We thought our friend’s hamster Frederick (he prefers the German Frederick, definitely NOT Fred or, gasp, “Freddy”) would appreciate this gift, as he often complains that “hees business” is always on display, especially as he frolics in his wheel.
But when we presented the “Accoutrements Squirrel Underpants” to Frederick on his birthday, his disappointment was palpable. “Vell zen,” he quipped crisply, as German hamsters so often do. “Ve are polite and must still appreciate da gesture, no?” Frederick clearly expected something with a bit more “oomph.”
Upon our next visit, Frederick had cut the undergarments into a jock-strap of sorts, and he had affixed an Andrew Christian label to it. He had also dyed it a rich pink. He “vas ready fo da gym!”
It goes to show: hamsters are ever so resourceful, and gay German ones even more so.
Brad and I caught Sharknado on ScyFy and had a good laugh. Brad in particular kept going on about how preposterous the whole notion was of a freak hurricane in LA bringing a deluge of airborne sharks.
You can guess the prank I pulled next. I waited until we had planned one of our home camping adventures in our backyard (Note: the AIR SWIMMER flying shark requires a good amount of space to operate, and definitely don’t try it in high winds). I was in my Eagle Scout outfit and had just blown a rousing “Taps” on the trumpet to bring an end to our day. Brad had just doused our small fire carefully and plished off his fourth s’more, and true to form had broken out his harmonica to begin a lonesome “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.”
I excused myself, claiming I needed to go “visit nature” before turning in. When I was just out of sight, I ducked behind our tool shed and grabbed the AIR SWIMMER remote controls. To add to the ruse, I used my Bluetooth enabled smartphone to play the theme from Jaws on the jambox I’d hidden inside the tent.
The harmonica playing stopped. “George?” Brad called out, standing slowly up and wiping some sticky marshmellow from his chin.
It was a low, unmistakable rumbling, as if from the depth of the darkest ocean. Brad’s flashlight was out, scanning the tree-tops. Preposterous indeed! At just the right moment, I maneuvered the Air Swimmer into the clearing.
Brad’s flashlight flew up, illuminating the terrible jaws of this Jaws. I’d painted the mouth and teeth with a bit of red and hung a stuffed sleeve and fake hand from it for added effect. He yelled and fell back into the tent, tangling himself amongst the cords and nylon. The AIR SWIMMER dove down, and he screamed again, then, to his credit, he managed to grab hold of a flare gun and fired. The flare struck and propelled my Jaws up and into the air, then burst its guts across much of lower Hollywood.
Thankfully, by the time the authorities arrived we had packed up the evidence and were sipping chamomile tea in our kitchen.
“Did you happen to see a flying shark in the vicinity?” the officer asked.
“You’ve been watching too much television,” I replied, returning to my tea. Brad rolled his eyes and had another s’more.
When Brad asked what I wanted for my birthday, I said “jet pack,” just like I have for the past four years. Now, Brad thinks I’m too far into my “Golden Years” to strap on any kind of propulsion unit, so each year his gifts have been disappointing: A bow-tie. A snuggie. Gel insoles.
Imagine my delight when I came home to the ZORB HUMAN HAMSTER BALL in our back yard. “Not as good a jet pack,” Brad noted, shrugging. “But safer.”
Brad was a bit winded after blowing it up for six hours (I recommend an air pump), so we left it inflated. We strapped it to our car roof using the 120 left-over bungee cords from our home bungee jumping kit (I would NOT recommend this product). We then drove up to the Hollywood Hills sign for a test roll.
To my embarrassment, the first thing that happened was I got stuck halfway in, my legs wiggling on the outside. Brad enlisted some startled Korean tourists, who after a serious side deliberation and a vote, cut my pants free and squeezed me in by slathering margarine on my hips. (Brad keeps some in the car just in case.) They launched me forward with a coordinated “Hana, Dulh, SEHT!”
Perhaps I should have practiced on a flat surface. Over I went, like James in his giant peach, tumbling and bouncing through brush and bracken, my body pressed flat like lettuce in a salad spinner. Apparently, as in space, in the Human Hamster Ball no one can hear you scream.
I reached a series of McMansions, bounced high over some gated walls, then splash landed in an infinity pool, terrifying a group of overprivileged children at a birthday party. I began to run inside the ball, and sure enough, I soon became a human paddlewheel. My forward inertia pushed me over the pool’s edge and into the busy street below. Brad, who had been following my progress via hang glider, waved his hands in warning, but I thought he was just saying hi, so I waved back, with a big thumbs up.
