The Trouble With Zucchini

In response to the previous post, Gdireneoe asks, "BTW ... What's wrong with zucchini?"

There's nothing wrong with zucchini, per se. If you don't bother them, they won't bother you. Things get ugly when people try raising them in captivity.

Zucchini is the kudzu of the veggie patch, the fruitcake gift of summer. Pop a few innocent-looking seeds in the ground, and the next thing you know you're up to your wazoo in squash. You can't even foist them off on the neighbors unless you sweeten the deal with some decent corn, or maybe a watermellon.

In fact, August 8 is Sneak Some Zucchini Onto Your Neighbors Porch Day. If you've been spared so far, count yourself lucky.


(From Maraca at AOL)

What Am I Bid?

I ran into this little doodad today at both TUTT'A POSTO and Journally Yours: 

Business Opportunities Weblog | How Much Is My Blog Worth

So I typed in my URL, expecting to discover I'm worth about 59 cents and a bag of zucchini. Imagine my surprise:

My blog is worth $1,693.62.
How much is your blog worth?

$1693.62?? Get outta town.

OK, it's pathetic by J-Land standards, but I'll take it. It beats zucchini.

(From Maraca at AOL)

Weekend Assignment #84

Author Scalzi Googles Himself One Time Too Many

Noted science fiction author and America Online blogfather John Scalzi made history Monday, October 31 when he accidentally created an entirely new life form he is calling "an e-male."

In the week prior to the event, Scalzi recruited thousands of fans and friends to enter his name into a Google search at the stroke of midnight on Halloween, "just for the pure hell of it, to see what would happen." The stunning and entirely unexpected result was the spontaneous generation of a being named "Scoogle," who appears to be a badly distorted version of Scalzi himself.

Scientists are at a loss to explain the effect, but physicist Janus Looming of Los Alamos Labs says, "It may be akin to the apparition that occurs when teenagers chant 'Bloody Mary' into mirrors. Only bigger. Much bigger."

Centers for Disease Control spokesperson Gloria Shrub cautions that uncontrolled generation of e-males may threaten the public well-being, and says the CDC is pushing for a moratorium on their creation until sufficient controls can be put in place.

The Scalzi family will retain custody of Scoogle until the legal ramifications can be sorted out. "He's not evil," says Scalzi, "but feeding him is costing me a fortune. The only thing he'll eat is Spam."

This entry has 7 comments: (Add your own)
#7 Comment from monponsett 11/6/05 9:53 PM
Can I have her Spam? I love it.


#6 Comment from vortexgirl
11/6/05 2:25 PM
Completely awesome. Your version seems to be the most plausible as well.
Dianne


#5 Comment from pixiedustnme
11/5/05 4:22 PM
e-male - good one! I swear I need to stop reading these before I pee my pants! This is one of the best so far! http://journals.aol.com/pixiedustnme/Inmyopinion/entries/1313


#4 Comment from libragem007
11/5/05 1:50 PM
oh wow..this is good! lol
No..it's great entry! wow!
Thanks for visiting mine.
Gem :-)
http://journals.aol.com/libragem007/JournallyYours

#3 Comment from plittle
11/5/05 1:26 AM
Ha! The best one I've read so far. Well done!
-Paul
http://journals.aol.ca/plittle/AuroraWalkingVacation/


#2 Comment from coelha
11/4/05 7:10 PM
He only eats SPAM! HA HA...very cute... Spoogle scares me!!!

Julie :)#1 Comment from b4i8clover
11/4/05 6:03 PM
Great entry. And we're willing to bet, from his reaction, that he didn't receive an alert beforehand either.
Bon & Mal

Golf Joke

Wife is sitting all alone in the kitchen, mad as hell, pacing the floor, trying to keep dinner warm. Hubby was supposed to be back from golfing hours ago, and he hasn't shown up or even called. Finally, Hubby drags himself through the door, rumpled, dirty and totally exhausted. Wife takes one look at him and forgets all about dinner.

Wife: "What's happened? Are you OK?

Hubby: "I am, but it's been one hell of a day. On the third hole, a freak storm blew up. Lightning came out of nowhere and ... well, it hit Bob. He's dead.

