Posts
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
Monday, September 13, 2010
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.
Stalking The Halls
As I'm sure you've noticed I have a number of work-related issues. Most seem to be centered around the dehumanizing public bathroom experience (I see stalls. What is this, a dairy?); but there is more. Quite alot more, actually.
The biggest seed in my watermelon lately is this: The Hallway Encounter. It's messed up.
First of all: just because cars in America travel on the right-hand side of the road; it doesn't mean you are limited to the right side of every space you occupy. Pick a hallway-side and walk down it. Left. Right. I don't care, but if one more lump of human jello plays Hallway-Chicken with me over right-of-way - I'm going to end up on the news. SO WHAT?!?!? I SOMETIMES LIKE TO WALK ON THE LEFT. COPE WITH IT.
Anyway, I PREFER to walk down the left side because everytime somebody has to scurry out of my way - it asserts my dominance. Thats right! You BETTER move! In my mind I'm always in Africa, I'm always a lion, and I'm always hungry.
In my mind I'm surrounded by this:
Unfortunately, reality looks more like this:
This is what I'm reduced to.
Good friend Hank Farmer may have said it best last weekend when he ordered two beverages (called a "BearFight"), handed one to me, then promptly turned around and chugged his. I was still standing there holding a drink when he turned back around, eyes watering, and said "What are you doing?"
Me: Sorry. I didn't realize this was a race.
Hank: Jimmy, we're men. Everything is a race.
If you're a man and you can't identify a situation in life right now wherein you're locked in combat - it's probably because you already lost.
Secondly, even jellyfish at least flap their tentacles at each other when they come into hallway-close contact. Can't you figure out a comfortable way to acknowledge that someone else is breathing your air without blabbing incoherently or running off?
Personally, I go with strong eye contact and the tight-lipped smile. It's not a grimace. It's not quite a snarl. It's the hallway man-encounter-equivalent of this:
Its mostly inscrutable, but it does convey something. It says "I know you're over there and I'm watching you carefully."
For all you runner-offers this may help. Here's what I've observed from my 10 years of corporate hallway experience:
There is no escape.
The biggest seed in my watermelon lately is this: The Hallway Encounter. It's messed up.
First of all: just because cars in America travel on the right-hand side of the road; it doesn't mean you are limited to the right side of every space you occupy. Pick a hallway-side and walk down it. Left. Right. I don't care, but if one more lump of human jello plays Hallway-Chicken with me over right-of-way - I'm going to end up on the news. SO WHAT?!?!? I SOMETIMES LIKE TO WALK ON THE LEFT. COPE WITH IT.
Anyway, I PREFER to walk down the left side because everytime somebody has to scurry out of my way - it asserts my dominance. Thats right! You BETTER move! In my mind I'm always in Africa, I'm always a lion, and I'm always hungry.
In my mind I'm surrounded by this:
Unfortunately, reality looks more like this:
This is what I'm reduced to.
Good friend Hank Farmer may have said it best last weekend when he ordered two beverages (called a "BearFight"), handed one to me, then promptly turned around and chugged his. I was still standing there holding a drink when he turned back around, eyes watering, and said "What are you doing?"
Me: Sorry. I didn't realize this was a race.
Hank: Jimmy, we're men. Everything is a race.
If you're a man and you can't identify a situation in life right now wherein you're locked in combat - it's probably because you already lost.
Secondly, even jellyfish at least flap their tentacles at each other when they come into hallway-close contact. Can't you figure out a comfortable way to acknowledge that someone else is breathing your air without blabbing incoherently or running off?
Personally, I go with strong eye contact and the tight-lipped smile. It's not a grimace. It's not quite a snarl. It's the hallway man-encounter-equivalent of this:
Its mostly inscrutable, but it does convey something. It says "I know you're over there and I'm watching you carefully."
For all you runner-offers this may help. Here's what I've observed from my 10 years of corporate hallway experience:
There is no escape.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Here's Your Hammer
Me: What should I get my groomsmen? I can't think of anything. I have a zillion great ideas, but they're all about $2,000.
Tyler: I dunno. I thought you had a few good ideas in that list you sent me.
Me: I couldn't really decide on any of those so I threw them all out. Got any ideas?
Tyler: How about a hammer?
Me: A Hammer.
Tyler: Right. A Hammer. You know. Bang bang. Hammer.
Me: Right. I got it. I just don't know what to say.
Tyler: What? Its useful! Your stupid ideas weren't any better! Everybody needs a hammer! Get it engraved!
Me: So your idea for a groomsman gift is an engraved hammer.
Tyler: Thats right, Bucko.
Tyler: I dunno. I thought you had a few good ideas in that list you sent me.
Me: I couldn't really decide on any of those so I threw them all out. Got any ideas?
Tyler: How about a hammer?
Me: A Hammer.
Tyler: Right. A Hammer. You know. Bang bang. Hammer.
Me: Right. I got it. I just don't know what to say.
Tyler: What? Its useful! Your stupid ideas weren't any better! Everybody needs a hammer! Get it engraved!
Me: So your idea for a groomsman gift is an engraved hammer.
Tyler: Thats right, Bucko.
Sucking In
My family apparently stays current with my little writing efforts because last weekend I was terribly pleased to receive a real, live, Stihl 250 chainsaw as an engagement gift.
Looks like I may be able to make this "marriage" thing work for me after all!
I've been lobbying hard for tools and various armament as a "wedding gift" from my beautiful bride for months. I haven't seen a new firearm poking out from beneath the engagement tree yet, but it ain't over.
Also, thanks so much to my cousin Sarah for pointing out mid-present-opening-ceremony on Saturday that my middle shirt button had come unbuttoned, then suggesting, loudly, that I should "suck in."
Sarah: I know you planned it so your husband Marlin couldn't come to my bachelor party, but I've changed my bachelor party plans and I'm coming to your incredibly fun, almost-too-tempting-to-turn-down, baby christening this weekend after all.....
Naked.
www.jimmyewing.blogspot.com
Looks like I may be able to make this "marriage" thing work for me after all!
I've been lobbying hard for tools and various armament as a "wedding gift" from my beautiful bride for months. I haven't seen a new firearm poking out from beneath the engagement tree yet, but it ain't over.
Also, thanks so much to my cousin Sarah for pointing out mid-present-opening-ceremony on Saturday that my middle shirt button had come unbuttoned, then suggesting, loudly, that I should "suck in."
Sarah: I know you planned it so your husband Marlin couldn't come to my bachelor party, but I've changed my bachelor party plans and I'm coming to your incredibly fun, almost-too-tempting-to-turn-down, baby christening this weekend after all.....
Naked.
www.jimmyewing.blogspot.com
Keep Your Hands to Yourself
During a recent tour of a nearby eatery I noticed no less than four (4) loudly-posted handwashing signs proudly displayed throughout the establishment. And you know what? I’m glad.
I’m happy for you guys to wash your hands after the bathroom, before the kitchen, between customers – whenever. The more handwashing you do – the happier I get, but you know what I noticed? Everybody is all sorts of fired up about service industry handwashing post-lavatory. What concerns me is: I thought that was a given. Of COURSE you wash your hands after leaving a restroom and before you go back to a public-service kitchen.
Of COURSE you do that.
All these signs everywhere makes me think that for some people – maybe not. Maybe they’re not sure. Maybe they get confused – “Is this where I go to WASH my hands, or is this where I go to touch every damp, nasty thing in sight; then go make somebody a sandwich?”
We should take pairs of these folks, superglue their unwashed hands to each other’s faces and let them fend for themselves in bear country until it wears off.
The other thing I think about every time I see these signs is: OF COURSE you should wash your hands after a questionable activity of any kind; but I’m not that worried about that for me, personally.
Like my paternal Grandfather - I’m naturally antiseptic.
What confuses me a bit is - what are people most concerned about - somehow infecting other people with their filthy bodies? Or do you wash your hands to protect yourself from other people? Are you worried that you'll somehow spread your own germs around on your own body? Really?
What exactly are you doing in there anyway?
If you're afraid of what's living in your own pants you really do have a problem, but if you're concerned about keeping your nether regions pristine - I'd think you'd want to wash your hands BEFORE you enter the water closet, then just scurry out on your elbows.
I'm genuinely unconcerned about sullying my hands from a mid-day brush against an otherwise zippered region of my own body. That is a man’s cleanest, most treasured, best-cared-for region and chances are good he’s kept an extremely close watch on that area's daily whereabouts.
I don't know about you, but I'm going to wash up first, then walk in dangling my hands in the air like a surgeon. It ain’t my hands I’m concerned about.
As far as general handwashing goes: of all the fabulous activities in the world that could endanger a man’s paler portions; I’m going to be furious if its a simple handshake that sends me, itching, to the doctor with some kind of fungus.
So, wash up folks; but let's not shake hands anyway - just to be sure.
www.jimmyewing.blogspot.com
I’m happy for you guys to wash your hands after the bathroom, before the kitchen, between customers – whenever. The more handwashing you do – the happier I get, but you know what I noticed? Everybody is all sorts of fired up about service industry handwashing post-lavatory. What concerns me is: I thought that was a given. Of COURSE you wash your hands after leaving a restroom and before you go back to a public-service kitchen.
Of COURSE you do that.
All these signs everywhere makes me think that for some people – maybe not. Maybe they’re not sure. Maybe they get confused – “Is this where I go to WASH my hands, or is this where I go to touch every damp, nasty thing in sight; then go make somebody a sandwich?”
We should take pairs of these folks, superglue their unwashed hands to each other’s faces and let them fend for themselves in bear country until it wears off.
The other thing I think about every time I see these signs is: OF COURSE you should wash your hands after a questionable activity of any kind; but I’m not that worried about that for me, personally.
Like my paternal Grandfather - I’m naturally antiseptic.
What confuses me a bit is - what are people most concerned about - somehow infecting other people with their filthy bodies? Or do you wash your hands to protect yourself from other people? Are you worried that you'll somehow spread your own germs around on your own body? Really?
What exactly are you doing in there anyway?
If you're afraid of what's living in your own pants you really do have a problem, but if you're concerned about keeping your nether regions pristine - I'd think you'd want to wash your hands BEFORE you enter the water closet, then just scurry out on your elbows.
I'm genuinely unconcerned about sullying my hands from a mid-day brush against an otherwise zippered region of my own body. That is a man’s cleanest, most treasured, best-cared-for region and chances are good he’s kept an extremely close watch on that area's daily whereabouts.
I don't know about you, but I'm going to wash up first, then walk in dangling my hands in the air like a surgeon. It ain’t my hands I’m concerned about.
As far as general handwashing goes: of all the fabulous activities in the world that could endanger a man’s paler portions; I’m going to be furious if its a simple handshake that sends me, itching, to the doctor with some kind of fungus.
So, wash up folks; but let's not shake hands anyway - just to be sure.
www.jimmyewing.blogspot.com
Monday, August 30, 2010
Get Down Party Wagon
During the after-party of yet another Summer wedding; I happened upon the youngest sister of the bride very studiously attempting to paint some appropriate language on the windows of the getaway car.
She, bless her virtuous, kind, sweet-spirited, 18-yr-old heart had chosen lovely "Just Married" type themes for most of the decorations. It did me some good to know that godly innocence is still afoot in this wicked world. Maybe that is why she seemed completely dumbfounded when I suggested "PENIS!!!" in large block print as a good bride-side-window alternative to the somewhat unimaginative "JUST MARRIED".
She also refused to hand over the paint, then refused to discuss the possibility of anything even the slightest bit dirty including such classic phrases as "Nekkid Dance Party", "Get Down Party Wagon" and "Honk If You Love Married Sex".
What is wrong with kids these days?
If you're going to send a wholesome, Christian, couple off into wedded union; I'm pretty sure the rule is you MUST include as many sexual or otherwise off-color references in very readable script as will fit on the automotive canvas.
Am I wrong about that?
I hope not because if so; I have recently suffered the wholly-inappropriate indignity of driving an airport getaway car (alone) from Florida to Atlanta that had been completely covered with large graphic representations of the male member (http://jimmyewing.blogspot.com/2008/05/artistic-expression.html).
Lets face it - if you're a conservative-type living in the South, you're watching the married couple drive off and thinking "They're not fooling anyone - I know what they're up to!", but it's such a relief to see it spelled out properly in white shoe polish. That way you dont have to wonder, guiltily, if you're the only one who knows the awful truth.
So please - take a break from polishing your Buster Browns and decorate away! It's ok! It's the one time in your life you'll get to embarass your grandmother without getting in too much trouble.
Just don't do it to my car.
She, bless her virtuous, kind, sweet-spirited, 18-yr-old heart had chosen lovely "Just Married" type themes for most of the decorations. It did me some good to know that godly innocence is still afoot in this wicked world. Maybe that is why she seemed completely dumbfounded when I suggested "PENIS!!!" in large block print as a good bride-side-window alternative to the somewhat unimaginative "JUST MARRIED".
She also refused to hand over the paint, then refused to discuss the possibility of anything even the slightest bit dirty including such classic phrases as "Nekkid Dance Party", "Get Down Party Wagon" and "Honk If You Love Married Sex".
What is wrong with kids these days?
If you're going to send a wholesome, Christian, couple off into wedded union; I'm pretty sure the rule is you MUST include as many sexual or otherwise off-color references in very readable script as will fit on the automotive canvas.
Am I wrong about that?
I hope not because if so; I have recently suffered the wholly-inappropriate indignity of driving an airport getaway car (alone) from Florida to Atlanta that had been completely covered with large graphic representations of the male member (http://jimmyewing.blogspot.com/2008/05/artistic-expression.html).
Lets face it - if you're a conservative-type living in the South, you're watching the married couple drive off and thinking "They're not fooling anyone - I know what they're up to!", but it's such a relief to see it spelled out properly in white shoe polish. That way you dont have to wonder, guiltily, if you're the only one who knows the awful truth.
