Posts filed under ‘Embarrassing Moments’
A student teacher has to draw up an American history test for his tenth grade history students, focusing on post-World War II national events. He figures he will make it easy, seeing as how they’re just about to break for Memorial Day weekend.
Question #1: Name the intern who had inappropriate relations with President Bill Clinton in 1995.
This one stumps some of the students. What was that intern’s name?!!! One student writes, “Lebowski.” Student teacher laughs while he grades this test, but really enjoys the legendary response of “Martin Luther King, Jr.” What other conspiracy theories is this brilliant kid keeping from the United States? He certainly must know what goes down at Area 51.
Question #9: Name the hippie music festival that took place in the late 1960′s and early 1970′s.
Again, some kids are stumped. One girl in particular has no idea. She asks for help. Student Teacher says, “I’ll give you a clue. It starts with a ‘W’.” Girl rolls her eyes. “Okay, then an ‘o’ and another ‘o’, then a ‘d’. Girl’s eyes light up and she scribbles down, “Woodlog.” Student Teacher interjects and says, “Try again.” After thinking, she crosses out her first feeble attempt and confidently writes, “Woodshop.”
Woodshop vs. Woodstock (easily confusable!)
Heaven help our teachers.
*Thanks, CJ, for the story!*
It is alleged that Vince, full name Vince Shlomi (Mazel tov!), was in a violent confrontation with a purported prostitute. After coming to terms on their arrangement it seems the woman bit Vince’s tongue and refused to let go. He hit her, many times as some pictures I won’t link to show, and he fled to the lobby of his posh South Beach hotel to summon security.
This is a most unsavory turn of events. Clearly Billy Mays now holds the high ground in the InfoWars.
What other shining stars have fallen ignominously due to ill-thought ventures?
Who makes your list of star-crossed personalities?
It’s days like these that I am ashamed of my faith. Or rather, the culture…
I’m utterly speechless. If I ever am proposed to, I have two rules:1) Any day except for 2/14 2) Ring must not be hidden in food.
Can you imagine, loading up on fiber, anxiously awaiting each trip to the bathroom, and then fishing into the toilet, digging for buried treasure? Nothing says romance like the CLEANING that that ring will need before you can EVER put it on your left hand.
I do normally eat lunch at Costco. Pizza, soda, churro for like 18 cents. How can you go wrong? I especially love the days when the churros come fresh out of the industrial sized oven. I like watching each individual churro get tossed in a vat of cinnamon sugar. I think it should be sinnamon. Anyways. Today in line with three of my homies, an objectively charming young lass walked up behind us. She was apparently quite fetching to the single men. One found her so magnetizing that he was drawn across the food court and compelled to confess to her…
“I don’t normally do this in line at Costco.”
He then handed her his card, courteously supplying her with his cellular number and email address. One of my friends burst out laughing and asked her what she thought as the guy walked away. She raised her wedding band and replied, “It helps to have a husband.”
And if I know this type of bold boy like I think I do, he’s asking himself, “Yeah, but is she that married?”
Did you know that pregnant women have a good excuse for not remembering anything? A factoid from BabyCenter reveals that pregnant women experience forgetfulness 15 percent more than nonpregnant women, but thankfully, memory returns after delivery.
This just explains so much of the last few months (namely an incident at the local Safeway last week) and will continue to justify any mental sloppiness leading up to my due date. This incident of which I speak proved that my mind is not running at full speed. After loading up Tiny Tot into his car seat, I drove all the way home before realizing I’d left my full cart of groceries in the parking lot. Brilliant. Since our Safeway has a reputation as The Un-Safeway, I prepped myself for the loss of six bags (“whomever stole them probably really needed them”) as I sped back to try and recover them.
And there they were, sitting gloriously untouched in the cart pavillion. Lesson learned and sympathies extended to women whose memories aren’t fully restored until their baby is two months old and they drive away forgetting that their baby’s in the car seat on top of the car. Let’s hope the pregnant mind stays sharp enough to avoid that critical mistake…
Since working from home over the last sixteen months, I’ve experienced the bad and the ugly of talking to clients, bosses and others from my makeshift satellite office. Were it not for my ever-busy fifteen month old assistant in the background (whose music class teacher accuses of having “wiggle worms” in his overalls–she also can only communicate in verse), background noise wouldn’t be an issue. Dear Boy caused me a bit of panic back when he was three months old and breastfeeding round the clock.
