Stupidramblings

184. Hot Dawg!

2008-05-31T16:56:00.004-06:00

If you're wondering how I prepare for major athletic competitions, fasten your seat belts:

My church men's group recently decided to piggy back on the Cub Scout's Pinewood Derby night. The track was already going to be set up, why not use it to our advantage? So the men decided to hold our own PW Derby. However, since we're all grown up, there's no reason we shouldn't be able to build better cars than the boys, right?

Well, no. Most of the cars were not much better than what the boys can put together. Except one:

I won't tell you how I did for speed (16th percentile), but I will say I brought home the best-in-show award. How did I come up with my design, you ask? Here's my inspiration. Now my son, the Juggernaut, is not the only "the Juggernaut" in the house.

183. Weight up!

2008-05-22T12:37:00.004-06:00

Recently, I discovered I had O+ (O positive) blood. I guess that means I’m a “the blood bag is half full” kind of guy.

Here’s my physical state: last night I rolled my ankle playing basketball. It wasn’t too bad, meaning I think I can hide it from my wife Limpy who's prone to worrying. If a slightly rolled ankle was my only injury, things would be fine, but I also broke, and tore the ligaments in, my left ring finger. And I just had my stitches removed. I hope bad things come in threes, because I’m done being torn up.

Anyway, Sunday my neighbor and I were talking over dinner and he was lamenting his weight and telling me he needed to lose a few pounds. I also am slightly chubby (see: lard-legs) and I was complaining about my weight also. So we formed a bet. Person who loses the highest percentage of body weight in the next three months gets a free round of golf paid for by the loser.

So today I passed up on doughnuts, hoping I could use self control to plummet down in the weight standings. Unfortunately, last night while no one was looking I consumed nearly 1000 calories in fruit snacks, Jelly Bellies, and bratwurst. So I ask: if you’re on a diet and no one is around to see you fall, does the cheesecake count, or does it not count. I propose the latter.

I’m going to win the challenge. If not for my willpower, it will be because I am mighty.

That is all.

182. Martes Trece (13)

2008-05-13T12:43:00.006-06:00

In Spain they don’t celebrate Friday the Thirteenth (13th) on Friday. Naturally, they celebrate it on Tuesday. Like you’re supposed to.

So today, in honor of Martes Trece (13), please do not:

• let a fan blow on the back of your neck
• go out while the moon is full
• cut your fingernails (good advice, no matter what day it is)
• shake hands in a group while two other people are already shaking hands (in other words, don’t form a cross with two handshakes)
• don’t wear yellow—especially yellow spandex (I added that last part myself)
• get married
• kill your pig

And remember to keep your child’s hair uncut until he or she learns to speak, or you may cut off some of their intelligence instead of just their hair.

Why Tuesday and not Friday? I don’t know, same reason the Spaniards speak with a lisp—probably a despotic king who also happened to be stupid somewhere back in time. All I know is that the movie series Friday the Thirteenth (13th) flopped horribly in Spain, but when they recalled the film and renamed it Tuesday the Thirteenth (13th) (Martes Trece (13) in Spanish), it was wildly successful. Go figure.

Also in this weekend’s news was my horrible attempt at becoming an amputee. I don’t want to get into details, but let’s just say my tendons are all intact, but they almost stared death in the face. I wish the story was kinda cool, but it involved a screaming kid, a sunburn and a can of corn, so you can make your own conclusions...

181. I Hate Performing CPR, But...

2008-05-01T12:25:00.005-06:00

Today I witnessed a near automotive accident on my way to work. Someone who wasn't paying attention almost plastered himself against a moving van as everyone was stopping in traffic.

Car accidents are cool. Provided no one is hurt, they can be quite entertaining. How else do you explain crash-up derbies? Anyway, I found myself hoping the inattentive driver would stay inattentive just long enough to have a non-life-threatening collision so I could Call 911 and shout:

MAYDAY! MAYDAY!

Somehow this idea seemed good at the time, but in retrospect, maybe it wouldn't have been so amusing, not to the dispatcher anyway. Case in point: just four (4) weeks ago my whole carpool witnessed the same type of accident on the same part of the freeway at the same time of day. It was like pre-ja-vu©. If I had the May Day joke locked and loaded then, it would have been just stupid.

Here's what happened, a mere boy was driving along in his mom's Hyundai, minding his own business, when a traffic jam came out of nowhere and slammed into the front of his car. I stopped my car fully prepared to have to administer life-saving first aid. The Hyundai driver hit a Nissan Pathfinder hard enough that the Nissan impacted the next car with enough force to activate the airbags in the Nissan. It takes a lot of speed to create the force necessary for a Hyundai to do that to a Nissan Pathfinder.

PSA: Don't get in an accident.

The odd thing about the accident is that the Highway Patrolman took my information so he could call me as a witness, but he never called. Maybe I'm not the witness he was looking for. Maybe it was an open and shut case. Maybe the officer reads my blog and thought better of relying on me for anything. Maybe I was too eager. I should have been more vulnerable-looking. Maybe I came on too strong. Whatever it was, officer, you can't tell me you'll call me and then let me wait by the phone for four (4) weeks. PIG! Just pick up the phone already! At least tell me where we went wrong. That's not too much, is it?

Anyway, I did call 911 that day, but it wasn't May Day, so I couldn't use my joke. Personally I'm hoping to get to use my line one day, but not for me, for someone else. If I ever have to use it for myself, chances are no one will believe me because of this post.

180. Does This Blog Make Me Look Fat?

2008-04-28T12:26:00.008-06:00

Recently a couple of hurtful comments from insensitive people have made me wonder what it is about me that makes me look fat. Is it my gigantic, monster-sized cheeks that make my face jiggle while I run? Is it the seventeen-and-a-half-inch (17 1/2") neck? Is it the plumber's crack? To elaborate:

While my wife Limpy and I were on our cruise two (2) weeks ago, we had the opportunity to wander around Paradise Island and Atlantis Resort in Nassau, Bahamas. Shortly after launching the ferry out to the island, the boat operator climbed the short ladder to the roof, pointed at me, and said, "You...there...in the Mama Cass suit..." O.K. that's not what he said; it was more like, "You...there...in the blue, the boat is unbalanced and I need you to move to the left side. Hurry mon! it's windy today."

So I moved. Instead of sitting next to my beautiful wife Limpy, I got to sit next to the creepy Euro in '80s-style weightlifter pants. No problem, I was the largest person on deck, so naturally I made a good candidate to help balance the boat, right? He was just looking for one person, not necessarily a fat one, right? I'm not so sure, to wit:

Four days later, my friend's four-year-old (4 yr. old) daughter sat next to my wife Limpy in church that week. When I sat on the bench on the other side of my wife Limpy, the bench made a slight creaking sound as my bulk rested delicately on the bottom cushion. She looked up at my wife Limpy and said, "Stupidramblings is BIG; he could break everything."

Now, I'm not one to publicly denounce pre-schoolers on the interweb, but I have to admit I found her comment quite defamatory. She probably stayed awake a few nights that week trying to find a way to hurt my feelings. She probably already posted how fat I am on her MySpace too.

If you're reading right now, my friend's four-year-old (4 yr. old) daughter, I pronounce you INSENSITIVE. Let it be known to all that your words are slanderous!

179. Achin' for a Breakin'

2008-04-24T00:20:00.008-06:00

My wife Limpy and I just returned from a two week trip to Miami and a Cruise to the Bahamas, and boy are my arms tired! Meet me halfway on some of this junk!

But seriously folks, remember to tip your server! Here’s a tip: don’t eat at the buffet, I’m one of the cooks. Ha!

Wow I could be a comedian on a cruise ship, because I hear the only requirement is to talk loud and say “But seriously foks…” every four or five sentences. As you may have deduced from my opening monologue, we just got back from Miami and the Bahamas.

Highlights:

The cruise was 4 (four) nights and I only got seasick for 3 (three) of them.
We got to spend quality time with old friends Mike and Tracy, motto: I’m a molecular astrophysical biotechnology scientologist or something smart, move over Steven Hawking (he explained it to me in 7^th-(seventh)-grade terms, but I was still mostly lost on account-a my weak mental facilities). (Another big thanks to them for hosting us!)
We went to the everglades, but saw no glades, just swamp. The gators were out, vis-à-vis the photo, and I squeezed a couple of them; alas no Gatorade.
The South Beach diet is a hoax. The locals at
South Beach look just like the rest of us (see: America).
The food in Miami is very, very tasty. Not only do Mike and Tracy cook well, someone decided the Miami area was eligible to import good food from other countries, so we pretty much bought whatever we can’t find in Utah.
A slightly damp, clean sock wrapped around a food item, which is then placed inside the freezer overnight, and then wrapped in a plastic bag inside a few layers of cotton T-shirts is a good way to get perishable food onto a plane and have it stay fresh for 9 (nine) or 11 (eleven) hours.
Shuffleboard is for suckers.
Sawfish are just sharks, but don’t tell them that; they’re a sensitive lot.
Kids don’t miss their parents, the parents are the ones who miss the kids and then project their emotions onto the kids. Don’t personify babies, I say; they’ll do fine wherever you send them.
My wife Limpy took a fantastic photo of some lily pads in a park in southern Miami.
It’s not as fun anymore to play the trick where you cut off people’s heads when you take a picture for them (see: digital cameras).
Cruise ship bedrooms are the size of music boxes, which is fine unless you want to sleep, relax, or sneeze, as these activities are too “big” for the rooms.
Some people say it's excessive to gain 12 pounds in 4 days. I say, "sounds like April."
Getting a room near the back of the ship doesn’t ensure you’ll be the guy who falls from the rear railing and hits his head on the propeller if the ship goes Titanic.
If I had a nickel for every time someone said “hey mon” who wasn’t from the Caribbean, I’d be a very wealthy person
Tourists are suckers. How else do you explain $6 (six dollar) water and pay toilets?
The following sentence is cute if it comes from a 4-(four)-year-old, however, I imagine it wouldn’t be so cute if it came from your spouse: “Stupidramblings, you’re real big. You could break everything."

Thanks folks, I’ll be here all week.

178. First Mate, First Karma

2008-04-04T12:33:00.004-06:00

So last night I was watching the boys in the living room. The Juggernaut (4 months) was lying on the couch enjoying his Juggernaut-ness, and the First Mate (20 months) was playing with his toys and books below me on the floor. I was dozing off to a The Office marathon on NBC--all was well.

Until in my ether-like slumber I heard the faint sound of a spanking coming on. Sure enough, when I opened my eyes, I beheld that the First Mate had climbed onto the couch and was standing over the Juggernaut, straddling him and jumping up and down, letting his butt rest not-so-gently on the Juggernaut's chest. I mean, I've seen him do it with a teddy bear, but not his brother, and not in front of me.

The Juggernaut was a stalwart little fella, not so much because he's tough, but because he's keeping a mental list of offenses and is plotting his revenge. The First Mate wasn't too happy when he found he'd been caught. Mainly because I wasn't happy.

Then, in a colossal twist of karmic force, last night at approximately 1:35.06 MDT I heard a thud from the ceiling followed by a baleful cry. I ran upstairs as quickly as my drowsed state allowed for to find the First Mate on the floor crying. He fell out of bed. He's been in a real bed for 3 months now, but did not fall out until the day he was jumping on his brother.

Karma, how I've longed for thy subtle touch.

177. Enter the Juggernaut (also: Cesarean Sickness)

2007-12-20T22:38:00.001-07:00

So I’m it. That doesn’t mean to me what it used to onaccounta—I’m really, really lazy in writing lately. It started as an “I don’t have time to blog because I have a huge project” thing, and ended up as an “I guess I’m not showering this week” thing. After that, I started to actually feel lazy. So whatever chain-blogger thing you wanted me to pass on MG, that’s just not going to happen, so you’ll have to aguantare.

Anyway, for those of you who are still of the caring-about-stupidramblings’-blog persuasion, my wife Limpy and I delivered the Juggernaut last week. He’s a healthy baby boy, 6 lbs. 14 oz., and 18 ½ inches long. The First Mate celebrated by puking the entire contents of last month’s cumulative meals on the night we brought the Juggernaut home. He puked a lot. Very much. All over dear old dad. That’s me.

I handled it about as well as you could expect from a guy named stupidramblings, which is to say I called in my wife Limpy to clean it all up while I showered. Juxtapose the frantic, frightened crying of the First Mate against the peaceful sleeping of the then two-day-old Juggernaut and I think you’ll arrive at a wonderful mental state. I know I have. The memories of that night are bliss, bliss, bliss in my head.

Shamefully, as the whole event was taking place, I was still looking for ways to be lazy but at the same time try to protect my investments. I mean, you know you’re a homeowner when your child is trying to stain at least half of the carpeting yardage in your home and your first thought is to avoid having to clean up any more than you absolutely have to. I won’t go into too many details, but it turns out the bathtub is a marvelous place for a father and son to share a drink from the fire hose.

Enough of that. My wife Limpy is recovering nicely from her C-section. (BTW, I’m sure many of you will be as surprised as I was to learn the C in C-section refers to the manner in which Julius Caesar was born, not the shape of the incision made in the abdomen. Who knew?) I had saved vacation time all year so I could take time off this Christmas to spend with my family. I’m happy to have done so, because I’m bonding with the Juggernaut fairly rapidly. He doesn’t do much but sleep so far, but I’ve found he likes TV wrastlin' and Pirates. Other than that he just sleeps. That’s why I don’t have much information about him except that he’s healthy and we’re all very happy about that.

The First Mate, however, is just starting to do hilarious stuff that kids do. For example, our favorite song lately is ‘Old MacDonald.’ That’s because here’s how we sing it at our house:

Me: Old MacDonald had a farm,
The First Mate: E-I-E-I-E-I-YAH-YAH-YAH!
Me: And on that farm he had a cow,
The First Mate: E-I-E-I-E-I-YAH-YAH-YAH!
Me: With a MOO here and a MOO there, here a MOO, there a MOO, everywhere a MOO, MOO. Old MacDonald had a farm,
The First Mate: E-I-E-I-E-I-YAH-YAH-YAH... (repeat “YAH” until sleeping or eating.)

We’ve also been learning strategic, spastic shouting in songs about sun-BEAMs. On the entertainment front, we love Word World and Phenomenon. The First Mate gets a real kick out of building words and Voldemort’s dark magic.

And that’s how we’ve been.

176. The Drop-Off

2007-10-09T07:41:00.000-06:00

You may recall when we painted the First Mate's room in anticipation of his arrival. Since he's getting older and we need his room for the Juggernaut, we've decide to move the First Mate upstairs in his brand new room. The Juggernaut gets the original room. Hope you like it.

PS. this is not the huge project I was talking about when I said I wouldn't be writing as much. I'm still not writing as regularly.

175. Such As!

2007-09-16T01:42:00.001-06:00

174. So Sue Me

2007-08-16T17:40:00.000-06:00

So I haven't written in a while. I have a confession to make. Or two. I haven't written because I've been lazy. And we inmates don't get the computer time we used to. And I can't read. So sue me.

Things of note:

The First Mate turned 1.
My wife Limpy is expecting another boy whom we'll call the Juggernaut.
I had knee surgery.
The drugs from knee surgery gave me hallucinations.
I direct the music in our weekly church services which was a real trip while I was high on pain meds three days after surgery.
We are going to Disneyland in a couple of weeks.
In my last post about Trinidad food, I forgot to mention I also ate 'suck a bag.' The name makes me giggle, but it's quite harmless; they load ice cream into baggies and hand them to people for group activities. Instead of using a spoon, you just bite a hole in the bag and eat the ice cream through it.

I may be slow in writing for the next few weeks--I'm working on a huge project--but check back every month or so. I'm sure to start up again in a few.

173. Things I ate.

2007-07-09T12:42:00.000-06:00

So for the past couple of weeks, I was in a foreign country, Trinidad to be exact. While I was there I had many memorable memories and saw many tropical visuals that were emotionally emotional. Mostly though, here's a list of things I ate in Trinidad:

Roti
Pizza
Callalou
Coconut water
Coconut jelly
Peanuts
Mangoes in 6 varieties
Sweet potatoes
Yams
Taro root
Macaroni pie
Chick peas
Baby food
Bread fruit
Marshmallows
Jub jub
Mogul frutales
Curry chicken
Curry goat
Agouti
Pineapple Chow--remind me to describe it.
And rain water collected on the roof.
Not eaten this time, but that I've eaten there before: iguana rabbit
Not eaten this time, but I came close: armadillo.

172. On Account of the Water and of the Air.

2007-06-20T17:00:00.000-06:00

So.

It’s here. I’m going to spend a few days in Trinidad, starting tomorrow. Last time I went to Trinidad, I broke out in hives all over. Benadryl was my best friend that week. The quandary: If you get a medical condition in Trinidad, do you go to the foreign doctor’s office to get treated, or do you risk death and wait until you arrive home? I just used the Benadryl like I had the anaphylactic shock and it cleared up before I arrived home.

The bad part is I don’t even know what I was allergic to. Could it be the water? I mean, they do collect rain water FROM OFF THE ROOF and collect it in big barrels, which, yes, are connected directly to the tap. I might have the peanut allergy, since my mom has the peanut allergy, and Trinidad has the bestest peanuts in the whole wide world. They are pan fried in butter and salted and they make me think of heaven. But am I allergic to them? Could be, that’s the first thing I ate when I got off the plane last time.

I might be allergic to…wait for it…humidity. “Yeah right,” you say, “You can’t be allergic to water and air,” and I say, “Why not?” in a defensive tone, “If the New York Knicks can be allergic to success and if the blog nation can be allergic to reality, I can have a humidity allergy.

Anyhoo, and not like you’ve had to wait 2 weeks since the last post anyway, but if you don’t hear from me in a while it’s because I’m on vacation.

OR

Anyhoo, and not like you’ve had to wait 2 weeks since the last post anyway, but if you don’t hear from me in a while it’s because I died on vacation on account of the water and air.

It’s a choose-your-own-adventure blog post. Only YOU can decide which ending is best (and prevent forest fires).

(Pictures to come.) Thanks, Smokey!

171. Steak You Can Cut with Plastic Utensils.

2007-06-08T13:10:00.000-06:00

Marinate 5-6 steaks in:

the juice of two limes (with pulp)
1/4 cup extra virgin olive oil (now with extra virgins!)
2 cloves crushed garlic
1/2 tsp salt
crushed red pepper to taste (use a little more than you think you'll need--it gets cooked off)
a palmful of tarragon
two drops of orange extract
black pepper to taste (use a little more than you think you'll need--it gets cooked off)
1 tbsp brown sugar
a pinch of crushed dill weed
a pinch of crushed coriander
3-4 grains of anise seed
and a pinch of cumin

Mix marinade well and pour over the steaks. Marinate overnight.

Cook (BBQ preferably) on very high heat until the inside is slightly pink.

Invite your neighbors over and throw the steaks at them...

170. Kiss, Click, Giggle.

2007-06-05T07:52:00.001-06:00

So here's a fun game my brother and I used to play. Remember we were seven (7) and five (5) respectively:

And before I get into the details, let me also say that this game is still fun--even for adults--and you can play at parties. All you need is a TV, a remote, and some Windex. (My brother and I used to play without Windex.)

What you do is kiss the TV screen, then change the channel. When the channel changes, invariably you will be kissing Richard Simmons, or a televangelist, or somebody else who is really messed up. Keep in mind though, that when my brother and I used to play this game, we were seven (7) and five (5) respectively and it was 1979. So the people we were prone to see on the screen were people like Richard Simmons, or a televangelist, or somebody else who is really messed up.

So next time you have a get-together, try your luck at it.

Kiss, Click, Giggle. The game the whole family can enjoy!

169. Envirolet?

2007-06-01T13:34:00.001-06:00

In case you don't get to my site three (3) times per day, my sidebar has randomly assigned ads provided by Ads by Google.

Well, this is my most recent, and current favorite ad.

My question is this: isn't that color bad for the environment? Furthermore, any human waste receptacle that is advertised with the word "Amazing!" is definitely worth the money. I don't know why you all don't already own the envirolet, but it's time to go out and getcherself one.

Hop to!

168. So...Yeah.

2007-05-30T12:46:00.000-06:00

So it turns out (I heard it on the radio yesterday) En Vogue is coming in concert to little old Utah. Not only have I wanted to see their live act for a long time, I have heard they are fantastic performers. I saw them on SNL once (or maybe it was another sketch comedy show) and they really brought the house down. Then, nearing the end of the radio ad, the announcement said the concert is all part of a gay pride festival.

So.

I'm torn. Do I go to the show and possibly communicate the wrong message? or do I stay home and possibly never get a chance to see En Vogue live?

Where I do not have a problem with anyone's orientation, I certainly don't want to mislead anyone as to MY orientation. Showing up to the gay pride rally to see a team of superb vocalists put on a show is not necessarily my idea of a good way to communicate my love of vocal music and harmony. If anything, it would be a good way to falsely out myself. Unfortunately, getting outed is not one of those things I'd be up for since, quite frankly, I'm not even IN in the first place.

So I guess I won't get to see them live--which is sad, because I've been a fan of theirs since at least one thousand nine-hundred ninety-one (1991) or one thousand nine-hundred ninety-two (1992). Maybe Kool and the Gang will make a stop here one day too--I'll go see them. Or Lipps Inc.

167. Livin' Up To Your Dreams

2007-05-22T07:53:00.000-06:00

Do you remember that episode where Jo and Tudy got into a fracas because Jo was a complete killjoy and Tudy was a little naïve? And then Natalie came to try and smooth things over, but no one could hear what she said because her insecurities were so loud. Enter Blair who came in like the Queen of Southern Money and treated the whole lot of them like convicts.

Do you remember how it ended? Mrs. Garrett had a sit-down with every one of them and told each one to grow up and treat everyone with a little respect only to go to the kitchen, down a fifth of Scotch, and hammer out a letter to Mr. Drummond about her girls and their social interpersonal ineptitude.

Yeah, me too. That one was the best.

You take the good, you take the bad
You take them both and there you have
The facts of life. The facts of life.

When the world never seems to be livin’ up to your dreams
And suddenly you’re finding out
The facts of life area all about you. You-oo-oo-oo-oo.

166. Carpet Swimming, Part II: The Revenge

2007-05-08T13:38:00.000-06:00

For those of you who read my last post, here's the video proof.

Right, left, right, left, right, left, right, right, DOH!

165. Carpet Swimming

2007-05-07T07:51:00.000-06:00

I think the wisest line I’ve ever uttered came from my recent post, number one-hundred-sixty-three (#163). So I’m going to repeat it here just in case you missed it. th. may have been the only person who saw it. Make this one of your life’s maxims, make a motivational poster of it, and put it on your wall:

“You can be a pro wrestler, or an Olympic wrestler. The difference is college.”

Back to the posting.

You may recall back in post number one-hundred-seven (#107) when I declared my inability to maintain the alive-ness of plants in and around my home. Now that spring has arrived, I’m happy to report the two trees I spoke of planting in that post are halfway alive—a better ratio than I hoped for.

Now, when I say the trees are halfway alive, you might get the impression they are struggling a bit, but you are wrong. There is no struggle. Half (1/2) of the trees are alive and the other half (1/2) are dead—so I took an average. The important thing is leaving the dead tree in the ground for the year to see if we can revive it. I mean, because wintering in our front yard should have been rejuvenating.

More important is that the First Mate is thriving—he’s growing like a weed. (Note “growing like a weed” is a stupid metaphor. I mean, weeds just grow—you don’t have to water, feed, or weed [humor me] them. They just grow there, sitting in the dirt, without regard to the care given them. Children require constant care. They require water, food, and [insert human-related word for weeding] before you can expect them to reach respectable size. In fact, leaving them in the back yard to sit in the dirt is a good way to provide yourself a little MORE work and maintenance. So when I say “growing like a weed,” don’t go thinking child-rearing is easy—the phrase should be changed to “growing like a mullet,” because the care required is precise and there’s a science to getting the end result you want.)

(Interesting note: At the time I wrote post one-hundred-seven (107), the doctor had told us the First Mate weighed about four (4) pounds, nine (9) ounces. He was born two weeks later at four (4) pounds, six (6) ounces—a difference I hadn't thought of when he was born. What kind of witch-doctory is Doctor Feel Good practicing, anyway?)