So please - take a break from polishing your Buster Browns and decorate away! It's ok! It's the one time in your life you'll get to embarass your grandmother without getting in too much trouble.
Just don't do it to my car.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
A RingBearer Is Down
If you plan to utilize the services of a bagpiper in your wedding – I think you owe it to the crowd to prompt with a bit of warning; maybe even provide earplugs for the elderly or otherwise un-Scottish.
A sudden bagpiping can be extremely dangerous.
Don't get me wrong - I am definitely in favor of any instrument historically made from animal guts, but let's face it: nobody is really Scottish anymore, are they? Is Scotland still around? I feel like I don't hear much from over there.
Ireland - sure, they're still around and they're still hopping mad about something to do with religion, but not Scotland. When I think of Scotland I think of a 1973 Volkswagon Beetle with one of those weird European license plates on it and a bumper sticker that says "It's always tea time in Scotland!" There's a big hairy bagpiper behind the wheel and all he's pissed at is Ireland for not taking it easy.
A Bagpiper is like a cannon - if you're standing near one you definitely want to know when it's going to go off. I know when an ambitious bagpiper began soundly abusing his instrument 4 yards behind me at a wedding this Saturday – I was completely unprepared.
His first sonorous blast caught me full in the chest – knocking the program clean out of my hands and popping a brass button off my blazer ("I told you that button was loose" said an arched eyebrow, smugly, from my left). The Great British caterwauling that followed and my subsequent twitching sent Tyler’s left elbow firmly into my ribs – a move I've been told is intended to "comfort" and "soothe" me. “QUIT SQUIRMING” she hissed. “I CAN’T TAKE YOU ANYWHERE.”
“Oooomph” I exhaled in assent.
Our hushed discourse completed, the now red-faced gentleman lately stomping around the back of the church left off punishing his bag - just in time to save my last remaining brass button, but not quickly enough to salvage my ribs.
I will grant you this though: a bagpipe may indeed produce a lovely, haunting sound. Dad said if you hear it played over a Scottish moor at sundown – it will make the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.
I definitely believe him about the hairs on your neck because this guy Saturday made the hairs on my chest fairly bristle in fear every time he roared.
Aggressive bagpiping aside, the wedding, mother of the bride, and bride herself were all quite lovely and everything seemed to be in order. Then, about 8 minutes into the ceremony - after
- massive bagpipery
- the tolling of the hour
- the entrance of the wedding party
- the entrance of the bride
- two hymns
- several piano solos
- a violin solo
and
- a word from the father-of-the bride
but before
- the unity candles
- the 4 individual readings
- the bride and groom duet (yup, you heard me)
- the homily
- the exchanging of rings
and
- the processional
(they are quite firmly married from every angle – no doubt about it); the second of the ring-bearers - a dapper young man of about 7 - leaned calmly over mid-stage and quietly puked his ass off right square at the foot of the unity candles.
This was no stifled gag either - it was serious and deep. I saw a tennis shoe come flying out of this kid.
Nobody moved.
Then, everyone (bride, groom, wedding party, preacher, attendants, witnesses, Esau, Isaac and Jacob), just one time - in unison - violently squirmed.
Then: crickets.
For a brief second I thought it hadn’t happened. I remained in a state of disbelief and self-doubt until one of the more alert groomsmen lifted the offending puker bodily off the stage and deposited him behind the organ to heave and lurch in peace. I looked around and the entire crowd was staring straight ahead at the preacher as if nothing was at all amiss.
Except for the sniffles emanating from underneath the organ - you might not have known anything had happened at all.
My squirming and general gawking-about immediately precipitated the rapid return of The Elbow of Silence, but not before I was able to confirm with Will Gaither, Brother-in-Law, that the kid had indeed made a deposit onstage. Ladies and gentlemen – it happened, I saw it, and it has been confirmed.
Naturally, the tiny over-eater had aimed his outburst with the calm, unerring, vomitous precision of a public school cafeteria frequenter; giving the bride the option of:
1. Omitting the Unity Candle step and damning her union for all eternity.
OR:
2. Dragging her train through the chunky puddle.
I consider myself a practiced evaluator of a female set jaw and I could see by the Bride's that no power on earth would keep her from the lighting of that Unity Candle.
By God, she did it; but it wasn’t pretty.
My congratulations to the Groom: she might not walk through fire for you buddy, but we know one thing that won't stop her.
www.jimmyewing.blogspot.com
A sudden bagpiping can be extremely dangerous.
Don't get me wrong - I am definitely in favor of any instrument historically made from animal guts, but let's face it: nobody is really Scottish anymore, are they? Is Scotland still around? I feel like I don't hear much from over there.
Ireland - sure, they're still around and they're still hopping mad about something to do with religion, but not Scotland. When I think of Scotland I think of a 1973 Volkswagon Beetle with one of those weird European license plates on it and a bumper sticker that says "It's always tea time in Scotland!" There's a big hairy bagpiper behind the wheel and all he's pissed at is Ireland for not taking it easy.
A Bagpiper is like a cannon - if you're standing near one you definitely want to know when it's going to go off. I know when an ambitious bagpiper began soundly abusing his instrument 4 yards behind me at a wedding this Saturday – I was completely unprepared.
His first sonorous blast caught me full in the chest – knocking the program clean out of my hands and popping a brass button off my blazer ("I told you that button was loose" said an arched eyebrow, smugly, from my left). The Great British caterwauling that followed and my subsequent twitching sent Tyler’s left elbow firmly into my ribs – a move I've been told is intended to "comfort" and "soothe" me. “QUIT SQUIRMING” she hissed. “I CAN’T TAKE YOU ANYWHERE.”
“Oooomph” I exhaled in assent.
Our hushed discourse completed, the now red-faced gentleman lately stomping around the back of the church left off punishing his bag - just in time to save my last remaining brass button, but not quickly enough to salvage my ribs.
I will grant you this though: a bagpipe may indeed produce a lovely, haunting sound. Dad said if you hear it played over a Scottish moor at sundown – it will make the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.
I definitely believe him about the hairs on your neck because this guy Saturday made the hairs on my chest fairly bristle in fear every time he roared.
Aggressive bagpiping aside, the wedding, mother of the bride, and bride herself were all quite lovely and everything seemed to be in order. Then, about 8 minutes into the ceremony - after
- massive bagpipery
- the tolling of the hour
- the entrance of the wedding party
- the entrance of the bride
- two hymns
- several piano solos
- a violin solo
and
- a word from the father-of-the bride
but before
- the unity candles
- the 4 individual readings
- the bride and groom duet (yup, you heard me)
- the homily
- the exchanging of rings
and
- the processional
(they are quite firmly married from every angle – no doubt about it); the second of the ring-bearers - a dapper young man of about 7 - leaned calmly over mid-stage and quietly puked his ass off right square at the foot of the unity candles.
This was no stifled gag either - it was serious and deep. I saw a tennis shoe come flying out of this kid.
Nobody moved.
Then, everyone (bride, groom, wedding party, preacher, attendants, witnesses, Esau, Isaac and Jacob), just one time - in unison - violently squirmed.
Then: crickets.
For a brief second I thought it hadn’t happened. I remained in a state of disbelief and self-doubt until one of the more alert groomsmen lifted the offending puker bodily off the stage and deposited him behind the organ to heave and lurch in peace. I looked around and the entire crowd was staring straight ahead at the preacher as if nothing was at all amiss.
Except for the sniffles emanating from underneath the organ - you might not have known anything had happened at all.
My squirming and general gawking-about immediately precipitated the rapid return of The Elbow of Silence, but not before I was able to confirm with Will Gaither, Brother-in-Law, that the kid had indeed made a deposit onstage. Ladies and gentlemen – it happened, I saw it, and it has been confirmed.
Naturally, the tiny over-eater had aimed his outburst with the calm, unerring, vomitous precision of a public school cafeteria frequenter; giving the bride the option of:
1. Omitting the Unity Candle step and damning her union for all eternity.
OR:
2. Dragging her train through the chunky puddle.
I consider myself a practiced evaluator of a female set jaw and I could see by the Bride's that no power on earth would keep her from the lighting of that Unity Candle.
By God, she did it; but it wasn’t pretty.
My congratulations to the Groom: she might not walk through fire for you buddy, but we know one thing that won't stop her.
www.jimmyewing.blogspot.com
Friday, August 20, 2010
The Mother Of Invention
I’m sure by now most of you know I am an amateur inventor. I’m not claiming to be Edison, but – I dabble.
For example: two days ago on my way into our Chicago office I invented the Roll-a-Clean - it’s a revolving door that dry cleans your clothes on your way in the lobby. I loathe revolving doors, but I love getting my clothes back from the dry cleaner; so I feel like The Roll-A-Clean is a great way to start your day.
I’m also working on the IndigiScrubby. It’s like a big street sweeper, but it roams the streets at night in the summer, gently lifting indigents and winos into a slowly-revolving drum of soapy water. I haven't figured out how to dry them yet, so it's more of a "seasonal" service. Don't be the only city left with unwashed bridge people.
I also invented "Flush Magazine" the magazine for toilet accessories and "Foot Flush" - an aftermarket chrome foot pedal flushing device for your commode.
"Lost Your Hands? Its OK!! Foot Flush Saves The Day!"
I have a few other things in the works too - like:
- Chefrolet - a small portable oven that uses heat from your engine block to bake while you drive.
- ScroogeDriver - a customizable electronic GPS device that kills the power to your wife's car if she gets within a certain distance of "problem stores".
- Mr. BelvedEAR - a spinning ear cleaner attachment for your electric toothbrush.
- Poopalicious - a tasty aerosol solution that dogs can't resist. You spray it on dog poop and the next dog to come along simply can't resist the now-tasty poopsicle. No more pooper scoopers! No more jogging around with warm little baggies of waste! Put the neighbor's dog to work for you!
For example: two days ago on my way into our Chicago office I invented the Roll-a-Clean - it’s a revolving door that dry cleans your clothes on your way in the lobby. I loathe revolving doors, but I love getting my clothes back from the dry cleaner; so I feel like The Roll-A-Clean is a great way to start your day.
I’m also working on the IndigiScrubby. It’s like a big street sweeper, but it roams the streets at night in the summer, gently lifting indigents and winos into a slowly-revolving drum of soapy water. I haven't figured out how to dry them yet, so it's more of a "seasonal" service. Don't be the only city left with unwashed bridge people.
I also invented "Flush Magazine" the magazine for toilet accessories and "Foot Flush" - an aftermarket chrome foot pedal flushing device for your commode.
"Lost Your Hands? Its OK!! Foot Flush Saves The Day!"
I have a few other things in the works too - like:
- Chefrolet - a small portable oven that uses heat from your engine block to bake while you drive.
- ScroogeDriver - a customizable electronic GPS device that kills the power to your wife's car if she gets within a certain distance of "problem stores".
- Mr. BelvedEAR - a spinning ear cleaner attachment for your electric toothbrush.
- Poopalicious - a tasty aerosol solution that dogs can't resist. You spray it on dog poop and the next dog to come along simply can't resist the now-tasty poopsicle. No more pooper scoopers! No more jogging around with warm little baggies of waste! Put the neighbor's dog to work for you!
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Long Division
Yesterday I spent ten minutes standing just inside the open doorway of an MD90 at O'Hare waiting on the 300lb structural marvel ahead of me to shoehorn her lumpy butt into a seat entirely too small for it.
Due to the immense quantity of lumbering flesh in my path, I found myself parked against my will right outside the bathroom. It soon became abundantly clear that someone was inside the airplane bathroom doing their best to destroy the atmosphere. We are not airborne. We are parked at the gate. The A/C is not running.
I don't understand why anyone would sit in an airport right outside a large, land-based bathroom for 2 hours and "hold it" until you get on the plane. I can certainly see "holding it" until you get off the plane, but the other way around just doesn't make sense. Perhaps one might do that if one had some kind of weird fetish, but I truly don't know what kind of fetish category that falls under. It certainly doesn't sound like the kind of wicked fun most fetishists seem to crave, but it must have seemed reasonable to the idiot in 2A.
I genuinely hope life punishes him for it long-term.
I'm standing there in the apex of a swirling smell storm with a 1" thick accordion-style folding door between me and an overpowering odor that I can only describe as "hot", and I'm landlocked by the morbidly obese. The whole front of the plane smelled like somebody snuck a dead zebra on in their luggage.
This is my day.
Naturally, I'm desperately casting about for something to take my mind off the aluminum-skinned box of hell Delta has put me in, so I look over my left shoulder into the cockpit and I see the captain sitting at the controls. He has a pad of paper clipped to the yoke in front of him and and he's staring at it hard, brow furrowed in intense concentration, pencil in hand. Upon that piece of paper he, the captain of an airplane full of unsuspecting people, has written this:
And you know what? That's fine. I'm sure there are millions of people out there who struggle with math, but it really, really, really worries me to find that a person in charge of something with this many parts:
can't perform long division.
Due to the immense quantity of lumbering flesh in my path, I found myself parked against my will right outside the bathroom. It soon became abundantly clear that someone was inside the airplane bathroom doing their best to destroy the atmosphere. We are not airborne. We are parked at the gate. The A/C is not running.
I don't understand why anyone would sit in an airport right outside a large, land-based bathroom for 2 hours and "hold it" until you get on the plane. I can certainly see "holding it" until you get off the plane, but the other way around just doesn't make sense. Perhaps one might do that if one had some kind of weird fetish, but I truly don't know what kind of fetish category that falls under. It certainly doesn't sound like the kind of wicked fun most fetishists seem to crave, but it must have seemed reasonable to the idiot in 2A.
I genuinely hope life punishes him for it long-term.
I'm standing there in the apex of a swirling smell storm with a 1" thick accordion-style folding door between me and an overpowering odor that I can only describe as "hot", and I'm landlocked by the morbidly obese. The whole front of the plane smelled like somebody snuck a dead zebra on in their luggage.
