The Duckling Killer Exposed

me:  Shannon: as you know I've decided to interview a few interesting family members. As my first cousin and a notorious family "character" - I've chosen to start with you. I think it's time the non-famous get in a word or two.

Also, I intend to make fun of you and perhaps highlight your flaws. Sound good?

Shannon:  Sounds good. A little scared but I think I can hang...

me:  Ok, lets start off small. Whats the worst thing you've ever done?

Shannon:  Wow. Eh, I feel like a really bad person right now.... I hate to say it, but I'm a duck murderer....That poor duckling ..... qqqqqwwwhackkkk!

me:  Ah, yes. I thought that story from your childhood might surface. You accidentally sat on and killed the baby duckling you received as an Easter present.  That was a pretty terrible thing to do, particularly on Easter. 

Shannon: I still feel guilty about it. 

Me: Yeah, I think it probably does make you a bad person; but that was a long time ago - what else terrible have you done? Did you kill another helpless baby animal with your bottom?

Shannon:  No....Only a duck. And a squirrel and armadillo that I ran over with my car.

me:  Do incongruous pairings of animals often run out in front of your car to commit suicide, or were these multiple instances?

Shannon:  Haha no they happened at different times. The armadillo I'm pretty sure did some damage to the undercarriage of my car.

me:  "Undercarriage". Heh. I love that word.

me: Let's keep going. Do you find that you talk to yourself out loud?

Shannon:  Absolutely. I mainly talk to myself when I'm really trying to focus on something. My co-workers think I'm pretty crazy.

me:  By "co-workers" you mean actual people, right?

Shannon:  Yes the other nurses I work with.

me: Gotcha. Do you have a favorite film?

Shannon:  My current favorite is The Dark Knight Rises...I've watched it 4 times since Saturday. That's averaging once a day...not too bad, eh?

me:  Wow. What is today?

Shannon: Tuesday

me:  That is correct. Just making sure you knew.

me:  Did you watch the entire film daily, or certain key parts? Mom watched key parts from Napoleon Dynamite every morning. So, I am familiar with that particular compulsion.

Shannon:  I actually paid attention once. The other 3 times I listened with that far away sense of hearing and I would perk up when my ears caught the parts I liked. 

me:  I use that "Far Away Sense of Hearing" sometimes when Tyler is talking to me, but she confuses it with "not listening at all" so it rarely works to my advantage.

me: On the topic of films: What is the most hilarious on-screen nekkid scene in history? My pick is the sorority pillow fight scene in Animal House. In all my years of lurking outside sorority houses with binoculars - I never once saw a naked pillow fight of any kind. Everytime I see that scene I'm like "Hah! Idiots! That never actually happens!!"

me: Ok, sorry. What's yours?

Shannon:  Eh, ok. Mine is from Forgetting Sarah Marshall when Jason Segal shakes his willy at Kristin Bell right before she breaks up with him. It reminds me of something that [my boyfriend] Chad MIGHT do, not something Chad HAS done. 

me:  Ah. It's amazing the joy and wonderment that comes from having dangly parts, is it not?  Why are naked people so fascinating?

Shannon: Hahaha! I don't know about all that!

me:  Recently someone told me that a man lives in your attic.  I assume she meant the ghost of someone you chopped up into tiny pieces is haunting you. Is that true? Are you subject to a haunting?? Maybe an ex-boyfriend?

Shannon:  Um...I don't think there is anyone in my attic. All of my ex boyfriends are alive.  Anyway, he would have a heck of a time getting out of there. I made Dad and [his friend] Glen wiggle through the access panel to inspect it  and it was not easy for them. At all.

me:  Ok, fair enough. If you do have a haunting you should call the psychic hotline, but do it from your parents house like I do. I think it's expensive.

me:  On the topic of exes - which of your exes do you think we, as a family, liked the least?

