evolution

A “wife test”, circa 1930. It apparently also gives them “merits” if they “react with pleasure and delight to marital congress”.

I heard an old comedy routine on the Bob and Tom Show this morning that didn’t blame women if they didn’t because “there’s this big, fat, sweaty guy on top of you.”

I guess women’s revenge is that they now write magazines like Maxim and Men’s Health. I do, however, appreciate a nice darned sock.

As Japanese entertainment goes, this one has it all: twitch graphics, Engrish, and bizarre obsession with bodily functions. Don’t miss the farting techniques, which includes such things as “techniques of continue to fart almost endlessly!” Also, visit the gallery of recorded fart sounds — there are hundreds.

And of course, fart stories:

In the childhood, I believe, everyone is thinking of making a fart bottle.
The fart bottle is a bottle filled with fart.

There was no exception for me.
I was always wondering if I could make the fabulous bottle.
I thought to myself “If I make the fart bottle,
I can make people smell my farts anytime. It’ so cool!”
It was the time when I was in the fourth grade.
In those days, the star sand was really popular in Japan.
The star sand is the sand each grain of which is star-shaped,
and was sold filled in a little bottle at that time.
My sister kept one, but she threw it away in her room
because she lost any interest of it.
I found it and put it in my pocket secretly.

The bottle was corked, and 4 cm height.
I exclaimed with joy “That’s it. That’s it.”
Immediately, I made up my mind to invent the fart bottle
that I had been longed for.
I picked the cork jar, throw the sand away,
farted into the empty bottle, and corked quickly.
This bottle was the marvelous one than I had expected.
I jumped with joy again and again.
I made one and smelled it repeatedly many times.
However, soon I came to think that
I wanted the others to taste this bottle,
and I managed to do it.
As I expected, everyone got disgusted,
and frowned, which delighted me.

I ate a cup of pinto beans for dinner. I might cut a Greatest Hits album later.

I’m at home sick today but, unfortunately for you all, I’m still… me.

UPDATE: Your daily YTMND. Just think of what I’ll be like after I take the drugs.

Every English major
gets earth-tone clothing and
a free Leonard Cohen
CD when they sign up.

Me? I got eighteen grand.
And two office hours
a week. And a weekly
algebra seminar

over pints. Beat that with a
stick.

Previously, on evolution:

• Amy Winehouse = 21st century Rick Astley?

Sorry to beat this scimitar video thing to death, but I redubbed it with an appropriate soundtrack.

[This post has been written to honor my close friend and erstwhile co-blogger Michael's 31st birthday, which was ten days ago. He needs to be reminded how old he is.]

I have a suggestion for what appears to be the likely Democratic Presidential nominee. I wouldn’t vote for him, because I don’t share his politics (and because I despise quite a chunk of what will inevitably be his following, but that’s an irrelevant personal hangup); but I generally think he’s a classy fellow and deserving of respect.

I therefore offer this advice in that spirit: Pick a running mate named Levon.

The nation demands it.

One cold winter’s night
I sat on a stone bench
that was like a slab
in a funeral parlor.

Which is rather funny,
because the bench was
next to old John Purdue,
who is dead.

I turned and asked him,
“Mr. Purdue, I’m lonely.
No one here loves me
and I don’t belong.”

Said John, “Shut the
hell up, willya?
It was quiet here
till you showed up.”

I said, “Goodnight, then,”
got up off my grave,
and left old Purdue to his.

I can’t take credit for this one.

[inherited from: El Borak.]