Thursday, October 20, 2011


My Uncle Buster congenially referred to me today as a “Mooch” via text.  It hurt my feelings. I can think of no reason in the world that he'd say such a thing other than this: I have successfully mooched off him for 31 years.  However, Ahem. I prefer the term “Professional Interloper.” 

“Mooch” is just so crass, don’t you agree? It sounds slimy and I am most certainly NOT slimy.  Perhaps a touch “musty” or “goatish” on occasion, sure, but never slimy. 

Well, generally not slimy. I got home today from my second “Sleep Study” at Piedmont Hospital to investigate the source of my potentially terminal snoring - and hopped into bed. A disembodied hand reached out from beneath the covers and patted it's way up my neck face and ears, then mussed my hair (ostensibly to determine if I were friend or foe) until suddenly sticking fast, glued to my forehead. 

Ewwwwwwww WHAT IS THAT?!  Tyler shuddered – now wide-awake, pillows erupting in a shrieking crescdendo of goosedown.  YOU HAVE SNOT IN YOUR HAIR!

Apparently the Sleep Study Technician didn’t clean the electrode glue out of my hair.  My bad. I’m just the critically-ill person here. Didn’t mean to offend you with my illness.

Anyway, THAT was slimy, but in general – I reiterate: Not Slimy.

It’s not that I haven’t TRIED to pay my way here and there, but picking up lunch when somebody just planted your cornfield for free are two friendly deeds separated by a little matter of magnitude.  It’s just that the things I like to do cost WAY more than I’ve got to spend. What am I supposed to do? Quit doing them and only do things I can afford???

BAH! I’m an American!

If I can’t afford it, but I want it anyway – then OTHER PEOPLE MUST PAY FOR ME!  It’s in the Constitution.

It’s my God-Given right to kiss on the first date, drive 10 miles over the speed limit with no repercussions, spend more money than I’ve got to do things I can’t afford and maintain a lifestyle of general excess and frivolity.  If people like ME don’t keep up our frantic pace – there’d be nobody to buy Ferraris on credit, rent snowmobiles, or fly to the moon just for fun.  THEN do you know what happens? West Nile. Swine Flu. Mumps. Rubella. End Times. Everybody starves to death. 

The bottom line is: I’m not Mooching. I’m stimulating the Economy! So, don’t do it for me: Do It For America.

Wednesday, October 12, 2011

The Unwary

Tyler D. Ewing, the woman perpetually convinced she's on the very cusp of burglarly, attack and pillage had this to say from bed when I entered the house late Sunday night (and I quote):

"Zzzzzzzzz. Haammphhhhh. Snaaaarrkkkkkggglee. Zzzzzzzzzz."

I've included a brief graphical representation of my movements about the house upon my return from a long weekend of sporting pursuits (below):

I tromped in and out of the house multiple times - slamming both doors each time, opened the fridge, walked in our bedroom and took one shoe off. Then, I sat down and scratched a tick bite on my leg. Yawned. Walked out. Later I brought my overnight bag into the bedroom, dumped its contents on the floor, took my other shoe off, turned the fan on, walked outside, closed the fridge, and came back in with my dopp kit. I rummaged around in my kit for a toothbrush, brushed my teeth and simultaneously texted my cousin Maggie.  Finally, Tyler rolled over and said "Wello! Well, look who's back!"

"I've been home for a half hour. I've slammed the back door 5 times and turned on every light in the house.  You have not so much as stirred."

"Oh? Yeah. Hmm. Yawn. I thought I heard something."

Sunday, October 02, 2011

Say Uncle

Hilarious. Make the guy uncomfortable with newborns hold the new kid. Ok! Fine! I'll do it. I won't like it, but I'll do it if I HAVE to, but that's it. Once. After that: no more holding.

I don't deal with children under 6, furthermore I don't INTEND to deal with children under 6. That's right: I'm an ogre. No, I'm a man. No, I'm an ogre. Either way - they're purely ornamental, right?  Bring them to me when they're strong enough to hold a BB gun and wear a life vest. Until then - they make me too nervous. That's right - I'll take my chances with an armed 6yr-old over a newborn that could cry any minute and make me feel all guilty and weird.

We've got a hospital room full of women over here flipping the tiny thing around like its a football and driving it crazy and it makes me anxious. As if blasting out into the world with a bunch of people hollering at you, blood and guts everywhere, crying, and wailing isn't bad enough - somebody immediately hits you hard enough to make you cry, then 400 people you dont know show up and insist on handing you around in midair for the next 72hrs straight. 

Take me back to the womb, please, Mister. 

To make matters worse - there's a 50/50 chance somebody stuck a vacuum cleaner on your head, then sucked so hard it squished your skull all out of shape. You think THAT didn't hurt? Sweet Lord. "Welcome to being a human! Hurry up out of there, or we'll smoosh your skull." It's your first taste of the world telling you you're too fat and slow. Learn to love it.

Plus, you can't think much, grip anything, walk, talk or see straight and what do you have to live on? Milk that somebody gives you anytime they feel like you may be hungry? If I had to wait on Tyler to feed me when she thought I might be hungry, I'd be dead. Or skinny. I don't know which is worse.

It's amazing any kid makes it out of the hospital alive - what with all that hard floor rushing up to meet you.  That's what's underfoot in the hospital - basically concrete. 4,000 sick and infirm people, newborns, the elderly, bodily fluids skeeting around right and left, half the chairs have wheels on them and you pave the entire place in a slick hard substance?  The emperor has no clothes. Soylent Green is PEOPLE, and when I'm 80 please don't store me in any place sheeted in hip-crushing rubberized concrete. 

Know what happens when you get old? YOU DIE. Fine by me I guess, but I know a caretaker who loves me wouldn't let me slowly break apart over time in a series of high-impact falls.  Make me a tent out on the front lawn. I'll take a tree fort in your backyard. Anything, at all - please just don't put concrete floors in my bedroom for crying out loud. 

Back at the hospital I held the kid, anxiously, until Tyler saw my lips moving and the beads of sweat glistening feverishly on my forehead and she finally said "well, I guess I better get Jimmy on home now", made her apologies and led me out to the car.

It's a good thing, too. My imagination was about to spin completely out of control.