Survey Says: "No Sale, Skippy!"

I slipped past one of them, but the second one looked more determined. He was scanning the crowd with sharp black eyes.

I braced myself, letting the front length of my hair slip over my face as I walked past, in a covert attempt to shield. Like this ever worked for Slash of Guns n' Roses or that kid in The Incredibles... And it didn't work for me, either. The young man moved forward and stepped straight into my path.

"Ma'am, we're doing a survey--"

"I'm sorry. No time," I said, dodging him and sprinting to the escalator like my tennies had just burst into flame.

I rue the day I ever became a target for the Mall Survey Jockeys.

Oh, I used to make it past them. Me and my bag from Hot Topic or Spencers or Rue 21. I used to see them look right through me in order to pounce on some poor soccer mom, who had a moment without Munchkins at her feet and thought she'd pop into the mall for a rare half-hour of kid-free shopping bliss.

But now, I fool absolutely nobody. I've made it into the soccer mom demographic, I guess, in spite of the lack of progeny, cleats or a mini-van. And my opinions matter.

Of course, they don't. I mean, not really. I'd be bound to skew their whole study. If they're hoping to get an insight into the shopping habits of the typical thirty-something American female, well, I'm not out looking for a new pair of Nikes for little Timmy so he isn't socially ostracized and scarred for life...

And I'm not on a quest for a particular pair of $4,000 shoes because Sarah Michelle Jessica Gellpark wore them once on Sex and the Slayer.

I'm at the mall primarily to pick up those one or two things that can't be had from the second-hand CD store, the thrift store or Half-Price Books. You know: used and cheap. Which is sorta how I feel when I see people closing in on me to extract product preferences from my brain.

I'd actually be interested to know the percentage of folks who do go to the mall and think, "Hey, I was here trying to get a few errands done, but suddenly I'm in the mood to have an 18-year-old previously unknown to me take my opinions and choices down to be shared with an unnamed marketing group. I've got a couple of hours to spare."

Doesn't this mean that the only people they get to do these surveys are folks who are unemployed or have nowhere to be at any set time?

And, really, they're going about it the wrong way, anyway. They could round up so many more of us if there were just a trapdoor at the foot of the escalator. Sure, they'd net some folks outside of their demographics...

They'd have to throw those ones back.

But all in all, they'd be more likely to get a cross-section of folks instead of just the trusting Jane American who doesn't think much about disappearing for an undetermined length of time in an undisclosed location for purposes no one quite makes clear.

So I think the key to this is for me to look less approachable at the mall. No more smiling for me. No more laughing with my shopping buddies. Severe, frightening, and likely to cut them... that's what I need to go for.

Hm. This means I'll have to hit the mall; I'll need a few accessories.

I bet there's a blog in just your size at Humor-blogs.

What I learned from Bugs Bunny

I grew up on Bugs Bunny and the rest of the Looney Tunes crew, like many generations before me. And from these cartoons, I received quite an education. Today, I thought I'd share a little of what I learned:

  • Niche Marketing. That Acme Markets, the real-and-for-true grocery store chain, diversified to sell rocket launchers and jet-powered roller skates. Strangely, I'd never seen them stocked in the store in my hometown. They must have been Special Order only.
  • Foreign languages. Like French. For instance, when someone is leaving on a long trip, you say, "Bon voy-yahdg-ee." And the word for skunk is "le pew." If you are out of breath from being chased, you "le sigh" and "le pant," "le huff" and "le puff." This is enough to get you through any trip to Paris.
  • New vocabulary words. I discovered that a "maroon" is a stupid person, and not a reddish-brownish-purple color like the dictionary says. And "moidelize" is the threat to commit an act of violence on another. On the school playground, for example, you would threaten to moidelize the bully who went after you.
  • About life in other countries. Canadians jump over Niagra Falls in a barrel regularly, and with no ill effects. Chefs are always French or Italian. And no matter where you go-- whether it's a South Pacific Island, a chic French bistro, or deep in the Appalachian hillbilly hills... everyone, but EVERYONE loves rabbit stew.
  • Tolerance. Just because a boy rabbit dresses up like a girl rabbit, doesn't make him any less cool. And 4 out of 5 individuals in any crowd have some form of serious speech impediment. This will go unnoticed.
  • History. We learned Robin Hood was accident prone, one of the knights of the Round Table had a cowboy drawl, and in World War II, rabbits were trained as fighter pilots. This is why the Allies won the war.
  • Physics. It is possible to levitate over a canyon for up to ten seconds before plummeting to the hard ground below. Anvils, however, always drop immediately.
  • Music. Classical music, like Wagner's Ride of the Valkyries, at one time had lyrics, and the song was, in fact, about rabbit assassination. We also learned that the words to the opera The Barber of Seville are mostly comprised of the name "Figaro." That made it easier to remember for the cast.
  • Household items. Poison bottles always bear a skull and crossbones on the front, bombs are always round and cannon-ball-like, and anvils are used and enjoyed well beyond blacksmithing. Nitro gylcerine can be found in any cabinet.
So tell me, what have you learned from our friend, the Bunny? Hope you'll hop to-it and share. :) Me, I have to go find that anvil...

Have you visited Humor-blogs? Click hare.

Dinero Stupido -or- Chimichangas de la Casanova

I have a Public Service Announcement to make to you good folks. But I must do it in the form of a flashback.

When my friend Debbie and I were at Epcot for a conference-- and yes, this was the same day I totally, publicly freaked out on the family of Butt Scoochers at Epcot's Test Track-- we decided to have dinner at the Mexican Pavilion. We figured we could do a little shopping in the bazaar, go have a margarita or two... eat... and watch people come out of the ride shouting, "Mio Dios, please make that song stop!"

(The song, at the end of the Mexico ride, really IS one step away from the "It's a Small World" theme. We got stuck in that ride once, right at the end. After ten minutes of that singing loop of Mexican puppet children, it's a wonder we didn't leap out of that boat and run for the border ourselves.)

Anyway. So Deb and I were having our margaritas, and the waiter started chatting with us. Initially, we figured he was just friendly, because, you know, it's Disney. It's not the DMV or the gas company. No, these people were PAID to be friendly there. Everyone's really wonderful. They're genetically designed to be.

So our waiter asked us what brought us there, how we were enjoying our stay, and what we planned to see later.

Now after a day of walking around, we really just wanted to get down to business and order. But hey, it had been so long since either of us had seen good customer service outside of Mouseville, Deb and I figured it was very possible that we just didn't know what that looked like anymore.

So we talked a bit, and Deb told him we'd probably head over to the nightclubs at "Pleasure Island." Then we promptly forgot all about it.

Soon, the waiter came back to check on us. Judging by the level of my margarita, it really hadn't been more than five minutes or so. This round of conversation involved asking more questions about our conference, when we were going back home, and where home was. It would have been okay, only the questions were fairly detailed, and this guy had a lot of other tables to wait on.

