Posts
We had an ongoing pre-wedding disagreement about Tyler’s wedding-day performance. She feared she would suffer from giant wracking sobs while walking the plank, err – aisle; and embarrass herself.
Based on her performance during “The Time Traveler’s Wife” a few weeks ago I, on the other hand, was supremely confident she would do just that. That was the disagreement. She was not sure she would lose it, but she was concerned about it. I was 100% positive she was going to flip out.
I can honestly say that I’ve never seen someone wail so steadily and consistently through a film before. I may have shed a tear during Braveheart and Forest Gump, but never have I ever been subjected to a steady stream of flowing tears and miserable sobbing such as this; and over something we PAID for.
Ruined it.
I couldn't even make fun of the story line without getting a taste of The Elbow of Silence. A guy randomly travels in-and-out of time and Rachel McAdams is all he has to look forward to? Blech. If it were me - at the very least I'd have been shooting evil dictators, or sneaking onto the space shuttle, or something interesting.
I got her back though. Ernee The Attornee and I took her to see "Let Me In" - a newly-released vampire movie. She's already terrified of the dark, horror movies, parking garages, and being home alone so she generally refuses to see anything involving violence, darkness or "creatures."
To get her in there we told her it was a comedy; then when it was over I had to peel her rigid catatonic limbs off the arm rests.
BWAH HA HA HAHAHAHAHA!!!
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Live Short and Prosper
A brief follow-up word on The New Regime under which I have been duped and enslaved:
Operating autonomously as an adult these many years now, I had grown subconsciously accustomed to certain niceties of singlehood. Certain “freedoms” if you will. I’ve recently discovered that certain of those certain freedoms have certainly departed to parts unknown.
Such as:
1. The freedom to not have someone’s packing-plant-cold-feet pressed against my warm buns all night.
2. The freedom to arise after 7AM without someone poking me repeatedly in the chest, arms, and back and pressing that someone’s (freezing) nose against my face while repeating over and over “Um. Hallo. Hallo? Are you Awake? Wakey, wakey, eggs & Bake-ey” every minute, on the minute, from 6AM onward.
3. The freedom to taste food without lipstick on it.
4. The freedom to not carry a woman’s credit card, lip gloss, and drivers license in my pocket to every party I attend.
Those freedoms have been stripped from me entirely; not unlike the bedsheets which are stripped from me at approximately 6:12AM daily and replaced by a pair of running socks tossed callously at my chest. The old life was good. The new life is apparently “healthy.”
The new life will “help me live longer.”
The question is: do I want to?
Operating autonomously as an adult these many years now, I had grown subconsciously accustomed to certain niceties of singlehood. Certain “freedoms” if you will. I’ve recently discovered that certain of those certain freedoms have certainly departed to parts unknown.
Such as:
1. The freedom to not have someone’s packing-plant-cold-feet pressed against my warm buns all night.
2. The freedom to arise after 7AM without someone poking me repeatedly in the chest, arms, and back and pressing that someone’s (freezing) nose against my face while repeating over and over “Um. Hallo. Hallo? Are you Awake? Wakey, wakey, eggs & Bake-ey” every minute, on the minute, from 6AM onward.
3. The freedom to taste food without lipstick on it.
4. The freedom to not carry a woman’s credit card, lip gloss, and drivers license in my pocket to every party I attend.
Those freedoms have been stripped from me entirely; not unlike the bedsheets which are stripped from me at approximately 6:12AM daily and replaced by a pair of running socks tossed callously at my chest. The old life was good. The new life is apparently “healthy.”
The new life will “help me live longer.”
The question is: do I want to?
Friday, October 22, 2010
Guest Post: Salman "Strib" Stribling, Esq.
I generally only allow guest posts under extreme duress. However, I believe the following email received from my good friend Salman "Strib" Stribling, Esq. is entirely worth your attention.
For the past 36 hours, we have had a clogged toilet. Not that big of a deal. When my lovely wife (henceforth referred to as MLW) begins by asking if we should "call a plumber," my wounded ego politely declined.
Heck no, we don't need a plumber. I can handle a clogged toilet!
I could not unclog it. I plunged and rooted and splashed until I had blisters on my hands - all for naught. Whatever unholy thing was lurking under that murky water had become firmly entrenched behind bulwarks of murky destruction.
Being a man of finer tastes as I'm sure you're aware; I did not want to risk putting my hands into a liquid smell of this magnitude; especially with no clear understanding of what may await my timid grasp.
It was bad enough to be in such close proximity to utter foulness; but the thought of actually immersing part of my body in sheol was entirely too taxing for my refined constitution. I tried to convince MLW that we needed her more delicate and sensitive hands to reach in and pull out whatever was in there. With four children I've seen her handle substances that would green the gills of the Roto Rooter man, but surprisingly, she preferred to call a plumber.
I, again, in my great wisdom and powerful man-knowledge of all things home-related, refused.
I stood poised over the bowl for what felt like hours as I slowly worked up the courage to do what must be done. Finally, I tore apart my own inner will and with a gasp and a plunge - reached into the depths. Much to my distress, I found nothing.
I decided to hold off and wait it out a little while because - you never know, sometimes these things fix themselves. My car has done that on numerous occasions. So, I left.
Imagine my consternation upon my return to find the toilet in the same sad state of disrepair. It had not magically fixed itself. I, a full-grown educated man with four children, actually believed that the clogged toilet would "be better" when I got home. I forgot that there is no such thing as magic.
As the matter had grown somewhat more serious, I made a quick trip to the Home Depot in search of a tool. Buying a tool is a sheer-intimidation-offfense move. Sometimes just the act of buying the tool fixes things.
Returning with what I thought was going to be the final solution in my hands, I knew the end was in sight. I am sure it has a technical name.
I simply called it the $8 toilet unclogger.
I jammed this puppy in there and started twisting and tugging and shoving and pulling. Nothing. I plunged some more. Nothing. Finally, I had MLW go out to the garage to retrieve some vice grips so that I could take the toilet off its moorings and really get to the root of the issue, but before I could do that, I had to empty the bowl.
It was awful. I mean it was like something out of Trainspotting.
I am still trying to block out certain scarring images.
MLW had to go to the sand box in the back and bring back a couple of buckets so that I could begin scooping the mess out, filling said buckets, and dumping them in what must now be a toxic swamp on the other side of the fence. The plan was simple - I would fill a bucket and either hand it to her or bring it outside myself.
The plan was working smoothly. I handed the first bucket to MLW who, complaining bitterly, hauled it out. The second bucket was far larger, probably holding about 4 gallons of sand in its heyday. I filled it with at least 3 gallons of toxic childsludge. I then gingerly picked it up by the sides, gently laughing to myself, "Wouldn't it be funny if I dropped this?"
Want to know what is even funnier? When the bucket you are holding with 3 gallons of stuff that you did not know your children could generate, breaks. The rim to which I had attached my ninja death grip snapped off with a loud CRAAACK like the snapping of an angel's wing. The bucket hit the floor from a height of about 3 feet and cracked right in the middle.
Imagine if you will - me, standing there with two pieces of plastic bucket in my hands, mouth open wide, eyes the size of dinner plates and the sense of impending doom.
When I say it was terrible, I am doing it a disservice. It hit the floor with a loud splash and before I knew it, had successfully sheeted everything in a light brown liquid wash of filth. It was on the walls, cabinets, filled my shoes - everything. Before I even had time to cuss good I watched a slow-motion tsunami of sewage go out the door, into the hallway, and quickly work its way into the playroom which, incidentally, was filled lots of lovely things Little Win likes to shove in his mouth. I was powerless to stop it.
I heard the unmistakable sound of ultimate human suffering emanate from MLW's mouth as she nimbly blazed through the room picking things up before they could get wet - including the hallway carpeting. I just stood there. I earned it.
This woman is quick. If I am ever in a fire I want her to come and get me out.
Finally, after cleaning up the hazmat tidal wave, I was able to take the toilet off its moorings, run the $8 toilet unclogger in reverse, and pull out a child's building block that my wonderful 4th child shoved in, probably at the urging of the devil. He gets that attribute from MLW's side of the family.
I then burned my clothes, showered in the hottest water I could stand, and have not returned to the scene of the crime. I don't need to - the memories of that wave of sewage will haunt me forever.
In the future, when MLW asks if we should call the plumber, I will humbly, and with a shiver, say "Yes".
Editor's Note: Perhaps this fact has escaped your attention, but as I myself am schooled in the ways of Toilet Scuba, it hasn't escaped mine: Strib, in his total ingorance and obvious innner turmoil - dove in bareback. Skin-on-toiletwater. That is totally unnecessary. Friends: two hefty sacks double-bagging that arm will save you much of young Strib's turmoil and distress.
For the past 36 hours, we have had a clogged toilet. Not that big of a deal. When my lovely wife (henceforth referred to as MLW) begins by asking if we should "call a plumber," my wounded ego politely declined.
Heck no, we don't need a plumber. I can handle a clogged toilet!
I could not unclog it. I plunged and rooted and splashed until I had blisters on my hands - all for naught. Whatever unholy thing was lurking under that murky water had become firmly entrenched behind bulwarks of murky destruction.
Being a man of finer tastes as I'm sure you're aware; I did not want to risk putting my hands into a liquid smell of this magnitude; especially with no clear understanding of what may await my timid grasp.
