Midget Problems

You might think the title of this post would mean something like having problems that are really small, or don’t amount to anything. No, it actually refers to the curse I inflicted on another human being, completely by accident. I really didn’t mean to and it wasn’t some Greek tragedy promise I’d worked out with the universe, or anything like that (I mean, come on, if I had the power to change the course of history with a single wish, do you think I’d waste it on a mere mortal when I could have used it to gain majority control of Nestle corporation?!).

I accidentally made my kid a midget.

Don’t get all politically correct douche canoe on me. If my kid was actually a medical midget, would I be using that word? No, if my kid did have a genetically issued diagnosis of dwarfism in some form, I’d throat punch people for calling her names. Midget, however, doesn’t seem to bother me as a word or a diagnosis but that could be because I’m not related to any. Since it’s not a diagnosis and she’s not actually horrifically undersized, midget fits. As in, when this happens:

Or when she’s given a principle role in a stage production and meets her partner at the first choreography rehearsal and the director keeps eyeballing them and asking, “How is she with stilts?” (There’s a whole other reason why she’s awesome on stilts, but that was a different play.)

I don’t love being in a position of having no one else to blame. Besides being a little midgety myself, I failed to marry a man who was tall enough to reach that useless cabinet that idiot contractors put above the refrigerator for some reason. Of course, I also failed to marry a man with a last name that would sound good hyphenated with mine or who had a trust fund, so offspring height really wasn’t high on my list of priorities at the time. Sorry kiddo, for doing this to you, but when they need actors for the Lollipop Guild, you’re in.

Wildlife: You Can’t Shoot It, You Can’t Have Sex with It

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Everyone is so up in arms over the senseless death of Cecil the Lion, and with good reason. It was really a jackass move to lure him out and take off his GPS collar so a rich American guy could shoot him. You know what else was a jackass move? Posting a picture of it on Facebook. Nobody wants to see that: animal lovers will be calling for YOUR head on a wall, and hunters will just be pissed that you’ve got $50K plus travel expenses to blow on trophy hunting.

But this post is really about a more appalling event that occurred in recent weeks. Yes, more appalling than shooting a protected lion. I’d read an interesting article a weirder-than-boiled-shit article about a man who lived near my parents’ neck of the woods, a man who’d been cheating on his wife… with his wife’s dog.

Yes, it appears that this man, jealous of the love and attention that his wife gave to her Shih Tzu, decided to get back at her (the wife) by defiling the dog…repeatedly. Yes, this man apparently began to have a sexual relationship with the dog on the sly. The wife, who saw a change in the husband’s demeanor and suspected he was having an affair, set up a camera in the house only to discover that it was her beloved dog and not a trampy woman who lived in their trailer park.

Now, at the risk of providing too much visual, when this man began secretly boinking the dog, you’d have to assume there was no obvious trauma that would prompt the wife to take her adored pet to the doctor. So what does that tell us? It tells us that this man got back at his wife by putting his member in a dog that’s smaller than most gym bags, and that it didn’t damage the dog. Who’d he think he was getting back at since the world now knows his penis fits… never mind.

I couldn’t wait to share this news item with my parents, and I’ll readily admit I had intended to use more than a little “bwahahahahahaha!” during this phone call. But as I was dialing their number in my car, the radio broke into the song with an important alert. Yes, the DJ interrupted a song to give us the following emergency bulletin:

“Folks (yes, he said folks), we interrupt this broadcast to update everyone on the bear situation. The bear is still hanging around downtown near the courthouse, but I’ve been asked to remind our listeners once again that you can’t shoot it. I repeat, it is against the law to shoot a bear, even if he’s on the sidewalk in front of the Tastee Freeze. The authorities are trying to tranquilize him, so don’t shoot him.”

Please note the important news item there: it’s not to update us on the bear situation, since bears wander into town all the time in these parts. It’s to remind us that bear hunting is illegal. Yes, we’re so gun-crazy and animal-shooty that we’ll take down an animal just for walking in front of us. And the cops said don’t, during a Niki Minaj song.

I was so disappointed that I now had no moral high ground leg to stand on that I had to hang up the phone and not laugh at my parents for living near a dog molester. I relayed the sad situation of my thwarted scoffing to my oldest offspring, who said, “Theirs is still worse. We may have had to be told not to shoot a bear, but at least we didn’t have to be told not to have sex with it!”

FYI, that's my size eleven boot next to a bear track. They're a thing here.
FYI, that’s my size eleven boot next to a bear track. They’re a thing here.

Don’t Let Anything Stand in your Way…Not Even Common Sense

I love handicapped people. I promise, I really do. So I really hope no one thinks this post is making fun of handicapped people because it’s totally about making fun of stupid people. There is a quite-likely possibility that the stupidity on display in this picture is what made this man handicapped, but it is not my place to judge, at least not out loud.

