Poker Ninja Will Cut You With Cards
Before watching this video I would have never been intimidated by a ninja in a cowboy hat.
Check out poker player Chris “Jesus” Ferguson’s mad skillz (yes, with a ‘z’) slicing and dicing fruits and vegetables with regular playing cards. It’s easy to imagine what sort of damage he could inflict if the watermelon were your belly or the bannana was your, uh, finger, or, um, something.
While he could probably take down a well-armed group of thugs with a deadly game of 52-pickup, I think he should keep practicing untill he can cut canned fruits and vegetables in half.
Now, that would be impressive.
WoW! An Effective Way To Train Husbands!
The geniuses at Fark have figured out the perfect way to get imbicile husbands to treat their wives better. Gentlemen, I present to you The World Of WifeCraft:
Sleep At Work Without Getting Caught!
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Sick of getting busted for dozing off at work or during lengthy conversations with the wife?
Next time put a sticker that looks like an eye on each eyelid. How could this possibly go wrong?
If you’re like me, co-workers will chalk up the snoring to flatulance. And there is an outside chance that you will be able to apply these things evenly without the benefit of being able to look in a mirror.
But check out the guy with the stickers. He looks less like an alert employee and much more like some single-minded homicidal maniac bent on savage revenge who is waiting for you to blink so he can tear out your Adam’s apple with his teeth.
Seemed Like A Good Idea At The Time…
I think we all have secret fantasies of getting away with something and thumbing our noses at the authorities.
What prevents most of us from following through on these thoughts is common sense. Case in point…
High Heels For Infants?!?
Heelarious is a company that makes “soft crib shoes that look like high heels” for infants 0-6 months.
Crib shoes? Okay, am I the only one that sees these as similar to pet costumes?
Perhaps I’m too much of a guy to get the humor but it seems a bit creepy to me. It’s like one step away from tarting your baby up in faux stilletos, some rouge and a miniskirt. What are we teaching our kids?
Do kids even get to be kids anymore or have we passed that point in human evolution? Is there no going back to a time when corporations didn’t only view them as tiny consumers and parents didn’t use them as dress-up dolls or props?
Maybe I am just grumpy today.
If you are interested, the company is happy to sell you the chance to show off your little Lolita-in-training for $35 a pair.
Klingons I Have Kicked
I’ve hung out with enough shrinks to know that I have some of what they professionally refer to as “odd duck tendencies.” One of my particular peccadilloes is an irrational fondness of kicking klingons. By Klingons, I don’t refer to the Warf variety who inhabit various reaches of Federation Space. I refer to a more terrestrial species, namely the kind found filling in the wheel wells of cars after they’ve accumulated slush, snow, mud, and ice to form stalagtite (or is it ‘mite?) protuberances therein. It was just this habit which recently ensured I’d be living a celibate lifestyle for an indefinite period of time.
Checkmate
1, Hatori’s move: H. goes to bed an hour early to get more sleep.
Shinobi’s move: S. wakes up an hour early and starts crying.
2. Hatori’s move: H. goes in to S.’s room and tries to sleep on airbed on floor so
she’ll calm down.
Shinobi’s move: S. chucks her binkies at Hatori’s face.
3. Hatori’s move: H. turns on the “nite-nite” music in dvd player.
Shinobi’s move: S. starts yelling she needs a change.
4. Hatori’s move: H. performs sniff test. No change needed.
Shinobi’s move: S. clenches up and forces poo. Now a change is needed.
5. Hatori’s move: H. says he’ll change her then but then it will be nite-nite time again.
Shinobi’s move: S. wrestles her way out of her pajamas on the changing table.
6. Hatori’s move: H. agrees to take her downstairs and have some breakfast.
Shinobi’s move: S. agrees.
7. Hatori’s move: H. makes breakfast and puts it ontable.
Shinobi’s move: S. refuses breakfast and demands to play.
8. Hatori’s move: H. tells S. it’s time to go to daycare.
Shinobi’s move: S. tantrums.
9. Hatori’s move: H. puts S. in car.
Shinobi’s move: S. tantrums.
10. Hatori’s move: H. gives S. binkie.
Shinobi’s move: S. chucks binkie at H.’s head.
11. Hatori’s move: H. tries to sing amusing songs to quiet S. down.
Shinobi’s move: S. tantrums.
12. Hatori’s move: H. pulls up to daycare.
Shinobi’s move: S. tantrums.
13. Hatori’s move: H. hauls screaming S. inside daycare.
Shinobi’s move: S. stops screaming, sees daycare worker Vivaldia, runs up and
hugs her. Checkmate. S. Wins.
A Rough Morning (Part Two)
Fifteen minutes later we’re coming down the road to the deer farm when something explodes in front of the car. I slam on the brakes swerving to the side of the road.
“Shit!” Shinobi yells happily, echoing me. Great. Wait till the daycare hears that one, I think. I’m already in hot water with them for the words Shinobi is bringing to the center. I peer out the window, and what do my wondering eyes behold? A peacock. In the snow, in the middle of the road, in the middle of winter. A flippin’ peacock. This peacock, as a matter of fact. (Sorry about the quality, but it was taken on my Treo 700w as I didn’t have a camera handy.)
Read the rest of this entry »
A Rough Morning (part I)
Saying it was an unpleasant morning would be like saying that Mount Kilamanjaro is a minor bump in Tennessee: not exactly accurate for a number of reasons. It started with a crying baby, a whack on the head, and an exploding diaper. It ended with me nearly dead of hypothermia, hauling Shinobi through a snowy wasteland.
Shinobi Monologue, Overheard
Being a mature adult myself, and because despite what the Kung Fu Wife will tell you, I’m not an adolescent any longer, I no longer find flatulence to be the peak of hilarity. Honest. Perhaps this post should have been left by Silent But Deadly, but since I’m the one that witnessed it, and I’m Shinobi’s father, it’s probably better that I do.
Shinobi had a bad case of gas one monday night following our weekly daddy/daughter pizza party. (can’t figure out why) I was sitting on the couch when she started letting them go. This is what I heard:
Pffffft. Giggle. “Toot!”
Pffffft. Louder giggle. “More Toot!”
PFFFFFFFFT! Moan. “Ow. Hurt Toot!”