Shannon:  Bobby

me:  Wow, that was the quickest response time from any question yet, but that's not true. We liked the white one the least. The rest were ok. 

Shannon:  You must be getting me confused with [my sister] Ashley. 

me:  TOUCHE, MADAME! ZINGER!!

me:  Whew, but even your worst exes were still better than nearly all of Ashley's boyfriends, weren't they?

Shannon:  Hahahaha YES.

me:  She dated some derelicts didn't she? What was that all about?

Shannon:  She sure did. I guess she needed to meet a bunch of wrong ones before she could truly appreciate the right one. I think [her husband] Justin is a gift from God.

me:  I don't care if he's a gift from Buddha, Hare Krishna, or the Three Wisemen - just as long as he'll stick around.

me:  Remember the real' squirrelly guy she dated that didn't believe in toothpaste? He was my favorite.

Shannon:  Yeah, he was a grouch. He also had Oscar The Grouch night slippers that he NEVER took off, which made sense.

me:  Heh. I am surprised none of them ever had to bareknuckle fight [your younger sister] Natalie in a public forum. She's super aggressive. 

Shannon:  Natalie would probably win. Or I could just sit on 'em. Then I would really be a murderer.

me:  ....Sure worked on that duckling....

me: Ok, moving on. Do you find Uncle Buster terrifying or wonderful? Because it seems like most people fall into one of the two camps.

Shannon:  I think he is wonderful.  I saw him bottle-feed [tiny cousin] William at the beach and it confirmed for me that he is a big 'ol softy. I was ticked at him for that too. He stole my second opportunity for getting to feed that baby a bottle....but that was a personal issue of mine...no fault of his.

me:  I'm going to have to disagree with you there.  I once saw Uncle Buster kill a live Grizzly Bear with his bare hands without even dropping his fishing rod. So, clearly he can't be THAT soft.

Shannon: ..... It was really Margaret's fault for allowing him to bottle feed the baby and not letting me do it.....

me:  I can see that situation has really stuck with you. Perhaps you need to get a baby of your own going in the 'ol womb-parts. That'll set you right.

Shannon:  Gotta finish school and get a husband first..

me:  Nah, the order isn't that important. Just get you a baby percolating. Let the rest kinda sort itself out.

me: So, before we leave the topic of Uncle Buster, do you remember the first time he got you to use tobacco?

Shannon:  I have smoked a cigarette once, but that was because of Grandaddy not Buster. I asked him for some money at the beach. Instead, he bought me a carton of Marlboros and told me to sell them to [our cousin Beau] for $5 a pack. I did, but I "smoked" one of them first. I was 6.

me:  ....which puts Beau at about 8....Entrepreneurship gets instilled in us early in this family. 
me: That has "Granddad" written all over it. He was able to teach a quick lesson in demand economics, get both of you in trouble, AND infuriate both sets of parents. 

me: What is your favorite smell?

Shannon:  Ohhhhh this is a GREAT question! Gasoline and White Out and rubber cement.

me:  Good choices. Interesting that you chose three hallucinogenic organic solvents.

me: Do you love new smells? I know I do

Shannon:  Depends on what it is....but mostly yes.

me:  Ok, what is the WORST smell your smeller has smelt?

Shannon:  A pulse oximeter from a baby's foot. [Our cousin] Maggie can attest to that one...I gave her one for Christmas one year because you know how much she likes weird smells...She gagged.

me:  Whoah!  I did not see that one coming! Do you find you kind of want to smell that smell again for some reason? Deep down inside?

Shannon:  No, because I have to smell it on a regular basis in my job as a nurse, so I don't ever have a longing for it. It doesn't matter how little the baby, they all smell the same.

me:  But, obviously, you've chosen to return to that terrible smell on a number of occasions because its a bad smell, but you can't quite get enough of it. Admit it.

Shannon:  Yeah I have to because if you don't change it to a different foot every 12 hours it will irritate the baby's foot....The "yeah" above is not an admission by the way.

me:  "Mmmm, Hmmm..."