Anyway. Recently, the First Mate has begun communicating intelligently. Every time we feed him, we show him the sign-language version of the word and also the English version. That way he’ll always have two ways of communicating an idea if he chooses to talk to us. Well this past week or so, the First Mate started mimicking our signs back to us to tell us when he is hungry, or tired, or thirsty. Slowly, deliberately, he showed us the sign for food the other day—which is putting your hands behind your head and moving your hips around in a circle—and we made sure to reinforce his learning by giving him beginner’s snacks. We haven’t told him yet that they don’t really count as food because they are made of styrofoam, but he eats them just the same because he still trusts us.

The First Mate has also begun moving. I don’t mean moving in the waving-the-arms sense, I mean transporting himself across a room if he sees something he wants. I wouldn’t exactly call what he does ‘crawling,’ because ‘crawling’ would indicate some sort of normal-looking movement. More accurately, I would call it ‘Carpet Swimming’ because that’s what it is complete with turning the head up for breathing. My swimming teacher used to set a chair on the side of the pool and lie down on the chair to show us the correct swimming strokes. Well, my kid can do it right at ground level. Take that, you over-tanned, self-important swimming instructor!

164. If You're a Mormon, You'll Love This Post.

2007-04-20T12:25:00.000-06:00

Back in the good ol’ day when Miss Nemesis and I worked at the same location, I once had the opportunity to tell her and some of the other yay-hoos I worked with why I boycott Mormon* movies. (Stay with me—this is not a post about Mormonism. . I am a Mormon, though telling people I am Mormon is not the purpose of this blog—It’s important to know only for this post.)

Part of the reason I don’t watch Mormon movies is because they suck. Another part of the reason I don’t watch them is because I find it offensive that someone will tell me I will love a Movie and that I should spend my money on it because I have something in common with the film-maker. Using that logic, one could say, “Because you are human, you will love Beetle Juice—a film made by other humans, and that makes them just like you. And that makes the film a smash hit—especially among humans.” No, it doesn’t. What it means is the film’s marketing efforts have backfired and the film-makers are forced to make ever-increasing claims of the film’s potential greatness so a wider and wider audience may come and see it.

I fall into many demographics, but if you have to resort to ‘faith’ as a marketing demographic; if you’ve exhausted your options for placing me in a demographic like adult male, intelligent movie-goer, childish adult male, chubby guy, bald guy, enlightened idiot etc. and you can’t figure out any other way to reach me demographically than by my faith, that’s where I tune out. I’ve also been approached by friends and acquaintances who tell me I should tap into the Mormon market for my art. I’ve been a stage performer for a number of years, and people sometimes encourage me to tap into the Mormon market. Somehow I have never felt right about selling faith for money. At its root, that’s what would be for me—selling faith for money. What else could it be when I make lesser-quality art (I'm not very good) and sell it to people saying, “This is made strictly for you because you’re of the ‘my faith’ demographic”?

Also, I don’t think I could go into that market and sell faith for money without the money ultimately becoming my faith. In other words, I could never make faith my job, because jobs aren’t typically the kind of things I could feel a deep passion for—not at the same level as faith anyway. And making faith my job would prove to be disastrous for me in that I couldn’t separate the two and faith would ultimately be ‘my paycheck.’ I work for money. I ‘faith’ for personal reasons. I don’t think I could combine the two without ultimately falling prey to money=faith. And I’m not saying others will automatically fall into the trap, I’m just saying I can’t do commercial faith-based art because I will have trouble distinguishing between faith and work. In the end, that’s where the conversation with Miss Nemesis and others went. And at the time, I spoke of a few examples of those who have left the church after years of producing Mormon-focused art.

Anyway, it’s astonishing to me to see how many of the popular Mormon artists leave the church at some point—the latest of whom is Richard Dutcher**, director and actor in God’s Army. Much has been made of late of the situation involving Richard Dutcher and another Mormon film-maker having a little spat about artistic merit and who’s better at making movies. To clarify, much has been made of late in Utah about said film-makers, especially since Mr. Dutcher has recently announced he has left the church for reasons of his own. I’m not here to judge him or tell you why he’s leaving—his reasons are his own and I respect them. I’m just pointing out another of our ‘acclaimed’ Mormon artists is leaving the church, and I don’t get it. I'm not surprised, but I don't get it. I’ve seen it happen a few times and I’m only guessing at the reasons, but it happens more often than I would have suspected years ago.

I don’t know Dutcher's reasons for leaving, I just know he is leaving. What I can’t understand is why someone would be surprised when a prominent Mormon artist leaves the church. . It’s not like it hasn’t happened before.

* Mormon movie-making became popular in Utah a few years ago with the advent of a movie called God’s Army—which was made for non-Mormons about Mormons and the only people who made it profitable (I think it was profitable) were Mormons themselves. God’s Army was pretty well done, but not something I would want to put money down for. Because of the moderate success of God’s Army, a whole slew of increasingly bad films has since popped up, and they’re all horrible. But they’re clean, which makes them (in the minds of some) worthy of spending money on. I am not of that opinion. I am a Mormon, though being Mormon is not a strong enough cause to throw my hard-earned entertainment dollars away for. And I rarely take the opportunity here to state that fact, but I think it’s necessary because this post may not have the broad appeal of my usual posts.

**NOTE: Richard Dutcher is not guilty of marketing based on faith. Not that I know of. I met him in 2001 and asked him face to face what he hopes his audience will be and he said he’s making movies about Mormons for the masses (I paraphrase). That Mormons are the demographic that picked up his movies and put money on them was not his aim—although I don’t think he minded the profits—he was trying to reach a broader audience. I’m okay with that. Dutcher himself states some of my thoughts quite well in his recent article printed in the Provo Daily Herald (the thoughts about Mormon film-making not being worth the dollars people pay for it, NOT the part about leaving the church.) (FYI: I had not read the article until AFTER I wrote this post—so any similarity between my thoughts and Dutcher’s are coincidental.)

163. Was Your Mother a Baker?

2007-04-17T07:40:00.000-06:00

‘Cause your belly has the general feel of bread dough. That’s what I’ve observed about babies, anyway. The First Mate feels just like he’s full of yeast and he’s been rising on the counter for about an hour. The difference is the first mate couldn’t make a batch of root beer alcoholic in your grandma’s cellar.

Anyway, I’ve decided the First Mate has reached the general intelligence of your typical canine companion. Which is a pretty good growth curve for an eight-(8)-month-old. That’s not to say he won’t get smarter, because he might, but right now he’s as smart as a dog. And I’m not talking about one of those debutante teenager dogs that accompanies unintelligent, gum-chewing, daddy’s girls, I’m talking police dogs (sans the addiction to crack).

When I get home from work, the First Mate lights up with a big, bright smile and rushes toward me. Okay, so he doesn’t rush toward me because he can’t crawl yet, but you catch my meaning. When he sees me, his neck disappears as he draws his shoulders up to his ears and he kicks his feet wildly. If he had a tail, it would be wagging. (As soon as his hair grows in, he’s going to have a tail, but that’s a different story for a different post.) He even salivates when I ring a little bell. I seriously think he’s smart enough to work with cops one day.

Anyway, the point of all this is to relate the following story as told by My brother Chewy:

My brother Chewy was telling me about one of his children, my nephew, who got an electronics kit for Christmas and has become quite the electronic erudite. My nephew Erudite had been telling my brother Chewy he wants to be an electrical engineer—not too far of a stretch for such a smart kid. My brother Chewy told him if he doesn’t do better at school, he’s going to be an electrician instead (not that there’s anything wrong with that, I mean, if that’s your profession).

That’s when I confessed I’d been telling the First Mate a similar thing: You can be a pro wrestler, or an Olympic wrestler. The difference is college.

Let that be a lesson to you.

162. Why the Long Face, Audrey?

2007-04-10T12:54:00.000-06:00

Dear reader(s):

I’m sorry I haven’t written in a while, but I’ve just been too caught up in this jail lifestyle to have much time for anything else*. They only let us outside every day for a couple of hours which they say is for exercise, but they took away the basketballs because of violent basketball beatings. Now all we have for exercise is running around the courts.

The other reason I've not been writing, for those of you I haven’t told yet, is because I’ve been maintaining internet silence until 24 (Twenty-Four) brought down Abu Fayed and revealed that Audrey Raines is still alive. Well last night, Jack Bauer brought Fayed down (lifted him up by the noggin’ actually) and MOMENTS LATER Jack received a call from, who else? Audrey Raines herself.

You see, Audrey has been captured and is currently being beat up regularly by the (fictional)** Chinese Consul. Now we know why she has such a long face—but now the long face is full of scarring and bruises from the brutal (fictional)** Chinese torture.

Anyway, not speaking was my little way of sending a message to the producers of 24 (Twenty-Four) . Message received. Apology accepted.

I have a new job.

**Dear China: please don’t cry to me about your PR problems related to Jack Bauer and Audrey Raines. The producers of 24 (Twenty-Four) are the ones you want to send your censors after.

* I’d like to say I made up the wording of my ‘letter from jail,’ but I can’t because I lifted the words directly from a letter from an inmate to his girlfriend—intercepted by me. MG can verify the veracity of the letter as he has seen the original. Other details of the letter that don’t fit this context include an expression of sorrow to the girlfriend for her brother getting sent to jail for his third (3^rd) DUI, and a plea to the girlfriend for her to send him some photos of her AND HER FRIENDS. (Yeah, that kind of pictures.) I swear I’m not making this up. Who could?

P.S. re: my last post: there was no change in policy, the First Mate's video was too adorable, precious, and savory to hold back. You'll notice--no more vid.

Pic courtesy here.

161. The Buddy

2007-03-23T09:40:00.000-06:00

[Video of the First Mate and me ommitted]

If you're not a father yet, you should go out and become one.

That is all.

160. Rule On!

2007-02-26T21:27:00.000-07:00

So, depending on the angle from which you look, big Rulon is either the luckiest man on the planet or he is one boat trip away from going over the falls in a barrel only to survive the fall and then get 'done in' by a Niagara strain of the West Nile Virus and SARS.

If you haven't heard, Rulon Gardner has cheated death for the third time. THIRD. As in thrice. In 2000 Rulon was the oversized darling of the Sydney Olympic Games when he became the first heavy-weight wrestler to beat Alexander Karelin--the latter having won every match he EVER competed in. Well, until Rulon.

Unfortunately, RG tried to turn tragic on us and in 2001 he had some digits amputated after wrecking his snowmobile and spending the night in the snowy mountains. Then in 2004 he was blessed to have a motorcycle accident. I'm pretty sure it wasn't his fault though, because he doesn't have enough toes left to go real fast anymore (refer to 2001 time line).

And just yesterday, RG and a couple of friends survived a plane crash in Lake Powell only to have to swim nearly a mile and a half (1.5 miles) in forty five degree (45˚) water. The pilot was flying very, very low when he caught the wheel on the surface of the water and they wrecked at one hundred fifty (150) mph in the cold water. They had just enough time to swim to shore, dry out their scant clothing, build a wind shelter, and huddle together to retain warmth until the morning when a fisherman decided to veer from his normal course because he had a 'feeling.'

Rulon, buddy, I respect the heck outta ya especially for the class and dignity with which you handled yourself in both Sydney and Athens, but ya gotta stay down for a while man. Aron Ralston thinks you've got thrill issues. Cats are jealous of your ability to land on your feet and keep plugging away. Me? I think you're very lucky.

If I were you, I'd find a bathtub, curl up in it, suck my thumb and pray the grim reaper forgets he missed three times. Either that or go Howard Hughes and lock myself in a movie theatre (theater) and save all my trash and waste so no one can use it to prove I'm still alive. Either way, it's time to find a new set of hobbies.

159. Because I'm Admirable

2007-02-21T12:07:00.000-07:00

What I'm giving up for Lent:

leeches
crying
Eddie Murphy
danger
magic
rabies
robots
The Hague
additives and preservatives
sky diving
hay fever
armadillos
ointment
and harpsichords.

Have I forgotten any items you could remind me about?

158. Oh, Crap!

2007-02-16T12:14:00.000-07:00

Was it Valentine's Day yesterday?

That's what I would have been saying if my wife Limpy gave a rat's patoot about stupid holidays. And then I would have been sorry for telling her sorry about missing Valentine's Day yesterday, because Valentine's Day was, in fact, two days ago.

Guys, here's how you avoid screwing up Valentine's Day every year for the rest of your life:

Don't marry an American. They have too many presuppositions of what's supposed to be and what you have to do. Just marry a foreign girl and she'll love you regardless of what day it is. You have to treat her right and all that junk, but you won't be forced to live up to any expectations that have been lodged in her brain like Mercury from the fish her mom ate during pregnancy.

Then, when it's not Valentine's Day and you give flowers or cards or chocolates, she won't compare it to anything. She'll just say thank you in her own way--hopefully in a way that doesn't involve listening to Celine Dion.

157. I Make Myself Sick

2007-02-12T20:02:00.000-07:00

Today I got carsick.

On a chair.

That wasn't moving.

I was sitting on an adjustable chair and it was a bit too tall, so I decided to lower it. I pulled the lever expecting to be lowered a few inches, and when the chair didn't descend, my head started swimming.

I've come to grips with the fact that I'm going to get motion sickness in some few given instances, but to get motion sickness for the anticipation of movement that never comes to fruition is absurd. And stupid.

And some housekeeping: Until recently, my blog had a sidebar feature that included Asteroids--one of my favs from childhood. What I didn't know about it was that it included a little chime every time you reloaded the blog. I wouldn't have known this, because I usually don't have the sound turned up on my computer. So to all those who hated the chiming sound on my blog, I apologize. To the rest of you I might as well apologize anyway and get it over with.

156. I [Heart] The Soccer.

2007-02-07T21:47:00.000-07:00

Right now, I’m watching the USA men’s national soccer team play Mexico’s team. USA is about to seal an eighth (8th) straight shutout of Club Mexico on US soil. Not only can’t Mexico win here, they just gave up a breakaway goal by Landon Donovan to put USA ahead 2-0.

And the Mexican players HATE the American players. Case in point: just after USA scored the goal, the keeper tried to trip the US player while he was running across the box to celebrate with Donovan. A couple of years ago, Colby Jones was kneed in the ribs at the end of a 2-0 shutout in the 2002 FIFA World Cup. Every time I watch the matchup I see it, and to top it off, the game just finished and the Mexican national team is refusing to shake the hands of the American players.

And I ask, why the hate? It seems to be one sided—and I’m not just being a nationalist; the American side continues to receive slight after slight at the hands (or feet, if you will) of our southern neighbors.

I look at it this way (and I’m speaking in broad population terms): They love soccer; it’s by far their most popular sport. We are indifferent about soccer; we pay our pro players peanuts. (In some cases, peanuts would be an upgrade for players whose minimum is twenty four thousand dollars ($24,000)). They hate that we are indifferent toward soccer yet we win. They hate that our players have to live in mom’s basement just to afford to play soccer, yet our players are still competitive.

I can understand that chafes them, but I just smile a wry smile and point to the scoreboard. Don’t try to injure our best. Don’t try to wring fake foul calls from the referee. Don’t disrespect us by not shaking our players’ hands. Beat us and be gracious about it. Kick the soccer ball down our keeper’s throat for all I care. Soccer’s cool by me, but I wouldn’t care too much if our team got beat. Make our team pay, and then make them pay the next time. But don’t cry about losing, and don’t be poor sports about it. This rivalry, which could have all the makings of a great rivalry, will be nothing if the Mexican national team can’t back the poor sportsmanship up with good play.

And call me when your team finds a shred of dignity.

155. Who We Thought They Were

2007-02-05T15:01:00.000-07:00

"The Bears are who we thought they were! What - who we thought they were. We played them in the preseason - everybody played three quarters. Who the [heck] treats the 3rd game of the preseason like it's BEEEEEEEP? BEEEEEEEP! Everybody played three quarters; the Bears are who we thought they were! That's why we took the [dang] field! Now, if you want to crown them, then crown their BEEEEEEEP! But they are who they thought they were! AND THEY LETUSOFFTHEHOOK!"

Sincerely, Peyton Manning.

154. Does This Look Leprous?

2007-01-31T15:26:00.000-07:00

So yesterday, I was playing basketball with friends, playing defense, minding my own business when my teeth came out of nowhere and attacked my tongue. It was like hard-calcium-deposit-on-strongest-muscle-in-the-body-pound-for-pound violence. The Gaza strip thought my teeth were a little too over-the-top as they went OJ on my tongue. My tongue has never been so humiliated.

It all happened when the opponent decided to throw a fake. Now because I’m a chubby kid, I don’t go for fakes anymore. I’m not quick enough anymore to recover if it’s only a fake and I’m too lazy to take the chance of actually moving. Anyway, said fake was designed to make me move right so the ball-handler could pass by on the left for an easy basket. Since I didn’t bite on the fake, the opponent decided I should try to take a bite out of his shoulder which he promptly jammed up under my chin.

What’d my chin ever do to his shoulder? Pretty rude I say.

I won’t go into any other details because of my more sensitive readers who cringed at my lost toenail story, but let’s say I could have bitten my tongue right off if I hadn’t gotten so much of it caught between my Chiclets. Unfortunately, because I bit on so much of it, now it’s sore all over (and leprous) and I have to speak like Rocky to protect my mouth from pain—not good for my customers. I also have to mention (without getting too graphic) that my teeth hurt too because of the blow they took from my tongue. I haven’t had facial trauma like that since I was a freshman in college and I got my nose broken.

Stupid went to college you ask? No. Being a freshman is not the same as ‘going to college.’

153 ...And They Were Lentils Too.

2007-01-29T14:21:00.000-07:00

A lentil met a lentil
And they were lentils two (2).
Two (2) lentils met two (2) lentils
And they were lentils too.
Four (4) lentils met

(The rest of the bag of lentils
Four (4) quarts water
Three (3) chicken bouillon cubes
The hambone from the Christmas ham
Four (4) chorizo** sausages
One (1) can stewed tomatoes
One (1) can tomato Paste
Three (3) medium potatoes--diced
Carrots to taste (three to five (3-5) large carrots)
Chervil to taste (two (2) tsp.)
Teaspoon of salt
Pepper to taste
One (1) Tbsp parsley flakes
Celery seed to taste (one (1) tsp.)
Tarragon to taste (one (1) tsp.)

Pressure cook the lentils and salt and a quart and a half (1 ½ qt) of water. Throw everything else in a six-(6)-quart pot and simmer until the potatoes and carrots are done. Remove hambone and chorizos from the pot. Add the lentils (undrained). Remove the ham from the bone and return to the stew (the ham, not the bone). Cut the chorizos into desired-sized pieces and return to the stew. Simmer for another hour on very, very low heat. Serves 12-15.)

And they were lentil stew.

And if you’re planning on providing food for your Superbowl party this weekend or if you have a potluck, volunteer for the buffalo wings; here’s how to make them:

Buy the wings (or tenders, or drumettes) raw and unseasoned. Ten (10) lbs. should be just enough for two cookie sheets full of wings.

Wash the wings with lime juice and salt water (if you don’t prefer lime, at least wash them; it’s always a good idea to wash chicken.) Rinse the wings in cold water. In a separate container, mix half (½) cup olive oil, half (½) cup lime juice, parsley flakes (about 1 ½ tbsp), two (2) medium cloves minced (or crushed in a garlic press). Add the oil/juice to the chicken and mix well. Marinate overnight. Bake at 425 until brown and crispy. Ten (10) lbs takes about an hour and ten (10) minutes. Make sure you rotate the cookie sheets and rearrange them after cooking for a half (½) hour.

And for the sauce:

A bottle of Franks® Red Hot sauce to a cube of butter. Simmer until mixed.

If you want HOT hot sauce use Tabasco® instead of Franks®.

If you want it fiery, add cayenne pepper to the Tabasco® blend and simmer a little longer...

(photos to follow)

**Be sure to use Spanish style chorizo. You can get good mexican chorizo in most mexican food stores, but the flavor is dramatically different. In Utah, Colosimo's is the only brand that is authentic spanish. The difference between the two (2) is dramatic--the recipe looks the same, but they don't taste the same. Vinegar, peppers, pork can be very varied in style and quality. Mexican Chorizo is great for mexican omelettes, burritos and other foods, but not lentils. (Not Spanish style lentils anyway.)

152. When Worlds Collide.

2007-01-25T15:02:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I was treated to one of the awkward social encounters of the century. Luckily I was not one of the parties involved, so I got to just watch the events unfold.

It all happened in the sporting complex at the local college where many, many people were using the indoor facilities to gain some much needed exercise. (The ‘much needed’ was my own addition.) I, of course, was not exercising, because I’m trying to maintain my girthish figure, but many other people were either walking or jogging or otherwise engaging the building in gravitational punishment.

Since it was free-play time, I assumed no one really belonged there, just as I assumed no one was prohibited from being there. I was standing in the open area in the middle of the track when some Byll and Svarnik* look-a-likes entered the free play area carrying plastic cases. I also noticed some hotties congregating across the way talking about gum and hair extensions.

It turns out the hotties were a legitimate team of cheerleaders from said college gathering for practice and the Byll and Svarnik look-a-likes were the sword fighting club gathering for what I assume is a weekly gathering of Guinevere-loving dreamers. There’s only one problem with dreaming about Guinevere: she doesn’t exist—not for the sword fighters’ club anyway.

So, a bunch of sword fighters had gathered and a bunch of cheerleaders had gathered. I envisioned the sword fighters running headlong into the crowd of cheerleaders, chopping heads and screaming battle cries in the Black Speech (language of Mordor) and Ye Olde Englishe. What I got was not as exciting, but more funny.

The Cheerleaders all went for a warm-up jog and then came back with a huge, rolled up gymnastics mat which they promptly began unrolling in the middle of the open area. Clearly not thinking about the sword club (or anything for that matter), they just went in like a bunch of space hogs. Then I looked at the wannabe swordsmen who were visibly shaken as they noticed their swordplay area shrinking. I could also see the worry start to build as the sword guys realized they were actually going to have to approach the women AND talk to them if they wanted to get enough space to…hmmm…do whatever the sword club does.

So the sword fighters had a little huddle and they chose one person to approach the cheerleaders and ask them to move the mat to the side and create enough space for all. I was not near enough to hear the conversation, but I could tell by the looks on their faces what was said. I bring you my interpretation of the conversation.

“Hi, excuse me.”

[chews gum]

[clears throat] “Excuse me.”

“Hi?”

“Hi. I was just wondering if you and your friends could move over there a bit so we can…wow! You are small. I bet I could fit two (2) of you in my belly.”

“Hi? No, we don’t have bellies. We work out.” [chews gum]

“Anyway, can you move over a few paces m’lady?”

“We can move in unison! Moving is fun! Ready! Okay! Five (5) six (6) seven (7) eight (8)…”

“Uh, thanks.”

“I like gum.”

Then the sword guy went over to the other sword fighters and pert-near collapsed. The other sword fighters were incapacitated and confused by the collapse of their leader, but soon everyone in the room was practicing swordfightery and cheerery. Happiness ensued. Later in the chat room, the message appeared:

Medieval Knievel: i almost dated a cheerleader i turned her down because she didnt have red hair

*Byll and Svarnik appear in anti-smoking television ads dressed in tunics and long boots. They are not very socially aware, but they don’t smoke and that’s what’s important. I’d bet $500 Bill and Svarnik’s characters have posters of Darth Vader in their bedrooms.

151. iCool

2007-01-17T14:48:00.000-07:00

And I really mean it this time. i (am) Cool.

Inventors are very forward thinking and develop new technologies at rates that make credit card interest rates embarrassed.

Early adopters grab new technologies in their infancy and ride the wave that is 'cool' while all their other friends are jealous enough to covet.

Regular folk buy new products when they become affordable enough to own, but not affordable enough to show off.

Laggers wait until it's impossible to avoid purchasing the new technology, such as vulcanized rubber and the cotton gin.

I am a lagger. I refuse to buy anything unless it is absolutely necessary for living. If 'the man' was going to make us pay for air, I would hold my breath for at least twenty (20) seconds before giving in. I would also pause every third breath (breath/3) to save on air costs. I would also boycott any air supplier who insists on having a company name like Aero Supply, Just Aire and Air Limited.

