I don’t normally make a habit of telling people off in the street, but when they start it, I do so with gusto. I was walking out of target to see that a chubby man with a bad combover in a bright red thunderbird had parked next to me. As I was getting into my explorer, we exchanged the following:

“Nice SUV! That thing come with a soccer mom? (stupid pretentious laughter)”

“Nice midlife crisis. That thing come with a forboding sense of your own mortality?”

He was still standing there with his mouth open when I drove off.

I want at least nine of these. Don’t ask why. And don’t try to figure it out on your own either.

It takes a very patient person to be a mother. And if you’re my mother, well that’s an entirely different kind of patient.

First, I was an escape artist from the very beginning. No one ever figured out how I kept getting out of my crib, and as soon as I learned to walk, I learned to work the doors, which is unfortunate when you live right next to a rocky ravine. My mother had to keep me on a leash whenever we went out. But not wanting to appear uncivil, she adapted the system to be more of a phone cord that connected us by velcro wrist bands. The problem with having a mini hellion connected to your arm is that when you’re on a pay phone, said demon baby will walk around your legs until they’re wrapped up, then rip off the velcro and run. The leash came to an end when I finally snapped it as a three-year-old.

Later, at the age of five, I would be climbing in a large tree in the front yard, swinging around pretending to be Robin Hood, when I would fall and land on my arm on top of an upraised root. So I broke my arm in two places, having to be rushed to the emergency room. The same thing would happen again four years later.

After that came the burning of the living room carpet, the insurance fraud, the getting in fights, all before I even had a learner’s permit. In less than a week, my mother will be attending my graduation from college. And she’s going to cry, because she misses those days when all this happened. That’s the kind of patience I’m talking about.

So if you didn’t call your mother yesterday, beat yourself repeatedly with a weighted lash, then call her now, and come up with a convincing reason why you couldn’t do so on mother’s day. Like a car wreck or something. Happy mother’s day to all you mothers out there, and I hope your children are better behaved than I was.

Oh yeah- I wasn’t an only child. I had two sisters before me. One of them was fond of bringing in roadkill for artistic purposes. Just wait until father’s day.

Miss America 1944, now 82 years old, leans on her walker to shoot out some would-be-intruders’ tires. Check it out.

Notice- she used a snub-nosed .38- not a very accurate gun. So she’s either one hell of a shot, or she got up close and personal. Either way, she kicks ass. If there were ever a Miss America contest that involved marksmanship as a talent competition, I might actually consider paying attention. Maybe.

This is just mean.

Some people are worried that we are taking the field of artificial intelligence too far. And that the scenario put forth by the Terminator movies is close at hand. Keep in mind, these are the people who look at the roomba and tremble.

This is the closest thing we have to the mighty Terminator.

Via: VideoSift

I’m not worried.

Normal people might use scissors to destroy a check card which is expired and has been replaced.

I use throwing knives, shuriken, and two more people to throw them. Hee.

For something that is fairly inert for about 23 hours a day, pandas are certainly jumpy.

Finally, I know where to go to patent my design for the solar-powered interior nightlight!

This place immortalizes all manner of patents the world might rather do without, such as a forehead rest to be mounted on the wall above a urinal. My personal favorites are the oral alarm, and the hamsterwear.

Then this is just plain wrong.