Get Your Creep on of the Day: Cone Fish

I can’t help but think this is appropriate to post here. Recently boyfriend and I went exploring and here’s a glimpse of our conversation when we came upon this:

Koi fish?

Me: OMG IS THAT A KOI FISH? IT’S HUGE?!
Boyfriend: No. It’s a cone.
Me: What?
Boyfriend: It’s a cone. It’s a big ass cone.
Me: Are you sure…
Boyfriend: Yes. Someone threw a big ass cone into the water.

Get Your Creep on of the Day: Ducked Up

When I was 8, my family decided to take a vacation to the foreign, exotic, desert land of Scottsdale, Arizona. We even stayed in a surprisingly fancy hotel (read: the norm was a HoJo).  It was so fancy, that I believe I shot a documentary with our snazzy video recorder at the time all about the bathroom, which sported both a shower AND a whirlpool tub. If that wasn’t all that and a bag of chips, I didn’t know what was.

Fancy hotel was fancily situated on a fancy pants golf course too. Separating the hotel area from the golf area was a set of ponds. And holy poop, if my eight-year old heart wasn’t impressed by those ponds, it was 100% smitten with what I found in that pond: ducklings.

One afternoon I had convinced my brother to go to the ponds with me. He was on the other side of the pond, while I stared intently at the baby ducks, who consequently were waddling away every ounce of my 8 year old self-restraint for wanting to grab and cuddle every baby animal in the world.

And so I thought I would. My brother told me to leave them alone. But fuck that shit. I was going to pet a baby duck, damnit. They were basically quacking to be cuddled, I couldn’t let them down!

As I inched closer to the babies near the pond’s edge, I was sure to move slowly, not wanting to scare them. My brother hollered at me again – leave them the fuck alone – which I considered for a half second until I saw that they were almost within my reach.

I was almost close enough to touch one when I heard the water russle and fuck shit momma duck was getting sassy flapping her wings and shit. I stood frozen, not sure what to do, when momma flew the fuck outta the water and landed on the bank and began screeching at me like a duck banshee.

Scared shitless I took off running. Only to look behind me and see momma duck quacking and flying through the air after me! AHHHH! HELP! I screamed at my brother as momma duck was coming down on me from the air. While in reality she was a 3-pound fowl flying through the air, she may as well have been a fucking raging pterodactyl as far as I was concerned. I was so terrified.

She took hold of the back of my t-shirt with her fierce, ass kicking, duckbill of menace, and felling her take me down I gave up and feel into fetal position as she landed on my back. She was going crazy flapping her wings and tugging on my t-shirt as I screamed for help and heard my brother laughing his ass off across the pond. Eventually she had “whooped my ass enough for satisfaction” and flew back to her ducklings as I cried in duck fear.

After that my brother came back to my side of the pond, laughing. “I told you to leave them alone, but you wouldn’t listen. That’s what you get.”

And that’s the day I got my ass whooped by a duck.

For more evidence-based information on scary ass fucking fowls you should read one of my favorite blog posts at Hyperbole and a Half. Kthx.

Get Your Creep on of the Day: Neighborhood Watch

My paranoia is not a recent occurrence. In fact, I’ve been a bit paranoid since I was a kid and I won’t lie I’ve also been known to set up a booby trap or twenty to serve as a warning should any unsuspecting burglars or crazies come creeping in. (I’m no MacGyver, but indeed bells have been placed on door knobs, locks are always checked, and more than a few objects have been strategically placed to make a sound or complicate someone’s entry). 

With that said, it may come as no surprise to you that when I was home alone as a twelve year old it wasn’t uncommon to hear an off-setting sound outside and run to the window, pop my fingers though the blinds, and peek out looking for suspicious characters or clues to the sound’s origin.

Image

This is what I guess it must have looked like to my neighbors must have seen as constantly popped up to look between the blinds every 10 minutes on the crazy watch.

One particular evening  around 6pm or 7pm I was especially on edge and when I heard a loud door slam, I peeked outside to see this white van speed away down the street, and two seconds later I heard someone trying to get into the front door.

OMGAWD WE’RE UNDER FUCKING ATTACK.

