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.

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.

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....

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.

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.

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.