So being a lagger, I have recently purchased an iPod after carefully saving money and begging my wife Limpy for the right. And like buying air, it has become impossible for me to live without an iPod and so I had to get the biggest one. Unlike early adopters though, I have not had to purchase various models every time the latest has become available. I have also paid a relatively low price for a super-sized product that has a gigantic hard drive and is time tested and proven to launch one into coolness circles almost immediately. It's kind of like the forbidden city--and now I have the key.

In short, I have an iPod.

Neener.

(Now if only I owned any music...)

150. Death and Taxes

2007-01-11T22:04:00.000-07:00

There are two(2) absolutes:

Death
Taxes
The Office will be HI-larious every week

[quote michael] "Fool me once: strike one. Fool me twice...strike three."
"Hi." "Hi." "Hi." "Hi."
[quote the robot] "You are hot!"

Blog Patrol has been shorting me on the visits since August, 2004. (see my 'counters' section)
Driving in LA is never as bad as they tell you...well, except for when you really, really need to get somewhere and you left the domicile just a few minutes late because of a really huge zit that would have distracted the potential client.
Animals in sunglasses are funny.
24 (Twenty Four) has the longest lasting cell phone batteries.
Doughnut holes make me gassy.
Quemby is a cruel name to give a child. (Don't even try to argue, you will lose.)
Ideas are only good if you write them down. (Excuse me while I go write down my idea about recycling moon boots as centerpieces.)
The Colts will never win a Superbowl unless I decide not to be a fan anymore.
My car Space Lord may not recover from her escapades with a lamp post.
Hulk will always grace my top seventeen (17) movies.
Child stars always grow up normal.
The BCS is bull pucky.
If you name your kid Quemby I will call DCFS and then make fun of you.
Leaving your heart in San Fransisco is a horrible idea; you can get twice as much in other countries.
Crying lives here.

149. Washing Machines: The Big Lie.

2007-01-10T17:30:00.000-07:00

Many of you may think washing machines clean your clothes and conveniently flush the extracted dirt and lint down into the sewer. You couldn’t be more wrong.

This week our washing machine went on the fritz (not Fritz from the Swiss Family Robinson—it’s just an expression; roll with it.) The culprit of our washing woes was due to a broken lid switch—the most crucial part of the washing machine. Let me explain the gravity of the broken lid switch:

Without a lid switch, the agitator is unagitatable.
Without a lid switch, you get no calypso action.
Without a lid switch, the washer just quits and goes off to cry alone in the back of the closet—behind the clothes I mean.

So I, being the strong minded do-it-yourself fixer-upper I am, decided I could fix the washing machine myself with only a few tools and a little bit of common sense. That’s when I found it: the accumulated dirt and lint living scared within the washing machine waiting for a chance to rear up and maim someone.

See, I took the washer apart to get to the switch, and found out all the dirt it’s been extracting from the clothes was not going down the drain, but was being stored in the netherworkings of the washer. Not only was the washer not transporting waste out of my home, the washer was storing it for a future act of revenge or perhaps blackmail for when my book goes multiplatinum.

Anyway, I cleaned the washing machine inside and out; I replaced the switch (pictured), put the machine back together and washed a test batch of knits and delicates just to make sure everything was in working condition. Everything was perfect.

So what happened to the dirty lintbeast, you ask? I’m keeping it in a box for a future act of blackmail against a certain few of you.

148. Tube Socks are Classy

2007-01-08T20:05:00.000-07:00

Are you tired of those other socks, the kind that make your feet frown?
Are you upset that all your socks seem to have turned on you?
Are you tired of all those brands of socks that pull guns on your grandma and tell her they will cut her up real bad?

Well you’re not the only one.

I don’t know about you, but when I put on a brand new pair of socks, I want them fresh as a dewy Yellowstone morning and warm as a California vacation. I want them whiter than the virgin snows of Vermont and softer than the cotton from the fluffy fields of the American south. That’s why I buy Hanes® brand tube socks—the only socks that don’t suck.

I mean, what’s the use of buying new tube socks if they don’t caress the toes and heel bones in the supple warmth only the freshest socks could provide. That’s why Hanes® brand tube socks are the only socks that come in a re-sealable bag. Only Hanes’s® proprietary Sock Re-seal Self Re-sealer Freshness Seal Re-sealer Seal® can keep your socks as fresh as the first day they were manufactured. Let’s step over to the lab and see what the unique Sock Re-seal Self Re-sealer Freshness Seal Re-sealer Seal® re-sealable bag can do for you.

As you can see, socks packaged in the Hanes® Sock Re-seal Self Re-sealer Freshness Seal Re-sealer Seal® re-sealable bag are one hundred fifty percent (150%) more fluffier than those other brands—and an astonishing fifty percent (50%) more fluffier than Hanes’s® non-Sock Re-seal Self Re-sealer Freshness Seal Re-sealer Seal® packaged socks.

Listen to these actual customers

“When I tried those other tube socks, I felt like I was being held hostage by the footwear and the thug-like non-comfortable sock surface so typical of those other brands”
-Beyoncé

“The freshness of Hanes® tube socks are incredible; I feel like my feet have been given the youth and vitality I lost during the ‘70’s.”
-Donald Trump P.S. I hate Rosie.

My toenails don’t even fall off when I wear Hanes® tube socks. With those other socks, I heard voices telling me how to fashion a shiv out of a toothbrush and some rolled up newspaper.”
-stupidramblings

“Don’t even worry about those hater brands. Hanes® tube socks keep my skin silky smooth, my face young and vital looking, and my vision just keeps improving. Thanks Hanes®.”
-Halle Berry

So get your Hanes® brand tube socks today! Remember, they’re the only socks with the proprietary Sock Re-seal Self Re-sealer Freshness Seal Re-sealer Seal® built right in to the packaging! You’ll never buy another pair of socks, or my name isn’t Michael Jordan. Buy today and we’ll throw in this complimentary pair of red pumps to go with your tube socks.

Order yours today.

147. Unclean! Unclean!

2007-01-03T11:13:00.000-07:00

Doctor: So what exactly is the problem?
Us: Well, he’s crying.
Doctor: Um…babies cry sometimes…
Us: Not our baby. He’s an angel. He’s been sleeping through the night since two months and he
rarely cries except if you drop sand in his eyes.
Doctor: Well, babies change and grow and when they reach a certain age, they learn they have appetites and they learn not to just be content with current circumstances.
Us: Our baby doesn’t change. He’s cherubic.
Doctor: Has he grown at all since his birth five (5) months ago?
Us: [confused] I don’t see where you’re going with this.
Doctor: Growing hurts. How much taller is he than when he was born?
Us: Well…[still confused], he’s grown seven (7) inches. He’s going to be a quarterback and throw for two thousand (2000) yards.
Doctor: [confused] I don’t see where you’re going with this.
Us: Can’t you see he’s got potential?
Doctor: For what?
Us: Football.
Doctor: [awkward pause] Anyway, growing hurts. If you grew seven (7) inches in the next five (5) months, you’d hurt a little too.
Us: Oh. Well, it doesn’t seem like he’s in pain, it seems more like he’s panicked or like he just witnessed O’Donnell vs. Trump 2006.
Doctor: Oh, that. Why didn’t you say so?
Us: We did; we told you he was crying.
Doctor: Well, let’s check him out.
Us: It’s about time.
Doctor: [tries to turn the first mate into a circus worker] Seems like all his joints work properly. Putting weight on his belly doesn’t seem to hurt him.
Us: Excuse me, is “belly” a medical term?
Doctor: Yes, it’s Latin for “gut.”
Us: I always wondered where the term came from.
Doctor: Germany.
Us: Huh.
Doctor: His ears look normal.
Us: Inside or out?
Doctor: Both.
Us: Can I get a woot woot?
Doctor: Woot woot?
Us: Does he have a torn ACL?
Doctor: What?
Us: A boo boo on his knee.
Doctor: No, he seems perfectly normal to me.
Us: Then why was he crying?
Doctor: Because he’s a baby.
Us: You got that right.
Doctor: Whatever.
Us: Does this rash look normal? [exposes shoulder]
Doctor: [hurls] That’s leprosy. Try to mix in a shower and some hygiene once in a while.
Us: You’re not the boss of us.
Doctor: That’ll be two hundred fifty dollars ($250).
Us: Why.
Doctor: Malpractice insurance.
Us: Oh no. No no no no NO NO NO. You are not a doctor, you’re a physicians assistant. That’s gotta be less expensive.
Doctor: More malpractice insurance.
Us: Oh. Can’t you give us a break?
Doctor: See all those secretaries wearing scrubs? They’re not going to eat tonight unless you pay me.
Us: Oh. Okay. Why do secretaries wear scrubs?
Doctor: I don’t know. Dismissed.
Us: Okay. Bye then.
Doctor: Bye.
Us: Wanna meet at Sizzler later?
Doctor: No.
Us: Red Lobster?
Doctor: Yeah. Yeah, Red Lobster sounds good.
Us: [rings bell] Unclean! Unclean! [wanders off into the distance]

146. No Blood for Energon!

2007-01-02T14:27:00.000-07:00

For those of you who plan on missing TRANSFORMERS this next July, let me be the first to tell you you are a moron. I mean, Hello! Decepticons? Autobots? Does none of this stir your inner eight-(8)-year-old? Why would you miss what’s sure to be the blockbuster hit of the summer? This is going to be the next big thing in Sci-Fi since Eragon and The Hulk.

Let me try to change your mind:

[cue music] Transformers: More than meets the eye.
Transformers: Robots in disguise.
Autobots wage their battle to destroy the evil forces of the Decepticons.

If that doesn’t do it, let’s try my new tactic: persuasion by plot summary.

The movie will start out with a look back at NASA’s Mars rover. Why? Because the Mars rover was the first real-world (well, not our world) Transformer to see specific use in scientific missions. So, the Mars rover landed safely on Mars only to have been destroyed by…I don’t know what--the teaser doesn’t show it. What I do know is that the teaser says that it was the only warning we would ever have received. Then they display the Autobots logo.

Well, when the Decepticons learn there is sentient life on other planets, they have but one choice--go to said planet and steal all the Energon cubes. Besides the stupid dictator Autobots have control of the Mars House and Mars Senate and they have a bungling president (Megabush Electricybertron, played by Patrick Warburton). It’s tough for an honest Decepticon to get anything done with that pile-o-crap Megabush Electricybertron in the Oval Volcano.

So they invade earth. Little do they know the sentient life forms on planet Earth have no energon to speak of. They don’t have any robot sense either for that matter. Decepticons that they are, they find they are powerless to cut through the red tape involved in Earth’s energy exploration application process, but they decide to patiently importune country governments for rights to explore for Energon.

Unfortunately, Energon is made unavailable to Decepticons despite expert predictions of vast stores of it underneath Alaska. (Side note: Alaska seems to have been blessed with an inordinate amount of unreachable valuables: gold, oil, Energon, heat. The list goes on and on.) Dejected, the Decepticons decide to leave planet Earth with plans to secretly come back later if nothing else works out.

Just then the Autobots show up and war is waged on planet Earth between two enemy alien factions. People are reminded quickly of the Rosie O’Donnell/Donald Trump spat of late ’06. The Alien robots destroy Earth in a ballet-beautiful dance of robot-war destruction. Earth’s citizens are heard gasping in horror and some lucky few (see: stupidramblings, Penny Hardaway, Lance Bass) are seen curled up in the fetal position sucking their thumbs. Then all the robots are destroyed by organics and the movie ends. But during the credits, one of the dead robots shows signs of life but hasn’t enough Energon left to power up and escape. Fortunately, having an undead robot leaves room for a sequel--pending box-office success.

I predict the sequel doesn’t happen. “No blood for Energon!” I say.

145. "I Don't Believe in You"

2007-01-02T09:24:00.000-07:00

Over the Hedge (2006 Bruce Willis, Gary Shandling, Steve Carell)

(Ultra short review:) This movie was as mediocre as its predecessor, New York Minute.

(Thoughtful Review:) I can’t help thinking there’s nothing real positive about this movie. It was just OK all the way around. The short in the special features was the highlight of the movie. When Steve Carell’s character ** SPOILER ALERT** denies the existence of a boomerang by saying “I don’t believe in you” even though the boomerang is taunting him, I spit Hawaiian Punch all over the first mate.

(Standard rating:) Eight (8) out of seventeen (17) stars
(Non-standard rating:) This movie is good enough if someone lends it to you. In other words, don't pay to see this one.

Ice Age 2: The Meltdown (2006 Ray Romano, John Leguizamo, Dennis Leary)

(Ultra short review:) They made a sequel? Yes, they did. And it’s like Ashley Simpson’s nose job; it’s better, but you still want to boo it.

(Thoughtful Review:) I liked the sequel to Ice Age (2002). In fact I liked it more than the original. And that’s one to grow on.

(Standard rating:) Ten (10) stars out of seventeen (17)
(Non-standard rating:) It’s worth owning, but only if you still own the original.

144. Hitch, Fiddler on the Roof

2006-12-31T09:32:00.000-07:00

Here are some more movie reviews. And don't forget to check my last movie reviews if you missed them.

Hitch (2005 Will Smith, Eva Mendes, Kevin James)

(Ultra short review:) Mustard on Kevin James’ clothing: three (3) times. F words: one (1). Disfigurement of Will Smith’s face: one (1). Legitimate laughs: six (6). Thrown inhalers: one (1). Times this movie made me think of every other romantic comedy: three million six hundred fifty three thousand six hundert and forty seven (365,3,64,7).

(Thoughtful Review:) Hitch is a good enough movie I guess. It’s got plenty of comedy for men and for women , and it’s got enough real-world significance for me to give it a thumbs up. Kevin James is nails in this movie as is the James/Smith team. Downside: like every other romantic comedy, this movies ceases to be funny just about the time the characters take their situation too seriously—see: couple falls in love, couple has a trying time, couple almost breaks up, couple gets back together; many, many people buy the movie only to donate it to a third world country three (3) months later. Sorry The Congo, you’re going to get Hitch next Christmas

(Standard rating:) Eleven and a half (11 1/2) stars out of seventeen (17).
(Non-standard rating:) Guys, you won’t feel embarrassed to have your friends see this movie on your shelf until three (3) months from now when the movie should be shipped to The Congo.

Fiddler on the Roof (Topol, Norma Crane, Leonard Frey, Molly Picon)

(Ultra short review:) Who the heck is Topol, and how does he get through life with just one name?

(Thoughtful Review:) Fiddler on the Roof is a classic movie and I don’t make bones about the fact that I love it. I have even been known to prop my arms up, elbows and ninety degrees (90˚) and dance to "Tradition." On the other hand, the movie is much too heavy for me starting at the wedding scene **SPOILER ALERT** when the local head honcho dood comes in and busts up the wedding party. On the other hand, there’s always the fact that they named one of the daughters ‘Hotel.’

(Standard rating:) Fourteen (14) stars out of seventeen (17)
(Non-standard rating:) Seriously, there’s a female character named ‘Hotel.’ That’s A-one (1), top-quality comedy, folks.

143. Rocky Balboa

2006-12-30T00:35:00.000-07:00

Sorry I haven’t blogged for so long; I couldn’t find my crayons to write anything down. This holiday season has been filled with much movie watching at the ramblings household. In the next couple of days, I'll post reviews for each of the movies I've watched this holiday season. As promised, first is Rocky Balboa--and The Sound of Music.

The Sound of Music (1965 Julie Andrews, Christopher Plummer)

(Ultra short review:) That reverend mother sure can sing—too bad she can’t fly like Gidget can.

(Thoughtful Review:) Do we really have to get into this? The reader is already tired and we haven’t even gotten to Rocky yet. No? Well…Okay then.

(Standard rating:) Thirty three (33) stars out of seventeen (17)
(Non-standard rating:) Girls shouldn’t have boy haircuts. Julie Andrews would have looked a lot better with shoulder length feathered hair. And the lonely goat song makes me wistful.

Rocky Balboa (2006 Sylvester Stallone, Burt Young, Antonio Tarver, Peter Petrelli)

(Ultra short review:) Rocky is old, but he’ll kick your trash if you bother his not-girlfriend.

(Thoughtful Review:) Rocky Balboa is not just a good Rocky movie, it’s a good movie period. I thought the Rocky character was brilliantly displayed in this movie, and I’ll fight anyone who says differently in a charity match. Rocky Balboa didn’t display Rocky as a fighter with a vision, but a vision of a man who is a fighter. Ol’ Sly delivered a few soliloquies that brought me to my figurative knees and then built me back up and made me want to be a better person. In short, go see it. It’s not a ‘Rocky’ Movie. It’s a movie. Downside: some might tell you the movie (pre-fight) is too long and never goes anywhere. I say the issues the Rocky character faces (loss of a spouse, estrangement of a son, helping strangers) couldn’t be shorter. It’s a story of him trying to weave his personal struggles in with his everyday life. It’s not long—it’s brilliant.

(Standard rating:) Fifteen (15) stars out of (17).
(Non-standard rating:) My wife Limpy and I wanted to rent some of the early Rocky films to catch up. I can’t find any of them in any of the video rental stores within a five mile radius. People have Rocky fever again.

Watch for reviews on Fiddler on the Roof, Ice Age 2: The Meltdown, Hitch, Over the Hedge.

Grettel! The PRINCE!

142. Tradition. Tradition!

2006-12-24T19:10:00.000-07:00

So my wife Limpy and I started a new tradition this year. We’re watching Fiddler on the Roof right now with the first mate. I mean, what says “Christmas” better than that Wattoo sound alike, Tevye, and the good citizens of Anatevka?

On the other hand, my wife Limpy and I come from completely distinct cultures: She’s from the Caribbean, I’m from Utah; she hates milk, my family comes from dairy farmers; she’s a grade A beauty, I am not attractive; I’m stupid, she’s intelligent; I say tomato, she says tomato.com.

On the other hand, if I were a rich man, I’d change it all and make sure to pay her enough just to conform to our culture. Until then, though, I intend on meeting her halfway—so we’re watching a movie about Jewish people. Thus begins our Christmas tradition.

On the other hand, I’ve just celebrated my thirty-third (33rd) birthday on the twenty-second (22nd). Fortunately this year I was blessed to be able to stretch my birthday for three days. Thursday (the day before my birthday) my wife Limpy and I had invited my siblings’ children over for a sleepover and give my siblings a chance to shed the layers of self-loathing and do a little bit of last minute shopping. Or to find all the lost “hidden” gifts in the attic.

On the other hand, Thursday was also the day of the big bowl game of my favorite college football team. What was I to do? Watch the game—that’s what. Not before I planned myself a birthday party, however. So I drew a donkey so we could play ‘pin the tail’ on its butt. I also went down to Wizzymart to buy bags of party favors. By planning the party, I was given the chance to be completely selfish and forget everyone else once the game started. I must mention at this point that I don’t have ESPN at home, so I planned all this at my friends’ house. We played ‘pin the tail on the donkey,’ cried a little, blew out candles, and I let them eat cake.

On the other hand, Friday was my actual birthday, so I forced my niece and nephews to serve me all morning before we delivered them back to their parents’ house. I requested waffles—not too brown—with real blueberry syrup, home-butchered bacon, and homemade eggnog. The eight-(8)-year-old did a mediocre job of things, but the five-(5)-year-old and the two-(2)-year-old didn’t do a very good job with that old sow out back. Then I slept in bed all day crying.

On the other hand, Saturday was the day my parents could watch the first mate, so that’s when my wife Limpy and I took our chance to go on our date. I dragged her to see Rocky Balboa—did you know ol’ Sly Stallone is getting pretty old now?—and then we went to one of those fancy Japanese restaurants where they light the food on fire right in front of you. We didn’t even get sick this year like we did last year and the year before that. Chalk one up for the chefs!

On the other hand, so that’s how you squeeze three days out of your birthday. Next time I promise a review of Rocky Balboa.

141. Audible but Deadly

2006-12-19T10:33:00.000-07:00

So today I tried to sneak in a little silent-but-deadly, but I forgot about the silent. Did I mention I was in the office when it happened and four (4) or five (5) people were blessed by the aire of stupid? Well since the only thing to do was laugh, I did. Can't cry over spilt milk. Until you are alone at home curled up in the upstairs bathtub sucking your thumb.

Anyway, Christmas is upon us. I just wish she weren't so weighty--and why did her parents name her Christmas anyway?

I've just finished all the shopping yesterday. I also started yesterday since we aren't doing anything big this year. We spent all the Christmas money on lottery tickets--I have a good feeling about my chances.

Yesterday I purchased a fishin' pole for the first mate. He'll grow into it. And I crocheted a new outfit for my wife Limpy. I hope she doesn't read this before the big day, but I think I'm safe--even if she does read this, she doesn't know what the outfit is. Is it overalls? Is it a sun dress? Is it a new church dress? Is it long johns? No matter what, the surprise will remain intact.

I was also treated yesterday to an overdose of Holiday cheer. Nothing says 'Happy Holidays' like an Indianapolis Colts win. Indy looked good last night for the first time in about a month and it couldn't have happened at a better time. The Colts used to be undefeated, but they started channeling the '72 Saints there for a while. Fortunately, they came back to their senses and played some defense. They won by, like, forty eight (48) points or something. Despite me being a rabid Colts fan, I still like calling Peyton Manning 'Peyote.' It makes me feel good.

My toenail grew back and yesterday I clipped it. I had lost it whilst playing football and I was afraid I would never enjoy the toe protection that had previously been my sole sense of security. Now I feel safe again--no need to eat sunscreen anymore.

Finally, no one--and I mean NO ONE--wanted to come to my blog party, so I cancelled it. If you need me, I'll be crying in the upstairs tub again.

140. I Believe

2006-12-11T09:59:00.001-07:00

Therefore I am.

If you're wondering whether I believe in Santa Claus or not, you have your answer. The important issue is whether or not the first mate believes.

I mean, he's four months old already, making him just about the right age to start learning about Santa. And corporal punishment. Later on, we'll teach him about the cover two (2) defense and how to defend a lefty on the court, but that will have to wait until he learns to walk. Or crawl for that matter.

Last night we enjoyed a visit from Jolly ol' Saint Nick at the house of some friends. I think this Santa was 'the real deal' because he knew everyone's names and told funny jokes and was sober and wore jingle bells and was very engaging. He also sees me while I'm sleeping as was evidenced when I woke up late last night and he was hovering over my bed. I thought, "That Santa--he really knows how to check up on a guy." I bet I'm on his good list.

The first mate thought Santa was funny. He stared with all the wonder and excitement all children should exhibit at Christmas (except in Spain where the three (3) wise men bring gifts on the sixth (6th) of January instead.) Then on his way out, Santa sang a song while he jingled his jingle bells and the first mate was barely even alarmed.

That kid's got promise. And a wish list as long as his arm to leave for Papa Noel on Christmas Eve...

139. For Lo, It's Time My Car Got a Blog Name.

2006-12-08T08:08:00.002-07:00

Until recently, I've had no need to name the car because I've had no reason to recount stories about her.

Well, that is until last night. Allow me to play the role of raconteur

See, Last night there was a drunken woman. Not mine. I was entering a parking lot at the local church where I was going to play low-intelligence basketball with my low-intelligence friends. As I was arriving, I noticed a pair of amorous youth who were making out à la freakery. Then I noticed the drunken woman.

She was exiting the church and staggering under the load of two (2) sewing machines. She might not have been drunk and only staggered because she was carrying so many sewing machines (more than one (1) is too much, I always say), but I prefer to think she was drunk.

Anyways, as I entered the parking lot, I was barraged with a veritable cornucopia of intriguing and distracting images. And thus I made contact with the concrete base of a lamp post. I struck the post with my left front wheel and allowed it to scrape the entire side of the car. In my defense, the window pillar of my car obscured my view of the lamp post through the sweeping gentle turn I was making. The lamp post was probably cognizant of its position and chose to wait until the last moment to enter my view.

'Yeah but what's the car's name?' you ask. Well after having made such a pathetic driving error, there's no other choice but to name her 'my car Space Lord.' Enjoy this footage of the damage:

138. Wherein I Became Handy

2006-12-05T10:23:00.000-07:00

(Not to be confused with handsy.)

