Ho ho ho. Green ballsack.

jollygreenballsackI was just wondering if the Jolly Green Giant was made of vegetables, because if so it seems sort of cruel to make him a spokesperson for eating vegetables.  I looked it up and it urns out that the original Jolly Green Giant was neither “jolly” nor “green” and was actually some sort of angry caveman in a bearskin loincloth which just gave me more questions.

But I did find out that there’s an enormous, 55-foot statue of him where it seems like it would be almost impossible to not stare up at his ball sack.  Then I was like, why am I thinking about the Jolly Green Giant’s ball sack?  HOW DID THIS HAPPEN?  This is exactly why the internet is so dangerous.

But clearly I did not learn my lesson because then I looked at wikipedia to see if it could answer the question about whether JGG -and his Jolly Green Genitals- are made of vegetables and Wikipedia explained that the Green Giant came around in the 20’s in response to a new variety of pea that were “oblong, wrinkled and huge.  Despite their size, they were tender, and had a special flavor and sweetness that couldn’t be matched.”

Also, the company originally used the brand name “Le Sueur”, which is french for “The Sweat.”  Sweaty, green, oblong, huge, and wrinkled….but tender and with a special flavor.

I’m sorry.  I can’t stop laughing and I’m not going to explain why if you’re not as messed up as I am.


And now, the weekly wrap-up of awesomeness:


Shit I made in my shop (Named “EIGHT POUNDS OF UNCUT COCAINE” so that your credit card bill will be more interesting.):


Shit you should buy or steal because it’s awesome:  

This week’s wrap-up is brought to you by the wonderful Chris Illuminati (yes, that is his real name) who just wrote a very funny but educational bad-ass book called The New Dad Dictionary— Everything He Really Needs to Know.  I assumed it would be stuff I already knew since I’m a parent but then I got to the page about Baby Concierges and I was all, ‘WHAT THE SHIT?  BABIES GET CONCIERGES NOW?”  I didn’t even know that was a thing.  If you’re a new dad, or about to become a new dad you should totally get this book.  Check it out here.

And that’s why I don’t trust hypnotists

One of my friends went to a hypnotist to stop smoking and it made me think that I need to find a hypnotist to hypnotize me into thinking that I’m doing a good job in life.

But then I started worrying that maybe I’d already used a hypnotist to make me think that I was doing okay but that the hypnotism has just worn off.  And if that’s true then I should I find the hypnotist and ask for my money back, but I can’t because I don’t remember going to see a hypnotists.  And that sort of makes sense because if he’s a really good hypnotist he probably hypnotizes me into not remembering that I constantly hire him over and over again.

And that’s why I don’t trust hypnotists.

PS.  This post seems like it needs a picture but I don’t have a relevant one so instead here’s a photo of Hunter S. Thomcat who is currently attempting to grow to the size of his cat bed.  I think he needs a hypnotist:

If Hunter was Kathy

Stop reading.

Stop reading this right now.

Seriously.  Stop it.

You can’t stop, can you?

Or can you?  Have you stopped?  If you have, I’m applauding you.  You can’t hear it because you’ve stopped reading but trust me, you are awesome.  And you know what else you are?  You are a LIAR.  Because you are still reading.  You’re still reading because you don’t listen to authority and you’re not about to let some stupid-ass warning keep you from doing whatever it is you want to do.  And you know what?  I am with you.




High five, indeed.

Jesus. The google searches I’m going to get for this one…

Facebook just suggested I wanted to see a story entitled:

“Man arrested for breaking into funeral home to perform sexual act on female corpse”

My first thought was, “YOU DON’T KNOW ME, FACEBOOK.  That is NOT the kind of weird shit I want to know about and I really don’t appreciate what you’re implying.”

My second though was a mental image of a man performing a strip-tease while standing on a corpse, but I’d guess that’s not what happened.  I don’t know for sure because I didn’t click through.  I think it’s the wording that I find confusing.  That and, obviously, the fact that someone thinks corpses are hot.  That last part goes without saying, I hope.

I just think we can find a better phrase than “perform a sexual act on.”  There are too many variables and too much subjectivity.  Victor says there really isn’t, but I’m pretty sure if people are performing on corpses we can’t really rule anything out.

Also, I’m giving serious thought to cremation and to scrawling “FILLED WITH RAZORBLADES AND LEPROSY”  on my stomach each night, just in case .


And now, the weekly wrap-up of awesomeness:


Shit I made in my shop (Named “EIGHT POUNDS OF UNCUT COCAINE” so that your credit card bill will be more interesting.):

This week’s wrap-up is brought to you by the talented Claire Ashby, who wrote When You Make It Home, which you should buy RIGHT NOW because today it’s 99 cents.  That’s less than I pay…everything, basically. Synopsis:  Meg Michaels, a bookstore owner, has already walked away from two cheating exes. She’s learned her lesson and has her mind set on success—until she gets knocked up. Embarrassed and unwilling to discuss her situation with friends and family, she wears layers to hide the pregnancy.   Theo Taylor, an Army medic wounded in the war, finds out her secret and agrees not to reveal her condition.  The two forge a bond of friendship that blossoms into love. But can their love overcome all the obstacles that stand between them and creating a happy family?Go right now and buy it.  I just did.

