Two astronauts who were dating put an end to it because they both needed their space.
We haven’t had searches that found my blog for a while. Enjoy.
I Don’t Know Anything, Honest:
- hotshot bald cop (159 searches in the past month alone)
- what happened to gaddafi (68 – seems more people are interested in Ed Lauter than the former Libyan dictator. Go figure) My favourite search, however, is this one: where is gaddafi actually. That last word makes it clear that it’s a secret just between the searcher and the internet
- batcave entrance
I Wouldn’t Mind Knowing These, Though
- hot rugby player
- need easy instructions on how to write in publice service announcement
- marriage expiration date
- what do i get for $85 toilet paper
What Are These People Eating That They Can See It?
- funny pictures of people farting
I’m Saying Nothing
- arts degree jokes
- housewife don’t do houseworks
- the laughing housewide
That Explains A Lot
- dinosaurs miss noah ark
- socks in heaven
- dementia wallasey (Wallasey is a town near Liverpool; I lived there for three years)
- what marriage means to a woman joke time
Is There Any Other Kind?
- fat ugly poo
- funny septic trucks
Tell Me Something I Don’t Know
- christmas is comming
Tell Him Something He Doesn’t Know
- laughing turkey
Consider Me Baffled Of Stockport
- toilet blob
- ten hose wife
- hamster x rated
- false facts about laughing
- clock eating cartoon
- shakespeare farting
- its fun to be a housewife
If This Is About Me, I’m Annoyed That You Think I Might Be Sick
- fat sick fail poet wife
You’re In The Wrong Place
- woman looking for dirt in house
- hard working housewife
I was going to start this post with Sally Field’s famous Oscar speech, You like me! You really like me! But it turns out she didn’t say that at all. Searching for a picture, I came across this blog, and the author tells us what Sally actually said was,
I can’t deny the fact that you like me, right now, you like me
Which is a better fit for what’s been happening this last week or so to The Laughing Housewife. By the way, I’m not speaking of myself in the third person: The Laughing Housewife laughs all the time, is in a permanently good mood and is never short of blogging topics; The Laughing Housewife author is crabby, headachy and usually scrabbling around for something to write about.
It’s The Laughing Housewife you like, and you’ve been saying so quite a bit; recently I have received:
- Two Liebster Awards
- Nomination For Fours
- Tagging For Fives
- At least seven Versatile Blogger Awards
I’m not using my usual hyperbole with that last one, I promise; I think it might actually be more, but (I blush to admit it) I lost count.
First and foremost, I have to say this – loud – to you all:
I AM TRULY GRATEFUL FOR THESE AWARDS AND NOMINATIONS.
I am. To receive an award from a fellow blogger is – apologies for the word; I assure you this is also not hyperbole – an honour. An award says, ‘I like your blog enough to write about it; to link to it and encourage others to visit you.’ That’s a nice thing to do; I’m grateful. It is lovely to know that you enjoy my blog enough to want to share it.
Here’s where the elephant comes in: I received the nominations; I sweetly thanked the nominators, and did nothing: no four-five-seven things about me; no nominating others; no adding the widget. I did that once, the first time I received an award. I was new to blogging and didn’t realise it was, effectively, chain mail. When I tried to pass it on, everyone declined. Not one person wanted it. I thought about that; I realised it was chain mail; I resolved to never again be so taken in by a widget in a fancy dress.
You have gifted me with these awards, then, and I have done nothing. Blogging is of the moment: people quickly move on (you like me right now; I’m not in danger of forgetting that you might not like me tomorrow); I had hoped that those who passed on the awards would forget that they had nominated me and not be offended if I did not respond. But you haven’t been allowed to: awards have flown in like Maltesers under the tree on Christmas morning. To continue to say nothing has become embarrassing. So, once again, let me tell me how much I appreciate these awards. And what I have against them.
They are chain letters. I hate chain letters. Chain letters frighten people with their threats that bad things will happen if they are not sent on. People feel obliged to pass on these awards, and are afraid to offend the givers.