Deb and I exchanged raised eyebrows.

Eighth of a margarita later, why, here was our waiter friend again! And Deb and I started to get the sense that our middle-aged waiter was either just a little too into his work or he was using his role at the Mexican pavilion to pick up chicas. This theory was further reinforced when he asked us our names.

Now while I have the utmost respect for servers and the pains they go through to deal with the grimy public, I also don't really think I need to be on... oh... their Christmas card list. Not, at least, for just one evening of seafood chimichangas (no matter how yummy they were-- and, actually, they were really yummy).

So in a blatant, wholly-unconvincing lie, I looked at my waiter and said, "My name's Rachel."

Rachel was the name of my first mystery story's heroine. It is the only name I can ever think of quickly. I am a truly terrible liar, so on those few rare occasions fake names are called for, I am Rachel. It's best to keep it simple, I think.

Our waiter then turned to Debbie and Debbie said, "I'm Debbie." Because, you know, Debbie isn't my friend's real name, anyway.

So we, Rachel and Debbie finished our margaritas and enjoyed a lovely meal, including the aforementioned yummy chimichangas.

As we were winding up dinner, our waiter came back once again. Was there anything else he could get us? Were we sure? Fine, great and...

Oh, so what time would we be stopping over at Pleasure Island? How long would we be there? Was there any particular club we were going to? Because you know, HE was thinking of popping by there himself after work and...

It was Rachel, wasn't it?... And Debbie?

I have to admit, in my plans for my one evening in The Happiest Place on Earth, hanging out with the waiter from the Mexican Pavilion hadn't really crossed my mind. Though, perhaps, this is why I'm still single.

Anyway, Debbie mumbled something vaguely about not being sure when we'd be where, about how she'd be meeting her husband first-- her husband who was, in fact, thousands of miles away settling down to the Steelers game.

The waiter said, well, maybe he'd bump into us over there, and he gave us the check.

That's when we realized neither of us had much cash.

Nope, Debbie and Rachel were going to have to use the ol' credit cards, oh yes!

And so, the moral of the story, my friends, is: if you're going to lie about your name to someone, make sure they are also not the person who has to run your credit card through with your name emblazoned all over it.

Don't be like Debbie and Rachel.

Hasta luego, amigos.

You have to be this tall to ride at Humor-Blogs .

The Bathmat Migration of 2008

It was a mistake from the beginning.

Much like cute shoes that also remove skin and bone, I was sucked in by the attractiveness of a bathmat. A cheerful stripey thing that matched the bath, and which was cheap at K-Mart, so it didn't seem like much of a deeply shallow extravagance. It really didn't.

Now I don't know what kind of user testing these things went through, if any. I mean, it's not like a bathmat is some newfangled and complex space-age technology. It's rubber. It has suction cups. It sticks to things. That's its job.

But this bathmat, it likes to travel.

Oh yes, it initially seems happy where it is in the center of the tub. But then, during the course of a shower it gets... I don't know... restless. It starts feeling there are other parts of the bathroom that it hasn't seen yet. That it's wasting its time there in the center of the tub floor.

So it packs its bags and skedaddles.

Before I know it, it's half the way up the tub wall. Or trying to reach the shampoo. Or flattened over the drain. And there I am, up to my ankles in water, trying to drag it back to center again.

Of course THEN, it sticks really well. It fights me. It doesn't WANT to go back where it belongs. It's like some angry toddler having a fit in the center of the mall. I have to tell it I'm walking away and counting to ten. Then it loses some of its will and lets me guide it back into place.

The next shower, it's the age-old battle of "Woman Versus Bathmat" all over again.

So tell me, have you ever bought anything that seemed like a really good idea in theory, but turned out just to not work as you'd hoped?

I think knowing this would make me feel better. Because, you know, those relaxing showers have just gotten a little less relaxing.

Now where the heck is my rubber ducky?

I hear they don't bathe over at Humor-blogs.

Sticky, Deej, Jarhead and the Sauceman

I've often thought my tales of childhood would benefit from manufacturing a sibling. It seems like there's an automatic lack of balance when you're dealing with just one kid:

Baseball stories are lackluster as you hit and pitch to yourself...

Playing walkie-talkie takes twice as long, and you always already know the Secret Code...

And puppet shows are one step away from The Three Faces of Eve.

The closest thing I had to siblings were my cousins, 300 miles away. And after a long weekend of tackling and torment, I'd seriously begin to rethink the benefits of being an only child.

My cousins were boys-- all boys-- VERY boys and there were four of them, all at least five-years-younger than I was, and descending in age from there.

Sticky, the eldest, spent much of his growing up years looking like a bobble-head, with an disproportionate amount of cranium per capita of torso and leg. He's turned out just fine, in cause you were wondering. But there were about 10 years there where I would have told you he was encephalitic.

I was fairly sure it was the size of his head that make him fall off his bike so much. That and the fact that he knew if he fell off dramatically, ran inside crying and told my aunt we cousins pushed him, why he could grin at us from behind her back. Plus, his brother and the rest of us would be in deep camel dung for the rest of the day.

Sticky was a talented frame artist.

Sticky's brother Deej was sarcastic from birth. It probably came from having a brother prepared to sacrifice you to the Parental Gods for want of a better hobby. I never have seen another toddler with such world-weary disillusionment...

"Do you want a peanut butter sandwich, Deej?"

"Nah, what's the point? It'll only be gone and I'll be hungry again someday."

I think he was three when he discovered the sort of existential crisis that most people only discover after 30 years at a dead-end job.

The Sauceman got his name because he'd given it to himself at an early age. It might have had something to do with a love of applesauce, or we might have just misheard. None of us are precisely sure anymore.

Sauceman was blue-eyed and white-blond and allergic to absolutely everything. You could tell, because he'd go from white to puffy pink in no time, like some histamine-riddled mood ring.

Jarhead was Sauce's younger brother, and the last of the clan. If you shaved Jarhead's noggin, you would find 666 tattooed on it. Just as dark as Sauce was blond, he was the prototype for the Turbo Tot, able to go from 0 to 60, out the door and down the street in five seconds.

He could be in Peoria in the blink of an eye, robbing folks of their Monopoly money and picking up speeding tickets on his Big Wheel, shooting his SuperSoaker over his shoulder and laughing at the coppers as he'd leave them in his dust.

Favorite games during these visits included:
  • "Let's See How Pink We Can Make Sauceman Get," (this usually involved beating him with dusty pillows)
  • Try to win at UNO in spite of Stick's marked UNO cards...
  • Tickle Sticky until he wet himself (retaliatory for UNO incident)
  • The Dukes of Hazzard (mostly involving yelling "yeee-haw!" and pretending to drive. By far our least violent activity.)
  • Telling stories about bloody monsters, gross enough to make at least two kids cry
  • Chasing each other around the grape arbor throwing sour grapes at each other, and
  • Knocking me over to tie me up with my own long hair.
Sometimes we played Frisbee.

