Gifts for Idiots
Great Gifts for Depressed Friends!
Great Holiday Gifts: Bacon Edition
Great Gifts for Alcoholics!
3 Great Gifts for Lonely Friends
Great Gifts for Everyone on Your List!

This is a bagel. (What did you think it was?)
What would Breast Cancer Month (aka October) be without a smorgasbord of pink-tastic breast cancer awareness-themed treats from cookies, mints, hard lemonade, jelly beans, popcorn and PEZ to ribbon-shaped cakes, chocolates, cupcake sprinkles, lollipops, pasta and bagels? Rarely has life-threatening illness tasted so delicious.
Of course, we shouldn’t forget the memorial pink ribbon products not meant to pass through the alimentary canal: perfume, knee socks, beer koozies, curling irons, chewing gum, flip flops, beach balls, tote bags, vegetable peelers, bathrobes, fishing rods, chip clips, aprons, emery boards, tiaras (tiari?), golf tees, teddy bears, car fresheners, tablecloths, tambourines, mailbox covers, guns, gnomes, cowbells and vibrators.
Puns are a perennial favorite and seem to grow more tortured with each passing year. Suit up in a pink ribbon Speedo from Breaststroke 4 Hope, “designed to inspire the aquatic community to dive in and make a difference. Let’s fight breast cancer together, one lap at a time.” (That last bit would make a good strip club promotion, too.) While I’m sure this is an earnest, worthwhile endeavor, with its website listed as Coming Soon and 12 likes to date on Facebook, someone needs to get out of the pool and get to work.

The Keep A Breast Foundation appeals to youth culture with “i❤boobies!” wristbands and makes early detection cool with its #checkyourselfie Twitter campaign. I’m happy that, aside from a few confused bird lovers, its site reaches hip youngsters who won’t pay attention to important things with boring or yucky names. Though its moniker is catchy, I wish KAB had found a different play on words to suggest we keep both breasts. Perhaps the bracelet should say “i❤booby!”, though it seems wrong to play favorites with one’s breasts…or fun bags, for any young people reading this.
Baker Hughes, an oilfield service company, painted 1,000 of its drill bits pink, apparently to raise awareness miles underground where they will hydraulically fracture rock to free patches of oil. It then donated $100,000 to the Susan G. Komen Foundation and adopted the slogan “Doing Our Bit for the Cure.” The company reported $5,700,000,000 in revenue with a net profit of $336,000,000 in the first quarter of 2014. Projected annually, Baker Hughes has given .007% of its profits to the charity. In this instance, it would seem that the “bit” has a third meaning, as in “Giving a Little Bit for the Cure.”

The Komen foundation, which licensed the use of its signature pink hue, has come under fire for partnering with a company that pumps toxic chemicals into the earth, potentially poisoning drinking water and off-gassing pollutants that accelerate climate change (if you believe in that sort of thing). Perhaps Komen could use a new motto for its tees, hats and gloves: Frack Cancer. It’s a tad naughty but still appropriate for a church picnic. That idea is free of charge but if you use it, can I claim it on my taxes?
I began my journey into the heart of pinkness innocently enough, intending only to write about JC Penney’s ads, in which pennies (get it?) are held over women’s breasts. Critics complain they devalue women but I say kudos to them for sexualizing small change. Lincoln would be so proud. At least they tell us to save them, not pinch them. That would be disrespectful.






Of the above products, gun, alcohol and vibrator sales benefit cancer research. The National Football League is the real hero here, donating 8% of profits from sales—this month only—of its half dollar coins. (Why not give them directly to charity? They are money, right?) Since October is also Domestic Violence Awareness Month, the NFL will do its part to raise awareness by continuing to beat women with impunity and children where indicated. You’re welcome.
More like this:
6 Things You Should Never Tell a Cancer Patient
I’m Radioactive – Laughing at Cancer
Good News. Really.
Tales from the Waiting Room
I See Your Breast and Raise You a Penis: A Word Game
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It all started innocently enough. The “Elf on a Shelf” is a pretty self-explanatory Christmas tradition that I thought would be cute to give to my niece. But I didn’t know it has a backstory that makes it special and not a little creepy — depending on how you feel about animated dolls.
The elf reports to Santa every night and returns to a different spot the next morning. Sounds a lot like Chucky. Or in this case, bride of Chucky: I got my niece the newfangled girl elf because, hey, I’m nothing if not progressive. And she loves the thing, tells it she’s been nice, looks to see where it’s sitting when she gets up and calls it Clarice. (Yes, I know.)
So her parents have to get inventive…and this is where this tale takes a dark turn. (Forgive me, Santa.) I suggested it would be funny to put the elf in places wildly inappropriate for a child to discover. And my awesome sister-in-law took the idea and ran with it. I spent the evening laughing my ass off at these and thought it was unfair to keep them to myself. If sharing is caring, Merry Christmas.


