Fun With Play-Dough

Don’t know what to do this summer? Tired of the same old hotel by the seashore? Need an alternative to Disneyland? Try Iceland this year! To be honest, my cousin made a stopover in Reykjavik on his way from Amsterdam to Ontario, and said it sucked. Obviously, he chose the wrong city; he should have gone to Husavik instead. There, he would have found the (drum roll please) Penis Museum! Really!

Its owner and caretaker is Sigurdur Hjartarson, and he has been collecting penises for many years. It all started with a bull’s penis he got his hands on in 1974; Hjartarson currently owns 261 specimens, ranging from sperm whale (154 lbs!) to hamster. And yes, the latter needs to be viewed through a magnifying glass, which may seem funny to us, but most likely causes the female hamster to sigh with relief.

Besides penises, Hjartarson also displays some related “folklore” items. The museum welcomed 6,000 visitors last year, although not all left happy: two elderly women from, where else, Germany, came in a while ago and after viewing the exhibit, they scolded the owner for displaying a group of figurines in Kama Sutra poses.

I guess after seeing over 200 penises, they just couldn’t take anymore. Still, if you’re uptight enough to complain about the Kama Sutra, why would you go to the Phallological Museum in the first place?

And that’s saying a lot. Just thought I’d share.

From:   mark_larson16@orange.net

Subject: Dear friend,

Date: May 15, 2008 8:32:39 AM CDT

Reply-To:   mark_larson16@orange.net

Dear friend,

This letter may come to you as a surprise due to the fact that we have not yet met. I have to say that I have no intentions of causing you any pains.

(That’s not true. You want to steal my money. Hence: you want to cause me “pains”.)

My name is Mr. Mark Larson, a merchant in London, but taking treatment in Dubai, in the U.A.E. now I have been diagnosed with prostate and esophageal cancer that was discovered very late due to lack of caring for my health. It has defiled all form of medicine and right now,I have only about a few months to live according to medical experts.

(Boohoo, your cancer has “defiled” all medicine? What, did it shit on your pills?))

I have not particularly lived my life so well, as I never really cared for anyone not even myself but my business. Though I am very rich, I was never generous, I was always hostile to people and only focus on my business as that was the only thing I cared for. But now I regret all this as I now know that there is more to life than just wanting to have or make all the money in the world. Recently, I use to say to my self that if God should give me a second chance I would have live it differently way from how I have lived.

(Dude, could your grammar get any worse?)

I was meditating on my hospital bed and something told me that God is giving me a second chance by keeping me alive though doctors said I won’t last long. I know my time is near, that’s why I have willed and given most of my properties and assets to my immediate and extended family members and as well as some few close friends. I have decided to give alms to charity organizations, as I want thisto be one of the last good deeds I do on earth.

(Alms? Are you kidding me?)

So far, I have distributed money to some charity organizations in the U.A.E, London and Ireland. And I have also met two people on the net who have helped me distribute money to charity organizations in their country. Now my health is deteriorating so badly, I really need you to help me distribute the last of my fortune. You might be wondering why I did not ask my close relatives to pick over this task.

(Yeah, I was; I’m so interested in your long and boring explanations, I could just die!)

But I once asked members of my family to close one of my accounts and donate the money, which I have there to charity organizations in Bulgaria ; they closed the account but refused to donate the money to the organizations, some of them even fled away with some of the money while the rest shared the remaining among money among themselves. From the way they are acting around me tells that they want me dead so that they can talk about inheritance.

(Of course they want you dead. You’re not even real, and they still want you dead.) 

Hence, I do not trust them anymore, as they seem not to be content with what I have left for them. The last of my money which is a huge cash deposit that I have with a security firm abroad will be put in your care if only you will agree. I want you to help me collect this deposit and dispatched it to charity organizations and let them know that it is I Mark Larson that is making this generous donation. I am writing this from my laptop computer in my hospital bed where I wait for my time to come. I pray for you to support and assist me with a good heart. But the choice is yours Please you can contact me through this email address:

(…)

Be blessed my beloved, Mark Larson.

(My beloved? You’re joking, right? Shut up!)

Sooo…Patty, you bought me as a present; I get that. Really, I do. 

However, there are a few things I need to discuss with you. First of all, that woman pretended to like me, and then proceeded to tie me to the fence with wire, which, I hate to tell you, is about as comfortable as a castration without drugs. Second, that little boy, the one everybody lovingly calls “Kleine Mendel” keeps yanking on my tail. It hurts. If he doesn’t knock it off soon, I might have to strangle him. Don’t want you to be surprised.

