly around the globe, a sunset could last forever.” So, I’m stealing the idea.
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A Rose By Any Other Name

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*This story is true. Seriously. You will not be smarter after you read it.

Since I was on another visit to the doctor’s office, I chose a spot devoid of other people to wait. I assumed the wait would be long and wanted to be courteous. I just wanted to sit with my eyes closed.

Five minutes later, a woman of dubious appearance entered the vast waiting area and sat a chair away from me. I opened my eyes and nodded toward her. I’ll call her Liz for clarity. Inexplicably, she sat halfway across the otherwise empty chair next to mine. In her arms, she held a baby. Moments later, an elderly lady shuffled in and sat next to the first woman. Thus, all 4 people in the waiting area were now sitting in a space of 4+ seats, in a waiting room comprised of multiple large spaces.

Liz’s phone started going off immediately. I only noticed because she put it in the narrow space between her left hip and my right leg and because the volume was on maximum. It rang, playing a song worse than any song by Kid Rock, if that’s possible. Her phone rang twice and notified her a dozen others.

Another lady entered the waiting room area I was in and sat two seats away from me, leaning on the pony wall by the bathroom. A gentleman came in sat under the television across from the rest of us.

I should have moved but I didn’t really feel like moving. I certainly didn’t want to commit the social faux pas of giving someone the idea that I moved as a result of their presence. I won’t make that mistake again. Emily Post can kiss my butt.

Liz’s boyfriend Facetimed her and she answered. She immediately started demanding that he explain why he unfriended her on FB last night. He denied it. She shouted and demanded to know who he was texting. He told her he was playing a game. She offered him a bit of poetry disguised as profanity and he calmly replied, “Kiss my ass!” She coyishly told him she was at the doctor’s office and didn’t appreciate that type of language. Going for the point, he pointed out that accusing him of undefined misbehavior was the greater of offenses. Liz became embarrassed and hung up. I don’t think Dr. Phil has enough hours in the day to address what was going on between them. Jerry Springer could fix it in a few minutes, though.

Even though no one was listening, she proceeded to explain in graphic detail what the phone call had been about with her boyfriend. It was more than I ever needed to know. My Jerry Springer reference was apt. “Well, you know how it is, Mom,” she told the older lady next to her. Another bit of information explained.

Within seconds, Liz lifted her hip off the chair and farted, a harsh trumpet. She immediately looked toward her mom and made a face. She looked down at the little toddler in her lap and said, “Jamie, you shouldn’t have!” She turned to the lady to my left, the one leaning against the pony wall, and said, “It wasn’t me. I promise.” The other lady was mortified. I watched her body language after the gassing.

I made no move, nor did I bat an eye. It had indeed been Liz. The smell of old shoes, spoiled eggs, and weird fish filtered through the air. Because I had been swallowing the urge to cough, my need to immediately cough deeply overpowered me. I coughed five or six times, each giving me a deep, shattered-glass feeling in my lungs. The fart was simply too much.

When the coughing fit cleared, Liz was giving me the look. She said, “…um, hello?”

“Excuse me,” I said.

“Well, you’re not excused. There’s a baby here. This baby ain’t got no need to be exposed to what you have.” You can imagine the horrible sound of her voice attempting to be sanctimonious. The fact that she had just farted openly and triggered a coughing fit – and just discussed her sexual misadventures in the waiting room didn’t quieten her.

The gentleman seated across from me openly let his jaw drop open to the floor, like a waiting room Wile E. Coyote.

Because I wasn’t feeling well, I just whispered, “Everyone in here knows it was you who farted.” Arguing with her wasn’t going to bring back my dead nose hairs.

Incredibly, she said nothing else to me. The man across from me said nothing. He simply nodded and gave me a very small thumbs up.

The next few minutes were spent listening to Liz and her mom cackle on about the craziest assortment of subjects and Liz’ phone urgently telling her of important matters.

The nurse opened the inner sanctum door and recited a female name. Lo and behold, it was Liz’s mom who had the doctor appointment. Liz had come with the baby because she was bored. I only know that because she told the nurse while simultaneously berating her mother for walking slower than molasses.

The nurse tried to politely tell Liz that neither she nor the baby should go to the back. Liz insisted, saying she needed to hear the doctor tell her mom to lay off the booze. I winced. The nurse gave up her attempt at being reasonable.