Because I was the eldest in this rabble, there was some Adultworld rule that all of this chaos was my responsibility to control. As a teenager, I once tried pointing out that obviously, the Cousins went on throwing grapes, scaring the Yoo-hoo out of each other, fake-crying and riling up Sauceman's allergies when I wasn't there the other 360 days of the year, too.

But this particular flaw in the logic of Adultworld was never properly addressed.

I do, however, think the imposed authority on me to control these young forces of nature might very well have been what led me to be a client project manager.

Interestingly, the only thing that we seemed to have a cheerful, smooth time playing was sitting down to my aunt's 60s "Mystery Date" game.

Yep, we'd play frisbee until yet another disk would get eaten by the garage roof....(There must have been half the Wham-o factory inventory up there.) Or somebody'd get a knee full of gravel and tar. And then we'd come in and play one of the girliest games on the planet.

I don't know if you've heard of "Mystery Date" before, but its whole purpose was to build outfits to wear on different dates-- the beach, the prom, etc., etc. And if you matched your outfit to the right date behind the mystery door, then you won. If you opened the door and found The Dud, a filthy bum that made Oscar Madison look like Cary Grant, well, you were out of the game.

In retrospect, only The Dud seemed really realistic in terms of blind dating.

But Sticky, Deej, Jarhead and the Sauceman and I, we would sit there and play Mystery Date for hours. And so as not to slander their masculinity, it was NOT so much the outfit assemblage that intrigued, as the fact that the boardgame came with this cool little plastic door you could open. My cousins would work hard to assemble prom gowns and swim suits, bowling gear and skiwear, just to be able to take their turn at that door.

But come to think of it, that's childhood, isn't it? You take what you get and work with it. Whether it's siblings or cousins, or marked UNO cards, or no cards at all, or a super-girly board game to while away the hours. Looking back, it seems the best parts of Kiddom were the ones you never expected.

Sometimes, maybe, a little plastic door is all you need.

Open the door to Humor-blogs to find your perfect match!

Invasion of the Giant Earworms

"Don't turn around..."

...said the email subject in my Inbox from a very familiar address. It was a former coworker-- we'll call him Sid-- who's a good friend I hadn't heard from in a while, and one I really miss hanging out with.

Sid is the guy who always knew all the same stupid movie quotes I did, and always uncovered the best and weirdest websites. He introduced me to P.G. Wodehouse through books on CD. He was forever naming and renaming the band he played in. And he never, ever turned down the opportunity to go get a soft pretzel.

The rather paranoia-inspiring title of the email, though, made me promptly look over my shoulder with some bewilderment-- half-expecting to see Sid there text-messaging with a maniacal grin.

Or, you know, some Scream-inspired serial killer.

But there was neither. Just an empty doorway.

I turned back to my email, frowning, clicking the message open which went on to say:

"....Der Kommissar's in town."

And I cursed...

Ten points for Sid-- a goose-egg for the home team.

You see, not only is the 80s song, Der Kommissar, one of the most sly earworms out there on the planet, but for possibly six years now, Sid and I have been volleying this song back and forth in a music-oriented running joke/friendly competition.

I had let my guard down under the silly misapprehension that being separated by miles and employment would prevent the further passing of this nibbling Parasite o' Sound. But alas! Sid figured out the loophole...


There had been other songs, of course. "Copacabana," for one. "Istanbul, Constantinople" for another. And, why, once we even both suffered-- due to third-party involvement-- when one summer, a construction crew working on the building roof entreated us to an excruciating, whistling, three-measure repetition of the theme to "Annie."

Let me tell you, three weeks of eight-hour intervals of, "The sun will come out tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow..." whistled in a loop while some unseen worker worked-- well it was almost enough to put us all in Western Psychiatric.

But "Der Kommissar" was the big one. It would get so integrated into my head while I worked, that every time I'd open up a new Excel spreadsheet and my computer would make that "WHAP" noise, I'd even get a bit of a rhythm going.

Don't turnaround, uh-uh-no!
Der komissar's in town, uh-uh-no!

And now it's been officially running through my head for...(looking at the clock and calculating)... two days.

Even last night, as I rested my head on Der Pillow, "Der Kommissar" and Falco and "Jill and Joe and all my funky friends" were there, just singing away, happy as can be, while I told them all to shut up and go to sleep-- in both English AND German versions.

So, as Bugs Bunny would say, "You realize, this means war."

And unlike this week's practical joke on Kitty, I will bide my time. OH, how I will bide my time.

Because when it comes to sending out e-cards at Christmastime to my online friends, Santa Claus may very well be coming to town for some, but "Der Kommissar" is sure as heck coming down the chimney at Sid's house.


Humor-blogs knows all the words to "Der Kommissar" but can't carry a tune in a bucket.

The Insidious Submissive Fluffy Belly Enticement Snare- or- Pavlov's Human

"Gotcha!" The claws and fangs coming at my poor, slow fingers proved once again that felis domesticus was the far, far superior intellect in this situation.

For years, the fluffy black neighbor cat-- dubbed by me, without a molecule of creativity whatsoever, as "Miss Kitty" -- had been coming over to visit, and "help" me garden. In addition to sitting on my back porch and making herself really comfortable on my cushions (as captured in-the-act here), her other modus operandi was rubbing up against my legs, purring like a Craftsman chainsaw, and then rolling over at my feet...

There, she would begin her nefarious ploy.

Upturned to me would be this very furry and soft-looking stomach, her paws tilted demurely, compliant, waiting for an affectionate scratch from the human-type-person who I genuinely like to believe she called "friend."

And despite my better judgment-- despite consequences that had occurred time and time again-- despite the howling pain and sense of deep mortal shame-- despite all this....

I would find my hand unable to resist the tractor-beam pull of this insidious trap-- reaching with blind, renewed optimism each time, to give an affectionate scratch to that fur and--



Miss Kitty would go all ninja on me-- whip out the kind of claws Freddy Krueger would be totally showing off to the other serial killers, latch on to my limb and try to sink her teeth into my loving hand.

In the time of our acquaintance I would say this whole scene happened, oh....

More times than Gary Coleman has said, "Whatchu talkin' 'bout, Willis?"

I would withdraw my hand in dumb shock and scold her, and Miss Kitty would look with wide yellow-green eyes, surprised that I hadn't been as overjoyed as she was with this particular portion of our visit. Then proceed to purr all over me again.

This was our friendship, and I took it. If I ever get married, apparently just chalk me up as a terrific candidate for future spousal abuse. I don't get it.