Wife, horrified: "Oh no! That must have been horrible!"

Hubby: "It was. All day long, it was hit the ball, drag Bob ... hit the ball, drag Bob ... "

Comment from b4i8clover
10/19/05 10:14 PM
This sounds like a good sequel to 'Weekend at Bernie's'. Poor Bob!
Bon & Mal

Grave Matters

It's that time of year again. The dark and somber part, where we look Death in the face, dress him up in a spangled tutu and feed him candy. Gotta love it.

What do you want on your tombstone?

To try one on for size, click here: Tombstone Generator.

Grave Matters

It's that time of year again. The dark and somber part, where we look Death in the face, dress him up in a spangled tutu and feed him candy. Gotta love it.

What do you want on your tombstone?

To try one on for size, click here: Tombstone Generator.

Duck Joke

Want to know a dirty little secret? I love duck jokes. I know, I know. But I can't help it. Here's my favorite:

 

Three golfers are killed in a car crash and, having mostly behaved themselves in life, they go straight to heaven.

When they arrive, St. Peter greets them at the gate and says, "We only have one rule here in heaven: Don't hit the ducks."

So they enter heaven, and, to their great joy, discover that it is one enormous golf course -- but there are ducks all over the place. It is almost impossible to play without hitting one. Sure enough, though they do their best to avoid it, one of the men eventually hits a duck. Poof! St. Peter, who doesn't miss a thing, appears with the ugliest woman the men have ever seen. St. Peter handcuffs this woman to the unfortunate golfer and says, "Your punishment is to spend eternity chained to this ugly woman."

The very next day, the second man accidentally hits a duck. Poof! St. Peter arrives, and with him is another unbelievably ugly woman. He handcuffs the two together and sentences the man to remain chained to her for all eternity.

The third man is determined not to end up like his buddies, so he is extremely careful. He manages to golf for months without mishap. And one day, Poof! St. Peter appears with an absolutely gorgeous woman. He chains the two together without a word and vanishes. The man stares at this goddess, this vision of perfection with whom he will now spend eternity, and says, "Whatever did I do to deserve you?" The woman says, "I don't know about you, but I hit a duck."

This entry has 5 comments: Hide Recent | Add your own

#5 Comment from rummikubblue7
8/15/08 10:01 PM
Here are some more duck jokes to make you chuckle: http://duckjokes.blogspot.com

#4 Comment from mlssclymr
10/9/05 5:45 AM
CHUCKLE CHUCKLE TEE HEE HEE GIGGLE GIGGLE GIGGLE!!!!!

#3 Comment from monponsett
10/8/05 7:25 AM
You'd figure it would be hard to hit a duck.... I mean, they'd DUCK, wouldn't they?

#2 Comment from pixiedustnme
10/6/05 9:13 PM
oh you quack me up :-) http://journals.aol.com/pixiedustnme/Inmyopinion/entries/1291

#1 Comment from coelha
10/6/05 7:05 PM
Ha ha ha... That was good one.. :) QUACK..QUACK Julie :)

Simply Extraordinary

Music I'm Listening To: The washing machine.

Yes, the washing machine. With clean water in it, and my family's clothing, and sheets that will go on familiar beds in dry, bright rooms. Soon there will be soft, fragrant towels for bathing, and warm afghans for curling up in front of the TV or for settling in with perfect, beautiful books.

There is food in the fridge, and the tall oaks still stand in the yard. 

I will start a new job soon, too: a perfectly ordinary job, with average pay, good benefits and a short commute.

I look at the news, and I give thanks.

Comment from alphawoman1
9/28/05 2:20 PM
You are a talented writer!!!

I too hope to start a new job in the very new furture. I have spent six wonderful weeks reading!! And reading! I just finished "Up from Orchard Street" byElanor Widmer. The tears have finally dried on my face. I'm going to the library and checking out books now rather than purchasing.

Something New to Worry About

You know how it is when you get a song stuck in your head, how helpless and frustrated you feel? How you'd just about drive a nail into your own brain if it meant you never, ever again had to hear, say, the OompaLoompa song rattling around in there? Well, this just in from the Could Be Worse Department, courtesy of the New York Times: Neuron Network Goes Awry, and Brain Becomes an IPod. 