So when we had our house built, we tried to make sure we built it in a way that would speak to people. We wanted our house to send the message "We need professional help" to the rest of the world. For the most part I think we succeeded, but we hyper-succeeded extra overtime in one little detail: we have no medicine cabinet in our master bathroom.

Or any bathroom for that matter. Because I am practically Bob Vila, or whoever it was who they replaced him with on 'This Old House,' I just decided to do it myself. I mean what could go wrong with cutting a hole in the wall and inserting raw materials and home-cut glass? I'm just asking.

You be the judge:

Before--
And after--
And somore after--
And e'enmore after--

Can you tell I like my pain killers? I figure they will dull the dreadful 'everyday' in my life and at the same time, make me feel more sedate. Thank you Traumeel®! I'm also feeling a rush of confidence knowing I finished the project with more than sixty-five percent (65%) of my fingers intact. I'd say it's a good day. And the best part is I don't have to store my analgesic rub under the matress anymore.

In an unrelated note: despite the name that makes you think of the trots, this is one of the best taco stands in the Los Angeles area. I think you should try it out. And get this: it's near the LAX Airport--whose food will give you the trots.

Sometimes.

137. Mars is for Lovers.

2006-12-01T07:43:00.000-07:00

Let’s get one thing straight right here and now: I am an überdork when it comes to space and Venus and whatnot. Just look at my sidebar, I have a link to NASA’s science page carefully camouflaged near Strongbad and Eric Snider.

So I wasn’t too surprised last night to find myself watching PBS last night instead of The Office because they were talking about meteors hitting the moon and the earth and changing the face of the earth and the face of the organisms that live(d) here. I mean, you’d make the same choice ninety-nine (99) times out of a hundred (100) too. It was kinda cool (to me, the überdork.) For example, large quantities of gold have been found in the impact crater of one of Earth’s older impacts. In others, diamonds, uranium, space proteins, and other valuable and/or important substances to Earth’s inhabitants or economy have been found.

Unfortunately, the show took an unexpected and dramatic turn to Mars’ potential to support life and the likelihood Jupiter’s moon, Europa, could already have life forms. Like a nebula-crazed sheep, I kept right on watching as my shepherd, the TV, spelled it all out to me in the geekiest way possible.

Apparently, a faction of scientists exists who think they could warm up Mars, find liquid water, and make great strides toward making the atmosphere human-friendly in about 50 years. Keep in mind these are the people Trekkies look down on as dorks (but secretly envy them because as dorky as they are, they are much more likely to be living in space soon than those idiots who glue on Spok ears and surface from their troglodyte lairs in their parents’ basement once a year wearing Starfleet uniforms and traveling great distances only to find out other people A) exist and B) have cooler Star Trek gear than them and C) that Geri Ryan was a Star Trek anomaly and neither of the trekkie girls at the convention look like her.) These Mars people (and I use the term loosely) are convinced that humans will be living on Mars not just one day, but one day soon and that we’re probably going to have to repopulate there anyway because the republicans are going to burn the earth alive in a fit of fossil-fuel fueled end-of-the-world skid.

(The previous statements have not been verified by the FDA and may lead to serious damage.)

Anyway, one of these dork geniuses (genii?) was all stressed because he was trying to draw pictures of what Mars life forms would look like based on the limited information we have about its climate and elemental makeup. He had a lot of jellyfish-like versions—very creative—and a couple that looked like Strongbad’s Trogdor drawing. I said CONSUMATE V’s! I swear one of these creatures consisted of nothing but thumbs and mucous.

And I thought to myself: (and please pardon the language, but there’s only one set of words to describe what I thought to myself) What the hell kind of job is that? First of all, if my tax money is going directly or indirectly to people who get to make amoeba drawings for a living I want out. OR hook me up with that job—I know I could get more creative than Milhouse version 0.4. On the other hand, maybe he was drawing Martians as a hobby in which case I say, “Mr. Scientist, this is a woman; put down the homemade tricorder and talk to her. Proceed with prescribed activity until:

•Your violent shaking stops
•You realize her skin is smooth, not like Martian soil
•You no longer have a desire touch her hair
•And until you realize your alien sketches are nothing more than an adult version of Napoleon’s liger.”

I’m the first to get all excited about space ‘n’ stuff, because it gives me respect for creation and patience, but I’ll be Swedish before I’ll let any of my mental energy be wasted on the prospect of space exploration. There’s a difference between my healthy respect for the study of space and their unearthly (pun intended) desire to spend billions and trillions of my dollars to put a man on Mars. I mean, just watch Red Planet one day (it may take two (2) or three (3) viewings to get all the way through it because of the disgust factor) and you’ll know that a mission to mars could only end in disaster.

Alf was a puppet.

136. Ugh...I'm one of THOSE people.

2006-11-29T14:18:00.000-07:00

My life has taken a dramatic turn since the first mate was born. It's not as dramatic as the time I didn't win the spelling bee or the time I had no money and ate rice everyday for about a week. But since the first mate joined us in the ramblings household, my whole focus has changed. Notable changes include:

Instead of trying to look good just in case famous people come over to the house, now my whole objective in the 'appearance' category includes: anything that doesn't get baby vomit on my nicer clothes* (*Nicer Clothes=not pijamas)
Instead of coming home from work and doing whatever I want, I come home from work, try to not make the first mate cry, and try to not stifle the first mate's mental and emotional progress as I am wont to do.
Instead of cooking real food, I boil water for the first mate's bottle.
Instead of using the weekend to PAR-TAY, now the weekend consists of sleeping. And don't confuse my tiredness with the baby staying up all night. He consistently sleeps nine (9) hours per night without any prompting from my wife Limpy and me or any chloroform or other barbiturates. The sleeping comes from nothing other than laziness, and the first mate makes it much easier to find an excuse to just stay home and be sleepy.
Last, but certainly not least, I now blog about the first mate often. 'The first mate is precious,' I say. 'The first mate is worthy of admiration by the following people:

Screech
Raven Symone
Mary Kate and Ashley
Lisa "Left Eye" Lopes
Jack Lalanne
Rachel Ray
Willie Wonka
Lionel Richie
Captain Jack Sparrow
Furbees
The cast of Passions
Dan Brown
Hillary Duff
Elvis
And any other famous person who has profited from my use of their name in my blog.'

So, yes, I am one of the 'my-kid-is-the-greatest' bloggers. Nothin's more funny than that. And I know funny. Here's another blatant attempt to tell you why my kid is great and also to tell you to stay away from him:

I was speaking to a guy on a plane just before thanksgiving who had been in Kathmandu. He asked me a lot about my book and plot summary and a whole bunch of other stuff. It turns out he's a documentarian and author. Imagine his horror when I told him my key to writing a successful novel included the successful use of adverbs. I told him I was going to make sure to use an adverb with every verb. He looked like he was going to sick up. I never told him I was joking, so he's probably somewhere blogging about what a moron I am.

135. Will You Please Hammy the Analgesic Cream?

2006-11-27T13:27:00.000-07:00

Thanksgiving was uneventful.

I really mean it; nothing happened.

Nothing.

And then we ate pie.

OK, one thing happened. I obliterated my hamstring muscle while playing flag football with the friends-n-family. I was set to catch a long pass. The defender was chasing. The ball floated gently over my shoulder. I turned to run screaming, and my hamstring tore. I felt like I'd been hit with a hammer in the middle of the back of my leg.

So I started wondering why I'm the first normal person I know who's ever had a hamstring injury. The world's top athletes get them all the time. Hamstring injuries are to track athletes as groupies are to rock bands--they both lurk in the background waiting for a chance to get noticed and then they sue you. Anyway, why do normal, everyday Joes not ever experience the pulled hamstring?

It's because nobody uses their hamstring. Nobody. Well, except athletes. Nothing we normal schlubs do on a daily basis requires one to even HAVE a hamstring, let alone use it. So aparently I am an athlete. Who would have guessed?

Anyway, I searched WebMD for the term 'hamstring' to see what to do about my latest medical condition and found out our hamstrings are actually quite useful:

Ahem.

The hamstring is not one muscle, but three--kinda like the three musketeers. 'All for one and one for all' I always say. But our muscle-y musketeers serve different purposes, see. Some of the three muscles connect underneath the buttocks to pull the femur backwards (see 'power running') and the rest connect behind the knee and serve to bend the latter. (see 'best sentence ever written').

Well, the one I tore in my maniacal athletic flurry was the kind that help me with the power running, or the one that connects under my buttock. Look what I can do!:

Taking stairs two by two: check.
Eating massive amounts of turkey: check.
Sitting sedentarily on the couch watching football: check.
Jogging forty (40) feet across a busy road to attend a basketball game: no go.
Standing on the double yellow line for a few moments waiting for a chance to finish crossing the road: check.
Becoming roadkill: no go.

That's how I roll. And if you're wondering whether or not being athletic so you can experience a pulled hammy is worth it, it's not. Better to just watch others play sports and get injured.

134. Voyeur Kidding Me!

2006-11-20T21:12:00.000-07:00

No! I'm not! But I'll get to that in a minute.

This weekend, I have been on the road again. I have also adopted a very strict diet. It's because of the goiter. Usually when I travel, I request a minifridge in my hotel room, and usually I get it. This trip was an exception.

So how does one eat on the road when one wants to eat healthy and one doesn't have a fridge? One goes to the grocery store to buy a lot of fruit and carrots and whatnot.* One usually buys lunchmeat so one can make lean healthy sandwiches on whole grain bread, but without a fridge, how does one make a sandwich?

That's where the beef jerky comes in. One thought it would be disgusting, but it's actually pretty good if one has no other option. And one had no other option. None. If one puts greens (lettuce in this case), mustard, and jerky on bread, and then carry it in your unrefrigerated bag, the moisture in the greens and mustard rehydrates the jerky and one doesn't even have to chew so much.

It's not the best option, but it's much better than eating out. And I've lost a few pounds, but that's because of the ulcers. [Boo! Hiss! get to the voyeur story!]

Okay. Okay. The voyeur.

Two years ago when I was participating in the same trade show, two men (and I use the term loosely) were snapping photos in the exhibit hall. Pictures are not too out of the ordinary at a trade show, but I noticed these guys were different. One of the guys, the internet predator looking one, walked the hall looking for pretty girls. The other one, the one with a mullet and a camera, was snapping photos of the creepy predator one whenever he would share proximity with any attractive woman. (Keep in mind these are not the type of trade shows where they actually import pretty girls to attract business. It was also not the kind of environment where people would expect that type of behavior.)

When I wised up to their act, I confronted them. They stopped taking photos of people after I told them how despicable it was, but claimed "we were only having a little fun."

Today I ran into the predator one again. He didn't have a pit crew like last time, but he was following the more attractive women around. Then he had the nerve to come up to me and ask, "Hey, remember me?" like we were old buddies or something.

I said, "Yeah, did you think I'd forget?"

Then he walked away. I guess he didn't want me to remember him. That's a point we can both agree on.

*Whatnot was listed as an ingredient on the burgers in a restaurant I went to once. I ordered water--I'm afraid of whatnot.

133. A Dolphin Named Kirby

2006-11-17T08:31:00.000-07:00

So I haven’t blogged in a while—because what’s funnier than a torn ligament and a stay overnight in the hospital?

Actually, it’s because I’ve started to write my book. It’s a coming-of-age thriller about a teenager’s romantic failures in an increasingly difficult world. Or it’s about a dolphin named Kirby. I haven’t decided yet. I’ve started the first chapters and left the story kind of ambiguous so I could finish the plot however I want. Needless to say, when I get a moment to write, I am more inclined to work on the book so I can sell it. This blog, while intriguing, is not a money maker—I have to go with the payoff option.

So don’t think I’m not posting because I don’t like you. The book is more important (for now.)

Anyways, I thought I’d try my hand at posting a little video. This is a video I took with my phone while at a gathering of friends. I tell you, this kid has a future in slow movie action sequences and slow monster truck rallies.

You know that thing I mentioned when I was telling you about the thing I was talking about? (Click here for back story.) Well my prediction came true. None of my readers have clicked on any of my sponsors ads since I started hawking certain products I don’t want to mention for fear my advertisers will never net me any revenue again.

Hopefully my ads will start to reflect the true spirit of my site again soon. And hopefully those ads will be appealing to my loyal readers, so I’m including these key phrases in an effort to do just that:

Hostess® brand snack cakes
Colossal pansies
Mensa International
Mickey Mouse club
Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen
Monique Coleman
Hip Hop MP3
Horse pucky Warning! Hilarious link.
Pooper Scoopers®
Long in the tooth
Hamburger helper
Clamato® refreshing drink (It’s made with clams AND tomatoes)
Cuy...

132. Nipper Skipper RCA

2006-11-13T08:31:00.000-07:00

So my good friend MG has started a blog and I implore you to check it out here. The normal trial period of sustained posts of a humorous nature before one will be added to the sidebar will be foregone with MG on the strength of his longstanding funniness through the years.

He was also best man at my wedding, which means he probably wouldn't have made the guest list for any of yours. I mean, 'best man' is a fancy way of saying 'second only to the groom' which means MG was stupid's first attendant at one time. Welcome to the blog world, MG.

Anyhoo, a few things about TV:

'The Office' is the best show on TV, hands down. Steve Carell has the best delivery of any comedic actor and is the best funny character on TV since Kramer on 'Seinfeld.' Watch the last episode of the office here. Best line of last week's episode. "...the board voted last week to close the Scranton branch." "On whom's authority." "The board's."

'My Name is Earl' is almost as good, and it leads 'The Office' in, so it's got my vote. I don't feel like linking to it.

'The best new reality show is 'Heroes.' It's very realistic. My wife Limpy and I watch it every week. The character acting is good, and the story is setting up well. You don't get so lost as when you watch 'Lost' and as far as reality goes, '24' is the only reality show better than 'Heroes.' Check out the latest episode here. Saving cheerleaders is what I'm all about. All kidding aside, great show.

About the first mate:

The first mate is becoming exceptionally adept at Jedi mind tricks and is very good at making a sucker out of my wife Limpy and me. "Pick me up and hold me and smell my baby-hair" he seems to say as he peers at us with his liquid-pool eyes and his brooding lips. "I'm gonna be a quarterback when I grow up and throw for two thousand (2000) yards." He's just such a trooper. I've included a photo against my better judgment. I want you and your stalker friends to stay away from him. If you're wondering if I'm talking to you, the answer is yes. Besides, if you come around here looking to start something, the first mate will kick your trash. He's not a colossal pansy like me. Just look at the photo and admire from a distance.

The photog who took the picture here.

131. Little Italy is for Little Lovers.

2006-11-04T13:18:00.000-07:00

Which is my new name for San Diego's very own Little Italy. It's located downtown jammed in between the mall (which means 'bad' in Spanish) and the Harbor (which is Spanish for 'San Diego's Riviera'). Oh, and San Diego is Spanish for Saint Diego.

Anyway, I'm writing from the airport in Atlanta, through which I'm en route on my way to Missouri from San Diego. That's how I roll. San Diego was a very nice place to be stuck for a few days with the exception of a little fire alarm at my hotel last night at about 3:00 am.

Anyway, (just call this sidetrack-me-Saturdee), my hotel was right near Little Italy, so I got to sample genuine Little Italian food.

At one restaurant, I was enjoying my pre-fatty-food salad when I was paid a surprise visit from a cockroach. My waiter--who had been very laid back and masculine-ish previously--became extremely uptight a girlish when I showed it to him. Free dinner. Sweet.

At another restaurant, I ordered a pizza for carry-out (prosciutto with pepperoni), and sat down at the bar to wait for it. An elderly gentleman came to sit by me to wait for his pizza and proceeded to exclaim in a blaring, chant-like voice his surprise at seeing all the Mexicans in the place. Nevermind that I was trying to pretend he was not talking to me and that I was deaf and that possibly I was in a persistent vegetative state, he kept right on going--and in front of the mexican people who were hard at work. I couldn't get away from there fast enough and I'll consider myself lucky if my pizza only had a little saliva in it.

Tijuana style mini tacos are amazing--especially in San Diego. And it's only fitting that you buy and eat the mini tacos in Little Italy--where all your little dreams come true.

Someone found my blog by googling "nipper skipper rca."

And I want to become a sailor. Or a bell boy. Cuz sailors have a gorilla in every port and bell boys make a buttload of money--greedy little buggers...

130. Inkom: Stinkum--A Rare Svithe.

2006-10-30T09:11:00.000-07:00

The first time I remember hearing or saying the phrase, "You're not the boss of me," was when I was a resident of Inkom, Idaho (motto: Inkom: Stinkum). It's all because of one Bossy Ginger who was our neighbor.

See, back in One Thousand Nine-Hundred and Seventy Seven (1977) I was three (3) years old and my brother was five. Ginger was much older, stronger and selfish and she always told us what to do. Nevertheless, my mom Ramblimom always used to force us to invite Bossy Ginger to our birthday parties even though she was always so bossy and took control of the party activities.

Anyway, one day my mom asked my brother and me to take a bag of fresh garden tomatoes over to Bossy Ginger's parents. Bossy Ginger opened the door and we asked for her parents, but she wouldn't go get them and instead, she took the bag of tomatoes from us, reached in and pulled out the biggest one, and took a huge slobbery bite out of it and let the juice and seeds run down her chin.

And that's why I don't like tomatoes on my burger.

Unfortunately, I learned recently that Bossy Ginger (and that's really what we called her) had Downs Syndrome. My brother and I have been vilifying her for years and using the words 'Bossy Ginger' as a joke, and now I learn she had Downs Syndrome. It explains so much, the bossyness, being forced to invite her to parties even though she was much older than us. Through my three year old eyes I remember little, but I remember Ginger, and I remember her bossyness. I don't remember her being different at all. I don't remember her as anything other than the bossy kid next door.

As an adult, I notice the differences in people and unfortunately my jaded inner self makes judgments and hedges for what I think will happen based past experience. I wish sometimes we were all a little more like children in the respect that I wish we woould allow ourselves to experience and then judge instead of judge and then experience. Basically, when I lived next to Bossy Ginger, I had no preconceived notions about her. I had no misconceptions. I allowed myself to wait until our interaction before I made any judgments about her. Now I'm learning those judgments were largely uninformed or at least under formed because I didn't realize the girl was different and because I was very young.

I know it's a kindof backwards look at things, but I'm glad I didn't notice 'differences' back then.

Anyway, Other things that happened in Inkom (remember I was three (3)):

I threw a broken bottle at my brother hitting him on the head but causing no injury. He threw a smaller piece of glass back at me and it hit me under the eye requiring three stitches. We blamed it on the neighbor who got a medieval beating.

I heard cats fighting for the first time. It scared me to death.

I was eating an Oreo outside and I decided I wanted to climb a tree. To save the Oreo for later, I put it in my pocket. Not adviseable.

The fourteen (14) year old neigbors told us our farts were bionic and fed us our first caffienated beverages.

If one goes to the open front door of the neighbor's house and shouts certain words, one will be forced to be in time-out inside said house and play with old toys left over from the grown children of the homeowner. Come to think of it, she was kindof creepy.

My brother Chewy got knocked out while he was trying to sneak some marshmallows from the cupboard while we were watching Saturday morning cartoons. He threw up on the way to the hospital. Concussion was an early medical term for me.

My brother Chewy dropped a huge rock on his finger and required stitches. Ramblimom and ramblidad were out of town together, so all this happened at the neighbor's house.

Also while we were gone to the neighbor's house and just after my brother Chewy smashed his finger, I was riding a horse that was being led by the owner when the horse got spooked and ran away. At three (3) that can be a bit scary.

Lastly, riding your big wheel into the neighbor's house will get you a sound spanking.

129. PCP and Me Two (2): With a Vengeance.

2006-10-26T11:18:00.000-06:00

In case you missed the last installment:

I chronicled how the Pharmacy Counter Person was so unfriendly and non customer-service oriented that I was forced to buy the generic Flonase even though I had asked to buy...Aw, forget it. You can read it yourself here; it's not a freaking sitcom for crying out loud.

Anyway, I left the store after paying for my new drugs and decided to test out the drugs before going to far from the store. So I opened a box, pulled out a bottle, and primed it by spraying a few squirts into the air. The volume and general non-mist-like cloud of spray was my first clue that the generic brand was going to be a bit different than Flonase: The Original. Then I sprayed it into my nose.

Because I have been vigilantly guarding myself from allergy flare-ups by being diligent in my drug habits, I have not had a runny nose in years. It's been very nice, BTW. But this NEW spray that is NOT Flonase made my nose run in its inaugural trial. It's not just that the medicine is different as barb pointed out in her comment in the prequel to this post, but that the sprayer the liquid comes in delivers it into the nose as a liquid, not as a mist. I can't go into all the differences here, but suffice it to say that if I use a medicine to prevent a drippy nose, but that medicine CAUSES a drippy nose, that medicine is not the good stuff.

To restate, I don't want a runny nose, but my new unrunny-nose medicine makes my nose run. Something seemed amiss with that scenario. So later that night, receipt and drugs in hand, I went back to Wizzy-Mart. I approached the pharmacy counter and asked them to take their crappy drugs and give me the good stuff. That's when they called security.

Really what I said was that I didn't want the generic, and that I wanted real Flonase. The pharmacist was extremely unhappy, because he was going to have to throw away the original bottles of generic nose wash, because it's illegal to give them to someone else. He was also visibly upset that his staff didn't work very hard to satisfy the customer, and that he was going to lose money because of it.

And that's how I got my REAL Flonase--Now with Riboflavin!

128. PCP and Me.

2006-10-26T10:44:00.000-06:00

Remember those kids who can't eat choco-chip cookies at parties because they're allergic to everything?

Well I'm one of them.

Fortunately, I've found the right balance of drugs and psychotherapy, and my allergy problems have been nearly non-existant since The Great Maggot Migration of '65. I use generic over the counter Loratadine, and a steady oxygen-tube flow of Flonase (Fluticasone Propionate, 50 mcg.)

Well, my last bottle of Flonase is running out, so I called a pharmacy we'll call Wizzy-Mart, to ask if they had my old prescription in their system so I could get a refill. They told me I have refills left in the system, so I went down to the pharmacy inside Wizzy-Mart and ordered my new Flonase. They told me it would take about ten (10) minutes to fill my prescription and that I should enjoy the beauty of the electronics section--which I do.

After coveting the HD TV's for about eleven (11) minutes and stopping at the makeup counter, I went back to the pharmacy to pick up my Flonase only to find a line of about four (4) old people. Being old, it took each of them about half (1/2) an hour to take care of business, so it took me ten (10) more minutes to pick up my Flonase.

Only, see, when I got to the counter, they had given me the generic version of Flonase. I asked, "I asked for Flonase."

Pharmacy Counter Person (or PCP): "We always run the generic; it's cheaper for you."

Me: "But you didn't tell me you were giving me generic. How much more is it going to cost me to get the good stuff?"

PCP: "I don't know; I'd have to run it."

Me: "Then run it; I want to know how much it's going to cost me to get what I asked for."

PCP: "Okay," she said, looking perturbed. After a few minutes she came back and said, "The drug costs about forty dollars ($40) more, so you can estimate your co-pay from there."

At that point, a line of old people was developing behind me so I asked, "Can you check please?" Only to hear another PCP tell my PCP they don't have any brand name Flonase in stock. So I took the generic. During the awkward moments while my credit card transaction was being finalized, I started getting more and more angry at the non customer-friendly way I was treated. I didn't ask her to give me a massage; I asked her to check the price of the drug I asked for. I guess I was feeling angry about having my right to choose taken from me because they assumed I'd be unwilling to pay for the good stuff.

I said to PCP as I was signing the receipt, "You really should give people a better set of options."

PCP: "We always fill the generic because insurance companies don't like to pay for the name-brand."

Me: "Then you should tell her [pointing to the drop-off counter] to inform the customers theif prescription would be filled using the generic unless otherwise specified."

PCP: [Stared at me with a customer-is-the-enemy look as I turned tail and ran out of the store.]

Tune in Tomorrow for the dramatic conclusion of this exceptionally long post.

And thanks to Daltongirl for giving me a reason to tell my own customer service story.

