In this week’s episode, Dave discusses:
~ Centipedes. Household pests or cool-looking hair berets?
~ The best food selections from prison menus.
~ Why Wheel Of Fortune is actually devil worship.
PLUS an interview with Pete, the creepy old guy from down the street
Dave: So, Pete. What really happened to ol’ Mrs. Messerschmidt?
Pete: I ain’t sayin’.
Sam Cavanaugh, Easter Egg Coloring Champion, was so good at his craft that he could color eggs without having to wait for the chicken to lay them first.
In spite of the obvious difficulty of this feat, there were very few high fives given when he received his award.
I recently made my way through my local mall. The thought of that, in itself, is enough to have me wake up in the middle of the night in a pool of sweat (that is sweat, isn’t it?). But it is what I saw in the mall that is giving me that queasy, barfy feeling in my belly.
I am referring to the Eyebrow Threading kisok. You know, right after the Pixelated-Photo-On-A-Tshirt-For-Grandpa kiosk. Now normally, I try to move as quickly as I can past all of the kiosks, lest some carnival huckster con me into buying a lifetime supply of acne mud. But once I caught a glimpse of eyebrow threading, I had to gawk like a mid-westerner at a County Fair freak show.
In some cases it looks like someone is attempting to play Cat’s Cradle a little to close to another person’s face. Careful now, or you’ll poke somebody’s eye out.
However, with the fingers of both hands moving quickly and one end of the thread in the threader’s mouth, it give the impression of a giant spider looking to encase its snared prey into its web.
Either way, it is thoroughly creepy.
I have to admit something, though. I have no idea what the desired outcome of this horrifying activity is. I imagine that the customers are somehow lulled into a trance of sorts (perhaps pharmaceuticals or hallucinogens are involved) and then later consumed by the “threaders” after the mall closes.
In any event, I just felt compelled to inform you of this malevolent activity taking place in malls all across the country. I’m like the guy at the end of “Invasion Of The Body Snatchers”.
What Thanksgiving needs is a mythos. That whole, quaint Pilgrim crap is completely lost on this generation of kids. What is needed is something to compete with Santa, the Easter Bunny and Sid The Talking Arbor Day Tree.
So without further ado, I present my Thanksgiving Day mythos.
“On Thanksgiving Day morning, all the little good girls and boys wake up with smiles on their faces, knowing full well that during the night, Tom The Uncooked Turkey visited their house with his basket full of brussel sprouts and dear god this is why Thanksgiving sucks and everyone can’t wait until Christmas.”
Q: What did David Cronenberg say to Jeff Goldblum?
A: Man, you so fly!
Alright, this joke doesn’t work on so many levels. First of all, even if David Cronenberg was the type to speak in 1990s hip-hop vernacular (and I bet he isn’t), this would have been something he might have said to a woman and not Jeff Goldblum. Unless David Cronenberg was gay (which I don’t believe he is, not that there’s anything wrong with that). Plus, as everybody knows, Jeff Goldblum was married during the time he was working on The Fly, so he would have been off the market in either case.
Mr. Phone Holder Man. He is on a mission from God.
I am bombarded by foods that supposedly “tastes like chicken”. And I think I now know why so many foods make that claim.
It’s because so many foods are made out of chicken.
You have chicken sausage, chicken bologna (a double-whammy of gross) and chicken bacon. OK, the last-named is really made out of turkey, but what is a turkey if not merely a chicken on steroids?
But what has me flummoxed is how they reshape chickens into sausages, bolognas and bacons prior to cooking. I imagine that the chickens would put up quite a struggle and there would be feathers everywhere, never mind all the desperate pecking. To be honest, sometimes my job sucks, but I would never trade places with a chicken-reshaper.
I receive upwards of 10 phone calls per day in which there appears to be no one on the other side of the line. Who are these people? And what is their diabolical plan?
I know that there is some kind of rational explanation for this. Perhaps my phone number is the universal wrong number. Like Type ‘O’ blood, except for phones. But I’m a nice-sounding person. You would think someone would at least stay on the line to apologize, if not make some small talk. Perhaps get to know me better. Strike up a new friendship. Who doesn’t need one of those?
It also could be some kind of solicitation, albeit using an auto-dialer, if not a full-blown, programmed robot. Man, if only.
It also could be a long-standing prank. Or even more insidious, a Hitchcockian attempt to slowly drive me insane as retribution for some slight I committed against another as far back as high school. Although obviously I cannot remember any such thing happening, are you hearing me, Henry?
But what of it isn’t something that mundane? What if it involves a government wiretap, an attempt at contact from the afterlife or E.T. phoning back here to find out what happened to that sweet, little Drew Barrymore kid from the movie?
(Word to E.T.: her newborn baby isn’t mine.)
I may never know the nature of these mysterious calls from ostensibly no one. However, they are rapidly forming the soundtrack to my life. So much so, I am thinking of recording the ringing of my phone and then making it my new ring tone. Because I am creative that way.