April 2005 Archives

Global Schoolyard Rhymes 17: Greece & Estonia

I've received a ton more submissions to the collection of obnoxious international playground rhymes. Thanks to everyone for sending so many great ones in.

Here's the first entries from Greece and Estonia!


Koonia bella
Pi papa stin bellia
Ti tha fame vrathi?
Koutsolia me lathi!

English translation:

Swing pretty girl
Daddy's going to the vineyards.
What will we eat for dinner?
Bird poop and oil!

Sent by: Antigoni


Ftasame! Ftasame!
To vreki sou hasame!

English translation:

We've arrived! We've arrived!
We lost your underwear!


Peeter Peeter peeretas,
suure linna väravas
Terve linn oli haisu täis,
Peetri püksid paska täis.

English translation:

Peter Peter farted,
within a big city's gates.
The whole city was filled with stench,
Peter's pants were full of shit.

Sent by: Laine

Do you have a great obnoxious kid rhyme from outside the U.S.?
Send it here for the next update!

Just be sure to include:
1) The rhyme's originating country
2) The rhyme in the original language
3) The direct English translation

See all the rhymes here.


Steve: omg
Steve: rofl
Steve: brb
Steve: omg
Lisa: ???
Steve: imho
Steve: gtg
Steve: tx
Steve: xoxo
Lisa: ????????????????????
Steve: OMG
Lisa: WHAT?!?!?!!!?!?
Steve: OMG!
Steve: BRB
Lisa: ????????????????????????
Steve: gtg
Steve: haha
Lisa: what the F?
Steve: i was just practicing my abbreviations
Lisa: you are such an idiot
Steve: OMG
Lisa: lol

Jokes from the Booster Seat

Regular readers of The Sneeze probably know that the "jokes" my 5-year-old son writes have become something of a fixture around here. I always get emails whenever I post one, so I've decided to make them a regular feature.

I present to you now the first in his latest batch of...

(featuring Invisi-Punchlinetm technology!)


Q: "What did the worm say to the army?"

A: "Get shootin'!!"

Unless you started coughing up blood from laughing too hard, you'll be happy to know there's plenty more where that came from. And remember, he really sells the punchlines hard, so be sure to do the same when you re-tell it at your next board meeting or job interview!

a new crop of raspberries

6 brand new entries make their way into the Raspberry museum! Thanks to everyone for all the submissions.

The Poopacy

Given the events of the week, I have asked my dear friend, Tony, to tell us one of my all-time favorite and hilarious stories from his tortured childhood...

by Tony

I never liked using a strange toilet. I don't mean a "strange-looking" toilet, I mean a toilet I wasn't used to. I could force myself to pee in them if I really really had to, but I never, ever would shit in one. I didn't shit at school, I didn't shit at friend's or family's houses, and even at home, I always shunned the toilet in my parent's bathroom for my favorite in the master bath.

I am sure this is not terribly unusual among kids. It’s a small issue, really, among my particular constellation of neuroses, and I never told my parents or anybody about it. I am pretty much over it, now, though whenever my kids mention using the crapper at school, I feel like I am going to faint.

In any case, this was my state of mind at age 10, when my parents announced that they were going to send me off to my family in Italy for three weeks in the summer of 1978.

Three weeks.

"Well," I said to myself, with impeccable internal logic, "you'll just have to hold it in." My plan was to eat just enough so nobody will ask questions, and intermittently pretend to go to the bathroom. Three weeks will be over before you know it. And off I went to my waiting Alitalia jet.

I arrived at my uncle's apartment in Rome, and was encouraged to go to the bathroom and "freshen up." Now, I had to go to the bathroom, at least to pee, and I figured I would keep an open mind on the shitting situation. I was in the grips of a cramp-induced moment of sanity and thought "well, if it isn't too different, maybe –"

It was worse than I had imagined:

1) Old fashioned keys and keyholes-- The bathroom (in fact all of the rooms) had the Benjamin-Franklin-tied-to-the-kite kind of key and corresponding keyhole. Anybody who watched cartoons as much as I did knew that this practically guaranteed being peeped at while on the shitter.

2) The bathroom window opened out onto a wrap-around balcony at eye level. Granted the glass was frosted, but still-- I'm mental.

3) No water in the bowl-- I firmly believe a toilet should have some water in it before flushing. I am getting dizzy just thinking about it.

The situation had crystallized. Clearly, peeing in these circumstances was going to be a challenge. Shitting was out, so I was back to plan A, and I put it into action.