Haven’t you always wondered how elves drop a deuce? Wonder no more!
To avoid inflicting emotional damage to both young and old, photos of Clarice in compromising positions with Woody from Toy Story have been redacted.
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When I can’t stand the clutter in the fridge, I bring you another serving of sandwich fixins.
Fixins Archive:
Sandwich Fixins #8
Sandwich Fixins #7
Sandwich Fixins #6
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First, for the friend whose dog makes sweet love to your pant leg as soon as you step in the door, we recommend Hot Doll, the first sex toy for dogs. Its legs boast a “no slide” system and its cone is made from “the same materials used by veterinarians.”
Yes, the cone is exactly what you think it is and yes, it makes your vet sound kinky. It’s also washable, which will make picking up dog poop a joy by comparison. Stylish in black or white, this puppy will set you back 159 euros plus shipping. Did I mention it’s made in France? Of course, it is.
For the aunt who wears leggings because they’re “slimming” and who hasn’t seen south of her own border in umpteen pounds, we suggest the Cuchini Camel Toe Solution. It fits inside her drawers to shore up her sagging nethers. Her inseam will thank you.

If you’d like to see the before and after photos, you’ll have to visit the site. Showing a doggy
sex toy is one thing, but we have to draw the line somewhere. Standards must be maintained. A bacon merkin, on the other hand? Good clean fun.
Distract the coworker who gets preachy about your lunch with What Would Jesus Eat?: The Ultimate Program for Eating Well, Feeling Great and Living Longer. (Spoiler alert: He’s not a fan of processed white bread but He does recommend non-fat cream cheese.)
Along with its companion cookbook, no doubt straight from the savior’s test kitchen, it’s the perfect gift for the believer who wonders, “Are these fishes sourced locally?”
Finally, give that special someone languishing on an organ donor list the gift of a life-sized plush organ from the folks at iheartguts.com.
Some of the organs available are the testicle, ovary, gallbladder, lung, prostate, and spleen. Maybe while Uncle Roy clutches this adorable, festively colored plush liver, he’ll think about taking better care of his next one. If he gets one. If not, you can always re-gift it to one of the other hopeless drunks in your family. Do they sell in bulk?
Well, that’s all for now. Click here for more gift ideas. While you’re at it, see our advice on gifts for depressed and/or lonely friends, bacon lovers and drunkards. Remember: Don’t wait for their birthdays. They may be dead by then.™
More gift-giving know-how:
Great Holiday Gifts: Bacon Edition
Great Gifts for Depressed Friends!
Great Gifts for Everyone on Your List!
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First one mammogram, then another mammogram plus ultrasound, then biopsies. That’s how I spent the last two weeks of May. I got to know the radiology office better than I’d ever wanted to. On June 1st, I received my diagnosis of breast cancer. I needed an MRI to look for more tumors but couldn’t schedule it until my insurance company authorized it.
Once United Healthcare was sufficiently convinced that a malignancy justified further diagnostic testing, I had the MRI done on June 6th. Then I got a call that I needed a second MRI. The first had “lit up” as if there were multiple growths on both sides but they were pretty confident this was due to hormones, and the images would be “quieter” the following week. I hoped so since my mother had a bilateral mastectomy five years ago for multiple tumors.
On June 12th, I found myself once again in the same waiting room. As before it was nearly full of people, mostly women, in some stage of fear, worry or, worst of all, resignation. Some were drinking contrast dye from a cooler marked DO NOT DRINK. From their involuntary cries of disgust, I gleaned it might be the same barium I drank for a G.I. test 18 years ago. It tasted like moldy drywall. This begs the question: with all the advancements in technology, including the digitally assisted mammography that caught my cancer early, why can’t someone make a contrast solution that tastes better?
While I waited to have the test that would tell me if I had a little cancer or a lot, a news program playing on the wall-mounted TV caught my eye. Someone had shot a guy who was writing a book called Kindness in America. Was this a joke? The report continued: he was hitchhiking across the U.S. gathering stories for his memoir about the kindness of Americans when a drunk man in Montana rolled down the window of his truck and shot him. For no reason.
I cracked up. In my defense, the story also stated that the guy had only been hit in the arm and was okay. I reasoned that getting shot would help him get a book deal. He’d need to find a way to turn it into a positive experience. He had certainly cheered me up in a rather grim setting.
Update: It turns out that the guy shot himself to get publicity. Perhaps he was affording emergency room staff the opportunity to display kindness by treating him?
Back on planet Waiting Room, I hear my name called. The nurse recognizes me and helps me with the sticky safe lock in the changing room; the phlebotomist remembers which vein she stuck the needle in for the contrast-dye IV catheter (no taste, yay!); and the doctor remembers the classic rock radio station (104.3) I favor from last time.
I ask him if people freak out about MRIs because of the TV show House. He sighs. “All the time,” he says. He’d seen an episode once where green sparks were flying out and had to stop watching because it was so inaccurate. He says it’s too bad because he hears it’s a good show. I tell him the show’s over and people were always having seizures during MRIs, and someone vomited blood in almost every episode, so maybe he hasn’t missed much. He puts the headphones on me, and as the bed rolls me inside, the radio plays Pink Floyd’s Welcome to the Machine. Perfect.
Related posts:
I’m Radioactive – Laughing at Cancer
6 Things You Should Never Tell a Cancer Patient
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