Just look at this adorable little rascal with his tiny puppy paw stuck in the toilet paper roll and all.
AWESOME!
Photo from: here
#818 When the dentist says you have no cavities
Cavities hurt.
Yesterday I got two of them filled real tight with the hard, white cake.
First they sat me down in the loungy, blue leather dentist chair and then tipped me back so the blood poured into my brain and filled up my eyeballs. Then they dressed me up with a plastic bib and goggles before stuffing my mouth full of cotton balls. After that it was time to get my teeth tapped and clanged with mirrors and picks while the hygienist struck up a fascinating conversation about her mother-in-law’s unwillingness to acknowledge the length of her commute.
And that was just an introduction to the ninety minute main attraction.
Soon it was time for a couple injections of freezing goop to the gums, some deep-sea drilling, and a lot of Tooth-Sawdust Water splashing in every direction, misting up my goggles, spraying on my arms, dripping down my numb lips. Cheek and jaw muscles I barely used soon started to fail on me after trying to keep my metal-stuffed mouth open for so long. And of course, every once in a while they’d ask if I wanted to spit but before I’d have a chance to squeeze out a “Enn unnay, angs” I was generally interrupted by twenty more minutes of sharp and forceful drilling.
It was long.
And it was terrible.
And it cost $300.
But it helped me dream of better days, when the dentist would clink around in there for a few minutes, put his tools on the side table, flash a thumbs up and say “No cavities!” At least that’s how I imagine it would happen. Then instead of putting up with a long and painful ordeal, I’d just sail off into the sunset, congratulating myself on some mighty fine brushing, some thorough flossing, and a job well done.
AWESOME!
#819 The Take a Penny, Leave a Penny bowl
Nobody likes pennies.
Sure, maybe in the 1800s they scored you a handful of gumballs or the evening edition of your local Times-Express, but these days they’re barely worth 1% of a Snickers bar. Go on, lick the edge of a Snickers next time and scrape off a few molecules of chocolate with your tongue. That, that right there. That’s a penny.
Of course, having said that, there is one moment where the value of a penny shoots sky-high, and that’s when the beef jerky and Red Bull at the gas station rings up to $5.01. Yeah, if you’re cringing right now, it’s because you know that’s a terrible price leading to a few Checkout Possibilities:
1. By The Rules. One option is just to roll with it. Break that ten and get ready for a mittful of change back, including the dreaded 4-Penny Punchout. Now your pocket is bursting and your hand smells like dirty copper, but what are you going to do? You played by the rules and you lost.
2. The Cashier Cheat. You can never predict when this will happen. Sometimes you’re expecting to play by the rules but the cashier will just round around for you. When Bill-Counting Betty don’t care about the till balance, she just drop you a nickel and a wink.
3. The Bowl. Finally, we come to the main attraction. Since you don’t want ninety-nine cents jingle-jangling around your pocket, you eye the Take a Penny, Leave a Penny bowl and see what it’s offering. You know you’ve made your deposits over the years, so you don’t feel guilty about a little withdrawal now.
Yes, the Take a Penny, Leave a Penny bowl brings out the best in us. Just remember: take a penny, leave a penny?
Take a favor. Leave a legacy.
AWESOME!
#820 Making it out of the bathroom at work before anyone realizes you made it smell that way
Stinking up the can at work is terrible.
Let’s face it: there are no fans to turn on, windows to open, spray cans to spray, or matches to light. No, you’re on your own in this non-anon, dimly lit den of suit-and-tie hellos and on-the-job head nods. Whatever dark cloud you’re releasing in there hangs heavy as you bow your head in front of the mirror and scrub your dirty, dirty hands. Everyone knows what just went down and no one is happy about it.
But that’s why it’s so great when you can scram real quick and get out when the bathroom’s empty and the getting out’s good. Three cheers for the anonymous call of nature.
AWESOME!
Photo from: here
#822 When there’s still time left in the parking meter when you pull up
Say some kind and generous soul left seven unused minutes on the parking meter and left you with three big choices.
First of all, you could go with the No Dollar Dash. This is where you do some quick mental math and figure you can run all your errands before the time expires. If you can rent a movie, grab a slice of pizza, and pick up the dry cleaning that quick, then go man, just go.
Then again, maybe you’re not a No Dollar Dash kind of guy. Perhaps you prefer the Tight Quarter Squeeze because you’re a bit cheap and afraid of getting a ticket. So you plug a warm quarter in there because you’re sure seventeen minutes will be good enough. Hey, you’re still thankful for the seven free minutes, but figure it’s worth buying yourself a brisk walk in place of a run.
Lastly, you could just go Slot Machine. These folks just don’t trust themselves. The parking ticket must be avoided at all costs, even if it means dumping an extra couple dollars in the meter. They buy themselves a big, warm security blanket in case they get held up somewhere.
And now, even though most of us would like to think of ourselves as laid back No Dollar Dash kind of folks, let’s be honest. We love the Slot Machines, because they’re the ones who leave us with seven minutes left the next time. And if it wasn’t for the Tight Quarter Squeezers and their perfect parking planning, getting seven minutes of free time would just become no big deal.
So by holding hands and all joining together, we all make that world go right on round.