Now, to be honest with you, I don't remember how long I kept it up. I am almost positive it was at least 1 week, and may have approached 2. I ate in small portions and went to the bathroom only to pee, but was careful to stay in there long enough to have conceivably shitted. Eventually, the urge to take a crap just subsided and disappeared. I had stopped myself up! I was feeling pretty good about this victory. I couldn't take a dump even if I wanted to.

How long could I keep it up? Had I beaten it for good? My head was in the clouds -- the clean, shit-less (though somewhat distended) clouds. Alas, I was soon to crash to Earth, a scatological Icarus.

I should mention that the Pope had died -- Pope Paul VI, that is -- and I happened to be in the country while the conclave was going on to pick a new pontiff. My family, like the other Italians, was really into the selection process, even though the only churchgoer among them was my grandmother.

In any case, I guess I got cocky or lazy. Maybe the papal situation distracted me. I don’t know, but somehow my family realized that I had stopped shitting. My uncle, a doctor, asked me about it and, after denying it at first, I finally told him, matter-of-factly, that I was mildly constipated (I omitted how I had gotten that way) and that it was normal for me not to go for a day or four and I was sure that the situation would rectify itself so why don’t we just watch the chimney on TV because, heh heh, you know, these things happen and I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you—

The tackle took place before I knew what was happening; I was flipped face down. I don’t really remember who was involved, but I suspect my older cousin Gian-Carlo was holding me down from the torso. Somebody pulled my pants down.

“I am just going to give you a enema.” Said my uncle, who produced a small rubber bulb from behind his back.

I was still dealing with the humiliation of being immobilized and having my pants pulled down with female cousins walking around, but the word “enema” managed to seep through. What followed was the archetypal enema dialectic engaged in for centuries by adults and children the world over.


Fortunately, my ass was still mobile and I used that freedom to present an ever-moving target.

“Stop moving.”


“Stop moving.”


“Okay, I won’t do it.” He backed off a bit.


“I’ll tell you what. If you stop moving I won't stick it in. I’ll just drip some water on your behind. I think it will help.”



“Just drip, not stick it in?” I sobbed.

“Uh huh.”

Wordlessly, I stilled my ass, looking forward to get my pants back over them. Then, my uncle, the liar, proceeded to violate my sphincter and irrigate my carefully cultivated blockage.


Then it was over, and I was released. Humiliated, I half stood, and started pulling my pants back on.

“Oh, I wouldn’t bother if I were you.” Said the evil one.


Defeated, I held my pants up to cover my boyhood, and quickly shuffled off to the bathroom for the reckoning.

I entered, locked the door with the ridiculous fucking keyhole and sat down – kind of. At first I tried to hover, but to no avail. I was cramping up and knew it was a matter of seconds before—

With a rush, and no comforting ‘plop’ in this arid bowl, I was forced to accept my earthly limitations and made my contribution to the land of my forefathers.

And then, faintly, from another part of the apartment, I heard hubbub and cheering – clapping, in fact!

My worst fears had come true. They had somehow spied on me, and were now celebrating my capitulation and laughing at my profound embarrassment. Fuckers.

I washed my hands and looked at myself in the mirror. How would I face them?

I walked out with as much dignity as I could muster. They barely noticed me, and were all intently watching TV.

“What’s going on?”

“We have a new pope!” said my aunt.

Apparently, precisely at the moment I released my filth, the College of Cardinals released white smoke from the Sistine Chapel.

“Oh,” I said. Then, after a pause, “I went to the bathroom.”

They looked at me, then at each other, and gave me a round of applause.

I winced at my sore ass, and took my bow.

i'm rewritin' it

The other day I bought lunch at McDonald's. My receipt was attached to the bag with a small sticker proudly proclaiming their latest slogan: "i'm lovin' it."

As I gnawed on a so-so fry, I wondered exactly who was lovin' what. Apparently I was lovin' McDonald's, I guess. I don't remember being consulted, but there it was in sticker-form. It was even trademarked, so I guess my lovin' must be heartfelt and true.

Granted, McDonald's and I have a history, but isn't this all a little presumptuous? And do they really need to be dragging the L word into it? They didn't even have the courtesy to say they were lovin' me back! (I won't lie. It stings.)

I thought I'd help Ronald out and whip up my own set of McStickers that cover a slightly larger emotional spectrum...

new eric joyner show

Everybody's favorite robot paintin' pal, Eric Joyner, just finished some new War of the Worlds themed creations for a show in Palm Springs.

As usual, you can check out all of his stuff at his website and pick up some fun toy robot goodies at his online store.


mother nature's vitamin pill

Two days ago I sent a silly email to the Peanut Advisory Board, Peanut Grower Magazine, aboutpeanuts.com and The National Peanut Board regarding my issues with Simply Jif.

