Oh, Poo! I’m LMAO! #AdvertisingHumor #BathroomHumor #humor #Poo-Pourri #VIPoo #odors

 Serious Whimsy  Comments Off on Oh, Poo! I’m LMAO! #AdvertisingHumor #BathroomHumor #humor #Poo-Pourri #VIPoo #odors
Mar 012017
 

You know the unholy dread you experience if you are desperate to use the necessary room to have a BM but you’re out in public, or at work, or at a friend’s house? How does one disguise or eliminate the resulting offensive odor? In a public restroom, courtesy flushes often aren’t quick enough or thorough enough. Eww. Open a window at a friend’s house, perhaps. If there is no window you could turn on the exhaust fan, but that’s a dead give away. Perhaps your host or hostess had judiciously placed a scented candle in the necessary room for just such an occasion. Excellent idea, if there is a match to be had. Oh, poo.

There is salvation from the torment mentioned above. Just ask the British, but be prepared to laugh. The Brits have a wonderfully dry, irreverent, off the wall sense of humor–or humour, as it were–especially when it comes to bathroom humor. Cottonelle Toilet Tissue’s clean bum/go commando commercials come to mind.


Continue reading »

Nov 262014
 

Jolana Malkston 4We should have stuck to turkey, but no, my mother-in-law and I had delusions of grandeur. We were going to cook up a Thanksgiving feast that no one in the family would ever forget. We succeeded beyond our expectations, but not in the way we envisioned.

At the time, Macho Guy and I were still young marrieds living down South. His family drove down to spend Thanksgiving with the two of us, and they brought along a small cooler filled with pheasant breasts. The guys are all hunters and they bagged their limit. They proudly laid their bounty before us.

Early Thanksgiving morning, I got the turkey out of the refrigerator and discovered it had hardly thawed. I hadn’t taken it out of the freezer soon enough. I panicked. We would not have turkey for Thanksgiving. No drumsticks. No wishbone. No stuffing. I was a dead woman.

Luckily for me, my mother-in-law came up with a positively brilliant idea. Let’s use the pheasant breasts instead. Hey, it sure sounded brilliant to me. The pheasant breasts weren’t frozen. Done deal! Continue reading »

Sep 022014
 

Jolana Malkston 4It happened gradually, this addiction to crossword puzzles. It sneaked up on me while I was unaware. Before I knew it, I was hooked.

I suppose the seeds of my addiction were planted subconsciously as I listened to New York Times puzzle master Will Shortz and his word games on NPR every Sunday morning while I got ready for church. I played along and didn’t do half-badly. I didn’t do half-goodly either, but I did enjoy it. Boredom and the preservation of sanity proved to be the fertilizer that helped to grow the addiction to full flowering.

Newspaper Crossword 1 Continue reading »

Aug 192014
 

Jolana Malkston 4I confess. I loved school as a kid, but I wasn’t one of those suck up, teacher’s pet, brown nose types. No way. I was just insatiably curious and still am. I love to learn new things.

Unfortunately, the knowledge I retain leans heavily toward the offbeat and trivial. For example:

Trivia 1

The computers used to send Apollo astronauts to the moon were no more powerful than a cell phone. I wonder if we could send astronauts to Mars with a smart phone? Continue reading »

Jun 242014
 

Jolana Malkston 4Not long after Macho Guy retired, he and I joined a cult. I know, we don’t seem like the type to be brainwashed, but this cult is insidious and relentless. Its members are legion, fanatically loyal, willing to labor endlessly to show their devotion to their cult, and feel no guilt for indoctrinating their neighbors.

That is how, in an unguarded moment, we were ensnared by this cult and became Gardeners.

It started way back when we bought the house on the lake. The previous owner took her backyard hot tub with her, leaving a big ugly brown area of earth where no grass grew. Our kindly new neighbor rushed over with several varieties of hostas she had just divided. She demonstrated where and how to plant them in the formerly big ugly brown area of earth where no grass grew. She didn’t stop there. She found other big ugly brown areas of earth where no grass grew, and she then persuaded us to take more of her divided hostas to populate those additional big ugly brown areas of earth where no grass grew.

Macho Guy desperately wanted a labor-free rock garden but was too polite to refuse the plants. Had he refused, those hostas would have appeared anyway in our big ugly brown areas of earth where no grass grew. We learned much later that our kindly new neighbor was the acknowledged leader of the cult’s splinter sect, the Guerrilla Gardeners. She and her Guerrilla Gardeners frequently staged anonymous freebie planting interventions on their neighbors’ properties while the owners were away or asleep.

The first hint that we were on our way to becoming cult converts manifested itself when we noticed the presence of invaders in our now landscaped areas of earth where flowers grew—an army of weeds. Hardy weeds of every variety known to humankind ambushed our precious hostas. The army of hardy weeds surrounded them.  The army of hardy weeds cut off their supply of water and solar energy. The army of hardy weeds attempted to obliterate and supplant our precious hostas.

You realize, of course, that this sneak attack meant war. Continue reading »

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