I possess a very keen sense of smell, but there is something that I have always wondered, but been afraid to ask. Do nostrils smell? Of course, I know that nostrils are capable of enabling us to sense a smell. What I am asking is “do nostrils, themselves, actually emit an odour?” I have never sniffed with any nose other than mine, so maybe I have become accustomed to the smell of my own nasal cavity. What if it really stinks and, as a result, I am not able to smell the world around me properly?
Maybe Tim Horton’s coffee doesn’t really smell like skunk butt.
For instance, I have always loved the smell of freshly pumped gasoline — a fact that has raised many an eyebrow over the years. What if petrol doesn’t smell good at all and is, in fact, right up there with asparagus pee?
How can any of us really be sure that our own nose aromas aren’t interfering with our sense of smell? The only way to be sure is to rip off another person’s nose and borrow it. You know — try that childhood “got your nose” trick, but really mean it.
Speaking of body parts, I love Tim Burton movies. He’s rather an odd duck, I know, but his bizarre perspective on the world translates into brilliant films. I have always wondered, however, how Edward Scissorhandspartakes in rock, paper, scissors. Seriously. Only an idiot would do the old “one, two, three” and pull out a flat paper hand.
And, as long as I am on the subject of idiots. In Canada, we have a dishwasher detergent called “Cascade” and its commercials star a woman who solves dish-related domestic disputes. Unbeknownst to me, it would appear that we Canadians take our dish-washing very seriously. This sage of plates and forks refers to herself as the “Cascade Kitchen Counsellor,” presenting troubled dirty dish owners with this miraculous product that can remove baked-on foods and marital discord in one dishwasher cycle. This is my new dream job.
But I digress. Back to the question at hand. Do you think your nose has a smell?
A lot of my blogs are about my weird freakin’ dreams. You’d think I spend my evenings popping Quaaludes and washing them down with Red Bulls. Seriously. Even Tim Burton couldn’t come up with the films that I watch on the back of my eyelids at night.
No one–not even your razor–wants to encounter this.
My latest editions are equally strange. And random. Lately, I keep turning up in the oddest places with no pants on. Just a top and socks. Not even a pair of knickers. When “Dream Me” realizes that she has somehow forgotten to cover her nether-regions, she doesn’t even attempt to cover herself up. Heck no. Instead, she looks around to see if she is the only moron in the vicinity who has forgotten their pants. When she discovers that everyone else is fully dressed, she actually stops to ask herself, “Is it wrong of me to leave the house with my snow white ass hanging out?” In case you hadn’t noticed, Dream Me is an idiot. A half-naked idiot who really needs to get her girly parts waxed.
Last night, Dream Me remembered to conceal her bottom half and headed to a bar for some fabulous alcoholic ice cream beverages. An Ice Cream Bar? (Pun intended). The dreamy (and not just because he was in a dream) waiter said that before he could sell me any, he would need to run my fingerprints. Like I said, Dream Me is an idiot and didn’t see anything strange about this request at all. He pulled his ink pads out from under the bar and I presented him with my finger pads and, presto, my prints had been processed. Seemingly, out of nowhere, an entire Police Academy–esque army of cops appeared–but without the guy who makes the funny noises–and I am informed that my prints match a set lifted from an armed robbery. Now I know that Dream Me hasn’t been out robbing anyone. If she had, she’d be better dressed and donning a tidy Brazilian.
Crimes don’t always go as planned. I guess it’s good to be “flexible.”
1) I love Gumby. If I was going to become a robber, I think I’d like to don a Gumby suit. No one would ever suspect Gumby as having anything but good intentions. Even though my Gumby would only be 5′ tall. A stubby Gumby.
The Gumby in this photo, however, has a rather disconcerting expression on his face. No smile for this bendy boy. Why? Because it’s wearer is a moron. The LA gentleman hiding behind those big red eyes attempted to rob a 7-11. Naturally, the cashier thought he was being punk’d or something–which caused our claymation friend to get…er…a little rattled. He threatened to show his gun–but in true moron fashion, he had sewn the pockets just a little too small and couldn’t get his hand in.
First of all, why would Gumby have pockets? He doesn’t even wear clothes. Secondly, if Gumby did have pockets, wouldn’t they stretch?
I love it when he “slams his green padded hands down on the counter.”
