Cake Boss

*deep voice*

I have a special set of skills.

Skills I have honed over, like, a year or something.

My skills suck.

Unless we're talking about designing pictures for birthday cakes. Then my skills approach mediocre-status.

I'm not sure how this all started, but with the advent of grocery store bakeries being able to take any picture and put it on a cake, my entire world opened up. Food tasted better. Colors were more vibrant. The air smelled cleaner.

I cling to the stupid things in life.

What these bakeries can do is to take any picture you give them, turn it into some kind of edible photo, and lie it on a cake.

Oh, Christ. I hope it's edible. Maybe I should read the instructions.

Nah. I've already eaten 14 of these pictures and haven't died ye-







I'll continue.

So I've started, instead, to design my own pictures for birthday cakes for the kids.

It all started with my son's birthday a few years ago. We were at the beach and he had an ice cream. I snapped a photo of him making the most ridiculous face with it.

On a side note, immediately after taking the photo, the ice cream fell off his cone and onto the ground and laughter ensued for the next 20 minutes or so.

I took that photo and, since we had both just become black belts, came up with this for his cake:

I cannot love this picture enough.

FYI, when singing 'happy birthday' and you put a cake in front of someone with this picture on it, the reaction is truly magical.

Next up was my daughter's birthday, and she was into Star Trek at the time, so....

I think this came out quite stunning.

Fast-forward one year where Star Trek took a back seat to her liking a goth band named "Black Veil Brides" and this is what I came up with:

Yes. That's black icing.

This is what it's like having an emo teen, by the way.

Then it was my step-daughter's turn and OH I BET YOU CANNOT GUESS WHAT SHE WAS INTO.

I honestly wish she'd let it go.

See what I did there?

I STILL GOT IT.

BUT...the king of all cakes made it's appearance last weekend.

My stepson, turning 10.

What does my stepson enjoy?

Pugs and Narwhals.

Yes.

Pugs. And. Narwhals.

On a side note, my wife had no idea that narwhals were real animals up until about a month ago, just in case you're wondering what kind of education you need to be a dental hygienist.

Love you, babe.

So, with pugs and narwhals in mind, this is what he got on his cake:

His face, on a pug's body, riding a narwhal.

GENIUS.

Also magical is the reaction of his grandmother when she saw the cake and was all, 'the fuck is that?'

I'll tell you what the fuck it is:

MAGICAL.

Want one? I'm available for parties. Price negotiable.

No Shit, WebMD

Back when I had chest congestion and the only thing Google could help me with was whether or not I knew complex equations involving quantum mechanics, I decided to try my hand at the old standby:

WebMD.

Everyone knows that you don't use the Internet to look up shit like "sniffles" because what will come back in the results is shit like "OH FUCK you have Ebola" or "it's obviously syphilis, you hideous crack whore" but I figured I'd give it a shot because this technology has to have gotten better, right?

RIGHT?

Here's what came up when I picked 'nasal congestion' as my symptom:


Oh what the Hell.

Personally, I'd take the "crack whore" insult over being the incurable victim of what is, apparently, a deliberate terrorist attack using castor beans.

Way to encourage me to up my Xanax prescription, assholes.

This is when I realize that WebMD changed their format so you could just plug in any combination of symptoms and they tailor the results so I just started randomly picking some stuff to see how ridiculous things got.


Thank GOD for this service because under no circumstance would I ever think that the fact I haven't eaten in two days was the cause of my HUNGER.


"Hey, you know what's weird?"

"What?"

"I've been lifting heavy weights for, like, 3 years now and for some reason I have muscle growth."

"Dude. Don't fuck around with that shit. You need to see a doctor or at least look that up on the Internet. The longer you wait, the more muscular you'll probably get."

"Hold me."

The Hell.


Maybe I'm underestimating the effects of narcotics, but I'm pretty sure that if you take Ecstasy and the Ecstasy makes you giddy, the fact that you're giddy is - in all likelihood - THE FACT THAT YOU TOOK ECSTASY.

Either that, or you're bipolar. Now you know.

Stop yelling and laughing at me.


SPIDER!

Just checking.

I know you're all thinking the same thing I am which is, "My GOD. How do you look so good, Rodney?" but I think the bigger question here is, "What the Christ is a 'Jumping Frenchman?'"

Of course if you Google this crap you come up with this:


I don't think this is right.

I'm pretty sure if you were dancing and a French guy landed on your face you'd not only be fully aware of this but would also have a tough time seeing the computer to go on WebMd in the first place so I checked their glossary instead.

Turns out this is some weird mental disorder and has nothing to do with ballet dancers sitting on your face.

DISAPPOINTING.


Whoa.

Talk about hitting home.

I'm looking at these conditions, though, and none of them seem right. Maybe with some editing...


There. That's better.

Still doesn't explain my friggin' sniffles, though.

