And Best Bad Joke on Twitter Goes To...

Last night at 11:56 p.m., after half a bottle of eleven-dollar white wine and poor shoe sales, I decided to perk myself up by soliciting bad jokes from my fellow Twitterites. For their troubles, I promised them the possibility of winning a $10 iTunes gift card if their joke was my favourite.

No, I am not so rich with $10 iTunes gift cards that I can just toss them to the masses willy nilly without a thought. I received this particular one for Christmas, but, sadly, it turns out that it can only be used by people residing three hours south of me in the United States. Canada gets screwed again!

My original idea was not only to have people tell bad jokes but also to make them tell those jokes in exactly 140 characters, so I spent an unreasonable amount of time stretching this joke to fill exactly 140 characters:



It turns out that no one understood me — surprise, surprise — because they all started telling really awful jokes in less than 140 characters. I didn't care, though, because I was laughing too hard.

Cheap wine + that what's-brown-and-sticky joke = comedy gold.

And the winner of Schmutzie's Bad Jokes on Twitter Extravaganza is... Major Bedhead with this little gem!

I chose this one as my favourite, because the perch! It's a fish! And the birds! They think they're people! If I laugh at this one anymore I am going to go have my cognitive abilities checked out.

And because I just can't get enough, more with the bad jokes in the comments, people. Of course, there are no more prizes to give away, but these are way too awesome. I love you.

Distraction

Okay, so, I like to play brave. I like to joke. I'm such a fool for cheap humour that I sometimes say Yust yolking! when I crack eggs open. But, today? Not so much.

I am having my cervix shaved down tomorrow morning with an electrified metal loop that will be grounded on my thigh, because cooking a woman alive through her cervix is no one's idea of good time. Or at least it is not most people's idea of a good time. I do hope that my gynecologist is in good, completely sane spirits at 8:30 a.m.

In an effort to take my mind off the impending emsmallening of my cervix in T minus thirteen hours, I have been doing all manner of things I hate, which as you know, likely involves some form of cleaning, which it does. In less than two hours I have nearly completed two loads of laundry, cleaned out the refrigerator, written this entry, folded and put away clothes, made a trip to the store to pick up a schwack of Amy's frozen food, and have popped two of those frozen blocks into the oven. What's a schwack, you say? Why, it is two boxes of mattar paneer meals, one box of a palak paneer meal, one teriyaki bowl, one rice and vegetables bowl, and two boxes of black bean enchalada meals. My squirreliness over this surgery has me nesting with clean towels and non-perishable food stuffs.

In way of excusing my boring list of food I bought, I find making lists helps to calm me down. It makes me feel like everything is in order, even if I keep having flashes of my cervix looking like the slimy exterior of a rotten mango. (Also, Amy's is not paying me a cent to pimp out their food. I am just so freaking happy to have pre-prepared food that isn't going to be implicated in my morbid obesity ten years from now.)

You are probably thinking Quit it with the cervix talk already! You've been forcing me to envision your diseased innards since September! Yeah, well screw you. Just be thankful that I didn't take pictures of the closed circuit television on which I watched my earlier colposcopy. I am all too familiar with that spongiform little devil.

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In a swift about face, I am dropping the previous themes involving housework, groceries, and my interior anatomy. I have a little contest going which involves a photograph of my cat, Oskar. It begs for lolcatting, but my brain just won't put out on demand today, so I want you to go take a gander at the picture and submit your lolcat caption. If you don't know what lolcats are, check out "Lolcat" on Wikipedia or the weblog I Can Has Cheezburger? or Anil Dash's "Cats Can Has Grammar".

To enter the contest, go check out Oskar's lovely mug on this post, and submit your entry in the comments. I will use your entries to while away my loop electrosurgical excision procedure imagining your lolcat captions emblazoned across Oskar's chest.

What's the prize for adopting bizarre internet-borne cat grammar, you are wondering? It is so deep a secret that the prize's form has not yet been revealed even to me, but believe me, it will suck less than that time you got lemon juice in your hangnail, and you might even like it.

Mmm, Meat

I have learned a valuable lesson about how I react to stress over the long term and how it affects me physically. First, I eat only the highest fat takeout food, especially if it comes with gravy or cream dips and looks like fries or chicken wings or a cheese-and-bacon-smothered chicken burger. Second, and not surprisingly, I get fat. Okay, maybe not fat, but I am definitely fatter. Fattish. Pudgy. Rolly polly around the middley widdley. I kind of like the word zaftig, though, because it's got a sexy edge to it.

In truth, the waistbands on most of my pants have started forcing my figure into this lumpy, bisected version of itself, and if anything, having my loop electrosurgical excision procedure (LEEP) tomorrow will go a long way toward helping my burgeoning waistline from further burgeoning. I won't have to stick a hot buffalo wing dripping with jalapeño ranch dip into my yap every time my errant cervix pops into my head.

If I had ordered my present state in a restaurant it would have been listed on the menu thusly: A surprisingly generous portion of fresh abnormal cervical cells infused with the possibility of cancer are served on a bed of assorted deep-fried morsels drizzled in herbed lemon butter and served with a side of ass fat to round out your palate.

You will be pleased to note, after I found that some of my belly fat was getting pinched in the process of doing up my pants this morning, that I am presently eating a tray of vegetables and a yogurt/granola parfait for lunch.

How long does it take for one's arteries to clog from the overingestion of fatty meat products? Can they unclog on their own if I intervene early enough? Or should I just look forward to have shunts surgically implanted in my arteries to keep my heart from seizing up?

On a more pleasant note, Tamara from Awkwardly Social has inspired me through e-mail to hold a small contest. I recently posted a picture of one of my cats that showed him in his common I'm-stuck-to-the-goddamn-couch-but-acting-cool-about-it pose. It screamed lolcats at both Tamara and I, but neither of us has been able to come up with an appropriate lolcats caption.

So, to participate in the contest, you must first study the following photograph:

Next, you have to come up with a lolcats caption (of which I cannot even muster up an example, so stuck am I).

Leave your proposed captions in the comments, and whoever has the caption I like best will win something. I don't know what that something is yet, but the winner will get something. It will be cool. Hopefully.

Lolcats, ho!*

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* If you're not sure what lolcats are, check out this Wikipedia article, I Can Has Cheezburger?, and Anil Dash's "Cats Can Has Grammar".