Shannon:  Also, I have seen 6 toes on one foot before and an extra pinky finger that looked exactly like a flesh colored junior mint.

me: Wow, that is an interesting factoid, but I'm not big on toes. I dated a girl one time that had 10 toes, and I hated all of them and the rest of her too. 

me: For some reason I bet you can generate watchfunk like a champion. 

Shannon:  What is watch funk?

me:  Nevermind.

me: ok, lets keep rolling here. we're nearing the end of our time together.

me:  They say an obsession with strange smells has alot to do with the Mother/Daughter connection, so lets talk about your Mom for a second. Who is the nuttiest, your Mom or [your Dad] Uncle Robert? 

Shannon:  My mom can be nuttier than him at times.

me:  We're picking "nuttiest" not hedging our bets here, Missy.

Shannon:  Dad then. 

me:  Is it at all possible that the Mother/Daughter connection is the reason you find such solace in foot smells?

Shannon: I'm not sure, but I guess it is possible.

me: What is your take on female body hair? Kill it or keep it?

Shannon:  Kill it - and trust me - I know from experience.  I definitely got the hairy gene. When [our cousin] Thomas was one and a half he asked me "why I had a beard?" I got my face waxed the next day. 

me:  How'd having a beard feel? Kinda felt good, didn't it?

Shannon:  It wasn't a full beard. I like to think of it as exaggerated sideburns. I didn't really notice the feel so much...

me:  Ah yes. A crustache can certainly sneak up on a young lady unawares.

Shannon:  Yes it can.

me:  I do notice that lately you have lovely smooth skin and a rosy complexion (and no beard). Do you have a secret skincare regimen (or shaver)?

Shannon:  Not really and I think that's the key. People who use all that face stuff tend to have the worst skin in my opinion. Look at XXXXXXXX. [Name Deleted]. I did, in the past year, start using a moisturizer from Clinique because the lady there told me my skin was "thirsty."

me:  Those Clinique ladies in the mall look like mannequins with face skin stretched across a wicker frame. If you're 82 and look 60 - it doesn't mean you're beautiful; it means you might be a demon. Don't let them spray their Snow White poison on you when you walk by. It'll turn you into a cripple. 

me: Any words of advice for our readers out there on The Interwebs?

Shannon:  Just be yourself. I can't stand it when people are so insecure that they feel they have to put up a front and not let other see who they truly are. "I don't front!!" I had a beard so I waxed it off, but I'm not ashamed to admit that I once had a beard

me:  ...And why would you be? Beards are AWESOME.

Shannon:  Yeah but I want boys to like me. Fortunately, Chad loves me, beard or no beard, so I may just grow it back.

me: Growing a beard is an excellent way to test a man's love. I say you try it. If he pukes, but comes back: he's yours!  In the meantime - thanks for the interview - and remember what I said about getting a baby - anytime is a good time!

How Does It Feel?

Our well-executed travel plan got us to the hospital, thanks to ME - and from there it got progressively more exciting. 

After soaking up nine months of flak from other parents ("TEN!!!" shouts Tylertoes in the background) on life “ending” and “changing” and labor being “scary” and this being a “very special time” but “hard” and “kiss your sleep goodbye” I was starting to wonder if I hadn't made a terrible mistake. 

As it turns out; you have nothing to worry about - the whole process is highly entertaining. 

Many of you who don't have a baby have asked "what does it feel like to have a baby?" That's an interesting question and I've carefully considered it. I have had a number of feelings to think through on that topic, but I have finally developed an answer for you:

Recall, for a moment how it felt to believe, deep in your spirit, that THIS VERY NIGHT, a fat foreigner is going to squeeze his big butt down your chimney to leave you great stuff.  Labor and delivery feels like that mixed with the feeling you had when your Mom said “the nice lady IS going to give you a shot, but it won’t hurt a bit.”  Earlier, you saw the nurse with the huge, clammy, sausage fingers; you know it’s going to hurt like abject hell and, for the first time, you realize an adult has betrayed you. Add that feeling in to the mix. 