There should be a yelp for places you visit in your sleep.

Do you ever have dreams so real and bizarre that you are certain you must’ve actually been somewhere that exists because there is no way that place came from your head?

Because I have them sometimes and it’s very odd, and I always want to reach out and say, “Hey, has anyone else been to that safari-style petting zoo that was deserted 100 years ago because of a radiation leak?  The one with the sad, balding wolves as big as bears who look at you with desperate eyes?  The one where the unnaturally thick and muscular 8-foot flamingoes have taken over as the dominant alpha animal?  And they stare down at you with dull, black eyes and disheveled, dirty feathers – more brown than pink – and their savage, cold, prehistoric stare tells you they are considering whether you are worth the energy they’d have to expend to kill you?  And then the traveling house shows up (a house carried around on the backs of people so you can have tea and not pay property tax) and you think about hitching a ride but you don’t because you wake up and then the rest of the day you’re haunted by the eyes of those sad, battered wolves who were left behind to be play-toys for the perverse amusement of giant flamingoes?”


Just me?

I did not order that.

I just ordered Chinese delivery but I had questions when it arrived because…um…

steamed dump

And the delivery guy was like “Are you sure?” and I was all, “Yeah.  I’m pretty sure I’d remember if I ordered a steamed dump.”  But turns out that I did order that.  Because it’s steamed dumplings.  It’s also a perfect example of why abbreviations are sometimes a really bad idea.

Also, Victor just pointed out that the steamed dump is literally a #2 on the menu so maybe I shouldn’t be surprised if I order a #2 and a steamed dump showed up at the door.  He has a point but I’m pretty sure Victor needs to stop blaming the victim.

My spoon is exhausted.

Conversation with my husband at one of those cooking stores for people who use more than one pot their whole life:

spoonme me: Holy shit.  This spoon is ENORMOUS.

Victor:  It’s not a spoon.  It’s a spoon rest.

me:  Because my spoons need to rest?

Victor:  Seriously?  You put it on the stove so you can put the dirty spoon you’re using to stir with on it.

me:  So now I have two dirty spoons.  I’m supposed to buy a spoon for my spoon now?

Victor:  Sort of.

me:  Baffling.  And this is why I don’t cook.

Victor:  Yeah.  That’s why.


And now, the weekly wrap-up of awesomeness:


Shit I made in my shop (Named “EIGHT POUNDS OF UNCUT COCAINE” so that your credit card bill will be more interesting.):



Shit you should buy or steal because it’s awesome:  (I had a small breakdown this week, and the best cure for that is reading so all of these are books that helped me escape the hell that is my own head.  If you hate books you should leave now.)

This week’s wrap-up is brought to you by the fascinating Cosmic Box.  Cosmic Box is an inexpensive monthly released box, full of an eclectic mix of organic small batch food, organic artisan skin care, gems and such. It’s like a surprise present for your body, soul and home.  The very first box ships out mid-May and all are curated by Kat Davis (also of wildhoneyapothecary) a holistic RN who has dedicated her life to the study of botanicals, gems and honey.   20% off all profits are donated to a different charity each month.  Get yourself some cosmic awesomeness right here.

Worst. Advice. Ever.

Last week my friend said that her mom’s greatest piece of advice was “Do one thing every day that scares you” and I told her that was terrible advice because you know what scares me?  Bears.  I’m not going to do a bear, lady.  I don’t even think that’s legal in Texas.

Long story short?  I think my friend’s mom is trying to kill me.

UPDATED:  Hang on.  I just realized that technically having sex with a bear would be extremely terrifying and would probably make you appreciate the rest of your fragile life.  A life where you don’t have to have sex with dangerous, bitey bears.

So I guess there’s some actual advice in there after all.  Not good advice.  But still.

Good Luck Satan

Yesterday I went to a thrift store and I saw an old hand-embroidered tablecloth and I thought, Does that say “GOOD LUCK SATAN”?

good luck satanThen I looked closer and realized that no…no it doesn’t say that.

good luck on saturn

It actually says “GOOD LUCK ON SATURN”.  Which makes…slightly more sense?

Then I unfolded it and realized it says: “GOOD LUCK on SATURDAY”.  Which is honestly sort of a let-down after all of that.  Personally I preferred “GOOD LUCK on SATURN” because the embroidered cat looks all kinds of pissed off, like she’d stab you if she got a chance, but she’d settle for just shipping you off to Saturn.  And she made you a hot, poisoned pie to keep you warm because Saturn is all icy and cold.

So I’ve made some changes:

goodluckonsaturnPS. I made you a pillow.  It’s just like the ones your grandma made, but with more stabbing:




No. No. Nope. ALL THE NOPES.

If you’ve been here long enough you know I have a terrific fear of anything tentacled, and that I’m fairly certain giant squids will one day take over the world.

This isn’t helping:

We’re not even safe on land, you guys.  I don’t even trust the toilet anymore at this point.