Polyorchis penicillatus

Yeah. So, I just spent the last three hours trying to remember this little fucker's name. Polyorchis penicillatus. That's him. He's a Scyphozoan -- wait-- Hydrozoan medusa. That means he's a jellyfish. And I used to know a hell of a lot more about him. (Postscript: after a little remembering, I remembered that my experiment involved cutting their mouths off and watching them grow back. Cool.)
And I guess that's what I'm writing about. I used to know a hell of a lot about a lot of things. But when my three hours of searching came to a close, I realized, right as it slipped between my ears and shattered on the floor (the thought, I mean, not the jellyfish) that I had absolutely no idea why I was looking for this information. What's the point of this little guy? What's the point of looking for him? I remember thinking that I wanted to go back to BC and get out of the newspaper business altogether. You know, spend a summer researching pelagic invertebrates (i.e. boring creatures who move slowly and calmly and gracefully and never ask you to cover murders or boring community calendar events) in the backwoods of Vancover Island. Never mind that I'm not working towards a degree or anything. Hell, for the last three months, I can honestly say I haven't been working.
And that's another thing. My brain is broken, and I don't want to work. I can't read very much because my eyes wander to something else, and my deside to get out of the house is also pretty feeble at best. I'm living off savings, so that part of things is fine.
But writing makes me cringe. Or having the internet. Sitting down at the computer immediately costs me at least an hour. Garunteed. And if I go to the right sites, like newgrounds.com, a flash animation dump where new stuff is posted at a rate of about 200 new cartoons a day, I don't ever have to move again to be at least mildly entertained. Sure, I'm frustrated at the end of the day, but before that, I can sit and sit and sit.
That being said, I did do some gardening today (whoa. this is getting boring). My idiot landlord's sister (or however this place's ownership goes) dug up about 30 or 40 100-year old ferns fromthe back yard, and put them in the garbage. They're these huge, shoulder-height green monsters that fill the whole back yard with jungle fever and such, and she just dug them up. I mean...
So, to piss her off, I took five grocery bags worth of them out of the garbage, replanted some where she dug them up, and planted more in our front garden. I hope it pissed her off, anyway.
Then I took the rest and planted them all around our neighbourhood. That was fun.
Anyway, yeah. I like gardening, being outdoors, and staying away from computers. Somehow, though, my life ends up being the opposite. Who is in charge of these things? Don't say it's me. I can't remember long enough to do anything about it.
Oh, and yes, I am organizing a TV show featuring local talent and comedy and music. I'm pretty sure I'm going to be the host. But we'll see.I can't imagine it being good otherwise.

Stay Puft!

I dare you to click on this very not safe for work video clip.

See, this is what happens when self-obsessed nut-jobs/dickheads (sorry, there’s just no avoiding the word-play here) go crazy in super-size-me culture (although you probably can’t get order that at a drive-thru). I love his justification for it too. According to the, well… sad-sack, his self-mutilation is an emasculating “adventure,” as if dunking your junk in a public toilet makes you Allen Quartermain. He also claims to be “challenging” notions of what a penis is. Riiight. So by that logic anyone with hydrocephalus is challenging the notion of what a head is. I hope Darwinism has something particularly hilarious in store for this one-man sausage party. Maybe an accident involving running nude through a revolving door.

I guess he’ll never be a champion hurdler (can you even buy a Double-D sports-cup?).

But at least he’s top contender for World Tea-Bagging Champion.

Or he can pretend to be the guy in all those AC/DC songs.

Model Hammer-pants?

Can’t. Stop. Making. Giant. Testicle. Jokes.

AAAAAAAAAAA!

Well, only one way to find out!

Oh, wait. I guess there's two ways. Still, what an odd way to sell people on swimming lessons. Why not, "How well does your family swim"? Drown-proof is just... creepy — an ominous vision of things to come during that the final free lesson.

Anyhow, how's by you? I'm growing a playoff beard. Keep track of my advancing scruffiness here. If you can FUCKING HANDLE IT.