But over the winter some time, Miss Kitty (who I believe was a rather old dame, though a true lady never tells her age) seems to have passed away. No more did I hear her familiar greeting. No more did I get a bat of the pantleg while I pruned the roses. I missed her presence-- even the part of it with the nasty, big, pointy teeth.

So as I was out gardening this year, along came Gray Cat.

(I spent HOURS thinking up that name, I hope you all appreciate my efforts!)

And Gray Cat likes to help me garden...

(read: lay directly in any dirt I just raked)...

She likes to help me weed...

(read: stalks any vine I pull up and attacks it like she's a tiger, and it's a boa constrictor)

And Gray Cat also likes to lay down on the ground at my feet, exposing her furry belly.

What's more, SHE has a fully-operational tractor beam stomach, as well!

So, the first time she does this, I am at least AWARE of this very familiar and potentially painful experience. But, see, the tractor beam's on, and I am powerless--POWERLESS, I tell you!-- to stop myself.

So I reach down, twiddle my fingers in her velvety gray fur and... She grabs my hand with the soft pads of her paws...

And begins to lick my fingers.

I hadn't even been touching food or anything before this.

It's baffling.

And here's the thing-- while I certainly do miss Miss Kitty, Gray Cat is pretty quickly winning me over. I mean, sandpapery cat-tongue and all, I still think it's an upgrade on my past Human-Feline relations. At least from an injury standpoint.

Of course, she could just be luring me in with the gentle, loving pet routine, in preparation for something really big.

I imagine by the end of the month, Gray Cat and an entire feline hoard will have taken over the yard and I'll merely be a bipedal puppet in their devilish quest to take over the world.

This is how it starts, you know. So, um, in the coming weeks... if the blog begins to dwell overly on say, reviews of Meow Mix? Fund-raising for the ASPCA? And has a new streaming audio soundtrack from "Cats"? Please do me a favor and call the local cops to come check on me...

Tell them they're going to need catnip bombs and string.

Lots of string.

Humor-blogs almost never needs a lint brush for all the shedding.

Hello Kitty and the Frame Job

7:53 AM- At the office before work...

Okay, so the practical joke is ON!

For those just tuning in, about ten days ago, I went to my friend Kitty's wedding and was assigned by the bride to do just one simple task: to take a picture of her table display with the seating cards on it. Easy, right? No problem?

You'd think.

But not for the likes of me, oh no! I first managed to take a photo of the table for an entirely different wedding, happening at coincidentally the exact same time, and in the exact same wedding colors. (You can read that tale of shame and chaos here.)

So, one of our fine Cabbages readers-- host of the Crochety Old Man Yells at Cars blog, "Da Old Man" himself-- proved that he is not only a very funny guy, but that he is also an EVIL GENIUS. He suggested I print out and FRAME the photo of the wrong table, and give it to my friend as a joke "gift."

This naturally appealed to my inner orneriness. I mean, it's been a while since I've played a really good practical joke on someone. Nothing to rival the Great Glass Catnapping of Cubicle 2, certainly. Or the time I shrink-wrapped someone else's favorite pen and he spend the better part of an hour trying to figure out why the thing wouldn't write.

So, the bride returneth to work today! And in about a half hour, my buddy Kitty will come in to THIS...

I thought the festive ribbons in her wedding red were a particularly nice touch.

Let us see what happens...

8:25AM-- Here comes the Bride...

Kitty enters the office and I hear her cheerful greeting. I can hear items being laid down on her desk and keys jingling. Then-- an excited exclamation.

"Oh, WOW! Thank you, Jenn-- this is just so pretty!" She actually sounds enthused... But I believe the wheels are beginning to turn. There is now a muffled sort of sound, as confusion sets in.

"What a nicely-done table..." she continues. "Thank you!..."

She's still carrying on stalwartly, it seems. Gotta love that positive post-vacation attitude! I pop into her office and, seeing her smiling so kindly, and her telling me how terrific it was of me to frame that up for her--

Well, her being so gosh-darned appreciative for a framed photo of a table from someone else's wedding entirely, oh... I admit it-- I caved in a bit soon and explained the situation.

I dunno, folks. Maybe I'm losing my touch in the practical joke business.

That'll teach me to have friends who are all sweet, and easy-going and good-hearted! :)

It just ain't right.

Pop Meets Haute Cuisine at the Hotel Not-So-Hot

Infected, inspected, injected, detected and neglected. That was my father in the hospital this last week for some tests...

Okay, well, it's also Arlo Guthrie's "Alice's Restaurant." But this version is without all the singing in four-part harmony with feelin'. Trust me on this.

I must say, it isn't exactly easy to keep the "hum" in humor blogging while also worriedly stalking a parent, hundreds of miles away, to find out the latest on his condition.

However. After my Pop's stay in the Hotel Not-So-Hot, which he accepted like a real trooper, I hoped to lighten the discussion by asking him about the hospital food. I mean, what's a better, more common joke-- what brings people together of all races, creeds, and hairstyles-- than a discussion of the poor quality of hospital food? It seemed a can't-miss moment.

And see, I've mentioned this before, but the Popper has never eaten often. Nope, I think he finds the whole breakfast, lunch and dinner shebang to be a fairly kooky, bewildering, and excessive process.

In fact, the way he talks about it, even I-- a lunch-and-dinner person-- come away feeling a bit like a flagrant calorie intaker gorging myself like Jabba the Hutt on senior slug discount night at Mos's-- the planet Mos Isely's one-and-only, all-you-can-eat buffet...

(Star Wars Nerds, please do not email me saying that Jabba the Hutt never went to Mos Isley. He hauled his big sluggy butt there for the purposes of this example, 'kay?)

Now, where was I?

Oh, right. The Popper's One-Real-Meal-a-Day Strategy. So in the Wide World of Dad, Pop has this theory that what people really need is seven Ritz crackers or a handful of peanuts, to fill the long space of hungries between morning coffee and the more elaborate evening meal. He's always very specific about it. Seven Ritz crackers.

So I ask Pop after his stay, how exactly was the hospital food? Expecting to hear about food overkill plus canned spinach and mystery meat, and a mind-boggling lack of Ritz crackers.

But it turns out Five-Star bistros in the Restaurant Guidebook of New York apparently have NOTHING on this facility of healthcare kitchen! I mean the man could not SAY ENOUGH about the fine cuisine he experienced during his stay.

He began with, "And there were three meals a day!" with a tone of delight and wonder usually reserved for describing Disney rides.

Or the birth of a child.

And then he went on that there was even DESSERT! And there was a NUTRITIONIST who came by and wanted to make sure he was eating all right, and...

Why, to hear him talk, it was like a spa vacation! A spa vacation with needles and bags of fluids and a guy in the next bed breathing in gurgling wheezes all night. But a vacation nonetheless.

So thanks, hospital-near-Pop for looking after my dear father and giving him great care and possibly some of the best food he's had in a while, though that scares me a bit.

