Tag Archives: Humor

Sometimes at work …

… when your co-worker gets all snotty about prepositions (“I think they mean on the web page, not in it!”) you have to make a police badge.

Preposition police: In your face. On your case!

Which she’ll wear with pride.


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I lied, but here’s a T-rex joke.

Oops, you didn’t see me much this week as I promised. Turns out I was sleeping until 1 p.m. every day. I’ve been working the late shift at work and for some reason sleeping the remaining hours of every day.

I seriously can’t get enough of these dinosaur jokes. If you ever see any, send them my way. I sit here and giggle like a little kid.



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One of life’s little mysteries

Cat Dog. Just … why? And how did they (it?) do their (its?) business? I really think they should have made Cat Dog anatomically correct. It would have solved years of questions and pondering from a curious audience.

Sorry for the short post. You’ll probably be hearing a lot from me this week because I accidentally spent my week’s budgeted allowance all on Friday night, and if I had to make a prediction about this week it would include a lot of me sitting in my room waiting for pay day on Thursday. #ouch


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Disaster preparedness.

I may not be prepared for a natural disaster, but God dang it am I prepared for the neighbors or housemates being loud.

I never have fewer than five boxes of earplugs. The United Kingdom makes it difficult for me to find earplugs that meet my standards, so I always stock up when I go back to the US and my mom sometimes sends me supplies as well. That picture isn’t including the box in my night stand.

If I don’t have earplugs I get anxiety. I can’t sleep. Thoughts fill my head like, “What if someone goes to the bathroom in the middle of the night and the flushing toilet wakes me and I can’t get to sleep for the rest of the night??”

When I have my earplugs in I sleep like a little baby. Probably an older one, because I hear babies don’t sleep for long stretches.

Oh, and don’t even get me started on those foam “earplugs.” Those are insult to the very idea of what an earplug should be. Mine are the kind you use to go swimming, that completely seal off your ear and you know, actually work.


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I’m a fashionable, yet hairy, single Muslim gal

Every now and then I’ll have a period of a couple months where I’ll receive the same ad, everywhere I go. One time Mr. Web thought I was extremely hairy(??!), so he kept offering me mass hair removal products.

I can’t figure out what I’ve said or searched for this time that would be causing me to have nothing but single Muslim dating sites advertised to me for weeks on end. Weeks, I say! I asked a girl at my work who actually is Muslim if she gets these ads, and no, she doesn’t. It’s just me. All day, every day.

(Btw, totally listen to that Kooks song. In fact, I’ll link to it at the bottom of this post so you can listen NOW!)

On occasion I’ll get an ad for Banana Republic skirts I’ve already purchased. I kind of feel like if it’s all-knowing enough to know specifically which skirts I viewed, it should know enough to know that I clicked “add to shopping bag,” and know not to show them to me again and again. And again.

The only thing it gets consistently correct is that I love Back to the Future. For years I’ve had ads trying to sell me BTTF merchandise.

So, according to the Web I’m a fashionable single Muslim girl who loves Back to the Future and is extremely hairy.

As promised:

I love ads. Anyone else have any mystery ads appearing?


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Does hailing cabs make you fabulous?

Before I moved to London I couldn’t wait until the day I was a big city gal, whimsically hailing cabs with a casually glorious semi-smile on my face. I’d toss my shopping bags in the back and be on my fabulous way.

I woke up this morning and felt a deep pain in the place my pocket normally resides. I realized I’d wasted yet another £30 ($50) on a cab ride home from the city because I was too stupid to leave 15 minutes earlier to catch the last train and too (I don’t even know the word – smart?) to take the night bus home.

Thirty pounds doesn’t sound like so much, but I’ve developed a habit of easily convincing myself it’s worth the money to not have to take the bus, tube, whatever. “Oh, it’s only £10. Oh, it’s only £20.”

Two months later it’s nearly £200 spent because my stupid hand won’t stop sticking itself out in the street and stopping cabs.

And instead of looking like this:

I looked like this:

So, no, taking cabs does not make you fabulous. It makes you another drunk idiot with less money than you had before. And the fabulous shopping bag? Just an empty, crumpled up, in-case-I-puke shopping bag.

Some people waste money on smoking. Some people waste money on compulsive shopping. I waste money on cabs, and I think cab addiction should be hailed as a serious medical affliction in the same regard as other addictions.

I kinda feel like Annie on Bridesmaids, “Help me I’m poor.”

By the way – if you’re up for cat jokes, cute cat pictures, and discovering the makings of a crazy cat lady, check out my sister’s blog, Furry Little Cousins. It’s great!


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Parents on Facebook: Friend or Don’t Friend?

A blogger I follow wrote about how she only recently added her parents on Facebook, despite living 4,000 miles away from them. I couldn’t believe it! But then I started thinking about it, and I wouldn’t want most people’s parents as my friends on Facebook or real life if they were my parents.

I guess I got lucky. My parents are cool, and many of my friends are also friends with them.

See, look how cool they are in action, making me dinner, placing it on the table in front of me, etc.

Sometimes I think maybe they’re not cool. Maybe it’s just that I’m so boring and dorky I have nothing questionable floating about in the Facebook sphere to cause concern, and that’s why I can’t see any problem being friends with them. Even if I did engage in nefarious activities, would I be broadcasting them on Facebook anyway? No.

