How’s your Monday going so far? Pretty good?

Like me, you might be tempted to write this off as just another medical torso (?) with a tiny little pee-pee (?!) at the end, and you’d be totally justified. But wait, what’s that on the torso’s torso? Let’s just zoom in a bit, and…


…oh, of course. IANAD, but I think maybe the tattooist went a little too deep. (But seriously, if you can explain why there’s a drawing of a Native American and some buffalo on this person’s spine, I’m all torsos ears.)

Bury it Deep

I visited a sale yesterday that was in someone’s house (which always sets off my creeper alarm, but at least this time the door was open). A man walks out of it as I approach:

“You’re too late,” he tells me.

“Huh?” I respond. Too late for what?

“You’re too late. It’s not yours.”

It’s 9:23 in the morning. I look around, thinking maybe the yardsale was yesterday, and this guy wants me to get the HELL off his porch? But no, that pile of soiled Beanie Babies in the living room suggests otherwise, sir. I respond again with: “…huh?”

“You’re too late for this. It’s not yours.” I still don’t know what the hell he’s talking about until he starts shaking the ratty old computer chair he’s carrying out of the house.

“HAH HAH HAH!” I respond, a little too loudly. You’re making a hilarious joke! I get it. I smile, to make sure he knows I get it. He glares at me in return, then pushes past, muttering something under his breath about how the chair was his, goddammit. This is WHY I don’t talk to strangers, in case you’re wondering.

Apropos of nothing, I found this inside (next to the Beanie Babies):


…Yeah, I’m thinking that one can go right back to the graveyard where they found it.

These Are Mine Now


WHAT THEY WERE GOING FOR: “You get a puppy, you get a puppy; everyone gets a puppy!”

WHAT THEY ACTUALLY MADE: “Well, there was that one time a guy dressed as Santa Claus broke into my house and stole all my dogsIt ruined my childhood. Now I’m going to ruin yours.” — Michael Bay, on what inspires him as an artist.

Not Helping

Hugs, soothing words, frozen yogurt, a good movie, “Don’t worry; I’ll do the dishes this time!”, dogs, naps, etc. etc.



Kid probably wasn’t even crying until this frickin’ guy showed up and tried to rub things on his face.

In Toy the Day!

“Free lemonade!” the girl’s sign said, in messy handwriting. Under that, clearly added in by a parent after the fact, it said “or 25 cents”. You know, just as a suggestion.

I bought a cup. This in and of itself isn’t so strange; cute little kids could be selling smallpox cultures at their parents’ yardsales and I’d still feel obligated to fork over whatever loose change I had. What was strange was the folded-up piece of construction paper she handed me along with my drink.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“There’s something inside it,” she replied, like I was an idiot.

I took it back to my car (walking past a giant cardboard cutout of Homer Simpson that said “take a selfie!”; it was that kind of yardsale). Inside, I found: Continue reading