lifestooserious.com

Safety is always a concern during the Holiday Season. For example, each year intoxicated carolers subject thousands of ordinary citizens to singing that rivals the harmonious sound of the large intestines trying pass what was once a double burger with fries. So, as a public service, I’ve painstakingly prepared the following safety IQ quiz to increase your awareness about common holiday accident scenarios. Do the best you can – I won’t laugh.

1. The kid next door has lit your newly purchased Christmas tree on fire. You should:

a. Duct tape him to the nearest freight train.

b. Cram him into a shipping box bound for Barrow, Alaska.

c. Insert a Christmas wreath down his underwear.

d. Grab a bag of marshmallows.

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The Wall Street Journal reports: “Hedge funds gained 1.75% on average in November, led by macro funds and managers focused on basic materials stocks and metals, Chicago-based Hedge Fund Research (HFRI) said Monday.”

This optimistic news leads to the obvious question, “What atmosphere do the HFRI creatures live in and if they breathe oxygen, would they shrivel up like a plastic bag on a hot wood stove?” This type of cryptic terminology makes the financial world more fun that running a nude hamster farm. Begging the question, “Does anyone actually get this stuff?”

What do the HFRI aliens mean by “average?” On earth, it’s a Latin based word capable of taking on three mysterious values: mean, median, and mode. Complex? I dare say. Yet researchers kick it around like an old Basset hound (metaphorically speaking because I’m definitely not promoting the kicking of any canine – even one that methodically chews loafers to shreds). (more…)

I suspect my wife is having an affair with Tiger Woods. Don’t laugh — she’s one hot lady when fully clothed. I had a dream about it the other night. She and those other alleged misbehaving chicks (Rachel Uchitel, Jaimee Grubbs, Kalika Moquin, et al.) were gathered around Tiger on the 4th hole of the Niobrara Country Club golf course in Lusk, Wyoming. A splendid 9-hole course where a slice shot on the 7^th places your ball in Willy Weston’s hog pen. The gals were raking out a sand bunker or maybe drinking champagne – it’s kind of fuzzy now. But Tiger was definitely there.

This morning I asked her what was going on:

Me: So, are you having an affair with Tiger Woods?

Wife: Who? Get you toast off of the placemat.

Me: Oh don’t start with me. Pass the oatmeal. You know exactly what I’m talking about.

Wife: Isn’t he the guy who … no, they had his funeral last week. What’s this guy do?

Me: He makes zillions of dollars hitting a little white ball.

Wife: The golfer? Don’t be silly. Look at the muddy tracks in that hallway. Did you let the dog in again with sloppy feet?

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