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Stolen from Mental Floss via Neatorama. Here are the instructions:
The game is simple: we’ll give you a name, you choose if it’s a skin disease or a character from the realm of Dungeons and Dragons. Get all 16 right and you’re qualified to be either a dermatologist or a dungeon master, so pretty much all doors are open.
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Woohoo, I knew those premed courses would pay off one day! Now I can be a world-famous Dungeon Mistress! Imagine the riches that shall be mine!
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Apparently, people are finding the whole “Leatherface Bakery” post a bit strong, particularly in concert with the “He’s eating my BRAIN!” post which immediately followed it. To offer salve to your traumatized synapses, to pay Spiegs back for allowing my shameless link whoring (subject to revocation if I wake up to find I’ve been executed again), and also to keep the whole Heads In Danger theme we’ve got going today on the ol’ raincoaster blog, I offer the following amusing (and only somewhat bloodthirsty) images of foodheads, which I stole from Fabulously40 via Gawker.
I think Mister Potatohead has had a little work done, don’t you?
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This round so totally goes to Canada. Why? Well, let’s see…what did the widely respected Guardian have as a front-page headline two days ago?
Like, duh. You think he’s going to do it in a graveyard at midnight, a Vegas Chapel of Luv, or some unpronounceable South American bureaucrat’s office? No; he’s Peter Fucking Phillips and he is going to goddam well get married at Windsor Castle and we DO NOT NEED A NEWSPAPER to tell us that.
The story, strangely, appears to be offline now. Perhaps they came to their senses, or perhaps I’m not the first to have remarked on the remarkable stupidity of that headline.
And what, you may ask, is this world-beating entry from the Socialist Republic of Canuckistan? Just this:
Naturally, it takes more than a grizzly bear attack in which he gnaws on your brain to keep a Canadian down; the fellow actually picked himself up after the bear was done with him and drove himself 25 kilometres to a gas station, where they called for help.
His hands were so swollen and bloody, he could barely get his keys out of his pocket, said Case, an experienced outdoorsman.
“I knew that if I didn’t drive and have the fortitude to control things, I was going to die.”
Case then drove 25 agonizing kilometres to the closest town to seek help. He finally reached a gas station and asked the attendant to call for an ambulance.
“I think my brains are hanging out,” he said. “I don’t know what’s happening here, but I’m alive. I started wiggling my fingers and toes…”
“I said [to the doctors], ‘There’s nothing hanging out that you’re not telling me?’ They said, ‘No, you’re OK'”
“They started using the peroxide and, ‘Ooh,’ I said, ‘that hurt more than the bear!'”
Badassery. We haz it.
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raincoaster 