Yes, take a look at this photo and soak it all in. I almost didn’t have time to get my camera out and get this picture before he went roaring through the intersection, but the gods of internet humor were smiling on me that day.
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I know what you’re thinking: “What’s the big deal, Lorca? So what, a dad is driving a motorcycle with his kid on the back. Stop being a hater!” And I could almost let it slide that you’d think that way. So let’s take a look at this a little more closely, remembering that this scene played out at a stoplight in front of my car. This wasn’t a case of, “OMG, look what’s happening in the background of the picture I was taking of something totally unrelated.” This shit happened in front of my face. In slow motion, even.

This, my dear friends, is a picture of a one-armed man riding a motorcycle (which is still all well and good, yay for handicapableness) with his child TIED TO HIM WITH A BELT because the kid is asleep. Oh, and it’s not the kid’s helmet. The kid didn’t actually have one while the dad was using his own belt (at the stop light, no less) to tie his son in place.

Now, you might be thinking, how in the world did a one-armed man hold that bike up and get his kid strapped to him for the ride home? With help… FROM THE KID’S MOM. She helped strap the kid in place from the safety of her own bike, and finally thought to take off her helmet to give it to Junior. I know exactly where this intersection is and it’s not possible that these people don’t live at least a mile away, if not way, way more.

Dad has a helmet (and one arm). Mom has a helmet. Kid has no helmet as he clings to Dad’s stump for support. And when he fell asleep, Mom slapped a helmet on him while strapping him to Dad’s torso, which if history is any indication will be sliced in two momentarily.

Now, you all know (and love) the fact that I’m hateful and judgmental. It’s why you read this blog. But I’m here to say that this kid probably isn’t going to make it to the next intersection, let alone to college. There’s an award in his future, all right… a Darwin award. And it’s sad. Sad that the kid probably doesn’t have the best future ahead of him, but really said that most people think I’m a bad mother for letting my kids eat canned pasta and drink from the garden hose when it’s hot outside. Priorities, people… get you some.

Crime Doesn’t Pay But It Sure Makes Me Laugh

I live in a fairly small town. That means other than the occasional single-wide trailer blowing up from meth heads who failed even the most basic of chemistry classes, there isn’t much to report here in terms of crime. Let’s face it, there’s a reason Barney Fife carried that one bullet in a hip pouch.

In order to understand our crime problems, you have to first understand that THIS SHIT made the front page of the paper. Front page news, folks. Of a paper that only gets delivered once a week. And it comes in the mail since hiring delivery drivers isn’t in the budget.

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Thank the lord they cleared up the misunderstanding. For a minute there I thought Lori was into all kinds of animals, but it’s good to know she’s now working on limiting herself to dogs.

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Yes folks, this man does love to grill. I’m not sure how that made the news, but if you don’t plan to report on things like your own governor removing the fake Confederate flag from the courthouse or the SCOTUS decision concerning gay marriage, then this shit becomes really, really important. Please also note that the intrepid reporter uncovered even more dirt on this man: not only does he like to grill, he coaches Little League.

But here’s where the crime report gets really seedy. Please bear in mind that these were actual 911 calls, and that our brothers in blue put themselves out there to respond.

Shit just got real, y'all. That shoe was damaged in the scuffle.
Shit just got real, y’all. That shoe was damaged in the scuffle.
SIX PILLS, PEOPLE! There were SIX of them bad boys! They later turned out to be Excedrin, but so what?
SIX PILLS, PEOPLE! There were SIX of them bad boys! They later turned out to be Excedrin, but so what?
NOOOOOO! Not the phone cord! I mean, "Hands up, not my phone cord! Hands up, not my phone cord!"
NOOOOOO! Not the phone cord! I mean, “Hands up, not my phone cord! Hands up, not my phone cord!”
Dammit, if I had a dollar for every time somebody stole a $50 mower, I could buy... a $50 mower. You throw in the fact that the officers who responded then went on to find a stolen bicycle on the scene, and it's just a crime wave, I tell you what.
Dammit, if I had a dollar for every time somebody stole a $50 mower, I could buy… a $50 mower. You throw in the fact that the officers who responded then went on to find a stolen bicycle on the scene, and it’s just a crime wave, I tell you what.

For the rest of the country who’s veritably wallowing in news like the riots in Tunisia and the fact that Putin wasn’t invited to the G8 summit for being an asshole, I give you what it’s really like to live in a town with its head shoved in the sand. Or up its ass. Take your pick.

On Getting the Duck Outta Here

There’s a really great story hidden inside every embarrassing tragedy. I’m sure of it. Hell, I’m living proof of it.

