Humping Dog

People are always saying to me, "Davey, What is the perfect gift for someone who has everything, except for a bunch of useless USB gadgets that employ low brow humour for some cheap laughs?"

"That's a tough one." I say thoughtfully, scratching my chin and pondering the question with the level of attention it deserves. "Tell me, have you by any chance heard of Humping Dog?"



"Don't you mean a humping dog?" they inevitably say. The feeble minded often say ridiculous things. Prefixing Humping Dog with a derogatory 'a' would be paramount to suggesting that he is one of many dogs around that are merely attempting to hump. NOT SO. Humping Dog's influence is more ubiquitous than that, his actions far more profound. In his world, Humping Dog is god.

What world is that you ask? Well let me show you.



It is a magical world, where flowers and mushrooms grow side by side and the mountains are gigantic boobs. Where Humping Dog once trained for a whole year just to reach nipple summit. It was a treacherous climb -- his Humping Sherpa was was never found after falling head-first down a partially hidden cleavage crevasse. He was a brave and horny Humping Sherpa, and we honour him.

Even with all of these accolades, people are still resistant to the charms of Humping Dog. They ask me, "Does Humping Dog have any alternate uses besides humping your USB port?" While the stupidity of the question infuriates me, my parole explicitly stipulates that only non-violent responses are acceptable in social situations, so I answer them in measured tones. I say, "Does humping dog NEED to do anything besides that, you cretin?" They point out that he could potentially also be a memory stick that you could store important documents on while he was doing his business. Clearly logic escapes some people.

Humping Dog is not without his faults though. Having no ability to turn off or moderate his hump would be one of them. I don't need to tell you what impact his infinite hump has on the environment, nor what his disregard for it has on me. Humping Dog can be awfully selfish at times.

Another shortcoming would be his instructions, which I find particularly perturbing:




The main problem is that that I don't speak Swahili, so I have no idea what Humping Dog is trying to tell me. Are you in trouble, Humping Dog? I hope not. I like to think that he is informing me of his overall humping compatibility, perhaps sung to the theme of the Black Eyed Peas tune 'My Hump', but realistically he could be saying anything. He could be insulting my lineage for all I know. Humping Dog is impressively multi-lingual like that.

While the world of Humping Dog is indeed a strange one, and that questions regarding his usefulness are a bit worrying, I can't help but feel as though he's got it all stitched up. While the rest of us are running around in circles, having anxiety attacks over which Minogue would win in an egg and spoon race, Humping Dog is just kicking back, observing us all with bemused detachment. The guy's unflappable. He knows that while there's still one unused port out there, somewhere, he'll have a purpose in life. I envy him for that.


But then, how could you ever stay mad at a face like that:



Hump on little buddy, hump on.

--
If you too feel the love for Humping Dog, then please vote for him over at
humor-blogs.com. Money raised goes toward the Humping Sherpa orhpans, a worthy, and horny, cause. If instead you decide that you cannot be arsed, why not watch Humping Dog in some four way action? I challenge you not to be aroused.

I hate me! I'm never speaking to me again.

Walking down the street in Stockholm last weekend, I noticed a distrustful looking individual coming down the path who was coveting what appeared to be a half eaten cream bun. As we approached each other, he suddenly veered off his line and careened uncontrollably toward me. Unable to avoid impact, we collided, decimating his cream bun and sending it flying off in all directions.

"Prushecta!" I managed after wiping down my front, pleased that I had remembered the Swedish expression for 'Excuse me' but still spitting it out with vehemence.

After we fled the scene I turned to Cath and rolled my eyes. "Geez," I said, trying not to sound flustered "was that guy wasted!" A keen observation if ever there was one.

"Disabled." she corrected.

"What?" Observation skills crumbling.

"You mean disabled. There was a group of them. Didn't you see the woman next to him in a wheelchair?"

Great. Like I needed another memory to feel disproportionately guilty about. So what does that make it: the speech I gave my sister at her wedding, calling my friend's mother Sandra when her name clearly isn't Sandra, ridiculing my friend's softballing skills when he was standing right behind me, and now: Disabled guy whose cream bun I ruined.

I'm sure there are more memories that I also cringe over, it's just that they only tend to make themselves known at 3 in the morning when insomnia has you by the balls.

--

If you thought this post was slightly humorous, or even downright offensive, why not embellish a little and vote for it proudly over at humor-blogs.com. It will seriously only take a jiffy, which in case you were wondering is a time unit originally specified by the Commodore 64 development team as being 1/60 of a second. You see? Now we're all embellishing a little. It's totally what all the kids are doing these days. Well.. that and crack.