For God only knows why I made a concerted decision to first scoop up my dog and than with her in my arms bolt out the backdoor nearly shitting myself with adrenaline. Realizing I didn’t know what –kind-of-crazy this fucker was I made my second concerted decision. I would try to remain as out of sight as possible, which meant ducking down and running a giant loop outward so I could be alongside the fence/tree line in our backyard. This, my adrenaline-pumping mind decided was how I would remain as incognito as humanly fucking possible…you know for a kid ducked down, running with a Weiner dog in her arms.

My first major strategy was to get the fuck away, but as I was running I realized there needed to be a part two. But what do I do? Where do I go?!?! AHA! I’ll go to Dorothy’s house. After all she was one of the few people left in the neighborhood that we still knew and trusted since by that point many of the kids and families I grew up around had moved away.

Problem is…when you’re looking for protection from the scary fucker that just broke into your house…it may not be the best idea to run to the 75-year-old woman’s house across the street.

I show up at her doorstep completely out-of-breath, my dog likely sporting a look of terror on her face and exclaim, “Dorothy, I think someone just broke into my house!”

Being a bit more controlled than I am Dorothy listened to my story and decided it would be best to talk to the neighbor lady next door. So we go next door, I tell my story again and neighbor lady decides…well let me walk over there with you and we can see what’s going on.

Neighbor lady kinda sorta looked like she could whoop some ass so I conceded and sheepishly, dog-in-hands, followed behind her as we walked back to my house. As we approached we came back to the front door closed, but not locked (aha, sneaky burglar, you trying to cover your tracks) and we went inside. Nothing was out of place and the other two dogs I left behind (sorry Dieter and Liesel!) were unalarmed and largely happy to see me come back.

It seemed like everything was okay…but neighbor lady decided we should walk through the house just in case. As we approached the den we noticed the door was shut, but my adrenaline started pumping as I could hear someone inside.

I approached the door and swung it open as hard as I could (note with dog still in hand and also note that ideally I would’ve ninja-kicked that shit open – but sadly my twelve year old legs were better at bicycling) and I jumped forward looking for a culprit.

Nearly shitting himself a guy jumped back from the computer.

A guy…who was really just our german exchange student…sitting in the den…his room putzing around on the computer.

Neighbor lady suddenly (for the first time might I add) looked a little alarmed herself before I clarified that it was our exchange student, thanked her, and she probably strode back across the street laughing her ass off.

Get Your Creep On of the Day: Would You Rather…

One of my peers recently posted a list of questions that are good to ask your boo or  a close friend. Questions that broke away from the monotony of life and offered some insight into your person that you might not ordinarily get otherwise. At first it was simple stuff like “What is your favorite (color, scent, place, food, meal)” or “What makes you (happiest, loneliest, feel valued).” Okay I thought those are good, somewhat interesting questions. And then the article went on and got all gender role constricting and slightly creepy and I thought, you know what, I’m pretty sure I can do better. Fuck this favorites biz. Let’s play my version of a game called “Would you rather…” Unlike most people my version of the game errs on the side of random, weird, and on occasion thought-provoking questions that you will likely never think to ask your person or perhaps ever want to think about yourself.

Here are the rules. You have to pick one or the other and explain why. And, I know it’s hard, but you can’t change the circumstances to make it better. Example if you opt for a hairy chest as opposed to a third nipple on your neckline, per se, you can’t simply assume you can shave that gloriously hairy chest and voila no one knows. This shit is your scarlet letter of decision making; a window into your creeptastic soul. Okay, maybe I’m getting carried away. Whatever, bear with me.

Do you think you can handle it? Even if you do – proceed with caution, try not to vomit, and don’t think I’m a total freak…I’m just imaginative.

