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I have very important news to relate: today at lunch I bit into my fortune cookie only to find that it was actually a DOUBLE fortune cookie.
We're talking about siamese-fortune-cookie-twins more or less.
Obviously, that means something huge from a “good fortune” perspective and, given the time of year, it could only mean one thing: I am going to kill a monster whitetail deer tomorrow.
Pictures to follow Monday.
Also, look; I know its great that Sesame Street is 150 years old as of yesterday or whatever, but if you’re going to have two same-age male friends (Bert & Ernie) on a tv show and you want to clothe them both in stripes; how about you give the fat one vertical stripes and help him out? Everybody knows that helps. As it is poor Ernie looks like a stack of bowling balls.
Good grief.
Friday, November 06, 2009
Thursday, November 05, 2009
The Divided States of Ice Cream
Based on the heated response; I think its safe to say I may have underestimated the acrimonious and complex relationship between men, women, and ice cream in my latest post.
I had no idea that Ice Cream in the United States is so indicitave of the general state of things, nor did I know that so many of my friends have a relationship with ice cream that has been marred by conflict and domestic strife.
I did, however, score a victory for the visiting team last night. Tyler is out of town, so I went straight to the fridge when I got home and ate all of her "Peach Champagne" flavored "gelatto" (thats ice cream, plus $5) straight out of the container. "You really shouldn't eat ice cream anyway" she said.
HA!!!! I guess that set her straight.
Later, I got sick and spent the rest of the evening laying on the floor in my bathroom. I find that linoleum offers the best combination of not-too-hard, but still very cool and refreshing on one's flushed, feverish face; but porcelain tiles have their place too.
Regardless, I still consider it a "win", because thats what you get for leaving me home alone for days at a time! I'm like the Jack Russel Terrier you can't leave alone in the house, and its MY HOUSE.
I can't even trust myself with myself.
Perhaps its best that I have a life-guide like Tyler handy. With so many pennies and so many electrical outlets to put them in; its a wonder I've made it this far.
Also: I'm allergic to dairy products.
I had no idea that Ice Cream in the United States is so indicitave of the general state of things, nor did I know that so many of my friends have a relationship with ice cream that has been marred by conflict and domestic strife.
I did, however, score a victory for the visiting team last night. Tyler is out of town, so I went straight to the fridge when I got home and ate all of her "Peach Champagne" flavored "gelatto" (thats ice cream, plus $5) straight out of the container. "You really shouldn't eat ice cream anyway" she said.
HA!!!! I guess that set her straight.
Later, I got sick and spent the rest of the evening laying on the floor in my bathroom. I find that linoleum offers the best combination of not-too-hard, but still very cool and refreshing on one's flushed, feverish face; but porcelain tiles have their place too.
Regardless, I still consider it a "win", because thats what you get for leaving me home alone for days at a time! I'm like the Jack Russel Terrier you can't leave alone in the house, and its MY HOUSE.
I can't even trust myself with myself.
Perhaps its best that I have a life-guide like Tyler handy. With so many pennies and so many electrical outlets to put them in; its a wonder I've made it this far.
Also: I'm allergic to dairy products.
Wednesday, November 04, 2009
There Is No Ice Cream
I generally don’t ask much of you guys - just a quick read periodically to make me feel all fuzzy inside, but today I want to run something by you and I’d like a little feedback.
So, my understanding is: you choose a woman to marry, then after you’re married she suddenly embodies all the things you love about your Mom.
That IS how it works, right?
Basically, you date somebody for a long, long, long,
Really, really,
Really long,
A super long, incredibly long, nearly age-defyingly-long, time.
Then when you lose your head and get married, a switch flips, and voila! A new, much more domestic, waffle-making, pork-barbecue-making, breakfast-cooking, kitchen-mopping, always-well-coiffed, person appears and begins taking care of you and she never mentions anything bad about meats.
I was under the impression that was the deal. Then, last week, as a sort of "trial run" I asked Tyler if she would "please fix me some ice cream?" Mom would have fixed me some ice cream, so I figured that was a fair request. Plus, Tom had just stuck dynamite in Jerry's cat food, and I wanted to see what was going to happen.
She smiled sweetly, got up, went in the kitchen, fixed a bowl of ice cream, came back in the room, sat down, and without so much as a mention of the location of my ice-cream, she proceeded to eat the entire bowl of ice cream herself; right there in front of God and everybody.