Who Needs Babelfish?

Corsica Resort:

Bonjour nous sommes désolés mais nous n’avons plus de disponibilités pour les mois de juillet et aout de cette année.

A l’année prochaine peut-être.

Cordialement : service réservation


Cath:

Que??

I am assuming this means that I am very desolate that you cannot come and holiday with me and Juliet, and that Annie will be very upset also.

You sound a very cool little porcupine.

She's actually a lot closer to a meerkat, but it's still an incredible observation over email.



--
The humor-blogs.com ratings system has changed, which basically means I stand a chance of umm... something or other! But you can totally help me out getting there. No, we don't need to know where 'there' is, that's beside the point. It's all about the journey, remember?

Things I would love you to do:

1. Click on that link above
2. Sign up for an account
3. Find my posts
4. Click on the big smiley next to my post to give me a vote
5. Somehow convince a large government body to invade Zimbabwe

That's it! It's that simple!

Nostralgia

Work has been crazy the last few weeks. And not in a 'the Gods must be Crazy' crazy, which would be OK, but in a 'Herbie goes Bananas' crazy, which is worse because it involves a possessed car and Lindsay Lohan.

On the positive side, I've been learning about some amazing new technologies. As a programmer it's always good to keep your skills honed, which is a characteristic of work I imagine us and cage fighters have in common. New things to add to my resume are: Web Services, WS-Security, WCF, Ajax and JQuery. Conveniently my resume also doubles as a list of subjects never to bring up during polite conversation.

In lieu of putting up a decent post, why don't we peruse some of the artistry my associate Dave and I created during a happier working zeitgeist.






Yes, I realise that they are just more celebrities with miniature heads, but you have to understand how much amusement we were getting out of this.







Style tip: try to stay away from feature accessories that draw attention to your worst assets.






How much does old mate on the right there look like a Womble? If you answered 'lots', you win. The prize is knowing way too much about 80s kid shows.






Y'see, the funny thing here is you look at it and second guess whether Elvis really did have a small head all along. You wonder how he ever looked so dashing in military garb when his captains hat must have looked like a old salon lady waiting for her hair to do its thing. Don't worry grandma. It's all a trick of the eyes. Go back to lusting after his intoxicating hips, for Elvis' head was bonafide.





Another guy who is wondering whether this is the first time he's noticed it.







Dave thinks that I'm going to hell for this one. He needn't worry. My fate was well and truly assured after that whole 'calling the wailing wall a sissy' incident. Yikes.







I think it was Blakkat who asked for an Arnie one, so here you go darlin. I believe John Connor is just about to prove that the Terminator's head is smaller than a pistol. Subsequently, Terminator cries. It is a very humanising scene.







Oh my god! It's 4 o'clock! I'm totally missing Ready Steady Cook!






It was around this point in time that Dave and I got bored of just giving people smaller heads. Logical progression, smaller faces. It would have taken an army of monkeys twice as long to figure that one out.








You know why you're dancing on the ceiling partner? Because nobody ridicules your fro up there. Awww. Slings and arrows.








I dunno what it is, but I find novelty-sized things hilarious. Look at him straining to reach that ball. Don't worry dude! Your racquet covers the entire court! Just prop it up on angle and go pour yourself a beer!








At least he doesn't have to go far.






You can tell by the look on everyone's faces that they can't believe he's wearing stirrups. They're all like, woah. Stirrups. Afterwards, they can't look they're mate in the eye, just in case they got caught in some kind of Brokeback mountain situation. All the while the bull is looking upset and saying 'Why do I even bother being small. No-one notices.'








The sword. It does nothing! I like the guy behind the barricade. He's all "Ello? Ello! Et 'im with your thing! Your THING!"


That's all of them. We haven't made any more since I started acting secretively and talking in slogans. "If you can't beat em, join em!" I'll remark after being invited to lunch. That was two weeks ago. I'm not receiving as many invitations nowadays.

Recently I've started to think about a change. Not because I'm disliking the work I'm doing necessarily, but because the guy two seats down from me smells as though he selects his clothes from a decomposing pile of rags. I'm under the impression he utilises the age old clothes drying technique known as 'forgetful evaporation', although by the rank smell in the air I question how much science is relied upon during his washing cycle. I wonder if he has nostrils. I wonder if his friends do. I wonder how long I can hold out before mentioning it to the team over beers.

--
People smell of lemongrass and posies over at humor-blogs.com, which is an incredible achievement when you consider that they used to smell like a cross between an armpit and an underpass.