It's beginning to confirm a suspicion I've had all along... which is that my good ol' dad's stance on mealtime is not really related to a three-meals-a-day issue but, in fact, connected directly to an "I'll eat it if you bring it" philosophy.

The other alternative is that, Hospital Folks, you have cloned my Pop and possibly have given me back the wrong one.

It could be that the clone is out and about, enjoying three squares a day now, while Real Pop is still there with you, insisting that all he really needs to survive during the next eight to ten hours is seven Ritz crackers or a palmful of peanuts in the shell.

Which is it? Because, honestly, I'd like to have the clone for a day or so around Thanksgiving. The seven Ritz crackers aren't quite what I hope for when I visit at the holidays. In fact, I've taken to bucking the system and bringing my own snacks. So I figure, at the very least, we might be able to hit the hospital cafeteria one day, and enjoy an elegant, festive lunch of grilled cheese, three-bean salad and Jell-0.

I mean, there's nothing like a bit of mealtime camaraderie with the ones you love.

To all the Dads and Grand-dads who visit Of Cabbages and Kings, I hope your Father's Day is very special.

Humor-blogs is fortifying for your funny bone.

Junk Mail Stalkers and the Very Last Chance No Really


Hurray! And huzzah! And other celebratory words that begin with 'h'!

I read the notice in capital letters on the cover of the piece of junk mail, did an impromptu soft shoe routine and clicked my heels. Finally, finally, these people would stop sending me this darned catalog!

It was one of those places selling bits o' generic giftware then elevated to the level of Officially Tacky by embossing someone's name all over it.

Mugs "customized with the name of your choice!"...

Picture frames "personalized for the ones you love!"...

Shirts "emblazoned with the recipient's own name so they're easily identified by the cops in case they mysteriously go missing but are actually running away from your relationship for having absolutely no real imagination when it comes to gifting."

You can get Christmas ornaments that give your tree that me-oriented "wow" factor...

Dog bowls for dogs who can read...

Calculators in case you can neither add nor remember your name...

And clothing that grandmas give just to ensure Little Timmy gets a good dose of knuckles and pantsing on the playground. To toughen him up.

Heck, even Little Timmy's undershorts might be emblazoned with his name! The bullies can look back with nostalgia, years from now, on the kid whose tighty-whiteys they'd pulled over his head each recess. Remembering the name will be SO handy for the 10 year class reunion.

Yep! Many terrific options for gifting the person you didn't really want to give a gift to anyway!

And after several years of having never bought a single thing from this catalog and being too darned lazy to contact them and tell them to take a hike, these people were finally, of their own volition going to give up on me! It warmed the general cockle periphery of my heart.

But too soon I began to realize that they were fibbing to me, those Catalog People. I looked in my mail one day a month or so onward, and sadly read:


"Good!" I said again, still clinging to some vague glimmer of hope for the future. After a few weeks more passed catalog-free, I was feeling very glass-half-fullish about the situation. And then I spilled the glass:


I waited.


Um, yeah?




Three weeks later.


I'm considering changing my name to Conchita Escobar and moving to South America. Somewhere remote, I think-- possibly along the Amazon, where the mail service is good-and-spotty. I figure this way it should be at least a year before I exit my thatch-roofed hut and head to the river to rinse out a few things, only to see on my doorstep:

At Humor-blogs they always know your name. Like Cheers. Just click here to find out!

Locus Stinkalium at Caesar's Palace

Stench and professionalism are never a happy couple. And let me tell you why.

Years ago, at a former job, our company was holding a user conference at Caesar’s Palace in Vegas.

As manager of the marketing department, I went to oversee the event. But mainly I wanted to give an extra hand to our event coordinator who was, and still is, a good friend of mine. We’ll call her Debbie. (Regular readers of this blog might remember Debbie as the one injured by a family of crazed Butt Scoochers in line at Epcot.)

Well, Debbie’s an amazing planner. So she'd lined up all sorts of excitement for the folks coming to the conference. There were two days of heavy-duty technical sessions filled with blah… and yawn… and blah some more…

The techies crowd would be in their GLORY.

But the big fun involved some client events in the evening. One of which, on the second night, was a special PG-rated Bacchanalia, featuring a multi-course dinner, wine bar, magic acts, and two enthusiastic belly-dancers.

Wine would flow like... well... wine.

As a teaser, and a way for the restaurant folks to distinguish members of our group from the rest of their guests, the hotel had given Debbie a bunch of these Roman coin pendants, and cords to tie them to. This ended up being just ONE of the last-minute things that needed to be assembled there at the hotel prior to the event.

So Debbie and I gathered in one of the conference rooms and, divvying the stack in two, we began assembling these pendants. We were pressed for time, and just plowed through it. Then went to our separate rooms to change before the first guests stepped through the threshold to two days of technology nerd-vana.

I should note that Debbie gave me MY pendant, just to have on hand.

So, I went back to my room, freshened up, put the pendant aside for the next evening's big bash, and headed back down for the client meet-and-greet.

But the one thing I began to notice as I was handing out agendas was that-- and there is just no polite way of saying it--

My hands reeked like Satan’s bottom.

I mean, I had showered. I had scrubbed, and I was absolutely mystified at what I could have gotten into.

I looked at the soles of my shoes—nothing.

I tried to covertly check my suit—nothing.

But a sniff of the hand and it was like I’d tried molding clay pottery from dog poo. And not any dog poo, mind you. Poo from a large mutant, four-stomached dog, with poor dietary habits. One who enjoyed beans, rancid cheeses, and the poo of other large, mutant, four-stomached dogs.

I just couldn’t fathom what had happened.

Worse was, washing my hands seemed to do very little to help the matter. I know, because I tried it several times. I was one step away from using sandpaper and an electric floor buffer, only I thought I might miss the skin.

In fact, I was beginning to think the stink was radiating from the inside out—through the pores, you know. Which was disturbing because part of my job was to orient the clients, and here I couldn’t even pinpoint the Origin of Stink.

Locus Stinkalium, I think the Romans would have called the process.

But that evening, it wasn't to be.

Now I don't perceive the clients noticed, or if they did, they were polite enough not to tell one of their hostesses her stench was comparable to that of a deceased, decomposing camel at high noon. So, the cocktail party went on as planned, and everyone retired to their rooms to prepare for the next day's sessions.

In the morning I rose, took another shower and greeted the day with renewed optimism and soap. Sequential hand-washings and a good, long hot shower seemed to have helped the stink say sayonara.

Now fast-forward to right before the big Bacchanalia event. The sessions concluded, and I had an hour to change, reconnoiter, and Pied Piper the clients to the proper room. I tossed on a saucy little number I'd saved for the occasion, accessorized with my pendant, and headed downstairs. There I met Debbie, and I just went to brush a lock of hair from my brow when---

Good gad! Satan's bottom again!