So all that, PLUS, the feeling you felt the first time you boarded an airplane PLUS, the feeling you get right before you puke all over someone who does not see it coming. That’s what becoming a parent feels like.

Get excited.

Many others of you (Ernee The Attornee, for instance) are more interested in the gory details of childbirth than the "feelings" aspect. That's all you want to talk about - the indelicate details. I suspect its so you finally have license to use the word "vaginal" in conversation, but either way - I get it. It is, after all, a pretty gory process. 

The whole thing has a kind of barnyard-esque quality, but once you grow accustomed to the sheer volume and variety of fluids skeeting hither and yon – it’s no big deal. At several key, explosive, points during childbirth, I clearly recall thinking “In all my years of being a person - I've never seen that fluid before."

There really is nothing like it, but the best parallel I can draw for you is simply this: being an expectant father in the Labor and Delivery room gave me a brief glimpse into the life of a garbage man: you’re right there in the midst of something weird and smelly that you don’t want to be in the midst of, but you know eventually - you get to go home.

You'll Need a Travel Plan

I don’t love the hospital.

I think it’s the smells that put me off the most, but it may also be the rabbit warren-ness of it and the fluorescent lighting. Also, I don’t like sick people or nurses or doctors or parking decks or food on trays or smelly elevators or vinyl or paperwork touched by people who may have touched sick people. So, there’s that.

In spite of my long and well-established aversion to the hospital: I am very pleased to announce that Saturday, June 1 at 2:25 PM - with absolutely nothing at all wrong with me and completely of my own accord - I went to the hospital.  It was a hurdle moment for me, personally, and also for Tyler who was mid-way through labor and clawed the handle out of the doorframe the whole ride over.

The fact that we made it before the baby came is purely a testament to the Travel portion of our Birth Plan. That’s the part of the Birth Plan I was responsible for, and I am sure you will find that I executed it with precision and aplomb.

To that end: I’d like to talk to you, briefly, regarding the importance of The Travel Plan.

Our Travel Plan involved a few key elements that were taught us by some quack Youtube video series I was made to watch against my will in exchange for getting to go fishing. The key elements are as follows:

      Don’t deviate from The Travel Plan
      Have your car selected and ready to go in advance
      Have your bag packed and ready to go in advance  
      Don’t speed or run traffic signs

I sat in front of the television that fateful night in March, drinking a cocktail, and thinking “this is stupid”.

I was wrong about that.

We planned to take Tyler’s car which already had a carseat and whatnot installed in it. That was a good plan, but at the last minute, I deviated.  I panicked at the thought of not being near my truck in case I needed a chainsaw or rubber gloves or a toolkit or mouthwash or tow straps or bullets or a 6-ton bottle jack or fuses or a tarp or a bayonet. So, I called an “audible” and we took my truck which contained no carseat, stroller, or hospital paperwork; but had all that other stuff.  Tyler tried to object, but was in no condition to put up a fight and I won my first argument.

I did not pack a bag. On Bag Packing Day I went fishing instead, but I pulled my bag out, zipped it shut and put it by the back door so it would LOOK like I packed a bag. That bag was a lie and it sat by the door, heaping burning coals of guilt on my head for several months. It contained my lucky pair of boxers and a fishing magazine that I’d been saving for an emergency - and that is all.

Fortunately, because I had my truck at the hospital - and all my emergency supplies in it – I didn’t need a bag. Problem solved. Nothing bad comes from being prepared for nearly everything and, in case you were wondering about the little red kit in my truck box: that’s an emergency kit to fix an emergency kit.