It was bad enough to be in such close proximity to utter foulness; but the thought of actually immersing part of my body in sheol was entirely too taxing for my refined constitution. I tried to convince MLW that we needed her more delicate and sensitive hands to reach in and pull out whatever was in there. With four children I've seen her handle substances that would green the gills of the Roto Rooter man, but surprisingly, she preferred to call a plumber.
I, again, in my great wisdom and powerful man-knowledge of all things home-related, refused.
I stood poised over the bowl for what felt like hours as I slowly worked up the courage to do what must be done. Finally, I tore apart my own inner will and with a gasp and a plunge - reached into the depths. Much to my distress, I found nothing.
I decided to hold off and wait it out a little while because - you never know, sometimes these things fix themselves. My car has done that on numerous occasions. So, I left.
Imagine my consternation upon my return to find the toilet in the same sad state of disrepair. It had not magically fixed itself. I, a full-grown educated man with four children, actually believed that the clogged toilet would "be better" when I got home. I forgot that there is no such thing as magic.
As the matter had grown somewhat more serious, I made a quick trip to the Home Depot in search of a tool. Buying a tool is a sheer-intimidation-offfense move. Sometimes just the act of buying the tool fixes things.
Returning with what I thought was going to be the final solution in my hands, I knew the end was in sight. I am sure it has a technical name.
I simply called it the $8 toilet unclogger.
I jammed this puppy in there and started twisting and tugging and shoving and pulling. Nothing. I plunged some more. Nothing. Finally, I had MLW go out to the garage to retrieve some vice grips so that I could take the toilet off its moorings and really get to the root of the issue, but before I could do that, I had to empty the bowl.
It was awful. I mean it was like something out of Trainspotting.
I am still trying to block out certain scarring images.
MLW had to go to the sand box in the back and bring back a couple of buckets so that I could begin scooping the mess out, filling said buckets, and dumping them in what must now be a toxic swamp on the other side of the fence. The plan was simple - I would fill a bucket and either hand it to her or bring it outside myself.
The plan was working smoothly. I handed the first bucket to MLW who, complaining bitterly, hauled it out. The second bucket was far larger, probably holding about 4 gallons of sand in its heyday. I filled it with at least 3 gallons of toxic childsludge. I then gingerly picked it up by the sides, gently laughing to myself, "Wouldn't it be funny if I dropped this?"
Want to know what is even funnier? When the bucket you are holding with 3 gallons of stuff that you did not know your children could generate, breaks. The rim to which I had attached my ninja death grip snapped off with a loud CRAAACK like the snapping of an angel's wing. The bucket hit the floor from a height of about 3 feet and cracked right in the middle.
Imagine if you will - me, standing there with two pieces of plastic bucket in my hands, mouth open wide, eyes the size of dinner plates and the sense of impending doom.
When I say it was terrible, I am doing it a disservice. It hit the floor with a loud splash and before I knew it, had successfully sheeted everything in a light brown liquid wash of filth. It was on the walls, cabinets, filled my shoes - everything. Before I even had time to cuss good I watched a slow-motion tsunami of sewage go out the door, into the hallway, and quickly work its way into the playroom which, incidentally, was filled lots of lovely things Little Win likes to shove in his mouth. I was powerless to stop it.
I heard the unmistakable sound of ultimate human suffering emanate from MLW's mouth as she nimbly blazed through the room picking things up before they could get wet - including the hallway carpeting. I just stood there. I earned it.
This woman is quick. If I am ever in a fire I want her to come and get me out.
Finally, after cleaning up the hazmat tidal wave, I was able to take the toilet off its moorings, run the $8 toilet unclogger in reverse, and pull out a child's building block that my wonderful 4th child shoved in, probably at the urging of the devil. He gets that attribute from MLW's side of the family.
I then burned my clothes, showered in the hottest water I could stand, and have not returned to the scene of the crime. I don't need to - the memories of that wave of sewage will haunt me forever.
In the future, when MLW asks if we should call the plumber, I will humbly, and with a shiver, say "Yes".
Editor's Note: Perhaps this fact has escaped your attention, but as I myself am schooled in the ways of Toilet Scuba, it hasn't escaped mine: Strib, in his total ingorance and obvious innner turmoil - dove in bareback. Skin-on-toiletwater. That is totally unnecessary. Friends: two hefty sacks double-bagging that arm will save you much of young Strib's turmoil and distress.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
A Regime Change
"Welcome to your new life" said my new wife, grinning, totally unfazed by the last 2 miles of my sweaty flailing and constant grumbling.
"We'll start running again at the next telephone pole."
I stood slumped over the slate-shingled mailbox of one of Buckhead's wealthier denizens, grasping both sides of the brick box and breathing rapidly into the open slot in lieu of a paper bag.
"You go on. I'll catch up" I wheezed.
"Please let go of the mailbox, you're embarassing me. Stretch your calves. That will help. Then get moving."
I helplessly watched her go; trotting merrily down the street, wandering in-and-out of traffic at will - leaving me psychologically deflated and podiatrically ruined on my favorite curb.
As if the sight of my massive frame lumbering along behind a skinny 6-foot blonde wasn't enough to emotionally wreck me, she proceeded to run halfway down the block then, to my horror, turn and progress back in my direction; merrily bopping along to an inaudible melody. When she reached me, shambling along the curb at an embarassing crawl she began, literally, jogging in circles around me shouting forms of encouragement like "just to the next mailbox" "you can do it" and "If you start running again now, you can have toast at home." At one point she ran behind me prodding me along like a water buffalo in the traces.
"It would be much easier if you would just cooperate" she chirped, prodding me one last time before zooming past in an undernourished blur of pink running gear.
She was right. It was easier to just keep running. At least that way the kids passing by on the school bus don't point and laugh.
I hate kids.
Week three of marriage: Blow Ye Violent Winds of Change.
"We'll start running again at the next telephone pole."
I stood slumped over the slate-shingled mailbox of one of Buckhead's wealthier denizens, grasping both sides of the brick box and breathing rapidly into the open slot in lieu of a paper bag.
"You go on. I'll catch up" I wheezed.
"Please let go of the mailbox, you're embarassing me. Stretch your calves. That will help. Then get moving."
I helplessly watched her go; trotting merrily down the street, wandering in-and-out of traffic at will - leaving me psychologically deflated and podiatrically ruined on my favorite curb.
As if the sight of my massive frame lumbering along behind a skinny 6-foot blonde wasn't enough to emotionally wreck me, she proceeded to run halfway down the block then, to my horror, turn and progress back in my direction; merrily bopping along to an inaudible melody. When she reached me, shambling along the curb at an embarassing crawl she began, literally, jogging in circles around me shouting forms of encouragement like "just to the next mailbox" "you can do it" and "If you start running again now, you can have toast at home." At one point she ran behind me prodding me along like a water buffalo in the traces.
"It would be much easier if you would just cooperate" she chirped, prodding me one last time before zooming past in an undernourished blur of pink running gear.
She was right. It was easier to just keep running. At least that way the kids passing by on the school bus don't point and laugh.
I hate kids.
Week three of marriage: Blow Ye Violent Winds of Change.
Friday, October 08, 2010
Aphrodisiac
I hear that certain Asian cultures believe the raw oyster is nature's most powerful aphrodisiac.
Me? I'm an American, so I can't be certain.
I cannot attest to their powers on a standalone basis, but I'll tell you that spending 5:00AM - 5:20AM on a Thursday night screaming raw-oyster-flavored bubbles into the toilet will get you a shoe thrown in your general direction, but not much more.
In "sickness and in health" couldn't have prepared her for this.
Me? I'm an American, so I can't be certain.
I cannot attest to their powers on a standalone basis, but I'll tell you that spending 5:00AM - 5:20AM on a Thursday night screaming raw-oyster-flavored bubbles into the toilet will get you a shoe thrown in your general direction, but not much more.
In "sickness and in health" couldn't have prepared her for this.
Wednesday, October 06, 2010
Sometimes You Just Know
When I was little Mom told me that on a lovely spring day years before; she was seated in the garden outside her college sorority house when Mom felt Dad, who was standing behind her, lean gently in as if to whisper in her ear. She thought to herself "what lovely thing will he say to me next?"
Dad said: "Jenny, I think you've got a bald spot."
Mom, horrified, turned to him and said "Have you lost your mind?"
I guess with such forebears it is no great surprise that I managed to marry someone who interrupts my work day to relate such as the following:
Tyler: My friend asked me this afternoon how I knew you were the person I wanted to spend the rest of my life with.
I told her you had a flat-screen TV with DVR and that was it! I knew you were the one.
Dad said: "Jenny, I think you've got a bald spot."
Mom, horrified, turned to him and said "Have you lost your mind?"
I guess with such forebears it is no great surprise that I managed to marry someone who interrupts my work day to relate such as the following:
Tyler: My friend asked me this afternoon how I knew you were the person I wanted to spend the rest of my life with.
I told her you had a flat-screen TV with DVR and that was it! I knew you were the one.
Tuesday, October 05, 2010
Guess What We've Been Up To Lately?
Let's hear it for honeymoon activities, eh? How'boutcha? Eh?
In the event it has escaped your notice that I've been mysteriously absent for the last week immediately following my nuptials - that is what's been up. We were not in a monastary contemplating eternity. We were honeymooning.
It's an ugly truth, but it's true. Why fight it?
