What you see above this sentence is my shirt. It was disgraced - violated by the stain demon.

Just like cavities - stains in your favorite clothes are a fact of life. They come when you least expect it and astonishingly, they never get easier to handle. They are always distressful, always a reason to put a frown on your face.

You know how it starts. The waiter brings you out a salad; you innocently begin to poke your fork into it and bring some leaves to your mouth when suddenly what was just a bowl of lettuce has turned into a broken sprinkler. What follows is the deepest and most provocative groan you ever heard. It sounds pathetic yet beautiful at the same time.

You grab your napkin and contaminate your glass of ice water with it. Then, you begin rubbing the discoloration on your shirt or pants. You’re not done yet though… the fun is just getting started.

You scurry off to the washroom while trying to keep your head up, preventing any impressions that you’ve just lost all of the dignity you previously had.

In the restroom you take one good look at yourself in the mirror before you continue on with your fiasco. What goes through your mind during that look in the mirror is anyones guess - but it’s probably pretty sad. If you’re like me, by the time you’re done with your little stain ritual, you’re walking out of the laboratory looking like you forgot to unzip your pants before you pee’d.

The Tooth Fairy’s evil cousin visits us all. Wherever food can be found, he makes his way there. He’s particularly enthusiastic when sauces and oils are present - when they are - he explodes with celebration.

There’s really only two choices in this life of ours. We can either live in a bubble and be fed intravenously or intermingle with friends and family when dining.

The stain demon will forever be knocking on your door when you consume food. And don’t be so naïve to think that if he’s just made a visit, it’s his last. Nonsense.

You two have another date yet. Not just you, but your favorite garment too.

Photo by jyri

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Photo by Image Editor

If your children are reading along with you, I’d advise you gently ask them to go play with their toys. They don’t need to learn what I’m going to tell you, not this way.

What I’m about to convey to you is disturbing to say the least. But it is also true. Nearly forty percent of all bloggers are extra terrestrial; they are not of this world, and their intentions are anything but benevolent.

Before you respond with the knee-jerk reaction that everything I have just spoken is pure rubbish, allow me to shed a few facts.

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If I could only bring three things to a deserted island, they would be as follows:

1. A laptop with an everlasting battery and wireless internet
2. A refrigerator that replenishes itself of delicious food each night
3. A spork

A spork? A spork?

You heard right. Allow me to explain…

Sporks are like the Michael Jordan’s of the utensil universe. They can do it all.

Eating soup? No problem… slurp from your spork.

Have delicious sushi rolls on your plate? Spork them up like nobodies lookin’!

Want to impress your hot date? Nothing says high class like a stylish spork.

Sporks are appropriate for just about every situation. And much like smiles, they never seem to go out of style.

But you don’t have to take my word for it… 60,000 lunch ladies can’t be wrong.

In conclusion:

• Sporks: 50% spoon. 50% fork. 100% Awesome.

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Photo by maveric2003

I recently decided to master the Spanish language. And although I am not yet fluent, I have decided to share some of my knowledge with the world. Prepare yourself for three of the most intriguing sentences known to man.

1. The lopsided lobster rode in my petticoat like a champion.

La langosta ladeada montó en mis enaguas como una campeona.

2. I know what you did last Cinco de Mayo.

Sé que hiciste el Cinco de Mayo pasado.

3. The liverwurst is lukewarm, my love.

La butifarra está tibia, mi amor.

*Special thanks to my girlfriend, Lydia!

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I would like to start off by saying that balloons are for birthday parties, not floating 25,000 feet above ground.

Hot air balloons look pretty amazing up in the clouds, but you will never catch me riding in one. You may find me in a boat or a car. You may even sit next to me in an airplane or a bus. But… you will never, ever look up into the vast sky and see me traveling inside a little wicker basket that is attached to a large balloon.

To me, hot air ballooning is the equivalent of riding on a giant, stringless kite. Sure, it sounds fun in theory… but so does surfing an avalanche.

Who am I to judge, though? I say let the weirdies take flight.

Hot air balloons: Transporting eccentrics across the friendly skies since 1783.

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Shame on you, parents of the world.

You send your little tykes to tea ball practice, cub scouts, summer camp, and endless years of schooling. That is all fine and dandy, but why not actually invest in your children’s future?

Every year more and more children are growing up without learning the ability to yodel. If we allow this to continue, we can look forward to a future in which the legendary art of yodeling will forever be lost. Lets not let what happened to Atlantis happen to this sacred art form.

Support the arts, but mostly support yodeling. After all, a human that never learns to yodel, is barely a human at all.

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This is what I place my tea cup on. I love this little saucer; it is beautiful and full of spirit. Also, it tells a story.

If two rabbits can frolic deep in a mountain forest, under a moonlit sky…

If they can do so, why can’t I?

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