I was dumbfounded. Speechless.
When she was finished she looked up and said “see how easy that was?”
So, after a brief lesson in "what I am to do when I need something"; I went in the kitchen to fix myself some ice cream.....and it was all gone.
I heard a chuckle in the room behind me, but I didn't turn around. Instead, I pretended to have gone in there to fix myself some water.
My question to all you married people is this: where is MY ice cream?
Please choose one:
A. Tyler ate my ice cream. It WAS mine, then it BECAME Tyler's when she thought of eating it.
B. My ice cream is in the other freezer, she wouldn't actually eat ALL of MY ice cream.
C. Since there is no ice cream, there must never have been any ice cream to begin with. I was mistaken in assuming there was ice cream, and that it was mine. Tyler already knew of the ice cream situation. If only I had asked Tyler what the ice cream situation was, I would have known and not made a fool of myself for thinking there may be ice cream. Instead, because I failed to consult Tyler, I have shamed my family.
D. Everything I have is Tyler's until I'm told differently (by Tyler).
E. Every man must relive the consequences of Adam's Fall From Grace; in my unique case: I am allowed no ice cream.
F. She ain't trained right yet.
So, my understanding is: you choose a woman to marry, then after you’re married she suddenly embodies all the things you love about your Mom.
That IS how it works, right?
Basically, you date somebody for a long, long, long,
Really, really,
Really long,
A super long, incredibly long, nearly age-defyingly-long, time.
Then when you lose your head and get married, a switch flips, and voila! A new, much more domestic, waffle-making, pork-barbecue-making, breakfast-cooking, kitchen-mopping, always-well-coiffed, person appears and begins taking care of you and she never mentions anything bad about meats.
I was under the impression that was the deal. Then, last week, as a sort of "trial run" I asked Tyler if she would "please fix me some ice cream?" Mom would have fixed me some ice cream, so I figured that was a fair request. Plus, Tom had just stuck dynamite in Jerry's cat food, and I wanted to see what was going to happen.
She smiled sweetly, got up, went in the kitchen, fixed a bowl of ice cream, came back in the room, sat down, and without so much as a mention of the location of my ice-cream, she proceeded to eat the entire bowl of ice cream herself; right there in front of God and everybody.
I was dumbfounded. Speechless.
When she was finished she looked up and said “see how easy that was?”
So, after a brief lesson in "what I am to do when I need something"; I went in the kitchen to fix myself some ice cream.....and it was all gone.
I heard a chuckle in the room behind me, but I didn't turn around. Instead, I pretended to have gone in there to fix myself some water.
My question to all you married people is this: where is MY ice cream?
Please choose one:
A. Tyler ate my ice cream. It WAS mine, then it BECAME Tyler's when she thought of eating it.
B. My ice cream is in the other freezer, she wouldn't actually eat ALL of MY ice cream.
C. Since there is no ice cream, there must never have been any ice cream to begin with. I was mistaken in assuming there was ice cream, and that it was mine. Tyler already knew of the ice cream situation. If only I had asked Tyler what the ice cream situation was, I would have known and not made a fool of myself for thinking there may be ice cream. Instead, because I failed to consult Tyler, I have shamed my family.
D. Everything I have is Tyler's until I'm told differently (by Tyler).
E. Every man must relive the consequences of Adam's Fall From Grace; in my unique case: I am allowed no ice cream.
F. She ain't trained right yet.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Environmentally Virtuous
I saw one of these new “clean energy” ads last night on TV and I have to admit: I was very soothed by it. I felt cleaner just participating in the commercial and, since I nodded my head right along with the rest of the TV zombies out there, I consider myself a participant.
The commercial opens up with a bunch of tweet-tweet nerdy upbeat music, then they have a well-dressed paragon of environmental championship explain to you how clean this company’s revolutionary new energy product is. Then, they hit you with the bombshell revelation of this groundbreaking new technology. Know what it is?
Natural Gas.
Apparently – they’ve just discovered it.
Nevermind that Canada quite literally BURNS as oilwell waste enough of this stuff every day to heat Minnesota for 3 months – or that I already use it to run my grill and dryer; this company still felt the need to advertise it. I’ve known about it for years, mind you, but I reckon they’re just catching on. It’s like some idiot in marketing went “Wait! We sell NATURAL GAS?!?!?! I HAVE TO TELL SOMEONE ABOUT THIS.”