I love it that the freshly-honeymooned, when asked "how was the honeymoon?!?" so often burst into a vivid litany of their various sporting and outdoor pursuits. It's another of society's many transparent falsehoods that I desire to debunk.
Contrary to popular belief we have, in short, not been kayaking. Nor have we been parasailing, snorkeling, or sunbathing. We didn't watch Manatees or swim with Dolphins. Why would I? I hate animals with blowholes. They're very off-putting.
We didn't scuba.
I never surfed.
We just didn't. I cannot tell a lie and at this point - I lack the energy to put forth the normal farcical responses.
For those of you who've either given us terrible advice (Mark Stephens) or been kind enough to make completely inappropriate suggestions (Uncle Robert) let me just say that Mark's signature "move" The Vertical Souffle - which allegedly involves a luggage rack, two gallons of coconut oil and a fair amount of dexterity - does not sound that great to me. To my Uncle Robert: thanks, but what in the world am I going to do with a fan made of ostrich feathers and a leapoard skin suit?
My Dad asked the ubiquitous "How was the Honeymoon?" question yesterday and I said "I think I threw out my back." He paused, then tactfully rejoined with "Well, how was Florida?" and I said "We were in Florida? All I saw were curtains and a ceiling. Could've been Ohio. I never could tell."
I knew I had struck a chord when I heard George howling in the background and realized: the whole family is on speakerphone.
So, to all you honeymooning parasailers out there let me just say this: You're Retarded.
While its true that candy can be dandy and liquor certainly is quicker: at least sex won't rot your teeth.
In the event it has escaped your notice that I've been mysteriously absent for the last week immediately following my nuptials - that is what's been up. We were not in a monastary contemplating eternity. We were honeymooning.
It's an ugly truth, but it's true. Why fight it?
I love it that the freshly-honeymooned, when asked "how was the honeymoon?!?" so often burst into a vivid litany of their various sporting and outdoor pursuits. It's another of society's many transparent falsehoods that I desire to debunk.
Contrary to popular belief we have, in short, not been kayaking. Nor have we been parasailing, snorkeling, or sunbathing. We didn't watch Manatees or swim with Dolphins. Why would I? I hate animals with blowholes. They're very off-putting.
We didn't scuba.
I never surfed.
We just didn't. I cannot tell a lie and at this point - I lack the energy to put forth the normal farcical responses.
For those of you who've either given us terrible advice (Mark Stephens) or been kind enough to make completely inappropriate suggestions (Uncle Robert) let me just say that Mark's signature "move" The Vertical Souffle - which allegedly involves a luggage rack, two gallons of coconut oil and a fair amount of dexterity - does not sound that great to me. To my Uncle Robert: thanks, but what in the world am I going to do with a fan made of ostrich feathers and a leapoard skin suit?
My Dad asked the ubiquitous "How was the Honeymoon?" question yesterday and I said "I think I threw out my back." He paused, then tactfully rejoined with "Well, how was Florida?" and I said "We were in Florida? All I saw were curtains and a ceiling. Could've been Ohio. I never could tell."
I knew I had struck a chord when I heard George howling in the background and realized: the whole family is on speakerphone.
So, to all you honeymooning parasailers out there let me just say this: You're Retarded.
While its true that candy can be dandy and liquor certainly is quicker: at least sex won't rot your teeth.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Ruined
During a recent dinner discussion wherein I attempted to convince My Future Bride (MFB) that I am worth the effort and small, occasional, difficulty created by my unique personality and various idiosyncracies such as: inability to clean things, ability to complain about food, inability to wash clothing regularly, inability to effectively communicate plans, inability to choose clothing to wear, inability to avoid hunting trips, ability to complain about waiting for anything....etc....this happened to me:
Me: Pfft. I'm totally worth it. You know it! Don't "front."
Tyler: Hm. I'm not so sure. I think you should probably shape up. Also, don't say "front".
Me: Please. Shape up!? HA! It's too late!! I've already woo'd you with my ways!!
Tyler: ....and now I'm woo-ined.
Me: ....
Tyler: Get it? "Wooined?" Like "Ruined?!"! Get it!?!?"
Me:....
After Saturday at 7PM I've officially signed up for 50 more years of bad puns and shoes on credit.
Somebody stop me.
Me: Pfft. I'm totally worth it. You know it! Don't "front."
Tyler: Hm. I'm not so sure. I think you should probably shape up. Also, don't say "front".
Me: Please. Shape up!? HA! It's too late!! I've already woo'd you with my ways!!
Tyler: ....and now I'm woo-ined.
Me: ....
Tyler: Get it? "Wooined?" Like "Ruined?!"! Get it!?!?"
Me:....
After Saturday at 7PM I've officially signed up for 50 more years of bad puns and shoes on credit.
Somebody stop me.
Attack Mantis
Even the natural world does very strange things to me on a daily basis. I pulled out of the parking lot on Friday, checked my side-view mirror to merge left and when I looked back; this is the sight that greeted me:
HOLY CRAP.
A 29-Foot-Tall Praying Mantis, attacking a Kia.
I consider the experience "startling."
I promptly blew my gum down into my dashboard air vents (forever) and slammed on brakes; slinging empty styrofoam cups and .22 bullets all down into my floorboards, and splashing coffee on the Fulton County Certified Marriage License which has been riding shotgun since last Thursday. Now, when I turn on the A/C the air in the left vent smells like stale Dentyne.
I don't believe in aliens, but I definitely believe in Ghosts, The Legendary HawgBear, Gustave The Killer Crocodile and Killer Praying Mantises - the Praying Mantis being somehow the most disconcerting of the four.
I think it's those weird dead-eyes and how, without ever seeming to move fast, they still manage to kill and eat everything that gets near them. That's a horrifying combination of characteristics to pack into a 29'-foot-tall carnivorous insect pedestrian that eats its mates.
Speaking of mates; did you know I'm getting married in exactly 3,410 minutes?
HOLY CRAP.
A 29-Foot-Tall Praying Mantis, attacking a Kia.
I consider the experience "startling."
I promptly blew my gum down into my dashboard air vents (forever) and slammed on brakes; slinging empty styrofoam cups and .22 bullets all down into my floorboards, and splashing coffee on the Fulton County Certified Marriage License which has been riding shotgun since last Thursday. Now, when I turn on the A/C the air in the left vent smells like stale Dentyne.
I don't believe in aliens, but I definitely believe in Ghosts, The Legendary HawgBear, Gustave The Killer Crocodile and Killer Praying Mantises - the Praying Mantis being somehow the most disconcerting of the four.
I think it's those weird dead-eyes and how, without ever seeming to move fast, they still manage to kill and eat everything that gets near them. That's a horrifying combination of characteristics to pack into a 29'-foot-tall carnivorous insect pedestrian that eats its mates.
Speaking of mates; did you know I'm getting married in exactly 3,410 minutes?
Monday, September 20, 2010
Grown Man For Sale: Hairy. Needs Constant Supervision
I've been in a veritable morass of wedding excitement lately. It's inescapable, and so are the people who delight in announcing your daily countdown to matrimonial servitude.
"You're getting married Saturday!! How many days is that? 5??! I think its 5!! Cheryl honey, how many days is that? FIVE?"
Cheryl (breathily): "Oohhhh! Five!! I think so!! It IS five!! Here let me count" (Cheryle starts waggling her fingers and ticking off days) "Lets see. Monday, Tuesday . . . .FIVE!! I think its FIVE!! Can you believe that? FIVE DAYS"
Oh, I believe it.
First of all, you know quite well it's 5 days. I can understand a fair amount of ciphering if we're shooting for September 25, 2042; but we're talking about next Saturday. You don't have to count it out for me on your fingers or even estimate it in hours. No, seriously.
I'm just saying - I'm aware. I'm the one who got myself into this thing in the first place, so trust me when I say: I'm on board with the date. I couldn't tell you for sure details of any sort, but I know where to be and what time to get there. I also know where I live, what pizza is made of, and how to skin a bear; in case you were wondering.
To keep myself on an even-keel I've developed a few not-funny pre-wedding jokes lately. Know what's "not funny?"
"Hey Tyler don't drink that!!! It's bad for the baby!!!" very loudly in the bar line is "Not Funny"; suggested The Elbow of Silence.
Consistently getting the name of the wedding venue wrong? Also not funny.
I am the Un-Funny.
The only problem is; I've changed dates, times, and names around so much - now I'm afraid I've confused myself.
I need constant supervision.
"You're getting married Saturday!! How many days is that? 5??! I think its 5!! Cheryl honey, how many days is that? FIVE?"
Cheryl (breathily): "Oohhhh! Five!! I think so!! It IS five!! Here let me count" (Cheryle starts waggling her fingers and ticking off days) "Lets see. Monday, Tuesday . . . .FIVE!! I think its FIVE!! Can you believe that? FIVE DAYS"
Oh, I believe it.
First of all, you know quite well it's 5 days. I can understand a fair amount of ciphering if we're shooting for September 25, 2042; but we're talking about next Saturday. You don't have to count it out for me on your fingers or even estimate it in hours. No, seriously.
I'm just saying - I'm aware. I'm the one who got myself into this thing in the first place, so trust me when I say: I'm on board with the date. I couldn't tell you for sure details of any sort, but I know where to be and what time to get there. I also know where I live, what pizza is made of, and how to skin a bear; in case you were wondering.