I don’t like how everything has to be “cool.”  Why can’t we just live life, instead of having to say snotty stuff like, “Oh, I can’t be on Facebook now that my grandparents are on it.” I mean, if you don’t want to be on Facebook, fine. But it annoys me when people act like they’re too cool for school. Or grandmas.

Again, maybe this is because I was blessed with a cool grandma, but so what? Grandma watches South Park, says bad words, and plays evil tricks on me like when we went fishing and she tossed a worm in my ear and slapped a big wet fish on my bare back. She’s not on Facebook, but if she did join she’d be way cooler than the tool sheds who’d leave because of her.

Here’s the chart I saw on this gal’s blog. Still kinda funny!

I guess my point is, if your parents suck at life and you’d rather not be reminded of them, fine. Don’t add them. But if you’re not adding them out of some commitment to being cool, you’re not cool. Add them.


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Bad Mom

I don’t know how old I’ll be before I stop blaming my parents for not forcing me to watch culturally relevant movies, but I think late twenties is still OK. I guess age doesn’t matter so much as when the movie came out. For example, can I still blame my mom when I’m 50 for not making me see a movie that came out when I was 30?

My parents failed me on not making me watch Bad Santa. Bad mom, and bad dad! I know I watch FAR more movies than my parents, but blaming yourself is no fun. And isn’t that what moms and pops are for?

Here are a couple of my favorite scenes. I think I have an obsessive problem. I’ve watched Bad Santa three times this week and I’ve seen The Hangover three times as well, because well, I can’t get enough of Bradley Cooper and Zach Galifianakis.

Is it weird to think Billy Bob Thornton is hot? I don’t know anything about him other than the fact that he was Bad Santa and he had a little vial of blood with Angelina Jolie.


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In case you were wondering …

In the event that you happened to spend your Sunday morning soaking red onions in water to take the edge off and then decided to do a little research to see if it really works but you instead stumbled upon this …

… apparently it’s not true. I then did a little research and it doesn’t appear anyone actually soaks their tampons in vodka to get drunk on the sly. Plus it doesn’t really make sense if you think about it. Have you ever tried putting water on a tampon to test how large it gets? No? Well, it’s big.


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The Tale of the Eaten Leg

This completely describes my way of thinking. Sometimes I’ll be ridiculously hot, but I will not stick my leg or arm off the side of the bed out of some deep fear that it’ll get eaten or grabbed by a dark under bed monster.

If I get up at night to go to the bathroom I run to and from.

When I shut off my light at night I do a sort of running jump into my bed.

Oddly, I still wouldn’t say I’m scared of the dark. Unless of course I watch the show Are You Afraid of the Dark? Man, that show gets me every time! I own Seasons 1 & 2 because I’m that cool.

Did anyone else not realize this show is Canadian? I always just thought they talked funny, like how they always say “sore-y” instead of “sorry.” Stupid Canadians.


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I want to blame the British, but it could be karma.

Let’s start by talking about how I got trapped in my bedroom this weekend.

The wonderfully constructed, cheap plastic door handle fell off this indestructible metal box with a dead bolt and latch, leaving me absolutely no way to get out of my room until someone could open the door from the outside.  Jumping out the window isn’t an option because our back yard is completely sealed off by a big brick wall which I couldn’t get over, so if I didn’t have my phone in the room with me I’d have been trapped from 10 am until about 2 in the morning.

I have many problems with the way the British construct doors because most of them have never heard of the door knob, and if there is a knob it’s a total PoS as demonstrated above.

For example, take a look at my front door.

WHO ON EARTH thought, “You know what – we could put a door knob here and some dead bolts people could twist from the inside, but let’s not. Let’s put a sharp metal ring that people can slide their fingers through to pull open the door, and let’s make it so you can only lock the dead bolt with a key, that way people can potentially be trapped in the house if there is a fire and they can’t find their keys.”

Here is my door knob that so cleverly doubles as a hook for the chain:


And here is the outside of the front door, with the little pull handle so close to the key hole that it’s very difficult to turn the key without twisting your hand in an awkward position or getting your finger pinched.

But back to me being trapped. My friend Clay loved the fact that I got trapped in my room because a joke I played on him one time caused him to actually have to jump out of a second floor window. His room mate and I took a screwdriver and dismantled his door knob one night because … well, for no reason. It was funny, but Clay didn’t think so. Then his door wouldn’t shut properly and got stuck a few months later. He was trapped, and his phone was in the living room so he had to jump out the window.


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8,000 messages.

Check out my Gmail.

I hate everyone with fewer than 7,911 messages in their inbox. I hate you for being organized and keeping control of your life. Go away.

Check out my work e-mail, which I’ve had about a year and a half. I honestly tried so hard not to have a Gmail repeat with this inbox.

If I work with you and you have fewer than 2,669 e-mails in your inbox, I hate you too. For the reasons specified above.


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My sister was in Dumb and Dumber

Notice any similarities?



She gave her self a haircut and the bangs went a little wrong. We looked up a picture and purely by coincidence they were wearing the same shirt, so she was a good sport and posed.

Btw, check out Karen’s blog!



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Lint is a shell’s best friend

I know I sometimes post a lot of crap on this blog and instruct you to listen/read/watch, but for the love of all that’s holy, please watch this video.

If you’re one of the 12 million people who have already seen it, good job. I, however, was not one of the 12 million until last week. I was one of the unlucky ones.


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