Remember the movie "Splash," where Daryl Hannah was a mermaid and Tom Hanks was a guy? Then Tom Hanks proved his acting ability and got other movie offers and met important people like Steven Spielberg and Daryl Hannah....well, when Daryl acted in that B movie called something like a fruit? I don't remember that either, but there are tell tale signs that your career is in the toilet. For Daryl Hannah, that time is now. When the only camera time you get is on CNN, talking on a cell phone about beaver pelts, clubbing baby seals and plowing the rain forests for pelt storage space, that is the time when you hang 'em up and call it a career.
I don't think playing a mermaid was a big enough stretch to prove acting ability, just like I don't think climbing a big Walnut tree was a push towards greatness. Her resume is shrinking faster then Costanza's wang after a dip in the ocean. If you do not get that reference, then you are probably a fan of Splash. The whole argument for sitting in the tree is skewed from the beginning. I am all for people farming. YAY farmers, OK? But in this vast planet we call Earth, I am sure there are other plots of land that are not worth $16 million to the owner. I believe, AS the owner, this guy can do pretty much anything he wants to. In fact, other tree sitters have had the opportunity to preserve this land if they raised enough money. However, they came up over $10 million short in keeping it. Rules are rules, and for the record, do not depend on fund raising from people that find tree sitting socially gratifying. NEWSFLASH, THEY DO NOT HAVE EXTRA MONEY. They most likely have families to feed. They do this by GOING TO WORK at their DAILY jobs, and contribute to such things as TAXES, 401K and COLLEGE FUNDS. They create their own job security for FUTURE earnings by establishing EXPERIENCE in a given field that will have a NEED for a long period of TIME. Call me crazy, but it has been that way for a long time. As the population grows, it is necessary to build homes, places for people to work, and park as they do, and for people to shop and practice worship, and those people need places to park. Hospitals are built for the sick, not to mention the large plats of land that are used to bury dead people. Haven't these people ever played SIM CITY???
But back to Daryl Hannah. I have some advice for her. I won't tell you you manage money like Pee Wee Herman manages his spare time because that would insult your intelligence. Seems to me you choose causes to stick up for like Colin Farrel does his women. Since your film career is in the toilet, and your resume licks nuts, I can only tell you to get out of the tree and go to the closest fast food joint and mix in a meal. If they give you the super size option....TAKE IT! I know it may be hard to scrape up some spare change, but PLEASEEEEEEEEEE get out of the tree and eat before a gale force wind blows your skinny ass up north and you see what they are doing in the wildlife preserve in Alaska.
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
Hungry? Grab a Diaper!
If you have dogs, than you know how expensive they can be. Let's forget about the 50 pound bag of food for $50, OK? Lets just talk about the chew toys that keep the dogs attention for just a hair longer than a toddler at Home Depot. What does a Kong go for these days? I think I just paid $10 for a PSEUDO Kong...not even the real deal. This was for a dog that has the jaw strength of T-Rex. Very smart of me, I know. He got bored with that pretty quick. It wasn't so much the boredom, I guess, as it was the fact he turned it into confetti in a matter of 10 minutes. What to do, what to do....
Now, being up higher on the food chain, humans have the ability to make choices. Notice there was no GOOD or BAD choices. I know some people who have the intelligence of a single-cell organism and the only thing missing is the filia to get around. But it has never occurred to me that, if I was bored, or hungry, that a diaper filled with shit and piss would be a yummy snack. I find pieces of it trailing from the trash can and am bewildered by the bad choice. It is kind of like putting cat nip in front of a cat, and then telling the cat "NO" when he goes for it. I have never put a diaper in front of my dog and teased him with it like it was a treat. Yet, like clockwork, once a week or so, I find chewed up diaper. It is beginning to occur to me why my dog coughs like he has a hair ball in the back of his throat. I suppose my body would reject week old fecal matter and nitrogen infested urine crystals too.
So the next time you want to go spend a fortune on items to keep your pet entertained, chuck a diaper at 'em. If you don't have kids, borrow some from the people you work with. Go hang out at WalMart on a weekend and wait by the cart return rack. There is always a used diaper or two in an empty cart. If that doesn't work, buy some Depends Undergarments. Trust me. It is cheaper then going bankrupt buying a Kong a week until arthritis kicks in.
Now, being up higher on the food chain, humans have the ability to make choices. Notice there was no GOOD or BAD choices. I know some people who have the intelligence of a single-cell organism and the only thing missing is the filia to get around. But it has never occurred to me that, if I was bored, or hungry, that a diaper filled with shit and piss would be a yummy snack. I find pieces of it trailing from the trash can and am bewildered by the bad choice. It is kind of like putting cat nip in front of a cat, and then telling the cat "NO" when he goes for it. I have never put a diaper in front of my dog and teased him with it like it was a treat. Yet, like clockwork, once a week or so, I find chewed up diaper. It is beginning to occur to me why my dog coughs like he has a hair ball in the back of his throat. I suppose my body would reject week old fecal matter and nitrogen infested urine crystals too.
So the next time you want to go spend a fortune on items to keep your pet entertained, chuck a diaper at 'em. If you don't have kids, borrow some from the people you work with. Go hang out at WalMart on a weekend and wait by the cart return rack. There is always a used diaper or two in an empty cart. If that doesn't work, buy some Depends Undergarments. Trust me. It is cheaper then going bankrupt buying a Kong a week until arthritis kicks in.
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
A Conversation with a 17-year old...
I used to think people lost brain cells by huffing paint, or making too many model airplanes. I guess drinking is bad for brain cell natality, but when it comes right down to it, some people are dumb just because. Take, for example, a girl.
Thank you....
No wait, more to the story. So this girl is Latino, Mexican, Guatemalan, whatever. Point is, she is foreign. She was bragging the other day, OUTLOUD, that she tans easily, so much so that she stays tan all year. Pardon? Say that again. "I am tan all year." OK. "Isn't that just the shit?" Right. Just like Ben Wallace, Carlos Mencia, Ricky fucking Ricardo and any other fucking human being with dark skin, right????!?!?!?! Am I not getting something? GOD MADE YOU THAT WAY DUMBASS. It is a permanent pigment, no sun required. Fucktard. She says, "whatever, you just wish you could stay tan all year." I know, because the people at work care, as do the creditors I pay, the clerk at the gas station, the lady at my day care and the UPS guy.
(insert DEAD PAN LOOK)
Yeah I know. All of the above flew over your prepubescent head. Point is, the only one who ultimately cares about anything YOU do, is you...or people like you, namely other 17-year old retards still living under Mommy and Daddy's roof. You wouldn't know that though because you are stuck on the fascination that the skin color you were given when you were conceived in the back alley of the local watering hole remains the same color forever. Now you know where all the beaner references come from, or why people stack tamales in front of your locker and walk away laughing. Hint : it isn't because you are tanned by the sun. It is also why you are flying through Spanish class without studying. Oh yeah, and texting will never be an Olympic sport, OK?
(still dead pan)
Do you know how much text messaging costs?