As Liz went inside and out of earshot, the man seated across from me asked, “Did I hear that right? She got on to you for coughing with your mouth covered because she farted on you and she brought a baby here for no reason and went to the back with it after being asked not to?”

“Yes, that’s about it. I’ll add it to my list of reasons I’m ill if it’s covered by Blue Cross.”

The three of us in the waiting room shared a laugh.

“I hope you feel better,” the man told me.

“Me too. Otherwise, the next step for me is cremation.”
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A Date With a Dodge Van

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My day was like an unexpected bout of diarrhea during a competitive and crowded rock climb. I’ve been under the weather, or over it, depending on whether you prefer your clichés to make sense or not. Due to a chronic mismanagement problem, my options were to work through it or win the lottery.

Once finally done at work, I left and went to the post office. Trips to the post office are becoming less frequent for me and I often use the self-service kiosk instead of enduring the barbaric circumstance of “other people” being around later in the day. I stood in line like a zombie. Normally, I stay entertained doing mundane tasks. Today, though, I stood slack-jawed and thinking zero thoughts. My mind was so empty and disengaged that I felt like a hybrid of a congressman and someone in middle management.

“Sir!” the clerk increasingly shouted until I realized she was beckoning me to approach the window. “It’s too heavy to send First Class,” the clerk sternly told me as she placed my package on the scale. Even though I thought I was incapable of a joke due to my deteriorated mental condition, I immediately quipped, “Second Class, then.” She wasn’t amused, especially when I then jokingly replied to her question regarding insurance on the package that I wanted $2,197 dollars of insurance. (2,197 is 13 cubed, by the way…) I watched as she carefully examined the pictures with which I had personalized the box, as I often do. She just shook her head. In my opinion, she had concluded that I was suffering from a very low I.Q. I wouldn’t have disagreed.

Exiting the post office, I made my way to the car while dodging multiple impatient, high-speed drivers. The post office was very busy. I stupidly tried the door handle of my car at least three times until it occurred to me that a key might help me open the door. Given that someone had pulled in the parking space next to me and left only minimal space, I turned toward the car next to mine and fished for the single key in the right pocket. (I only carry one key in honor of being a minimalist.)

I don’t know what my problem was but finding my key in my relatively empty pocket was evidently too complicated a task for me. I kept pulling a flash drive out of my pocket. In the background, a woman was shouting. Because I was tired and afflicted with Severe Disinterest Disorder exacerbated by symptoms of Monday, I didn’t bother looking toward the irritated person. “Get away from my car,” she shouted. She repeated herself.

I found the key in my pocket and squirmed back around to get into my car. As I turned, something flew in front of my face. I was certain it was a bird, as the flitting shadow passed slightly above my head.

“Hey!” shouted a female voice very close to me. “What were you doing to my car?” The voice was from a lady of indeterminate age, somewhere between twenty-five and fifty, depending on her choice of botox.

I stupidly looked toward the dark blue Dodge Caravan next to me without replying. The woman didn’t move away, so I felt obligated to say something. “It was consensual.”

I then smiled like a madman.

The woman immediately turned and walked away. It’s a shame she didn’t have a concealed carry permit; this story would have otherwise been much more dramatic.

As I was backing out, I noted that a large McDonald’s cup was on the concrete, with spilled brownish liquid around it. While I can’t be sure, I think the lady in question threw it at me as she approached me and that the bird was actually a drink cup. It wasn’t there when I pulled in to park. Given that my hearing isn’t the best, I think it’s safe to say that my old age is going to be filled with hurled objects flung by people trying to get my attention. It’s important that I find a way to avoid bricklayers.

The point of this story is that I am very proud of the quip “It was consensual,” given that my mental state was that of a fatigued kindergarten teacher on her first day of school. Even if the lady did through her cup at me, it’s all good.

It’s been a couple of years since the lady at Harp’s caught me trying to insert my Ford key into her Hyundai door lock. She had a sense of humor about it. Surely, I can’t be the only person to routinely do stupid things like this. In my defense, I wasn’t actually doing anything in this particular instance; it just looked that way, much like the way most office workers look busy but very often are simply opening and closing their browsers to avoid prying eyes.