In that stage, he could be placed on his Boppy pillow and I could continue to work on my computer completely uninterrupted while he fed. I became so immune to his little nursing soundtrack figuring that was the best time to make calls since he wouldn’t fuss at all. Imagine my surprise two minutes into a conversation when an events manager in San Francisco asked nonchalantly how old my little one was, with no prior indication from me that I had a baby. Flustered, I replied, realizing he heard my suckling child loud and clear in California, and he then said, “Oh, my wife and I have a five month old so those sounds are quite familiar.” Needless to say, I weeded his hotel out of the running for our event and got off the phone with a new set of personal phone regulations.
Now along comes a product for the stay-at-home worker or those that just work in smaller offices that want to a) block unintended background noise of dogs, babies and doorbells and/or b) create the illusion of workplace productivity. This CD creates a bustling background of “busy office” sounds like ringing phones, mumbling co-workers and incoming faxes. Two tracks exist depending on how badly you want to want to get off the phone with your client, “Busy” or “Very Busy.”
Thriving Office makes the grandiose claim that no one has ever returned one of their CDs out of dissatisfaction, since they also allege that by creating the myth of a busy office (starring you), you actually will get more work done in the end. The Pioneer Press points out an additional perk as “[giving] comfort to the lonely telecommuter.” Now one thing is for sure.
While I’ve had to mute my line during conference calls when Dear Boy takes over on the drums…
I’ve never been lonely as I’ve ducked work calls to attend to matters of greater importance, like perfecting Yoda’s Halloween strut.
Posted by JL
As we’ve shared many embarrassing moments this week in posts, this little gem just had to be shared at the expense of our blogger laureate, Joe Miller. My friend Joy tipped us off about this most interesting new 2008 pin-up calendar of LDS missionaries and this is the following email exchange which took place this morning:
From LeMare, 10:50AM: What on earth–is this real?
From Joe Miller’s brother (who is receiving Joe’s work emails at his old address for some reason), 11:18AM: LeMare, I’ve changed my mind—you can use this address to email Joe anytime. You’ve put me on a new path. I have a new aim in life…Mr. “June 2008”.
From LeMare, 11:19AM: So these guys are REALLY on missions, and they’re REALLY posing shirtless with their pants as low as A&F models??? Certainly not while they’re ON their mission???
A couple of them are pencil-necked geeks. Some, not so much.
From LeMare, 11:34AM: I couldn’t look at this page too long because I was afraid that people were going to come up behind me and think that I am some kind of sick degenerate.
And, in thinking about it… would they be right?
From Joe Miller’s brother, 12:07PM: I’m not sure what you are suggesting. My wife hasn’t stopped looking at it since I showed it to her. Her favorite is Matt.
From Joe Miller, 12:18PM: Ok, someone just walked into my cubicle as I was checking out the website. My mouth was agape in shock but I wonder how my coworker interpreted my expression due to the fact that he immediately exited my area like it was an accident he ever ran into me. My life is now over.
P.S. If you have a picture of a recent Return Missionary, nominate them for the 2009 edition here.
Posted by JL
Those of you who know me understand the relationship I have with jackassery. For those who don’t, you’ll be there at the end of what I’m about to share. There is a certain amount of opportunity cost I take in making this information pseudo-public, but for some unknown reason, I’m willing to underwrite that risk. Two caveats: one, some of these stories may be a rerun to a few of you; and two, I appreciate and apologize for the Ayn Rand-ish length.
Let’s inaugurate this posting with the recent occurrence that started me thinking about my precarious flirtation with humiliation. A couple weeks ago, a friend-of-a-friend sent me an invitation to shelfari – an online book club. After three reminders, I got tired of it and thought, “I’ll just sign up, so they’ll leave me alone.” In the rush to get it done, I failed to take the time to figure out why they were asking me for my gmail password. As I clicked on the button to add the friend who invited me, I realized why: Shelfari sent a bloomin’ email to every person I have ever emailed. Ex-boyfriends, people I hoped would never contact me again, coworkers, my vice-president, my CFO, my old boss, potential employers, my bishop, the entire Sunday school and relief society. EVERYONE. All now invited by spam to join my on-line book club.