It makes me furious. I wasted 45 seconds of my life watching an advertisement for something I already buy!
But that’s not the worst part – I’m sitting there nodding my head in agreement with the ad’s virtuous greenie – he’s listing out head-throbbing statistics on how fast we’re all going straight to hell, but at the same time he’s teasing me with the promise of environmental salvation. I know some kind of solution MUST be on the horizon or he wouldn’t be talking his grinning head off on tv. So, in a rising crescendo of hope and virtue he lays his big selling point on me: “Natural gas!!! (tweet tweet tweeetttt, upbeat music, birds chirp, lions and lambs cavort in the background)…..NAAATURALL GASSSS!!!! Its 50% cleaner than…..."
COAL
SERIOUSLY?!?!?!??!?! 50% CLEANER THAN COAL?!?!?!?! AAACKKK!!!!
That’s C O A L - the single filthiest substance in the world. Who even measures that? HOW do you measure that? More importantly, WHY do you measure that?
If I ran the networks the next advertisement would just say in block print:
WE ARE ALL GOING TO DIE
The commercial opens up with a bunch of tweet-tweet nerdy upbeat music, then they have a well-dressed paragon of environmental championship explain to you how clean this company’s revolutionary new energy product is. Then, they hit you with the bombshell revelation of this groundbreaking new technology. Know what it is?
Natural Gas.
Apparently – they’ve just discovered it.
Nevermind that Canada quite literally BURNS as oilwell waste enough of this stuff every day to heat Minnesota for 3 months – or that I already use it to run my grill and dryer; this company still felt the need to advertise it. I’ve known about it for years, mind you, but I reckon they’re just catching on. It’s like some idiot in marketing went “Wait! We sell NATURAL GAS?!?!?! I HAVE TO TELL SOMEONE ABOUT THIS.”
It makes me furious. I wasted 45 seconds of my life watching an advertisement for something I already buy!
But that’s not the worst part – I’m sitting there nodding my head in agreement with the ad’s virtuous greenie – he’s listing out head-throbbing statistics on how fast we’re all going straight to hell, but at the same time he’s teasing me with the promise of environmental salvation. I know some kind of solution MUST be on the horizon or he wouldn’t be talking his grinning head off on tv. So, in a rising crescendo of hope and virtue he lays his big selling point on me: “Natural gas!!! (tweet tweet tweeetttt, upbeat music, birds chirp, lions and lambs cavort in the background)…..NAAATURALL GASSSS!!!! Its 50% cleaner than…..."
COAL
SERIOUSLY?!?!?!??!?! 50% CLEANER THAN COAL?!?!?!?! AAACKKK!!!!
That’s C O A L - the single filthiest substance in the world. Who even measures that? HOW do you measure that? More importantly, WHY do you measure that?
If I ran the networks the next advertisement would just say in block print:
WE ARE ALL GOING TO DIE
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Magic Mud
I find when I’m short on real-life material I tend to turn to the news media for entertainment. Not the entertainment industry, mind you, the news media.
Today a headline on CNN.com is “Harvesting Baseball’s Magic Mud” followed by a story on a gentleman who sells dried mud to, you guessed it: the baseball industry. Never a group known for burning up the IQ charts, this special mud is apparently the one key ingredient to pitchers’ fingers finding purchase on the otherwise-slick finish of a new baseball; less of a problem, I suspect, before the unique ridges in their fingertips were embossed with dollar signs.
According to CNN the gentleman in question, one “Jim Bintliff”, mines this secret mud from whats been described as "a fishing hole" that lies on the banks of the Delaware River. Also perhaps not the shiniest penny on the sidewalk, clever Jim followed with his sweeping claim "Nobody knows this is where I get the magic mud.”
Well, Jim, my magic computer research indicates it comes from the chewed-up portion of the Delaware river nearest your house with a Yosemite Sam lawn-chair in it. I have a heavily-rubbed $50 bill that says I can Mapquest “Jim Bintliff”, follow the trail of empty Miller High Life cans down to the river behind his house, and before you can say “Buster Don’t Spit On That” we’re knee-deep in rich man’s mud.