(shakes head, tears welling)
Ask your parents. Speaking of your parents, when is the last time you saw them. Have you had your weekly, "I am alive" phone call? I would want to make sure that you were OK, remained pretty enough to get married so I could pass of your mooching ass to some other wank. So when they call, stop ignoring them. Unlike you, they care about other things other than themselves. That happens when you are parents. You have moments of bliss, then unprotected sex, blow a partial nut in a warm vagina, and ohhhhh shit, so much for ME ME ME...now it is all about the baby. Pretty soon, babies grow up to be, well you, a hormonal fellatio machine, stuck on the fact that you want to save your hymen for the man you love, yet you will swallow enough spunk to displace the Queen Anne, yet, you have no idea why people call you a slut. Wipe off your chin, or is that a permanent sperm burn?
(sniff...sniff)
Don't be sad. Save it for when you have to pay taxes, or serious stuff like....having to pay for your own gas, or when oil starts leaking from your car, and you need money to fix it. You will call your parents and they won't answer the call, and you ask yourself what could they possibly be doing that is so important as to NOT answer your phone call. Hard to believe, but the further you get from this age, your notoriety and title as "queen" gets less and less profound and you become a citizen. I know, I know, it is a lot to take in all at once. Sort of like the load you took from John Thomas. But since you took that spunk rocket like a champ, so shall you take this next bit of advice. Go home. In 5 years, no one will care that your south-of-the-border tanning secrets keep you looking bronze all year, no one will envy you and your hyper-texting fingers, people will forget about your chronic cold sores and cold, clammy hands, and they will move on. Practice moving on, talk about shit that matters to other people because, frankly, with every passing day, your parents are looking forward to the day you say "adios," and go off to school and they can finally go back to being themselves. What was that? How will you pay for school? Simple. Stafford loans. Yes, you will have to pay them back, which means you will have to get a job, and be an adult. But don't cry. You still have today, but you cannot stay here for dinner. You have to go eat at home, and sit around that 4-legged thing called the table, and wow someone else with your tales of bravery and bullshit, otherwise knows as adolescence because frankly, I don't give a damn.
Oh, and don't forget to gargle
Thank you....
No wait, more to the story. So this girl is Latino, Mexican, Guatemalan, whatever. Point is, she is foreign. She was bragging the other day, OUTLOUD, that she tans easily, so much so that she stays tan all year. Pardon? Say that again. "I am tan all year." OK. "Isn't that just the shit?" Right. Just like Ben Wallace, Carlos Mencia, Ricky fucking Ricardo and any other fucking human being with dark skin, right????!?!?!?! Am I not getting something? GOD MADE YOU THAT WAY DUMBASS. It is a permanent pigment, no sun required. Fucktard. She says, "whatever, you just wish you could stay tan all year." I know, because the people at work care, as do the creditors I pay, the clerk at the gas station, the lady at my day care and the UPS guy.
(insert DEAD PAN LOOK)
Yeah I know. All of the above flew over your prepubescent head. Point is, the only one who ultimately cares about anything YOU do, is you...or people like you, namely other 17-year old retards still living under Mommy and Daddy's roof. You wouldn't know that though because you are stuck on the fascination that the skin color you were given when you were conceived in the back alley of the local watering hole remains the same color forever. Now you know where all the beaner references come from, or why people stack tamales in front of your locker and walk away laughing. Hint : it isn't because you are tanned by the sun. It is also why you are flying through Spanish class without studying. Oh yeah, and texting will never be an Olympic sport, OK?
(still dead pan)
Do you know how much text messaging costs?
(shakes head, tears welling)
Ask your parents. Speaking of your parents, when is the last time you saw them. Have you had your weekly, "I am alive" phone call? I would want to make sure that you were OK, remained pretty enough to get married so I could pass of your mooching ass to some other wank. So when they call, stop ignoring them. Unlike you, they care about other things other than themselves. That happens when you are parents. You have moments of bliss, then unprotected sex, blow a partial nut in a warm vagina, and ohhhhh shit, so much for ME ME ME...now it is all about the baby. Pretty soon, babies grow up to be, well you, a hormonal fellatio machine, stuck on the fact that you want to save your hymen for the man you love, yet you will swallow enough spunk to displace the Queen Anne, yet, you have no idea why people call you a slut. Wipe off your chin, or is that a permanent sperm burn?
(sniff...sniff)
Don't be sad. Save it for when you have to pay taxes, or serious stuff like....having to pay for your own gas, or when oil starts leaking from your car, and you need money to fix it. You will call your parents and they won't answer the call, and you ask yourself what could they possibly be doing that is so important as to NOT answer your phone call. Hard to believe, but the further you get from this age, your notoriety and title as "queen" gets less and less profound and you become a citizen. I know, I know, it is a lot to take in all at once. Sort of like the load you took from John Thomas. But since you took that spunk rocket like a champ, so shall you take this next bit of advice. Go home. In 5 years, no one will care that your south-of-the-border tanning secrets keep you looking bronze all year, no one will envy you and your hyper-texting fingers, people will forget about your chronic cold sores and cold, clammy hands, and they will move on. Practice moving on, talk about shit that matters to other people because, frankly, with every passing day, your parents are looking forward to the day you say "adios," and go off to school and they can finally go back to being themselves. What was that? How will you pay for school? Simple. Stafford loans. Yes, you will have to pay them back, which means you will have to get a job, and be an adult. But don't cry. You still have today, but you cannot stay here for dinner. You have to go eat at home, and sit around that 4-legged thing called the table, and wow someone else with your tales of bravery and bullshit, otherwise knows as adolescence because frankly, I don't give a damn.
Oh, and don't forget to gargle
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Cribs are for BABIES!
I know that I often complain about the mundane. People have said I should pick and choose my battles. But there comes a time when the law must be laid down. Now is one of those times. I love my family. They all have hearts the size of Vermont. They mean well. But, when my kids go to bed, I put them in bed and walk away. Let me rephrase that. I lay them down in the bed, cover them with one blanket, and I walk away. I do that with both my 1-year old son and his crib, and I do that with my 3-year old daughter and her toddler bed. Plain and simple, or so it seems, until someone else puts them to bed with the complete set of Ken Burn's new documentary on Cricket in the U.K., a satellite dish, a can opener, some packing peanuts, a 70R14 spare tire and a can of tomato juice. Allow me to explain.
