Your Honor Student Makes Your Stick Figure Family Look Fat

Who hates stick figure family stickers on the back of cars?

Me.

Because I don't appreciate that you're not so great at remembering to take that little pill at the same time every day. And I think maybe that means you should not be allowed to drive. Because if you can't remember to take that little pill at the same time every day, you probably are not remembering that the light is red. Or that there is a stop sign. Or, my personal favorite, that there is no stop sign for you to stop at to begin with.

But sometimes a bad thing is made fun of in a wonderful way. Witness:

Love triangles on the eights

All news team billboards look like advertisements for soap operas, but this Univision one is looking extra telenovela-y.

Obviously the snarky woman on the left is having an affair with the evil doctor in the back, but only for the free Botox, and, thanks to a bottle of tequila and the Elvis Presley Chapel of Hunka-Hunka Burnin' Love, the evil doctor's married to the woman in the middle, who is cheating on him with the mustache on the right (not for Botox, but for steak), but he is really in love with his accordion.

You think that's complicated, wait until they do the weather.

The Second Coming

A couple of weeks ago, while flipping through the sunday News of the World, some fine be-overalled fellow saw Jesus in his tortilla. This is not unlike the woman who found a Jesus-shaped Cool Ranch Dorito, or the gentleman who saw Jesus on his toast (don't worry -- that raisin on Jesus' cheek wasn't cancerous), or the lady who's convinced that this one Cheeto she has on display in her curio cabinet looks just like the Pieta. You think your life is hard, think about the pain and suffering that woman went through when she had to scrapbook that friggin memory -- the Passion of the Barbara, am I right? It's a good thing nobody's ever seen Jesus in a Ruffle, because nobody can eat just one, and you wouldn't want to go and shove one of God's signs into your wafer hole, even if rrrrrrrredeemers have rrrrrrrridges.

So, thanks to all of these surefire and scrumptious signs of the existence of God, I've changed my mind -- I think Jesus IS coming back. But I think, when he does, it's because he'll have run out of guacamole.

That's what she said

That's way too long.

I don't think it's going to fit.

Make that an extra-large.

Is it in all the way?

Pull it harder.

I want to put that in my mouth.

That thing has a whole lot of miles left in it.

It gets harder after awhile.

You're pretty nice, lark, but I'm still taking those feathers.

I know you've seen that Target commercial in which a bunch of sugared-up pixies dressed like Crayons jump out of a just-landed hot air balloon and make everything so happy and bright using only colorful Target crap. And the soundtrack to this commercial is the French lullaby, "Alouette," which is a lovely little tune, but translates thus:

Lark, nice lark

Lark, I shall pluck you

I shall pluck your head

I shall pluck your head

And your beak

And your head (etc.)

Aaaaaaaah

Lark, nice lark

Lark, I shall pluck you

And if they're gonna pluck your beak, you nice lark, sounds to me like you're pretty fucking screwed. Fair warning, Target shoppers.

You have disturbed me almost to the point of insanity. There -- I am insane now.

I know you remember "Sprockets" from 'Saturday Night Live'. Mike Myers played Dieter, an eccentric German talk show host dressed in a tight, black turtleneck, and who often commanded his guests to touch his pet monkey, Klaus. Does that sound like a dream you had last night? Same here.

Here's Dieter being as happy as a little girl:

And here's Dieter ahead of me in line at the post office wondering what the difference is between certified mail and a registered letter:

Your T-Shirt Is Not This Delicious

Our Mona's waitress allowed me to be a creep and take a picture of her shirt before I ate ten pounds of blueberry pancakes this morning. That's why the picture's blurry -- I was excited about the forthcoming stomach ache. Anyway, hot damn, right? A felt esophagus leading to a felt stomach full of felt googly-eyed bacon and googly-eyed over-easy eggs having a felt dance party. A dance party is not what happened after the pancake bomb. What happened after the pancake bomb was a football-sized wad of chewed-up pancakes looking around the room for fat pants and a remote.