This is my day.
Naturally, I'm desperately casting about for something to take my mind off the aluminum-skinned box of hell Delta has put me in, so I look over my left shoulder into the cockpit and I see the captain sitting at the controls. He has a pad of paper clipped to the yoke in front of him and and he's staring at it hard, brow furrowed in intense concentration, pencil in hand. Upon that piece of paper he, the captain of an airplane full of unsuspecting people, has written this:
And you know what? That's fine. I'm sure there are millions of people out there who struggle with math, but it really, really, really worries me to find that a person in charge of something with this many parts:
can't perform long division.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Leadership
I believe as husband and leader of a fledgling family unit, I deserve at least a modicum of respect. That is why I hardly think it is appropriate to be addressed as "Troll" by my future bride.
Tyler: Have you finalized the rehearsal dinner?
Me: I don't know.
Tyler: Can you please pick some readings for the wedding?
Me: No.
Tyler: Do you want to see my to-do list?
Me: I wanted to ELOPE.
Tyler: Either step it up, or get back in your cave, TROLL.
Tyler: Have you finalized the rehearsal dinner?
Me: I don't know.
Tyler: Can you please pick some readings for the wedding?
Me: No.
Tyler: Do you want to see my to-do list?
Me: I wanted to ELOPE.
Tyler: Either step it up, or get back in your cave, TROLL.
The Deer Camp
For those (12) of you who have regularly read my blog in the past for one reason or other - I'm sure you've noticed that The Deer Camp has factored prominently in my life since childhood. Ah, The DeerCamp.
I don't doubt that some of you may be confused by it.
What is it exactly?
Well, it's a Deer Camp - a camp for hunting deer. You know I do love aptly-named things.
Where is it?
It's just outside a tiny town south of Atlanta called "Smarr" - about 75 miles from my back door. If you've ever been through Macon on I-75 headed South from Atlanta - you've driven right past it.
Built in roughly 1990 by Uncle Buster and the Maddux family to accomodate kith, kin, and a fortunate few crossover not-quite-blood family; it is the site of the large majority of my deer hunting experience, the final resting place of my very best and third-best bucks ever, the site of my biggest hunting screwup ever (I got overexcited as I tend to do and I attempted to shoot buckzilla at 4 yards with "Jude The Obscure" in paperback), and it's the single property in the world most covered with things initialed by my pocketknife(seats, trees, bushes, sticks, steps, bullets).
I made my longest shot on a deer there as a nine-year-old in 1989 (200+ yards, walking between two trees 6" apart - shot square through the heart). I had my first extremely unfortunate, yet educational run-in with bourbon whiskey there in 2001. Two years would pass before I could safely whiff brown liquor without turning green.
I put diesel gas in a gasoline-powered ATV there in 1991 (sorry Uncle Buster - that was me), I almost shot a hole in my own ATV late one night chasing coyotes in 1996. I watched Tripp shoot a hole in his trailer while laying down a heavy line of covering fire on a marauding 'possum in the fall of 2007.
I shot a coke can full of cement literally out of sight through our homemade cannon. I got stung by bees and eaten alive by chiggers. I got covered with ticks. I cut myself. I fell into low things. I fell out of high things.
I fell in the lake in early March 1995 going fishing. Bud had to drag me out.
Quite a few young women heard about it, but only a handful ever saw it. It's just not a place for ladies. It's a place for men. It's a place for slightly unwholesome talk and fires and oyster shells and ammunition and Hoppes #9 and long arguments about the best way to do it - whatever "it" is.
I enjoyed some of my best dinners there in its kitchen. I met some of my favorite friends on its front porch.
But, all things must come to an end.
So, with a great deal of fondness in my heart and a lifetime of good memories in my head, I bid "Adieu" to The Deer Camp and the batallion of characters to have crossed it's threshold in the last 20 years. To Jack, Bryan, Ralph, Dad, Seth, Tripp, Thomas, Reid, Dick, Gene, Rayboy, "Hooty-Hoo-Hoo-O'Dillon", Beau, Buster, and John I say: Happy Hunting, it's been an honor and a privilege.
Keep your powder dry,
JGE
Atlanta, Ga
August 16, 2010
I don't doubt that some of you may be confused by it.
What is it exactly?
Well, it's a Deer Camp - a camp for hunting deer. You know I do love aptly-named things.
Where is it?
It's just outside a tiny town south of Atlanta called "Smarr" - about 75 miles from my back door. If you've ever been through Macon on I-75 headed South from Atlanta - you've driven right past it.
Built in roughly 1990 by Uncle Buster and the Maddux family to accomodate kith, kin, and a fortunate few crossover not-quite-blood family; it is the site of the large majority of my deer hunting experience, the final resting place of my very best and third-best bucks ever, the site of my biggest hunting screwup ever (I got overexcited as I tend to do and I attempted to shoot buckzilla at 4 yards with "Jude The Obscure" in paperback), and it's the single property in the world most covered with things initialed by my pocketknife(seats, trees, bushes, sticks, steps, bullets).
I made my longest shot on a deer there as a nine-year-old in 1989 (200+ yards, walking between two trees 6" apart - shot square through the heart). I had my first extremely unfortunate, yet educational run-in with bourbon whiskey there in 2001. Two years would pass before I could safely whiff brown liquor without turning green.
I put diesel gas in a gasoline-powered ATV there in 1991 (sorry Uncle Buster - that was me), I almost shot a hole in my own ATV late one night chasing coyotes in 1996. I watched Tripp shoot a hole in his trailer while laying down a heavy line of covering fire on a marauding 'possum in the fall of 2007.
I shot a coke can full of cement literally out of sight through our homemade cannon. I got stung by bees and eaten alive by chiggers. I got covered with ticks. I cut myself. I fell into low things. I fell out of high things.
I fell in the lake in early March 1995 going fishing. Bud had to drag me out.
Quite a few young women heard about it, but only a handful ever saw it. It's just not a place for ladies. It's a place for men. It's a place for slightly unwholesome talk and fires and oyster shells and ammunition and Hoppes #9 and long arguments about the best way to do it - whatever "it" is.
I enjoyed some of my best dinners there in its kitchen. I met some of my favorite friends on its front porch.
But, all things must come to an end.
So, with a great deal of fondness in my heart and a lifetime of good memories in my head, I bid "Adieu" to The Deer Camp and the batallion of characters to have crossed it's threshold in the last 20 years. To Jack, Bryan, Ralph, Dad, Seth, Tripp, Thomas, Reid, Dick, Gene, Rayboy, "Hooty-Hoo-Hoo-O'Dillon", Beau, Buster, and John I say: Happy Hunting, it's been an honor and a privilege.
Keep your powder dry,
JGE
Atlanta, Ga
August 16, 2010
Monday, August 16, 2010
Strangers With Candy
In response to my email indicating that my day consists of: showering, going to work, and going home; my Beyoncee had this to say:
Hhrhrhrr. At least you showered, but I'm surprised you parted with your hard-earned musty smell.
I wish you were sitting with me on the plane right now instead of the man with the world's smallest bladder who has asked to be let out way too many times. I feel like I'm pet-sitting. Somewhere over Texas I decided that if he asked again, I was fully prepared to say "no."
But then he gave me gum.
Clearly, my future wife is highly susceptible to even the simplest forms of bribery; a tool I should have brought to bear in what has come to be known as "The Great August Gift Card Dispute."
Fool me once? Shame on you.
Fool me twice? Shame on me.
Fool me over and over again forever? Marriage.
Hhrhrhrr. At least you showered, but I'm surprised you parted with your hard-earned musty smell.
I wish you were sitting with me on the plane right now instead of the man with the world's smallest bladder who has asked to be let out way too many times. I feel like I'm pet-sitting. Somewhere over Texas I decided that if he asked again, I was fully prepared to say "no."
But then he gave me gum.
Clearly, my future wife is highly susceptible to even the simplest forms of bribery; a tool I should have brought to bear in what has come to be known as "The Great August Gift Card Dispute."
Fool me once? Shame on you.
Fool me twice? Shame on me.
Fool me over and over again forever? Marriage.
Mancorations - A Love Story
Last week we met with our lovely professional decorator, Ann Warsham, (decorator to the Atlanta Stars, specializing in taxidermied animal removal). Friends: The DudeRanch, despite its sturdy brick construction and multitude of mancorations, will soon submit to the unrelenting power of the female aesthetic.
Ann, Tyler, and I met to go over the new plans for the "keeping room" (where many things are "kept" except, apparently, anything of mine), kitchen, and master bedroom, but somehow in the process someone suggested adding a previously non-existent bathroom to the house. I have been told that I mutely nodded my assent.
"Muteness" certainly not being among my greater gifts, I can only assume that Warsham, Evil Queen of Stucco, cast her spell on me. I speculate my suceptibility to flattery may be partly to blame, because when I suggested installing a stainless steel firewood man-drawer next to the fireplace complete with outside-access for loading firewood directly into the kitchen - she complimented my genius. That's all I was looking for.
"Complimented my genius" may be a tad strong. She may have rolled her eyes and said "Really? Well, ok we might can make that work if we have to". My memory here is fuzzy, but I was so relieved to have them both listen to me - I just nodded from then on.
I've finally come to terms with the idea that everything I own and love is soon to disappear into the musty confines of a dimly-lit basement based on silly, nebulous criteria such as "items that might 'scare' or 'harm' young children" and "being ugly." Gone are the days of the naked bowie knife on the mantle, the "My Goodness, My Guinness" beer poster in the kitchen, and the wall-mounted bottle opener. Gone too is the "extra shotgun shell" popcorn tin. Sure, I may find a new container in which to displace extra shotgun shells that have gone through the dryer; but it won't be the same.
After my recent unfortunate run-in with my new domestic despot over Home Depot gift certificates (still haven't seen them), I was terribly pleased to walk into my new in-laws' house yesterday to find my soon-to-be father-in-law griping about "his important stuff" all ending up crammed in the basement between duplicative pieces of furniture.
Times are tough all over, but at least I'm in good company.
The Dream, though dimmed, yet lives.
Ann, Tyler, and I met to go over the new plans for the "keeping room" (where many things are "kept" except, apparently, anything of mine), kitchen, and master bedroom, but somehow in the process someone suggested adding a previously non-existent bathroom to the house. I have been told that I mutely nodded my assent.
"Muteness" certainly not being among my greater gifts, I can only assume that Warsham, Evil Queen of Stucco, cast her spell on me. I speculate my suceptibility to flattery may be partly to blame, because when I suggested installing a stainless steel firewood man-drawer next to the fireplace complete with outside-access for loading firewood directly into the kitchen - she complimented my genius. That's all I was looking for.
"Complimented my genius" may be a tad strong. She may have rolled her eyes and said "Really? Well, ok we might can make that work if we have to". My memory here is fuzzy, but I was so relieved to have them both listen to me - I just nodded from then on.
I've finally come to terms with the idea that everything I own and love is soon to disappear into the musty confines of a dimly-lit basement based on silly, nebulous criteria such as "items that might 'scare' or 'harm' young children" and "being ugly." Gone are the days of the naked bowie knife on the mantle, the "My Goodness, My Guinness" beer poster in the kitchen, and the wall-mounted bottle opener. Gone too is the "extra shotgun shell" popcorn tin. Sure, I may find a new container in which to displace extra shotgun shells that have gone through the dryer; but it won't be the same.
After my recent unfortunate run-in with my new domestic despot over Home Depot gift certificates (still haven't seen them), I was terribly pleased to walk into my new in-laws' house yesterday to find my soon-to-be father-in-law griping about "his important stuff" all ending up crammed in the basement between duplicative pieces of furniture.
Times are tough all over, but at least I'm in good company.
The Dream, though dimmed, yet lives.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
New Scan Results
Listen, I know I've tried to lighten things up a bit here recently; and I don't want to upset anybody, but based on Beau's most recent "scans" I think he's got alot more problems than I first suspected:
Obviously; the tapeworms and the gearshifter are the only things preventing Beau from becoming Hideous LobsterBoy. Unfortunately, as you can clearly see from the slide, the tapeworms have gotten drunk off his liver residue and have begun to coil into their classic "S" hibernation shape. Generally, that is what we see in these cases right before the Hideous Lobster Claw takes over.
If the surgeons can't find a way to stop the Hideous Lobster Claw, poison the tapeworms with Natural Lite and get that gearshifter out of him right away - he is in big trouble. Living as half-man, half-lobster is no laughing matter.
Even if he makes it - I'm afraid he's going scream every time he sees boiling water for the rest of his life.
www.jimmyewing.blogspot.com
Obviously; the tapeworms and the gearshifter are the only things preventing Beau from becoming Hideous LobsterBoy. Unfortunately, as you can clearly see from the slide, the tapeworms have gotten drunk off his liver residue and have begun to coil into their classic "S" hibernation shape. Generally, that is what we see in these cases right before the Hideous Lobster Claw takes over.
If the surgeons can't find a way to stop the Hideous Lobster Claw, poison the tapeworms with Natural Lite and get that gearshifter out of him right away - he is in big trouble. Living as half-man, half-lobster is no laughing matter.
Even if he makes it - I'm afraid he's going scream every time he sees boiling water for the rest of his life.
www.jimmyewing.blogspot.com
Humerus! ~ A Comedy In Two Pieces
I had the pleasure of catching up with Jessica P. Slocumb (the "P" makes me laugh, I don't know why) and got a brief update on grubby cancerbutt himself. The "P" in Jessica "P" makes me laugh, but the "update" was even funnier.
Here's a brief excerpt:
Me: Well, how much of his arm bone did they remove?
Jessica: I think the top part.
Me: Ok, right. But I mean - how much of it?
Jessica: You know. The bone. Like, I mean - 16cm of it.