127. I'm Hawking Anti Fungal Creams Now

2006-10-19T12:22:00.000-06:00

OK, so on Monday I blogged about having lost my toenail playing flag football over the weekend. I thought it was a pretty creative way to tell a story and get a few laughs. I had no idea all of you had such an adverse reaction to toenails--even healthy toenails on impeccably attractive and clean feet. Only Barb (who gets her kicks by working in the ER) was disappointed by not seeing photos of The Emancipated Toenail.

The most startling development is my new sponsors. By contractual obligation I'm not supposed to tell you all to click on my advertisements, because that would cause unnatural advertising traffic on my sponsors' sites and they would pay me money that would have been ill-gained. In fact, I'm telling you now NOT to click on my advertisers unless you are interested in the product because I intend on earning my money the right way.

Nevertheless, I call your attention to my newest sponsors--the fungus people. See, ads for my blog are generated by google attaching content-specific sponsors to my blog. So in my blog when I say I lost a toenail AND that it was healthy WITHOUT any fungi or nuthin', Google Ads searched the content and finding the words 'toenail,' 'fungus,' and 'What, are you kidding me? put a fungus ad on my site for crying out loud;' decided to place fungus cream ads on my site.

I almost feel offended, but then I realize the fungus people pay good money to Google Adsense to get placed in places people will see them. And I guarantee I was the only one 'stupid' enough to have placed the words 'toenail,' 'fungus,' and 'I don't want to earn any money from advertisers,' in my blog. So, naturally, since none of my readers will ever click on the anti-fungal ads, I won't earn any money for about two weeks until I can blog the fungal content to the bottom and off the front page. Maybe I can count on the approximately twelve thousand (12,000) who find my blog by searching to see 'if Raven Simone is pregnant' to click on my new advertisers.

And I'm not doing myself any favors with this post either, so I might as well do my best to make my adspace as much of a joke as my IQ. So these are terms I'm going to post here now to see if the fungal ads will disappear soon (WARNING! sensitive viewers might prefer to skip to the next paragraph of text):

Open sore.
Pet diabetes.
Cod liver oil.
Why won't this rash go away?
Baltimore is for lovers.
Body odor.
Rex Kwon Do.
SARS outbreak.
Octopus a la mode.
Star Wars.

So there you have it. Try to make an ad out of THAT, the man.

126. Things I learned while house sitting.

2006-10-18T09:27:00.000-06:00

For the next three days, my wife Limpy and I will be house- and baby-sitting for some friends who have run away from their responsibilities. Now those responsibilities are ours and include: caring for four (4) children ages eight (8), five (5), three (3), and two (2), the oldest three (3) are girls and the last is a boy; keeping the house safe, and watching free cable. The following are things I learned in my first evening yesterday:

It’s not just my bathroom scale that hates me, EVERY bathroom scale hates me. MY bathrooms scale refuses to help me lose weight or even fudging the numbers a little bit to make me feel good. THEIR hoyty-toyty bathroom scale laughs at me and flashes *ERROR* on the screen when I hop on.

Silly Putty and Gerber® Soothie binkies do not play well together. The first mate was crying and my wife Limpy asked the two (2)-year-old to take the binky to me. He gladly agreed to take it and brought it to me in the same hand his Silly Putty was in. The Silly Putty tried to consume and possibly destroy the binky and now the binky and the Silly Putty are inextricably connected.

Little girls are the devil. Who can deny a child another handful of goldfish when she looks at you with a twinkly smile and tells you she likes you? I can’t. I also can’t tell an eight (8)-year-old she needs to go to bed when I’m not even her dad and she’s not even human; possibly she’s super-human—with pow’rs to make me do what she wants—or a Jedi Knight or something. I’m a weak-minded fool.

Band-aids® brand sheer strips are not just for bleeding cuts; they’re for bonked heads, fallen toddlers, spanked bottoms, bleeding gums, and bruised egos.

“Who’s your daddy?” doesn’t work on children that are not yours.

The first mate loves chaos—sleeps right on through most of it.

Second (2nd) grade homework is easy.

House sitting is not what appears, for it's the children who need the most attention, not the house.

And finally, candy is my best friend.

125. Toenail or not Toenail? That is the Question.

2006-10-16T08:51:00.000-06:00

Interviewer: If I told you you would lose a toenail, would you do it?

Interviewee: No.

Interviewer: If I told you you would lose a toenail AND if I told you you would feel no pain, would you do it?

Interviewee: No.

Interviewer: If I told you you would lose a toenail and if I told you you would feel no pain AND there would be no blood, would you do it?

Interviewee: No.

Interviewer: If I told you you would lose a toenail and if I told you you would feel no pain and there would be no blood AND you wouldn’t even be able to pinpoint when it happened, would you do it?

Interviewee: No.

Interviewer: If I told you you would lose a toenail and if I told you you would feel no pain and there would be no blood and you wouldn’t even be able to pinpoint when it happened AND it would happen during the course of doing something you loved, would you do it?

Interviewee: No.

Interviewer: If I told you you would lose a toenail and if I told you you would feel no pain and there would be no blood and you wouldn’t even be able to pinpoint when it happened and it would happen during the course of doing something you loved AND that something you loved would be flag football, would you do it?

Interviewee: No.

Interviewer: If I told you you would lose a toenail and if I told you you would feel no pain and there would be no blood and you wouldn’t even be able to pinpoint when it happened and it would happen during the course of doing something you loved and that something you loved would be flag football AND you wouldn’t even know it until you took off your pair of cleats, would you do it?

Interviewee: No.

Interviewer: If I told you you would lose a toenail and if I told you you would feel no pain and there would be no blood and you wouldn’t even be able to pinpoint when it happened and it would happen during the course of doing something you loved and that something you loved would be flag football and you wouldn’t even know it until you took off your pair of cleats AND you could save the toenail on your dresser until you could get a chance to photograph it, would you do it?

Interviewee: No.

Interviewer: If I told you you would lose a toenail and if I told you you would feel no pain and there would be no blood and you wouldn’t even be able to pinpoint when it happened and it would happen during the course of doing something you loved and that something you loved would be flag football and you wouldn’t even know it until you took off your pair of cleats and you could save the toenail on your dresser until you could get a chance to photograph it AND if you knew your toes were totally healthy before the incident and there were no fungi or nuthin’, would you do it?

Interviewee: No.

Interviewer: If I told you you would lose a toenail and if I told you you would feel no pain and there would be no blood and you wouldn’t even be able to pinpoint when it happened and it would happen during the course of doing something you loved and that something you loved would be flag football and you wouldn’t even know it until you took off your pair of cleats and you could save the toenail on your dresser until you could get a chance to photograph it and if you knew your toes were totally healthy before the incident and there were no fungi or nuthin’ AND if I told you your wife Limpy would accidently knock the toenail off the dresser while grabbing for the TV remote and the toenail would fall to an unknown location and there would be very little chance you would recover it for the photo op and it would resurface three years later having grown and mutated in the sewer to attack and traumatize the whole town, would you do it?

Interviewee: Well…Yes.

Sorry no photo.

124. I Started Falling Three Days a Week--A Madlib

2006-10-11T08:33:00.000-06:00

Yesterday, I asked my faithful reader(s) to complete a list of parts of speech for my latest madcap madlib. Below are the responses; they couldn't have turned out better. I changed only the verb tenses and pluralizations for agreement purposes. Enjoy:

By Bone Junior:

A few months ago when I was applying for term watering can insurance, the insurance envelope moistener sent a nice young Tasty painting out to draw blood so they could do a blood jackhammer. I guess they wanted to prove I was staple remover-worthy.

When the results came back, they told me my fax machine level was slovenly technical and they rejected me. I commandeered, OH! How I commandeered, but then I decided to skip and do something about my Elvis Flying Elvises. I started Falling three days a week, I flied my diet and snacking weed wackers, I even cut down on fake crab meat and other fatty foods.

When the first mate was sickly, I decided it was time to try again to get my sandwich insurance policy. I went to Bone Junior to draw more blood; the results came back and my lactic acids were still heavingly quiet. The doctor told me I was in need of some serious stomach and I told him I had dry heaved a lot of things—my porcelain throne, my bathroom, and my snotty drips. He then told me my crickus neckus was probably caused by my DNA and prescribed Badasspirin. Badasspirin is a drug that contains omega-three (3) fatty fake plastic grapes and is used to reduce the amount of mannequin heads in The Second Amendment.

After a month of taking the pills, my toe jam is ‘drop down and get your eagle on’ he*. Now maybe I’ll be able to get that Scott Bakula insurance policy I’ve always wanted.

By Sariah in Vancouver:

A few months ago when I was applying for term dog insurance, the insurance nail sent a nice young roof shingle out to draw blood so they could do a blood ear wax. I guess they wanted to prove I was cd-worthy.

When the results came back, they told me my rope level was tentatively bright and they rejected me. I drilled, OH! How I drilled, but then I decided to dance and do something about my crack towels. I started yelling three days a week, I flew my diet and snacking dice, I even cut down on pickles and other fatty foods.

When the first mate was shiney, I decided it was time to try again to get my pocket knife insurance policy. I went to the window washer to draw more blood; the results came back and my tears were still playfully brown. The doctor told me I was in need of some serious cone and I told him I had hurried a lot of things—my whale, my log, and my cars. He then told me my heart disease was probably caused by my DNA and prescribed Zyrtec. Zyrtec is a drug that contains omega-three (3) fatty books and is used to reduce the amount of photos in the shirt.

After a month of taking the pills, my bloods are North she*. Now maybe I’ll be able to get that blog insurance policy I’ve always wanted.

By li’l mil:

A few months ago when I was applying for term army uniform insurance, the insurance dead spider sent a nice young tacos out to draw blood so they could do a blood toilet. I guess they wanted to prove I was gummy worms-worthy.

When the results came back, they told me my academy award level was comically dysfunctional and they rejected me. I clotheslined, OH! How I clotheslined, but then I decided to flush and do something about my paper shredder GPS voices. I started mule mastering three days a week, I trampolined my diet and snacking top secret codes, I even cut down on meatball sandwiches and other fatty foods.

When the first mate was unruly, I decided it was time to try again to get my perm insurance policy. I went to the "ask a ninja" ninja to draw more blood; the results came back and my esophageal juices were still very very sneakily grosser than gross. The doctor told me I was in need of some serious two by four and I told him I had scuttled a lot of things—my blog, my guacamole, and my mooses. He then told me my gildersleeveitis was probably caused by my DNA and prescribed Cialis. Cialis is a drug that contains omega-three (3) fatty feet and is used to reduce the amount of neighbors in the finger paint.

After a month of taking the pills, my [uvula]** is backwards it*. Now maybe I’ll be able to get that Mercedes Benz insurance policy I’ve always wanted.

*I accidently asked for pronouns when in my original story I had an adverb. I was going to change it, but then I realized the poor usage of pronouns here is just as funny as a good madlib insert should be.
**It pained me to edit any of your fine words. I couldn't in good conscience insert the word that was asked for because my peeps read this blog and they're...um...conservative. With a little research though, I think you'll get a hearty belly laugh out of this one.

I think my favorite line is "I drilled, OH! How I drilled, but then I decided to dance and do something about my crack towels." Funny, I thought I gave my crack towels away.

Here's the original story if anyone cares--can you see why this is not funny?:

A few months ago when I was applying for term life insurance, the insurance company sent a nice young lady out to draw blood so they could do a blood test. I guess they wanted to prove I was insurance-worthy.

When the results came back, they told me my triglyceride level was extremely high and they rejected me. I cried, OH! How I cried, but then I decided to get busy and do something about my triglyceride levels. I started exercising three days a week, I changed my diet and snacking habits, I even cut down on pizza and other fatty foods.

When the first mate was born, I decided it was time to try again to get my life insurance policy. I went to the doctor to draw more blood; the results came back and my triglycerides were still exceptionally high. The doctor told me I was in need of some serious change and I told him I had changed a lot of things—my diet, my exercise, and my habits. He then told me my hyperlipidemia was probably caused by my DNA and prescribed Omacor. Omacor is a drug that contains omega-three (3) fatty acids and is used to reduce the amount of lipids in the blood.

After a month of taking the pills, my triglycerides are down significantly. Now maybe I’ll be able to get that life insurance policy I’ve always wanted.

123. A Medical [noun]

2006-10-10T09:34:00.000-06:00

Don't fail me reader(s). Last time I tried this, no one actually took me up on it, but those who read it got a really good laugh. What’re we talking about? Madlibs, that’s what. Here’s your role: submit your list of words based on the following list and submit them via the comments section. After I receive a few, I will post them in completed form. A-like so:

1 Noun
2 Noun
3 Noun
4 Noun
5 Noun

6 Noun
7 Adverb
8 Adjective
9 Verb past tense
10 Same past tense verb
11 Verb
12 Noun
13 Plural noun
14 Verb ending in -ing
15 Past tense verb
16 Plural noun
17 Food

18 Adjective
19 Noun
20 Person
21 Bodily chemical—plural
22 Adverb
23 Adjective
24 Noun
25 Verb past tense
26 Noun
27 Noun
28 Plural noun
29 Medical condition
30 Prescription drug
31 Same prescription drug.
32 Plural noun
33 Plural noun
34 Noun

35 Bodily chemicals.
36 A direction
37 Pronoun.
38 Noun

Good luck remembering your parts of speech. I look forward to seeing the completed story.

Pictured: me and the concrete block I had to break up so I could lift it into a truck and dump in somebody else's yard somewhere. Sorry if the concrete ended up in your yard.

122. Because You Need This, and Because I'm Telling You To.

2006-10-09T12:43:00.000-06:00

The message of this post is that you need to getcherself a pizza stone.

A what?

A pizza stone. It’s what they sell at the grocery store in the frozen foods section. Just kidding, it’s a flat ceramic or stone disc on which you put your pizza while you bake it.

Why am I telling you this?

Because I love me some pizza-stone-baked pizza. Last weekend my wife Limpy and I decided to order pizza from Papa Murphy’s**. Actually, to clarify, I decided to order the pizza because my wife Limpy doesn’t like it very much. Her gripe with it is the dough and how doughy it is. “If it’s not cooked, it’s CRAP!” she says. So I took the pizza home and baked it on our pizza stone. The bottom crust was perfectly crispy—ideal for the enjoyment of the pizza by my wife Limpy.

Other noteworthy things we have used our pizza stone for:

Bread. You can get crispy-crusted breads by baking a lump of dough right on the pizza stone. Take that Euros!

Nachos. Don’t just go Kip Dynamite and microwave the cheese on the corn chips. Instead mix up some quality ingredients, heap them onto a pile o’ tortilla chips, top with cheese and bake.

Family burrito. (I can’t explain what it is, other than a giant burrito made with 6-10 tortillas.) I don’t know who invented it, but it’s much better when cooked on a pizza stone.

Easy supper dog (#15 here). Better on a stone.

Fixing a flat tire. Better with a pizza stone.

They’re also great for reheating pizza.

In short, you need one. You want one. And you’ve been yearning for one ever since about 30 seconds ago.

Find pizza stones here, here, and here. Now go get one.

**If you don’t have one near you, Papa Murphy’s is a pizza chain that sells raw pizzas so you can take them home and cook them yourself. The reason they do this is so you can have a piping hot pizza right out of your own oven. The reality is the pizza is just too good and must sit overnight on the counter before it tastes anything like real pizza.

Pictured: photo of our stocked food-storage room. Can I get a woot woot? (I love me some olives.)

121. The One-Amputee-Armed Gorgon of All Potatoes

2006-10-03T20:57:00.000-06:00

So if you cut potatoes in half and throw them in the ground, they actually grow! Unfortunately, they don’t grow very well.

See, last spring I grabbed six (6) full-size, Idaho potatoes from my pantry and cut them in half. Then I mismatched the potato halves, dug six (6) holes and dropped two halves (2/2) of two (2) different potatoes in each hole. Then I watered the garden (by asking my wife Limpy if she’d do it) all summer.

Imagine my dismay when only two (2) of the potato plants surfaced. Regardless of the great potato rebellion of ’06, the two strikebreaker potato plants seemed to be in good shape, so we didn’t roundup the lot of them.

Well, Saturday seemed like as good a day as any to harvest our potatoes, so I grabbed my headphones and with an undaunted resolve, I headed to the backyard to disinter the potatoes. It seemed a good idea to start digging about eighteen inches (18”) from the plant stems so I didn’t cut through any potatoes. You can’t save ‘em in the pantry if you cut 'em in half first.

Eighteen inches (18”), no potatoes, no problem.

Twelve inches (12”), no potatoes, no problem—they’re probably all on the other side anyway.

Six inches (6”), no potatoes, we might have a problem.

One (1) potato from the first plant. The only potato growing from that plant was about six pounds (6 lbs.) of starchy goodness. You see it pictured—it’s the one with the amputee arm growing out the side. But ONE POTATO! What the…?

So I dug up the other plant. Seven (7) potatoes (also pictured). SEVEN (&)! Four normal sized, and three potato nubs. I imagine the potato nubs are the ones they make instant potatoes with. I imagine they are ostracized by the other potatoes and are forced to live in another society in Idaho. I imagine the normal potatoes call the runts “small potatoes.” I’m happy these are Utah potatoes though, so all my potatoes can coexist. Well, except for behemoth-jack amputee potato. He doesn’t play with nobody—you can tell, because he hogged all of potato plant number one’s (#1) nutrients. So I tore his arm off.

So let’s review:

Cut six potatoes in half. Mix up the potato halves and plant them in six (6) holes. Water for HALF A YEAR. Yield: eight (8) potatoes—four (4) of normal size, three (3) of dubious mass, and one (1) that light bends around on its way past.

I can’t wait to eat them all in the same meal. I think at that point it will feel worth it.

120. Why Things Don't Go Well for Me

2006-09-26T08:39:00.000-06:00

So, imagine you're me for a second--a younger, thirtysomething, white, chubby, bald guy with a knack for putting himself in the most awkward situations possible. Then imagine yourself walking into a black hair salon and asking the gay, black hairdresser man if he knows where you can buy some Black N Sassy Triple Gro Tea Tree Oil Gro hair products. Then imagine how awkwardly the man and his elderly black client look at you as you stammer and run out the door a la Napoleon Dynamite.

Well if you imagined that, it must've happened right? Right. Last week I was in Los Angeles working. And for those of you who don't know, my wife Limpy is black and has been all her life. Unfortunately, we live in Utah and she is one (1) of only three (3) black people in the entire state. The other two (2) live in Magna or something.

And for those of you who don't know, Black people don't wash their hair every day. Washing one's hair ruins the hair, makes it brittle, and depresses the soul. I guess their scalps don't produce the oils necessary to keep the hair safe like ours do. In fact, since I am bald, I have been thinking of a way to share my hair oils with my wife Limpy for years but I haven't thought of any good hair oil transferral systems.

Anyway, since there aren't many black people in Utah, the beauty supply stores here don't carry many products for them. And every time we find a product that my wife Limpy likes, we find it has been discontinued when it's time for a refill. Well, not discontinued, but that the store has stopped shipping any to Utah.

Which is how I found myself in LA making a fool of myself. And now our brand new storage room has a shelf dedicated to the forty (40) jars of hair oil I brought home.

Another reason I'm in such a chipper mood is because the First Mate was up all night last night. I'm not complaining. I vowed I would never tell people I'm tired because of the newborn. I hate it when people tell you how bad their life is because of a baby and I'm not going that way. My life is a blessing, and the First Mate is a bundle of....no, a compressed bundle of extra joy.

But last night, just before bed, he was very hungry. I fed him three (3) ounces of milk because he usually eats just about that much--sometimes four (4). He was still acting hungry after three (3) so I fed him another ounce. And then another. And then half (1/2) an ounce more. If the First Mate wants food, the First Mate gets food, I say (at least for now while he is still a newborn.) Feeding him is a lot like the storage room: the more you stuff in there, the better.

Imagine my surprise when he didn't fall asleep right away, and kept baby-vomiting through the next three to four (3-4) hours. At the agreed time at which I was to hand him to my wife Limpy and get some rest, I thought he was on the verge of sleep. Not so. My wife Limpy was up the rest of the night with him. He didn't sleep from nine-o-clock (9:00) last night until this morning, and maybe not since. And it's all my fault. Not only did I feed him nearly twice as much as normal, I stretched his stomach out so he'll never feel full again.

So things went bad because I am a moron.

Did you know someone found my blog by google-searching the words 'unibrow spanish translation?'

119. ArupiseMVLINFA!

2006-09-20T15:14:00.000-06:00

arupiseMVLINFA

That's what you get when you type 'stupidramblings' with your left hand shifted one key to the left on your keyboard. How do I know? Because I'm a good typist. Well, what I mean is I don't look at my hands anymore when I type; I look at my elbow.

No, serious. I have gotten to the point in my typing career where I can type without looking. Unfortunately, the issue of starting with your hands in the right place remains. So once in a while, when I'm trying to type something, I end up with a phrase that is very different from what I was expecting.

Which I suspect may have been the case when Miss Nemesis said she brayed like a donkey. Or what happened when I decided to write a blog.

About a year ago, I started this thing with the thought in mind that I could brush up on my typing skills, get a Hollywood contract to write for a major sitcom, and rule the world with my own brand of stupid humor. Well folks, I'm just steps away from my dream.

Hollywood, don't bring at around here for less than eight (8) digits. Because this blog has netted me like two dollars and seventy three cents ($2.73) and If I'm going to be torn away from it, it's gotta be worth it...

118. My Heart Bleats for You.

2006-09-19T21:48:00.000-06:00

But first a couple of photos with explanations (click on each photo to see it full size):

So my wife Limpy makes excellent Rice Krispy Treats. 'Cept when she doesn't as was the case last time. She used old marshmallows from two opened halves of packages. The result of using slightly less-soft marshmallows was a pan full of rock hard Rice Krispy Treats--By Kellog's Brand Rice Krispy People, Snap! Crackle! Pop! Below you can see the blood spot on my midnight snack from where it attacked my gums.

Next comes the story of how I washed my headphones. I wore my headphones on the plane to listen to my MP3 player a few days ago. Then I carefully folded the headphones up and placed them in my cargo pockets in my shorts. (not those shorts) Then I carefully placed the shorts in the wash when I returned home. After carefully placing them in the drier, I returned to find the headphones carefully wrapped around everything. And wadded into a tight little ball. Like freshly spun yarn. And your intestines. So rather than try to carefully unwrap said bundle of wires, I decided to first test the headphones to see if they still worked. They do! but the wires just don't look the same; behold the photo below.

The weather may have sucked in Utah the last few days, but the sunrise outside my house was excellent. Vis a vis:

For you computer guys and girls out there: 0101010001110101101110101000010101011010101001 110010110001 101 1010100101001011111100000101001010 1. 101 1 10010 110110010 0101 0 01 1011 01 0101101 10101 0010 11010101001010 0101010010101. 101 010010 1001010 010 1001 01 1011111000000 010 100111111000110010 01 010101010100101001000001010 0010 1010010001 0101 010100101 10010 101 110. Please don't tell my mother.

And finally, I ate mutton tonight. I usually go for chicken, but I was in a reputable-looking restaurant, and I wanted to do something adventurous. It was a Jamaican place in Inglewood, CA that makes a mean curry goat. I enjoyed it very much. Baaaa-a-a-aa-a-a-aaaa--a-a--a-a-a--a--a---a-a (that's enough of that.)

117. Tons o' Fun

2006-09-13T10:03:00.000-06:00

So I weigh a lot 'n' stuff. More than an elephant, in fact.

I'll prove it to you here and now.

Bring it on, Cletus!

...

116. Various Funnies from Where I Travelled To.

2006-09-09T23:56:00.000-06:00

Eric Snider's readers sent him a link to a website, called Crying, While Eating.com which I am forced to recommend. Find it here.

A new site I found while using the ‘next blog’ feature I’ve gotta recommend is here. It’s a mind numbing explanation of how we might possibly imagine what it’s like to operate in a ten (10) dimensional universe. (String Theory is the relatively new and popular theory of everything that, if true, delineates 10 dimensions. That’s why this explanation is necessary.) I'm sorry I can't remember whose blog it was on. Credit to you, whomever you may be. Watch it here.

And some funnies:

In rural [another state], I saw a roadside billboard advertising one ‘Hookers Restaurant’—sorry no photo. I can’t even begin to explain what’s wrong with naming your restaurant ‘Hookers.’ Do the cops run undercover sting operations weekly? Is there anyone who lacks so much self respect to work there? Does the name eliminate most of the potential clientele? Is the owner’s name Hooker? Naw, anyone with that last name would have to know the perils of such a name and not based their business on it. ‘Hookers’ Really?