If you receive a real chain letter in your inbox, I urge you to send it to me if you are frightened, and I will do the electronic equivalent of burning it: that’s what the trash bin is for. I’ve always trashed them and nothing bad has happened to me, if I discount the Hub’s ill health, unemployment, homelessness, four dead parents…erm…um…
And did you ever hear of anyone suddenly coming in to £20,000 after obeying their dastardly instructions? Me neither. Of course, nothing bad will happen if I don’t pass on these awards, if I don’t include offending the kind bloggers who sent them to me in the first place; but I can’t see one without thinking ‘Arrgh! Chain mail!’
So, in case I haven’t mentioned it, thank you for the award, I really do appreciate the thought; but I’m afraid I think too much of you all to pass it on: I prefer to highlight your blogs in posts as they naturally occur. I guess you’ll have to consider this one of my seven things you didn’t know about me, alongside the fact that I can’t blow my nose without taking off my glasses first; or in public: too many people; too much snot.
Postscript: I forgot to address the issue of my own CoWAbunger Award. Let me make it plain that that award is just a bit of fun, to highlight funny and interesting comments that readers might have missed. I will never ask you to pass it on.
Step 1: Pick a number from 1 to 10.
Step 2: Now think of something interesting in your life, or that you’d like to have in your life, related to that number.
The day this prompt email arrived, I received an email from 10Q, a project in which I participated last year: ten questions over ten days, filed away for a year. So my number is 10.
I’m not going to share the personal stuff with you – underneath this jolly, confident persona I am a mass of nerves and self-doubt, you know – but I thought you might enjoy this one:
How would you like to improve yourself and your life next year? Is there a piece of advice or counsel you received in the past year that could guide you in this project?
More prayer; less King.com.
There was an eleventh question:
What are your predictions for 2011?
Will finally have one good year.
Hmm. Guess I didn’t let up on the King.com after all.
This comes from Michelle in South Africa, who is almost single-handedly keeping me supplied in funnies.
What Makes 100%?
What does it mean to give MORE than 100%?
Ever wonder about those people who say they are giving more than 100%? We have all been to those meetings where someone wants you to give over 100%.
How about achieving 103%?
What makes up 100% in life?
Here’s a little mathematical formula that might help you answer these questions:
A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
is represented as:
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26.
8+1+18+4+23+15+18+11 = 98%
11+14+15+23+12+5+4+7+5 = 96%
1+20+20+9+20+21+4+5 = 100%
2+21+12+12+19+8+9+20 = 103%
And look how far ass kissing will take you:
1+19+19+11+9+19+19+9+14+7 = 118%
So, one can conclude with mathematical certainty, that while Hard Work and Knowledge will get you close, and Attitude will get you there, it’s the Bullsh!t and Ass Kissing that will put you over the top.
This one’s for Tory Boy. He knows why.
Two kids are talking to each other. One says, “I’m really worried. My Dad works twelve hours a day to give me a nice home and good food. My Mum spends the whole day cleaning and cooking for me. I’m worried sick!”
The other kid says, “What have you got to worry about? Sounds to me like you’ve got it made!”
The first kid says, “What if they try to escape?”
The worthy winner this week – not least because she has commented in recent times almost twice as much as her nearest rival and she’s worn me out – is Pseu.
The two comments that won her the award are:
From Joke 179:
Turn me around three tmes and I’m lost. Why hadn’t I thought of using the Cat Navigation?
She continued the joke on Of This That ‘n’ T’other:
This snake is quite obviously lost. Could you lend it the cat nav?
She managed to keep the Cat Nav running joke going through several posts over several days, I think. I’d find them for you but I’m going out.
She did lose an ‘i’ (and she might lose another before the ceremony is over), but Pseu is a blogger’s dream commenter: She write good. She funny. She do my research. She find You Tube videos. She should be writing this blog instead of me (without the Maltesers, of course).
In recognition of that, she is not going to receive an ordinary CoWAbunger Award, oh no! She will receive… she will receive…she will. She will. You can do it, Tilly; just grit your teeth and spit it out. PseuwillreceivetheCoWAbungerMalteserAwardforServicestoThisBlog’sComments
well done Pseu yadda yadda yadda whatever turn off the light on your way out
Thanks to Granny1947 for this one.