Me: Yes. But WHICH 16cm?
Jessica: The top part.
Me: Perhaps you can help me. How do I more clearly ask you exactly what part of the bone they removed?
Jessica: The top part. The humerus (giggle).
Me: Eh. I think I've got it. Let me try again. "Did they remove the BALL part?"
Jessica: I think so. I'm not sure. No. Maybe? The top part is what they removed.
Me: So, we're not really sure what sort of arm bones he has left, right?
Jessica: Thats right. They took out some of the humerus (giggle).
Me: Why do you giggle when you say "humerus"?
Jessica: I don't know (giggle). I guess its humerous.
Me: Wow. You are not at all well .
Jessica: I'm a little tired.
I asked Jessica how they're doing and she indicated that Beau is feeling much better. I asked "how can you tell?" and she said "Because earlier Beau looked at his mom in a stupor and hollered "GO GET ME A JAMBA JUICE. I WANT A DAMN JAMBA JUICE!" so I figure he'll be up and around in no time flat. I think he's doing great and feeling much better!"
She said something after that, but I couldn't hear her over Beau in the background hollering "HELP!! Get me out of here!! She's trying to kill me!"
Jessica: (giggle).
That immediately took me back to about 1997, sitting in the den at Grandma's house. Granddad was laid up recouperating from a bout with prostate cancer and Gma was on the phone taking calls from well-wishers. I heard her clearly say "Thank you so much for calling, Wayne. He's feeling much better and he's doing great!"
Granddad rared back in his chair, knocked over his coke and popcorn, and hollered at the top of his lungs "NO I'M NOT. WAYNE!!! DAMMIT!! MARGARET GIVE ME THAT PHONE! CRIMINY!! I'M DYING! I'VE GOT PROSTATE CANCER, HEART DISEASE, DIABETES and GOUT. I HURT ALL OVER AND I'M GOING TO DIE!!"
Granddad lived another 3 years at 100mph before heading to the big pork rind in the sky; and I'm pretty sure as long as he doesn't get in the car with Jessica behind the wheel - Beau just might live forever.
www.jimmyewing.blogspot.com
Here's a brief excerpt:
Me: Well, how much of his arm bone did they remove?
Jessica: I think the top part.
Me: Ok, right. But I mean - how much of it?
Jessica: You know. The bone. Like, I mean - 16cm of it.
Me: Yes. But WHICH 16cm?
Jessica: The top part.
Me: Perhaps you can help me. How do I more clearly ask you exactly what part of the bone they removed?
Jessica: The top part. The humerus (giggle).
Me: Eh. I think I've got it. Let me try again. "Did they remove the BALL part?"
Jessica: I think so. I'm not sure. No. Maybe? The top part is what they removed.
Me: So, we're not really sure what sort of arm bones he has left, right?
Jessica: Thats right. They took out some of the humerus (giggle).
Me: Why do you giggle when you say "humerus"?
Jessica: I don't know (giggle). I guess its humerous.
Me: Wow. You are not at all well .
Jessica: I'm a little tired.
I asked Jessica how they're doing and she indicated that Beau is feeling much better. I asked "how can you tell?" and she said "Because earlier Beau looked at his mom in a stupor and hollered "GO GET ME A JAMBA JUICE. I WANT A DAMN JAMBA JUICE!" so I figure he'll be up and around in no time flat. I think he's doing great and feeling much better!"
She said something after that, but I couldn't hear her over Beau in the background hollering "HELP!! Get me out of here!! She's trying to kill me!"
Jessica: (giggle).
That immediately took me back to about 1997, sitting in the den at Grandma's house. Granddad was laid up recouperating from a bout with prostate cancer and Gma was on the phone taking calls from well-wishers. I heard her clearly say "Thank you so much for calling, Wayne. He's feeling much better and he's doing great!"
Granddad rared back in his chair, knocked over his coke and popcorn, and hollered at the top of his lungs "NO I'M NOT. WAYNE!!! DAMMIT!! MARGARET GIVE ME THAT PHONE! CRIMINY!! I'M DYING! I'VE GOT PROSTATE CANCER, HEART DISEASE, DIABETES and GOUT. I HURT ALL OVER AND I'M GOING TO DIE!!"
Granddad lived another 3 years at 100mph before heading to the big pork rind in the sky; and I'm pretty sure as long as he doesn't get in the car with Jessica behind the wheel - Beau just might live forever.
www.jimmyewing.blogspot.com
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Little-Known Complications of the Home Birth
I spoke with one of my granola-snorting friends the other day and was immediately subjected to a salvo of intense baby-birthing commentary. Apparently she's into "home-births." From what I gather - you roll around in one of these things:
kicking, hollering, grunting and snort-breathing until either:
A. The baby blows out of your body into the tepid water you've been wallowing in for 18 hours.
or
B. "Something" goes horribly wrong.
H O L Y C R A P.
I've done some weird things in my house, but that pretty much has me beat. I can honestly say I've never carried on, witnessed, or otherwise performed, an invasive medical procedure in The Duderanch At 6710. I'm not necessarily saying I wouldn't - I'm just saying I've never had occasion to.
Everything worked out alright for the first three kids, but I guess they got a bit lax on the 4th home-birth, because when it came time for cleanup; the placenta was nowhere to be found.
Thats right folks: there is a rogue placenta loose in the State of Georgia. I wouldn't even hazard a guess as to its final resting place, but I really hope they have a maid, she looks like Nell Carter, and she eventually finds it. I'd give my favorite toe to be there when she does.
Naturally, I explored the topic a bit. My friend had nothing to offer by way of explanation, so I blamed the dog (always a safe bet). She said "We don't have a dog, but if we did; I'm sure a dog dragging a placenta across the front yard would alert the neighbors."
Maybe I'm not a good neighbor, but you can bet every dime you've got if I see a dog run out of my neighbor's house dragging a human placenta: that's one neighbor I'm going to stay the hell away from.
No dog scapegoat available, my mind danced nimbly across various other possibilities and lighted on "crazy grandmother wants to make placenta tea." Plausible, I guess. The only problem is: I happen to know the grandmother personally and she's just not that crazy. She also doesn't carry a purse to hide things in; which I think is probably a requirement if you're going to spirit away used placentas on a regular basis.
I was left with only one possible conclusion: there was no placenta to start with. Obviously, that would mean the child numbers among The Undead and may or may not be the Antichrist.
My friend strenuously objected to that possibility and claims to have actually seen said placenta during the birthing process. I suspect what she thought was placenta was actually the red gateway to hell, but I guess it's still a mystery.
So, yeah. Thats all pretty great, but the VERY best part about the whole thing is: I know who it is and which house it happened in - and you don't.
Better keep your shoes on when you go a' visitin'.
kicking, hollering, grunting and snort-breathing until either:
A. The baby blows out of your body into the tepid water you've been wallowing in for 18 hours.
or
B. "Something" goes horribly wrong.
H O L Y C R A P.
I've done some weird things in my house, but that pretty much has me beat. I can honestly say I've never carried on, witnessed, or otherwise performed, an invasive medical procedure in The Duderanch At 6710. I'm not necessarily saying I wouldn't - I'm just saying I've never had occasion to.
Everything worked out alright for the first three kids, but I guess they got a bit lax on the 4th home-birth, because when it came time for cleanup; the placenta was nowhere to be found.
Thats right folks: there is a rogue placenta loose in the State of Georgia. I wouldn't even hazard a guess as to its final resting place, but I really hope they have a maid, she looks like Nell Carter, and she eventually finds it. I'd give my favorite toe to be there when she does.
Naturally, I explored the topic a bit. My friend had nothing to offer by way of explanation, so I blamed the dog (always a safe bet). She said "We don't have a dog, but if we did; I'm sure a dog dragging a placenta across the front yard would alert the neighbors."
Maybe I'm not a good neighbor, but you can bet every dime you've got if I see a dog run out of my neighbor's house dragging a human placenta: that's one neighbor I'm going to stay the hell away from.
No dog scapegoat available, my mind danced nimbly across various other possibilities and lighted on "crazy grandmother wants to make placenta tea." Plausible, I guess. The only problem is: I happen to know the grandmother personally and she's just not that crazy. She also doesn't carry a purse to hide things in; which I think is probably a requirement if you're going to spirit away used placentas on a regular basis.
I was left with only one possible conclusion: there was no placenta to start with. Obviously, that would mean the child numbers among The Undead and may or may not be the Antichrist.
My friend strenuously objected to that possibility and claims to have actually seen said placenta during the birthing process. I suspect what she thought was placenta was actually the red gateway to hell, but I guess it's still a mystery.
So, yeah. Thats all pretty great, but the VERY best part about the whole thing is: I know who it is and which house it happened in - and you don't.
Better keep your shoes on when you go a' visitin'.
Sunday, August 08, 2010
Half of Something Is Nothing
A few comments in the general direction of my Beyoncee.
First of all, the FLW ("Forrest L. Wood") Tournament “Classic” Bass Fishing Championship is NOT necessarily “redneck” – its “Blue Collar.” There is a difference, and if you’re going to attend an FLW Championship Tournament Bass Weigh-in complete with pyrotechnics, Ranger Boat giveaway, Skoal samples, Blackhawk Helicopter flyover (sound enhanced), a special mock-battle-demonstration by the National Guard and an appearance by Forrest L. Wood hisself; you really shouldn’t sigh and squinch down in your seat every time somebody thanks God for "Arkansas" and "Lowrance brand electronic fish finders." Who are we to judge? Maybe Bass Fishing is inextricably tied to the sanctity of the American Family.
Would this guy lie to you?
Personally, I tend to be wary of anyone floating in mid-air under his own power, but whatever. I guess if you own FLW Outdoors you can float around all you like.
Secondly, she should not be allowed to confiscate my Home Depot gift certificates (some people call them “gift cards”, but I call them “certificates”; it sounds like more of an award that way). Well, maybe half could be confiscated in the interest of harmonious pre-nuptual bliss, sure. I'm flexible.
Half.
Boy was I confused. Apparently I didn’t get a few Home Depot gift certificates for engagement presents at all – we got them and 50% of we has decided that “making decisions together” means I probably don’t get any damn Home Depot gift certificates or a 12” dual-bevel sliding radial arm saw with a laser sight and a lifetime warranty covering all electrical components, housing and laser device.
Alright, so I didn't do a few silly little things like "talk ahead of time about money allocation" or "ask nicely" or "please stop crying."
So what?
At this juncture I want to point out that HALF a BMW X-5 looks a whole lot like a used motorcycle from where I sit.
“Half” of something can be a mighty tricky measurement.
Take the guy Tyler sat next to at the FLW Weigh-In on Sunday – HALF of him could easily be a skinny person, OR HALF of him could be 387lbs of gut and no skeletal frame. I was on the other side of Tyler and from the correct angle she looked like a blonde stick figure superimposed on a fat-suit background. I’m telling you - if you don't look sharp this HALF concept can come out of nowhere, snatch your wallet and run right off.
But, as the saying goes "Jedge not Less'n Yew Be Jedged", so I say God bless a man who lets his wife dip snuff and sit a row behind him in a public arena - no matter what half of him looks like.
The American Family lives.
First of all, the FLW ("Forrest L. Wood") Tournament “Classic” Bass Fishing Championship is NOT necessarily “redneck” – its “Blue Collar.” There is a difference, and if you’re going to attend an FLW Championship Tournament Bass Weigh-in complete with pyrotechnics, Ranger Boat giveaway, Skoal samples, Blackhawk Helicopter flyover (sound enhanced), a special mock-battle-demonstration by the National Guard and an appearance by Forrest L. Wood hisself; you really shouldn’t sigh and squinch down in your seat every time somebody thanks God for "Arkansas" and "Lowrance brand electronic fish finders." Who are we to judge? Maybe Bass Fishing is inextricably tied to the sanctity of the American Family.
Would this guy lie to you?
Personally, I tend to be wary of anyone floating in mid-air under his own power, but whatever. I guess if you own FLW Outdoors you can float around all you like.
Secondly, she should not be allowed to confiscate my Home Depot gift certificates (some people call them “gift cards”, but I call them “certificates”; it sounds like more of an award that way). Well, maybe half could be confiscated in the interest of harmonious pre-nuptual bliss, sure. I'm flexible.
Half.
Boy was I confused. Apparently I didn’t get a few Home Depot gift certificates for engagement presents at all – we got them and 50% of we has decided that “making decisions together” means I probably don’t get any damn Home Depot gift certificates or a 12” dual-bevel sliding radial arm saw with a laser sight and a lifetime warranty covering all electrical components, housing and laser device.
Alright, so I didn't do a few silly little things like "talk ahead of time about money allocation" or "ask nicely" or "please stop crying."
So what?
At this juncture I want to point out that HALF a BMW X-5 looks a whole lot like a used motorcycle from where I sit.
“Half” of something can be a mighty tricky measurement.
Take the guy Tyler sat next to at the FLW Weigh-In on Sunday – HALF of him could easily be a skinny person, OR HALF of him could be 387lbs of gut and no skeletal frame. I was on the other side of Tyler and from the correct angle she looked like a blonde stick figure superimposed on a fat-suit background. I’m telling you - if you don't look sharp this HALF concept can come out of nowhere, snatch your wallet and run right off.
But, as the saying goes "Jedge not Less'n Yew Be Jedged", so I say God bless a man who lets his wife dip snuff and sit a row behind him in a public arena - no matter what half of him looks like.
The American Family lives.
Wednesday, August 04, 2010
Beau Slocumb, Troublemaker
My cousin, Beau Slocumb, is scheduled for another surgery to remove yet another spot of cancer – this time from his shoulder. Apparently they "did some scans” and found it.
"Scans." Thats alien technology, right? Like a tractor beam?
I’ve heard alot about these so-called "scans” and you can color me "skeptical." I think Beau is probably a-ok and these stiff white coats are just reading "scans" with their beer goggles on.