But nooo, I thought, it couldn't be!...

And such was my disbelief, I thought that if I could just subtley check and make sure...

Debbie saw me sniff my hand.

"You too!" she shouted, bouncing up and down on her heels like a spring lamb delighted at life. "You smell it, too! It's the medallions! The medallions! Thank God! I spent two days thinking it was me!" And she finished with a few steps of a jig.

Here, I admitted how I'd been sufficiently embarrassed by the smell that I'd been loathe to even mention it. I was, to be honest, beginning to think it was some fluctuating gland condition brought on by lengthy air travel.

Of course 60 pendants which reeked of mutant dog-poo had already been thoroughly distributed to our clan and were-- for the length of the evening-- going to be around the necks of our very best, most appreciated clients.

There was nothing, at this point, to be done. We'd only have caused a big stink about distributing necklaces that... cause a big stink.

But in retrospect, it is a testament to Debbie's fine hostessing, the hotel's fine food, and the power of gallons of fine wine, that the customers delighted in the wonders of Bacchus without so much as a whiff of the ill winds that surrounded us.

Hail Caesar!

A big thanks to Alice of Honey Pie and her smelly sneakers story for reminding me my own tale o' stench.

Humor-blogs are pine-scented.

By Jeeves, Cabbages Has Been Tagged!

Sujatha over at Fluff-n-Stuff has tagged me, which is only fair as I'd imposed on her good nature in an X-treme Meme of sorts a few months ago. But that's the Internet for you. "Those Who Tag Will Get Tagged Themselves and Must a Gracious Tag Recipient Be."

Or, in other words-- what goes around comes around.

It's Tag Karma.

So the Tag Rules, as I understand them, are as follows:

Pick up the nearest book.
Open to page 123.
Find the fifth sentence.
Post the next three sentences.
Tag five people, and acknowledge the person who tagged you.

I will be doing all but the tagging of the five. Because:
  1. My network of blogging buddies is still eye-rolling over the last meme and
  2. There's not enough distance between it and me for a second Tag to not distinctly smell of old cheese and sweat socks
Instead, should any of you fellow bloggers popping by here wish to participate in this tag of your own volition, consider yourself "Duck, Duck Goosed." :)

That said, on to the Tag itself!

And the book I grabbed is one I'm actually rereading-- Right Ho, Jeeves! by P.G. Wodehouse.

On page 123, beginning with the fifth sentence, we find young British aristocrat and well-meaning pinhead, Bertie Wooster, conferring with his wise butler Jeeves over the most recent tangled mess in his friends' love lives.

Bertie has just recommended to his chum-- the portly Tuppy Glossop-- that the best way to renew the love of Angela after a tiff about Tuppy's weight (and Tuppy's open insensitivity when Angela nearly got eaten by a shark on vacation), would be for Tuppy to lay off eating.

This, Bertie proposed, would demonstrate that Tuppy is sick with a broken heart. And Angela would melt at the prospect.

But after a missed meal or two, Tuppy's willpower simply isn't up to the challenge. In the following lines, Jeeves questions Bertie about the previous evening's disastrous altercation vis-a-vis the Angela-Tuppy parties...

"Yes, sir. It seemed to me that Mr. Glossop's face was 'sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.'"

"Quite. He met my Cousin Angela in the larder last night, and a rather painful interview ensued."

"I am sorry, sir."

"Not half so sorry as he was. She found him closeted with a steak-and-kidney pie, and appears to have been a bit caustic about fat men who lived for food alone."

The book continues, with Tuppy unwilling to lay off the food or concede Angela's shark...

With Bertie being doggedly pursued by the soupy, saucer-eyed Madeline Bassett (a girl who believes that when a baby sneezes, a fairy is born and that the "stars are God's Daisy Chain")...

And with Bertie's awkward friend Gussie Fink-Nottle torn between his own adoration of the gooey Bassett and his love of experimenting with newts...

Well, let's just say much mayhem and merriment ensues. Wodehouse was a master of witty dialogue and bizarre convoluted plots. And I'm afraid the few spare sentences included above don't quite do it justice. If you haven't read Wodehouse before and you enjoy British humor, his work is definitely worth a read.

Oh-- but before I go today, I have a funny bit of Cabbages trivia to share with you related to Mr. Wodehouse.

When I originally was brainstorming names for this humor blog, I thought I might use some obscure phrase from Wodehouse's work. Something different-- a bit of an "in joke" that only a few readers would get.

And the phrase I had grown fond of (and which is said a number of times in Right Ho, Jeeves) was "Angela's Shark."

It seemed offbeat and easy to remember. And the fact that my name is absolutely nothing like "Angela" made it even funnier.

Well, do you know WHAT HAPPENS when you try to make that phrase into a Blogspot URL?


Yes, that's right. Through the impossibility of an apostrophe in the URL, there was EVERY PROBABILITY that right now you would be visiting the "Angel Ass Hark" blog.

Somehow, I just didn't think it had the tone I was looking for.

Toodle-pip, chums!

Humor-blogs also resolutely denies Angela's shark and suggests it was probably just a large, friendly herring.

Wedding Bells and One Dingaling

I'm going to have an extra-special treat for my friend Kitty when she returns from her honeymoon, oh yes!

Yesterday, she and her long-time boyfriend-- we'll call him "The Dude"-- got married in a lovely little ceremony, and aside from the bride nearly blowing into the next county when the enthusiastic wind caught her train and turned her into a parasail, it was a great day.

I had been assigned the task of taking photos of some of the decorations they'd made. Kitty and The Dude had both spent a lot of time and effort pulling things together, and my friend just wasn't sure the photographer would get some of those more subtle elements. So, armed with my Canon Powershot, and a couple of sets of camera batteries, I agreed.

So, I turned up at the hotel for the recepton, prepared for my minor supporting role. And right there, out front of the row of ballrooms was the specific thing Kitty had asked that I photograph-- the table of seating place cards. It was a beautiful table, with perfectly printed name cards, evenly spaced with glimmering, shimmering tealights and red rose petals. Red, being the accent color of Kitty and The Dude's wedding.

And I was stoked. I mean, I made sure to get just the right angle... put the proper Indoor settings on, and stood back to make sure the shots came out. After a moment of review, I determined Kitty and The Dude would be pleased.

I was only MILDLY aware that I didn't recognize any of the names on the seating place cards. But this didn't seem especially strange, because I also only know the immediate members of the bride's and groom's families. Done with my first big task, I noticed another shrine-like display a few feet away that I decided might also merit a shot-- and as I went to check it out, then I realized there was a small issue...

Who the heck WAS that couple in the black-and-white Glamor Shot-styled framed 8 X 10 surrounded by rosebuds and dripping with streamers? It was certainly not Kitty and her husband.