I heard my son crying very early this morning. Normally, he rises with the sun, and in this case, he was somewhat on cue, and normally I just go back in and comfort him, letting him know the sun is not going to explode, all is well, and please lay back down because Daddy cannot seem to open his eyes. This trip was different. I went to lay him back down and the source of his aggravation made sense as I saw what was in his sleeping space. 4 blankets, 6 books, a pacifier (which he has never ever used to this point), some packing tape, a change jar, an unopened can of SPAM, a 1168 color box of Crayons, coloring books, a half eaten Subway Club, some shoes and a 5-gallon bucket of base coat from Sherwin Williams. Ok, some of that was made up, like the books.....but, the crib is for sleeping time. It is not a storage space for pack rats. It is not comforting to sleep with a cord of unchopped wood next to you, so for the love of God, why would you want to put a set of the Encyclopedia Brittanica in with a child? We are not in the Polar North, 8 Below...so what is with the 17 layers of blankets? The poor kid was swimming with rayon fibers and Dr. Seuss, times 27. So instead of him saying, "DAD I AM AWAKE AND HUNGRY," his message was different. "DAD....I FOUND ALL OF YOUR SINGLE SOCK PARTNERS, SOME MOON ROCKS AND THE YO-YO YOU LOST WHEN YOU WERE 4..." I scooped up the extraneous items and threw them on the floor, leaving him with one blanket and his body, covered him up and his eyes closed almost instantly, as if to say, "thank you for removing the modeling glue, the fumes were giving me a headache," and off to sleep he went.
But now I have another problem.....the 70R14 spare tire made a hole in the floor when I tossed it out of the crib. Thank God I have extra blankets to cover it....
I heard my son crying very early this morning. Normally, he rises with the sun, and in this case, he was somewhat on cue, and normally I just go back in and comfort him, letting him know the sun is not going to explode, all is well, and please lay back down because Daddy cannot seem to open his eyes. This trip was different. I went to lay him back down and the source of his aggravation made sense as I saw what was in his sleeping space. 4 blankets, 6 books, a pacifier (which he has never ever used to this point), some packing tape, a change jar, an unopened can of SPAM, a 1168 color box of Crayons, coloring books, a half eaten Subway Club, some shoes and a 5-gallon bucket of base coat from Sherwin Williams. Ok, some of that was made up, like the books.....but, the crib is for sleeping time. It is not a storage space for pack rats. It is not comforting to sleep with a cord of unchopped wood next to you, so for the love of God, why would you want to put a set of the Encyclopedia Brittanica in with a child? We are not in the Polar North, 8 Below...so what is with the 17 layers of blankets? The poor kid was swimming with rayon fibers and Dr. Seuss, times 27. So instead of him saying, "DAD I AM AWAKE AND HUNGRY," his message was different. "DAD....I FOUND ALL OF YOUR SINGLE SOCK PARTNERS, SOME MOON ROCKS AND THE YO-YO YOU LOST WHEN YOU WERE 4..." I scooped up the extraneous items and threw them on the floor, leaving him with one blanket and his body, covered him up and his eyes closed almost instantly, as if to say, "thank you for removing the modeling glue, the fumes were giving me a headache," and off to sleep he went.
But now I have another problem.....the 70R14 spare tire made a hole in the floor when I tossed it out of the crib. Thank God I have extra blankets to cover it....
Monday, April 17, 2006
Don't Expect Bliss after THIS!
I heard a story this weekend from a friend of mine. I had to laugh mostly from the visual of phlegm flying in all the wrong places, but mostly because I pictured her reaction when it happened. Imagine yourselves, if you will, standing in an empty Costco warehouse, with the lights off, and you are blindfolded. 50 feet away, 700 pounds of lead pip is dropped 30 feet onto the concrete floor. What would you do? I would imagine, after sidestepping a puddle of piss, and ignoring the fecal smell coming from your shorts, that you would hop, skip and jump far away from the sound. So, remember that feeling as I proceed.
Instead of pipe in a warehouse, imagine you are a woman having her pussy licked and are in the height of pleasure, only to be interrupted by the first reported case of tuberculosis in 25 years? If you smoke, then you will know that sometimes the alveoli in the lungs require less tar and more pockets to hold oxygen. Smoking not only kills you, and makes your breath smell like a moldy brick of Gouda cheese, but it also causes hitches or catches in your breathing. The harder you breathe, the more likely it is you will catch something in your lungs that will cause the dreaded smoker cough and the utmost inconvenient time. Be the woman. close your eyes an realize that what was once a nice, moist clitoris has been replaced with a locked hood covered in lung spew. Hot, huh?
Now how about sex? What if the only emission of passion released from a man is that ashen aura known as Marlboro breath as the intensity heats up, and just before kissing, there is a mad coughing fit. Talk about a mood killer. Pubic hair in your mouth is bad enough, but expelled lung phlegm is a definite no-no. I can only imagine the look on her face.
"OH BABY OH BABY.....ooooooooooooo Sorry
"what the fuck?" Good Lord.....Robitussin DM douche bag! Use it!
The above is not usually labeled as romance by the opposite sex. The example above is not made to make men feel inferior because, well in all reality, we already are. So don't make it worse by inhaling dogshit prior to sex. No need t smoke before AND after. Save it and relish the moment that is in front of. Not long from now, chances are some nonsmoker might snatch up the ass you are tapping because the air flow is clear....
Instead of pipe in a warehouse, imagine you are a woman having her pussy licked and are in the height of pleasure, only to be interrupted by the first reported case of tuberculosis in 25 years? If you smoke, then you will know that sometimes the alveoli in the lungs require less tar and more pockets to hold oxygen. Smoking not only kills you, and makes your breath smell like a moldy brick of Gouda cheese, but it also causes hitches or catches in your breathing. The harder you breathe, the more likely it is you will catch something in your lungs that will cause the dreaded smoker cough and the utmost inconvenient time. Be the woman. close your eyes an realize that what was once a nice, moist clitoris has been replaced with a locked hood covered in lung spew. Hot, huh?
Now how about sex? What if the only emission of passion released from a man is that ashen aura known as Marlboro breath as the intensity heats up, and just before kissing, there is a mad coughing fit. Talk about a mood killer. Pubic hair in your mouth is bad enough, but expelled lung phlegm is a definite no-no. I can only imagine the look on her face.
"OH BABY OH BABY.....ooooooooooooo
"what the fuck?"
The above is not usually labeled as romance by the opposite sex. The example above is not made to make men feel inferior because, well in all reality, we already are. So don't make it worse by inhaling dogshit prior to sex. No need t smoke before AND after. Save it and relish the moment that is in front of. Not long from now, chances are some nonsmoker might snatch up the ass you are tapping because the air flow is clear....
Friday, April 14, 2006
How To Eat Like a College Student
I heard of a great recipe that I just had to share. It is fairly inexpensive, depending on the volume prepared and can last in room temperature for days since it contains 92% preservatives and additives. Ready? This is exciting. It is almost like sharing the winning Lotto numbers. Here goes.
12 cups water
12 chicken bullion cubes
12 hot dogs (not cut up, but whole)
12 chicken breasts (dicing is optional)
12 pounds of pepper to taste
Throw all this shit in a pot and boil it up. Eat.