Would You Rather…Awkward Stampede Style

  1. Have no arms or no legs?
  2. Be blind or deaf?
  3. Unibrow or extraordinarily long nose hairs?
  4. Tons of acquaintances and something to do all the time or a few good friends and rarely something to do?
  5. Be a master salsa dancer or master clog dancer?
  6. Have an extra finger or an extra boob/ball?
  7. Eat Mexican food the rest of your life or Italian?
  8. Climb Mt. Everest or swim across the English Channel?
  9. Eat a cockroach or mouse?
  10. Your lover have a giant tattoo of their Ex on their chest or a giant tattoo of an evil donkey on their chest?
  11. Drown or die in a fire?
  12. Be able to sing or dance?
  13. Have sextuplets or have no kids?
  14. Ride a llama or a water buffalo?
  15. Be President Obama or Snooki?
  16. Be able to read minds or move objects with your mind?
  17. Would you rather vomit every time you danced or dance every time you vomited?
  18. Have a nipple on your forehead or a 2″ horn between your eyes?
  19. Have chronic halitosis or chronic stank ass feet?
  20. Be prone to birds shitting on your head or stepping in shit?

This list is by no means complete and will continue to grow. So creepy creepers feel free to share your own questions.

Get Your Creep On of the Day: The Poop Family

An email I wrote to my mother last year. I think it’s a fairly appropriate representation of my crazy family and creepy self. Enjoy.

 

To: My mother (who thinks anything to do with poop is hilarious)

From: Me

Sent: Sunday, October 10, 2010 2:40:56 PM

Subject: Poop

 

I knew the title of this email “poop” would lure you into reading it. I thought you should know, that as I am preparing to work on my comprehensive exams I learned that in fact there are people with the last name poop.

Examples of articles where the researcher had a last name of Poop include:

For more articles simply search the term “poop” in Google Scholar. As you might have deduced, these individuals would indeed be referred to as Dr. Poop. Considering the publishing times of the article, I have to wonder if this is a family of Poops – perhaps Poop Sr. writing the earlier article and Poop Jr the latter.

Obviously this finding utterly piqued my curiosity and I had to learn more about the Poop families of the world. Thus, I googled “Poop surname.” Apparently the Poops are everywhere, there’s even a lineage in MI. You can learn more about the distribution of Poops across the United States by clicking here: http://www.ancestry.com/facts/Poop-family-history.ashx You can also click on a state to view “Poop census records.” According to the website it’s German in origin, which kind of makes sense as German the word for doll is “Puppe” which is pronounced kind of like poop-uh.

Get Your Creep On of the Day: Craftaholic

When I was younger, I was a total craft-aholic. I think there’s something about the Midwest that is freakishly conducive to developing a desire to produce crafts. Perhaps a combination of the need to make do with what you have and a lack of real cultural engagement that makes you all crazy about making shit out of shit.

And by shit I mean masterpieces. Seriously, if crafts were some extreme sport it was like I was training for a dual with Martha Stewart. And I did a fuckload. Painting, check! Perler Beads (& burning the shit out of your 8 year old hands), check! Bondoogling, check! Candle Making, check! Soap Making, check! Bead Bracelets, Thread Bracelets, Ankle Bracelets, triple check! And then, around the age of ten I decided I was going to expand my craftiness to sewing. Fuck, I was going to be a master seamstress.

Get Your Perler Beadz On

Like any master seamstress, I started big. With pillows that is. It was so easy all you had to do was cut some shit out, fold it in half, shove some batting inside, and then stitch up the corners. OMGAWD watch the fuck out Bed Bath & Beyond!

I did not waste any time. I whip stitched pillows, I fucked up the sewing machine making pillows, and my generous overly-pillow-productive 10-year-old self decided all my fucking friends would LOVE to have a fucking pillow. So I produced more and I creepily dragged them into school. Little pillows with erratic designs. Medium pillows with sunflower patterns. Pillows spelling out their names in felt lettering. YES, circle of friends let me rain down on you with the almighty pillow-known symbol of true friendship.

I loved it. Then one day, I decided I’m gonna make a big fucking pillow! (Okay, truth be told it was only like 16 inches square – but that was almost twice the size of the others). I snagged the last piece of fabric I could from my mom’s sewing bin and went to work – this time being sophisticated and using the sewing machine flawlessly. When I reached for batting to fill this magnificent work of art, I reached into an empty bag.

FUCK.

That’s okay, I thought. I’m crafty. I don’t need to fall to the mercy of white, pure, straight from Jo-Ann Fabrics “batting.” No, I can overcome this simple mishap. My mind raced and then I thought of all the miscellaneous socks, pantyhose, mittens, and random shit we had collected in a basket in our basement. JACKPOT.