To keep myself on an even-keel I've developed a few not-funny pre-wedding jokes lately. Know what's "not funny?"
"Hey Tyler don't drink that!!! It's bad for the baby!!!" very loudly in the bar line is "Not Funny"; suggested The Elbow of Silence.
Consistently getting the name of the wedding venue wrong? Also not funny.
I am the Un-Funny.
The only problem is; I've changed dates, times, and names around so much - now I'm afraid I've confused myself.
I need constant supervision.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Horrifying Glimps of The Future
I was pulling through the drive-through liquor store at Weiuca and Roswell in search of bachelor-party supplies the other day and was shocked and saddened to see this:
It is a horrifying picture of what's in store for us in the next 5-7 years. It is as if the heavens opened and tried to warn me of my fate.
But I wouldn't listen.
Also, to these guys - please don't go out in public. Its fine to have kids, but you're supposed to hide them from your buddies and pretend they don't exist until they're 5 or 6.
www.jimmyewing.blogspot.com
It is a horrifying picture of what's in store for us in the next 5-7 years. It is as if the heavens opened and tried to warn me of my fate.
But I wouldn't listen.
Also, to these guys - please don't go out in public. Its fine to have kids, but you're supposed to hide them from your buddies and pretend they don't exist until they're 5 or 6.
www.jimmyewing.blogspot.com
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Hey Guys Watch This!
The whole point to a bachelor party is proving to your best friends that you're too stupid to die.
Plus, if you can set your own chest hair on fire with a grill lighter and live to tell about it - you have conquered the single life.
You may as well get married.
Plus, if you can set your own chest hair on fire with a grill lighter and live to tell about it - you have conquered the single life.
You may as well get married.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Bring Rocker Back
I was at a friend's house recently and noticed he had a bunch of yellowed Atlanta Journal Constitution newspaper clippings up on the wall commemorating various Atlanta Braves baseball wins. It reminded me of the glory days of the Braves franchise.
It reminded me of them, because its been so long I had nearly forgotten.
Of the 30 people who may eventually read this I'm going to assume about 27 of you know me, and the other 3 had googled "Brick Distributor", instead got me, and don't care. So, I won't bore you with a long-winded philosophical view on professional team sports, or at least televised professional team sports. I'll make it simple: I loathe them.
But you knew that already.
I'm ambivalent about golf. I generally respect it because it's generally one-on-one-combative. I can appreciate that, but I still don't want to watch you play it.
I loathe professional team sports mostly because of the people who come to my house and scream furiously at the television, drone endlessly on about the completely mindless, irrelevant, on-field exploits of their favorite team when there are perfectly alive deer and quail to be killed; or otherwise bore me with talk about who did what with which kind of ball.
I just dont care.
I would much rather watch T-ball, JV Football, Olympic fencing or Jai-Alai; than spend a second of my time on college football or professional baseball or, God forbid - the miserable Atlanta Falcons. Oh man. The Falcons. A good PitBull fight, if somewhat unethical, is still the most interesting sporting event an Atlanta Falcon has been involved in since the Dan Reeves era SuperBowl.
I'm serious. Professional sports have nothing on their lowly un-professional counterparts. In T-Ball a kid could throw up or cry at any moment. Parents might fight. A parent might cry (that's the best). The fat kid might hit one and you might get to see the fat kid run. It's all very exciting stuff.
Jai Alai kills people regularly, Olympic fencing is hand-to-hand combat, and even JV Football has its finer moments; you've strapped a heat-trapping vision-impairing plastic device to an already addled pre-teen's head and sent him out into the Georgia heat to repeatedly bash himself against his friends while his Dad stands by screaming encouragement.
That has "potential for hilarity" written all over it.
No matter how brave a face I drink on before marching myself down to a SuperBowl party: I just can't wrap my head around professional sports. How many different-shaped balls do you need to move around how many different types of fields before somebody finally stands up and says "AAAUGHH!!! Fine! FINE!!!! HAVE YOUR STUPID BALL GAME!! BUT DO IT RIDING ON AN ELEPHANT!!"
That's what I want to see. If you got 10 elephents out on a slightly larger basketball court and said "Gentlemen start your elephants!!"; I'd watch that all day long. You're talking about a "ball" game that could easily squash you. If I thought there was a fair chance I'd get to see Kobe Bryant killed by an elephant during a rebound attempt: I'd have season tickets - and I don't even hate Kobe Bryant.
I used to love playing with a ball, but I just don't love it anymore - why? Because I'm not 4yrs old. I also no longer play with baby rattles or use a teething ring. Playing with a ball is for children. As an adult I want to see something reminiscent of life-and-death struggle happening before me; or if not that: at least something non-repetitive. More importantly - I don't want to watch, I want to DO.
Perhaps in my case the problem is more deeply-rooted. My toys as a 4yr old were (literally) a Barlow pocketknife my Dad ground the edge and point off of; a Red Ryder BB gun, an assortment of cap pistols, a black rubber military training bayonet from that unfortunate Vietnam Conflict, and a red bownarrer with a quiver that you slung over your back like a tabby-cat-stalking Robin Hood. What in the world did I need ballgames for? I was the single most well-armed person in Decatur.
Nurture could be the culprit; I guess we'll never know.
I feel a bit guilty for harping on baseball. I don't hate it, really, and I geniuinely don't want to bash baseball in excess of anything else, but baseball players are just too "good." The only thing that changes is the score - there are only so many places to hit the ball and so many ways to throw it. I just need more action and variety than that; with hopefully a little bloodsport mixed in. Blindfold the pitcher, mix pitfalls and non-lethal concussion mines in down the baselines, arm the catcher with pepper spray - just mix it up for me.
I know some of you love your sports - especially Atlanta baseball. That's ok. I don't mind, but I know you better than you think. I have the secret you've all been waiting for that'll put Atlanta back on top for good - and it's not coaching or money.
Bring back John Rocker, hand him a pipe wrench, a bat, two cans of Skoal and a ball glove - and roll film.
I'll pop the popcorn.
www.jimmyewing.blogspot.com
It reminded me of them, because its been so long I had nearly forgotten.
Of the 30 people who may eventually read this I'm going to assume about 27 of you know me, and the other 3 had googled "Brick Distributor", instead got me, and don't care. So, I won't bore you with a long-winded philosophical view on professional team sports, or at least televised professional team sports. I'll make it simple: I loathe them.
But you knew that already.
I'm ambivalent about golf. I generally respect it because it's generally one-on-one-combative. I can appreciate that, but I still don't want to watch you play it.
I loathe professional team sports mostly because of the people who come to my house and scream furiously at the television, drone endlessly on about the completely mindless, irrelevant, on-field exploits of their favorite team when there are perfectly alive deer and quail to be killed; or otherwise bore me with talk about who did what with which kind of ball.
I just dont care.
I would much rather watch T-ball, JV Football, Olympic fencing or Jai-Alai; than spend a second of my time on college football or professional baseball or, God forbid - the miserable Atlanta Falcons. Oh man. The Falcons. A good PitBull fight, if somewhat unethical, is still the most interesting sporting event an Atlanta Falcon has been involved in since the Dan Reeves era SuperBowl.
I'm serious. Professional sports have nothing on their lowly un-professional counterparts. In T-Ball a kid could throw up or cry at any moment. Parents might fight. A parent might cry (that's the best). The fat kid might hit one and you might get to see the fat kid run. It's all very exciting stuff.
Jai Alai kills people regularly, Olympic fencing is hand-to-hand combat, and even JV Football has its finer moments; you've strapped a heat-trapping vision-impairing plastic device to an already addled pre-teen's head and sent him out into the Georgia heat to repeatedly bash himself against his friends while his Dad stands by screaming encouragement.
That has "potential for hilarity" written all over it.
No matter how brave a face I drink on before marching myself down to a SuperBowl party: I just can't wrap my head around professional sports. How many different-shaped balls do you need to move around how many different types of fields before somebody finally stands up and says "AAAUGHH!!! Fine! FINE!!!! HAVE YOUR STUPID BALL GAME!! BUT DO IT RIDING ON AN ELEPHANT!!"
That's what I want to see. If you got 10 elephents out on a slightly larger basketball court and said "Gentlemen start your elephants!!"; I'd watch that all day long. You're talking about a "ball" game that could easily squash you. If I thought there was a fair chance I'd get to see Kobe Bryant killed by an elephant during a rebound attempt: I'd have season tickets - and I don't even hate Kobe Bryant.
I used to love playing with a ball, but I just don't love it anymore - why? Because I'm not 4yrs old. I also no longer play with baby rattles or use a teething ring. Playing with a ball is for children. As an adult I want to see something reminiscent of life-and-death struggle happening before me; or if not that: at least something non-repetitive. More importantly - I don't want to watch, I want to DO.
Perhaps in my case the problem is more deeply-rooted. My toys as a 4yr old were (literally) a Barlow pocketknife my Dad ground the edge and point off of; a Red Ryder BB gun, an assortment of cap pistols, a black rubber military training bayonet from that unfortunate Vietnam Conflict, and a red bownarrer with a quiver that you slung over your back like a tabby-cat-stalking Robin Hood. What in the world did I need ballgames for? I was the single most well-armed person in Decatur.
Nurture could be the culprit; I guess we'll never know.