CNN, in its infinite wisdom goes on to say that out of nine brothers and sisters, Bintliff was the one picked to carry on the family business.
“Picked.” Oh man.
I assume his parents chose him for this esteemed role, he could have gone to college, but they picked him for something magical. To his credit he’s made the most of it. I can see it now - “Boy, you’re going to spend the rest of your life wading in the mud out back. Now go make us proud!”
Some people have all the luck. I had to graduate from a 4-year institution of higher leaning AND get a paying job before my parents considered their work complete.
Perhaps Chris Van Zant, Assistant Manager for the Braves, put it best:
"It seems kind of funny," he said. "When you see fans fighting for a souvenir ball that goes into the stands, you're like, 'Well, that ball has my spit on it.' There's a little kid somewhere with a baseball on his nightstand and I spit on that ball."
Whew. Thats heady stuff Chris. Deep. Real' deep.
According to CNN, Chris Van Zant earns part of his paycheck with his spit – he’s the team's only “baseball rubber.” Before each game, he mixes his special spit with Jim's special mud and rubs the gloss off of each new ball. In his 10 years with the club, Van Zant estimates that over 40,000 baseballs passed through his (spittle-bathed) hands.
Son, you’ve rubbed a lot of balls.
Today a headline on CNN.com is “Harvesting Baseball’s Magic Mud” followed by a story on a gentleman who sells dried mud to, you guessed it: the baseball industry. Never a group known for burning up the IQ charts, this special mud is apparently the one key ingredient to pitchers’ fingers finding purchase on the otherwise-slick finish of a new baseball; less of a problem, I suspect, before the unique ridges in their fingertips were embossed with dollar signs.
According to CNN the gentleman in question, one “Jim Bintliff”, mines this secret mud from whats been described as "a fishing hole" that lies on the banks of the Delaware River. Also perhaps not the shiniest penny on the sidewalk, clever Jim followed with his sweeping claim "Nobody knows this is where I get the magic mud.”
Well, Jim, my magic computer research indicates it comes from the chewed-up portion of the Delaware river nearest your house with a Yosemite Sam lawn-chair in it. I have a heavily-rubbed $50 bill that says I can Mapquest “Jim Bintliff”, follow the trail of empty Miller High Life cans down to the river behind his house, and before you can say “Buster Don’t Spit On That” we’re knee-deep in rich man’s mud.
CNN, in its infinite wisdom goes on to say that out of nine brothers and sisters, Bintliff was the one picked to carry on the family business.
“Picked.” Oh man.
I assume his parents chose him for this esteemed role, he could have gone to college, but they picked him for something magical. To his credit he’s made the most of it. I can see it now - “Boy, you’re going to spend the rest of your life wading in the mud out back. Now go make us proud!”
Some people have all the luck. I had to graduate from a 4-year institution of higher leaning AND get a paying job before my parents considered their work complete.
Perhaps Chris Van Zant, Assistant Manager for the Braves, put it best:
"It seems kind of funny," he said. "When you see fans fighting for a souvenir ball that goes into the stands, you're like, 'Well, that ball has my spit on it.' There's a little kid somewhere with a baseball on his nightstand and I spit on that ball."
Whew. Thats heady stuff Chris. Deep. Real' deep.
According to CNN, Chris Van Zant earns part of his paycheck with his spit – he’s the team's only “baseball rubber.” Before each game, he mixes his special spit with Jim's special mud and rubs the gloss off of each new ball. In his 10 years with the club, Van Zant estimates that over 40,000 baseballs passed through his (spittle-bathed) hands.
Son, you’ve rubbed a lot of balls.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
A Downstairs Boobing
I recently set up a Google Analytics account so I can get a vague idea of what’s going on with my (roughly 14) readers.
So far, I’m impressed.
Google lets me keep track of keyword search terms that have led to my site (it doesn’t tell me who you are, or where you’re from so don’t worry) and the results are simply astounding. The hands-down winner out of all the keyword search phrases I see successfully leading to my blog is…..(drumroll please!!!)
“Ashley Boobs Downstairs”
and, trailing a close second:
"Ashley Shy Boob"
Hello world: this is my cousin, and those are her boobs.
Ahthankyou.
So far, I’m impressed.