Oh no, in fact-- Kitty and The Dude's wedding reception was being held in an obscure wing of the hotel even as I shutterbugged away. And upon entering that area, I immediately saw the familiar table themes Kitty had told me about, as well as a photo album of people who actually looked familiar.

So, when Kitty returns from Jamaica next week, I will show her the photos I took of her beautiful reception. But I think I'll start her out on the shots of Bif and Muffy McSappy's shindig.

I figure after a week in the tropics, her nerves should finally be able to take it.


At the end of any event, Humor-blogs is the one with the lampshade on its head, singing karaoke.

Magic Fingers Ma and the Quest for the Mega Blender

"Was the dark of the moon on the sixth of June in a Kenworth pulling logs... Cab-over Pete with a reefer on, and a Jimmy hauling hogs..."

Ah, the well-metered poetry of "Convoy"! How I remember C.W. McCall singing those words out through my parents' crackling AM radio. Dad was never able to tune in his usual classical music on our vacations, so "Convoy" was a sure sign of summer. A sign of the long, wonderful drive from Northern New Jersey down to Cape May in the white-and-blue Dodge Family Wagon.

The Family Wagon... I did love that vehicle.

Thinking back now, that camper was likely the precursor for the Transformers. Everything in it became something else. The two bench rows of seats flipped and spun to become a dining booth... Add a few pieces stowed inside the seats-- and voila!-- a kitchen table. Curtains snapped into place for privacy. And me-- a five-year-old, more flexible me--well, I stowed myself away in the rafters each night in a loft bed that pulled out to overlook the grandeur that was portable vacation-a-rama.

The camper had gas burners-- nothing like Mom's normal, coffee-toned electric stove back home. A propane smell filled the air, which signaled bacon, fried in an actual pan instead of by that new microwave technology. Real bacon, too, not the assembled bacon wannabe of Sizzlean that Mom often tried to slip by us. It crunched and then melted in the mouth, salty and sweet.

I was also allowed a particular and usually-forbidden delicacy during this time: tiny boxes of sugary cereals. Froot Loops, Coco Krispies and Apple Jacks were my biggest temptations-- ones that every other week of the year-- like Pixie Stix-- meant inevitable death. (And from the way my mother normally spoke about them, that cereal-induced death could be as early as age 10.)

The grocery shopping alone was a week of Camping Nirvana in Kidville.

But Cape May promised so much more than gas-stove bacon and verboten sugar-death cereal. Cape May was the location of forty finely-aligned lanes of home-grown Jersey ski-ball... The very lanes which one particular summer empowered my mom's quest to win the mother of all blenders.

After checking into the campground, finding a suitable spot, and hanging up the handmade sign that staked our claim from future invaders-- one small step for the Thorson clan, one giant step for cheap lodging-- we headed ocean-side, to the Promenade.

The boardwalk there and I, we had a love-hate relationship at this time. I reveled in the chinging bells and music of the arcade... Thrilled to the prospect of getting fresh Archie comics at the newsstand... And savored the rich, heavy aroma that poured from Morrows Nut House...

But I was eternally suspicious of the cracks between the boards that made up the walk itself.

It seemed to me, being able to peer down between my small, flip-flopped feet and through the planks to the waves bursting below, that anyone my size was an absolute goner. Having watched enough Warner Brothers cartoons, I felt I had a sound grasp of physics, and knew deep in my heart I would pour through the boards of the boardwalk into the ocean below. Lost forever.

For the longest time my parents had no idea what the problem was. But to me, every trip to the boardwalk involved elaborate weeping over my impending separation from my family (and my watery grave in Davy Jones' locker), followed by a terror-stricken dash into the safer concrete floor of the arcade.

But oh, the arcade! It was like Dorothy stepping from grim, black-and-white Kansas into glorious technicolor Oz. Shining quarters sat in stacks under great plastic bubbles, just waiting for a single coin to topple them into winnings. Stuffed Snoopys and tiny glass animals hoped to be snatched by skill, luck and silver claws. Pinball games rattled. Lights flashed. Allowances were won and lost.

And there, along the prize counter, up on one of the shelves, that is when my mother laid eyes on it. The high-powered six-speed blender with multiple-chopping blades in Colonial Harvest Orange... A must-have for frothy summer beverages and a wide variety of guest-pleasing dips.

"It's perfect! And it's the same shade of orange as the kitchen!"

I didn't mention it, but it also matched the livingroom, diningroom, den, entryway and upstairs bathroom. Mom was a devout supporter of the Colonial harvest.

"It's 2,000 tickets," my father said reading the sign below it.

I imagine the man could just SEE the quarters from his paycheck rolling away. Dad has never been very fond of spending money on unnecessary things like... say... lunch, even. I mean, this is a man whose motto is, "Seven Ritz crackers and that's all you need." He's very specific about it, too. Not six, not eight. Seven. Unless, of course, someone else is buying.

So, the idea of trying to earn 2,000 tickets for anything he wouldn't directly be using himself had to have almost given him chest pains.

"Don't they have these in the store?"

"Well, not like this," said my mother, eyes aglow. "This one is in Colonial Harvest Orange."

"So you mentioned."

And thus it was determined. Over the course of the week, we would earn enough tickets for Mom to take home that Colonial Harvest Orange beauty. Oh, the dips she envisioned. Oh, the patés, and other French words I couldn't spell because I was hooked on phonics.

So, during the day, we would spend our time in the shining sun of the beach...

Or picking through the Cape May diamonds (these polished quartz stones that washed on the shore because of a quarry all the way in Delaware)...

Or visiting the lighthouse...

Or strolling through antique shops...

Or convincing me that the Day of The Triffids film I saw on television did NOT mean that the trees of the campground were going to uproot themselves and eat us alive...

(Now that I think about it, there seemed to be just peril around every corner to my five-year -old self...)

This is how we spent our days. But our evenings -- oh, our evenings! They were spent on the quest for the Holy Grail of Countertop Appliances. Playing ski-ball.

Mom was a dynamo with a ski-ball. Petite and with a good arm, Mom's underhand throw rivaled the greatest Ski-ball champions of the day. She had a real technique, Mom did. A one-kneed dip timed perfectly with her swing, and a smooth release that let that ball roll straight to that sweet 50-point ring.

Me, well, it wasn't more than a round or so into our endeavor that it became clear I was a serious liability for my team. It was another case of misunderstood physics for me, and no amount of instruction was going to turn me into a big ticket-winner.

Quarters went through me like Yoo-hoo.

So this newbie ski-baller was reassigned to the spectator spot, gnawing on red licorice whips from the Nut House and cheering them on from the peanut gallery.

Night after night, my parents worked to rack up the tickets. They tried some other games there-- catapulting coins to shower other coins off ledges-- but after some experimentation, Dad proclaimed the games were rigged.

So back to the Ski-Ball they went, deft... devoted... determined.