I feel a bit guilty for harping on baseball. I don't hate it, really, and I geniuinely don't want to bash baseball in excess of anything else, but baseball players are just too "good." The only thing that changes is the score - there are only so many places to hit the ball and so many ways to throw it. I just need more action and variety than that; with hopefully a little bloodsport mixed in. Blindfold the pitcher, mix pitfalls and non-lethal concussion mines in down the baselines, arm the catcher with pepper spray - just mix it up for me.
I know some of you love your sports - especially Atlanta baseball. That's ok. I don't mind, but I know you better than you think. I have the secret you've all been waiting for that'll put Atlanta back on top for good - and it's not coaching or money.
Bring back John Rocker, hand him a pipe wrench, a bat, two cans of Skoal and a ball glove - and roll film.
I'll pop the popcorn.
www.jimmyewing.blogspot.com
Monday, September 13, 2010
The Deadly Water Horse
I saw a blurb on the internet recently that said something along the lines of “all cases of polar bear attacks were instances where the bear was undernourished or provoked.” The statement was, of course, in response to an unprovoked polar bear attack.
I love it when animal people say stuff like that. I think what Mr. Animal Guy really meant was the polar bear in question hadn’t had any man-flesh to eat recently, so he was super hungry.
“Provoking” a polar bear by this guy’s standard could mean any of the below:
A. Throwing rocks at a polar bear
B. Poking a polar bear in the eye
C. Making rude faces at a polar bear
D. Snagging a polar bear with a fish hook
E. Insulting a polar bear
F. Backing into a polar bear with your car
G. Sleeping in a tent near a polar bear
H. Walking in the woods
I. Making fun of a polar bear
J. Looking “meaty”
K. Giving a polar bear a manicure
L. Tasting good
M. Screaming at a polar bear
In his world if you're breathing out-of-doors and it's cold out - you're probably provoking a polar bear. Step lively.
The writer didn’t want you to know the polar bear ate that guy, not because he was furious at the Inuit people for 2,000 years of oppression, or accidentally mistook him for a seal; but because he was hungry and the Inuit look, to a polar bear, suspiciously like a warm hearty snack.
"The Mis-identified Meal" is another of my favorite Mr. Animal Guy TV statements. When confronted with the teary, traumatized, walking-wounded leftovers from "2,000lb Great White Eats Almost All of Surfer"; Mr. Animal Guy basically looks at the crippled human remains before him and says "No big deal, the Shark thought you were a seal."
I've literally never heard a shark-attack interview in which Mr. Animal Guy said anything other than "Boy does your ass look like a seal!". Nevermind that a seal looks nothing like a surfboard, and you're surfing nowhere near a huntable seal population.
Now, if our maimed surfer were happily surfing in amongst a group of 4,000 bloody, frantic, seals - I can see a shark getting over-excited and accidentally slashing the surfer's tires to to speak. Great Whites are bullies, you have to know that going into it, but just out surfin' and WHAMMO! There goes my favorite leg? That's not a case of mistaken identity - thats an appetizer. That shark just ate your leg and he did it on purpose.
As a lifelong Member of The HuntFish Adventure Club (standing in direct opposition to the little-known and generally unrecognized HuntFish Widow’s Whine Club) it makes me really hoot when animal people get incensed about hunting animals. Animals hunt each other, and occasionally – us.
Pretty much everything out there kills us. In terms of nature – we’re embarassing. I saw a program the other night on the Hippo - apparently one of the deadliest African animals for humans to contend with. Seriously, the Hippo - God's fattest animal - is a huge problem for us. According to Mr. Animal Guy: Hippos generally kill people because the (very dead) people in question “got between the Hippo and water.”
I could see Mr. Animal Guy’s interviewer gently nodding in assent thinking “Of course. Well, if you get between a Hippo and water – there really isn’t much choice but for the Hippo to go ahead and chomp you.”
Seriously?
How about the Hippo just go on around you? Or hang back a bit and wait his turn for water? It hardly seems like the punishment fits the crime here, but we’re all going “Ooops better not get between the Hippo and water – or ELSE!”
That’s roughly equivalent to your Dad cutting your head off for slamming the screen door.
I’m personally humiliated that we, as a race, are subject to routine slaughter by an animal the ancient Greeks named “Hippopotamus” or “Water Horse.” Its just plain insulting. You don't ever read naturalist reports of giant Hippo-on-Zebra slaughters - it's always people. We're that stupid.
That in mind - I can’t see a moral issue with hunting animals if other animals hunt each other (and us). Maybe there is. I don’t know, but I delegate you to approach the free-ranging Yellowstone wolf pack of your choice at dinner time and inform them that they’re switching to beets.
I especially love it when an anti-hunter accosts me over the moral implications to animal killing - while wearing leather shoes. That’s my favorite. It’s like a tree-hugger using toilet tissue. I hate to say it: Charmin may be wonderfully comfortable and delightfully quilted, but it’s still made of TREES; and that cow didn't just hand over a strip of hide to protect your feet for free.
I am impressed with carnivores though, seriously. And the polar bear? What an animal! It’s the same color as its background (which is amazing), it has a shark’s toothy grin and the natural equivalent to arms ending in chainsaws. Do you know what I could get done around here if my skin matched the wallpaper? I'd sign up for that in a skinny minute.
To top it off; the polar bear was born with a razor-sharp sweet-tooth for delicious baby seals – perhaps the cutest animal ever to flop a flipper.
Don't you just love nature?
www.jimmyewing.blogspot.com
I love it when animal people say stuff like that. I think what Mr. Animal Guy really meant was the polar bear in question hadn’t had any man-flesh to eat recently, so he was super hungry.
“Provoking” a polar bear by this guy’s standard could mean any of the below:
A. Throwing rocks at a polar bear
B. Poking a polar bear in the eye
C. Making rude faces at a polar bear
D. Snagging a polar bear with a fish hook
E. Insulting a polar bear
F. Backing into a polar bear with your car
G. Sleeping in a tent near a polar bear
H. Walking in the woods
I. Making fun of a polar bear
J. Looking “meaty”
K. Giving a polar bear a manicure
L. Tasting good
M. Screaming at a polar bear
In his world if you're breathing out-of-doors and it's cold out - you're probably provoking a polar bear. Step lively.
The writer didn’t want you to know the polar bear ate that guy, not because he was furious at the Inuit people for 2,000 years of oppression, or accidentally mistook him for a seal; but because he was hungry and the Inuit look, to a polar bear, suspiciously like a warm hearty snack.
"The Mis-identified Meal" is another of my favorite Mr. Animal Guy TV statements. When confronted with the teary, traumatized, walking-wounded leftovers from "2,000lb Great White Eats Almost All of Surfer"; Mr. Animal Guy basically looks at the crippled human remains before him and says "No big deal, the Shark thought you were a seal."
I've literally never heard a shark-attack interview in which Mr. Animal Guy said anything other than "Boy does your ass look like a seal!". Nevermind that a seal looks nothing like a surfboard, and you're surfing nowhere near a huntable seal population.
Now, if our maimed surfer were happily surfing in amongst a group of 4,000 bloody, frantic, seals - I can see a shark getting over-excited and accidentally slashing the surfer's tires to to speak. Great Whites are bullies, you have to know that going into it, but just out surfin' and WHAMMO! There goes my favorite leg? That's not a case of mistaken identity - thats an appetizer. That shark just ate your leg and he did it on purpose.
As a lifelong Member of The HuntFish Adventure Club (standing in direct opposition to the little-known and generally unrecognized HuntFish Widow’s Whine Club) it makes me really hoot when animal people get incensed about hunting animals. Animals hunt each other, and occasionally – us.
Pretty much everything out there kills us. In terms of nature – we’re embarassing. I saw a program the other night on the Hippo - apparently one of the deadliest African animals for humans to contend with. Seriously, the Hippo - God's fattest animal - is a huge problem for us. According to Mr. Animal Guy: Hippos generally kill people because the (very dead) people in question “got between the Hippo and water.”
I could see Mr. Animal Guy’s interviewer gently nodding in assent thinking “Of course. Well, if you get between a Hippo and water – there really isn’t much choice but for the Hippo to go ahead and chomp you.”
Seriously?
How about the Hippo just go on around you? Or hang back a bit and wait his turn for water? It hardly seems like the punishment fits the crime here, but we’re all going “Ooops better not get between the Hippo and water – or ELSE!”
That’s roughly equivalent to your Dad cutting your head off for slamming the screen door.
I’m personally humiliated that we, as a race, are subject to routine slaughter by an animal the ancient Greeks named “Hippopotamus” or “Water Horse.” Its just plain insulting. You don't ever read naturalist reports of giant Hippo-on-Zebra slaughters - it's always people. We're that stupid.
That in mind - I can’t see a moral issue with hunting animals if other animals hunt each other (and us). Maybe there is. I don’t know, but I delegate you to approach the free-ranging Yellowstone wolf pack of your choice at dinner time and inform them that they’re switching to beets.
I especially love it when an anti-hunter accosts me over the moral implications to animal killing - while wearing leather shoes. That’s my favorite. It’s like a tree-hugger using toilet tissue. I hate to say it: Charmin may be wonderfully comfortable and delightfully quilted, but it’s still made of TREES; and that cow didn't just hand over a strip of hide to protect your feet for free.