Google lets me keep track of keyword search terms that have led to my site (it doesn’t tell me who you are, or where you’re from so don’t worry) and the results are simply astounding. The hands-down winner out of all the keyword search phrases I see successfully leading to my blog is…..(drumroll please!!!)
“Ashley Boobs Downstairs”
and, trailing a close second:
"Ashley Shy Boob"
Hello world: this is my cousin, and those are her boobs.
Ahthankyou.
Monday, October 26, 2009
That Wicked Squirrel
"Why, hello darlin'" a cherubic, pink-cheeked Lee Q. Trice drawled in greeting to my date as we walked in to the party; then , "Pppppwhheett!" he followed, cheerfully, with a light between-the-teeth duckwhistle.
To me he directed a well-timed, "Way-ull, Ewing is here. I reckon I better mosey on home. I see the party just ended" before I had time to retort.
I have a hard time finding an easy crowd these days.
Without further ado Lee, "The Trice Is Right" Trice, already tacking slightly into an unseen headwind, weaved gently off in the general direction of the bar leaving me, and a collection of cousins and various kin, within convenient reach of the low-county boil.
After dinner we sallied forth into the yard and found Lee seated happily at the table nearest the bar, holding forth on the dangers of bull-riding, and gently polishing his giant western belt buckle with a napkin soaked in the mixture of beer, red, and white wines he had in his cup.
"Why herrloo darleeiing" he said (this time to me) "Wher hash you all bensh?" He looked away briefly to fill his solo cup to the brim with a new red wine, then picked right back up with "I juschsht want you to know that you hurt my feelingsh, Ewing."
Surprised, I rejoined with "Lee! What in the world are you talking about? We just got here!"
"No! I don't like to talk about hard shubjecksh at shutsch a naaaiicee gatheringofgoodpeoples" he slurred, left eye wandering a bit. "Lets jushsht fight it on out on the lawn."
"Lee, I don't think thats necessary. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings, I swear! What did I do?" I said.
"Well, I tell you Mr. Ewingsh. I like to hunt the squirrrreelllsss too you ol scallywag! Yes I do! Lee Trice is the Stylingest and Profilingest Szhshquirrelhuntertheyeverwuz! You done forgot about ol' pore Lee Trisch away down in All-Benny!"
Then it dawned on me: the guest list of The Annual James G. Ewing Jr, & Tripp Maddux Squirrel Hunting Championship of the World Invitational Tournament had scored yet another victim.
So to Lee Q. "The Trice Is Right" Trice: consider this your official invitation - The Wicked Squirrel Approacheth.
To me he directed a well-timed, "Way-ull, Ewing is here. I reckon I better mosey on home. I see the party just ended" before I had time to retort.
I have a hard time finding an easy crowd these days.
Without further ado Lee, "The Trice Is Right" Trice, already tacking slightly into an unseen headwind, weaved gently off in the general direction of the bar leaving me, and a collection of cousins and various kin, within convenient reach of the low-county boil.
After dinner we sallied forth into the yard and found Lee seated happily at the table nearest the bar, holding forth on the dangers of bull-riding, and gently polishing his giant western belt buckle with a napkin soaked in the mixture of beer, red, and white wines he had in his cup.
"Why herrloo darleeiing" he said (this time to me) "Wher hash you all bensh?" He looked away briefly to fill his solo cup to the brim with a new red wine, then picked right back up with "I juschsht want you to know that you hurt my feelingsh, Ewing."
Surprised, I rejoined with "Lee! What in the world are you talking about? We just got here!"
"No! I don't like to talk about hard shubjecksh at shutsch a naaaiicee gatheringofgoodpeoples" he slurred, left eye wandering a bit. "Lets jushsht fight it on out on the lawn."
"Lee, I don't think thats necessary. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings, I swear! What did I do?" I said.
"Well, I tell you Mr. Ewingsh. I like to hunt the squirrrreelllsss too you ol scallywag! Yes I do! Lee Trice is the Stylingest and Profilingest Szhshquirrelhuntertheyeverwuz! You done forgot about ol' pore Lee Trisch away down in All-Benny!"
Then it dawned on me: the guest list of The Annual James G. Ewing Jr, & Tripp Maddux Squirrel Hunting Championship of the World Invitational Tournament had scored yet another victim.
So to Lee Q. "The Trice Is Right" Trice: consider this your official invitation - The Wicked Squirrel Approacheth.
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