An Idioms Guide
Some people ask me how I come up with all the great idioms I create. Like “don’t use a mouth to do your foot’s job” or “ask a nun, beg a trucker.” I tell them it all started with my great-grandfather, because it did.
My great-grandpappy was always making up great idioms. When I was very little, he told me “not to mix my marbles and my honey.” I took that to mean that two good things aren’t always good together, and I’ve lived by that ever since. (It could also just be about honey being sticky. Also useful knowledge.)
Another idiom he wrote was “Don’t slay a dragon when a lamb will do.” It sounds cruel, but you should know that my great-grandfather grew up on a farm. So, he was always killing lambs. I never saw him without a dead lamb nearby. It makes you think.
One of his favorites was “Today’s more temperate than a werewolf’s collarbone.” He wanted something between “colder than a witch’s titty” and “hotter than the Devil’s asshole.” Werewolf’s collarbone never caught on, but you have to admit it was a good idea. He kept writing into the newspaper to have them publish it in the weather section, but they had blocked receiving mail from him by that point.
“Good doctors make great bowlers” was another one that never took off. I asked him what it meant and he yelled at me. Did I mention my great-grandfather was a heavy drinker? When I said I didn’t understand “books first, lemonade then ketchup” he threw a coffee pot at my head. Geniuses are often fussy like that.
“Safe harbor makes for doughy pretzels” seems right. And, I think we can all agree that “foxes run fastest before the regatta.” But, other idioms he made up toward the end of his life were puzzling. Like “help comes in swinging ottomans” or “determinism is a dish best served Charlie Chaplin-style” or “duke it out with your blessings before you cry your last crocodile.” I have no idea what any of those even mean. But, I guess I live in different times.
I’m so glad I was around to meet my great-grandfather. His sage words have stayed with me. Also, he taught me how to drink like a man. Or should I say he “left the barrel tied to the barmaid.”
Apologies for the Tasering
Dear Tammi,
Please accept my sincerest apologies for having tasered you. It was an awful mistake. Actually, it was the culmination of a series of awful mistakes, and I am deeply sorry for all of them.
First off, I should have never brought my taser gun to your pool party. I had just gotten it the day before. And, you know when you get a new gadget? You just want to play with it right away?
Secondly, I should not have recharged it beyond the manufacturer’s recommendations. I had been reading some DIY tech blogs, and a guy in Russia found the taser's internal override switch. My curiosity got the better of me.
When Bill said he was a better dancer than me, I should have just let it go. Not everything is a challenge to my manhood. If Colleen has told me that once, she's told me a bazillion times.
As the impromptu dance-off reached its climax, props were unnecessary. I had clearly won by that point. I guess, subconsciously, I wanted to show off my new taser to Bill.
However, I hope you will accept some small responsibility for having surprised me with rice crispy bars. I mean, you know I'm bad with surprises. I'm not saying the tasering is solely your fault, but I do think blame can be shared a little.
Finally, I'm sorry I waited a few minutes before tasering you. My delayed reflexes are one of the reasons I looked into self-defense in the first place. It was not meant as vengeance for you costing me the dancing competition. I understand why it might have come off that way, which is unfortunate.
Anyway, thank you for having me over. Your new home is beautiful, and I'm sure you will get a lot of use out of the pool once the doctors give you the okay.
Sorry again,
Andy
Powers of Ten
Once you get into very large numbers, not everyone knows the proper nomenclature. Here's a quick guide to huge numbers. It goes:
Ten
Hundred
Thousand
Million
Billion
Trillion
Zillion
Kajillion
Gazillion
Bazillion
Brazilian
Super Brazilian
Bouillon
Duo Deca Gabillion
Googleplex
Mumfordplex
Dingle
Omni-dingle
Bauer's Number (One followed by a mile of zeroes typed in 12-pt Courier)
Ten to the Power of Omni-Dingle
Penultimatillion
Ultimatillion
Infinity
Infinity Plus One
Infinity Times Infinity with a Cherry on Top, No Touchbacks
I’m Not Clumsy
Listen, I do not appreciate you calling my “clumsy.” It is insulting and belittling and whoops! Sorry about that. Sorry.