I’m entertained by the idea that somewhere there’s a lady who is confused and convinced she caught a weirdo “doing something” to her car.

And she’s thirsty, too, by now.
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Shake and Flake

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I went to Popeye’s and asked for a couple of chicken legs. They still got the order wrong.

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I received a heart-warming letter from one of the neighbors. “Cease and Desist” is a great way to let me know someone is thinking about me.

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I found the best store ever. I can’t go back, though, because I noticed
they have a strict ‘no returns’ policy on the door.

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A friend of mine posted the phrase as a potentially new way to say “Goodbye!” in a cool way. I added her picture to give it some punch.

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I paid my restaurant check with a counterfeit bill. It seemed appropriate, as I’m pretty sure they didn’t serve me real food.

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Currently trying to convince a friend of mine, one with “Moore” as a surname , to change his first name to “Dinty.” No word yet on how successful I’ve been.

After posting this picture to social media, despite having a robust method to avoid them, Dinty Moore ads began littering my social media feed.

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The irony of seeing a “Don’t text and drive” decal in the back window of a pickup truck pulled over for DWI warmed my heart.
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(In the driver’s defense, as a Ford owner, I have to testify that owning one drives one to drink – or want to.)

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I bought a phone plan with unlimited minutes under the assumption I could live forever.

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Logo Wars in Springdale

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My apologies to Springdale residents. Satire is my friend. You should all know that NATO is about to declare war on the city logo.

I still hate the waffle-fry logo. The Explore Springdale variant, however, is awesome. Seriously. I love it. It’s simple and the symbolism is obvious. I might be biased, though, with a name like “X.” I’ve noted that many people happily insist that it’s my name due to illiteracy.

Each time I see the official logo, I wonder, “Why are we being punished?” It’s no accident that Kleenex offered to be our Official Sponsor in 2017.

I can’t prove it, but I suspect that the logo itself will soon be featured in some crime documentary. The demented subject of same will be shown on camera, his hair matted with chicken feathers, insisting “That darned logo made me do it.” Defense lawyers will start calling it the ‘Waffle Logo Defense.’ Even the guy from “Making a Murderer” won’t comment in case it causes him to receive a longer prison sentence.

I’ve resisted using the logo as an excuse to play blind man’s tic-tac-toe on the municipal vehicles afflicted with the logo. Or “no-go,” as the case may be. I do have a case of rainbow markers ready for when my willpower diminishes. The prosecutor* told me it’s just a misdemeanor to deface the logos on city vehicles. Also, while I will have to do community service, they will also give me a city beautification award if I manage to discolor enough of the logos to make Springdale residents happier by seeing fewer of them.

*This post does not advocate defacing city property. In my defense, though, if the property in question displays an official Springdale logo, it’s already quite defaced.

“Beauty Spits In The Eye of the Beholder” springs to mind when I see the logo. “We Lost A Bet” is my second thought, followed closely by, “LSD Is Your Friend.” A friend of mine suggested “A Chicken In Every Pothole.” That last part is humor, by the way. The streets and roads are nicely maintained, in my opinion. But if you drive a convertible, it’s no joke to pass or get behind a chicken truck. It’s my hope that some of the yokels figure out that the new bike lanes aren’t just really small third lanes, too. The screaming is getting fairly loud during peak hours.

We all agree that the logo, Ray Doton’s cowboy hat, and the mayor’s hairstyle are the three biggest hurdles facing Springdale. (The mayor as an administrator is doing a great job, though.) The city itself is awesome unless you live on the East side, in which case your GPS is permanently linked to the destination marked “Elsewhere.” Many people don’t know that we now hold the demolition derby on this side of town during normal traffic hours. So far, no one has noticed.

I would post the city logo here again. The last time I downloaded it, however, I got flagged by Facebook for promoting violence and for displaying graphic imagery. Just imagine that five drunken people got into a fight while playing pixie sticks and then became ill on top of the scattered sticks. It’s a pretty accurate rendering of the logo.

I’m biased, though. I like nice things and beauty, no matter what conclusions you might draw by looking at my face.

I’ve made several versions of logos through the years, some seriously intentional and most stupidly satirical, much like my outlook on life.