Finally, I saw a the personalized plate ‘NVIG8R’ on the same drive. Sure, it looks innocuous enough on the casual glance, but upon closer inspection one realizes it spells EN-vi-ga-tor. I can only imagine how the plate ‘NVIG8R’ came to be.

“Darrr-lin’ I reckon it’s time we get us one o’ them personalized license plates”

"If'n ya wanna waste yer money, go ahead. Whaddya wannit to say?

"Envigorate--N-V-I-G-8-R. It's probably taken, but we might be the first to ask for it."

[later that month]

"Darrr-lin'! We got it. No one has 'NVIG8R.' We own it. YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEHAAAAWWWWWW!"

Anyway, I'm "envigatored" by my chance to get back out on the road. I've forgotten how many of the little things I miss when I travel the same route to work every day.

Which brings me to my final thought: in Utah, between Provo and Salt Lake City, there's road that leads up to American Fork Canyon, home of Timpanogos Cave. Just after you leave I-15 heading east toward the canyon, they've posted a large brown road sign that reads:

Timpanogos Cave
Three (3) Hour Tours

I've always wanted to make an attachment for that sign. If I could duplicate the brown paint and font style and size on another board, I could hang a board on the sign that covers the word 'Timpanogos' and replaces it with the word 'Gilligan's'. I think the sign

Gilligan's Cave
Three (3) Hour Tours

Would be a lot more funny.

I'm gonna go drive real fast....

115. Express Your Shelf.

2006-09-05T11:32:00.000-06:00

Some may think it’s a little crazy to stockpile food and munitions in one’s basement in hopes one might survive the apocalypse. Not me. I think it’s a great idea.

Well, not the munitions part, just the food part. I don’t think it takes a genius to figure out that having a supply of long-lasting, leathery-tasting food in case something bad happens is a good idea. My church preaches physical and emotional self-reliance as well as spiritual progress and yadda, yadda, yadda. I’m not here to preach, sinners, I’m just saying I feel it’s a smart idea to get something together in case a catastrophic earthquake or waterspout hits my valley.

So, I feel the religious fervor-like need to gather grains, canned goods and “a very little meat” in my basement, but until recently I had nowhere to store it all. When we built the house, my contractors had the foresight to put a cold storage room underneath my front porch, so I had the space, but I needed an organizatory plan for righteous space usage.

Which is why I used some of the tax return money to buy materials with which to build a storage room in the nethermost parts of my house. So, all summer as I had time and energy, I spent time in the basement building shelves in the storage room.

AND NOW I PROCLAIM TO THE WORLD THAT MY SHELVES ARE FINISHED AND THAT WHEN THE APOCALYPSE COMES, EVERYONE IS INVITED TO MY HOUSE FOR FREEZE-DRIED POTLUCK RATIONS. Actually I warn you to stay off my property so I don’t have to shoot you. No offense, but I’m an ant and you’re a grasshopper coming to steal my bounty and I don’t have enough for you. Sharing is not part of my religion.

Anyway, the shelves are done and thanks to a ‘case lot’ sale at the local grocery store, I have about three hundred (300) cans of veggies and supplies we regularly cook with to start the shelf-stocking. I can’t wait for the flood so I can live on creamed corn and coconut milk until the nation gets back to order. Shown is a photo of my shelfish ways.

Next plan is an upright freezer so we can store tons (4000 lbs) of raw venison and mutton for non-emergency consumption. And there’s really no way to wrap up my comments in this here post except by saying STAY OFF MY PROPERTY!

114. Happy Freaking Blogiversary.

2006-08-29T12:15:00.000-06:00

Apparently, none of you remembered my blogiversary yesterday because you all hate me. I was waiting around all day for somebody to write a comment, post well wishes, and yadda yadda yadda, but no one did. So I figured when I got home there was going to be a surprise party waiting or something. Nothing. Thanks people.

Anyway In honor of my one year blogiversary. I had something real special planned for you. In fact, it's the same real special thing I talked about in post number one hundred (#100). It's still not ready, but it will be soon I promise. It requires some technical skill and acumen to pull off which I just don't have, so be patient, it's coming.

Anyway as I muse and look back on this year I remind myself I have written little of substance and even less of intelligence. And I say, "GOOD!" That's the point. And despite the bitter, sarcastic tone of the first paragraph of this post, I thank you all for reading and I hope I can continue to be your first and only source of interweb stupidity.

Peace, out.

113. Cross, My Heart.

2006-08-25T10:25:00.000-06:00

A woman was jaywalking today. She went diagonally across the intersection making cars wait for her. She took her own sweet time about it without even a half-hearted apology wave to the people in cars who were waiting for her to clear the intersection so they could go through. She sickened me.

So it should come as no surprise that when she asked me for directions to [a place] I told her I didn’t know even though I did. I wasn’t feeling very kind at the moment and if she doesn’t care to cross the street when the ‘walk’ signal is lit—especially when there are cars waiting for her—I don’t really care to help her find where she’s going.

And furthermore, if she doesn’t even know where she’s going, why is she in such a hurry to jaywalk? Also, who is she to tell me my socks don’t work with my outfit? (She didn’t ask it, but I could see it in her scorn-filled eyes.) If I were a pioneer, I would have denied her passage across the plains. ‘No west for the rear-y,’ I say.

112. A Bringing Home a Baby Bumble Bee

2006-08-19T13:49:00.000-06:00

OK, my regulars are probably wondering a lot about the birth of the first mate. It’s been over a week and I still haven’t given you more details. That’s because the little guy has been in the hospital until yesterday where apparently they know how to take care of babies better than we do.

It all started about two weeks ago when I got some bad food at Applebee’s. I was on a business trip and spent a day trying not to crap my pants and three (3) days trying to recover from it while still making my sales calls. When I got home that Friday (the fourth (4th) of August) I was spent. I took the following Monday and Tuesday as sick days. I even went to the doctor to make sure I wasn’t going to lose my gall bladder or anything like that. He told me I was fine and admonished me to drink plenty of…YADDA YADDA YADDA. He didn’t even check for a collapsed lung like I asked him to.

Anyway, by Wednesday the ninth (9th) of August, I had decided to go back to work. My wife Limpy had a doctor’s appointment to do a routine ultrasound that morning which I would have been to, but I didn’t want to lose any more sick days. Also, the ultrasound was just a precaution to make sure the first mate was developing well late into the term. Then I remembered I had a dentist appointment that morning, so I arrived at work around ten o’clock (10:00). Keep in mind as I go on that our due date was September ninth (9th) so the baby wasn’t even supposed to arrive for four (4) weeks.

No sooner did I arrive at work than my wife Limpy called to tell me the ultrasound didn’t look great so she was going over to the hospital for more tests. I determined it would be best to go over there, because I didn’t want to be absent if anything important was going to happen. I went home, changed my clothes grabbed the hospital bag my wife Limpy packed, and headed to the hospital.

By the time I arrived they had decided it was necessary to either go for a caesarian section or induce labor because he was under too much stress. My wife Limpy and I had wanted to go with a natural birth, so we allowed them to start inducing her. They started with very minute amounts of medication to induce her, but every time she had a contraction, more stress was added to the first mate. So we started to prep my wife Limpy for surgery. Meanwhile, all our friends and family knew she was in the hospital undergoing tests so they kept calling to see if they found anything yet.

So we lied to them. We didn’t want anyone to know we were going to have a baby that day so we just told everyone we were still undergoing tests and that we would let them know what the results were, and that we would know in a couple of hours. Meanwhile, I was being fitted for a clean-room suit so I could attend my wife Limpy in the O.R. Then they took her away from me so they could administer loads and loads of drugs and anesthesia and I was left alone with my thoughts and to prepare myself to become a father.

And let it be known to the whole interweb that my wife Limpy didn’t give birth, it was taken from her. Not that we mind, but we simply weren’t ready.

In the O.R., I was impressed by a few things. One (1) was the businesslike manner in which they worked. My normally friendly and personable doctor was quiet and concentrated. I was happy. I wouldn’t want a guy with a knife hovering over my wife Limpy to get too relaxed about the whole affair. Another was the contact paper they pasted to her stomach. To help prevent any cross contamination, they stuck a large sheet of sticky cellophane to her stomach. After that, I didn’t look toward the abdominal area as they made the incision and performed the surgery.

When they pulled the first mate out, he started crying immediately. In fact, I was surprised he started crying so vigorously because they told us his lungs might not be all the way developed since he came so early. I was torn between keeping my wife Limpy company and taking some photos of the baby. They were so far apart. In the end, I decided it was more forgivable to get film on the kid so I could share him with her sooner. So I took a few photos, then I went back to show them to her. Then I took a few more and showed her those photos as well.

I was taken with the baby to the nursery while they finished the sutures and cleaning. It was quite alarming how they began tugging, pulling, flicking and startling the first mate. I mean, I knew it was going to happen, but babies just seem too fragile to be prodded.

When they finished the surgery, I helped the nurse wheel my wife Limpy into the room she would be staying in for the next four (4) days. The first mate was in the nursery under lights and my wife Limpy was beginning her recovery.

AFTER

Later on, the first mate still hadn’t seen his mother except briefly in the O.R. The nurses were nice enough to let me wheel him over to her room so they could spend some time bonding. He was so small and fragile and beautiful. He and his mother got to spend some time together—which fortunately was before the pain medication wore off so she was able to enjoy him.

Earlier that day, the doctors had told us the first mate might have one of a bunch of temporary problems until he got big enough to take care of his vitals. Things he was going to have to do before they let him leave the hospital included breathing on his own, eating by mouth, keeping his temperature stable, gaining constant weight, changing his own diaper—that kind of stuff.

Breathing on his own, check. Keeping his temperature steady, needs improvement. Eating by mouth, needs improvement. Gaining weight, needs improvement. Despite his list of requirements, he was in very good shape and seemed to overcome one of said requirements every day. By Sunday, my wife Limpy was ready to be released from the hospital, with the thought that the first mate would soon follow her.

Sunday night was very hard for us both because we had to come home; the insurance only pays ninety-six (96) hours for the mother for a C section, so we were forced to leave the first mate to his own devices in the level two (2) nursery. The following days were spent going to and from the hospital so we could feed the first mate. Fortunately, everything was going well, we were getting adequate rest thanks to a rental breast pump and the milk we were able to leave at the hospital nightly for his midnight feedings. We were sad to leave him there; the dream is to bring the baby home immediately, so it was a little bit disappointing to leave him there. It ended up being the best thing though, because we were able to make sure my wife Limpy was recovered and rested without the added stress of taking care of the baby.

Sunday, Monday and Tuesday showed great improvements in weight gain and temperature regulation and the doctors told us they were optimistic he would come home within the week. By Tuesday, he was up over his birth weight.

Wednesday morning, we arrived at the hospital to find they had added oxygen to the first mate’s probes, prods and other taped-to-the-skin items. Apparently some time in the night his oxygen saturation dipped low and the nurses were unable to get it up without oxygen. So they taped the tubes to his face and shoved them up his nose. Two reasons why this is problematic include that one (1)) he had just had the feeding tube removed from his face two days earlier and the red spot was just disappearing, and two (2)) he likes to pull the tubes off his face. Nevertheless, we’re glad they could make sure he still has an adequate supply of oxygen to the brain.

Wednesday night, they hinted they would probably send us home with the first mate the next day. We all know doctors don’t usually say anything very positive unless they are sure ‘positive’ is the only possible outcome of the culmination of the events. Two things we still had to do: one (1)) we had to return the car seat we had purchased because it was unsafe; no matter how tight you cinched it into the car, it was still removable by hand. In a rear end collision, the first mate (car seat and all) would have been thrown violently against the seat back. And two (2)), we still had to get a few supplies, because we were not done shopping for all the things we would need to get ready for bringing him home.

Thursday morning, true to their word, the doctors sent us home with the first mate. We had to rent an oxygen tank from Praxair and a monitor for his heart and lungs, but he was finally coming home.

So here we sit in our house after two days of having the first mate in his brilliantly decorated room. I’m sorry it took so long to get details to any of you; I’ve been trying to take care of a recovering new mother and a newborn, but I hope it was worth the wait. I’m also sorry for the length of this post, but I wanted to let you all know exactly what happened and why it crept up on us all of a sudden like that.

We’re home; we’re happy; we’re changing diapers.

111. Just Sit Right Back and You'll Hear a Tale.

2006-08-10T19:21:00.000-06:00

The First Mate has arrived. Yesterday, my wife Limpy went in for some tests and we learned it was most healthful to deliver the baby immediately. (He’s about a month early.) He was born at 5:04 pm MDT at four (4) lbs, six (6) oz. He’s doing great especially since he came a bit early, but we’re in the hospital for a few days while they make sure he’s strong enough to get by. I’ll give you more details later, but this is the only picture you will ever get (unless you know us in real life in which case, just email me if you want me to send you more photos.

110. And Furthermore...

2006-08-04T15:18:00.000-06:00

And while I’m at it, I might as well complain about two more things that were wrong with my hotel.

Fourth (4th) complaint/comment. The toilet paper is too far away from the toilet to reach with both hands. ‘No problem,’ I thought, ‘I’ll just take advantage of Newton’s laws and grab the paper and pull real fast.’ Not so simple. The toilet paper doesn’t rip easily. When I do the grab-and-yank, I end up sending the toilet paper roll into hyperdrive and it unrolls until at least ten feet of TP are coiled up on the floor. I thought I might be too slow to take care of Newton’s laws until I actually tried to tear the TP using both hands. It doesn’t tear along the serrations. It just doesn’t. So there’s one more complaint. And another:

Fifth (5th) complaint/comment. Apparently, this hotel thinks enough of their guests that they provide them with oatmeal-enriched exfoliating bath soap. I don’t know if you exfoliate like I do, but I have never done it with oatmeal. I was intrigued. Apparently, they actually put ground up oat bran right there in the soap. It’s kinda cool because as the soap wears down, the exfoliation commences. OR…it would be kinda cool if the oat bran wasn’t sharp enough to draw blood. Nothing says skin care like a good laceration.

And just for good measure, I need to say this about the 2006 Impala rental I'm driving. No cupholders. None. nobody needs the seventeen (17) cupholders the Dodge Caravan was touting, but would it hurt to put even one in there? I'm just sayin'...

109. Either the Sleep Number Bed Lies, or I’m Chubby

2006-08-02T22:09:00.000-06:00

I usually don’t call out products or business by name in this blog, especially if I’m going to complain about them, but this time I have to. Mind you (and you will mind), I have no REAL complaints with the products and/or services in this entry, but the names have to be said. Sorry, legitimate businesses.

First (1st) complaint/comment. On Monday, I enjoyed dinner with a friend and his wife. (We’ll call him Mark E Mark and her the Funky Bunch.) I had not seen them in a couple of years, and it was good to catch up. I left dinner to their choice; they chose Applebee’s. In the course of ordering, I asked them what would be good to eat there. The Funky Bunch answered by asking if they don’t have Applebee’ses in Provo to which I responded that they do, I have just never been to it. Mark E Mark indicated that everything was pretty much good to eat there, and that they don’t have any preferences. Then he asked why it matters. I explained that I hate to go to a new restaurant and dislike the food. It’s not fair to a restaurant to rate the whole thing on your first experience, but how can you go back if your only experience has been poor. That’s a one-hundred percent (100%) failure rate.

To my everlasting delight, the food was great. Monday I ate it, but Tuesday I was barfing all day. (OK I didn’t actually go President-Bush-on-the-Japanese-Prime-Minister, but I felt like crap.) I can’t blame it on Applebee’s, it’s more likely I got sick at the greasy burger joint from my last post. RrrrAHeeee! However, true to my previous statement, I have to lump Applebee’s into my horrible digestive day. I will never go back to Applebee’s and I most violently reject the idea of going back to the greasy burger joint—not because they done me wrong inside, but because I can’t help but associate the two with my horrible day of barf.

Second (2nd) complaint/comment I put the ‘Rad Son’ in Radisson. This Radisson hotel I’m staying at (whose website I would link, but their site is down) is one of the nicest I’ve ever been to. I’ve been to nice hotels, but I’m not one to spend a lot of money for a place where I can turn off the lights and shut my eyes, so it’s rare I stay in a hotel this nice.

A few glaring problems with the property though: A) The shower has a strange penchant for making night-to-day type changes in temperature without warning. I feel like I’m back at the SUU dorms, only there is no two (2) second warning signal like a pressure change just before the water changes to blistering hot. AND the water can change to ice cold just seconds later without even telling me. B) The front door is broken—DARN those automatic door fairies. C) The sleep number bed which I will tell you about in ‘Third (3rd) complaint/comment.’ D) This hotel used to be a Hilton property—until about three years ago.

Now as I mentioned before, the hotel is very nice. When I say very nice I mean the surfaces—the floors, the furniture, the walls—everything looks and feels beautiful and luxurious, but inside the surfaces, everything is messed up—the plumbing, the electrical (which keeps flickering for some reason)—you might say the façade is beautiful, but the interior is rotten. And that’s why Hilton sold the property; the world didn’t have room enough to give two-bit Paris such an apt competitor named Hilton.

Third (3rd) complaint/comment. If you’ve ever listened to the radio, or spoken to someone who has listened to the radio, or watched ‘Gilligan’s Island,’ you know about the Sleep Number bed. Why? Because every radio show host/DJ/board operator/producer/songwriter/radio station custodian/traffic reporter has received a free sleep number bed in exchange for their kind comments on the radio. It’s actually a very good marketing strategy by Select Comfort—or it would be if the bed wasn’t such a dirty rotten liar.

The bed has a control that allows you to set the firmness of the mattress by pushing an up arrow or a down arrow. It also shows you on a display a number that corresponds to the firmness—one hundred (100) being firm and zero (0) being the softest. In other words and to make an analogy, Percy Pearl would be a zero (0), Rachel Ray would be a fifty (50) and Jack Lalanne would be a one hundred (100) if they were reincarnated as Sleep Number Beds. It all works with air pressure and it’s supposed to be the best sleep surface in the world because you are supposed to be able to adjust it to your liking.

For me it lies. When I lie on the bed in all my corpulent masculinity, I bottom out at the Sleep Number mark around thirty (30). I’m not saying it for effect either, when the sleep number reaches thirty (30) my back rests on the box spring underneath the mattress. Those of you who know me know well enough that I’m not so big I should bottom out a Sleep Number bed when said bed should have room to get even softer. Maybe it’s made only for a person of diminutive size—I bet it is, because the short, skinnies wanted to get back at the world for car airbags which only work correctly for big people. Maybe Willie Wonka owns the Select Comfort factory too and he has no big people to test the bed. Also, when I bottom out at thirty and then hold the up arrow to increase the firmness, the firmness number shouldn’t drop to 25 like mine did.

Anyway, if the bed is supposed to bottom out at thirty (30), why not just call that a zero (0) and prorate the rest of the scale? I feel I’m being cheated. What if my Sleep Number is fifteen (15) but I’ll never know it because once I reach the thirty (30) mark, I might as well be sleeping on the box spring anyway. And another thing, when you adjust the firmness toward the firmer end, it doesn’t feel like a mattress getting firmer, it feels more like laying on a canvas getting pulled tighter and tighter. At least it has a good feature: when you drop the firmness to the bottom (or thirty (30)), there’s no way you’re going to roll of the bed in the middle of the night and bonk yer noggin’, it’s nigh impossible to get off the bed when it’s completely deflated. A sleep number bed would be perfect for children—they wouldn’t roll off the bed and they’re small just like Oompa Loompas.

So those are my product-specific complaints for the year. Maybe Applebee’s deserves another chance. Maybe Hilton sold the property so they could build a better in the same area. Maybe I’m too big for the Sleep Number bed, but I do know this: any opinions to the contrary of those stated above are those of liars, the intellectually dishonest or stupid people…

108. Reasons I Am A Moron

2006-07-31T23:06:00.000-06:00

First of all, I capitalized all the inconsequential words in the title of this post. That is enough to make me a moron by itself, but there’s more. And not all of the moronic stuff in this post is about my own moronity, but that of a few people. Stay tuned though, my moron moment comes at the very end—during the dénouement. (Okay, I don’t know what that means except I’m pretty sure I used it incorrectly here.)

Anyways, moron moment number two (#2). Why did I skip number one (#1)? Because it’s funnier than number two (#2), and the two (2) moron moments happened at the same time—meaning number one (#1) started first and ended last. Anyway, number two (#2) started when I ordered dinner at an aged-but-clean mom’n’pop burger stand across the street from my hotel (I’m on the road again.) The woman at the counter asked for my name after I paid for the food (double bacon cheeseburger, onion rings—notice, no drink) I told her my name.

Those of you who know my name know that my name is not ‘Ray’ but it’s conceivable how someone could mistakenly understand ‘Ray’ when hearing [my name]. She asked, “Ray?” to which I responded “yes” because—does it really matter anyway? Apparently, it does, because when another person brought my food to the counter, she looked right at me and intoned, “RrrrAHeeee” in a heavy foreign accent. I have nothing against foreigners—in fact I even like the band—but RrrrAHeeee? So I sat there. I didn’t even associate RrrrAHeeee with my real name at all, because it was now two steps removed from any semblance of my name. “RrrrAHeeee” “RrrrAHeeee” “RrrrAHeeee” she continued to call, and I was oblivious because my name is obviously not RrrrAHeeee. Once I realized it was my order, the woman had the nerve to give me a dirty look for making her call out my ‘name’ so many times.

Moron moment number 1 (#1) started about ten (10) minutes before the second (2nd) one when I went the hotel gift shop to buy a cranberry/raspberry Snapple. Did you know there are more phones in Washington DC than there are people? The Snapple bottle cap told me so. I grabbed a bottle out of the cooler and set it on the counter. The woman at the counter rang it up AT TWO DOLLARS AND SIXTY FIVE CENTS ($2.65). Then she had the nerve to tell me she didn’t take credit cards for less than ten dollars ($10). I told her I couldn’t buy the drink because I didn’t have cash and I was unwilling to spend ten dollars ($10) at her gift shop, but I assured her I would come back and buy something later. That’s when I ran to the burger joint and bought my RrrrAHeeee food but not before walking to the bank to withdraw some cash from my bloated checking account.

Then I went back to the hotel gift shop to buy my Snapple. Did you know Alaska has the highest percentage of people who walk to work? The Snapple bottle cap told me so. The lady at the register still had my two dollars and sixty five cents ($2.65) on the display. Evidently when I told her I was going to come back, she understood that I would be back immediately. Then she had the nerve to give me a dirty look for making her hold up all her other ‘business’ while she waited for me to come back.

Moron moment number three (#3) is truly a stupidramblings gem. I was leaving the hotel front door (after I ate my greasy burger ‘n’ rings) to grab my book out of the car. As I approached the front door of the hotel, the automatic door fairies didn’t automatically open the door for me—in other words, they didn’t do their job—so I looked to see if they were really automatic. The doors had ‘crash bars’ on them and a green-circle-with-a-black-arrow-inside sticker on the glass. So I pushed on the crash bar. That’s when the madness happened. The automatic door fairies must have been drunk to open the doors AFTER someone ran into them, because I broke the doors. The doorway consisted of four panels: two (2) sliding doors (that were supposed to move sideways for normal operation and swing outwards for emergency use) and two (2) glass panels that are supposed to break away in the event of an emergency.

You’ll note all of this happened in a matter of two to three (2-3) seconds:

Well, because the sliding door fairies had decided to open the door late, the door was partially slidden* open and when I pushed the crash bar and it swung open, it also forced the breakaway glass panel to dislodge and—how you say?—break away. The sliding door was then propped outward at about a thirty degree (30˚) angle and the breakaway glass panel was also dislodged at a thirty degree (30˚) angle. I pulled the sliding door back in line, but it was not moving automatically—darn those automatic door fairies. That’s when I forced the doors to slide open and I went outside to see what I could do about the breakaway glass panel.