The future is all about the body leotard.
2) Speaking of pockets. Have you ever noticed that humans of the future have done away with pockets? The crews of both Star Trekand The Next Generationare all pocket-free. Where the heck does Picard keep the keys to the Enterprise? Doesn’t Deanna Troi need a place to keep her lipstick? What about the wrinkle cream for Worf’s head?
I would think that future people would want more pockets. Think about how many cards you carry in your wallet alone.
Do kangaroos of the distant future still have pockets?
Am I the only one troubled by this?
3. I wonder what it would be like to shave unruly bikini hair with this baby–a $100,000 razor? No, I did not add too many zeroes. For the price of this razor, you could purchase roughly five Toyota Corollas–a different one for every working day of the week.
The blades are made of sapphire. That’s important. The handle is fabricated from practically pure iridium–a metal that comes from meteors. Yes, finally a practical use for those pesky canyon-causing people-squashers.
This hair-shaving marvel is called the Zafirro Iridium by Bright Light Ventures and only 99 will be manufactured. Bright Light claims that the blades will remain razor-sharp for an entire year–for 100 grand I expect them to stay sharp forever–but they will clean and sharpen your investment for a full decade. Wow! That’s quite a deal for a mere $10,000 a year.
I’m sorry, but some people are stupid. There’s nothing worse than a stupid person with money.
Boycott shampoo! Demand the REAL poo!” Steven Wright.
Some humans have way too much time on their hands. Like bloggers, for example. But at least we try to put this excess time to good use, entertaining and educating the masses. Or at least that’s what we say to justify what we do. Or at least that’s what I say to justify what I do. I’m still not sure if anyone believes me though.
I could be doing much worse things with the extra hours in my day–I could sing a song about decapitated fish heads and dress them up in assorted outfits. Right now, you are probably thinking that this is just some random, weird thought that I just pulled out of my head. I wish. In actuality, the comedy duo, Barnes & Barnes, did just this. In 1980, this video was everywhere…and my adolescent self thought this was very entertaining. Now, I just find it disturbing. Seriously, someone had to collect a pile of smelly fish heads and, then, find fish-cranium-appropriate Little League outfits, knitted sweaters, and someone who would actually consent to dead fish parts be placed on their drums. And how did they ever convince Chip & Dale to do the vocals?
If you would like to see this video in it’s entirety, go here. Warning: the actual song doesn’t start until past the two minute mark.
And, it would appear, that some of my fellow Canadians had a little too much time on their hands–and, perhaps, a wee bit too much to drink. I admit that I love to canoe. And I have had to portage from time-to-time. And that I have often wondered what would happen if, while I am balancing my canoe over my head, I am struck by lightning. Apparently, someone else entertained this thought too–and turned this thought into a character on the comedy show Four on the Floor. The character, of course, was called “Mr. Canoehead.” And, surprise, surprise, it was aired in 1986. The 80s were strange.
To watch Mr. Canoehead’s inaugural episode, click on this:
1) Fish Heads, Canoe Heads–I see a pattern developing here, so I might as well run with it.
As this blog has shown, the Japanese are a very innovative people. The have a solution for every problem. I, for instance, am a pretty dumb commuter. Like the woman pictured here, I love to sleep on the bus, but I have failed to adopt bus-ride-head-protection-safety-gear. I actually didn’t even know that such a thing existed. I usually rest my head on the window, which results in my head pounding against the glass at every bump or turn. (Can repeated small blows to the head inflict brain damage? Hmm. That could explain a few things.)
She, however, is a genius. Why didn’t I think of suction-cupping my head to the pane of glass? And, just in case she doesn’t wake up at her stop, she has posted a sign on her forehead telling other passengers where she is supposed to get off. Not only is she clever at preventing head injuries, but she has also found a way to shirk her passenger-ly responsibilities.
I, however, cannot read in a moving vehicle without vomiting, so I wouldn’t be able to look at her sign at all, let alone know when to wake her up. And wouldn’t her helmet give her her hat-head?
2) I thought my allergies were a bitch, but then I came across an ailment called “Exploding Head Syndrome.” Seriously, I will never joke around about my head exploding again–no matter how much snot I have in my sinuses and no matter how much pounding my migraines cause.