None of them wrote back, so I started to write this 2nd email to them:

Dear Peanut Experts,

I am writing to you all again regarding the Simply Jif situation. To say I'm not disappointed in the lack of response would be a lie. I really thought I could count on you guys. I guess I'll have to take matters regarding Simply Jif into my own hands.

That's why I've decided to form my OWN peanut council. I call it The Peanut Pals. Would you like to be among the founding members? TOO LATE! You had your chance. Now step aside and watch The Peanut Pals do our thing and take care of this black eye on the peanut industry!

President, Peanut Pals

P.S. If you have any suggestions for me, that would be great. I don't know so much about the peanut industry.

Before I could send it, the editor of Peanut Grower Magazine ended my fun by writing back and being all nice and helpful. Here's her response to the initial email:

Dear Steven:
Thank you so much for your e-mail, but more importantly, your love of peanut butter. I hope that you continue to eat peanut butter as part of a healthy diet.

As for the name "Simply Jif," the J.M. Smucker Co., owners of the Jif-brands of peanut butter, decides product names and can call it whatever they want. I am certain they do extensive consumer testing to come up with just the right names for their products. Although it may not be gramatically correct or completely accurate in its portrayal of the product, it is catchy and I doubt that the Food and Drug Administration would rule that it was false advertising.

Again, keep enjoying Mother Nature's vitamin pill -- the beloved peanut.

Amanda Huber
The Peanut Grower magazine

Some people are pro-life, some people are pro-choice. Amanda is pro-peanut. If you'd like to learn more about the beloved peanut she suggests you check out: www.peanutbutterlovers.com, www.nationalpeanutboard.org and http://peanut-institute.org.

Official PEANUT PALS membership certificates are now available. Click here for your special suitable-for-framing-and-cherisihing PDF file certificate.

rallying the peanut troops

The day I put up the Simply Jif post I forwarded a copy to the Jif people, but they didn't write back. So I sent the following dopey and urgent group email to The Peanut Advisory Board, Peanut Grower Magazine, aboutpeanuts.com and The National Peanut Board.


Dear Peanut Experts,

I'm writing to you regarding a new peanut butter product called "Simply Jif." It contains slightly less sugar than regular Jif. It also contains a serious problem.

The very moment you alter the Jif recipe in the tiniest, teeniest, eensie-weensiest way, it's no longer JIf. In fact, it's simply NOT Jif!

Jif peanut butter is one of the "Big Two." They should be setting an example for the peanut industry - not causing confusion! They could call this product "SIMPLER JIF" or "SLIGHTLY-LESS-SWEET JIF" or "PRETENDING-TO-BE-SKIPPY JIF"-- anything but "SIMPLY JIF."

I'm confident that together we can do something to correct this issue. Obviously we are dealing in your area of expertise, so I'll respectfully let you carry the ball. Just let me know how you'd like to proceed.

Peanut Butter Enthusiast

It's odd, but for some reason I didn't hear back from any of them either. If I don't get a response today, I'll write again.

UPDATE: I did hear back from Peanut Grower's Magazine. I'll post it in the A.M. along with my stupid follow-up email I had prepared to send them all.

i blame george washington carver

The people who make Jif are trying to kill me.

This is one of those little things that just eats at my brain. Here's a jar of "Simply Jif" peanut butter. It contains slightly less sugar than regular Jif. It also contains a slightly huge problem.

There's only one thing that is "simply Jif"-- a jar of JIF!

The very moment you alter the Jif recipe in the tiniest, teeniest, eensie-weensiest way, it's no longer Jif. In fact, it's simply NOT Jif!

To all readers of The Sneeze who make Jif: feel free to call your new product "SIMPLER JIF" or "SLIGHTLY-LESS-SWEET JIF" OR "PRETENDING IT'S SKIPPY JIF" but please stop calling it "SIMPLY JIF." Not just because it's silly, but because you're giving me an ulcer.

Is there a National Peanut Butter Council? I'm filing a complaint. This is lunacy!

And I need to start drinking simply decaf.

terra closure

Some of you might remember our Terra Chips poll. The Terra Chips bag claimed that the Ruby Taro chip was "perhaps the most dramatic" Terra Chip of all, so we did a little poll here to find out. While we were at it, we also figured out which was the least dramatic chip. (Ruby Taro was the most dramatic, Yucca was the least.)

I forwarded all of our hard work to the Terra Chip people, and weeks and weeks went by with no response, until the other day when I received the following lackluster email. They don't seem to recognize the importance of our findings...

Tanna Blattler Appreciation Day!

From infected corn to burnt...

I hereby declare today international "Tanna Blattler Appreciation Day!"