Fortunately, the breakaway glass panel was not completely dislodged and all I had to do was lift it up and replace it on its molding. Once I got that all straightened out, the automatic door fairies decided the doors were healed enough to function. The world was right once again. I went to the car to get my book and returned to the hotel. The people at the front desk were kind enough to complete the dirty-look trifecta as I re-entered the hotel. I apologized for my moronity, but they still didn’t know what to say. So I left them to their stupor.

If you hear on the news about a bandit that took the front doors off of a Radisson hotel in the Los Angeles area, you can be sure it was stupidramblings who did it. But I didn’t do it because of any shenaniganery, I did it because of the automatic door fairies. And I fixed it anyways, so it couldn’t have been me even though my fingerprints are all over everything...

*slidden is the past tense of slided.

107. Why I Shouldn't Be Allowed to Have Children

2006-07-27T11:38:00.000-06:00

I kill things. Every time I get a plant, I kill it. Negligent homicide might be a better word, but the fact remains, I kill things.

Let’s go back in the way-back way-back machine with Sherman and Peabody:

Just months ago, I think I documented my history of killing animals.

Last year, I got a palm tree to go by my desk. It died. I got a plant at the same time, it’s not doing well. We planted flowers. They died. We planted grass. It’s not exactly thriving. We haven’t killed the weeds yet, but I bet we will get it done sooner or later.

Two years ago, my wife Limpy and I got a few house plants. They all died.

Further back, my wife Limpy and I got other house plants. They all died.

Way back, ramblimom used to let us children choose a yard plant. I chose Irish moss every year; every year the Irish moss died.

More way back when I was in elementary school, we had a cat. It died. So we got another one. It died also. Then we got another one. It died.

I bought two trees to surprise my wife Limpy while she was having a baby shower. I planted them according to instructions. I watered them well. She was adequately surprised when she arrived home. I checked every day to see if I should water again. The ground was wet so I didn’t bother to water the trees; I figured my wife Limpy was watering them while I wasn’t looking. She wasn’t. The moisture in the soil around the tree was due to the automatic sprinkling system we have installed in the yard. Said sprinklers wet the soil a couple inches deep, but not deep enough to reach the tree roots. So they’re dead! They’re all DEAD, JIM! OK, they’re not quite dead and one of them is partially revived, but the result is the same—they’ve been mostly dead for a couple of weeks.

So why did I get the bright idea that having a baby would be a good thing? I dunno—maybe blind optimism? I mean, I have a history of non-violent plant and kitten murder, how did I EVER think a baby would be different. In case you’re wondering, I’m feeling a bit underprepared to be a father (I put the 'fat' in father). It’s not so much that I don’t know what I’m doing; it’s more like I think I know what I’m doing, but I’m realistic enough to realize I will find out how much I don’t know because I don’t even know how to find out I don’t know it.

Anyway, the first mate weighs four (4) pounds nine (9) ounces and is about six weeks from delivery. According to the ultrasound tech, he’s got a full bladder which will soon make up for the amniotic fluid he’s lacking. It’s not his fault; we’ve been eating salty snacks. Oh yeah, and sugar water...

106. The Trench of Impending Disability.

2006-07-24T11:56:00.002-06:00

All I wanted was a trench—just one trench. What I got was a day off and a little TLC.

It all started about two years ago when my wife Limpy and I were building our house. It was to be a build-and-sell home with which we were set to make loads and loads of cash. Then we were going to build another and then another until we could rival Donald Trump’s real estate empire.

Things went south with our builders, dashing our plans, but we were able to keep our beautiful house and make it into a home. One of the many things that were left to use to fix was the storm drains. The rain gutters let out onto plastic tubes ten (10) feet long that were lying on the ground. I had to bury them myself using a state of the art pickaxe and a shovel.

When it came time for the burying of the gutters, we had neither lawn nor need to take care with the landscaping because there was none. The only landscaping we had consisted of a hill that drained all of our rain runoff into the neighbors’ yard—the American dream, right? When I buried the gutters two years ago, I asked the neighbor if he wanted me to run a French drain down the property line. He said no. I left thing be.

A few weeks ago, said neighbor ran a sprinkling system and planted sod. He also planted a French drain down the property line and laid a plastic drain tube in the trench. He left enough excess tubing that I could dig a trench from the property line to the tubing I had buried two years ago and connect my storm drain to his storm drain and be happy. It was only twenty (20) feet.

So today I woke up, ate my oat cereal, and went outside to dig a trench. In one hundred degree (100˚) weather (that’s somewhere near 38˚ C Brits.) With full sunshine. And my iPod. And a pregnant wifey who could sit down near me in the shade and give directions. Directions for digging. She’s going to make a great road crew chief someday.

Anyway, instead of a trench, I got what can only be assumed to be heat stroke. I had excessive sweating. My face turned beet (that’s beetroot, Aussies) red—but not from sunburn. I started shaking. I almost fainted. I felt like barfing. I took a shower with the coldest water I could stand until I could not stand—which was about five (5) minutes.

So here I lie on my beautiful couch with a fan pointed at me and my feet propped up on pillows trying to hydrate. It’s been an hour since I sat down and I have consumed a half-gallon of liquids. I feel okay until I move, which is seldom. My wife Limpy is taking care of me now and bringing me more electrolytes and colored-water drinks. And fruit. I sure do love her—and not just because of the liquids, there’s so much more to her than that. Hopefully I can squeeze a sandwich or two out of her when it’s time…

105. The First Mate and the Senile Dog

2006-07-18T11:23:00.000-06:00

Okay, so it’s been a while since I wrote, but nothing funny happened—hence the lack of stories. Last weekend however, was fraught and/or replete with hilarity which I will tell you about:

Many of you may know my wife Limpy is set to pop any day now. Well, not really ANY day—she’s due to deliver in early September.

Side note: earlier I had stated the name of the child would be my l’il Kid-neyramblings until further notice. Further notice is now. Be it known unto all fellow bloggers and the internet at large that the manchild formerly known as my l’il Kid-neyramblings shall be known heretofore as the First Mate. Why? Early in the marriage, I wanted to give my wife Limpy a nickname. Cap’n was my favorite, but it had too masculine a feel to it (Not that women can’t be captains, they just cant be cap’ns). I wanted the same feel though, so I nicknamed her Skipper. The First Mate seems to be a logical choice then for the boy, so he will be known as the First Mate. Sailors are cool—just ask the 70’s, which had an inordinate fascination with sailors.

Anyway, my wife Limpy and I attended a pre-natal class Saturday with a bunch of other couples. The class was very informative and the instructor did a very good job with the instruction. She was even a little entertaining, but not entertaining enough. She had the most crappiest audience though, so she did a fine job; you can’t expect her to carry energy for all of us for six hours. I decided to spice things up a bit.

When asked what could be done in the delivery room to help relax the mother, the audience responded with massages, music, water, etc, etc, etc. I thought I would add my own suggestion:

The instructor asked, “What else can we do in the delivery room to help relax mom?”

“Pets are relaxing,” I said.

[Thinking I was serious even though a few of the other people laughed] “Pets are very therapeutic, I agree, but they are not allowed in the hospital unless they are seeing eye dogs.”

That’s when my wife Limpy piped up: “Did you say senile dogs?” Everybody laughed.

So I said, “Senile dogs are VERY relaxing”

Another time, the instructor was looking for a white board pen (which was sitting next to some props including a doll, a pelvic bone, a cloth placenta/umbilical cord, among others). I was blessed with the opportunity to tell the instructor it was hiding beside the pelvis and underneath the placenta. How often do you get a chance to tell someone that?

Six hours later, I’m qualified to be a dad. They didn’t even test us…

Photo courtesy here.

104. Seen a Good Woovie* Lately?

2006-07-10T14:15:00.000-06:00

Because the weather has been perfect, I have been spending a lot of time indoors—in movie theaters to be exact. ‘Why ruin a perfectly good day by going to the lake and taking your shirt off?’ I say. Anyway, here’s a brief review of movies I’ve seen recently:

(Warning: There will be no spoilers in this post.)

Mission Impossible III (M:i:III):

Let’s start with the title. One can never use too many colons when abbreviating one’s title. On to the story. Ethan Hunt is, once again, pressed upon to go into a foreign country and kill a lot of people. He does so effortlessly, so the surprise comes by way of his wife who gets sucked into the action and is forced to kill people too. Oh, and she doesn’t know he’s a secret agent, so she doesn’t know the killings he makes are necessary. She doesn’t flinch at all, but submits willingly to the bloodbath that is M:i:III. She’s a bloodthirsty woman—that Mrs. Ethan Hunt. She’s the kind of girl a little man would jump on a couch for.

The action sequences are amazing and the skill with which the director pulled them off is fantastic. The plot is not as deep as the first two, because it deals with love and by definition action movies that deal with love are stupid and have shallow plots. That’s not to say the movie is worthless, because it’s (bloody) fun. I’m just saying that if you liked the first one like I did and the second one fell a little lower on your like scale (thanks to John Woo), M:i:III is sure to fall even lower than the other two but still high enough to recommend. I wouldn’t own it.

I give it three (3) stars out of five.

Superman Returns (SR):

I saw SR with my mother-in-law Limpymom. My wife Limpy wasn’t there—she was working. I don’t know if you need to take the circumstances into consideration while reading the review, but it needs to be stated. Also, let’s review the other superman movies:

‘Superman’ (the original) was the story of a demigod named Clark Kent who fought the forces of evil and saved the world from them. He was truly a model of role for all.

‘Superman II’ was when he gave it all up so he could score with Margot Kidder (I mean Lois Lane). Yeah, like that would ever happen. Margot Kidder wasn’t exactly Kate Bosworth.

‘Superman III’ was Richard Prior and an evil robot against Superman. ‘Nuff Said.

‘Superman IV’ was a complete abomination that deserves no mention here.

‘Supergirl’ appeared somewhere in there, but I never saw it. I mean COME ON! Supergirl? Please.

Which leads us to SR. Hollywood is becoming very good at making movies that have already been made. ‘King Kong’ and ‘The Lake House’ come to mind. In both cases, Hollywood has made the movie better.

SR is no exception. It smacks of all the goodness of the original ‘Superman’ in addition to the dimension of everything not always being black and white. Some tough choices and realities come into play and the decisions are not always easy. And did I mention Kryptonite is still bad for Superman?

SR is a great movie—one to buy on DVD immediately when available.

Five (5) stars out of five.

Finally, I also saw ‘Pirates of the Carribbean: Dead Man’s Chest’ (PCDMC):

If you liked the first ‘Pirates,’
you’re sure to watch PCDMC. What you’ll find is up to you. Where the first movie was one to own ONLY after its price drops under $15 (fifteen dollars) at Wal-Mart; PCDMC is a movie you should only own if someone else pays for it, watches it a few times and then gives it to you.

What’s wrong with the movie? Nothing per se, it just feels like Disney. You know in ‘The Apple Dumping Gang’ where the girl has got a constant urge to go to the bathroom? Remember how tiring it got when she was in the outhouse all movie long? That’s how PCDMC feels. The first movies was a good idea and it was lots of fun (like the “Mister, I gotta go” line). The second movie was like saying “Mister, I gotta go” during the closing credits. It was a good idea taken too far. Classic Disney.

In its defense, PCDMC has what could only be considered one of the funnest comedy/action chase sequences seen in recent years. I won’t give it away, but it involves a waterwheel. Only a Tim Conway/Don Knotts bungling duo could have completed the ingenuity of the chase scene.

Keira Knightley was funny/beautiful/good as Elizabeth, but not as much so. Johnny Depp was a perfect Captain Jack Sparrow, but not as perfect as the original. Orlando Bloom was brooding/too-pretty-to-be-a-man/heroic, but not quite like the original. The villains/supporting characters were villainous/supporting, but not as strong.

Wait for the cheaper, second (2nd)-run theater before you pay to see it. Wait to buy it until it drops to $9.99 at Wal-Mart before you buy it unless you can't get enough of Keira Knightley/Orlando Bloom/Johnny Depp--in which case I tell you to get a life.

Three (3) of five stars, but not the same three (3) as I gave M:i:III. On a ten point scale, M:i:III would have gotten five (5) stars and PCDMC would have gotten six (6). I gotta get a new star system…

*Woovie is the name my friends The Molotovs' children came up with when they were young enough to talk poorly, but old enough to want to see a movie.

103. Wordsmiths All

2006-07-03T16:18:00.000-06:00

You may be wondering where I get my name, stupidramblings and its associated IQ. Apparently it's from my surroundings. Here's a few "intelligent moments" had by friends and me while we were playing Catch Phrase:

1. CLUE: It's like tap dancing with a lower IQ.
Answer: Clogging

2. CLUE: He was a religious reformer.
Guesses: John Calvin, Martin Luther, Joseph Smith
Answer: Karl Marx

3. CLUE: Country with wooden shoes.
Unanimous guess: Holland/Netherlands
Answer: Sweden

4. CLUE: It's what they eat in Bavaria.
Answer: Strudel
Subsequent conversation: Where's Bavaria? I don't know, but I know they have Strudel there.

5. CLUE: You did it in the baby room.
Guess: A sacrificial dance.

6. CLUE: Something you do on the highway.
Guess: Cry

7. CLUE: It's made from milk; usually has fruit in it.
Guess: Yogurt
Answer: Yoga

8. CLUE: It's gassy and not sweet.
Guess: I pointed to my wife Limpy
Answer: Club soda

So, yeah. I guess one is a product of one's surroundings...

102. Patri-Autism

2006-07-01T11:09:00.001-06:00

“Happy First (1st) of July” they say in my city as they have a parade and a huge fireworks celebration three (3) days before the actual holiday. We’re not talking about Columbus Day or President’s Day—days normally celebrated near the actual holiday—the ugly step-sisters of patriotic holidays. We’re talking about the commemoration of the most important event in our country’s history, a commemoration of the document that declared us a nation.

So in my home town they’re celebrating it TODAY. The first (1st). A history lesson:

Back in 1563 (Fifteen Hundred Sixty Three) AD our forefathers were in a vicious battle fore supremacy on the American continent. Spain, Portugal, France, England, Senegal, Persia and the USA were in contention for possession of this here American continent (not to be confused with the American incontinent.) In early July, the first (1st) to be exact, Thomas Edison was cramming for his impending assignment. On the fourth, his 500 word paper was due, but he hadn’t even started it yet. His evil taskmaster, Ben Franklin Planner, was forcing him to draft a patriotic treatise under duress. His indentured servitude was due up on the fourth (4th) and BFP was not going to let him pass without a paper.

July first (1st)was the day he started working on his paper. Early drafts:

When in the course of good dental hygiene, America isn’t yours anymore (“no wait that won’t work…”)

yankees suck redsox rule peace out…

hey brits, let’s keep it real, yo?...

hey mother england u suck u are not very gr8 we hope you rot j/k lol PAW BTW…

Anyway by July fourth (4th) after a few No-Doze-induced all-nighters, The Declaration of Independence was finished. George Washington Carver, Herbie Hancock, Sam Adams Pale Ale and Lincoln Nebraska were all there. Thomas Edison had really outdone himself and someone suggested it was a great charter document and they decided to start a club—NO BRITS!

That was the fourth (4) but on the first (1st), all we had was a few lines of drivel on a spare parchment.

So I guess that’s what my hometown is celebrating.

Last year, they celebrated on the second (2nd). My wife Limpy and I showed up on Monday night (the fourth (4th)) to stake out a spot and watch the fireworks only to find out the celebration had passed while we had been sleeping fitfully on the night of Saturday the second (2nd). This year we’re not going to miss it.

We shouldn’t have to miss it; put the celebration back on the fourth (4th) where it belongs. It’s not like people were going to be working on the fourth (4th) anyway. Everyone has a day off. It’s okay to celebrate on the actual day.

Whatever.

Happy First (1st) of July everyone...

101. Raise Up the Nipper

2006-06-22T16:28:00.000-06:00

Well, it’s about time for an update on my l’il Kid-neyramblings. The boy is already a tiger as in T-I-G-E-R. He’s already shown to be a little temperamental and I’m going to have to spank the little bugger as soon as he’s out because A) I want him to stay humble and B) nobody kicks my wife Limpy in the stomach and gets away with it.

The heir is due in early September so we have been gathering hand-me-down everything and painting. Inset is a picture of the little guy’s room. Don’t you think the colors are perfect for raising up the nipper? Note: Home Depot makes good paint.

I got the color scheme because my wife Limpy collects giraffes—they remind her of me—and we were trying to pick paint colors that would look good with giraffes. Where do giraffes ever look good? Answer: they don’t. They only just barely get by on looks—and only in Africa on the savannah. But, ‘the savannah’ color scheme turned out to be the best environ for the decorations, so we painted it that way—browns, greens and golds on the bottom and blue on the top. It also represents the boy in a blue shirt.

We liked it. In a side story, the giraffe has an ugly step-cousin named Bert whom we met while we were visiting the San Diego Wild Animal Park in March. Poor guy didn’t get much of a chance with the cows. I mean look at him; he’s a bonafide genetic wreck. He didn’t get the graceful neck, but he got the face. Ouch. Bert is a sad creature; no wonder they keep him in the country away from the main zoo…

100. Stupid and the Bee

2006-06-19T14:37:00.000-06:00

(I was preparing something special for my 100th post, but it’s not ready so you get this drivel instead):

While I was eavesdropping the other day, I heard some folkses talking about the movie “Akeelah and the Bee”—a movie I have not seen. They were discussing how insanely some parents in the movie acted leading up to and during a spelling bee competition. (For a good review about the movie, see here, here, and here.)

One of the eavesdrop-ees (let’s call him Mr. Head-in-the-Sand or MR. HITS) was making the argument that the movie was a complete farce because very few people get hyped enough about the spelling bee, because they are not deranged enough to care. The other party (let’s name her Ms. Very-Well-Reasoned-and Right Thinking Person or Ms. VWRARTP) was telling Mr. HITS that people really do get a little crazy when their children have a chance at competition and winning.

When we had a spelling bee in 6th grade, I was privileged enough to sit in the audience with all the other regular kids while the smarties went to work on a-spellin’ them tuff words. One of the judges mispronounced larynx for a child—“LAR-nix,” the judge said. After the mispronunciation, the child was very confused and started stammering, so the parent of the child (who we’ll call King Kibitz or KK for reasons to be stated later), in an obvious effort to help the child cheat, screamed from the back, “It’s pronounced LA-RINKS!” The child felt pangs of embarrassment and spelled the word wrong anyway.

Way to go, KK.

You might want to remember the judges were all teachers and our town was very small. ‘I seen it’ and ‘I done it’ were popular phrases back then, and no one had a firm grasp on the language anyway. (OR, being true to my roots, that last phrase should go more like this: “…and folks ‘verily’ knew stuff about English anyways.”)

Anyways…KK (whose initials were not chosen by chance) stuck around even though his daughter was shamefully dismissed after his parental solar flare. KK was on hand to correct the judges every chance he got:

“JOO-ler-ee,” the judge intoned. (jewelry)

“It’s JOO-wel-ree!” KK screamed.

[…and later…]

“KAI-bits,” the judge said (kibitz)

“KIB-bits,” KK shrieked, “It’s KIB-bits—like what I’m doing right now.”

The whole audience was mortified and there was an uncomfortable vibe reverberating through the kids section. I think the parent ended up leaving before the ‘bee’ was over and none too soon.

Back to the eavesdropping. I wanted to tell Mr. HITS he was wrong, but I risked being the ‘all too knowing’ stranger people look at askance after they butt their way in where they don’t belong. So I get to tell you all—right here, right now. Other arenas where you can see KK in action: Pinewood Derbies, daltongirl’s daughter Lola’s dance festival and science fairs.

From the stupidramblings dictionary:
King Kibitz: n. 2006 stupidramblings.
Any one of a number of control freaks who lives vicariously through his children. Usually arrives alone in a compensate-for-my-shortcomings sports car and leaves early/angry. Caution: do not feed KK, beware of intense and violent outbursts, emotional abuse and road rage. Will drink before noon. Loves to play company softball—name on jersey is ‘Heavy Hitter.’ Always a vocal minority.

99. This Post Is Worth Five Thousand (5000) words.

2006-06-18T01:47:00.000-06:00

These photos are funny. Observe them; click to enlarge.

Dr. Seuss' elevator buttons

Redundancy school of redundancy?

Must be twenty one (21) to purchase:

This guy's got a serious case of the "Jazz Hands:"

"Yerds! Getcher fresh yerds here! Fresh yerds; still hot from the yerder! Don't forget to buy some yerds...!"

I'm tossed up as to which is my favorite. I really like the "Jazz Hands" slippery when wet guy, because I can't imagine why anyone would have thought it a good idea to put fingers on the 'fall-y guy.' Maybe he's just FABULOUS! BUT...I also like the 'yerd sale' sign for obvious reasons.

Interesting note: Sometimes my sales job takes me visiting schools. The day I took the 'yerd sale' photo just happened to be one of the days I was visiting schools in Los Angeles. When I arrived at the school, there were ten or twelve (10 'r 12) cop cars in the parking lot and all the students were demonstrating out front. Everything was peaceful, but it was still a walkout. When I watched the news that night I found out is was one of the first student walkouts when immigration reform was starting to heat up. I didn't start hearing about the walkouts in Utah for about two (2) more weeks.

98. Stupid’s Adventures in Hi Def

2006-06-16T14:31:00.000-06:00

When our contracted $24.95-per-month Dish Network bill reached $46.95 per month, my wife Limpy and I decided to quit. We are also expecting our first child, so we are cutting all the unnecessary expenses from our budget. Why satellite TV is considered “unnecessary” I’ll never know.

Nevertheless, we ditched the whole pay-for-TV gig in lieu of a less costly version called TV-channels-come-to-your-house-for-free via-cosmic-rays-from-space scenario. Not only do they still broadcast television channels over the air, they broadcast in HD. "You mean I can watch football, PBS and other educational channels in high quality HDTV?" "Yes, in HD."

So I started investigating how one (meaning ME) would go about getting HD programming for free in my home. It’s fairly inexpensive:

First I used the interweb to determine what would be best to buy to get started. www.antennaweb.org has many useful informations relating to optimal antenna size and directionality to help one (me) figure the whole scenario out. Based on their recommendation, I bought a huge one hundred ten inch (110”) RCA antenna—which also doubles as a clothesline—from Home Depot.

I tried to install the antenna in the attic so I could have it indoors, but it was too big to fit in the attic AND aim at the cosmic ray generator translation tower; which brings me to the next purchase:

Since I had to mount the sucker on the roof, I bought a heavy-duty, roof-mount tripod made specifically for antennas. The tripod is of the highest quality—meaning it is made of lead pipes and brackets—and is very sturdy. It’s so sturdy I tied myself to it just in case I slipped down the roof. In hindsight, maybe that wasn’t such a good idea. The antenna picks up a crystal-clear signal, but my HD TV set isn’t HD ready. Some of the older HDTV models like mine didn’t come with a tuner that would accept HD channels, so the purchase of a set top box receiver became necessary.

Circuit City is of the selling of set top boxes persuasion, so I bought one. The model I got is Pro Brand (seriously, that’s the brand name, I think they got discouraged when the brand name Sam’s Choice was taken) HD3150Plus. It took some creativity to wire it all correctly since my TV and Panasonic DVD/DVR hate accessories. Three hundred twenty one (321) hours later, VOILA! (not VIOLA) I have HDTV. Not only do I get a very good picture, but I get four (4) networks, three (3) PBS channels, the WB, UPN, i/PAX, some Spanish channels and some religious channels, I GET THEM IN HIGH QUALITY HD. (OK—I lied. Only the networks and PBS come in HD, but the other channels look great.)

One hundred ten inch (110”) RCA antenna: $77
Roof mount kit: $58
Pro Brand HD3150Plus HDTV receiver: $229
Watching “Passions” in HD: priceless

In total, it won’t take too long for the payoff, since we won’t be paying for satellite TV ever again—well—until I decide I need ESPN again…

"Passions" photo from http://www.nbc.com/Passions/

97. Stuffed 'N' Stuff

2006-06-15T10:34:00.000-06:00

Since daltongirl didn’t bother to go to Giordano’s like I told her to, Ima hafta explain why Giordano’s is soooooooo good:

It all happened when my flight out of Atlanta was delayed because the plane hadn’t arrived. ‘Where was the plane coming from,’ you ask? Chicago, O’Hare. ‘Huh’ you say, ‘Chicago O’Hare usually runs a punctual schedule.’ That’s where you’d be wrong.