On the way to the interstate I made a last minute adjustment to our route and we went through neighborhoods instead of I-75.  I find that interstates make me feel confined in an emergency. My initial Travel Plan failed to contemplate that. My Adjusted Travel Plan failed to contemplate Tyler’s propensity for carsickness which kicked in halfway down a very curvaceous Northside Drive. Fortunately for her, the nausea took her mind off the contractions.

Regardless, we reached Piedmont Hospital from Sandy Springs in about 4 minutes because I ran most of the red lights and all of the stop signs at high speed. I did that, in clear violation of the law, because the only thought in my head was “find someone to get this woman out of my car.” 

Riding in a car with a woman in labor is like riding in the car with a demon holding a live grenade. You really can’t think about anything except getting out of the car. That’s all you can focus on - one of us is going to have to get out of this car right away, this minute or something terrible may happen. If Piedmont were much further away I’d have jumped out on Peachtree and shouted “go on ahead – I’ll meet you there”.

That, in short, is why you need a Travel Plan.

The Big Bassippotamus

Let me set the stage for you:

Imagine that it's cold and rainy and 5:10AM. You have driven 90 miles to get in a single-file line of 155 pickup trucks full of grumpy, hairy, unkempt men; all waiting impatiently to park for approximately 45 seconds in a slot the size of a parking space. There exists not 155 slots, but two. Two slots.

Now add a 25’ long trailer to each truck and take the guy who owns the truck out of the equation and put some other guy behind the wheel. This guy is your fishing partner - randomly-assigned by the tournament director. Have that guy panic and select someone else (a passer-by) completely at random to drive your truck while you sit in your boat on the trailer thinking cheerful thoughts and wondering what is going on.

Also, the "slot" is a "boat ramp" which is full of “water”.  Also, you have forgotten to fill the truck up with gas. So, maybe the truck will run out of fuel while you are in line and the entire process will grind to a miserably embarrassing halt. Also, it is 51 degrees and pouring down rain. You don't know this yet, but it's going to rain all day.

Just to be clear, the scenario I have described is: me, sitting in my boat on dry land, on a trailer, behind my truck, in a huge line of trucks, in the pouring rain, in the dark. Someone I don't know is behind the wheel and another guy I don't know, who was originally behind the wheel, has abdicated his seat and we may or may not be about to run out of fuel.  

Interesting, eh?

Comedy abounds. Then, fury. Then, words are shouted. Later, everyone tacitly forgets what happened at the boat ramp and the comedy and fury are replaced with camaraderie….Until two of the same boats want to get to the same cove and catch the same fish. Then its mostly fury again. Then, tacit amnesia when it’s all over.

I stood in line to weigh my fish right next to a guy who nearly ran me over trying to beat me to a fishing spot not 4 hours previously.

I took the high road and fished elsewhere.

Do you know what the "high road" is paved with? Unkind thoughts. I had many very unkind thoughts while on the high road. One of them involves me leaning over the rude man's deathbed in 60 years pointing my bony, decrepit finger at him and shouting SEE THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS TO RUDE PEOPLE. THEY DIE BEFORE I DO. Ahhaaaahaaaa!!! 

A savvy psychiatrist could set a sofa out on the marina dock and make a living charging $20 an hour to returning fishermen. I, for one, would have paid it because, for possibly the first time in my life, I have some feelings I'd like to talk through.

I Have Some Questions

1. Do babies drink water at all? If so - how much? If not - how does he live without water?? And don't say "breast milk". I am 100% sure if all I had to drink for 8 months was milk - I'd shrivel up and die.

2. Does an automotive laser heat sensing thermometer for $11.99 work the same as a baby forehead laser thermometer for $129.99? Methinks it do.

3. What shape has my wife turned into under all that baby?

4. How long before a baby could theoretically ride on a Saint Bernard in a leather saddle that was theoretically homemade by someone theoretical?