My friend had a fundraiser last month known affectionately in our part of the world as a Duck Derby. Stop it. I know what you’re thinking, and no, even we’re not redneck enough to race live ducks. Basically, you find a body of moving water and you dump a bunch of rubber duckies in it. You’ve numbered the ducks ahead of time, and the person whose duck crosses the finish line first (thanks to high levels of rain, swift currents, and more than a few water snakes) wins the prize.

It’s basically gambling…on rubber ducks and Mother Nature.

Fortunately, I got to skip this clam bake recently by having something better to do. I don’t remember what it was, but I seem to recall wine and pretending to clean out the linen closet might have been involved. Apparently, a good time was had by all, and no ducks were harmed in the derbying of these things.

(Interesting note: I’ve only had two glasses of wine, but I’ve already mistyped “ducks” as “dicks” four times in this blog post. Make of that what you will.)

This week, I took another friend kayaking at the creek in a neighboring county and happened to see a sign advertising the other friend’s duck derby. We stopped the car, jumped out, and rescued her sign in case she decides this year’s fun wasn’t nearly enough plastic duck in her life and opts to do it again. Farther up the creek, lo and behold, another sign. We rescued that one as well.

Then later that night, it’s entirely possible this happened:

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No. As a matter of fact, they weren’t her signs. I literally stopped along a roadway and stole someone’s signs. Twice. I felt so guilty (the wine made me weepy about the whole thing) that I started investigating online and discovered to my absolute horror that I had not only stolen someone’s signs, I’d stolen an environmental protection organization’s signs advertising a fund raiser that was earmarked for cleaning up the very creek the duckies would swim to financial gain and freedom on.

(Another interesting note: I can’t envision a duck derby without thinking of that episode of WKRP where they didn’t know domesticated turkeys can’t fly.)

After a tearful, incoherent apology voicemail on that charity’s phone at ten o’clock last night, I snuck off to replace the stolen signs. After this happened, of course:

Because if you’re going to steal a sign with a rubber duck on it, you need to go all gangsta on it and threaten it like a jacked up cross between Anonymous and the Unibomber, just in case you ever need to extort money from this charity. Okay, that’s a lie, but it was still funny considering I was already a wanted criminal.

The derby signs are back in place, I’ve made a generous donation to the environmental charity to make up for my wrongdoing, and now I’m spreading the word. Go to this link, adopt a duck, and help clean up the creek. If you actually win the derby, I’ll send you pictures of me stealing your/my new kayak.

I’ve Never Been a Professional Hooker…

My husband got me a massage for Christmas. There, I said it. He actually paid for two massages, and the first one went so horrifically awkward that I still haven’t used the second one. It wasn’t an entire fiasco, but it was certainly not the most comfortable I’ve ever been.

Right off the bat, I remember driving to the appointment at this frou-frou medical spa, thinking to myself, “I’m about to take off all my clothes and let a stranger touch me without making eye contact. Kind of like the gynecologist.” And seriously, at the risk of sounding ungrateful about my present, that is kind of how much I was looking forward to it as evidenced by the fact that I got it for Christmas (because apparently my husband thinks the new spare tire I wanted for my camper “isn’t a gift”) and hadn’t used it by April. I’m not big on strangers touching me while I’m not wearing my delicates.

I checked in at the spa and realized I was the only person there–patron or employee–who hadn’t had anything freshly botoxed. These people were so polished and buffed they were shiny. The attendant showed me to the locker room where the towels and robes were stored, then pointed me to the shower.

Let’s get one thing straight: there are times when it’s appropriate to take off all your clothes and shower with strangers around. A) You’ve just finished a grueling CrossFit class and your muscles are screaming for cool water, B) you work in a nuclear power plant and you’ve just been exposed to dangerous levels of radiation, C) you’ve been hiking in the wilderness for four days and your body odor is scaring away bears, and D) no, there is no D. Those three reasons are all I can think of that justify standing in a communal shower with strangers.

I skipped the shower, since I’d read online before my appointment that showering is considered polite and I’d therefore just stepped out of my own (private) shower before getting dressed and getting in the car.

Then there’s the robes. I’m on the bigger end of the big girl scale, but even I can unabashedly say that I’m by far not the biggest girl on the block. I’m pretty sure I still field dress under 110lbs. But these robes were made for people who wrestle in the peewee weight class. After three attempts, I found one that actually met in the middle, let alone crossed over and belted. Since I wasn’t sure about all the rules here for hygiene (and since they were kind of hung up on the need for a shower), I threw all the ones I’d tried on in the laundry bin. It looked like I’d gone rampantly down the row of lockers and stolen all the robes, then hidden them inside my robe. Sadly, I couldn’t have hidden a box of Tic Tacs inside my robe.