Oh myyy. Friends, you haven’t experienced Newton’s Third Law of Motion until your Human Hamster Ball collides with a semi heading the opposite way. I ricocheted like an eight ball and flew several hundred feet, then bounced from car to car until I finally came to rest somewhere along Rodeo Drive. My chosen mode of transport created quite the stir, especially when I again needed help being pulled back out of the ball.
Thanks again, LAFD, for understanding. I swear I’m not doing these things just to get your hunky attention.
Brad and I feed and care for three alley cats, who long ago adopted our home as their own. They prefer to remain outside, enjoying the protective nooks and crannies that a ranch-style LA house in temperate weather offers. Each was perfectly content to remain a simple felis silvestris catus, gutting the occasional bird to leave as a gift, yowling and tearing around for no apparent reason at midnight, and finding spare boxes to sit within whilst plotting cold revenges.
Their easy, idyllic life changed–and ours along with it–when Brad ordered ACCOUTREMONTS INFLATABLE UNICORN HORNS FOR CATS. Surprisingly, our cats didn’t resist and seemed almost *delighted* when we strapped the horns on. Once anointed, they sat straight up, gazing pensively at one another, their eyes aglow with a preternatural light. They tipped their heads to the left and to the right before commencing an eerie combination of mewling and rapid jaw chattering ordinarily reserved for moths spotted in the yard.
Soon things began to happen. Inexplicable things. The neighbor’s dog was found immobilized, trussed-up with some indeterminate golden binding, a warning sign scrawled above him, “Do not crosses the THREE.” A heretofore undiscovered hotspring bubbled up from beneath our yard and now transverses our property. Our clothes began to emerge from the dryer already pressed and folded, and the vet’s office mysteriously called to confirm we had intended to cancel their next appointments. But we had not.
The THREE materialize as if at once, a solemn triumvirate in a staggered row, so when the sun sets directly behind them, their long unicat horn shadows stretch forth and darken the yard. They will sit watch for hours, their majestic horns extending farther and father till all their domain is encompassed. The birds grow quiet. The squirrels sway in wonder.
And the expenses! The THREE demand much for their rule. They turn their heads in disdain at Meow Mix. Only skittles will do, individually unwrapped and separated by flavor. Harrods of London shipped three gold-plated water bowls, charged to “Mssrs George and Bwad Takei.” And only yesterday we received a note, with perfect penmanship, requesting that “henceforth” all water served in said gold-plated bowls should be of an imported varietal, well-chilled, and garnished with a “just a spwig” of the freshest catnip.
We’ve tried to remove the horns, but in the ensuing chaos, replete with flashing lights and a Benny Hill soundtrack, Brad slipped on the wet grass from our new bubbling brook and threw out his back. We called Animal Services, but as soon as we mentioned unicorn horns, they replied there was “nothing they could do.” One sympathetic officer did note that similar reports had come from other area households, and that there indeed had been a run on skittles at all local markets.
Bottom line: If you permit your cats to get horned up, expect to lose all mastery of your castle.
When strolling the streets of LA or braving the subways of New York City, I’m often approached by fans. They are well-meaning and always polite, but unfortunately I’m often in a bit of a hurry and don’t have the luxury to chat or pose for photos. For a time, I wore oversized sunglassses, but people often mistook me for Yoko Ono or more lately Psy, which only led to more awkward requests to cross my arms and pretend I was riding a pony.
So Brad ordered me the GREEN EYES CAT FACE by Mountain Tee and suggested I wear it whenever out in public.
It worked like a charm, at least for a time. People became so transfixed by the admittedly alarming cat print that they were often too embarrassed to make eye contact with the wearer, whom they could tell was, as expected, some septuagenerian Asian person.
My favorite response after a particularly long stare was to quip, “Hey. Buddy. EYES. UP. HERE.” (It IS quite gratifying to say, ladies, I admit.) Another was to emit happy meows while stroking my chest adoringly. Nobody approaches someone so obviously one sushi roll short of a bento box.
In time, my antics began to annoy Brad. So to get back at me, he cut the pupils out of the shirt. On one particularly chilly evening, I simply couldn’t understand why so MANY people were staring at my tee. I saw them squinting and overheard things like, “Are those his…Oh, God!” Brad let his prank continue all night, including through the book signing we were already late for. The fans there got a bit more Takei than they bargained for.
Well played, Brad. Well played.