It was doctors, after all, who told Mom I was going to be a girl and look how THAT one turned out. Not only am I not female - I've got enough hair on my chest to weave an indian blanket and, because of modern medicine, I spent my highly-formative first 6 months clad entirely in pink. Thanks alot 500 years of documented medical practice! Tell Hippocrates I've got an oath for him.
Personally, I think Beau's shoulder issue is just scar tissue from being completely retarded for so long (http://jimmyewing.blogspot.com/2009/06/he-never-needed-helmet.html), but more importantly: what in the hell do doctors know anyway? All you need to be a doctor is cold hands and fancy science and needles and screens and things, right?
Well, none of that is going to help you with Beau. I maintain you can't tell much about Beau on your fancy ScanTron machine or whatnot - you need to smell of him up close. I diagnosed him as “goaty” years ago and I didn't need any three-million-dollar scanner.
Doctors and their fancy screens. Pffft!
I saw a caged bear riding a bicycle on the TV screen last night - and I don't believe for a damn minute that a bear sharp enough to actually ride a bicycle wouldn't take one look at that bicycle and immediately start snacking on trainers. And one more thing: if I were a bicycle-riding bear you better believe my chubby butt is sleeping on goose down - not cage straw.
The point is: you can't believe everything you see on a screen - I don't care how much it cost. You people probably think we actually flew to the moon too. Oh, sssssuure. Rocks and gray sand. Must be the moon. We just "flew" up there.
RIGHT. I know a movie set when I see one!
I figure since Beau is a young, non-smoking, non-tobacco-using, non-alcoholic, generally healthy person who is probably not sleeping on a pile of enriched uranium - the only remaining risk factor is: Beau. So, Beau, please quit giving yourself cancer. It is stressing me out. Plus, "cancer" is so last year. If you're going to the trouble of giving yourself something anyway - may as well make it interesting. How about "mumps?" Nobody gets that anymore. Mumps I can work with in print. Cancer - not so much.
My recommendation for Beau is: get back to Texas, demand a re-"scan," crawl into that machine and place an open pocketknife under his shirt just over the ribcage. Let 'em scan THAT!
Later, after all the commotion dies down - go home and take your pants off in the den. That's my recipe for recovery:
Step 1: cause trouble.
Step 2: remove pants.
Regardless of who’s to blame on this one (clearly Beau for giving himself cancer) I will point out that, in a very Beau-like fashion, he's maintained an upbeat, cheerful demeanor without anyone threatening to beat him (http://jimmyewing.blogspot.com/2010/08/being-thankful.html).
Maggie overheard the following exchange in the barn the other day and I figured I'd report on it to illustrate:
Beau: John – whats been going on? What have y’all been up to lately?
Uncle John: Not much. Just keeping up with the kids. Working. Just trying to keep my head above water. You?
Beau: Just trying to keep my head above DIRT ... BHWAH AHAHAHA!!!!
Uncle John: That's not funny.
Keep it North of the dirt, Beausie; we're pulling for you.
"Scans." Thats alien technology, right? Like a tractor beam?
I’ve heard alot about these so-called "scans” and you can color me "skeptical." I think Beau is probably a-ok and these stiff white coats are just reading "scans" with their beer goggles on.
It was doctors, after all, who told Mom I was going to be a girl and look how THAT one turned out. Not only am I not female - I've got enough hair on my chest to weave an indian blanket and, because of modern medicine, I spent my highly-formative first 6 months clad entirely in pink. Thanks alot 500 years of documented medical practice! Tell Hippocrates I've got an oath for him.
Personally, I think Beau's shoulder issue is just scar tissue from being completely retarded for so long (http://jimmyewing.blogspot.com/2009/06/he-never-needed-helmet.html), but more importantly: what in the hell do doctors know anyway? All you need to be a doctor is cold hands and fancy science and needles and screens and things, right?
Well, none of that is going to help you with Beau. I maintain you can't tell much about Beau on your fancy ScanTron machine or whatnot - you need to smell of him up close. I diagnosed him as “goaty” years ago and I didn't need any three-million-dollar scanner.
Doctors and their fancy screens. Pffft!
I saw a caged bear riding a bicycle on the TV screen last night - and I don't believe for a damn minute that a bear sharp enough to actually ride a bicycle wouldn't take one look at that bicycle and immediately start snacking on trainers. And one more thing: if I were a bicycle-riding bear you better believe my chubby butt is sleeping on goose down - not cage straw.
The point is: you can't believe everything you see on a screen - I don't care how much it cost. You people probably think we actually flew to the moon too. Oh, sssssuure. Rocks and gray sand. Must be the moon. We just "flew" up there.
RIGHT. I know a movie set when I see one!
I figure since Beau is a young, non-smoking, non-tobacco-using, non-alcoholic, generally healthy person who is probably not sleeping on a pile of enriched uranium - the only remaining risk factor is: Beau. So, Beau, please quit giving yourself cancer. It is stressing me out. Plus, "cancer" is so last year. If you're going to the trouble of giving yourself something anyway - may as well make it interesting. How about "mumps?" Nobody gets that anymore. Mumps I can work with in print. Cancer - not so much.
My recommendation for Beau is: get back to Texas, demand a re-"scan," crawl into that machine and place an open pocketknife under his shirt just over the ribcage. Let 'em scan THAT!
Later, after all the commotion dies down - go home and take your pants off in the den. That's my recipe for recovery:
Step 1: cause trouble.
Step 2: remove pants.
Regardless of who’s to blame on this one (clearly Beau for giving himself cancer) I will point out that, in a very Beau-like fashion, he's maintained an upbeat, cheerful demeanor without anyone threatening to beat him (http://jimmyewing.blogspot.com/2010/08/being-thankful.html).
Maggie overheard the following exchange in the barn the other day and I figured I'd report on it to illustrate:
Beau: John – whats been going on? What have y’all been up to lately?
Uncle John: Not much. Just keeping up with the kids. Working. Just trying to keep my head above water. You?
Beau: Just trying to keep my head above DIRT ... BHWAH AHAHAHA!!!!
Uncle John: That's not funny.
Keep it North of the dirt, Beausie; we're pulling for you.
Being Thankful
Years ago Mom taught me a very painful lesson about "finding things to be thankful for when you don’t so much feel like being thankful." If memory serves: she taught it to me with the flat side of a hairbrush, then said “Now, 5 minutes ago you should have been thankful you weren’t getting a beating. See what I mean? Get creative.”
I apparently was unable to think of anything – NOT ONE SINGLE THING I was thankful for when a response was demanded of me. Back came the hairbrush and I rapidly began to wax philosophic about the sunshine, white grape juice (still a favorite), shade trees and Jesus.
Now, years later, I still self-medicate with a little manufactured thankful when the need arises. I don’t know why, but it helps. Or maybe I’m just thankful nobody is beating me with a hairbrush -I don’t know, but today I am proud to say that I'm thankful for quite a few things.
Just this morning I was thumbing through some instructional literature on outdoor survival (BASS Magazine) and I noticed a very nice photo of a northern pike on an interior page. He looked mean and furious. Some of that may have been due to the fat, white, thumb life-size Elmer Fudd had stuck through his gills, but what drew my attention more than anything was his snaggle-toothed scowl. He had multiple rows of positively-mean-looking, sharp, conical teeth sticking out every-which-a-way and a whole bunch of them were missing.
So, today I’m thankful that I don’t lose three front teeth every time I try to eat something. Can you imagine? You get up, fix an egg sammich, bite down into it , and come away with one less incisor and a loose canine? EVERY SINGLE DAY!?!?!
The animal world has it tough. That may be why they periodically eat us.
Either way – I’ll just hang on to the teeth I’ve got, thanks.
I apparently was unable to think of anything – NOT ONE SINGLE THING I was thankful for when a response was demanded of me. Back came the hairbrush and I rapidly began to wax philosophic about the sunshine, white grape juice (still a favorite), shade trees and Jesus.
Now, years later, I still self-medicate with a little manufactured thankful when the need arises. I don’t know why, but it helps. Or maybe I’m just thankful nobody is beating me with a hairbrush -I don’t know, but today I am proud to say that I'm thankful for quite a few things.
Just this morning I was thumbing through some instructional literature on outdoor survival (BASS Magazine) and I noticed a very nice photo of a northern pike on an interior page. He looked mean and furious. Some of that may have been due to the fat, white, thumb life-size Elmer Fudd had stuck through his gills, but what drew my attention more than anything was his snaggle-toothed scowl. He had multiple rows of positively-mean-looking, sharp, conical teeth sticking out every-which-a-way and a whole bunch of them were missing.
So, today I’m thankful that I don’t lose three front teeth every time I try to eat something. Can you imagine? You get up, fix an egg sammich, bite down into it , and come away with one less incisor and a loose canine? EVERY SINGLE DAY!?!?!
The animal world has it tough. That may be why they periodically eat us.
Either way – I’ll just hang on to the teeth I’ve got, thanks.
Tuesday, August 03, 2010
Fishing For a Little Romance
Today I asked my lovely, leggy consort if she'd like to accompany me on a little sneak-away date for a few hours this weekend. Wedding planning is a busy time and I believe its important to "make time" for a little one-on-one romance during all the hustle-and-bustle.
So, imagine my surprise when she said "Um, I'm pretty sure I'm busy Sunday night."
We discussed it via internet mail for a bit and then she broke off to attend a work meeting. Later, she said "The funny thing is - you referred to attending a professional bass fishing tournament weigh-in as a 'date'. You must be ill."
Sometimes you just can't win.
So, imagine my surprise when she said "Um, I'm pretty sure I'm busy Sunday night."
We discussed it via internet mail for a bit and then she broke off to attend a work meeting. Later, she said "The funny thing is - you referred to attending a professional bass fishing tournament weigh-in as a 'date'. You must be ill."
Sometimes you just can't win.
Friday, July 30, 2010
Enlightenment
The topic of public restrooms seems to resurface here often. I think that's because the public restroom is a basic fact of working life, yet it's such a profoundly flawed experience that its gross inadequacies just fly all in my face. It BOTHERS me that the public restroom experience has pretty much stagnated since 1945. Everybody uses them, yet somehow nobody is paying attention to their design and function. How has technology managed to completely bypass something that everyone utilizes? I just don't get it.
I don't want this to be a journal of my public bathroom experiences. That's not what we here at One Brick Shy are about. That having been said, let me draw your attention to del banyo for une momento.
See this thing here? Look familiar?
What in the H E Double L is the deal with this thing?
Do you have any idea how many times I've had to crawl all the way up into the dark, forbidding recesses of this cavernous monster to fumble my way to the end of the roll? To operate this thing properly you need a socket wrench, a drill motor, and an endoscope. Please, allow me to illustrate:
Hey America - know what I've noticed? You're so damn greedy you've made the damn paper so damn thin that Helen Keller her-damn-self couldn't work her highly-trained, nimble fingers around that roll to find the .001 nanometer-thick change in depth that indicates the end! It's impossible. By the time I get out of there - the floor under the dispenser looks like a family of wombats moved in and spent the last week shredding paper. I've literally used a pocket knife on this contraption and ripped the face off the thing and I still can't make it work right. It's torture.
To recap: we, as a society, can put a man on the moon where he has absolutely no business being, but we can't figure out a way to dispense toilet paper without making me want to KILL MYSELF?
Is this the path to enlightenment?
I don't want this to be a journal of my public bathroom experiences. That's not what we here at One Brick Shy are about. That having been said, let me draw your attention to del banyo for une momento.
See this thing here? Look familiar?
What in the H E Double L is the deal with this thing?
Do you have any idea how many times I've had to crawl all the way up into the dark, forbidding recesses of this cavernous monster to fumble my way to the end of the roll? To operate this thing properly you need a socket wrench, a drill motor, and an endoscope. Please, allow me to illustrate:
Hey America - know what I've noticed? You're so damn greedy you've made the damn paper so damn thin that Helen Keller her-damn-self couldn't work her highly-trained, nimble fingers around that roll to find the .001 nanometer-thick change in depth that indicates the end! It's impossible. By the time I get out of there - the floor under the dispenser looks like a family of wombats moved in and spent the last week shredding paper. I've literally used a pocket knife on this contraption and ripped the face off the thing and I still can't make it work right. It's torture.
To recap: we, as a society, can put a man on the moon where he has absolutely no business being, but we can't figure out a way to dispense toilet paper without making me want to KILL MYSELF?
Is this the path to enlightenment?
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Die Smiling
"Are raw oysters really dangerous?"
Having never been attacked by one, I couldn't tell you, but I do know one thing: they're delicious. Every now and again you snag one that smells like your sisters jelly shoes in 4th grade. That one might kill you.
My solution?
Don't eat it! Instead - pick another one!
Even in spite of my advanced sniff test abilities, some still say your average oyster may be a lurking killer. I don't know that for sure, but I do know one kind of oyster that's beating the system: http://www.associatedcontent.com/article/271781/viagra_oysters_a_dangerous_twist_to.html?cat=51
It might still kill you, but you'll die smiling.
Having never been attacked by one, I couldn't tell you, but I do know one thing: they're delicious. Every now and again you snag one that smells like your sisters jelly shoes in 4th grade. That one might kill you.
My solution?
Don't eat it! Instead - pick another one!
Even in spite of my advanced sniff test abilities, some still say your average oyster may be a lurking killer. I don't know that for sure, but I do know one kind of oyster that's beating the system: http://www.associatedcontent.com/article/271781/viagra_oysters_a_dangerous_twist_to.html?cat=51
It might still kill you, but you'll die smiling.
Just a Quick Game of Squash
Despite my recent truculence and my not-so-subtle desperate plea for help regarding a certain rehearsal dinner; there IS light at the end of the tunnel. Two nights ago my lovely Aunt Greer called to inquire as to my progress and recommend the Capital City Club as a suitable venue (lamb chop lollipops, thank you) and more importantly: offer her assistance.