Tanna was the lovely lady who won the eBay auction for the popcorn meteor. In addition to receiving the mousepad and bumper sticker, Tanna had also asked if my son would write a joke for the winning bidder -- which he did. (He actually came up with two - both popcorn themed.)

If you're out of the loop, I have posted a few of my son's "jokes" before, like here, here, and here. They seem to have developed a bit of a following.

I had created a special secret password protected webpage just for Tanna to enjoy her personal jokes, and then received the sweetest email:

Steve, Don't Eat It! Vol. 7


Cuitlacoche is a black fungus that infects corn fields, making the kernels bulbous and swollen as they fill with spores. It also goes by the name Huitlacoche. If you're having trouble with the pronounciation, it's: Cuitlacoche (kweet-lah-KOH-chay) or Huitlacoche (dat-sfuckin-NAS-tee).

It's safe to say this is the first time I've ever paid for an infection. I am, of course, not counting the one I got from your mother. (YES! You walked right into that.)

I've read that U.S. farmers consider it a disease and destroy it. Farmers in Mexico put it in cans and sell it as a delicacy. I travelled far and wide to find my own precious can of Cuitlacoche. Okay, it was at my supermarket, but I had to drive like two miles to get there and got stuck at a couple of lights.

Enough chit-chat. I'm gonna go dine on a can of disease. But before I do, I really do feel bad about that cheap mother joke. My sincere apologies to you and your lovely mom. (The filthy whore.) Be right back!

Oh, sweet Christ. Visually, I think the bar for Steve, Don't Eat It! is about to be set at a new low. So I'm going to ease you people into this one. Let's begin with a single spore-filled kernel before we examine the entire contents.

The following picture is a swear-to-God-unretouched-side-by-side comparison of a normal kernel of corn and an infected huitlacoche kernel, both from the same can.

These results can also be achieved by bombarding a kernel of corn with gamma rays and then making it angry. (But be warned. You won't like it when it's angry.)

Alright, you've waited long enough.

Presenting the entire can of imported sludge (that I was actually charged money for)...

Don't worry, I checked the ingredients before I tasted it. "Smoker's lung" was not on there.

Before I even got the whole can open, I detected a vague aroma of sweet corn, along with what I can only describe as a deep musky funk. Put 'em together and it smells like corn that forgot to wipe.

In just a single serving, you'll experience a wide array of textures. Without getting too gross, it's because the disease is more advanced in some kernels than others. One bite might be kinda chewy, while the next might burst in your mouth like a black pus-filled blister. (Whoops, forgot about the not-too-gross thing. Oh well. Nuts to you!)

So, how does Huitlacoche taste? Does it matter?? LOOK AT IT!

I guess it would be fair to say it doesn't taste as truly horrible as it looks. The flavor is elusive and difficult to describe, but I'll try: "Kinda yucky." Hey, that wasn't so hard after all. (Sometimes I forget I'm a goddamn wordsmith.)

For any connoisseurs, I'm not sure if this stuff would go better with red wine or white. How about with a bottle of Bactine? I've always found that goes great with infections.

Huitlacoche also goes by some other names. It's frequently called Maize Mushroom, Corn Smut, and Mexican Truffle. I've even heard it referred to as "Devil Poop"-- but that was only after I said it. (For God's sake, it comes with little bits of corn already in it! Talk about a time-saver.)

I thought it was interesting that Monteblanco chose to make their company logo the focal point of the can. I also found a can of huitlacoche from Goya. They, too, have downplayed the visuals by hiding it in a mild-mannered burrito.

I went ahead and made a new can label for the gang back at Cuitlacoche Central. As always, this is a free service.

Well, that brings us to the end of a long overdue Steve, Don't Eat It! And now I have a belly full of diseased corn. Maybe I should go see a doctor about a penicillin shot.

For your mom. (YES! In your face! Oh man...)

All Steve, Don't Eat Its can be found here.

Follow me on Twitter RIGHT HERE.

industrial light & sweet


This "Java the Truck" coffee-mobile bummed out my friend Steve. He says as far as Star Wars themes go, "Truck" is too far of a stretch from "Jabba the Hutt" for this name to be good. He'd much prefer it to not be on wheels and go by the name "Java the Hut."

This got us on a minor Star Wars Themed Coffee Shop/Beverage tangent. Steve came up with "Death Starbucks"-- home of the "Latte Saber."

His favorite so far was my suggestion of: "Brewbacca's," where I think you might like to unwind with a refreshing "R2-Dcaf."

I'm not a Star Wars geek - I haven't even seen any of the recent installments, but if you have any Star Wars coffee shop and/or beverages you need to share with the galaxy, the comment board is NOW CLOSED.


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This page is an archive of entries from April 2005 listed from newest to oldest.

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