I am impressed with carnivores though, seriously. And the polar bear? What an animal! It’s the same color as its background (which is amazing), it has a shark’s toothy grin and the natural equivalent to arms ending in chainsaws. Do you know what I could get done around here if my skin matched the wallpaper? I'd sign up for that in a skinny minute.
To top it off; the polar bear was born with a razor-sharp sweet-tooth for delicious baby seals – perhaps the cutest animal ever to flop a flipper.
Don't you just love nature?
www.jimmyewing.blogspot.com
Thursday, September 09, 2010
Extra Mustard
I read a book once that told the tale of a man who was injured in a far away land. He crawled through the wilderness on his hands and knees for something like 200 miles before he reached a populated harbor and aid. When he was finally rescued, he was so famished that he suffered from delirium and various mental ailments.
Once hospitalized, his health returned and he came back unto himself. After a time he was pronounced healthy by the local physician and began making plans to travel – taking berth on a ship sailing for home.
He boarded the ship and pitched in with the sailors as a normal man would, but over time they began to notice a difference in him; he became withdrawn. Especially at mealtimes they noticed he carefully nibbled at his food, barely eating anything at all and greedily eyeing the other sailors’ meals. He finally took to his bed; suffering from severe delirium and raving bouts of lunacy.
The ship eventually reached land and, once in sight, the man recovered from his insanity. The sailors, who couldn’t have been more relieved to get rid of him – sent him ahead in a dinghy for shore and offered to pack up his belongings and send them in behind.
When they entered his room to gather up his things they were astonished to find that every nook and cranny of this room including his mattress, cracks in his bunk, and all of his baggage had been stuffed completely full of hardtack – the ship’s biscuits.
He had slowly pilfered the ship’s kitchen and garbage, and had even rationed his own meals to prepare against the coming starvation his fevered mind imagined.
So, with that in mind; today when I opened my cabinet at work and found this:
I had to briefly question my sanity. Note that its sauce packages hidden underneath a stack of paper AND a facedown picture.
Why do I hoard rip-off-top-type fast food sauces? I don’t hoard the food itself, and I don’t hoard packets like ketchup (ok, sometimes Horsey Sauce) - generally just the little box things like honey mustard and barbecue sauce.
I’d cross I-75 on a tricycle for an extra Chic-Fil-A Honey Mustard to stash away. I found a packet of Chick-Fil-A Honey Mustard sauce hidden in a box of 12ga shotgun shells (I hoard those too) in my truck last year. I even stooped so low as to come up with a clever ruse to get more than I really need from the drive-through Scrooge; just to make sure I don’t “run out.”
Like “running out” would be a major tragedy.
And why not ketchups? Talk about useful! White people absolutely drown themselves in ketchup. If you can think of a common food in the South – some white person somewhere is skeeting ketchup all over it right this second.
I guess I hoard the little sauce boxes because of the tiny Tupperware – it looks more valuable. Ketchup is just that little foil packet – not much value there, but somebody went to some trouble to squeeze that Polynesian Sauce stuff in that tiny box, then seal the little box with a sticky lid. Of course, nobody ever seems to think about how much glue got down in the sauce in the process.
I know I wonder about it.
And what kind of glue is it? If it’s like Elmer’s – no problem. We’re good there. I know for a fact eating Elmer’s glue won’t kill me - I practically sustained life with it until newborn Margaret was 2 and Mom started fixing lunch again.
I’m going to get better about hoarding one of these days though. I promise. In the meantime if you need a little dime bag of Honey Mustard to get you through (McDonalds, Wendy’s, Chick-Fil-A, or even Publix brand) you know where to find me.
Once hospitalized, his health returned and he came back unto himself. After a time he was pronounced healthy by the local physician and began making plans to travel – taking berth on a ship sailing for home.
He boarded the ship and pitched in with the sailors as a normal man would, but over time they began to notice a difference in him; he became withdrawn. Especially at mealtimes they noticed he carefully nibbled at his food, barely eating anything at all and greedily eyeing the other sailors’ meals. He finally took to his bed; suffering from severe delirium and raving bouts of lunacy.
The ship eventually reached land and, once in sight, the man recovered from his insanity. The sailors, who couldn’t have been more relieved to get rid of him – sent him ahead in a dinghy for shore and offered to pack up his belongings and send them in behind.
When they entered his room to gather up his things they were astonished to find that every nook and cranny of this room including his mattress, cracks in his bunk, and all of his baggage had been stuffed completely full of hardtack – the ship’s biscuits.
He had slowly pilfered the ship’s kitchen and garbage, and had even rationed his own meals to prepare against the coming starvation his fevered mind imagined.
So, with that in mind; today when I opened my cabinet at work and found this:
I had to briefly question my sanity. Note that its sauce packages hidden underneath a stack of paper AND a facedown picture.
Why do I hoard rip-off-top-type fast food sauces? I don’t hoard the food itself, and I don’t hoard packets like ketchup (ok, sometimes Horsey Sauce) - generally just the little box things like honey mustard and barbecue sauce.
I’d cross I-75 on a tricycle for an extra Chic-Fil-A Honey Mustard to stash away. I found a packet of Chick-Fil-A Honey Mustard sauce hidden in a box of 12ga shotgun shells (I hoard those too) in my truck last year. I even stooped so low as to come up with a clever ruse to get more than I really need from the drive-through Scrooge; just to make sure I don’t “run out.”
Like “running out” would be a major tragedy.
And why not ketchups? Talk about useful! White people absolutely drown themselves in ketchup. If you can think of a common food in the South – some white person somewhere is skeeting ketchup all over it right this second.
I guess I hoard the little sauce boxes because of the tiny Tupperware – it looks more valuable. Ketchup is just that little foil packet – not much value there, but somebody went to some trouble to squeeze that Polynesian Sauce stuff in that tiny box, then seal the little box with a sticky lid. Of course, nobody ever seems to think about how much glue got down in the sauce in the process.
I know I wonder about it.
And what kind of glue is it? If it’s like Elmer’s – no problem. We’re good there. I know for a fact eating Elmer’s glue won’t kill me - I practically sustained life with it until newborn Margaret was 2 and Mom started fixing lunch again.
I’m going to get better about hoarding one of these days though. I promise. In the meantime if you need a little dime bag of Honey Mustard to get you through (McDonalds, Wendy’s, Chick-Fil-A, or even Publix brand) you know where to find me.
One Stupid Thing I've Done Lately
I'm going to try to post a blog periodically entitled "One Stupid Thing I've Done Lately" and give you a solid glimps at how dangerous it is to be me, and how incredible it is that I'm alive.
Here's your first glimpse at the mindset behind One Stupid Thing I've Done Lately:
2:41AM: Boy it sucks trying to strip all the line off this fishing reel by hand. Plus, its 3AM and I want to go watch Eastbound and Down.
2:43AM: I wonder if I can just light this stuff on fire, then put it out real' quick before it burns the reel?
2:43:15AM: I better not do that.
2:44AM: If only I had a device that spins real' fast that I could tie the tag end of this line to, and just open the bail and strip all the line off! That would be the ticket.
2:44AM: (eyes scan room. see table saw): HEY! A TABLESAW! THATS A SPINNY THING!!
2:44:15AM: No I better not do that. I'm scared of the tablesaw already. The last thing I want to do is somehow tie something long and pointy to it and start it. Although, now that I've formulated that idea - I'm intrigued.
2:45AM: (still peeling line off reel). Boy does this SUCK. I wonder if Fred is up getting his gear together too?
2:46AM: (speaker phone dialing). Answering machine from Fred. Fred is asleep. No one in the world is up playing with fishing rods, except for me.
2:47AM: I wonder if Tyler is up. No, I already know she's been in bed since 7:59PM.
2:49AM: (eyes scan room. see power drill). I HAVE IT!!! I'll tie the tag end of this old fishing line to a wooden dowel and chuck it in my power drill, then put it on "high!"!!!
2:50AM: (drill spinning, line peeling off reel). I am a genius.
2:51AM: This is still taking a long time. I wonder if I can help it by snatching on the line a bit.
2:51:15AM: Help.
So, I managed to get my hand caught in the drill-end of the fishing line and before you could say skiddley-doo - I've got 10lb monofilament burying itself in my wrist skin until the drill stalls.
Boy did that hurt.
Then I had to to cut it out of my wrist skin with a rusty razor blade I found on my workbench - which also hurt. So, to recap: it hurt, then to fix it - it hurt more.
Then I went to bed.
Here's your first glimpse at the mindset behind One Stupid Thing I've Done Lately:
2:41AM: Boy it sucks trying to strip all the line off this fishing reel by hand. Plus, its 3AM and I want to go watch Eastbound and Down.
2:43AM: I wonder if I can just light this stuff on fire, then put it out real' quick before it burns the reel?
2:43:15AM: I better not do that.
2:44AM: If only I had a device that spins real' fast that I could tie the tag end of this line to, and just open the bail and strip all the line off! That would be the ticket.
2:44AM: (eyes scan room. see table saw): HEY! A TABLESAW! THATS A SPINNY THING!!
2:44:15AM: No I better not do that. I'm scared of the tablesaw already. The last thing I want to do is somehow tie something long and pointy to it and start it. Although, now that I've formulated that idea - I'm intrigued.
2:45AM: (still peeling line off reel). Boy does this SUCK. I wonder if Fred is up getting his gear together too?
2:46AM: (speaker phone dialing). Answering machine from Fred. Fred is asleep. No one in the world is up playing with fishing rods, except for me.