Dad, always a peach, piped up in the background with "Hey is that my sister? Tell her she sure is nosy! Why is she asking? Is she offering to pay for it?"; an unhelpful salvo which, fortunately, she completely ignored. He than wandered off clutching a framing hammer mumbling something about "financial straits." Greer asked a few more pertinent questions concerning menu and drink offerings and suggested I call her later in the week.
This morning I got an email from Capital City with a menu and prices all laid out followed by an email from Uncle Milton (Greer dictates, but refrains from addressing the computer directly) with a few additional ideas.
Shortly afterwards I received another email; this time from my friend Strib Stribling with an attached menu from the Piedmont Driving Club. Strib suggested we stop in there together tomorrow because he would be on-campus "playing a game of squash."
My experience indicates that, among unacquainted men, awkward conversations are the norm, but I can imagine few conversations more awkward than the one required to arrange a pick-up game of squash, live, at the Piedmont Driving Club.
"Hey man. Can I. Err. I mean can you. Well, first off: I'm Strib. Ahem. Do you want to play with me? No! I mean not play with me. Squash me. I mean eh, can you come out and play? What I mean is - will you squash with me? Lets us two squash. Sound good?"
It sounds suspiciously like a Man-Date to me, but if that's what you're into Strib - squash away.
As I'm sure you know, I generally don't befriend squash players, but I'm making an exception for Strib due to his other sterling qualities and generally good nature. After all - I need all the support I can muster. All I've got going for me these days is an Aunt with Cold-War-quality negotiation skills and a guy with a name that sounds like a bodypart; but I think we're going to be a-ok.
Help, they say, is where you find it.
Dad, always a peach, piped up in the background with "Hey is that my sister? Tell her she sure is nosy! Why is she asking? Is she offering to pay for it?"; an unhelpful salvo which, fortunately, she completely ignored. He than wandered off clutching a framing hammer mumbling something about "financial straits." Greer asked a few more pertinent questions concerning menu and drink offerings and suggested I call her later in the week.
This morning I got an email from Capital City with a menu and prices all laid out followed by an email from Uncle Milton (Greer dictates, but refrains from addressing the computer directly) with a few additional ideas.
Shortly afterwards I received another email; this time from my friend Strib Stribling with an attached menu from the Piedmont Driving Club. Strib suggested we stop in there together tomorrow because he would be on-campus "playing a game of squash."
My experience indicates that, among unacquainted men, awkward conversations are the norm, but I can imagine few conversations more awkward than the one required to arrange a pick-up game of squash, live, at the Piedmont Driving Club.
"Hey man. Can I. Err. I mean can you. Well, first off: I'm Strib. Ahem. Do you want to play with me? No! I mean not play with me. Squash me. I mean eh, can you come out and play? What I mean is - will you squash with me? Lets us two squash. Sound good?"
It sounds suspiciously like a Man-Date to me, but if that's what you're into Strib - squash away.
As I'm sure you know, I generally don't befriend squash players, but I'm making an exception for Strib due to his other sterling qualities and generally good nature. After all - I need all the support I can muster. All I've got going for me these days is an Aunt with Cold-War-quality negotiation skills and a guy with a name that sounds like a bodypart; but I think we're going to be a-ok.
Help, they say, is where you find it.
Monday, July 26, 2010
License to Steal
I'm going to be funny again after I get married - I'm certain of it, but right now the stress of planning a rehearsal dinner is making all my chest hair fall out.
Choosing a rehearsal dinner location is alot of responsiblity for someone who still has linoleum in his kitchen, but after great travail; I finally found a place I like. I even managed to meet with the convicted felon they had masquerading as a party planner. Do you know what this extortionist quoted me, total, for the event? Bear in mind - we're talking about a seated dinner. Dinner. Where you get together and eat with other people. Just dinner - not a talking dog and pony show followed by lion-taming. No magic tricks or murder mystery theater. We're talking food, drink and possibly a slide show of all my conquered animal heads, but basically - just dinner.
$10,000.
That's TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS. TEN THOUSAND. When the chirpy idiot who quoted me the price dropped that piano on me - I immediately felt simultaneously hot and cold all over. Then, I got furious.
If you so much as gently breathe the words "wedding" or "rehearsal dinner" towards these greedy, twisted, evil, party planning thieves; it's like a license to steal.
It boggles my mind.
I immediately thought of so many terrible things to say to her that it created a mental logjam right at the front of my brain and all that came out was "eeeeeek!!". I wanted to say "You, madame, are smelly and shaped like a walrus", but I literally couldn't get a word out.
Tyler, who happened to see my eyes bug out and my nostrils flare, managed to pipe up with "well, thanks! we'll be in touch" just in time, then steered my catatonic, lumbering frame gently towards the car.
If you pay $100-a-plate for hotplate food prepared in advance and cheap beer - you better be eating sauteed Passenger Pigeon served with a light Tazmanian Devil compote and it better be beer brewed by Benjamin Frankline himself and dredged up from the wreck of the Titanic or you're just plain getting screwed.
You know what they wanted $100-a-plate for? Grilled chicken or an 8oz filet. Not BOTH, mind you - either /or.
Seriously, I am in the wrong industry. I need to figure out a way to capitalize on someone else's joyous occasion and if I can potentially ruin it by piling on financial worries - I'll just consider it a bonus.
So, to the ASS who tried to stick me for a $10,000 dinner with a grin on her face like I'm a full-grown newborn with a wallet - even though YOUwere going to charge ME for EVERYTHING (linens, candlesticks, chairs, trash, servers, lighting, parking) I left you something for FREE
...it's smeared all over your door handle.
Choosing a rehearsal dinner location is alot of responsiblity for someone who still has linoleum in his kitchen, but after great travail; I finally found a place I like. I even managed to meet with the convicted felon they had masquerading as a party planner. Do you know what this extortionist quoted me, total, for the event? Bear in mind - we're talking about a seated dinner. Dinner. Where you get together and eat with other people. Just dinner - not a talking dog and pony show followed by lion-taming. No magic tricks or murder mystery theater. We're talking food, drink and possibly a slide show of all my conquered animal heads, but basically - just dinner.
$10,000.
That's TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS. TEN THOUSAND. When the chirpy idiot who quoted me the price dropped that piano on me - I immediately felt simultaneously hot and cold all over. Then, I got furious.
If you so much as gently breathe the words "wedding" or "rehearsal dinner" towards these greedy, twisted, evil, party planning thieves; it's like a license to steal.
It boggles my mind.
I immediately thought of so many terrible things to say to her that it created a mental logjam right at the front of my brain and all that came out was "eeeeeek!!". I wanted to say "You, madame, are smelly and shaped like a walrus", but I literally couldn't get a word out.
Tyler, who happened to see my eyes bug out and my nostrils flare, managed to pipe up with "well, thanks! we'll be in touch" just in time, then steered my catatonic, lumbering frame gently towards the car.
If you pay $100-a-plate for hotplate food prepared in advance and cheap beer - you better be eating sauteed Passenger Pigeon served with a light Tazmanian Devil compote and it better be beer brewed by Benjamin Frankline himself and dredged up from the wreck of the Titanic or you're just plain getting screwed.
You know what they wanted $100-a-plate for? Grilled chicken or an 8oz filet. Not BOTH, mind you - either /or.
Seriously, I am in the wrong industry. I need to figure out a way to capitalize on someone else's joyous occasion and if I can potentially ruin it by piling on financial worries - I'll just consider it a bonus.
So, to the ASS who tried to stick me for a $10,000 dinner with a grin on her face like I'm a full-grown newborn with a wallet - even though YOUwere going to charge ME for EVERYTHING (linens, candlesticks, chairs, trash, servers, lighting, parking) I left you something for FREE
...it's smeared all over your door handle.
Monday, July 19, 2010
For the Sake of Production
Whenever I feel a bit stymied in life I tend to throw myself into an activity. This is especially true when I feel stymied because I know I should be pursuing a certain task, but I don’t really want to. Strictly speaking: I prefer for the substitute activity to appear productive without actually providing value to anyone. I can keep myself happy doing nonproductive, but energy-absorbing tasks for an obscenely long time.
When I have something to do that I must do, but I don’t WANT to do – I throw myself instead into something I really WANT to do, that I haven’t had time to attack yet.
At the moment I need very badly to paint my house.
Instead, I spent all day yesterday reorganizing my workshop. Today, I’m going to go home and re-upholster something, or possibly find a bunch of things to throw away that don’t really need to be thrown away urgently – like shoes.
I love throwing away old shoes.
Tomorrow afternoon I’ll probably re-stack some wood, pressure-wash my boat, clean a few fishing reels, and mount a scope on my favorite deer rifle. Later, I’ll probably get the ladder out and survey my roof, then spray some bug killer around my gutters and sweep the workshop again.
Wednesday I’m going to clean the tires on my boat trailer, burn some cardboard boxes, and organize my reloading bench. I’m saving the best for last though.
On Friday I’m going to collect a load of Home Depot and Lowes purchases I’ve made in the last 12 months (still in shopping bags), but not used; and return them. I wouldn’t want to live in a world where I can’t extract money out of Home Depot and Lowes.
The returns department is amazing. You get the intense gratification of making the purchase, THEN get to feel like they’re giving you money when you take it back.
Halcyon!
Sometimes, if I’ve had a really bad week I’ll pretend like I don’t have a receipt. Then, when the customer service person smells blood in the water and tries to offer me a gift card instead of cash back (dirty trick); I’ll whip out a stack of receipts and grin at them. “Must’ve been right here in my pocket all along!”
They hate that.
This trend of frantic, unnecessary activity will continue until I can find nothing else to do around the house and then, because I must remain in constant motion, I’ll be forced to finally paint the house.
The result is - I end up doing a million things I don't need to do just to avoid completing one very necessary task, THEN I end up going the necessary task anyway.
I don’t know why I do this to myself.
When I have something to do that I must do, but I don’t WANT to do – I throw myself instead into something I really WANT to do, that I haven’t had time to attack yet.
At the moment I need very badly to paint my house.
Instead, I spent all day yesterday reorganizing my workshop. Today, I’m going to go home and re-upholster something, or possibly find a bunch of things to throw away that don’t really need to be thrown away urgently – like shoes.
I love throwing away old shoes.
Tomorrow afternoon I’ll probably re-stack some wood, pressure-wash my boat, clean a few fishing reels, and mount a scope on my favorite deer rifle. Later, I’ll probably get the ladder out and survey my roof, then spray some bug killer around my gutters and sweep the workshop again.
Wednesday I’m going to clean the tires on my boat trailer, burn some cardboard boxes, and organize my reloading bench. I’m saving the best for last though.
On Friday I’m going to collect a load of Home Depot and Lowes purchases I’ve made in the last 12 months (still in shopping bags), but not used; and return them. I wouldn’t want to live in a world where I can’t extract money out of Home Depot and Lowes.
The returns department is amazing. You get the intense gratification of making the purchase, THEN get to feel like they’re giving you money when you take it back.
Halcyon!
Sometimes, if I’ve had a really bad week I’ll pretend like I don’t have a receipt. Then, when the customer service person smells blood in the water and tries to offer me a gift card instead of cash back (dirty trick); I’ll whip out a stack of receipts and grin at them. “Must’ve been right here in my pocket all along!”
They hate that.
This trend of frantic, unnecessary activity will continue until I can find nothing else to do around the house and then, because I must remain in constant motion, I’ll be forced to finally paint the house.
The result is - I end up doing a million things I don't need to do just to avoid completing one very necessary task, THEN I end up going the necessary task anyway.
I don’t know why I do this to myself.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Inequity
I’ve noticed a few inequities in life that I feel are desperately underrepresented. The latest serious injustice I’ve been forced to consider is this: If Taco Bell is required to display their 100-point health rating and reasons for any failures in each of their restaurants; why aren’t proctologists and ladydoctors required to have a plaque prominently displayed in their offices that lists their primary reasons for going into those medical fields?
Thank you, YES - I DO want to know why my local Taco Bell only scored an 80 / 100 on its health inspection, but more importantly – why do you want to look at my naughty parts?
I don’t want to be unreasonable. I firmly believe we all deserve to know what’s going on behind the counter at Taco Bell. Similarly, when my naked butt is the focal point of a complete stranger in a professional setting – I want to know a little bit about motivation.
Don’t get me wrong - I’m fine with someone (or groups of someones) wanting to see me in the altogether. In fact – thanks! I appreciate you! But how about some disclosure so I can make the decision to don the paper prom dress in peace?
Is that asking too much?
I just don’t understand why in the world I have to strip to my Batman Fruit-of-the-Looms just to get my teeth cleaned.
Thank you, YES - I DO want to know why my local Taco Bell only scored an 80 / 100 on its health inspection, but more importantly – why do you want to look at my naughty parts?
I don’t want to be unreasonable. I firmly believe we all deserve to know what’s going on behind the counter at Taco Bell. Similarly, when my naked butt is the focal point of a complete stranger in a professional setting – I want to know a little bit about motivation.
Don’t get me wrong - I’m fine with someone (or groups of someones) wanting to see me in the altogether. In fact – thanks! I appreciate you! But how about some disclosure so I can make the decision to don the paper prom dress in peace?
Is that asking too much?
I just don’t understand why in the world I have to strip to my Batman Fruit-of-the-Looms just to get my teeth cleaned.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
AAA Meetings
I've felt generally non-funny lately.
I think I'm in a slump.
I need some good material, but all I can think to tell you is that I managed to incorrectly install a wheel on the hub of my boat trailer a few weeks ago.
You would think it would take alot of effort to get "match these two round objects" wrong. It didn't though. Putting it on wrong was super easy. All you have to do is grab a socket wrench, focus on being a complete idiot and, voila! you're all set.