Now I need to add that there are some food groups missing from this recipe. That's OK. The dysentery alone will make absorption of this meal impossible. The oil glistening on the top of the broth can also serve as an industrial solvent to get out those "hard to reach stain" areas of the space shuttle. Expect flatulence. Not the kind you like to smell yourself, but the kind that require crime scene tape to be put around your home. Most farts expelled after eating this meal will require OSHA approval prior to release. Please consult your local OSHA office for further instructions. The meal serves a dual purpose. All family members can partake in this culinary treat. Hot-dogs for the kids, and a heart chicken soup for the adults. Sort of like frosted mini-wheats. A sweet side for the kid in you, and the whole wheat goodness for the adult in you. This is replaced with LIPS AND ASSHOLES FOR ALL YOU LITTLE BASTARDS, AND I WILL JUST SIT ON THE JOHN FOR A WEEK! It is a time saver for most men as frequent trips to the bathroom give you solace, while your exploding colon keeps you company. I saw a FAQ (frequently asked question) forum board below this recipe and I will post some of the important ones below. Oh, and incidentally on a scale of 1-5, most readers have simply died prior to rating.
Question : I talked to my doctor about keeping this "soup" out overnight and he said that I will get salmonella and die. Is this true? - Betty, 87, Corona, CA
Dear Betty - First of all, at 87, you are going to die anyway, so go out with a bang...literally. Secondly, salmonella is tame compared to the bowel obstruction you are going to get, followed by foul emission from your pores. Best of luck though!
Question : Can I add vegetables to this soup? I don't see any vegetables in the soup. I really like to add a variety of things to my soups. - Rick, 24, San Fran
Dear Rick - yeah.....you like soups so much and you are 24...in San Francisco....this tells me that you are gay. Sure, add vegetables, but I am going to guess you get plenty of fruit in your diet already....homo.
Question : I like to go to the store every day and buy meaningless shit to cook for my family, both with little nutritional value and taste. It seems to me this soup is just right. But my wife, who was born when I was 19, is really an awesome woman who doesn't seem to appreciate my lack of creativity. Any suggestions? - Confused in OR
Dear Confused - this is easy. Die. Eat the soup. Eat nothing else. Be boring....it will all work out the way it is supposed to. This is not creative. This is boring. Ugandans would turn this stuff down. Moron....
(Noodles optional)
12 cups water
12 chicken bullion cubes
12 hot dogs (not cut up, but whole)
12 chicken breasts (dicing is optional)
12 pounds of pepper to taste
Throw all this shit in a pot and boil it up. Eat.
Now I need to add that there are some food groups missing from this recipe. That's OK. The dysentery alone will make absorption of this meal impossible. The oil glistening on the top of the broth can also serve as an industrial solvent to get out those "hard to reach stain" areas of the space shuttle. Expect flatulence. Not the kind you like to smell yourself, but the kind that require crime scene tape to be put around your home. Most farts expelled after eating this meal will require OSHA approval prior to release. Please consult your local OSHA office for further instructions. The meal serves a dual purpose. All family members can partake in this culinary treat. Hot-dogs for the kids, and a heart chicken soup for the adults. Sort of like frosted mini-wheats. A sweet side for the kid in you, and the whole wheat goodness for the adult in you. This is replaced with LIPS AND ASSHOLES FOR ALL YOU LITTLE BASTARDS, AND I WILL JUST SIT ON THE JOHN FOR A WEEK! It is a time saver for most men as frequent trips to the bathroom give you solace, while your exploding colon keeps you company. I saw a FAQ (frequently asked question) forum board below this recipe and I will post some of the important ones below. Oh, and incidentally on a scale of 1-5, most readers have simply died prior to rating.
Question : I talked to my doctor about keeping this "soup" out overnight and he said that I will get salmonella and die. Is this true? - Betty, 87, Corona, CA
Dear Betty - First of all, at 87, you are going to die anyway, so go out with a bang...literally. Secondly, salmonella is tame compared to the bowel obstruction you are going to get, followed by foul emission from your pores. Best of luck though!
Question : Can I add vegetables to this soup? I don't see any vegetables in the soup. I really like to add a variety of things to my soups. - Rick, 24, San Fran
Dear Rick - yeah.....you like soups so much and you are 24...in San Francisco....this tells me that you are gay. Sure, add vegetables, but I am going to guess you get plenty of fruit in your diet already....homo.
Question : I like to go to the store every day and buy meaningless shit to cook for my family, both with little nutritional value and taste. It seems to me this soup is just right. But my wife, who was born when I was 19, is really an awesome woman who doesn't seem to appreciate my lack of creativity. Any suggestions? - Confused in OR
Dear Confused - this is easy. Die. Eat the soup. Eat nothing else. Be boring....it will all work out the way it is supposed to. This is not creative. This is boring. Ugandans would turn this stuff down. Moron....
(Noodles optional)
Thursday, February 16, 2006
Valentine's Day Sucks
I love Valentine's Day. I also love to get hit in the face with a brick, running over my foot with a lawn mower, juggling chainsaws blindfolded and drinking battery acid. I actually hate the holiday. It is supposed to be a time where you remind a loved one how much you mean to them, and you do that by purchasing shit that makes them feel fat and flowers that die. "But it is the thought that counts." If that were true, then I thought about buying those things, but I filled the gas tank in the car.......TWICE!
For men, this holiday is unacceptable. This is an excuse for wives or girlfriends to bring up "what we used to be like." Yes, we got complacent after marriage. Shall I mention what YOU stopped doing after you said, "I do?" I didn't think so, so shut it. I used to do a lot before it became expected. It is hard to be spontaneous when you are reminded of the "I remember when you used to" bullshit that comes once a year. I have a feeling my wife is going to buy me flowers. What the hell? Why? I don't like flowers. THEY DIE! In my eyes, they are simply very pretty weeds that smell like refrigerant. "OooOoOOooOOo...but you can dry them!" Then what? Either way, they go in the trash. Do you know how many cards get thrown away in my house? All of them. So, let's see.....22 holidays/birthdays/anniversaries, times $3.99 equals Benjamin on fire!
I don't buy cards, I hand-write poetry or a letter. Why do I do that? Because it means more. THOSE things get kept. Those are from the heart, not some Hallmark freelance writer twink on crack, 4 days into a bender, coming up with random shit that makes necrophiliacs cry. It is more original. Besides, I don't like to support Hallmark. They are more cliche' than Paris Hilton saying, "that's HOT." Do you know how much flowers are right now? $50 a dozen. Do you know how much they are tomorrow? Back down to what they were originally....$20. Remember when Exxon made a $9 BILLION dollar profit last year? A common business formula is supply and demand. SHORT SUPPLY, HIGH DEMAND equals consumer rape. Who sets the demand? A female voice....nagging about how you never buy flowers for her anymore. Well, you don't swallow anymore because you think it's dirty. So, piss off.
Roses - $50
Chocolate - $6
Dinner - $44
Total - $100
What can $100 buy you?
Gasoline
Food for the family
pay off a bill or two
25 movie rentals
a SHIT load of popcorn
But what does dinner, chocolate and roses get you? Expectations....demands....and it sets a precedent for next year, when the cost of living has gone up and shipping roses from Omaha gets even more expensive. So you know what, St. Valentine? Go to hell.