The actual massage part wasn’t horrific because it turns out the licensed massage therapist has a niece on my kid’s cheer squad, so we’d at least seen each other before. We spent the hour dogging the other cheer moms. It was kind of funny in a shallow, bitchy way once I got over the desire to scream, “I need an adult!”

When I made it back to the locker room, THAT’S when I felt like a shower might be in order. I’d just spent an hour with a mostly-stranger’s hands on my body. I referred back to my rule about three acceptable times to shower with strangers and decided to shower back at home with only my children barging in to watch. I got dressed, dropped robe number six in the laundry bin, and went to check out.

Since this was all on a gift certificate (because I didn’t get that spare tire), all I had to do at the register was leave a tip for the massage therapist. I’d also been told to expect that, and yes, it was clearly printed on the gift certificate as well. I handed over my credit card since I don’t believe in cash (because I suck at math, not because of a conspiracy theory involving the pyramid and George Washington’s eye, or anything) and was shocked to discover that my 20% gratuity came to twenty bucks. Even I can do the math there…I just paid a stranger $100 for the privilege of taking my clothes off and letting her touch me for an hour.

Now, I’ve never been a professional hooker, but I think that just happened in reverse. They should have paid me for this. I didn’t even shower, but I did wear the outfit they left for me to put on and then strip when they told me to so someone could spend sixty minutes of my life groping me in a semi-dark room with music playing. I read 50 Shades of Grey, and I’m telling you, that scene is in there word for fucking word. Sadly, when I got home and my husband wanted to hear all about it, I was then stiffed the $19.99 a minute phone sex workers get paid for this. I’m starting to see why hookers need unions (and no, that’s not a pimp joke), because us freelancers are just left hanging.

Okay, I Finally Have Peenis Envy

I’m gonna let you in on a little secret…I’m actually a really normal person. Bwahahaa! I just spit coffee on my computer screen for even typing those words!

No, let me try again. I have multiple personality disorder (more coffee spitting!) and only a handful of my personalities should probably be under medical and/or FBI supervision at all times.

What I’m really trying to say is I actually write for about twelve different blogs, and only some of them are weird as half-broiled shit. Some of them are normal, and dare I say, some of them are even quite useful. There’s all kinds of serious, newsworthy information on them, and they’re chock full of intelligence.

Then there’s this blog that you’re reading right now. Sorry.

Here’s why I’m telling you this. On my normal blogs, people reach out to me with press releases, software updates, secret news about all kinds of cool inventions and gadgets and doohickeys, and if it is in line with the blog’s readership, I’ll write about it. It’s pretty cool. Random packages of cool tech gear show up at my house at all times. I received a product almost a year ago that is a direct competitor to a device that rhymes with Crapple Gotch. See? Cool things are happening over in normal land.

So what do people send me to write about on THIS blog?

Urine Funnels.

Yes, a lovely product that claims to let women finally a) pee standing up and b) write their names in the snow showed up at my house unannounced. All thoughts that this could be a revenge plot to give me an STD by sending me a used urine funnel flew right out of my head the second I opened the package. This product…nay, this invention to beat all inventions…this device that surely Bill Gates and Steve Jobs and the United Nations had all come together to create was MINE!

So how do you NOT try it? Duh.

Here’s the problem with holding a funnel over your hooha and peeing (no wait, there are lots of problems with this):

1. If I ever walk into a seedy-looking ladies’ room and all the feet in the stalls are facing the wrong way, my ninja skills are gonna flare up like Uma Thurman in Kill Bill.

2. This particular model does not go all compact for easy carrying, so unless you want to clip this thing to the outside of your purse or just stop carrying a wallet to make room for it inside your purse, it’s not going with you.

3. Here’s the real bitch: once you’ve actually used it (Yes, as a matter of fact, I tried it…I’m morally obligated to try out the product before I can review it. Plus I was peeing standing up! I haven’t gotten to do anything dramatically different involving my own urine since college!), you’re now stuck holding a funnel that is dripping with your own urine. You not only get to wipe yourself while holding it, you then get to attempt to get your pants up one-handed without letting anything drip on your shoes.

4. If I’m ever washing my hands at a sink in a public restroom and a lady comes up to the sink next to me to wash out her urine funnel, I’m gonna cut her throat and use that funnel as her new breathing tube.

So dear manufacturers of the Lady Pee Funnel 5000, I’m sorry. You just didn’t think this through all the way. Make it small enough to go in a handbag but big enough to still make us feel like men when we pee, then make it out of some magically hydrophobic material that ejects ALL of the pee droplets when you’re done, and you might have yourself a winner. Once we do finally get that peeing standing up thing working like clockwork, maybe then we can close the wage gap and finally resolve this whole reproductive rights broohaha.

I crap you negative, this thing is for real.
I crap you negative, this thing is for real.