AWESOME!
#823 When you find out what was making that horrible smell and get rid of it
Okay, a few years back my eleventh grade Chemistry class began with Ms. Serevetas handing out textbooks. A small woman wearing big glasses and a big labcoat, she just introduced herself and then began calling us up, one by one, to the front of the room.
It was the first day so nobody had the guts to just start talking or playing games in the back. Honestly, we just sat in mind-numbing silence while each person shuffled up, signed their name, collected their ratty old book, and shuffled back down.
It was a slow and painful ordeal until something really funny happened: one guy’s book stunk.
Honestly, it just really stunk. It was terrible. A steamy hot funk filled the room and people started giggling. Some laughed, some pointed, but Stinky-Book Guy stared straight ahead, pretending nothing was happening.
Unfortunately for him, the buzz and chatter quickly built to a point where Ms. Serevetas was forced to take action. She did so by looking up at Stinky suspiciously, and then scrunching her eyebrows with a pained grimace until he was finally forced to began fanning through the pages while everybody stared on in anticipation.
And remember: we were bored out of our minds here so this Mystery of the Funky Textbook captivated us like nothing else. The room got quiet and tense and everyone craned their necks and stared at the stink, the book, and the guy, with tingly anticipation.
Stinky-Book Guy fanned through the pages slowly at first, and then quicker, and then quicker, until a few pages slapped real fast and told us all that the mystery stench had been found.
So we watched with teeth clenched as he peeled back the page to reveal an old … rotting … piece of salami.
Yeah, apparently someone had the good idea to drop a thin slice of cured meat between two pages on Boyle’s Law for a nice, long sit in a musty storage closet all summer. Now that once beautifully speckled slice of spice was gray and slimy and smelled like a fish market the Tuesday after a long weekend.
Anyway, at this point there was only one thing to do and Stinky-Book Guy did it: he bit his lip, nodded forcefully, and then peeled that salami off, walked over to the garbage can, and dropped it right on in.
And so — whether it’s the old can of salmon in your kitchen garbage pail, the toilet that didn’t get flushed before a long vacation, or the pool of dirty water collecting under the carpet in your basement, how does it feel to find that stinky treasure and just ditch real fast?
AWESOME!
#825 Overly elaborate office pools
Six or seven years ago my friend Alec ran an Oscar Pool.
You just filled in a little piece of scrap paper, paid Alec five bucks, and then whoever got the most picks right took home the big $25 pot. Then maybe they celebrated by buying a whole pizza or pre-paying the next five pools or something.
Anyway, when Alec moved away, I started up my own Oscar Pool to fill the void. First it was on paper, then in Microsoft Excel, and then last year my friend Chad took the whole thing online with live tracking during the actual Oscars. (You should enter. It’s open to anyone and none of us actually know anything.)
But yeah, honestly, isn’t it all about that one guy at the office or girl in the classroom who takes the pool way too seriously? You know who they are because they’re drawing out March Madness brackets with odds written in and researching Survivor cast members on the Internet so everyone can guess who’s gonna get the raft next. Sometimes they even start pools about when the pregnant lady is gonna give birth or when the guy who sleeps in the bathroom stall will get fired.
Either way, that Pool Guy or Pool Girl is putting in their blood, skin, and sweat so we can all enjoy some friendly gambling. They’re programming Excel macros, photocopying entry forms, and cornering you in the elevator for your ten bucks because they love you lots.
So if you’re lucky enough to have a Pool Guy or Pool Girl in your life, today’s the day to stand up and throw them a sturdy smile, firm handshake, and a quiet, respectful nod.
AWESOME!
#826 When you didn’t play the lottery and your numbers didn’t come up
I don’t play the lottery very often, but when I do I’m pretty sure I’m going to win. I take pains to ensure all my family members’ birthdays are evenly covered as I carefully color in all the bubbles and then hand my sheet to the convenience store cashier.
Kicking cigarette butts and sucking on a popsicle while walking home, my mind wanders off and begins wrestling with difficult questions that I assume plague the rich daily. Pool or tennis court? Private jet or yacht? Tall, snooty butler with a thin mustache or fat, clumsy butler with a heart of gold?
And I think about whether I’d donate massive chunks of my riches to people who’ve done small, simple things for me when I was down on my luck. You know, a couple million dollar tip for the coffee shop waitress one day, a new mansion for the guy who slices my cold cuts nice and thin the next. I toy with the idea of stashing my cash in a vault and swimming in it like Scrooge McDuck, traveling around the world by rickshaw, or possibly just buying the Internet.
My mind entertains these wild dreams because being a dreamer is great fun. The thoughts are free, so I enjoy them on my way home, squeezing the ticket in my pocket, and then posting it on the fridge so I don’t forget the big day.
Yes, this little Jackpot Fantasy continues until the numbers are announced. And I don’t win. No, I don’t even have one number right. I’m not even close. I shouldn’t have played. I’m an idiot who just threw three bucks away for no reason.
But I guess that’s why it’s great when I don’t play, and I check my numbers, and sure enough they didn’t come up. Now who’s laughing? Me, the three bucks richer guy.
AWESOME!
Photo from: here