When it comes to my lips, I eschew the vlassic flavors. So with this item, the heart said yes though the brine said no.
Apparently, the taste wasn’t kosher for Brad, who can be a sour puss, even when in the balm of your hand. So you might want to pickle little more carefully, and give your spouse more than lip service.
Now I just say there’s a pickle in my pocket and I’m happy to see him. Too cuke for words.
Well, never a dill moment around here.
Looking to add a little sizzle to your next flesh wound? Tired of the same boaring bandages?
Not to pork fun at an injury, but nothing strips the pain away like meating friends out dressed like this. “That’s sow wrong, George!” they squeal. But fat chance they let such a pig idea go. In fact, they often rip it off quickly–after giving me the cold shoulder.
Perhaps it’s time to climb out of this filthy pig pun. I can’t help it: I ham what I ham.
This is the perfect gift to give yourself or a co-worker. Asked a simple yes or no question from the boss, such as “Will the report be done on time?” or “Will you be able to cover the books for me while I’m away?” the box legitimates “yes…and no” answers.
“Hang on, let me consult Schrodinger’s Cat Executive Box” for that answer. “Aha! See? It says the answer is both yes, and no. That is, right now, knowing nothing other than your question, the answer could be either yes or no. But when we actually get to that point, we’ll know whether it actually was yes, or no.”
“But that box always gives that answer.”
“So does quantum physics, and no one is arguing with that.”
When my shipment of unicorn meat from RADIANT FARMS finally arrived, I prepared the fragrant pate as a maki roll, wrapped in seaweed and spread over some sushi rice, with a little unagi sauce on top. This had been a staple during WWII when spam was standard issue in Hawaii, and it was how my cousins used to prepare it. Ah, the memories. I even had a half carafe of cold, unfiltered sake to pair with it.
Unfortunately, I found this unicorn meat brand to be quite similar to spam, both in texture and blandness. I’d been hoping for that zestier kick that comes from the rump cuts of other mythical and fantastical creatures, such as griffins or centaurs (for the latter, serve only the back half of the creature with guests, or it gets awkward).
Apparently, as Dateline recently reported, “farmed” unicorns are force-fed mostly genetically modified grains, rather than their natural diet of skittles and ecstasy pills. California in fact is ready to ban the practice and sale of such meat by referendum. Moreover, certain European countries were caught mixing in regular horse meat (yes, disgusting) so you never really know how pure the unicorn is.
I say stick with fresh. I highly recommend TOM RIDDLE brand unicorn steaks, which arrive still oozing restorative blood. Ground into patties, they make a great burger.
While traveling to the recent Osaka Ninja-world Annual Gala and Silent Auction, I decided not to check a bag. After all, my mask, robe, and slippers neatly fit into my pink Hello Kitty knapsack, cinched tight across both shoulders. I don’t know why I decided to bring my Ninja Folding Grappling Hook, or why I thought I could walk through security with it. First mistake.
“What is that?” demanded the TSA agent, who looked remarkably like Nikki Minaj. Perhaps it was because she appeared well prepared to cast ample “shade” my way.
“It’s a grappling hook. Haven’t you ever seen one?” Second mistake.
“You can’t carry weapons on board,” she intoned, gesturing to the prohibited list, then inspecting a chipped nail.
“It’s not a weapon, and grappling hooks aren’t on this list,” I pointed out, in my good natured tone. Third mistake. “Aerosols, oxygen tanks, box cutters, but no grap–”
“You’ll have to check it, grandpa,” she interrupted, her head tipped to one side, a challenge. “No exceptions.”
The woman in front of me gave me a sympathetic look. She apparently was trying to bring on a dozen Russian nesting dolls, which were being opened one-by-one by an increasingly incredulous agent.
I understood that I’d have to take matters into my own hands. I retreated from the line, then found an empty stall in a nearby restroom. From my HK knapsack I removed my approved ninja attire, then located an air duct by removing a single ceiling tile. (This doesn’t just work in movies–it’s actually a known thing.)
The duct led me to a Jamba Juice not far from the security area. I dropped down behind the counter unseen, then slipped past a family from Topeka with a single “shhhh!” to my lips and a toss of an orange to the overweight 10-year old son. “Eat this instead,” I suggested to the bewildered lad.
Slipping along the sheer wall of the secure area (yes, sheer, F you, I’m a ninja), I spied a support beam high above on the other side, perfect for my grappling hook. I created a distraction by releasing two mice into the line. (This is also a known thing.) “Nikki” seemed particularly distraught by the mice ploy, shrieking “Lord, oh Lord, oh Lord!!” to my deep satisfaction. During the pandemonium, I swung unseen, as ninjas will, over the security area.