For men, this holiday is unacceptable. This is an excuse for wives or girlfriends to bring up "what we used to be like." Yes, we got complacent after marriage. Shall I mention what YOU stopped doing after you said, "I do?" I didn't think so, so shut it. I used to do a lot before it became expected. It is hard to be spontaneous when you are reminded of the "I remember when you used to" bullshit that comes once a year. I have a feeling my wife is going to buy me flowers. What the hell? Why? I don't like flowers. THEY DIE! In my eyes, they are simply very pretty weeds that smell like refrigerant. "OooOoOOooOOo...but you can dry them!" Then what? Either way, they go in the trash. Do you know how many cards get thrown away in my house? All of them. So, let's see.....22 holidays/birthdays/anniversaries, times $3.99 equals Benjamin on fire!
I don't buy cards, I hand-write poetry or a letter. Why do I do that? Because it means more. THOSE things get kept. Those are from the heart, not some Hallmark freelance writer twink on crack, 4 days into a bender, coming up with random shit that makes necrophiliacs cry. It is more original. Besides, I don't like to support Hallmark. They are more cliche' than Paris Hilton saying, "that's HOT." Do you know how much flowers are right now? $50 a dozen. Do you know how much they are tomorrow? Back down to what they were originally....$20. Remember when Exxon made a $9 BILLION dollar profit last year? A common business formula is supply and demand. SHORT SUPPLY, HIGH DEMAND equals consumer rape. Who sets the demand? A female voice....nagging about how you never buy flowers for her anymore. Well, you don't swallow anymore because you think it's dirty. So, piss off.
Roses - $50
Chocolate - $6
Dinner - $44
Total - $100
What can $100 buy you?
Gasoline
Food for the family
pay off a bill or two
25 movie rentals
a SHIT load of popcorn
But what does dinner, chocolate and roses get you? Expectations....demands....and it sets a precedent for next year, when the cost of living has gone up and shipping roses from Omaha gets even more expensive. So you know what, St. Valentine? Go to hell.
Thursday, January 19, 2006
Passenger of Size
I heard this term about a year ago. I was flying somewhere on a Southwest flight and was approached by the flight attendant who informed me that "there was a passenger of size coming on board." I initially thought, thanks for the tip. Who cares? The thought also crossed my mind that, I was already on board, why warn ME? However, after peeking over my seat and seeing all of the heads that were occupying seats in the front of the plane, it quickly occurred to me that the only empty seats were the two next to me. Oh hell. So much for comfort.
Have you ever ridden in a van or bus and felt the bus sway as people got on? Well, after the attendant told me I would soon have a "passenger of size" joining me, I started to read the in-flight magazine which, as you may already know, is free for passengers to take with them as they leave the airplane, just in case the bathrooms in the terminal are not properly stocked with toilet paper. A moment later, the plane listed to port. I looked out the window to see what fissure was swallowing the plane whole, when I noticed a large man walking down the aisle of the plane. Let me rephrase that. He was side-stepping down the aisle, introducing his ass to one side and his crotch to the other. He reminded me of Paul Bunyan times two. Better yet, I think he ate his ox Blue. To say he was a passenger of size was an understatement. He had his own zip code and wore a mailbox for a hat. I can't be sure but he was either wearing a feather in his hat or had outgoing mail. He was wearing a flannel shirt about the size of Vermont and cut off jean shorts that dwarf Rhode Island. His shoe size was Cadillac and wore Big Ben on his wrist. It looked like he had not shaved in...I don't know....a few seconds. The toilet paper Band-Aid had not fallen off yet (otherwise known as a twin bed mattress) but there was stubble all over his face. I would guess his adrenal gland produced enough testosterone to fill a sun spot. He stood about 6'7" and easily weighed four and half bills. As soon as he sat down next to me, I felt myself pee in my pants a little from his gravitational pull. He asked the flight attendant for 2 seat belt extenders and used the MALE end of the middle seat belt, plus the extenders, and the FEMALE end of his own belt. Even though he was a quarter mile away from me, I felt cramped. His knees pushed up against the seats in front of him, almost to the point where the person sitting in that seat could check the person in front of THEM for hair lice. I think I felt myself shiver.
As we were taxiing out of the terminal, I caught him leering at me out of the corner of his eye and I turned to look at him. "How you doin'?" I told him I was fine, but just scared that we would not have enough ground speed to lift off. Only thinking the latter and not saying it outloud, I turned and looked out my window, praying to God that the moons orbiting his mailbox would stop hitting my shoulder. If he was a deer, and a Southwest 737 were the hunter, he could have easily been tied down on top of the plane with a few hundred yards of bungee. About 15 minutes into the flight, I feigned sleep simply to avoid having to talk to someone whom I might as well been in bed with. A few minutes later, I heard the wing start to crack. I turned to look and saw that Slim was sound asleep, snoring up a storm and drooling Lake Erie. Only and hour or so to go.....its all down hill from here.
If a flight attendant approaches you and says there will be a "passenger of size" joining you, remember the above, and go on standby for another flight. Trust me. You stay dryer that way.
Have you ever ridden in a van or bus and felt the bus sway as people got on? Well, after the attendant told me I would soon have a "passenger of size" joining me, I started to read the in-flight magazine which, as you may already know, is free for passengers to take with them as they leave the airplane, just in case the bathrooms in the terminal are not properly stocked with toilet paper. A moment later, the plane listed to port. I looked out the window to see what fissure was swallowing the plane whole, when I noticed a large man walking down the aisle of the plane. Let me rephrase that. He was side-stepping down the aisle, introducing his ass to one side and his crotch to the other. He reminded me of Paul Bunyan times two. Better yet, I think he ate his ox Blue. To say he was a passenger of size was an understatement. He had his own zip code and wore a mailbox for a hat. I can't be sure but he was either wearing a feather in his hat or had outgoing mail. He was wearing a flannel shirt about the size of Vermont and cut off jean shorts that dwarf Rhode Island. His shoe size was Cadillac and wore Big Ben on his wrist. It looked like he had not shaved in...I don't know....a few seconds. The toilet paper Band-Aid had not fallen off yet (otherwise known as a twin bed mattress) but there was stubble all over his face. I would guess his adrenal gland produced enough testosterone to fill a sun spot. He stood about 6'7" and easily weighed four and half bills. As soon as he sat down next to me, I felt myself pee in my pants a little from his gravitational pull. He asked the flight attendant for 2 seat belt extenders and used the MALE end of the middle seat belt, plus the extenders, and the FEMALE end of his own belt. Even though he was a quarter mile away from me, I felt cramped. His knees pushed up against the seats in front of him, almost to the point where the person sitting in that seat could check the person in front of THEM for hair lice. I think I felt myself shiver.
As we were taxiing out of the terminal, I caught him leering at me out of the corner of his eye and I turned to look at him. "How you doin'?" I told him I was fine, but just scared that we would not have enough ground speed to lift off. Only thinking the latter and not saying it outloud, I turned and looked out my window, praying to God that the moons orbiting his mailbox would stop hitting my shoulder. If he was a deer, and a Southwest 737 were the hunter, he could have easily been tied down on top of the plane with a few hundred yards of bungee. About 15 minutes into the flight, I feigned sleep simply to avoid having to talk to someone whom I might as well been in bed with. A few minutes later, I heard the wing start to crack. I turned to look and saw that Slim was sound asleep, snoring up a storm and drooling Lake Erie. Only and hour or so to go.....its all down hill from here.