5. Can a baby wear a suit and a tie? Because a suit and tie on a baby sounds hilarious.

6. Can you leave a baby asleep in a crib while you run down the street to your Dad's house to borrow a tool and also maybe take some special firewood that you are not allowed to take?

7. Can you freeze breast milk? What things might one do with frozen breast milk?

8. Once upon a time I had a girlfriend who would aggravate me terribly on long car rides - completely unprovoked. Eventually, I would tire of her barrage, pull over, and use the ignition key to turn off her airbag.

This made her very angry.

Apparently, the government says you must turn off the airbag in your truck for the baby to ride up front. That is not the case for girlfriends.

A. Why does the government hate babies?
B. How about if you just turn it down real' low?
C. How about if the carseat is strapped to the floorboard up front? What then?

9. For how long can a baby swim unattended? Obviously, you don't want your baby to get waterlogged.

10. Do they make a stroller that's also a unicycle? Because I want one of those.

11. Could you or could you not remove the blade from your self-powered lawnmower and turn it into a self-powered stroller? Why or why not?

12. If my wife has been losing no hair during pregnancy will she then lose a ton of hair after pregnancy? Because that sounds terrible.

13. What is the best room for your wife to sleep in until the baby can talk - a guest room or the baby's room?

14. Could you make a kind of baby "nest" in the center console of your truck so the baby is more accessible during long road trips?

15. Do most babies share my love of loud noises and new smells?

16. Can a breast pump be modified to plug into a cigarette lighter? How powerful is a breast pump? Could it, for instance, power a livewell in a pinch?

17. Do they make hearing protection for babies? Earmuffs? Earplugs? If so - who makes it? If not - how is your baby expected to tolerate gunfire?

18. If you take your baby with you to commit a crime such as a B&E (breaking and entering) or even a simple burglary wherein no one is injured and very little of value is taken, except for perhaps some firewood; does that make the baby an accessory to said crime?

19. What do you do with a criminal B&E baby? Is there a place in jail for criminal babies? Because it seems to me that after being confined for 100% of their lives up to this point - jail wouldn't be much of a punishment.

20. How do babies and convertibles mix? "Well", I hope?

21. How old before your baby can "hold the wheel" while you take off your jacket? Because when that happened to me I was 3 and Dad ended up with both arms pinned behind his back by a Members Only jacket shouting at me through a mouthful of steering wheel. At least, that's what it sounded like - I had both hands over my eyes so I couldn't see exactly how he got us back on the road.

I feel like if I had been asked to perform that task at a more appropriate stage (perhaps younger?) I would have been better prepared.

Tube Socks

I have been concerned lately that I've had nothing funny to write about. Or I am not funny. Or I was never funny, and now I am finding out. I don't feel any different, but maybe something has changed? Do crazy people know they're crazy? Because I feel fine.

All the uncertainty is beginning to weigh on me.

Am I getting normal? Is this what normal feels like - kind of dull and regular? Is this part of becoming a Dad? What's next? TUBE SOCKS??? Because that is the circle of life: you start off in tube socks, graduate to big boy socks in different colors like gray, blue, and tan. Then, at some point, you end up 82 years old in your front yard pushing a lawn mower wearing blue velcro shoes and tube socks pulled up over your white knobby knees. GO INSIDE OLD MAN - NOBODY WANTS TO SEE THOSE TUBE SOCKS!!!

Egh. Maybe I am depressed. Am I falling apart? All I can think about is insulating the attic and if I have the right kind of screws for 7/16" plywood decking.

I was riding around thinking these and many other thoughts, when it occurred to me: I'm probably fine. I may not be funny, but at least nothing has changed.

That cheered me up a bit and I chuckled. Then I looked around and realized: I'm not driving anymore - I'm standing in the "wrenches" aisle at Home Depot brandishing a huge crescent wrench and giggling at nobody in particular. 

I bought the wrench.