Anyone want some castor beans?

Because Dog Shit is More Fun if it's got Rhythm

My dog is pretty regular.

He poops in the morning. He poops at night. He's a lot like me in that regards, but unlike me in that I can't reach my genitals to lick them.

:(

Every morning I take my dog out to do his morning doodie. This means that I'm wandering around with some poop bags as my little dog searches for 3 hours to find the perfect spot to take a shit. Usually this involves smelling other dog shit that people didn't pick up.

On a related note, I'm really glad I don't have to do this. I can't imagine thinking, "Man. I really have to drop a loaf. I hope someone forgot to flush so I have some motivation."

Regardless, I often find myself singing to the dog as he starts crapping.

I don't know why. It just..it just happens.

What do I sing?

Well, this is where I become the creepy guy in the neighborhood because I'm out there alone, in the silence of the New England mornings, rewriting song lyrics to make them about dog shit and belting them out at 7 am.

Here are some examples of what you may catch me singing on any given morning (with sample lyrics if applicable):

Billy Idol: "White Wedding"
It's a...nice day for a...brown poopy...
It's a...nice day to..CRAP AGAAAAIIIIINNN..

Cinderella: "Don't Know What You've Got Til It's Gone"
My dog took a crap
On a lawwwwwn....
Some were little nuggets
But one was looooooong...

Salt-N-Peppa: "Push It"
That one is self-explanatory

AC/DC: "For Those About to Rock"
For those about to poop...FIRE!
*makes fart noise*
WE SALUTE YOUUUUUU!

(generic cheerleading chant)
Squish it out
Squish it out
Waaaaaaaay out

Drowning Pool: "Bodies"
(whisper) Let the poopy hit the lawn
(whisper) Let the poopy hit the lawn
(whisper) Let the poopy hit the lawn
(whisper) Let the poopy hit the...(make 2 cymbal sounds)
(Yell) LAAAAAWWWWNNN

So there you go.

Feel free to use any of these while you're walking your own dog but, I can't be the ONLY one who does this, can I?

CAN I?!?!

Maybe I can be.

My badly Photoshopped celebrity dog - part 2

So, turns out I have a new hobby.

If you've seen my LOLJax posters and my previous "Jax as a celebrity" post, you know that I enjoy turning my dog into a sarcastic little shit.

Now I've taken it one step further and have started putting him into movie situations.

You're welcome.

Can you guess the movies or situations?!? GOOD LUCK!

Admittedly, some of these are pretty scary.

Also admittedly, all of them suck really badly.

My dog as a celebrity

So, turns out I have a new hobby.

If you've seen my LOLJax posters, you know that I enjoy turning my dog into a sarcastic little shit.

Now I've taken it one step further and have started putting him into movie situations.

You're welcome.

Can you guess the movies or situations?!? GOOD LUCK!

This is kind of starting to turn into a new hobby for me, so stay tuned.

Catwoman without eyebrows looks like talkative citrus.

For some unknown reason, someone sent me a group of pictures from Celebrities with No Eyebrows.


Honestly, one of the freakiest things I've ever seen.

That being said, one of them was Anne Hathaway.

As I looked at it for approximately 2 seconds, it occurred to me that Anne Hathaway, sans eyebrows, looks just like Annoying Orange.

Here, see for yourself:

RIGHT?!

Uncanny.

Makes you wonder wtf Batman was thinking.

More stuff you get when I'm bored

For no reason other than sometimes shit like this just pops into my head:

 

It's probably best that you don't ask.

Lavender Wiggly and Coconut Balls

My testicles smell like a goddamn fruit basket.

Actually...now that I think about it...

...the scent of Kiwi actually makes sense.

Let me explain.

I was taking a shower the other night, as I'm sometimes wont to do, when I realized that it was my monthly duty to use some type of soap product.

Now, a man's typical prerogative (you go Bobby Brown!) is to wash his hair only.

He then lets the soap clean the rest of himself off via gravitational pull.

(Mental Poo: Funny AND Scientific! Where's my NOBEL PRIZE?!?!?)

The theory is that the soap cleans as it goes...

...scrubbing away as it drains down his body...

...towards the sperm-clogged drain.

(hey...first thing's first)


I looked down at the soap dish in the shower...

(after five minutes of trying to remember where it was)

...and saw a simple, sad, soap-Chiclet sitting there.

"This won't do," I thought. "There's barely enough there my sphincter."


After stuffing the soap-chip up my anus, I began rummaging through the endless bottles of crap in the shower looking for some type of soap-substitute.

Body washes.

Shower gels.

Washing-Gel Body-Shower Gel-Washes (now with Retsin!)

Lube.

Sorry...sorry.

The lube is for something else.

HEY! The Chiclet came out!!

I've digressed.

I now had approximately six bottles of crap to choose from in which to suds myself up.