If a flight attendant approaches you and says there will be a "passenger of size" joining you, remember the above, and go on standby for another flight. Trust me. You stay dryer that way.
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
LBA
I can assure you the above mentioned subject is not a new professional sports league although, at first glance, one might call me a liar. I will tell you that it is a group of people that get together to discuss issues, a lot like congress. From what I ascertain, the gatherings are about as productive as legislative sessions are. LBA is in fact an acronym. It stands for.....wait, let me say something first.
I have this girl I know. She is about, I dunno...3 years old. She owns more chapstick that cowboys do chaps. That says a lot. Chaps are a staple for the cowboy wardrobe. She doesn't know why she has it, or really what it is for, but she knows where it goes. Chapstick, for adults, goes on the lips. Chapstick for a 3-year old goes in the lip area, and I confirmed with her this evening that the lip area is right around here. I tried to help her narrow it down to a smaller area, to no avail.
I had gone upstairs for about 3 minutes to change my son and bring him down for lunch. When I arrived, I saw a shiny, happy face with little hands that held a tube of chapsick rolled out about two and a half inches. I had to take another look as I thought I was being robbed by MINI ME in a plastic mask. Her bangs were curled under ala Clark Kent in the original Superman. "HI DADDY," she said. My initial thought was, where is my child, and who replaced her with this shiny-faced oompa loompa? But there she was, toting this tube, along with a furry purple purse filled with other vials of crack....err...tubes of CHapstick. I had her dump it out on the floor and it resembled Ally Sheedy's purse in The Breakfast Club. If you haven't seen that movie, imagine a 20 gallon trash bag filled with....meaningless trinkets, papers and pens falling onto the floor. Now, shrink that down a tad to fit the 3-year old frame and there you have it. If Chapstick tubes were water, then Niagra Falls came out of her purse. All kinds of flavors and colors. SOme had caps, some didn't. Some begged to be euthanized in the sun. You know how lobsters or crabs scream when they go in hot water? Or how Nemo didn't like that dentists niece? These tubes did not want to be part of the purse party. I heard the grape one say, "kill me." I am sure of it.
LBA stands for Lip Balm's Anonymous. This group is for people addicted to Chapstick. Some parents fear that drugs, alcohol or sex will take over their child's life. My child is a walking tube of chapstick. If she doesn't have it, she wants it. If there is none on the way home from day-care, then she spends the next 18 minutes shivering in her car seat until we get home. Methadone clinics beware. You have competition. Chapstick zombies. They start early. In fact, they are filming an episode of INTERVENTION at my daughter's day-care tomorrow.
I'll let you know when it is aired.
I have this girl I know. She is about, I dunno...3 years old. She owns more chapstick that cowboys do chaps. That says a lot. Chaps are a staple for the cowboy wardrobe. She doesn't know why she has it, or really what it is for, but she knows where it goes. Chapstick, for adults, goes on the lips. Chapstick for a 3-year old goes in the lip area, and I confirmed with her this evening that the lip area is right around here
I had gone upstairs for about 3 minutes to change my son and bring him down for lunch. When I arrived, I saw a shiny, happy face with little hands that held a tube of chapsick rolled out about two and a half inches. I had to take another look as I thought I was being robbed by MINI ME in a plastic mask. Her bangs were curled under ala Clark Kent in the original Superman. "HI DADDY," she said. My initial thought was, where is my child, and who replaced her with this shiny-faced oompa loompa? But there she was, toting this tube, along with a furry purple purse filled with other vials of crack....err...tubes of CHapstick. I had her dump it out on the floor and it resembled Ally Sheedy's purse in The Breakfast Club. If you haven't seen that movie, imagine a 20 gallon trash bag filled with....meaningless trinkets, papers and pens falling onto the floor. Now, shrink that down a tad to fit the 3-year old frame and there you have it. If Chapstick tubes were water, then Niagra Falls came out of her purse. All kinds of flavors and colors. SOme had caps, some didn't. Some begged to be euthanized in the sun. You know how lobsters or crabs scream when they go in hot water? Or how Nemo didn't like that dentists niece? These tubes did not want to be part of the purse party. I heard the grape one say, "kill me." I am sure of it.
LBA stands for Lip Balm's Anonymous. This group is for people addicted to Chapstick. Some parents fear that drugs, alcohol or sex will take over their child's life. My child is a walking tube of chapstick. If she doesn't have it, she wants it. If there is none on the way home from day-care, then she spends the next 18 minutes shivering in her car seat until we get home. Methadone clinics beware. You have competition. Chapstick zombies. They start early. In fact, they are filming an episode of INTERVENTION at my daughter's day-care tomorrow.
I'll let you know when it is aired.
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
Teething, I would assume, SUCKS BALLS!
It is hard to imagine the pain an infant goes through while teething. My son, who surpassed the 9-month tier a couple of days ago has 4 teeth pushing through his gum line. To say he is pissed would be an understatement. Imagine he is a swarm of bees, and you just dropped kicked his house. That MIGHT describe his attitude. For as young as he is, he has no problem expressing himself. They are the same words, but the tone is different. So much so, the dogs in the neighborhood bark are annoyed at the pitch level. Yes, my son is a human dog whistle.
I bet if I were to pierce 4 different parts of my face, I could fathom his suffering. Wounded Knee is nothing compared to my son's angst. He just sits on the floor, attempting to play, drool coming out of his mouth like a Pfister faucet, whining about the pain, and there is really nothing you can do. Anbesol? Yeah, right. That stuff works for about 9 seconds until the saliva washes it away. About the same as Chloraseptic throat spray. What a bullshit product. Last night, he was sitting upright on the floor making noises. You know, those pissed off noises that we all make. Adults use words like, "Fuck this place," or "that son of a bitch cut me off." Babies grunt. The only accentuating quality to this type of communication is the change in volume mid-grunt. It starts out loud and ends up cracking the ceiling. Anyway, he did this and I called his name. He looked up at me looking like a man that had been out sea for 6 months catching king crab. Eye lids heavy, snarling smirk, slow head turn; six beers into a case. I think I heard him say, "Eh" when he made eye contact.
Now my wife asks him, "What's the matter?" What's the matter? His mouth is a pin cushion. If he could answer, I can assure you, it would not be pretty. Even at this age, mind you, he can convey cynicism. I just rolled my eyes. "Honey, he has a fever." I bet. There is enamel attempting to overthrow the epidermal government in his jaw. The body fights the infectious invaders by increasing body temperature. Then, the emissaries from both armies meet at the epiglottis to discuss the fact that, although painful, the enamel is a necessity. This war/negotiation lasts about 3 months. We started a couple of weeks ago, but the teeth are sending in reinforcements faster than the body can acclimate to the pain. So there he sits, in his puddle of drool, staring and speaking in incoherent patterns, a lot like Chris Farley's final hours.