I was forced to listen to all the whining people complain that they were going to be late, and try to force their way onto other flights, but the airline reps weren’t having any. The reps just typed a lot into their computers and continued to ignore everyone.

Because my flight was late leaving Atlanta (I blame the complainers), I missed my connection in Chicago. The airline was kind enough to reschedule me on a 6:30 am flight the next morning and send me a voicemail detailing the changes. I didn’t get the voicemail though, because I was on a PLANE. And 6:30 am? Don’t even get me started on why that’s not even cool.

Anyway I stood in line to speak to the airline rep for 15 of the longest minutes of my life while I listened to a nasal-voiced lumberjack woman from Alaska complain and complain about how bad everything was. Her husband wasn’t too pleased when I turned around and asked her if she would please stop complaining. I wasn’t rude—well not any ruder than one needs to be when confronting a total stranger—I didn’t want to start trouble so I asked nicely in a soft voice; I just figured that we were all in line because our day was already going pretty bad already and we didn’t need to listen to Mrs. Save-the-Caribou.

That’s when my voicemail came through, so I listened to it. I wasn’t too pleased at the time, but I was already in line, so I erased the message and waited to talk to the attendant. The airline rep—who wasn’t very friendly at all—and I came to a sort of understanding during our conversation that 6:30 am was unacceptable and I was rescheduled for later in the morning.

Then I reserved a hotel

When I got to my luxury suite, I called the front desk to ask them where I should eat. Giordano’s was the answer. Patsy’s Pizzeria in Manhattan on 74th and Giordano’s tie for the best pizzas I have ever eaten. Giordano’s was two inches thick and was stuffed to the…well…top crust with Chicago’s culinary goodness. Patsy’s was just as good, but it was in the New York style complete with the thin, floppy crust.

The pictures tell the Giordano’s story; sorry no Patsy’s pictures (Patsy’s will have to wait for her own story before I will post those…) Click on the pictures for enlarged versions. And if you want a Giordano's pizza of your very own, they can FedEx one to you. Just check the website here.

96. Oman—That is Saxy

2006-06-14T10:48:00.000-06:00

I stopped using Blog Patrol a while back because I had stopped concerning myself with how many hits I am getting (that, and the updated code they gave me to paste into my blog template was made my blog take six (6) minutes to upload). Unfortunately, I realized the data I really wanted but didn’t have access to anymore was where my hits were coming from. I really enjoy learning what is bringing outsiders to my blog.

I know what brings my regular reader(s): self esteem. When you all read my posts, I know you get a satisfaction that comes from knowing you are better than—someone—anyone. It’s always pleasant to look down on your inferiors, i’nnit?

Anyway, In the past seven (7) days, I have gotten hits from six (6) foreign countries, some of which are of the modern variety. Oman is one of those countries.

I may be wrong here, but in my experience Oman is a fairly conservative society. Oman’s societal norm is very, very…well…not accepting of anything. Imagine my surprise when I got a hit from someone in Oman who Google-searched the term “good saxy bosom.”

I can’t even begin to explain why the phrase “good saxy bosom” is hilarious standing alone and in the context Mr. Oman used it in, it is even more funnier. Poor guy (or girl) was probably doing an illicit search for seedy material trying to find something useful before the thought police came to give him (or her) a quick medieval beating.

Fortunately, misspelling ‘sexy’ probably saved him (or her) from the censors, but unfortunately didn’t help the individual find what they were looking for. (S)he found stupidramblings. Try it yourself; searching “good saxy bosom” yields a number one link to stupidramblings for some reason.

I wonder if the term ‘cannibalady’ will ever deliver someone to my e-doorstep.

Now excuse me while I search for HDTV components on the interweb.

95. Found a Peanut...

2006-06-11T13:41:00.000-06:00

Did I ever tell you about the time I stole something?

Shoplifting is a better word for it, but my career in trafficking ill-gained goods happens to be a great story. I was three (3) years old. I may have been four (4) but I think it happened when I was three (3); it's hard to remember.

Ramblimom was at the grocery store shopping, with me in tow, and was busy gathering the goods that would feed the family for the next week. I was short enough not to be able to see what was on the tables, but tall enough to reach up and reach over the lip on the table and feel the great mound of yummy salted peanuts they were selling.

So I took one.

I jammed it in the pocket of my tan, elastic-waisted, corduroy Tuffskins to save for later. I contemplated all the things I could do with my peanut when I arrived home as we snaked our way through the store gathering. (Ramblimom was a great gatherer, a hunter--not so much.)

When we got home, I went to my bedroom to consume the booty from my dishonorable escapades. Peanuts are very hard to open I found out. So what did I do? I went to ask ramblimom if she would open the peanut so I could enjoy its salty goodness.

"Where did you get that?!?" she shrieked.

"At the store" I answered.

"[I don't remember what she said here, but she was MAD.]"

Ramblimom announced we were going back to the store so I could pay for my peanut. She handed me my small jar of spending money (a percentage of my meager allowance) and we marched straight to the store so I could pay for the peanut.

When we arrived empty-handed at the checkout counter, ramblimom told the store owner (who may have been just a checker) I wanted to pay for the peanut I had stolen:

"My stupid son, stupidramblings, wants to pay for the peanut he stole when we were here earlier."

"Oh, it's alri--"

[What cut him off could only have been a dirty look from ramblimom.]

[Sternly] "One peanut costs one penny."

[Another dirty look from ramblimom.]

"...and a dime."

I fished the money from my money jar and handed it to the man. To tell the truth, however, I was more traumatized about giving up the penny than the dime. Dimes are smaller. I handed him the money, making my ill-gotten gain a hard lesson in monetary honesty. I was so ashamed.

When he took the money, he gave me a dirty look and said, "Now never, never steal again."

And I haven't.

94. One Hundred and One (101) Ways to Make Hot Dogs Taste Good

2006-06-07T16:58:00.000-06:00

Last night I needed a quick meal, but I didn’t have any instant dinners or anything else instant. Then I remembered we had hot dogs in the freezer because we were going to feed them to some cherubic children that come around sometimes.

I boiled the tubesteaks on medium for 7-9 minutes and put them on the hot dog bun. Problems: no relish, too lazy to cut up some onions, no sauerkraut, squished package of Wal-Mart’s house brand of hot dog buns. Sadness. All I had were some sauces and a few odds and ends to throw together to make the dogs taste good.

Eating hot dogs as a fine art may sound repulsive, but if done correctly, the hot dog can taste like culinary gold. The key to enjoying the hot dog is to cover its flavor with other strong ingredients. Tasting the meat often leads to dissatisfaction.

I thought I should use my best intellect to put 3 sets of quality ingredients together and make my dawgs taste as good as possible. Then I should write a series of blog entries documenting my successes. Here are the latest recipes from stupid’s great American hot dog cookbook. The following recipes are to be used with a standard hot dog either barbecued, boiled or cooked otherwise, and a bun:

1. The dog itself. If you want the best hot dog, use Hebrew National brand franks. They cost a bit, but they taste better and you can almost identify actual meat bits in them.
2. Diced Mediterranean olives + parmesan cheese + oil and vinegar = Old World dog.
3. BBQ sauce (from Reggi’s in Jackson, TN is the best) = BBQ dog.
4. Fresh pesto, Italian parsley and oregano leaves + Sun dried tomato = Sicilian dog.
5. Yellow mustard + ketchup (formerly catsup before dumb people refused to spell it right and they had to change it.) + diced onions + relish + sauerkraut + (optional) jalapenos = Ball Park dog (Hebrew National dogs imperative).
6. Sauerkraut + Thousand Island dressing + pastrami = Reuben dog.
7. Pepperoni slices + olives + onions + green peppers + Italian seasoning in tomato sauce = Pizza dog.
8. Nacho cheese + Chili = Coronary dog.
9. Baby spinach + red onion slices + Italian dressing = Lite dog
10. Margarine and Franks Red Hot Louisiana hot sauce melted together in equal proportions poured over the dog = Buffalo dog
11. Buffalo dog (see # ten (10)) + cayenne pepper melted into the sauce = Hot Buffalo dog.
12. Chipotle peppers + chili powder + mayonnaise = Southwest dog.
13. Fish (raw if you can get it prepared safely) + wasabi + soy sauce = Sushi dog.
14. Alfredo sauce sautéed with garlic + roma tomatoes + baby spinach + mushrooms = Vegetable Alfredo dog.
15. Dog split down the middle under mashed potatoes + Melted Cheddar cheese on top (no bun for this one) = Easy Supper dog.

The hot dog need not be garbage food. Enjoy with potato salad, watermelon and other picnic-type foods for maximum enjoyment. Don’t forget an icy Coke.

Well, that should take you through June 22; I’ll post more recipes from time to time when I don’t have much else to post.

93. Six, Seis, Six—(The Last One is French)

2006-06-06T09:33:00.000-06:00

I heard on the radio news this morning today might be a day for the terrorists to strike because of the symbolism of the date. You know—06-06-06, the devil’s number, the day that movie comes out.

Plausibility? 0%. Creativity? 5%. Delusion? 100%.

The number 666 is a decidedly Christian symbol. It comes from a reference in the very last pages of the last book in the Christian good book, The Bible (Revelation 13:18 to be exact.) I’m guessing terrorists don’t read very much, else why all the barbarism? If they did start reading The Bible, I’m guessing they would end up setting the thing down somewhere near all that Ten (10) Commandments mumbo-jumbo. Unless they decided to actually heed the Ten (10) Commandments as well as finish the book. But then they wouldn’t be terrorists anymore.

Anyone who thinks the terrorists are waiting for a specific day of import to launch an attack is stupid, naïve, or intellectually dishonest. No, I kinda think the terrorists will do what they do whenever it is they can get their grubby hands some dynamite—not when the supposed devil’s day arrives.

Anyhoo, who are these morons who are always looking for opportunities for the terrorists to attack? If you fear they will attack on a certain day, and the media reports that, don’t you think that just gives the terrorists ideas? I imagine these doomsday fatalists are the same people who are curled up in the fetal position, sucking their thumbs on the cold cement floor of their bomb shelters and waiting for the gub’mint to tell them when they can start living their lives again. (Did I say again?)

I gots a message for anyone who is anticipating the next terrorist attack and being careful not to visit any populated places (except Jack Bauer and all his peeps):

Get a grip people.

I believe the military is doing the best it can to help thwart (great word) the efforts of would be terrorists. Some terrorists will likely reverse-thwart (greater word) the military and actually carry out a plan or two. I will not be one to live my life any differently on account o’ the terrorists might attack using numerological symbology. They don’t want to send any message—they just want to blow stuff up.

So go back to your home—or rather—stockpile of food and munitions and quit worrying about what the terrorists are going to do. OR, do something about it like join the military or law enforcement or even the UN. Don’t idly complain and/or cower in fear of something happening to you.

If you are afraid because today is today, something has already happened to you. I’m guessing the only terror today will be in “Omen.” And if anything does happen, it won’t be because of the date.

Photo courtesy here.

92. Have You Seen “Mary Kate and Ashley: Reloaded” Yet?

2006-05-30T11:39:00.001-06:00

You know the type of person: You go see a movie like “Harold and Kumar Go to Whitecastle” with friends only to leave the theater and hear, “The book was better.”

You turn your head and look at the alien that vaguely looks like a former friend of yours and you say, “I didn’t know there was a book.”

“Yeah there is. It was published by Bantam House as ‘The Piccadilly Prance’ but was renamed ‘Harold and Kumar Go to Whitecastle’ when the publisher was sued by the British Royal Navy in an effort to forcibly keep the details of Piccadilly Circus from panicking the uninitiated.”

"Um, get a job dude.”

Then on the other side, you have a friend who insists on asking you if you’ve seen “White Chicks” yet. YET? Do my friends think I’m dim enough to be entertained by stupidity?

Anyways, I just wanted to let you know I’m neither type of person. I’m not going to ask if you saw The DaVinci Code yet, and I’m not going to force you to hear me say the book was better. So if you don’t want to here either of those phrases, stop here--->.

I am not a book snob. I don’t even read. Nevertheless, The DaVinci Code was a much better book than it was a movie. What was great about the book that was wrong with the movie:

I couldn’t stop reading the book; I kept looking at my watch during the movie.

The book was light, fun and fast-paced; the movie was serious, dark and slower-than-tar.

The book made me want to become a writer; the movie made me want to become French. No way that's going to happen.

The ideas in the book were well organized and logically fit together; the ideas in the movie were chunky and didn’t flow from one to the other very well. (Disclaimer: I didn’t think the book’s logic holds up in real life. Only within the confines of the fictional universe inside the book do the ideas hold up. They are consistent within that universe.)

The female protagonist, Sophie, is an intelligent problem-solver in the book; In the movie, she is a bungling sidekick at best. “What? Quoi? Moi? I don’t unduhstand and neezuh does zee audiANCE . Please sPLAIN-e-moi so everyONE weel unduhstand zee storee. Do I look lost? Can someONE Pleez-uh help me smile?” The character Sophie spends much time in the book recalling old facts, solving the puzzles and being a character. In the movie she doesn’t intelligently do anything. In fact, it is completely out of character for her to (spoiler coming) spring Langdon from the clutches of Fache, because that would have required her to know Langdon was being wrongly accused and to have acted on her own—a plotline much too intelligent for the movie Sophie.

The book assumes you are smart and will understand and see all the clues; the movie assumes you will understand nothing unless they highlight it for you. In the movie it’s not enough to show a symbol on screen. They have to use a highlighter to make the symbol visible.

The book takes about three (3) hours to read; the movie is at least six (6) days long.

The book’s climax(es) ebb and flow, and they feel like real climaxes; the movie lacks a real climax and needs to have a more solid climax so the endings don’t feel so drawn out. The movie has at least four (4) endings and none of them seems to bring closure or finality to the story. The book has the same four (4) endings but they don’t take 1/3 of the running time of the story.

Did I mention how long the movie seemed? I was surprised when I hadn’t lost my job because I thought I had spent weeks in the theater.

Can you tell I wasn’t thrilled with the movie? My wife Limpy said it was the dumbest movie ever made. I asked how she could possibly know that.

I am not a book snob, but I do feel the book succeeded where the movie failed. I would rather poke my eyes with needles than watch that steaming pile of manure again. My counsel to you: if you enjoyed the book, read it again while spraying lemon juice and ammonia in your eyes—you’ll still enjoy the book much better than the movie.

91. The Simpsons are Evil and I Rebuke You.

2006-05-25T17:40:00.000-06:00

When I was in college I moved into an apartment with some guys I didn’t know. They were pretty cool and we had good times. One of my favorite traditions they practiced—which I agreed with—was watching “The Simpsons” every Sunday night at 10:00 after the news. It was a good chance for some manly bonding and to invite the more humoristically progressive ladies over to the apartment.

A student who lived directly above my apartment was also the leader of a church organization I belonged to. One day during church, the upstairs neighbor told the whole congregation “The Simpsons” was an evil show and rebuked us by apartment number for inviting people over to participate in our Sunday-standard activity. We named him Rebuke Boy.

Then a week later in the same church meeting, his short, angry roommate (and assistant leader of the church organization) rebuked us again and said “The Simpsons” was one of the more vile shows on TV at the time. My roommate raised his hand and asked, “Even Flanders and Reverend Lovejoy?” The rest of the people in the meeting snickered while the little bitter guy’s face turned red. We named him Rebuke Boy #2.

What is with people like that? Using his logic, we could just have easily called them to task by reminding them driving a Camaro and listening to Bon Jovi at ear-splitting volumes is a much quicker path to the darkside than “The Simpsons.” At least The Simpsons could be said to provide some intelligent social commentary once in a while. And it’s not like we bashed on their Oakland Raiders flags in the window either.

I couldn’t then, nor can I now, understand why someone who is trying to “help” someone would ever think it acceptable to use such a public setting from a supposed position of authority as a means to call attention to a specific person’s sin—perceived or real—and call it a means of providing spiritual help. Real Christians would (or should) give a humble hand of encouragement and a ‘hand up,’ not a public backhand slap.

Anyway, my point is that I ran into Rebuke Boy #1 yesterday and I talked to him for a few minutes. The conversation was not very stimulating, but I was genuinely glad to see him:

I needed blog material.

Oh, and I was just kidding about the name stuff; call me stupid or whatever you like...

90. STÚ•pĭd•răm•blĭng•s

2006-05-24T12:47:00.000-06:00

From time to time someone posts a comment on my blog stating their reticence and reservations about using my rightful and given name, stupidramblings. I’m sure in some of your households stupid is a four-letter word not to be used by anyone about anyone else unless the speaker is talking about someone with a zero (0) or null IQ.

Unfortunately for those of you who fall into the aforementioned category, stupidramblings is my name and you will feel compelled to call me stupid. Or you can call me stupidramblings. No other derivatives of stupidramblings are acceptable and right.

Also, some of you have asked me how I pronounce my name. STÚ·pĭd·răm·blĭng·s is the proper pronunciation. And don’t forget to make the ‘s’ on the end its own syllable…

89. Get Stupid!

2006-05-23T16:41:00.000-06:00

Finally!

I have figured out a little more about HTML and I have figured out how to add an RSS feed to my account. Now you can check my content without having to search out my blog. The link is on the right. Sign up today. The link is labeled "get stupid." -------------------------------------------->

WARNING: The stupid RSS feed is for prescribed use only. Dosage changes should only be made by a qualified physician. If you show symptoms of scours, rickets, mumps, or death, you should not use the stupid RSS feed. Pregnant women should not use the RSS feed. May cause multiple births, birth defects multiple defects and birth multiplication, and long division. If you are thinking of becoming pregnant, or if you know someone who may become pregnant, OR if you think pregnancy happens when two people really, REALLY love each other, do not handle, smell, or look at the stupid RSS feed.

Also available in children's stupid RSS (but it's just a half dosage, so you might as well just buy the lower cost adult version and cut the suckers in half. (The pills, not the children.)) Do not take within 48 hours of eating fruit, laxatives, or food.

88. This Is Your Mentor, Stupid

2006-05-22T14:17:00.000-06:00

If you’re here because I left a message on your blog, you’ve come to the right place. The story:

Last week, various people called me to tap my vast fount of knowledge and reason. All of the phone calls were stimulating, but I noticed a dangerous pattern: All of my peeps started the phone call the same way:

Me: “Hello?”

Them: “Hey, this is your (acquaintance), (insert name here.)”

Me: “What’s up?”

And then the conversations ensued. I know it doesn’t sound too out of the ordinary, but these are my friends—those whose voices I should know and whose phone numbers appear on my caller ID before I even answer the phone.

The culmination of me noticing this trend was when my brother Chewy called and did the same.

“Hello?”

“Hey, it’s your brother, Chewy?”

“I know, what’s up?”

It’s a little troubling when people—close friends and family—call me and re-introduce themselves. My own brother apparently thinks I am dim enough to have to be reminded who he is—as do most of my friends. Strange.

Anyway, so I was telling my wife last night about the trend and she told me she had been noticing the same thing. So last night just before bed, we had this conversation:

Me: “Hey Hunny Bunny…”

My wife Limpy: “Yes?”

Me: “It’s your husband, stupid.”

We laughed until she cried—I try to make her cry at least once per day—and then we continued our conversation.

I decided this would be a pattern for living. I will be introducing myself to you every time I post on one of your blogs by reminding you who I am. You won’t have to bother looking at my non-existent avatar anymore to figure out who I am…

87. Bustin' Cats.

2006-05-18T15:21:00.000-06:00

Sensitive viewers might find the following stories...unsavory.

I'm finding I'm none too kind to animals lately. Specifically cats. (Watch out, Cicada's cats.)

Today I was driving in Kansas City in my rented Camry when I saw an object lying in the road. I thought it was a rag or a piece of cardboard or maybe even clothing. As I approached I realized it was a cat--probably already dead. Its head was resting peacefully against the pavement and my car had plenty of room to clear the rotting carcass, so I didn't slow down.

As I got closer, I noticed the people on the sidewalk all gathered around staring at the cat from mere feet away. No problem I thought as I continued to speed toward the feline wonder.

Imagine my surprise when I noticed the cat's eyes were open and it was staring right at me--and then, like a Stephen King plotline, the little guy (seeing its life flash before its eyes) raised itself up on its forepaws in a last futile attempt to escape the bitter Camry of justice before I finished it off. The poor little guy (for storytelling purposes, lets assume the cat is male) looked like he had just escaped from a washing machine.

I heard a violent THU-THUNK as the kitty's head hit the front undercarriage of the car and then the back axle. Serves him right--he shouldn't have raised up like that. The bystanders all went crazy as I sped away. They were treated to a gruesome scene only PETA could have made more ridiculous (which I'm sure they will after a comment like that.) I would have stopped, but

I don't like cats.
I don't like cats that pretend to be roadkill, only to try to ellicit a reaction from me.
I'm insensitive.
I was in a rather seedy neighborhood, not a good place to stop.
I didn't want to ruin my streak.

Less recently, I was driving in my home town a while back and I ran over a raccoon. Let it be known to the entire internet that I have never even seen a live raccoon, let alone in the middle of town. It was just there on the side of the road apparently waiting for me to pass. Again, like the cat, just as I arrived, it put itself in the path of danger and crossed the road. I could only wince as I passed over its chubby, city-loving body with both right tires. I stopped to check on it, but I couldn't find the body.

Way further back, my sister and I were driving early one morning and another apparently dead cat in the road opened its mouth in a wide yawn as we approached. I swerved to miss the thing, because the gaping piehole freaked me out a bit but instead of clearing it, or swinging wide, I ran over its head with both left tires.

I'd like to see Stephen King finish this story, maybe with a violent return of the critters' ghosts to haunt me and my family until we cave and buy a dog (which we will promptly have to dispose of) so its ghost can take care of the cat and racoon spirits that will be rummaging through my garbage.

Go Fido, Go!

...

you can find the armadillo photo here.

86 Still mad.

2006-05-16T15:53:00.000-06:00

Yup, I just got done checking and I'm still mad.

Nothing funny about that, IS there smacky?!?

...

85. I'm Mad as Hell, and I'm Not Going to Take it Anymore

2006-05-10T09:29:00.000-06:00

The letter I would have emailed to a local business if I had found an email address on their website. As it was, I just had to call them.

Recently (and for the third time), your evil minions have taped flyers to my door advertising your societally-non-productive service despite my “no soliciting” sign twelve inches (12”) from the doorknob on my front door. Reasons I have installed a “no soliciting” sign:

• I don’t like litter. Last time I called to tell you about this problem (the second time it happened) Your secretary totally blew me off telling me just to throw the flyer away if I didn’t want it. I asked her, “If it’s garbage, why not throw it away yourself and cut out the middle man.”
• I’d think if you’re going to market directly, you would pay the bulk-rate postage and have it sent to my house in the money mailer so I can throw it away with everything else. (IF, in fact, you want me to throw it away when it arrives like you said.)
• I don’t think the tree you cut down to make the flyer would appreciate being cut down for the sole purpose of rotting in the landfill.
• I don’t like burglars—who have been casing my house daily for months—to know I’m not home because your bright yellow flyer sits taped to my front door for a few days until I finally see it there. I don’t use my front door. I have a garage. If you really want me to see it, you will put it on top of my wallet and keys while I sleep. I’ll be sure to see it in the morning, because I never go without my wallet and keys.
• The tape gets baked onto my front door in the morning sun.
• I hate you.

What I want you to do about it:

• Please fire your President, Vice President, Marketing Manager, and whomever you sent to tape your trash to my door.
• Please send me an email and place a phone call to me to tell me what you are going to do about it.
• Send my mom flowers for Mothers Day. Somebody’s got to do it and it’s not going to be me.
• Find a way to corporally punish those responsible and send me the video.

What I will do about it if you don’t stop taping crap to my door:

• I will take you to small claims court and find a way to get a judgment against you.
• You will be buying me a boat.
• I’ll get a lawyer if I have to and I will sue you for a boat and lawyer fees.
• I might die.
• I will tape my garbage to your front door every time it happens—oh, and BTW, I cook with fish—a lot.

Sincerely yours,
StupidR.
1-801-Ihateunscrupulousmarketers.
noway@yeahright.com

Clipart courtesy: here