In case anyone missed it, I think Springdale is a great city, one making tremendous strides as it leaves behind its past.

That logo, though? I think the guy from Key and Peele is going to make a horror movie based on that thing if we’re not careful.
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See comments for examples of the logos. The chicken in this post is one I created. Please note that I wasn’t chained to expectations such as professionalism, common sense, or attention to detail.
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Document

Here’s the official logo for Springdale. I apologize for the use of obscenity.

 

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Here’s on my simple ones. Boring? Yes. But not terrible.

 

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Here’s the Explore Springdale variant. Note that you don’t want to hurl like a high school partier when you look at it?

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Here’s the “George Clooney” of logos. Its beauty is unrivaled.

Nonsense, Listed

 

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1:
I have a friend who plays fast and loose with the language when it suits her, but jumps at any opportunity to express her language superiority.

So, I waited for her to say something provocative, like “Hello.”

“It’s a nonstop flight,” she said, talking to someone else nearby.

“How do you get off the plane?” I asked, smirking.

“What do you mean? Like I always do!” She snarled back at me.

“Oh, the plane is still flying when you get off? How is that nonstop, then?”

“You know what I mean, X. Don’t be ridiculous. It flies from one destination to another.”

“You literally don’t see the irony in your comments, do you?” I asked. “Never mind, I have to go look for stray bullets – I think they’re lost. But I couldn’t care less.”

“DiGiorno!” I shouted my goodbye as I walked away.
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2:
Today, I learned another thing NOT to say to people.

I headed for the restroom. I opened the door and stepped inside. It’s designed for one person. The last user was still in there and had neglected to lock the door.

“Do you have a close personal relationship with Jesus?” I asked in a loud, strange voice.

He was both startled and confused, attempting to gauge what I meant by my question as I laughed, leaving the bathroom.
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3:
If the item you ordered fails to arrive, I suggest you send a picture of your empty front porch to customer service, letting them know that your box arrived in an unacceptable condition. They’ll reply, “Sir, we don’t see a box.” Reply: “I’m pretty sure that non-existent is an unacceptable condition.”
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4:
Have you heard ABC is making a revival of the 70s show about a singing family? It’s set in a Staples store and titled “The Cartridge Family.”
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5:
One of the cleverest things I’ve read in a long time: “Farts are food ghosts.”
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6:
It seems dumb that we haven’t thought of it before, like onion-flavored toothpaste.

If you need a phone number, the best thing we can do as a society to become better friends with each other is to dial a random number.

When someone picks up, we should introduce ourselves and ask them to look up the number for us. If they hang up, they’ll at least have a good story to tell their friends. If they look it up for us, we’ll have a minute to share small talk.

It will work like the “I’m feeling lucky” button on Google, with the chance of shouting.

Reach out and randomly touch someone today.*

*Celebrities accused of sexual misconduct are exempted, as are all
adult white males. And Adam Levine.
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7:
The mask people suffering from sleep apnea wear should immediately be renamed to “Sleep Snorkel.”
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8:
I was excited until I discovered that the corn maze was constructed with creamed corn.
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9:
Rejected comic book plotline: Catwoman has feline leukemia.
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10:
“Can I arrange an order of 500 axes?” is one of the best possible questions to ask Home Depot if you call them when you’re bored.
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11:
I find it hard to understand how I live in a world where Chris Brown can post positivity posts on social media.
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12:
Trump: *Redacted
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13:
The traffic policeman didn’t buy my argument about parking where I wasn’t supposed to.

I told him I should be given a non-speeding ticket, instead.
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14:
If I ever win a big lottery, I’m going to hang out by one of those prison signs indicating “Do Not Pick Up Hitchhikers.” About a 1/4 mile down the road, I’m going to pay John Quiñones to stop drivers and tell them that if they had stopped to give me a ride, I would have given them a million dollars.
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15:
Speaking of lotteries, I should win. Unlike most people, I plan to reward people who’ve been advocates of mine and make many people’s lives better. If I win, so too do many others. If you don’t believe me, you should see the disgruntled look on my wife’s face as she reads this segment of the post.
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16:
“People are more likely to return a wallet if there’s a picture of a baby in it.”
That might be true, but it’s also true that a list of serial killers is probably just as effective.
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