Flashback to my awkward adolescence when one afternoon, my sister, friend and I decided to go skinny dipping in our neighborhood pond. As I slipped off the suit, it slipped away. Fifteen minutes and several deep dives to the bottom later, it was gone for good. My nefarious companions refused to fetch my towel, forcing me to run out of the water and across the beach naked. That story spread through the middle school faster than coke through Lindsay Lohan.
Frustrated that my boss had answered only one of my five questions, I forwarded his email to my coworker, complaining about his lack of response. Trouble was, I hit reply and not forward. It was a long walk of shame into his office that day my friends.
On the long ride up the ski lift at Sundance, I grew tired of the discomfort the dangling skis were causing on my poor knees and ankles. But then, it occurred to me: Take them off! Sitting there with my feet swinging weight-free and the skis and poles laying over my lap, I relished in the genius that was. But alas, it was not to last. As the lift skirted over the drop-off for the bunny hill, the toe of my boot clipped the top of the hill, propelling me, the skis, and the poles into mid air and down the slope. The teenaged lift operator stopped the lift and waited impatiently for me to detangle, redress with my skis on again, and reboard (a good two minutes). As if it needed to be said at that point (not that it should have in the first place), the operator smugly lectured me on why it’s imperative I keep my skis on.
Sorry for the somewhat, um, unsavory subject matter in this next one. In preparation for an IVP, a medical test in which they shoot iodine into the veins to watch it stream through the kidneys and bladder, I had to have my system “cleaned out” with the assistance of laxatives. At the local CVS, I hurried to the aisle, grabbed my product and a few others as camouflage, purchased, and went home. Only to discover that I had bought the wrong type. So I went back. As I headed to the checkout for the second time, now with the proper product in one hand and the old product to return in the other, I thought I was in the clear – no one in line. Just as I stepped up to the counter, however, the other checkout closed, and the three good looking guys in that line file in behind me. No big deal. Until, as it turned out, my checkout asst was new and didn’t know how to return an item. She called for the manager, and as we waited, she kept trying to figure it out – the machine started beeping incessantly, the guys got impatient, and I stood there dumbfounded. After five minutes of this, the manager finally came over to help, held up both items for the entire line to see and asked which one I wanted returned and which one I wanted to buy. I finally finished paying and took what little dignity I had left home with me.
One last one. On our way to an Illini basketball game, I got out a couple of quarters to feed the meter, realized it was late enough I didn’t need to, and put the two quarters in my pocket. During the game, I went to the bathroom, and while squatting in my stall, I heard a quarter drop and land between me and the stall next to mine. Yes it was a bathroom floor, but hey, it was a quarter. So I reached down, grabbed the quarter, finished my business, and left. As I emptied my pockets that night, I pulled out three quarters. That’s right, three quarters. Now imagine you’re in a stall, you accidentally drop a quarter, and before you can reach down and fetch it, a hand pops out from under the wall and snatches it without a word.
*The following is an unsolicited guest post from a certain sister missionary in the California Los Angeles Mission. These excerpts come from selected emails over the last year she’s been serving.
Dill Tweedy is going to be jealous, but yes I saw Goldie Hawn over lunch last Wednesday after a trip to the Temple which I shall never forget. Her arms are taut, but softer in a way that a 60-something’s arms must be. I heard her say “Exactly.” Her voice still rings with chutzpah and force. She’s still got it everybody.
Anywho, for the 4th, the Mexicans went wild! Another reason to drink, play loud mariachi and fire to boot! Fireworks are actually illegal. We just had a stirring lesson this past Sunday in Relief Society about Integrity (ie honesty). The teacher acted like we were about to delve in to something to give us shame, like gossip. She said “This is a hard subject, so we are going to read straight out of the manual.” Note: This task is difficult seeing as literally four people in the rama are legal. Everyone else uses false papers, different names at work, and they all drive illegally, and allow their children the same privilege. The class was great. The trouble was the teacher was illegal too, lessening the power of her stirring remarks, “How many of us bought illegal fireworks and used them on the fourth of July?” Oooh.