Here's where sharing a bathroom with a woman rears an ugly reality:

WOMEN LIKE TO SMELL LIKE FRUIT.


I'm not sure WHY women like to smell like fruit, but the bottles of shit I had to choose from included the following scents:

1) Coconut

2) Lavender (I actually think this is a flower..but the last time I checked I wasn't gay, so I'm not entirely sure)

3) Green Apple

4) Icy Pineapple

Icy Pineapple.

I have no idea what a fucking icy pineapple is.

I'm sure that where pineapples actually grow, there's no ice and, as such, the inventor of "Icy Pineapple" is just making this shit up.

All I know is that, personally, I don't want to smell like an Icy-Pineapple-Apple-Lavender-Coconut-Jackass when I go play poker with the guys.

In fact, I'm not sure why anyone would want to smell like this...

I mean, don't you attract BIRDS?!?

Regardless, I made my decision that day, based on the fact that I didn't want to smell like potpourri...

...and decided to go with the Chiclet.

No Icy Pineapple for this guy.

No sir.

Today, I smell like sphincter.

Texts from the Wife - Automobile Version

I think I'm going to start a new segment here.

"Texts from the Wife"

Enjoy this first entry:

This could probably also be it's own website.

David Hasselhoff cordially invites you...

It's safe to say at this point that David Hasselhoff is wearing pretty thin in my household these days.

He's pretty much become an integral part of our everyday lives, much to the chagrin of my fiancee.

My fiancee who will - on November 23, 2103 - become my wife.

O_O

We decided to have a very very very small wedding because (a) we're pretty much broke and (b) please see (a).

So of course we're doing all the normal wedding planning bullshit that comes along with planning a ceremony that you can't really afford or don't want to have or spend any money on when the decision on how we should invite the 15 friends and family came up.

Ah.

Invitations.

Normally I don't give a shit about anything except saving money but OH MY GOD THE GREATEST INVITATION IDEA OF ALL TIME IS RIGHT HERE IN OUR LIVING ROOM. So I came up with this:

I think the stars and lightning bolts really underscore how Hofftastic the wedding is going to be.

If by 'Hofftastic' you mean 'you should probably eat beforehand and maybe bring a flask because it's cash bar and we'll probably only serve pigs in a blanket.'

This was after I suggested having the cutout brought to the hall where we're getting married and having him be the ringbearer.

Like this:

This got shot down even though I thought this was also a Hofftastic idea.


I can see I'm not going to win many arguments, already.

The crazy smiley native guy needs his own talk show

A while ago at work we switched our email from Microsoft Outlook to Google Mail and one of the greatest things about it besides it's distinct lack of usability is that you can modify your profile.

Every week I change my profile picture on my work account.

If you want to see all the profiles I've done thus far, this is place to start a'clicking.

People here have actually seemed to enjoy the changes, so here's some more of what people have been getting to see when they contact me:

I think my favorite is the kid from "Mask" because that's pretty much what I look like prior to coffee.

Extra bonus points if you got "Doug Henning" correct. Also? YOU'RE SO OLD.

I'm changing these up, like, twice a week so if you have any recommendations I'd appreciate it.

Thanks in advance.

Yogurtgeist

shika-shika

Huh?

I heard the sound, like a tiny little maraca, but ignored it and continued driving.

shika

shika-shika-shika

WTF.

I was alone in my car, driving to work, and kept hearing the noise. I had no idea what it was and had never heard it before.

Keep in mind that if my car makes ANY kind of noise that's out of the ordinary, I'm like a hound dog trying to figure out what it is and where the Hell it's coming from. Like that time I heard a squeak from the passenger side and immediately pulled over to open/close/pull/shake and slam everything within arm's reach trying to figure out what was making the noise.

Anal: thy name is Rodney.

shika-shika

GODDAMIT WHERE IS THAT COMING FROM?!

My eyes scanned the passenger side of the car for anything that could be making that noise. Nothing. Nothing there. I assumed that my daughter probably put something in the car door pocket just to purposely make me insane because that's what children do.

That's when I pulled into my work parking lot, stopped, and this caught my eye as it rolled out from under the passenger seat:

The Hell?

I picked it up.

Um.

Hm.

A yogurt.

A yogurt with Oreo cookie crumbles had rolled out from under the passenger seat. It was the little Oreo cookie bits that were making the shika-shika sound so I guess that explains everything except WHERE DID THIS COME FROM?!?!

You see, I don't eat yogurt.

My kids don't eat yogurt.

As such, I don't BUY yogurt.

EVER.

There is no logical explanation for how this particular yogurt got into my car and had taken refuge under the front seat before the laws of physics caused it to reveal itself when I stopped. There could only be one logical explanation:

Poltergeist.

A yogurt-loving poltergeist had stashed this under my seat.

Thank God this thing is a lease.