2:47AM: I wonder if Tyler is up. No, I already know she's been in bed since 7:59PM.
2:49AM: (eyes scan room. see power drill). I HAVE IT!!! I'll tie the tag end of this old fishing line to a wooden dowel and chuck it in my power drill, then put it on "high!"!!!
2:50AM: (drill spinning, line peeling off reel). I am a genius.
2:51AM: This is still taking a long time. I wonder if I can help it by snatching on the line a bit.
2:51:15AM: Help.
So, I managed to get my hand caught in the drill-end of the fishing line and before you could say skiddley-doo - I've got 10lb monofilament burying itself in my wrist skin until the drill stalls.
Boy did that hurt.
Then I had to to cut it out of my wrist skin with a rusty razor blade I found on my workbench - which also hurt. So, to recap: it hurt, then to fix it - it hurt more.
Then I went to bed.
Wednesday, September 08, 2010
FootLoose
I’ve noticed a fairly disturbing trend in the workplace lately: Shoe Removal. I constantly see women at work sitting at their desks entirely barefoot, playing with their toes.
Barefoot in the workplace – are you kidding me? And I have to keep my pants on ALL DAY!? It’s completely unfair.
No matter how you slice it - toes are appendages; and everybody knows - you're not supposed to expose otherwise-covered appendages to your co-workers. Plus, it's unsanitary. Can you imagine the sort of deadly, mutated, recombinant athlete's foot disease that could develop if we all went barefoot at work? It would probably kick off a modern-day Bubonic Plague.
Ostensibly it’s fine for women to take their shoes off because, generally, their shoes are miserably uncomfortable. At least – that’s the theory.
Well, you know what? My shoes aren’t really that comfortable either. Sorry ladies, but you don’t have the market cornered in uncomfortable footwear. Leather hard-bottomed loafers aren’t exactly the cat’s meow when it comes to bathing your feet in luxury, but can I snake my feet out of my socks and sit here, barefoot, at my desk rooting around in my toe crevices with a paperclip?
Not without eventually getting fired.
It’s yet another area in which women have the upper-hand in life. They’re smarter. They do better in school. Contrary to to popular belief they actually get paid better (http://www.forbes.com/2006/05/12/women-wage-gap-cx_wf_0512earningmore.html). They keep jobs longer and respond better to authority in the workplace. They even have higher pain tolerances and to add insult to injury: they live longer!
They actually LIVE LONGER!! Even nature hates men! Look at the facts! Being a man is no easy shakes. It’s tough to be stupid, broke, on the cusp of unemployment and always about to die, but you know what we have going for us?
Impregnation.
They want kids and as far as I can tell - we don’t. Sure, we may go along with it; but I've never seen a man turn to his buddy at the campfire and say "you know Andy, I have this deep, powerful ache inside me for a new little baby and I just can't shake it."
Impregnation is nature’s ultimate bargaining chip.
I’m making my list of to-do’s now, and when they’re all wrapped up we’ll talk kids. But only boys!
The last thing I need is one more person outliving me.
www.jimmyewing.blogspot.com
Barefoot in the workplace – are you kidding me? And I have to keep my pants on ALL DAY!? It’s completely unfair.
No matter how you slice it - toes are appendages; and everybody knows - you're not supposed to expose otherwise-covered appendages to your co-workers. Plus, it's unsanitary. Can you imagine the sort of deadly, mutated, recombinant athlete's foot disease that could develop if we all went barefoot at work? It would probably kick off a modern-day Bubonic Plague.
Ostensibly it’s fine for women to take their shoes off because, generally, their shoes are miserably uncomfortable. At least – that’s the theory.
Well, you know what? My shoes aren’t really that comfortable either. Sorry ladies, but you don’t have the market cornered in uncomfortable footwear. Leather hard-bottomed loafers aren’t exactly the cat’s meow when it comes to bathing your feet in luxury, but can I snake my feet out of my socks and sit here, barefoot, at my desk rooting around in my toe crevices with a paperclip?
Not without eventually getting fired.
It’s yet another area in which women have the upper-hand in life. They’re smarter. They do better in school. Contrary to to popular belief they actually get paid better (http://www.forbes.com/2006/05/12/women-wage-gap-cx_wf_0512earningmore.html). They keep jobs longer and respond better to authority in the workplace. They even have higher pain tolerances and to add insult to injury: they live longer!
They actually LIVE LONGER!! Even nature hates men! Look at the facts! Being a man is no easy shakes. It’s tough to be stupid, broke, on the cusp of unemployment and always about to die, but you know what we have going for us?
Impregnation.
They want kids and as far as I can tell - we don’t. Sure, we may go along with it; but I've never seen a man turn to his buddy at the campfire and say "you know Andy, I have this deep, powerful ache inside me for a new little baby and I just can't shake it."
Impregnation is nature’s ultimate bargaining chip.
I’m making my list of to-do’s now, and when they’re all wrapped up we’ll talk kids. But only boys!
The last thing I need is one more person outliving me.
www.jimmyewing.blogspot.com
Tuesday, September 07, 2010
Paddle Faster, We're Out of Moonshine
“Hey man, we’ve got a little bit of a problem” Charlton M. Bouchemeyer said from the knee-deep water of the slowly-turning eddy current.
He had an entire deadfall oak snag draped over his shoulders and a paddle in one hand, so I was terribly intrigued.
“What kind of a problem” I said, eyeballing the massive limb. “The kind of a problem where I have to duct-tape a 12-stich-needing gash in your chin back together again? That kind of a problem?”
“No, idiot – and that wasn’t my fault, you know that” he said, shrugging the massive, rotten limb off onto the sandbar I stood upon and reaching into his back pocket for a silver flask.
"There's some more firewood" he said as the rotten log began to crumble from its impact with the ground.
“I got ants all over me” he continued taking a long pull of his signature beverage, “Apple Pie Moonshine” and shivering slightly.
“So what. Everybody’s got ants all over them. What’s the big deal? You’re not seriously allergic to ant bites or something are you? Wimp."
CB squirmed uncomfortably, and said “Jimmy, I’ve got 40 fire ants between my knees and navel right now and I think I feel more in my hair. I’m A L L E R G I C and I don’t have any Benadryl or an epi-pen.”
“CB, if you have a serious insect allergy and you came on a South Georgia river trip with no epi-pen, then I’m face to face with natural selection and its taking sides against you.”
“CB– I got Benadryl!” George piped up from the fireside where he had been preparing hotdogs for dinner (extra sand, light pine bark, hold the bun), “Well. Not Benadryl exactly. Will Tylenol PM work?”
CB, relieved, accepted the proffered pills from George and said “You reckon it’d hurt me to take ‘em with moonshine?” “Nah!” everyone said; except Fred who said “mmppppmmmm!” with an emphatic shimmy, indicating his assent from a position face-down in the sand.
The two Tylenol PM seemed to calm CB down, or at least he didn’t say much more about it, so I figured all was well.
General revelry continued.
We polished off the remaining fruit roll-ups and beef jerky, then James produced a box of Triscuits and Bud dug a summer sausage out of his kit and we started in on appetizers.
Someone set Fred’s radio on fire and someone else got cheeky and burned up the 2lb bag of M&M’s, loudly proclaiming that “Candy Is For Girls.”
Hank pulled himself out of the fruit jar and offered to fight anyone interested, but had no takers.
James, the only one to erect a tent, began snoring from inside it. Judson pulled all his tent poles so it collapsed over him like a giant sack. He did not stir.
George and I had another hot dog.
A short while later I caught a glimpse of Charlton M. Bouchemeyer, East Tennessee River Rat, silhouetted against the fire; lower lip and eyelids bulging and swollen, face growing puffy and red.
“CB. You’re getting all swollen up!” I said drawing the attention of 8 sets of bloodshot eyes to his rapidly-deforming features. “Are you ok?”
“Nah. Not really.” He said.
“I really itch. Bad. Especially my eyelids and face and body and head. I think it’s about to get serious, but I think I’ll probably be ok because I got more moonshine and I just took those Bendadryl.”
“It’ll buff out” mumbled Judson.
When we awoke in the morning we were all relieved to find that CB wasn’t dead, and could only surmise that his fire ant allergy is not actually that serious.
We continued downriver the next day, having gone through nearly all our supplies and soaked all of our dry clothing; ultimately taking the canoes out another 12 miles downriver. We retired to the deer camp and proceeded to recover from our overnight float trip; then followed it up with a traditional southern dove hunt the next day. It was James Galloway, future brother-in-law,’s first shotgun experience.
Afterwards, having done quite well on the field of battle, James approached me and said “you know Jimmy, most people would look at me and see my appearance, physique, eyeglasses, bearing, and demeanor and, they wouldn't realize it; but I am quite the athlete. I may be a bit of an inside dog, but I have great hand-eye co-ordination."
"See!?”
He stood, borrowed 12-gauge shotgun in hand, gleam in his eye, and proudly held aloft two small gray birds."
“I did it!” he crowed, triumphantly.
All things considered: it was a good way to go out.
Adios single life, you’ve been good to me.
www.jimmyewing.blogspot.com
He had an entire deadfall oak snag draped over his shoulders and a paddle in one hand, so I was terribly intrigued.
“What kind of a problem” I said, eyeballing the massive limb. “The kind of a problem where I have to duct-tape a 12-stich-needing gash in your chin back together again? That kind of a problem?”