So this was last night. His blood-to-Motrin ratio is quickly approaching the 1:1 mark. I imagine today will be the same. For the next 3 months, all I can is hope and pray that the negotiations at the epiglottis go well. God speed....
I bet if I were to pierce 4 different parts of my face, I could fathom his suffering. Wounded Knee is nothing compared to my son's angst. He just sits on the floor, attempting to play, drool coming out of his mouth like a Pfister faucet, whining about the pain, and there is really nothing you can do. Anbesol? Yeah, right. That stuff works for about 9 seconds until the saliva washes it away. About the same as Chloraseptic throat spray. What a bullshit product. Last night, he was sitting upright on the floor making noises. You know, those pissed off noises that we all make. Adults use words like, "Fuck this place," or "that son of a bitch cut me off." Babies grunt. The only accentuating quality to this type of communication is the change in volume mid-grunt. It starts out loud and ends up cracking the ceiling. Anyway, he did this and I called his name. He looked up at me looking like a man that had been out sea for 6 months catching king crab. Eye lids heavy, snarling smirk, slow head turn; six beers into a case. I think I heard him say, "Eh" when he made eye contact.
Now my wife asks him, "What's the matter?" What's the matter? His mouth is a pin cushion. If he could answer, I can assure you, it would not be pretty. Even at this age, mind you, he can convey cynicism. I just rolled my eyes. "Honey, he has a fever." I bet. There is enamel attempting to overthrow the epidermal government in his jaw. The body fights the infectious invaders by increasing body temperature. Then, the emissaries from both armies meet at the epiglottis to discuss the fact that, although painful, the enamel is a necessity. This war/negotiation lasts about 3 months. We started a couple of weeks ago, but the teeth are sending in reinforcements faster than the body can acclimate to the pain. So there he sits, in his puddle of drool, staring and speaking in incoherent patterns, a lot like Chris Farley's final hours.
So this was last night. His blood-to-Motrin ratio is quickly approaching the 1:1 mark. I imagine today will be the same. For the next 3 months, all I can is hope and pray that the negotiations at the epiglottis go well. God speed....
One Thing You Shouldn't Say to the Bachelor
If you are a fan of reality television, then the debut of The Bachelor in Paris last night caught your attention. If you aren't familiar with the show, then I hope that your vacation to Mars for the last few years was a good one, and welcome back to Earth.
Brief synopsis...25 girls, 1 guy. Over the next couple of months, guy will have to pick one to "marry" and then become the following months front cover of People magazine which will read "BACHELOR AND HIS BACHLORETTE SPLIT!" The first night, he has to let 14 of them go. Boohoo....but lots and lots of eyeballing, bitching and backstabbing. I like that better than I like watching the macho counterpart, "The Bachlorette," which usually asks back the runner up from the Bachelor back for more make out sessions in hot tubs. Hell, why not. Lucky bastards.
I have to admit, from a heterosexual stand point, the Bachelor this year is a 33-year old physician who is a good looking human being. Tall, handsome and a doctor. Funny, all the women said, "he is just my type," type indicating income level. There were a couple doctors in the crowd of 25 that said they were shoe-ins based on their medical tie-ins. I disagreed right away. Why would you want to go home and talk about work?
Honey, how was your day?
Great...I held a man's heart in my hands as he died. How about you?
Lost two kids to a carcinoma, and had to chase one Mom up to the roof to keep her from jumping.
Sounds like a great time doesn't it? Yeah, I didn't think so either. But there was one oncologist who was just bitter. Her motivation for coming to the Bachelor? In her words, "it is time to begin the reproductive phase of my life." Pardon? Hello, nice to meet you. My ovaries are fast approaching the leathery-faced look of Keith Richards. I need to reproduce and you will do. Oh, and my name is Karen by the way. Come on....and she was shocked when she got let go. The reason people get married, in her words, is to "reproduce and populate the Earth." OK, Eve. Was this a message handed down from a booming voice from above? Pardon the guy if he doesn't want to play Adam. He has only been in school for a better part of a decade and will begin his 24-hour schedule soon. Forget about the dating part. Skip to the late night feedings and colic. What a jerk....I know.
Brief synopsis...25 girls, 1 guy. Over the next couple of months, guy will have to pick one to "marry" and then become the following months front cover of People magazine which will read "BACHELOR AND HIS BACHLORETTE SPLIT!" The first night, he has to let 14 of them go. Boohoo....but lots and lots of eyeballing, bitching and backstabbing. I like that better than I like watching the macho counterpart, "The Bachlorette," which usually asks back the runner up from the Bachelor back for more make out sessions in hot tubs. Hell, why not. Lucky bastards.
I have to admit, from a heterosexual stand point, the Bachelor this year is a 33-year old physician who is a good looking human being. Tall, handsome and a doctor. Funny, all the women said, "he is just my type," type indicating income level. There were a couple doctors in the crowd of 25 that said they were shoe-ins based on their medical tie-ins. I disagreed right away. Why would you want to go home and talk about work?
Honey, how was your day?
Great...I held a man's heart in my hands as he died. How about you?
Lost two kids to a carcinoma, and had to chase one Mom up to the roof to keep her from jumping.
Sounds like a great time doesn't it? Yeah, I didn't think so either. But there was one oncologist who was just bitter. Her motivation for coming to the Bachelor? In her words, "it is time to begin the reproductive phase of my life." Pardon? Hello, nice to meet you. My ovaries are fast approaching the leathery-faced look of Keith Richards. I need to reproduce and you will do. Oh, and my name is Karen by the way. Come on....and she was shocked when she got let go. The reason people get married, in her words, is to "reproduce and populate the Earth." OK, Eve. Was this a message handed down from a booming voice from above? Pardon the guy if he doesn't want to play Adam. He has only been in school for a better part of a decade and will begin his 24-hour schedule soon. Forget about the dating part. Skip to the late night feedings and colic. What a jerk....I know.
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
NEWSFLASH!
Lindsay Lohan was bulimic. I know, I know...collect yourselves because when I heard the news, the first thing that came to my mind was, "NO SHIT!"
If you actually believed that she went from 130 pounds to 95 pounds by eating healthy, then I want the crack YOU snort because mine only gives me scabies. I remember People magazine showing before and after pictures of Ms. Lohan. At first glance I was like, "before what? The famine?" Or maybe it was AFTER her time at Treblinka. Regardless, I am sure the money and fame just overcame her and she decided to....well, you know....become a stereotype. Now before anyone says, "YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT IT IS LIKE FOR....." let me say, SHUTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT UP. Good Lord. What is SO hard about having enough money to purchase, wreck, then PURCHASE another brand new Mercedes? Why is it so difficult for YOU, Lindsay, to have people look up to you? People looked up to you at 130 pounds. If someone told you that you needed to lose weight or you would not be working, two things pop into my head. One, you SUCK at money management, IE saving from previous movies, albums, bribes, etc. Two, why did you NOT tell that person to fuck off? At the very least, you could have said....thanks for your opinion, but please refrain from using the word 'work.' It isn't a cry for help, it is a cry for attention. Remember, this is the CHILD star of Parent Trap, OK. 17 hour days on the set of is NOT work as you are spoon fed EVERYTHING. The only thing TRYING is keeping your eyes open after a coke binge the night before.