Wow. Sucks to be them.

Would You Like To Play a Game?

I found this on the Web today and I'm already addicted: Chaos Theory. You just choose a contact spot, start things in motion and wait to see what happens. Kind of like bowling, but without the yucky shoes. (To begin, just move the cursor over the Asian writing until you hit a hot spot and click. It probably says something like "Start.")

When you've mastered that one, move on up to Planarity.

What can I say. I'm easily amused.

Confessions of a Packrat

Day three of unemployment, and already the thrill is gone. Yesterday was a big zero -- a negative, actually, if you count the poonchkie pigout -- so today I was determined to be productive. I thought I'd spend the morning doing some serious cleaning, since I haven't done that in oh, say, years. Problem is, I can't figure out where to start.

Here's the thing: I am a world-class packrat. If collecting was an Olympic event, I'd take home the gold -- and I'd store that gold forever. I love my stuff, I really do. Old stuff, new stuff, junk, heirlooms, you name it. I mean, why have a basement, garage and attic at all, if you aren't going to fill them up? Why throw away perfectly good things, just because you don't need them right this moment? Why would God even PUT space under our beds if we weren't meant to use it? The clutter has been an issue for my husband along the way, but never for me. Until now.

Today, suddenly, really looking at it, it's all too much. WAY too much. And the weird thing is, the deeper I poke into closets and corners, the more I feel as if I'm in somebody else's house. The place is packed with relics of my former lives, buried remains of identities lost or forsaken, all covered in dust. This is not like cleaning house, this is like excavating Pompeii -- and all the frozen, mummified bodies are younger versions of me.

Omigod ...  I just realized something: That's why I'm holding on to everything. The detritus and castoffs from my childhood home, class notes from college, the potter's wheel and kiln, the 22-year-old size-six business suits, the kids' baby clothes, all of it ... they represent parts of me, phases of my life that I loved and lost. Throwing it out would be to call it all garbage. To throw away my life.

But that's nuts, isn't it? I am not this stuff, after all. Hanging on to these things didn't make time stop. It all moved on anyway, and will keep right on doing so, and that is as it should be. These things don't belong here anymore. 

I think I can start letting go now. But I still don't know where to start.

101 Uses for Tampax

I just saw the damndest commercial.

Picture it: Romantic couple in a rowboat. Idyllic scenery. Perfect, lazy afternoon -- until the boat springs a leak. While Boatdude panics, the chick whips out a big honkin' box of Tampax, which she has apparently been lugging around like a purse. She peels a tampon and stuffs it into the hole. Boatdude is impressed. Hands are clasped. Woo is pitched.

OK, here's what's wrong with this picture:

A. Every woman I know would rather go down with the ship than do this.B. Every man I know would rather drown than see a woman do this.C. Anyone who has ever used a Tampax knows these people are doomed.
Jeeze Louise. Imagine the damage these marketing guys could do with douche.

Hell's Bells

When we left me last, I was about to mount an assault on the local merchants. The strategy was simple: Attack with overwhelming force, secure the critical targets, get out fast and sustain minimal damage. I was armed with credit cards, a budget and lists. I had maps of sales and schedules of store hours. I had a route that cut mileage. I had elbow pads.

I had not, however, figured on the Salvation Army and the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells -- the banging and the clanging of the bells. By noon they had taken Main Street, the grocery store, the mall, even the Post Office. They guarded every door, dealing earsplitting, nerve-jangling pain to friend and foe alike. Attempts to distract them with pocket change didn't even slow them down. I had no defense. I found no refuge. I ran like a Frenchman. I'm not proud of it, but there it is.

Plan B: Internet stores. God bless 'em, every one. Hunkered down in my bedroom bunker, I could command anything, common or exotic, to appear on my doorstep -- or even better, on the gift-ees' doorsteps, complete with giftwrap. Amazon.com, especially, was totally excellent. Prices were lower than local stores. Shipping was free. Shopped in my jamies. NO bellringers. Next year, this will definitely be Plan A.