“No, idiot – and that wasn’t my fault, you know that” he said, shrugging the massive, rotten limb off onto the sandbar I stood upon and reaching into his back pocket for a silver flask.
"There's some more firewood" he said as the rotten log began to crumble from its impact with the ground.
“I got ants all over me” he continued taking a long pull of his signature beverage, “Apple Pie Moonshine” and shivering slightly.
“So what. Everybody’s got ants all over them. What’s the big deal? You’re not seriously allergic to ant bites or something are you? Wimp."
CB squirmed uncomfortably, and said “Jimmy, I’ve got 40 fire ants between my knees and navel right now and I think I feel more in my hair. I’m A L L E R G I C and I don’t have any Benadryl or an epi-pen.”
“CB, if you have a serious insect allergy and you came on a South Georgia river trip with no epi-pen, then I’m face to face with natural selection and its taking sides against you.”
“CB– I got Benadryl!” George piped up from the fireside where he had been preparing hotdogs for dinner (extra sand, light pine bark, hold the bun), “Well. Not Benadryl exactly. Will Tylenol PM work?”
CB, relieved, accepted the proffered pills from George and said “You reckon it’d hurt me to take ‘em with moonshine?” “Nah!” everyone said; except Fred who said “mmppppmmmm!” with an emphatic shimmy, indicating his assent from a position face-down in the sand.
The two Tylenol PM seemed to calm CB down, or at least he didn’t say much more about it, so I figured all was well.
General revelry continued.
We polished off the remaining fruit roll-ups and beef jerky, then James produced a box of Triscuits and Bud dug a summer sausage out of his kit and we started in on appetizers.
Someone set Fred’s radio on fire and someone else got cheeky and burned up the 2lb bag of M&M’s, loudly proclaiming that “Candy Is For Girls.”
Hank pulled himself out of the fruit jar and offered to fight anyone interested, but had no takers.
James, the only one to erect a tent, began snoring from inside it. Judson pulled all his tent poles so it collapsed over him like a giant sack. He did not stir.
George and I had another hot dog.
A short while later I caught a glimpse of Charlton M. Bouchemeyer, East Tennessee River Rat, silhouetted against the fire; lower lip and eyelids bulging and swollen, face growing puffy and red.
“CB. You’re getting all swollen up!” I said drawing the attention of 8 sets of bloodshot eyes to his rapidly-deforming features. “Are you ok?”
“Nah. Not really.” He said.
“I really itch. Bad. Especially my eyelids and face and body and head. I think it’s about to get serious, but I think I’ll probably be ok because I got more moonshine and I just took those Bendadryl.”
“It’ll buff out” mumbled Judson.
When we awoke in the morning we were all relieved to find that CB wasn’t dead, and could only surmise that his fire ant allergy is not actually that serious.
We continued downriver the next day, having gone through nearly all our supplies and soaked all of our dry clothing; ultimately taking the canoes out another 12 miles downriver. We retired to the deer camp and proceeded to recover from our overnight float trip; then followed it up with a traditional southern dove hunt the next day. It was James Galloway, future brother-in-law,’s first shotgun experience.
Afterwards, having done quite well on the field of battle, James approached me and said “you know Jimmy, most people would look at me and see my appearance, physique, eyeglasses, bearing, and demeanor and, they wouldn't realize it; but I am quite the athlete. I may be a bit of an inside dog, but I have great hand-eye co-ordination."
"See!?”
He stood, borrowed 12-gauge shotgun in hand, gleam in his eye, and proudly held aloft two small gray birds."
“I did it!” he crowed, triumphantly.
All things considered: it was a good way to go out.
Adios single life, you’ve been good to me.
www.jimmyewing.blogspot.com
Friday, September 03, 2010
Beauty Is In The Eye of The BeerHolder
Tyler and I have been postulating about our future children(s)’ appearances and we decided they’re probably going to look like glorious cherubs, then coast through life floating on a fine mist of adoration and love from everyone they meet.
I’m nearly certain of it.
That, or they’ll have my profusion of pelt-like body hair, Tyler’s webbed toes, a cloud will pass in front of the sun and the nurses will run out weeping when they’re born. Right now I'd say it's a 50/50.
What I want to know is: if you have ugly kids (you're not fooling me - I know some of your kids and they’re pretty rough and gangly) – do you know it? I know your kids are ugly, but do you? I'm not so sure you do because people keep telling me: "All babies are precious and beautiful" and it's got to be one of the most fabulous lies I've ever heard.
In case you're wondering - your baby? It looks wrinkly and weird and I do not want to hold it. I've seen cuter Anacondas.
Are parents incapacitated by their parental nature?
Lets face it - to get ugly people you have to have ugly kids. It has to be done. Somebody has to take one for the gene-pool-team, so to speak, or everybody would be Cindy Crawford. We can't have that, can we? If everyone were Cindy Crawford we'd never get to experience the miracle of two horrendously-eccentric-looking people producing a future supermodel - and that's one of my favorite things.
Is there anybody with unfortunate-looking progeny out there? Do any of you look at your kids every now and then and just cringe? You must, or headgear would never have been invented. Think about it: you paid to have a metal bar strapped to your kids face; sometimes in public, and for YEARS! And to top it off - it hurts!!
If that's "love" I want a daily thrashing.
Lets hear it - I want to know before I have kids: Is there magic that makes me not know what my kids look like? I want that magic and I want it fast because I’m not getting progressively deeper as I age - that's been confirmed.
I had a (very beautiful) friend in college who used to say she didn’t want to have kids since she'd be unable to tell what they'd look like beforehand. She was afraid she couldn’t love a fat kid.
That’s a quote and yes, I'm fairly certain she'll go to hell when she dies.
She has kids now, interestingly enough - and they are not fat, but they are so damn ugly it makes my teeth hurt. Fortunately for them: she seems to love them just fine, or if not "love" - at least she hasn't sent them downriver in a bullrush basket. Not yet anyway. So, it must be love. Either that, or she’s faking it - and it's tough to fake love. I should know; I had a girlfriend who did it for years.
Ignored Warning Sign: she always smells like her ex-boyfriend.
So what’s the deal? Do you really think your chubby, pimply, little sausage-fingered Oreo-stuffers are beautiful, REALLY? Or are you secretly horrified by the fruit of your loins?
Any comments posted by my Dad will be immediately deleted, so don’t even think about it.
I’m nearly certain of it.
That, or they’ll have my profusion of pelt-like body hair, Tyler’s webbed toes, a cloud will pass in front of the sun and the nurses will run out weeping when they’re born. Right now I'd say it's a 50/50.
What I want to know is: if you have ugly kids (you're not fooling me - I know some of your kids and they’re pretty rough and gangly) – do you know it? I know your kids are ugly, but do you? I'm not so sure you do because people keep telling me: "All babies are precious and beautiful" and it's got to be one of the most fabulous lies I've ever heard.
In case you're wondering - your baby? It looks wrinkly and weird and I do not want to hold it. I've seen cuter Anacondas.
Are parents incapacitated by their parental nature?
Lets face it - to get ugly people you have to have ugly kids. It has to be done. Somebody has to take one for the gene-pool-team, so to speak, or everybody would be Cindy Crawford. We can't have that, can we? If everyone were Cindy Crawford we'd never get to experience the miracle of two horrendously-eccentric-looking people producing a future supermodel - and that's one of my favorite things.
Is there anybody with unfortunate-looking progeny out there? Do any of you look at your kids every now and then and just cringe? You must, or headgear would never have been invented. Think about it: you paid to have a metal bar strapped to your kids face; sometimes in public, and for YEARS! And to top it off - it hurts!!
If that's "love" I want a daily thrashing.
Lets hear it - I want to know before I have kids: Is there magic that makes me not know what my kids look like? I want that magic and I want it fast because I’m not getting progressively deeper as I age - that's been confirmed.
I had a (very beautiful) friend in college who used to say she didn’t want to have kids since she'd be unable to tell what they'd look like beforehand. She was afraid she couldn’t love a fat kid.
That’s a quote and yes, I'm fairly certain she'll go to hell when she dies.
She has kids now, interestingly enough - and they are not fat, but they are so damn ugly it makes my teeth hurt. Fortunately for them: she seems to love them just fine, or if not "love" - at least she hasn't sent them downriver in a bullrush basket. Not yet anyway. So, it must be love. Either that, or she’s faking it - and it's tough to fake love. I should know; I had a girlfriend who did it for years.
Ignored Warning Sign: she always smells like her ex-boyfriend.
So what’s the deal? Do you really think your chubby, pimply, little sausage-fingered Oreo-stuffers are beautiful, REALLY? Or are you secretly horrified by the fruit of your loins?
Any comments posted by my Dad will be immediately deleted, so don’t even think about it.
Wednesday, September 01, 2010
Merging
As part of our pre-marital merger activities we've been figuring out where we have duplicative expenses and whatnot. It's actually pretty complicated because apparently certain parties have an unusual emotional attachment to their particular banking relationship. Other items of interest are things like memberships and associations.
Me: Do you have AAA for your car? If not I can add you to my account.
Tyler: No, I've always had D AAA D, so I've never needed it.
Me: Do you have AAA for your car? If not I can add you to my account.
Tyler: No, I've always had D AAA D, so I've never needed it.
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