I ran down stairs, empty pillow in hand and stuffed it to the brim, bringing its pillow-self to life. Proud of myself, I set the pillow aside – a completed work of art.

About 5 years down the road, I was hanging out with my friends and when one of them grabbed the pillow to put behind their head they paused.

“OH MY GOD. WHAT THE FUCK IS IN THIS PILLOW, HAMMERS?!”

I was shocked. “No! Don’t hate on my art”

“You made this thing? What the fuck did you put in it?”

As I disclosed my dilemma and crafty solution my friend tossed the pillow at me and the second it hit me like a sack of potatoes I realized it really was a heavy fucking mess. Apparently, a pillow stuffed with socks, pantyhose and other shit isn’t exactly as soft and cuddly. Whatever, Martha Stewart. I’ll coup d’etat your craft empire one day.

Get Your Creep On of the Day: The weirdest job I’ve ever had.

My need to be doing something coupled with my need to have money in the bank have resulted in a lot of jobs throughout my life. Ergo I’ve had to do a lot of weird shit in my life. From working in restaurants to libraries, stores and universities I’ve been exposed to some pretty freaky shit including, but not limited to: dead mice, opossum and ‘coons; barfy food and even barfier food handling practices; organizing and selling underwear, jockstraps, and toilets; and dealing with screaming hungry children and adults. Yes, it’s been wonderful.

Despite all these less than palatable job experiences, the weirdest day on the job I have ever had was when I was a junior in college and preparing to leave for study abroad in Germany. I decided I needed some extra money for deutsch bier & wienerschnitzel and found this job randomly online. It was for a random catering place on the edge of town and paid $10/hour, which at the time was like hitting the jackpot.

I showed up and got trained. And by trained I mean I learned why the fuck people have four forks and four spoons, where they go, what they look like, and how to lift a tray and “appropriately” place dishes on the table. Although the plated tray was heavier than cinder blocks and the food made me want to barf, I wouldn’t allow myself to be phased by any of it determined to bite my tongue and stick it out for the money.

Then I showed up to work my first event. As I pulled up into the lot I noticed a buttload of huge ass trucks, 15 passenger vans, and tractor-trailers.

Hmm…this should be interesting, I thought.

I began to walk inside and wonder who exactly the audience of this event was. Then I stepped through the front door, looked around, and saw nothing but heads of deer.

*Holy fuck*

Okay…maybe it’s just some freaky craft show.

As my eyes perused the premises, I began to see an array of people intermingled with the overwhelming presence of deer heads. And I use the term “people” loosely. These folks were like something straight out of the Wild Wild West – super hick with cowboy boots, hats, and then…what’s this? Amish people galore! That’s right, Nascar and the Pennsylvania Dutch had launched an invasion on the great state of Illinois and I was in the middle of it – apparently the deer got the fuck in the way…and got fucked up. At least that was my morbid assessment.

As I walked through Big Buck Hunter Wonderland to go clock in and get my uniform, I couldn’t put my finger on why this was so fucking weird. I mean amish people and country cowboys are not exactly oddities where I am from, but this event had something ultra unique about it.

Once clocked-in, uniformed like a maroon turd, and ready to go, my boss stumbled up to myself and my coworker (who, mind you, the day before while polishing silverware for the big event had told me about her life as a stripper, shitastic boyfriend, and child-yes, it was depressing and extremely awkward). He then informed us that we would be working a concession stand at the event.

The event? Oh, just a deer semen auction. Apparently deer jizz is big biz. And by big business  – I mean multi-billion dollar industry.*

On the menu? Nothing but wieners and pulled pork.

*What the fffffffffuuuuccckkk*

Eventually the $10/hour trumped the palpable freakishness of the event. And that’s how I spent two days selling wieners to people bidding on deer semen. And yes, it does feel weird handing an amish guy a wiener, knowing he just dropped some serious G’s on the deer semen he’s holding in the other hand.

*Allegedly, there are deer hunting parks where people pay money to go around and shoot up deer and then get to take the deer heads home – they auction semen to breed deer with the biggest horns possible. Just another shining example of mankinds incessant desire to fuck over nature.