Anyway, what were we talking about? Oh yeah, you called me a klutz. I am not a klutz. I will have you know, sir, that I take a great deal of pride in my grace and balance, which has always been my dammit! Shoot. I apologize. That wasn’t my fault. Someone must have bumped into me.
Like I said, your claim that I am some kind of “clumsy goofus” is uncalled for. Why, just the other day, my mother commented on how agile I was when wh-wh-whoa! Hold on … I got it. See?! I didn’t drop it. A klutz would have dropped it—Youch, my hand! Whoops! Dammit.
Alright, maybe I might have a few clumsy moments, but that doesn’t make me a heads up! Look out, coming through! Ahh man! Who leaves a skateboard in the middle of a bar floor? That doesn’t even make any sense.
Okay, um okay. I think that I’m not making my point as well as I would like to right now, so I am going to leave. Will someone please help me get this mop bucket unstuck from my head? It’s awfully dark in here. Hello? Is that somebody’s camera I hear?
This Horrible Oatmeal
Listen, I don’t want to be a jerk or anything. I really appreciate you making lunch, and I can tell you put a lot of effort into it. But, ugh, this oatmeal tastes terrible.
I mean, I’m not an oatmeal expert, but there is something seriously wrong with this oatmeal. I can’t quite put my finger on it. Is oatmeal supposed to be spicy?
I guess I’m just used to my mom’s oatmeal, which was kinda sweet and buttery. Sometimes it had a little apple or cinnamon. I’ve never had oatmeal with chunks of green pepper in it, though. I’m not the biggest fan.
Did the recipe call for green pepper, or did you improvise? Maybe you shouldn’t trust your instincts on this kind of thing.
Sorry. I know I sound ungrateful. It’s not like I slaved over the stove all morning. But, yikes, this oatmeal is gross. Did you try any before you served it? I think you might have spilled some cumin in here. Also, are these kidney beans?
Normally, you are such a great cook. But, for whatever reason this oatmeal turned out kinda disgusting. Next time—
What? It’s not oatmeal? It chili? Oooh, well then it’s delicious! Hey, thanks for the tasty chili, Buddy.
In Disguise
Hey, Brian! Brian MacArthur! It's me, Andy. Your good friend, Andy Ross. Don't you recognize me? Oh shit, that's right; I'm disguised as an elderly woman. That would explain why you weren't waving back.
Shoot, I guess the cat's out of the bag. You've probably figured out that I’m actually a secret NSA operative. And, my day job as a comedy writer is simply a cover story. And, I've had to lie to you and our friends all these years. And, today I’m posing as a feeble grandmother-type. You guessed all that from this costume, right?
Listen, don't tell anybody about the secret agent thing, okay? I could get in real trouble with my bosses. Also, I'm finishing up a year-long mission to capture a dangerous smuggler named The Jaguar. I think I’m finally close to nabbing that murderous bastard. I can’t let him see me coming, though. Hence the disguise.
So, yeah, how ‘bout Katie’s party last night, huh? Crazy. I’ve never seen that many drunk people in one bathroom before. Sorry I had to leave early. I got a phone call from the Pentagon about a stolen submarine or something. Turned out it was fine.
Anyway, what have you been up to lately? Last I heard, you and Jenny were-- What? What do you mean you’re in the CIA? That’s incredible. Two acquaintances both leading separate lives as secret agents? The odds of that have to be staggering. Don’t tell me you’re going after The Jagaur as well? You are? Maybe we should join forces.
I got a tip The Jaguar was making a weapons drop in this very mall. One of us should cover the high ground near the Sbarro-- Brian, look out behind you! Turn around!
Ah ah. Don’t move. Keep your hands away from your body. That gun you feel in your back has killed a thousand men. It is I, The Jaguar, international smuggler and criminal mastermind.
My NSA story was, itself, a cover. Now, keep your hands where I can see them and move very slowly towards the exit. We’re going to have a nice long talk about Pentagon security codes.
By the way, did you see how wasted Tim was last night? I hope he made it home okay. Ooh, H&M is having a sale.
Planting Dont’s and Dont’s
I’m not very good at raising plants. Every plant I’ve ever owned has dies a slow and painful death. (I’m just guessing about the painful part; I don’t think plants have nervous systems, but I clearly can’t trust my judgment when it comes to plants.)