Now, don’t get me wrong. People who suffer from this affliction do not actually experience the rupturing of their craniums (what is the plural of cranium, anyway?) Rather, they hear extremely loud noises much like a gunshot, a roar, or a scream. The noises come from “inside” the head. And they usually occur when the person first falls asleep or within the first two ours of sleep.
Is it just me or does this condition sound freaky? Voices in the head are bad enough–particular if that voice sounds like Fran Drescher. But even she’s slightly more soothing that the sound of bombs or guns going off. I repeat–slightly. This would be enough to make me never want to sleep again. Ever. And I love sleep.
3) I couldn’t do a blog dedicated to heads without including an ode to the best one of all–The Mayor in Tim Burtons The Nightmare Before Christmas. I have always loved both of this politician’s faces–his happy one and his stressed out one.
I just discovered that his voice was provided by the late Glenn Shadix (pictured here), an actor that has a very familiar face for good reason. I remember him as Otho on Beetlejuice, Harold (Jerry’s landlord) on Seinfeld, and, of course, as the mayor of Halloween Town. His list of credits is quite lengthy.
Shadix passed away at the young age of 58 due to a fall that caused blunt trauma to his head.
For a glimpse of his character in The Nightmare Before Christmas, click on this:
This post wouldn’t be complete without at least one Bobblehead. And who’s a bigger Bobblehead than Dwight Shrute? (Rhetorical question. Please do not answer.) If you’d like to buy this bobblehhead of Dwight Shrute, you can visit Dwight Shrute Bobblehead at NBC. I’d love to know if anyone actually has this Bobblehead or any other strange ones.
“The only thing that interferes with my learning is my education.” Albert Einstein.
Learning three new things proved quite challenging for me over the past 24 hours. Laundry and other household chores demanded my attention. And, frankly, the background noise of my television consisted of a series of TVtropolis reruns. I may find a new joke to laugh at no matter how many times I see the same show, but sitcoms aren’t noted for their ability to impart an education–especially when you’ve seen it ten times before.
Despite a lack of stimulating content, I did manage to find three tid-bits of valuable information in the past day.
1) For all my fellow female allergy sufferers, I have just one piece of advice–blame the males. No, this is not a sexist rant. It is, in fact, scientifically accurate–at least, according to a horticultural expert, Tom Ogren. He has been commissioned by Reactine to tour across Canada, educating us on the downside of planting solely male trees–the unnecessary torture of allergy sufferers. Most Canadian and American cities are filled with an overwhelming majority of male trees.
So, why do North Americans eschew the female tree? Apparently, we don’t like the mess. We are simply too busy to find time to sweep up nuts and seed-pods. Instead, we opt for the invisible and stealthy pollen of their male counterparts. It would seem that washing a thick coating of yellow powder off of our vehicles is not a problem.
I learned this gem while reading the front page of today’s Ottawa Citizen.
2) I bet you don’t know what American city held the title “Rubber Capital of the World” for years and actually birthed the American trucking industry. Odds are you probably have never really cared either, but I bet I have now piqued your curiosity. For much of the twentieth century, Goodrich, Goodyear, Firestone, and General Tire all had their headquarters in this city. I know…you’re sitting on the edge of your seat in anticipation, so here is the answer.
AKRON, OHIO.
And so you don’t walk away with just one fascinating Akron fact, I’ll ply you with more. These tire companies also created affordable housing neighbourhoods for their employees with catchy names like Firestone Park and Goodyear Heights. And even after the departure of three out of four tire manufacturers, it is now famous for its polymer research. It really is a town built on rubber.
How on earth did I encounter this little gem? I was doing a crossword puzzle that gave the clue “Ohio Tire City.”
3) My husband had the TV tuned to Batman and Robin, the one with George Clooney as Batman (who I think was the best Batman ever) and I decided to “imdb” Tim Burton. One thing led to another and the next thing I knew, I was reading an on-line article (actually there were several), about the strange living arrangements of Mr Burton and his significant other, Helena Bonham Carter. Apparently they live in separate halves of an apartment in a very posh building.
According to Helena, Tim is a problem snorer due to his deviated septum. In his defence, she admits that she is very bossy. Her side of the home is girlie, while his is…well…darker and more skeleton-ish. This is, after all, Tim Burton.
My only question is: how do they divide up the children?
The Embiggens Project 