The problem was brought to my attention mid-way through a hairpin turn above Lake Blue Ridge by a snaggle-toothed gentleman who slowed me to a crawl and drawled "Hey there buddy. You got you a wheel thats done nearbout come off'n the trailer" before tossing his flowing mullet behind him and passing me on the curve.
I stopped in the middle of the road, walked around the truck, and, sure enough - the wheel done nearbout come off'n the trailer. More specifically - it was hanging on for dear life by the barest of lugnut connections and no amount of effort on Tyler's part could get them off. I finally told her to knock off with the tire iron and we just called AAA for a tow.
Tyler and I spent the next hour-and-a-half throwing rocks at a road sign and making various wild, unfounded claims to each other concerning our pitching arms before AAA was kind enough to come by and tell us the trailer was too big to tow.
Clearly someone at AAA has studied psychology; because I do prefer to get very bad news in person and from a complete stranger.
Fortunately, "Billy" was kind enough to follow me down the mountain with wobbling trailer in tow and we managed to find our way to a repair shop.
When I finally got my boat back I asked the mechanic how the repair went and he said "Buddy, it was the worst looking thing I ever had to fix and it nearly killed me getting those lug nuts off." I felt terrible because obviously the stress of the repair had made all his side, top, and rear teeth fall out. To me, that's hardly a worthwhile exchange for a wheel repair, but he cheerfully gummed his four front lower teeth a bit and said "sure was glad to get 'er done."
Sudeenly, I felt a renewed sense of purpose in life. If there weren't people like me around - there'd be nobody to help make sure things stay broken!
Then where would we be?
I think I'm in a slump.
I need some good material, but all I can think to tell you is that I managed to incorrectly install a wheel on the hub of my boat trailer a few weeks ago.
You would think it would take alot of effort to get "match these two round objects" wrong. It didn't though. Putting it on wrong was super easy. All you have to do is grab a socket wrench, focus on being a complete idiot and, voila! you're all set.
The problem was brought to my attention mid-way through a hairpin turn above Lake Blue Ridge by a snaggle-toothed gentleman who slowed me to a crawl and drawled "Hey there buddy. You got you a wheel thats done nearbout come off'n the trailer" before tossing his flowing mullet behind him and passing me on the curve.
I stopped in the middle of the road, walked around the truck, and, sure enough - the wheel done nearbout come off'n the trailer. More specifically - it was hanging on for dear life by the barest of lugnut connections and no amount of effort on Tyler's part could get them off. I finally told her to knock off with the tire iron and we just called AAA for a tow.
Tyler and I spent the next hour-and-a-half throwing rocks at a road sign and making various wild, unfounded claims to each other concerning our pitching arms before AAA was kind enough to come by and tell us the trailer was too big to tow.
Clearly someone at AAA has studied psychology; because I do prefer to get very bad news in person and from a complete stranger.
Fortunately, "Billy" was kind enough to follow me down the mountain with wobbling trailer in tow and we managed to find our way to a repair shop.
When I finally got my boat back I asked the mechanic how the repair went and he said "Buddy, it was the worst looking thing I ever had to fix and it nearly killed me getting those lug nuts off." I felt terrible because obviously the stress of the repair had made all his side, top, and rear teeth fall out. To me, that's hardly a worthwhile exchange for a wheel repair, but he cheerfully gummed his four front lower teeth a bit and said "sure was glad to get 'er done."
Sudeenly, I felt a renewed sense of purpose in life. If there weren't people like me around - there'd be nobody to help make sure things stay broken!
Then where would we be?
Thursday, July 08, 2010
Adopt a 17-yr Old
Having had very little experience with "lactation" in the past (other than a few, brief, unpleasant encounters with those weird little alien newborn things all you moms seem to dote on); you'll all be pleased to know that my life-long dedication to remaining lactation-ignorant came to a screeching halt recently through the presence of a family member's newborn at a recent long weekend vacation.
It's pretty weird.
So weird, in fact; that I'm surprised women (at least those of you who have ever toured a dairy) will actually go through with it. Your average newly-born basically turns new mom into something of a cross between a human battery and a very sensitive Holstein. Its dehumanizing. It is. I watched it happen.
I know NOW it sounds exaggerated, but just you wait a few years. Every two hours when your new little Bartholemew or Bertha cries - you too will be scurrying about for a clandestine corner in which to partially disrobe...or perhaps not. Perhaps you'll join the bold contingent of Militant Nursers who insist on bareing lumenous expanses of never-before-daylit skin to the horrified gaze of mankind. Sure, it could be you! Nobody matures into adulthood thinking "I want to grow up and have my coworkers see me partially nude"; but some among you will one day fill that role.
I digress. My point is - you're not a nutritious fire hydrant. You're a person. Don't let the little leeches drain you of hard-won calories, sleep, and peace of mind. Instead, I vote that we tack a rider on the next health care bill that mandates all children be left in the care of the hospital until they're ready for first grade.
How much nicer would it be if little Wanda came home from the hospital to see her new room for the first time; and instead of spending the next 3 years learning to talk (only to become an ungrateful 3yr-old); could instead turn to you and say "Thanks for the new digs. I promise I'll take care of you when you're old."?
It's just an idea.
It's pretty weird.
So weird, in fact; that I'm surprised women (at least those of you who have ever toured a dairy) will actually go through with it. Your average newly-born basically turns new mom into something of a cross between a human battery and a very sensitive Holstein. Its dehumanizing. It is. I watched it happen.
I know NOW it sounds exaggerated, but just you wait a few years. Every two hours when your new little Bartholemew or Bertha cries - you too will be scurrying about for a clandestine corner in which to partially disrobe...or perhaps not. Perhaps you'll join the bold contingent of Militant Nursers who insist on bareing lumenous expanses of never-before-daylit skin to the horrified gaze of mankind. Sure, it could be you! Nobody matures into adulthood thinking "I want to grow up and have my coworkers see me partially nude"; but some among you will one day fill that role.
I digress. My point is - you're not a nutritious fire hydrant. You're a person. Don't let the little leeches drain you of hard-won calories, sleep, and peace of mind. Instead, I vote that we tack a rider on the next health care bill that mandates all children be left in the care of the hospital until they're ready for first grade.
How much nicer would it be if little Wanda came home from the hospital to see her new room for the first time; and instead of spending the next 3 years learning to talk (only to become an ungrateful 3yr-old); could instead turn to you and say "Thanks for the new digs. I promise I'll take care of you when you're old."?
It's just an idea.
Wednesday, July 07, 2010
I Have Failed
Gentle Readers:
I regret to inform you that my fall from manhood is complete. I assented to the creation of a "wedding website" in which I have documented the details of our engagement.
http://weddings.theknot.com/pwp/pwp2/view/MemberPage.aspx?coupleid=5064394449537812&pid=10318393
I apologize, but you'll be happy to know that when Tyler asked me to marry her - I didn't mean to say "yes" and throw away my bachelor freedom. I MEANT to say "I'll think on it" but I choked on a boiled peanut and it came out all garbled as "Yeah".
I just didn't have the heart to take it back.
Sincerely,
Ex-Bachelor Ewing
I regret to inform you that my fall from manhood is complete. I assented to the creation of a "wedding website" in which I have documented the details of our engagement.
http://weddings.theknot.com/pwp/pwp2/view/MemberPage.aspx?coupleid=5064394449537812&pid=10318393
I apologize, but you'll be happy to know that when Tyler asked me to marry her - I didn't mean to say "yes" and throw away my bachelor freedom. I MEANT to say "I'll think on it" but I choked on a boiled peanut and it came out all garbled as "Yeah".
I just didn't have the heart to take it back.
Sincerely,
Ex-Bachelor Ewing
Friday, July 02, 2010
Epic On The Cape
After a (far too brief) 4-day trip to the gulf this weekend the topic on everyone's mind seems to be oil and oil booms. "Were we able to get out into the gulf through Port St. Joe?" The answer is: Yes. We were.
I understand Barack Obama has some kind of half-ass orange contraption all buoyed-up around the mouth of the bay, but I think it is more for panache than anything else - just so Port St. Joe can get in on the oily action. A blind manatee (or "aquatic speed bump" as we like to call them) could get through, over, or around said oil boom with ease.
From what I was able to tell they've set buoys strategically and have the yellow booms on stand-by - ready to stretch across; but they're definitely not set so as to block traffic or actually do anything constructive.
When we headed out into the wild blue I tried to convince Fred B. Hand, IV (Captain, Friend, Patriot) we should troll alongside the floating booms at the mouth of the bay for billfish, oil globs and kayaks, but he disregarded my advice.
There you have my basic oil report.
As to the Annual Crash-The-Hand-Family-Vacation vacation I'm pleased to announce that it was a rousing success. Attendees: Me, Twylerpants, Fred B. Hand, IV; Fred B. Hand, III; Kelly Logan (IV's girlfriend), Frances Hand, and finally - Fred B. Hand, Jr. Thats right - this year Fred's granddad came down.
We had a ball. We had a bit of boat trouble, but perhaps you should read about it as reported earlier this week. Please, do read on....
Last year when Fred broke the throttle cable (on the 20' Mako offshore boat) they took the boat to Indian Pass Marine. Indian Pass Marine had (written) instructions to take the Mako BACK to dry storage when it was fixed. Instead, Indian Pass Marine set the boat in their backyard and left it outside in the weather all year. ALL year - August to July. When we got there on Saturday, the poor Mako was an absolute wreck. Mildew all over everything. It was rough.
So, Fred took my fiancee and drove off and left me with his Dad in the parking lot of Indian Pass Marine with a wrecked and mildewed Mako somehow hooked to MY truck.
Mr. Hand was absolutely beside himself. It was like watching a well-educated Yosemite Sam lift off into orbit. I mean he was foaming at the mouth over paying for dry storage for 12 months while the boat sat outside. I'm serious - the man was almost unable to speak.
Almost.
We got in my truck and took it to the washdown place where I proceeded to wreck my good clothes with "pressurized foam spray" and Clorox whilst washing down the Mako under the very detailed tutelage of Mr. Hand. Thank God he finally ran out of quarters. It took 60 before we were through. I'd hear the alarm beeping and think "maybe we're done now," then I'd hear him furiously cramming quarters into it again and swearing violently to himself.
Once we finished attacking the baked-on mildew as best we could; we went to the gas station...then to Autozone....and the place to get yamalube.....then back to autozone....then to Bluewater Outfitters for bait....then back to the yamalube place again....and finally back to Autozone...again.
So, I finally made it home to the beach house around 4pm with a truckload of petroleum products, dry goods, hardware, a semi-wrecked-looking boat in tow, and a distinguished looking gentleman in his mid-50's furiously gesticulating at every car that got in front of us.
We pulled up and Mr. Hand said completely serious (to sodden, soapy me shivering in the arctic air of my truck AC) "Oh good. Thank God the girls have already unpacked everything so we dont have to. Now arent you glad we missed all that mess!??"
I looked at him through soap-blurred vision and shivered my assent.
The next morning we took the Mako out and I said "Hey did y'all put fuel stabilizer in this thing last year?" and I got blank looks. So inside my brain I went "Oh boy. I wonder how today is going to turn out?"
We crank it up and it immediately starts surging and sputtering. I would have turned back. Fred dropped the hammer and let it surge, sputter, and cough us 7 miles offshore towards a storm front.
We surged and sputtered around for a few hours, caught a few spanish mackerel and sharks, then headed back surging and sputtering (hammer down). It sounded like a completely screwed fuel system to me. I was just waiting to hear a rod go through the top of the motor. "KAAAWWWAAACCCKKAAA!!! Call the Coast Guard!"
By dint of sheer Hand-Family-Luck we barely limped back in, put $72 worth of assorted fuel additives in it at Mr. Hand's direction (octane boost, stabil, seafoam, Lucas Miracle Oil, Lever 2000 - whatever would fit in the tank) and took it back to Indian Pass Marine. Mr. Hand handled it from there, gleefully, I might add.
Basically, the fuel was ruined as you can guess; which filled up the water separator filter with water and lawd knows what else....Which plugged all the filters and ruined the spark plugs and shot h20 all into the cylinder heads doing who knows what kind of damage. I'm sure it shot the 02 sensor too. When that ethanol stuff separates (which it does in about 3 months - or sooner in that kind of heat) it grows all kinds of algae and crap in the water at the bottom of the fuel tank which immediately gets into everyplace you don't want it.
Fred remained extremely upbeat, even "sunny and cheerful", through the whole thing; he was even heard to whistle a few bars of "I've Got Sunshine" on the way back and I couldn't figure it out. Then I realized - A. We're on a "major adventure" so, naturally he and I felt pretty good right off; but B. He knows if he can figure out a way to blow this motor - he's going to figure out a way to get Mr. Hand to rebuild it and put on his other boat, then put a fresh Yamaha on the Mako or something. So - it was a win/win for him. In fact, he may be leaning a bit harder towards "stranded" just to get the new motor.
Anyway, Fred was happy as a clam so I didnt worry about it.
Indian Pass Marine finally fixed all that and who knows what else. Mr. Hand said alot of words to me with boat terms mixed in when I asked him what was wrong with it - but I dont think he really knew what they did. I suspect when Indian Pass Marine told him; he was thinking too hard about the next thing he was going to say to blast them to really pay attention to the diagnosis. Anyway, Mr. Hand bore down on them so hard they had the whole boat fixed and looking brand new in two days - in the middle of high season.
To top it off Indian Pass Marine then said they needed to replace both throttle cables - which they did. That REALLY pissed The Freds off (Fred Jr got in on the action at Indian Pass Marine too - they took his big Cadillac over there and parked it out front for intimidation).
