There's a rich harvest of giggles on some of my buddies' blogs this week.
First, Tanker over at Mostly Cajun describes some of his youthful military misdeeds.
There was one corner of the training area that was like twenty acres of fault land covered by a foot of soft red clay, and I don’t remember which of my compatriots discovered that you could, by careful manipulation of steering bar, throttle and transmission, throw a tank from twenty-odd miles per hour forward speed into a sliding sideways, tracks throwing mud twenty feet into the air, all the way through 360 plus degrees of spin-out.
You already know where he's going, don't you?
Next, JayG asks what the hell a Massachusetts teacher was thinking?
Words. Fail. Me. Pencils are "materials to build weapons" in this lunatic's world. What frightens me is that this sort of empty-headed, kumbaya singing, hemp wearing flower child is in charge of instructing children as opposed to safely being locked in a padded room where she clearly belongs. Being afraid of a frekkin' pencil because it could be used as a weapon? Yeah, that signals that key neurons aren't firing in that pointy little head of hers.
That's our Jay . . . diplomatic and tactful as ever!
'Lancedeboyle' over at Jaded Haven describes the joys of parenting . . . among which is what he calls 'Holistic, Naturalistic Toilet Training'.
So, for breakfast the boy had oatmeal laced with nuts (for the sound) and a glass of prune juice (for primer).
“Hey, that’s real tasty, Dad.”
Mid morning. Raisins, nuts, more nectar of prune.
Lunch. Oatmeal bars. Additional installments of prune.
“Man, I can’t get enough o’ this stuff.”
Mid afternoon snack…. He gave it a pass. And now…..Pain.
By two PM the boy was moaning in a way that I found strangely pleasant. You could hear gurgling two rooms down. He’d slap his butt and say, “Shut up! Stop it! Stop it!” And squeeze his cheeks tight.
“I guess you gotta go, Boy. Maybe you could sit on the…
“No! Noooo!!” [Fine with me, Ace. See if your will power trumps the Power of Prune.]
Slapping and swearing at his butt went on for two hours.
Finally, so crippled that he couldn’t put on a diaper, he quick-stepped into the bathroom, jerked down Sears Best, sat and exploded.
The rest of the gory details are at the link.
Finally, a bunch of us bloggers chat online (via IRC) over at the Gunblogger Conspiracy. The evil overlords of the Conspiracy occasionally post snippets of the online chat for the edification (?) of others. A recent example concerned pizza choices.
WARNING: Some naughty words are used. The language on GBC can get robust at times. Don't go there if you're easily offended.
Here's a sample from the conversation. (A quick note for those who don't know the participants: Vertel is in Australia, whereas pdb and Whitebread are here in the USA.)
[pdb] what the hell kind of commie pizza is that?
[vertel] pdb: THE KIND THAT CAN TAKE DOWN CITIES AND COUNTRY AND EVEN PUPPY DOGS AND PLAYGROUNDS
[whitebread] Thank you, Kim Jong Vertel.
[whitebread] What toppings?
[vertel] I’m trying to decide that now. :P
[vertel] One of the three’s an old standby. Hawaiian with extra pineapple and olives.
[whitebread] no no no
[whitebread] That is not a pizza. That’s a fruit salad with crust
[vertel] SHUT UP PINEAPPLE ON PIZZA IS THE FOOD OF THE GODS
[whitebread] False heathen gods, perhaps
[vertel] That’s the best kind of god!
[vertel] You soulless minion of orthodoxy.
There's more at the link, and many other conversations at the Gunblogger Conspiracy blog page. Enjoy!
That's the laughs for this week from my fellow bloggers.