Doting Younger Elders
i am afraid there is a strange elder who has a bit of a thing for me, as pointed out by my companion. He is always trying to get me to teach him French (hello, we are all learning Spanish right now…). he sat next to me at the Home Town Buffet on Saturday between sessions and I made the mistake of responding to my companion’s prods that I should marry her 19 year-old brother with “Age ain’t nothing but a number.” Which I believe I stole from a rapper. Anywway, the eager young elder quickly wrote this quote down in his planner. Great.
i must dash, but first, i have to tell you the funniest invention that my former district leader taught me: Ghetto cake. You take any boxed cake mix, or bread mix for that matter, mix it with just enough water so that it makes a thick paste that does not slide off of a spoon when tipped downwards. you then microwave the mixture (about 45 seconds for 1/4 c. of ghetto cake). The result is significantly lower calorie (no oil, no egg) cake that is cooked instantly and very easy to make. I thought this would be fabulous at a party. Individual cakes in cups for people, topped with fruit, frosting, whatever. It’s ghetto cake. you do what you want.
A few favorite less-active moments from this past week…A sweet, obese less-active boy toddled in to the front room at the end of our lesson with his Mother to say, “Mom? I was thinkin’, could we get some tater tots? And some SPAM?” This sweet boy is a good 100 over.
Another moment, with our favorite narcissist, Miguel. After another rambunctious lesson with hi and his wife, (We asked him to name something that he likes about her, he couldn’t respond…), I shook his hand and said “Muchas gracias Miguel.” The little gnome said “Muchas gracias Senor.” He then paused and looked away. His wife and my companion were dying laughing, and I said in a raspy tone, “Gracias.” I hope that this is the last time that my gender shall be confused…
i wasn’t goin to share this story, perhaps this is against my better judgment, but it has never happened before and it SHALL NEVER happen again, so I here goes… I often follow my companion in and out of traffic, much like a goose following the head pin goose. Last Friday, my compaion whirred through an interesection, and I got caught behind some cars turning right, wiating for a gang of misled youth to cross.
By the time the light turned green, I sped off, supposing that Hermana had waited at the next intersection. hermana had not. Thrree minutes later I had a funny feeling. We had been on our way to visit Ana Silvia, an investigator. Resting at the side of our local major road, I realized that Hermana was no where to be found, i knew not Ana Silvia’s address. I felt vulnmerable and dark.
I took off down the next street, and pulled over to a phone book. i then realized that I did not know Ana Silvia’s last name. Ten minutes had passed. Where on earth was Hermana? By this time, i was inwardly vomiting, feeling susceptible and disgusting. I panicked, then thought of an appropriate course of action. I decided that the safest thing to do would be to go home, and wait to be contacted. I sped home, entered the apartment, locked the door and called Ana Silvia’s house. Little Angie, Ana Silvia’s daighter informed me that no, Hermana had not arrived.
Twenty minutes later I got a phone call from a ward member who did not speak English. After an exasperating few sentences, he said “Don’t move apartment!” Fifteen minutes later a frzzled Hermana called me. She had stopped, bawling, at a ward member’s house. she had called that President’s Assistants to inform them of my missing state. They told her that they were on their way (to do what I am not sure). hermana told me that she would come home immediately. When she got home we embraced, both terrified and panicked. She called the Assistant to the President and told him what had happened. Elder Allen openly laughed at us, and threatened to put our tale in the Clam Chatter news letter for the whole mission to guffaw over. We were not amused. We both decided that we never ever wanted that to happen again. Hermana now frequently turns around to make sure I am behind her.
The people here call me GRANDE. I am at least six inches taller than everyone in this town. In the mornings we jog. P.S. I have found a companion who will go for 45 minutes with me! Heaven! I jog in a fuschia outfit and when I randomly and aerobically punch the air in front of me, the Hispanics do not know what to do. People openly stare at me.
From Palos Verdes to Maywood, CA
Dad: Expect my bills to now read “McDonalds, A&W, and El Ceviche Loco.” No more Trader Joes. We go to the Logorio.