Check it grandpa, indeed.
Brad and I will be Grand Marshals at this year’s San Diego Pride Parade, and we were looking for just the right touch to add a bit of pizazz to our appearance. So when we stumbled across the PASSION NATURAL WATER BASED LUBRICANT – 55 GALLON drum, we felt we’d struck gold: “Just enough volume to soak an entire parade of spectators, and yet fits easily in our float.” Double win.
Now, how to spray the lube on the excited on-lookers? Why, by water pump gun, of course. To test out our delivery mechanism, we purchased a drum for our back yard and set up a slip and slide. I had Brad charge toward me down the slide, and I fired at will. It helped to imagine he was a Klingon Bird of Prey: Target that explosion and FIRE.
What I didn’t expect was that Brad’s forward momentum would cause him to crash into me, upending the entire drum along with us. Utter chaos. Our unfortunate cats, who had come out to judge our activities as cats will, were caught in the deluge. Looking like drowned rats, they howled and sped around the yard in hysterical circles, then tried for ten minutes to climb a tree.
Once again, the neighbors thought we’d set something on fire, so the LAFD arrived shortly afterwards. Try explaining any of this to a stranger, especially a hunky one in uniform. “Hose me down?” I offered. He kindly did, then retrieved our cats out of the tree with only minor scratches to the face. (They still aren’t speaking to us, by the way.)
Bottom line, we decided against soaking the Pride Parade revelers lest it create an “incident” that could upstage us entirely. But we do have a great new weekend fun activity.
I purchased this mane-ly for anonymity, but instead it was a night-mare that saddled me with un-bridled panic.
At a recent Comic Con, I donned the mask wearing my best track suit, jockeying for a simple laugh: “What do gay horses eat?” I queried, eager to bray “Heeeeeyyyy!!” Comic gold, friends, I know.
But the neigh-sayers came unglued. “No! You’re George Takei! I know that voice!”
Now, it doesn’t take a gallop poll to know what happened next. I hoofed it out of there with herds of fans riding my ass, shouting till they, too, were…horse.
13. Westland Giftware Star Trek Magnetic Spock and Captain Kirk Salt and Pepper Shaker Set, 4-1/2-Inch
After Brad got me this set, I realized that they were a bit TOO true to life. The Kirk shaker kept wandering off in search of “lady shakers,” insisting his salt crystals were real dilithium. I’d have recommended this as a great Father’s Day gift, but I noticed over time that the body of the shaker droops, and the uniform now seems, well, a bit snug. I also was disappointed to learn that the hair piece does NOT come off as expected. One star off my marks for that.
Plus, the Spock shaker kept trying to rescue the Kirk shaker, even after it crawled in the microwave and was irradiated beyond repair. And while Spock’s magnetic pull with Kirk is strong, it seems to much prefer the Uhura unit. I literally had to pry them apart, admonishing, “Alright, you’ve pon far enough.”
This incident also made me realize that I must be in the alternate tableware timeline.
While this product may not have the same debilitating effect of pepper spraying someone right in the face (Lt. John Pike, you’re now a meme, congratulations), this powerfully ironic tool can render the same outcome through a mere sassy display.
For example, the last time Senator Rick Santorum was shouting Bible verses through my bedroom window, I merely sauntered over, withdrew the can from my nightie, and held it up at eye-level. “What is THAT?!” he bellowed. “A&@hole repellant,” I said, calmly displaying the clearly marked label. “Don’t worry, it won’t kill you. I’ve got it set to STUN-NING!!!!”
Also makes a great Father’s Day gift for the dad who has everything and wants to keep it that way. Just don’t be upset if he sprays it on groups of small children. “GET OFF MY LAWN!”
Brad and I were very excited to order a few of these delectable beauties in order to reenact the skinning and spitting-over-an-open-fire scene from Game of Thrones.
Now, I hate to split hares, but…
First of all, it is NOT at all as easy as it looks in that scene. Meera and Osha made it look so simple. But both Brad and I pulling together couldn’t get that damn skin off. The rabbit wound up looking more like Theon Greyjoy’s finger than a rabbit.
Second, apparently you cannot light an open fire in your backyard in Los Angeles. No one told us that. Thanks, LAFD, for understanding.
Third, it pretty much tastes like chicken.