After a few days, my mother was developing ski-ballers wrist and knee, probably some little-discussed version of carpal tunnel. I admit, I was starting to lose both my appreciation for the sport myself, and I'd already re-read Veronica's shameless ploys for Archie's attention a hundred times as I waited.

But as with all vacation, the days dissolved like Pop Rocks... Sweet, surprising, and gone too soon. My mind was already focused on the drive home and the possibility of a once-a-year hot-dog from Stewart's Root Beer Stand. I could taste that roasted, garlicy hot dog, and the smooth creamy root beer-- a delicious combination destined to make me good and queasy about five miles on down the road.

And Mom began the final count of the tickets. She had a system, counting in twos for speed. "488, 490, 492..." Five-hundred. She'd made about 500 tickets, not enough to take home that shining orange facilitator of avant-garde cuisine.

How could you work so hard for something, and not get even close, we wondered? Perhaps Dad was right. Perhaps it was rigged.

So my parents let me choose some little glass poodles from the display case... A mother poodle with two poodle puppies on a chain. Then they gave the rest of their tickets to some other family.

The wife had a certain look in her eye that was familiar. On the top shelf, there was this Crock-Pot in California Avocado that she just couldn't live without.

I walked the planks a final time, and we made our way back to the Family Wagon. I wondered vaguely whether those French poodles knew anything about paté.

Humor-bloggers get all 100s in ski-ball. Where were they when we needed them?

Making a Silk Purse from a Panda's Kung-Fu-Sensitive Auditory Organ

Now you may or may not know that my Real Job-- if we peer out past the field o' Cabbages-- is writing marketing content for businesses. And I choose not to blog about it because:

1.) I like my job and want to keep things separate and

2.) Most of it involves me sitting in front of a computer for ten hours a day. This would not only make a lousy blog post, but a very poorly-rated episode of, say, "24."

Imagine, following me as I save clients from improper grammar and unsubstantiated product claims...

Join me as I process content for corporate legal review, including adding circles and arrows, and a paragraph on the back of each one, explaining what each one is to get their approval...

In fact, now that I think about it, the only things that would be even remotely similar to "24" would be:
  • The short deadlines
  • All the typing and frowning at the computer screen
  • Me pulling a Chloe and occasionally telling one of my coworkers, "Go away, I'm busy."

We don't even get to say "Keep me posted" very often... Though I think I'll try working that in more.

Anyway, so I don't really talk about my Real Job-- you know, except for those several big paragraphs above. But a recent incident gave me a chuckle which I thought I would share with you today.

Background is, when I'm tasked to write a web site or script, sometimes I don't receive much to work with from the client.

Sometimes I get very little information regarding their companies, their goals, or their products. And sometimes what I do get is the general equivalent of scribbles on a cocktail napkin.

There are some really great clients, mind you. A lot who are really helpful and have everything prepped that I could possibly need to work from. And I do appreciate it. But just as often, I'm doing detective work, online research, asking questions, and generally pulling sentences out of the air.

If Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry ever chose to offer a Professional Writing tract, those students would undoubtedly do very well in my field...

"Accio, Mission Statement!" they would shout. And poof! There would be a nicely-written "About Us" section to add to the beta site.

Well, I had a dream about my work the other night. And I dreamt that I had web site copy to write for a large corporation and the only documentation I had to work from was...

The script for Kung-Fu Panda.

You know-- that new cartoon where Jack Black channels the career of Chris Farley and does the voiceover for an inept, mystic, martial-arts-oriented Chinese bear?

Yup, that's the one.

And in the bizarre world that is my sleeping brain, I didn't even recall thinking it was odd. I DID, however, think:

"Hm-- I have to get this darned web site written in a day, now I have to parse something intelligent out of this Kung Fu Panda script, and I haven't even had time to see the film!...

I wonder if there are any particular sections they expect me to focus on?"
I woke up with the images of cutting and pasting panda-centric action scenes into a Word doc.

Well, naturally, when I got to work, I was feeling a bit better about the day ahead as a whole. I mean, I had some actual sales brochures to leverage for the site I had to write, as well as a decent online database. And it was entirely void of pandas-- giant, red or lesser.

So I know what you're going to ask. You're going to ask now: did you get it done in time? And how did the content turn out?

Well.. er...

I'll keep you posted.

I hear the pandas watch 24 AND Bruce Lee films over at Humor-blogs.

Food, Peculiar Food! Finding the Funny in Vintage Recipes

On my other blog, The Thrift Shop Romantic, I occasionally do humor posts featuring some of the terrifying, comical, and virtually inedible recipes found in vintage cookbooks. And I realize that many of the folks here are not actually the same folks that visit there. Which makes sense because why would you guys care about grandma-chic decorating? I see your point.

On the other hand, why should you, my dear Cabbages friends, MISS OUT on all the gag-worthy unflavored gelatin, the added MSG, the impractical, gravity-defying food arrangement and the hot dogs which do death-defying stunts?

Why should you miss out on the culinary masterpieces (and mania) associated with dishes like The Meatloaf Train? Or Sea Lion Salad?

Why should you, readers who I care about, be prevented from seeing housewives from the 1940s lose their marbles over trying to create interesting meals for their family with just cream cheese, Worchestershire sauce, a can of pears and some pimiento?

Why shouldn't you see how EASY it is to hollow out an artichoke and make candlestick holders out of them to impress family and friends?

WHY, WHY, WHY? I asked myself.

Well, no reason really.

So I've compiled a few of the links here. NOTE: Management of Of Cabbages and Kings and The Thrift Shop Romantic is NOT responsible for any digestive problems, vomiting or sudden bursts of laughter you might experience as a result of these posts. Any eruptions of any sort are your own issue.

And here we go!

  • Whatever Happened to Baby Greens? or Strange Salads of 1940. My latest post, sharing inspirational (and insane) ideas like The Bunny Salad, Sea Lion Salad, Salads that stare back and "perky" salads that look like they might need a surgical reduction. Says the book, "Tra-la!" Click here.

  • Artichoked Up over Befuddling Vintage Vittles. Artichokes aren't just for dinner anymore. Didn't you know?-- they're also a DECORATOR ITEM. See this, Tahitian cuisine straight from Oscar Mayer, and so much more. Click here.

  • Dubious Dinners and Riotous Retro Recipes. What can you make with irradiated Pet milk? The disembodied head of a 1930s radio star tells us! Are those peas or does that pie have acne? Why are those sausages doing an Esther Williams imitation? These questions and more will be answered. Click here.

  • Horrors of Home Cooking: Recipes of Yesteryear. Ah, the thrifted cookbook that started it all. Here we look at 101 Ways to be Original in All Your Cooking, every single one of which use Lea and Perrin's Worchestershire sauce. All aboard the Meat Loaf Train! Click here.

Or you could see what's cooking over at Humor-blogs.