The Grim Reaper came for me last night, and I beat him off with a vacuum cleaner.
Talk about Dyson with death.
Today’s post title comes from the popular British pastime of complaining about the telly; in particular, the summer telly. We didn’t have a summer, of course – a repeat of a different kind – but we had lots of repeats on the telly.
I’m sorry: I don’t mean to keep repeating ‘repeat’. Or ‘telly’.
I never understood why the BBC and ITV repeated everything; and then I started blogging.
Sometimes it is accidental, telling a story that I’ve told before, but in a slightly different way. On tv, it happens in soap operas, where everybody sleeps with everybody else and they all work in the same place, drink in the same pub (even respectable old ladies who’ve taken the pledge get their daily lemonade fix from the Rovers or the Queen Vic at a quarter of their weekly pension instead of buying a 21pence 2L bottle from Morrisons that will last them a week) and live out the same dramas – I give you Kevin & Sally Webster: how many times have they been married, cheated on each other, split up and got back together again? I know it’s a lot, and I haven’t watched Coronation Street for ten years.
Sometimes it’s a re-hash of stuff: I lift bits from other blogs, websites, emails – always crediting the source, of course. In tv, it’s the inevitable 1000 Greatest TV Ads/100,000 Greatest TV Shows/1,000,000 Greatest Talking Heads Desperate For Any Kind Of TV Appearance So Long As It Keeps Them In The Public Eye And Funds Their Kids’ And Seven Stepkids’ From Four Previous Marriages Expensive Education.
Then there’s the outright We’re tired; we’ve nothing new for you; look at this old stuff instead repeat. In tv, it’s Murder, She Wrote. In this blog, it’s one of my earliest posts, tarted up. Enjoy (R).
Eight year old Spud came out of school one day and asked me, ‘What’s a tw*t?’ (The * is an ‘a': you must be clear on that to make sense of the story). Once I had regained my balance, I asked him where he had heard it.
‘Oh, Mrs Taylor used it on one of the boys.’
Clutching the school gate as I staggered, I explained what an awful word it was and how he must NEVER EVER EVER use it. It was a bad word and I would be having a word with Mrs Taylor. I was surprised at Mrs Taylor, was he sure he had heard her correctly?
On the way home I got the full story from him. It appears that Mrs Taylor is affectionately abusive to the children, calling them ‘daft twits’. I suspect that either Spud misheard it or she had a slip of the tongue and ignored it, hoping the children wouldn’t notice. What really tickled me was when Spud climbed into bed with me at midnight that night, crying that he couldn’t sleep because he had been ‘accidentally very naughty’ because he thought it was such a great word he had used it all afternoon on his friends….
I had to go into school next day and pre-emptively apologise to the Head before the parents’ complaints came rolling in. I’m so glad I stopped having children.
If you want to read stories on a similar theme, visit Tinman’s post, Little Ears. Read the comments as well.
Two engineering students were biking across a university campus when one said, “Where did you get such a great bike?”
The second engineer replied, “Well, I was walking along yesterday, minding my own business, when a beautiful woman rode up on this bike, threw it to the ground, took off all her clothes and said, “Take what you want.”
The first engineer nodded approvingly and said, “Good choice: the clothes probably wouldn’t have fit you anyway.”
I have a funny son: fact.
Spud was on form yesterday.
On Tory Boy’s session playing Warhammer at the Warhammer shop the other night:
Spud: Was Ponytail Paul there?
TB: His name’s not Paul.
Spud: I go to a grammar school; we use alliteration when we insult people.
The ongoing struggle between Spud and me about the fact that he never, ever, goes barefoot.
Spud [Having taken off his fluffy black school socks and shown me fluffy black feet]: Sorry if I leave a mess on the carpets, Mum.
Me [Exasperated]: One day out of 365 you decide to take your socks off…look at them – wash your feet!
Spud: Hey, I’m just strutting my fluff.
And finally, a joke he read that he knew I’d appreciate:
What noise does a grammatically correct owl make?
Read more Six Word Saturdays here.