All I know is we had a ball. Fred's Dad was positively overjoyed to have somebody to bear down on, Fred Jr was tickled to get to critique Fred III in action ("I'd have been a whole lot harder on those idiots Fred, why did you go so easy on them are you getting soft?"), Fred IV got a little less heat on him because the heat was all on Indian Pass Marine, Mrs. Hand managed to slip away and fish with us whilst all the heat was getting poured on Indian Pass Marine, I got to watch it all happen, and the Mako ended up a-ok.
Hilarity ensued. It was a giant win/win/win/win/win.
In between all the hooplah we managed to cook a bunch of stuff that was entirely too complex for the venue, stay fairly sodden, hide beer cans all over the house and deck for Fred III to find, get in big trouble with the rental agency for having a dog over to visit, and do a bunch of scalloping around.
My favorite was when I overheard Fred III on the phone invite 5 extra people to dinner on Tuesday night and tell them I was cooking.
I panicked and looked at Tyler, my sous-chef, who mouthed back "WHAT DID HE SAY??!?!!"
The trip was, to quote Fred B. Hand III "Epic".
My apologies to the Hand Family - you'll never get rid of us now.
I understand Barack Obama has some kind of half-ass orange contraption all buoyed-up around the mouth of the bay, but I think it is more for panache than anything else - just so Port St. Joe can get in on the oily action. A blind manatee (or "aquatic speed bump" as we like to call them) could get through, over, or around said oil boom with ease.
From what I was able to tell they've set buoys strategically and have the yellow booms on stand-by - ready to stretch across; but they're definitely not set so as to block traffic or actually do anything constructive.
When we headed out into the wild blue I tried to convince Fred B. Hand, IV (Captain, Friend, Patriot) we should troll alongside the floating booms at the mouth of the bay for billfish, oil globs and kayaks, but he disregarded my advice.
There you have my basic oil report.
As to the Annual Crash-The-Hand-Family-Vacation vacation I'm pleased to announce that it was a rousing success. Attendees: Me, Twylerpants, Fred B. Hand, IV; Fred B. Hand, III; Kelly Logan (IV's girlfriend), Frances Hand, and finally - Fred B. Hand, Jr. Thats right - this year Fred's granddad came down.
We had a ball. We had a bit of boat trouble, but perhaps you should read about it as reported earlier this week. Please, do read on....
Last year when Fred broke the throttle cable (on the 20' Mako offshore boat) they took the boat to Indian Pass Marine. Indian Pass Marine had (written) instructions to take the Mako BACK to dry storage when it was fixed. Instead, Indian Pass Marine set the boat in their backyard and left it outside in the weather all year. ALL year - August to July. When we got there on Saturday, the poor Mako was an absolute wreck. Mildew all over everything. It was rough.
So, Fred took my fiancee and drove off and left me with his Dad in the parking lot of Indian Pass Marine with a wrecked and mildewed Mako somehow hooked to MY truck.
Mr. Hand was absolutely beside himself. It was like watching a well-educated Yosemite Sam lift off into orbit. I mean he was foaming at the mouth over paying for dry storage for 12 months while the boat sat outside. I'm serious - the man was almost unable to speak.
Almost.
We got in my truck and took it to the washdown place where I proceeded to wreck my good clothes with "pressurized foam spray" and Clorox whilst washing down the Mako under the very detailed tutelage of Mr. Hand. Thank God he finally ran out of quarters. It took 60 before we were through. I'd hear the alarm beeping and think "maybe we're done now," then I'd hear him furiously cramming quarters into it again and swearing violently to himself.
Once we finished attacking the baked-on mildew as best we could; we went to the gas station...then to Autozone....and the place to get yamalube.....then back to autozone....then to Bluewater Outfitters for bait....then back to the yamalube place again....and finally back to Autozone...again.
So, I finally made it home to the beach house around 4pm with a truckload of petroleum products, dry goods, hardware, a semi-wrecked-looking boat in tow, and a distinguished looking gentleman in his mid-50's furiously gesticulating at every car that got in front of us.
We pulled up and Mr. Hand said completely serious (to sodden, soapy me shivering in the arctic air of my truck AC) "Oh good. Thank God the girls have already unpacked everything so we dont have to. Now arent you glad we missed all that mess!??"
I looked at him through soap-blurred vision and shivered my assent.
The next morning we took the Mako out and I said "Hey did y'all put fuel stabilizer in this thing last year?" and I got blank looks. So inside my brain I went "Oh boy. I wonder how today is going to turn out?"
We crank it up and it immediately starts surging and sputtering. I would have turned back. Fred dropped the hammer and let it surge, sputter, and cough us 7 miles offshore towards a storm front.
We surged and sputtered around for a few hours, caught a few spanish mackerel and sharks, then headed back surging and sputtering (hammer down). It sounded like a completely screwed fuel system to me. I was just waiting to hear a rod go through the top of the motor. "KAAAWWWAAACCCKKAAA!!! Call the Coast Guard!"
By dint of sheer Hand-Family-Luck we barely limped back in, put $72 worth of assorted fuel additives in it at Mr. Hand's direction (octane boost, stabil, seafoam, Lucas Miracle Oil, Lever 2000 - whatever would fit in the tank) and took it back to Indian Pass Marine. Mr. Hand handled it from there, gleefully, I might add.
Basically, the fuel was ruined as you can guess; which filled up the water separator filter with water and lawd knows what else....Which plugged all the filters and ruined the spark plugs and shot h20 all into the cylinder heads doing who knows what kind of damage. I'm sure it shot the 02 sensor too. When that ethanol stuff separates (which it does in about 3 months - or sooner in that kind of heat) it grows all kinds of algae and crap in the water at the bottom of the fuel tank which immediately gets into everyplace you don't want it.
Fred remained extremely upbeat, even "sunny and cheerful", through the whole thing; he was even heard to whistle a few bars of "I've Got Sunshine" on the way back and I couldn't figure it out. Then I realized - A. We're on a "major adventure" so, naturally he and I felt pretty good right off; but B. He knows if he can figure out a way to blow this motor - he's going to figure out a way to get Mr. Hand to rebuild it and put on his other boat, then put a fresh Yamaha on the Mako or something. So - it was a win/win for him. In fact, he may be leaning a bit harder towards "stranded" just to get the new motor.
Anyway, Fred was happy as a clam so I didnt worry about it.
Indian Pass Marine finally fixed all that and who knows what else. Mr. Hand said alot of words to me with boat terms mixed in when I asked him what was wrong with it - but I dont think he really knew what they did. I suspect when Indian Pass Marine told him; he was thinking too hard about the next thing he was going to say to blast them to really pay attention to the diagnosis. Anyway, Mr. Hand bore down on them so hard they had the whole boat fixed and looking brand new in two days - in the middle of high season.
To top it off Indian Pass Marine then said they needed to replace both throttle cables - which they did. That REALLY pissed The Freds off (Fred Jr got in on the action at Indian Pass Marine too - they took his big Cadillac over there and parked it out front for intimidation).
All I know is we had a ball. Fred's Dad was positively overjoyed to have somebody to bear down on, Fred Jr was tickled to get to critique Fred III in action ("I'd have been a whole lot harder on those idiots Fred, why did you go so easy on them are you getting soft?"), Fred IV got a little less heat on him because the heat was all on Indian Pass Marine, Mrs. Hand managed to slip away and fish with us whilst all the heat was getting poured on Indian Pass Marine, I got to watch it all happen, and the Mako ended up a-ok.
Hilarity ensued. It was a giant win/win/win/win/win.
In between all the hooplah we managed to cook a bunch of stuff that was entirely too complex for the venue, stay fairly sodden, hide beer cans all over the house and deck for Fred III to find, get in big trouble with the rental agency for having a dog over to visit, and do a bunch of scalloping around.
My favorite was when I overheard Fred III on the phone invite 5 extra people to dinner on Tuesday night and tell them I was cooking.
I panicked and looked at Tyler, my sous-chef, who mouthed back "WHAT DID HE SAY??!?!!"
The trip was, to quote Fred B. Hand III "Epic".
My apologies to the Hand Family - you'll never get rid of us now.
Monday, June 21, 2010
Simpatico
I picked up a spy novel recently and was reminded of my adolescent love of that genre. I have always harbored a secret desire to be a real, live spy. Actually – a spy OR a sniper. Either one is fine.
On the odd occasion when I’ve mentioned that fact to others; I’ve always gotten a weird look and, generally, some sissy comment back from the speaker indicating he or she wouldn’t be able to shoot at a deer – much less people.
Oh, I could.
My only worry is that the military wouldn’t give me enough bullets. That’s one thing terrorists seem to never run out of: bullets. Ratty clothes, cave dwellings, unkempt beards…...but plenty of bullets.
Either way, I’m not saying I want to shoot at anybody. I really don’t. I’m just saying I could definitely shoot at a terrorist from way far away if I had to and, due to reading that latest spy book, I’ve been thinking about it a good bit lately. So much, in fact, that I wasn’t really surprised this weekend at Margaret’s wedding when a very well-dressed, distinguished gentleman with a lovely brunette on his arm leaned over to me and said slowly and clearly “S I M P A T I C O U P S T A I R S. T A K E T H E L A M B.”
I didn’t immediately recognize him, but at the same time he looked very familiar....Exactly like a spy should look.
He looked me square in the eye and winked then paused, awaiting a response.
My mind fairly bulged with the shock, intrigue and pride I felt at the faith my government had obviously placed in me to engage in espionage on behalf of my beloved country. What better place to recruit me into their service than a family wedding?
My eyes narrowed and, as my mind furiously searched for an appropriate response, he leaned in a bit closer and said even more slowly “S I M P A T I C O. Understand? S I M P A T I C O” then his eyes narrowed slightly and he winked his right eye briefly, just once.
Still in shock I mustered a knowing wink through fear-widened eyes and responded as clearly and slowly as I could: “Y O U S A I D ‘THE LAMB’, I S T H A T C O R R E C T?”
Awaiting further instructions I continued to hold his gaze for a moment while maintaining an awareness of all my blind spots and he responded:
“T H E L A M B” equally slowly, and with a curt nod.
I know our government can be a tid-bit enigmatic, but I was really starting to get confused. If you give somebody a damn code word you’re supposed to tell them ahead of time what the range of code words could be, right? I mean good grief. If I could read minds Tyler wouldn’t be furious at me right now.
We continued to stare at one another, live music blaring in the background until his gaze hardened and he said
“D O Y O U U N D E R S T A N D”? S I M P A T I C O. G O U P S T A I R S “
“NOW?” I responded quizzically, glancing up the stairwell towards the deserted groomsmen’s quarters.
“NO. NOT NOW.” He hissed, glancing around nervously.
“B U T H O W W I L L I K N O W W H E N I S S I M P A T I C O?” I whispered, checking the corners of the room for eavesdroppers.
“T H A T I S U P T O Y O U” he responded, slowly and clearly.
“I T I S Y O U R R E H E A R S A L D I N N E R.”
So, to Mr. Frey of the Marietta Frey's (who cleans up very well I might add) thank you for recommending a rehearsal dinner location - "Restaurant Simpatico" for my upcoming wedding weekend.
I am sorry I thought you were a spy.
On the odd occasion when I’ve mentioned that fact to others; I’ve always gotten a weird look and, generally, some sissy comment back from the speaker indicating he or she wouldn’t be able to shoot at a deer – much less people.
Oh, I could.
My only worry is that the military wouldn’t give me enough bullets. That’s one thing terrorists seem to never run out of: bullets. Ratty clothes, cave dwellings, unkempt beards…...but plenty of bullets.
Either way, I’m not saying I want to shoot at anybody. I really don’t. I’m just saying I could definitely shoot at a terrorist from way far away if I had to and, due to reading that latest spy book, I’ve been thinking about it a good bit lately. So much, in fact, that I wasn’t really surprised this weekend at Margaret’s wedding when a very well-dressed, distinguished gentleman with a lovely brunette on his arm leaned over to me and said slowly and clearly “S I M P A T I C O U P S T A I R S. T A K E T H E L A M B.”
I didn’t immediately recognize him, but at the same time he looked very familiar....Exactly like a spy should look.
He looked me square in the eye and winked then paused, awaiting a response.
My mind fairly bulged with the shock, intrigue and pride I felt at the faith my government had obviously placed in me to engage in espionage on behalf of my beloved country. What better place to recruit me into their service than a family wedding?
My eyes narrowed and, as my mind furiously searched for an appropriate response, he leaned in a bit closer and said even more slowly “S I M P A T I C O. Understand? S I M P A T I C O” then his eyes narrowed slightly and he winked his right eye briefly, just once.
Still in shock I mustered a knowing wink through fear-widened eyes and responded as clearly and slowly as I could: “Y O U S A I D ‘THE LAMB’, I S T H A T C O R R E C T?”
Awaiting further instructions I continued to hold his gaze for a moment while maintaining an awareness of all my blind spots and he responded:
“T H E L A M B” equally slowly, and with a curt nod.
I know our government can be a tid-bit enigmatic, but I was really starting to get confused. If you give somebody a damn code word you’re supposed to tell them ahead of time what the range of code words could be, right? I mean good grief. If I could read minds Tyler wouldn’t be furious at me right now.
We continued to stare at one another, live music blaring in the background until his gaze hardened and he said
“D O Y O U U N D E R S T A N D”? S I M P A T I C O. G O U P S T A I R S “
“NOW?” I responded quizzically, glancing up the stairwell towards the deserted groomsmen’s quarters.
“NO. NOT NOW.” He hissed, glancing around nervously.
“B U T H O W W I L L I K N O W W H E N I S S I M P A T I C O?” I whispered, checking the corners of the room for eavesdroppers.
“T H A T I S U P T O Y O U” he responded, slowly and clearly.
“I T I S Y O U R R E H E A R S A L D I N N E R.”
So, to Mr. Frey of the Marietta Frey's (who cleans up very well I might add) thank you for recommending a rehearsal dinner location - "Restaurant Simpatico" for my upcoming wedding weekend.
I am sorry I thought you were a spy.
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