So, instead of giving you guys advice on how to grow a houseplant, I thought I’d give you tips on how not to grow a houseplant:
1) Don’t yell at your plant too much. But, don’t yell at it too little. I’ve made both mistakes.
2) Don’t try to stretch your plant to make it grow faster.
3) Don’t accidently microwave your plant.
4) Don’t name your plant a girl’s name if it’s clearly a boy plant. It’ll be embarrassed around other plants.
5) Don’t let your plant watch you eat vegetables. Apparently, that scars it psychologically.
6) Don’t give your plant too much chocolate syrup. It’ll become a spoiled brat and start inviting ants to your apartment without permission.
7) Don’t expect edible tomatoes in the first month. Especially if it’s a cactus.
8) Don’t take your plant on bike rides unless you have really strong tape for the handlebars.
9) Don’t talk about money problems in front of your plant.
10) Don’t forget where you hid your plant during Hide & Seek.
11) Don’t wait until it’s too late to have the pollens and the bees talk with your plant.
12) Don’t make your own manure.
13) Don’t leave your pet deer unsupervised with your plants.
14) Don’t try hydroponic growing until you look up what hydroponic means.
15) Don’t keep adding more and more dirt.
16) Don’t use the Super Soaker at full blast to water the plant.
17) Don’t not listen to this advice.
That’s it. Good luck and happy mulching.
Erotic Cake Contest
"Erotic Cake Contest"
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[Text of the above audio.]
Let me just say, in all my years of judging erotic cake contests, I have never seen a cake with such vividness, such sheer artistry. I have judged literally thousands of erotic cakes, and none have moved me the way yours moves me.
First off, your layer work is incredible. I’ve witnessed dozens of erotic bakers attempt to depict that same position, and all have failed. This cake though—you can almost feel the strain in her hamstrings. It’s breathtaking.
Your frosting coloration is spectacular. What would you call that shade? Three-day-old sunburn? It’s so lifelike. It says to me that this couple is at the end of their honeymoon, enjoying the last few moments of hedonistic bliss before they return to their humdrum lives. It’s at once sensual and melancholic—a whispered longing if you will. Maybe I’m placing myself into the piece too much, but that’s what I take from this.
I also love that you have avoided leathery fondant. Fondant is such a crutch in erotic cake competitions. But, I’ve always said, “If you want to sculpt realistic genitals, you need buttercream.”
I mean, look at the fine wisps of frosting you were able to pipe here. If I didn’t know that was icing, I would swear you put real pubic hair on this cake. In fact, I snuck a little taste just to make sure. I couldn’t resist!
Every aspect of this erotic cake is a masterstroke. From the tips of the marzipan labia to the latticework of the ganache hammock, this is sexy baking at its finest.
It is therefore my honor to award you the blue ribbon in the “Couples and/or Group Category” along with this $25 gift certificate to the Container Store. Congratulations.
And, bravo!
Invest in Waterslides
Dude, I heard you won the lottery! That’s amazing! What are you going to do with all that money? Wait! Before you answer, let me tell you about a little investment opportunity.
Waterslides.
Hear me out. Everybody loves waterslides. Kids love waterslides. Parents love waterslides. Singles, teens, fat guys, nuns with guitars—everybody loves a waterslide.
Chess players love waterslides. Luchadores love waterslides. Sea World employees love waterslides. Painters, golfers, bike messengers—they love waterslides, too. Buddhists love waterslides. Dutchesses love waterslides. Flight attendants, Shriners, hippies, podiatrists—big fans of waterslides.
Seriously. Newlyweds love waterslides. Truckers love waterslides. Haberdashers love waterslides. Frenchmen, park rangers, jewelers, lawyers, bartenders, Mormons, museum docents, Hollywood celebrities, extreme sports aficionados, copyeditors, dog breeders, international spies, party animals—all of those guys love waterslides.
Particle physicists love waterslides. Roofers love waterslides. Civil War reenactors love waterslides. Knitters love … water … I’m sorry, please don’t interrupt me while I’m listing all the people who love waterslides. I worked a long time on this presentation.
Lumberjacks love waterslides. Fops love waterslides. Security guards love … Hey, where are you going? Come back here. I didn’t tell you how Rastafarians love waterslides yet.