Everybody hates cancer, with good reason. But you know who really hates it more than anyone? Barbers, because every person out there who loses their hair from chemo is one less customer for them. Which means, if there’s anything to this necessity being the mothewr of invention thing, the person who someday finds a cure for cancer will inevitable be named Smitty.

Why is it that salad forks are shorter than regular forks? I mean, your salad is always farther away than the rest of your meal, so it ought to be the other way around. In fact, to get right to the heart of the matter, why do we even need a second fork for salads anyway? Even if you’re such a sensitive soul that you can’t bear to have the taint of raspberry vinaigrette on your fork when you dig into your spotted owl souffle, you can just wipe it off on your napkin. C’mon people, there’s folks in China that have to eat with sticks, so let’s stop hogging all the flatware.

You know what would be totally awesome? If you got like, 54 copies of Jenga, and then built a tower out of the boxes and played Jenga with it. It would be like life-sized Jenga, an totally rule until it collapsed and someone perished horribly because of it. Also, since Jenga isn’t actually a naturally-occurring phenomenon, I guess it wouldn’t so much be life-sized, as it would be merely ginormous.

White people are always getting dream catchers and putting them in their cars, which makes all the Indians laugh at us since sleeping while driving is generally contraindicated by the driving experts of the world. Don’t feel too bad though, because Indians are probably always buying fuzzy dice and hanging them over their beds, which is an equally embarrassing transgression against the traditional ways of our ancestors.

If you were writing a want ad because you needed to hire an undertaker, and in the list of job requirements you put, "must enjoy working with people" you would probably be run out of town right then and there, but it would be funny enough to make it worth it.

If you went through a bowl of M&Ms and painted all the brown ones purple, you could tel somebody that they were just Skittles with an unfortunate typo on them, and then you could laugh them to scorn when they ate some and realized that you had bamboozled them. Unless of course they were allergic to chocolate, then you’d just be evil.

It’s a good thing people have skulls, because otherwise, wearing a hat would kill you.

I saw a car the other day, the license plate of which said 2TH BRSH, probably because it belonged to a dentist of just some freaky tooth dude. Either way, as laudable as good dental hygiene is, it’s also important to have good grammar, so really, his plate ought to have said 2^ND BRSH if he didn’t want people thinking he was illiterate.

I was at the hardware store the other day, and I saw that they were selling powered tape measures. I’m sorry, but if you need to buy a powered tape measure, then you’re definitely too weak to be building stuff. I mean, after you finish measuring whatever you needed the tape measure for, odds are you’re going to have to cut something, and if you can’t even wrangle a regular tape measure, then a saw is totally gonna is kick your ass, to say nothing of hammers, sandpaper, and those funky octangular pencils that you have to use when building stuff.

Leonardo is a great name, but in recent years, it has been terribly abused, leading people to think that people named Leonardo are always falling off of boats and trying to escape from Tom Hanks. That’s not cool at all; it ought to be against the law to be named that unless you either design renaissance helicopters or wield katanas and live in a sewer.

Why is it that Oprah needs an entire magazine dedicated to herself? Isn’t this the kind of thing that Soviet dictators used to do? I mean, even Jesus doesn’t have his own magazine, so what makes anyone else so awesome that we need a monthly chronicle of the printed word detailing their deific awesomeness. Which all leads me to suspect that Oprah may well be the Anti-Christ. Also, I am fully aware of the irony of talking about the evils of self-aggrandizing media outlets via my own personal blog, thus earning myself a sound thrashing from the rubber chicken of hypocrisy.

The doctor on Star Trek must really hate his job. Here he is, all ready to do stuff like set broken bones and treat ear infections, and instead he has to spend all his time finding cures to ridiculous space ailments that are about to kill the entire crew. "How can I help you today captain, come down with a case of the mumps, have you?" "Why no doctor, Sulu’s gone and gotten himself space drunk again, and Ensign Redshirt just had all the iron sucked out of his body by a malevolent death cloud." "Oh, um, right, I think I’m gonna go play some golf then, see ya later."