That Flinstone Kid is a Little Shit

Was pouring cereal the other morning when I noticed this.

I'm just saying that I'd kill my kid if he ever pulled this crap.

Cereal. EVERYWHERE.

Even prehistoric boys were little bastards.

Even my subconscious is an asshole

Well..I'm back after my summer hiatus.

So, to ease you back into my blog, I give you just this simple little ditty.

Enjoy.

**********************

Dream I had last night:

I walked into a Macy's looking for jewelry. 

Please note that I would never buy jewelry from Macy's in real life. I blame this part of the dream on a bad grape I may have ingested.

That said, as I walked around the counter, a salesman looked at me and said, "I'm sorry, sir. But we only sell expensive jewelry here."

I looked at him and said, "Hey. FUCK YOU, dude."

He began to promptly walk away from me when I said, "You know what? Take me to your manager."

He continued to walk away from me.

"What's your name?" I asked.

"Jaclyn," he said.

I stopped.

"Jaclyn? Seriously?"

"Yes," he said, as he continued to walk away from me, quickening his pace.

"Did your parents hate you? I assume that's why you're named Jaclyn. Because I can see how they couldn't stand you after seeing you for only a minute."

And then Jaclyn disappeared, and I remained satisfied in the resolution.

Fin.

Before you freak out, I misspelled it on purpose for the sake of the picture.

I drew another cartoon for you people today because, honestly, I really didn't feel like doing work AT ALL.

Microsoft Paint is my copilot.

Enjoy.



My brain works at a very rudimentary level if you haven't figured that out already.

To see all my other cartoons, go here.

Man.

I need a hobby.

Feeling Flushed

Back in the day (my very first week here at Mental Poo), I wrote my OWN bathroom law:

Thou shalt not hold a conversation in the men's room.

I neglected one very important rule, however, which I recalled during one of my very own recent experiences.

I hate having bathroom 'experiences.'

I'm going to start wearing Depends Undergarments so I don't actually have to go INTO the bathroom and can thus avoid such things.

Coworker: "Hey...what's that smell?"

Me: "My bad. Sorry. Someone sent me a funny Will Ferrell video on YouTube and I didn't want to get up."

Depends Undergarments ROCK.


Regarding my rule, here goes:

If you see a clogged toilet brimming with poo-stew, DON'T TRY TO FLUSH IT.

Jesus. H. Christ.

I had this lovely experience last week when I myself had to squash out a yule log.

My entry into the first bathroom stall was apparently shortly after an elephant had gone in there with a new, improved, colon cleansing formula.

Me (opening stall): "GOOD GOD!! WTF?! Who did this ... the Hulk?!?"


Poo: "SHUT THE DOOR!!"

Yes.

It spoke and had it's own intelligence.

Me: "Sorry."

The toilet was brimming with butt stew and obviously clogged so I simply suppressed my gag reflex and happily (not really) moved to the next stall.


As I'm sitting there making dookie, in walks a guy in a pair of loafers.

He casually strides into the clog-stall.

Loafers: "HOLY MOTHER OF CHRIST!!"

My heart sank because, with no stalls left, I know in my heart what's going to happen next. However, because of the "no talk" rule in the men's room ... I'm not allowed to try to stop him.

Loafers TRIES TO FLUSH IT.

Oh. No.

What happened next, I do not wish on my worst enemy.

Except maybe Rachael Ray.

I hope this happens to her A LOT.


I hear the inevitable flush.

*FLOOOOOSH*

Of course, the giant, animated turd of the Apocalypse refuses to flush...

...and immediately starts overflowing INTO MY STALL.

Me: "AAARRRRGGGHHH!!!"

For the next 15 seconds, I frantically try to expel my own remaining dookie as fast as possible AND wipe said dookie before the overflowing poo water and little brown canoes reach my shoes.


******************
Side story:

I used to work for a civil engineering firm a while back.

One of the engineers there overflowed the toilet, and came running frantically into the boss' office.

Scott: "QUICK!! QUICK!! I NEED A PLUNGER!! THE TOILET'S OVERFLOWING!!!"

There is a pause as my boss slowly looks up at him.

He clasps his hands together firmly on his desk, leans forward, and ever so calmly looks at Scott and replies:

Boss: "Are there little brown canoes?"

Awesome.
*******************

Back to me...squishing and wiping as fast as my little anus and tiny hands could go.

It was like Indiana Jones and Raiders of the Lost Ark ...

... except instead of being chased by a giant rolling boulder, it was a flood of poops.

I'd like to see Indy get out of this one.


The moral of the story:

People:

Abide by the rules.

Live by the Rules.

And if you see my feet in the stall next to the clogged one, DON'T FLUSH THE FUCKING THING.

The odds of seeing me though are slim to none these days.

Depends Undergarments.

The bathroom of the future, baby.

Bathroom of the future.