Anything that makes you look like a thigh-heavy commando in a skirt spun from nothing more than the morning mist over Niagara Falls.
Sorry, Channing Tatum, you should ditch the closety nudist and get with me.
Demetrius Jones is a determined boy who knows what he likes. He likes trucks. He likes HIS truck best of all, and now so do his parents, since it undoubtedly saved his life. His parents are going to be even MORE fond of the locks they’re going to put on on the box they store the batteries in so this doesn’t happen again:
Three-year-old Demetrius Jones woke up about 7:00 am Sunday the 13th, snuck out of his grandparents’ trailer, and found his battery-powered toy truck. By the time his family woke up, he was out of sight.
Searchers looked everywhere along the shore and downriver, where they found Demetrius about two hours later. He was twelve kilometres downriver, floating in deep, cold water. His plastic truck had rolled over, but he was still hanging on to it…
What this says to me as a parent is that we can’t just trust in child-resistant latches for trailer doors or tent zippers when camping near water. It takes thinking actively about safety. Take the batteries out of the kid car at night. And hide the keys for the real truck.
Indeed, not every plastic truck and toddler combination is amphibious.
Our most recent Caption Contest is our most hotly-contested one in memory, and the competition was as tight as money back in the day when this picture was taken. After much thought and not a little Bombay Sapphire, we’ve chosen a winner from among the many worthy entrants:
Pepe, you idiot! First you forget the cherry tomatoes, feta cheese and onion quarters, and now you don’t even brush them with olive oil after you spit them!
Congratulations and imaginary prizes to FFE for what is, I believe, his first win in our illustrious contest. Now, to the virtual presentation of the hypothetical swag: in this case, we’ve chosen the snappily retro Jaxon Rude Boy hat from TheVillageHatShop:
It’s my birthday and I’ll squeeeeeeeeeee if I want to. Which, generally, I do not, being far too dignified, not to mention Canadian; the last Canadian who squeeeed in public was Margaret Trudeau, and look what happened to her!
Where was I? Well might you ask, even though you were too shy to ask and I had to do it myself (do I have to do everything myself? Right, I’m single. I do. NOW I understand why women get husbands. Wow, the things ya larn in a common blog post parenthetical (although whether parenthetical is a noun or an adjective is not, apparently, one of those things, just FYI)).
I was in the second row of the floor seating to watch the Lipizzaner Stallions travelling show, which is one of the better places on Earth for a horse nut to be except for the front row of the floor seating to watch the Lipizzaner Stallions, especially when Front Row has a great big honkin’ cowboy hat in it obscuring the airs above the ground. Dude, I don’t care if you’re Kenny Chesney, the whole world can tell you’re Bruce Willis bald anyway, and you’re lucky I didn’t have anything more offensive in my handbag than a paperback of Pistol Packin’ Madams: True Stories of Notorious Women of the Old West . Although now that I think of it, I could easily have split your thick skull with it, as it is a weighty tome.
We moved to some empty front-row seats and all was well. Since it was my birthday and all, which is why I had the ticket in the first place, I felt somewhat licensed to squeee; indeed, I felt it a sacred duty to do so, in homage to Elizabeth Taylor in National Velvet, that girl in Hidalgo who almost ended up with Viggo, “The Daughter of Sheikh Maktoum al Maktoum” (you’re not allowed to use her personal name, apparently, but she was one of the winningest jockeys in the Middle East, no lie) and all those other horse-crazed girls throughout history (one wonders if they were all so fond of horses when they had to ride sidesaddle…but I digress…). I was, however, too Canadian (in the end, and everywhere else as far as I know) to squeee.
I need not feel ashamed, nor unloyal neither, as an entire stadium of presumably favorably-disposed-towards-the-pretty-horsies people sqeeed not, not one among them, not once. It was no Jonas Brothers Concert, despite the superior beauty of the performers.
Which is really just a very long-winded way of getting to the point that the rather surprising gender balance was as follows:
Horses: 100% stallions. And one of them took the opportunity to prove it, too, but that’s enough of THAT kind of talk.
Riders: Head rider male, subordinate riders female. T’was ever thus, since that double-agent Percheron assassinated Catherine the Great.
Audience: 55% male/45% female.
That’s right. Predominately male, and I’m not just saying that because I will NEVER AS LONG AS I LIVE FORGIVE FRONT-ROW HAT-WEARING DUDE. Is the horse-loving tween girl an endangered species? Most of the females in that audience, my friend and myself aside, were what is colloquially known as “popcorn heads” ie old enough to buy their own perms since shortly after they were invented.
Où sont les cavaliers d’antan? Margeurite Henry, we hardly knew ye!
Being French myself by birth, I take great joy in making flagrant shows of affection and artistic admiration for anything with a Gallic accent, worthy or not, while shunning the products of the land of my upbringing (you couldn’t really call it a civilization, more of an agglomeration of strip malls); it’s called Being French. And, being French, I found this delightful although I sneer at the need for a English translation. Everyone knows rap is the universal language.
Unlike stinky cheese, Gauloise-and-armagnac-scented singers of limited aesthetic appeal and significant overbites, and a flagrant appreciation of the artistry of Jerry Lewis, I think you will find this particular product of old Gaul somewhat less galling and substantially more delightful. Behold the roller babies of Evian:
If it actually worked that way, I think I’d chug a case. I have dégueulasse white femme’s rhythm.
Oh, my. Mymymymymy. I’m not sure if I should be proud or ashamed that I got 10/15 on this quiz; the mind, it boggleth. It boggleth like nevair before. And I’m not even going to mention the parent/child issues in Dan Savage’s column lately.
Nope, you stay classy, raincoaster.
If you think you can do better (or worse) than me at this picture-based (and SFW right up until the Answers page, but WHOA, not then) quiz, click here to take it at the Home Made Sex Toy site, a most fascinating place. I am particularly delighted by the revolving spice rack stuffed with dildos (hey, how would YOU organize that many?) and the tips for converting worn-out toys to useful household articles. Although the butt plug/wine cork conversion is not something I’ll be trying at home.