Another role model down the drain. First, Kate Moss. Then Courtney Love.....now Lindsay. How glad...err...sad people must be. Turn the page....I have read this chapter more than I care to.
If you actually believed that she went from 130 pounds to 95 pounds by eating healthy, then I want the crack YOU snort because mine only gives me scabies. I remember People magazine showing before and after pictures of Ms. Lohan. At first glance I was like, "before what? The famine?" Or maybe it was AFTER her time at Treblinka. Regardless, I am sure the money and fame just overcame her and she decided to....well, you know....become a stereotype. Now before anyone says, "YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT IT IS LIKE FOR....." let me say, SHUTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT UP. Good Lord. What is SO hard about having enough money to purchase, wreck, then PURCHASE another brand new Mercedes? Why is it so difficult for YOU, Lindsay, to have people look up to you? People looked up to you at 130 pounds. If someone told you that you needed to lose weight or you would not be working, two things pop into my head. One, you SUCK at money management, IE saving from previous movies, albums, bribes, etc. Two, why did you NOT tell that person to fuck off? At the very least, you could have said....thanks for your opinion, but please refrain from using the word 'work.' It isn't a cry for help, it is a cry for attention. Remember, this is the CHILD star of Parent Trap, OK. 17 hour days on the set of
Another role model down the drain. First, Kate Moss. Then Courtney Love.....now Lindsay. How glad...err...sad people must be. Turn the page....I have read this chapter more than I care to.
Emergency Room?
My 2-year old went to the emergency room on Saturday. If I told you why it would spoil the surprise. The best thing I can do is just tell you the symptoms, the reaction of her mother and the story will unfold in a comedic fashion.
Peyton's tummy hurt. Of course she made this announcement 3/4 of the way through lunch which usually indicates that she is no longer wanting to eat so strange ailments appear. Today it was a tummy ache. Now, in her defense, she was not acting like her normal whiny self. My wife attributed it to constipation. I would agree with that as my daughters fiber content in her diet is about as abundant as rain is in the Mohave. My wife put her on the toilet, and she cried. She took her off the toilet, and she cried some more. She said she was tired, so my wife laid her down. Coming downstairs, my wife said, "she doesn't feel good." NooOoOoOoOooOooo, really? Lee Harvey acted alone? NooOOOooOOo....I didn't really buy it. I mean really, how odd is it that she cries at bedtime? It occurs on cue, just like Old Faithful.
A few minutes later, Peyton still crying, my wife went upstairs to check on her. I, of course, stayed in the kitchen, rolling my eyes at this circus act. This is common. This happens all the time. My wife goes up and gets twisted in every direction by a 2-year old. She forgets very easily who the parent is. Me, on the other hand, bring the fear of God with me. I release 3 plagues in her room with a request that her first born will die if she doesn't shut up with the whiny bullshit. Silence. What a sound. So, with Peyton in tow, my wife brings her downstairs and sits on the couch with her. "She feels hot." I walk over and feel her forehead. OUCH! 99.1 degrees. Elevated mostly from the blood in her face. "She's fine," I said. "But she was upstairs laying in bed in the fetal position, crying." As if this statement holds ANY meaning whatsoever. Picture this as you recall everything I have ever said about my daughter. A little girl, crying, laying in bed in the fetal position. Sounds normal to me. "So?" "I am taking her to the doctor." Doctor, on Saturday, New Year's Eve. Hmmmm...only thing open would be a HOSPITAL! Shit...fine....go. Here are your keys, nice knowing both of you. Sorry you got the plague.
A couple of hours later, I get a phone call. It's my wife. No tears, so the diagnosis was going to be OK. "What was wrong with her," I ask. "We have to go to the pharmacy and get some medicine." "OK, but what was the problem." "Oh she got to see the doctor, and the nurses were so nice. One of them saw tha." I had to interrupt. "Did they find the shovel that was buried in her cranium?" "It was just a bad diaper rash." What the fuck? DIAPER RASH???? This warranted a trip to the Emergency Room? To make a longer story shorter, the both came home with wrist bands, and print out of the emergency room diagnosis. Big and bold it stated, "DIAPER RASH" I told my wife to keep all of it, the bands, the paper and the bill (when it comes) so as to remember that my daughter, although cute, is full of shit.
Peyton's tummy hurt. Of course she made this announcement 3/4 of the way through lunch which usually indicates that she is no longer wanting to eat so strange ailments appear. Today it was a tummy ache. Now, in her defense, she was not acting like her normal whiny self. My wife attributed it to constipation. I would agree with that as my daughters fiber content in her diet is about as abundant as rain is in the Mohave. My wife put her on the toilet, and she cried. She took her off the toilet, and she cried some more. She said she was tired, so my wife laid her down. Coming downstairs, my wife said, "she doesn't feel good." NooOoOoOoOooOooo, really? Lee Harvey acted alone? NooOOOooOOo....I didn't really buy it. I mean really, how odd is it that she cries at bedtime? It occurs on cue, just like Old Faithful.
A few minutes later, Peyton still crying, my wife went upstairs to check on her. I, of course, stayed in the kitchen, rolling my eyes at this circus act. This is common. This happens all the time. My wife goes up and gets twisted in every direction by a 2-year old. She forgets very easily who the parent is. Me, on the other hand, bring the fear of God with me. I release 3 plagues in her room with a request that her first born will die if she doesn't shut up with the whiny bullshit. Silence. What a sound. So, with Peyton in tow, my wife brings her downstairs and sits on the couch with her. "She feels hot." I walk over and feel her forehead. OUCH! 99.1 degrees. Elevated mostly from the blood in her face. "She's fine," I said. "But she was upstairs laying in bed in the fetal position, crying." As if this statement holds ANY meaning whatsoever. Picture this as you recall everything I have ever said about my daughter. A little girl, crying, laying in bed in the fetal position. Sounds normal to me. "So?" "I am taking her to the doctor." Doctor, on Saturday, New Year's Eve. Hmmmm...only thing open would be a HOSPITAL! Shit...fine....go. Here are your keys, nice knowing both of you. Sorry you got the plague.
A couple of hours later, I get a phone call. It's my wife. No tears, so the diagnosis was going to be OK. "What was wrong with her," I ask. "We have to go to the pharmacy and get some medicine." "OK, but what was the problem." "Oh she got to see the doctor, and the nurses were so nice. One of them saw tha." I had to interrupt. "Did they find the shovel that was buried in her cranium?" "It was just a bad diaper rash." What the fuck? DIAPER RASH???? This warranted a trip to the Emergency Room? To make a longer story shorter, the both came home with wrist bands, and print out of the emergency room diagnosis. Big and bold it stated, "DIAPER RASH" I told my wife to keep all of it, the bands, the paper and the bill (when it comes) so as to remember that my daughter, although cute, is full of shit.
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