Now, these things I can more or less live with; it’s not ideal, but okay. I realize I don’t have much choice. But there is one issue that is simply unacceptable, and that is the presence of two (!) other cats; arrogant, stuck-up little bitches that think they’re better than me just because they’re made of flesh and blood. A little too much flesh in case of the red one, if you ask me; they refuse to talk to me, they ignore me and have pretty much let me know I don’t belong. Yard-ornament discrimination is what it is, and if there’s no law against that, there damn well should be.

By the way, that stupid bird house hasn’t attracted one single bird, and nobody is feeding me. I’m so upset; I’m totally verklempt.

Just thought I’d let you know how things are going. Not that you care.

God, I love scandals; and Rep. Vito Fossella’s is a great one: After getting pulled over for driving drunk, he had to admit he was on his way to see his “second family.”  His mistress, with whom he has a love child (isn’t that an awesome expression), is a retired Air Force Lieutenant Colonel by the name of Laura Fay. His statement (answering questions about my political future is the furthest from my mind) aside, Fossella was forced to resign anyway. He cried like a baby while doing so, because, of course, he’s feeling “very, very bad” about everything that happened.

Sure you do, you dipshit. It always sucks when you get caught, doesn’t it?

The funny part about all this is the discussion immediately after the arrest; apparently, opinions differed about whether he should resign or not. The Republican Party isn’t keen on a special election, for fear they’ll lose (you think?) and some would have preferred Fossella serve out his term until November. Okay, granted; the Republicans would like to buy some time, I can understand that. But honestly, people: driving drunk, having an affair that has lasted for years, having a child with the mistress, really, there’s only so much dirt you can sweep under the mat before the bulge starts showing.

Back to the old questions: why do so many politicians think they can get away with it? And when will we finally see one that stands up on the podium and declares: “Hell, yes, I did it, and I’m not sorry. Can you blame me for having an affair? Have you seen my wife?”

Every once in a while we make parenting decisions that are, let’s say, not brilliant. I recently noticed the TV Guide’s announcement of E.T, and, remembering it fondly from my own childhood, called my daughter. “E.T. is on television,” I enthusiastically told her, “You should watch this with us. It’s fun.”

Unfortunately, I forgot that I was twelve when I first saw it, and my daughter Isabella is not. She didn’t make it past the first ten minutes; seeing Elliot sneak around in the dark, hearing funny noises, she quickly hid underneath a pillow, all the while begging us to shut it off. It was too scary.

“But there will be Reese’s Pieces!” My husband tried, as if that would make a difference.

Now, in spite of the fact that Isa never even saw E.T.’s face, she comes out of her room every other night to announce that ‘she can’t sleep; she’s scared of E.T., the monster’.

“He’s not a monster,” I tell her, “He’s just an alien. And besides, he’s not real. It’s a puppet. Why would you be afraid of a puppet?”

She looks at me as if I’m the biggest idiot that’s ever walked this planet, and maybe a few other planets in the process. Have I forgotten what it’s like to be six? The concept of what is real is stretchy, fluid; whether something is real is up to her to decide, not me. How dare I suggest that E.T. is not a monster, what do I know?

We bring out the monster spray, which is a nasty old bottle of Fahrenheit, saved by my husband for occasions like this. After all, when little brown Hollywood puppets are around, the power of suggestion is at its strongest. It helps, her room smells up to high heaven and she goes to sleep; how she’s able to breathe with those fumes hanging around, I’ll never know.

To put things in perspective, this is a girl who loves Corpse Bride, who’s seen Modigliani take his last breath many times, and who reenacts whole CSI episodes on the playground, body count included. I admit; we don’t censure her television habits much, except maybe for the Disney channel- I can’t stand Mickey Mouse’s Club House. So why E.T.?

Why does she know most Tim Burton movies by heart, yet seems unable to shake the idea of an alien, ugly, faux Muppet, who she’s never even seen?

But there’s the problem, isn’t it? Not knowing is much worse than knowing; every horror flick is at its scariest when the blonde bombshell goes up the stairs and you don’t know what is coming. So maybe this particular blonde just needs to sit down and watch a few minutes, somewhere in the middle, when E.T. is happy and cute, to get over this unreasonable fear. Perhaps we’ll try tomorrow; I think Starz is showing it again. As long as she doesn’t develop a fresh fear of flying bicycles, I think she’ll be okay.