Born With It

Preparing for childbirth has been an educational experience, to say the least. It has also been a time of quiet reflection…frequently interrupted by grizzly bear sounds emanating from the mound of pillows festooning the port side of the bed.

Too often men slide through life failing to reflect on how far they have come and what it took to get there. Not me - I know. I have not come a long way and getting here has not been hard at all. I just kind of wandered around in the desert then, Hey, look! There’s a water fountain! And I have been standing here ever since.

Despite lately finding myself married to a complete stranger; one who has been desperately smuggling a full aquarium around under her skin for 8 months - I number among the fortunate few who rarely, if ever, come under substantial spousal flack regarding my many outdoor pursuits. As a single person I guess I assumed that was part of life and the time and ability to do these things was just part of being me.

I now know: that is a terrible lie.

When I consider the time I spent as a child traveling around the state hunting and fishing and whatnot - I am amazed. I did something terribly fun and dangerous nearly every weekend, generally with Dad, and if not – then with an infinitely less responsible Uncle. I also realize now that those Uncles genuinely were not the least bit worried about me, my safety, or possibly dying. Back then I assumed all adults were bound to keep their nephews safe as a matter of course. In retrospect: I actually had that thought as a 6-yr-old while riding through the woods perched on the hood of a tractor like a chubby hood ornament with Uncle Buster’s admonition “Don’t grab that exhaust pipe – it is 800 degrees” ringing in my ears.

Mom was right to worry.

At the same time all that was going on, Dad raised two other kids, stayed married, kept a job, paid for a house and cars and got us all through expensive private colleges that we probably did not deserve.

Now, with the impending specter of fatherhood looming over me; it all makes sense: I didn't get to hunt, fish, and act like a Wild Boy on the weekends because I was born with it; I got to act like a Wild Boy because Dad was born with it - and more importantly; born with the ability to stay efficient during the week. If the water heater had still been out of commission at 5PM on Friday – nobody would have been going deer hunting. If Mom couldn't wash her hair – everything stopped.

Last week I considered my list of mandatory to-do’s for the week and this thought went through my brain: “I could just stay here and deck the attic on Saturday instead of going fishing” and in my mind, in that instant, that option actually sounded plausible.

It was a terrifying moment, so I immediately retreated into my workshop to sulk.

As I sat there at my Fishing Stuff Bench, sulking, it hit me that now, finally, I realize what it means to be a Dad; mostly because: I've turned into mine.

So, instead, of decking the attic and painting the hallway on the weekend, I wore myself out all week doing it at night, then I went hunting on Saturday at 4AM, got my truck stuck, found a deer skull in the woods, got covered in ticks even though I know about Lyme disease, heard 5 turkeys gobble, got soaking wet, got covered in mud, then came home feeling very pleased with myself.

Maybe you can also learn to be a Do-It-Yourself-er (see below) and a Lifelong Wild Boy; but I can tell you one thing: it is definitely hereditary.

Thanks Dad. 

A Free Market

For a number of years we have had a mailman notorious for spending his lunch break parked at the top of my parents' driveway reading Dad’s gun magazines. As a child we’d pull out in the minivan and wave. He’d hold up "American Rifleman" and wave. Later, Dad would get his magazine all nice and fluffed out from being pre-read. I didn't realize that wasn't normal until I was in college.

To this day he still leaves a note in my mailbox on June 23 wishing Mom a happy birthday and now he reads my gun magazines and Dad's. Certain unforeseen perks arise from living on the street you grew up on....

Our mail arrangement is a pretty equitable system. Arthur’s reading certainly doesn't cost us anything and most of the time he manages to shake all those annoying loose inserts out into the street as a public service. It is a symbiotic relationship based on an exchange of value. We let him read our magazines, he takes care of the inserts. Everybody is square. I appreciate that sort of courtesy from service providers and it further illustrates how prevalent the concept of "exchange" is in our society. To me, our arrangement with Arthur says "hey, ain't a free market friendly"?

We are a capitalist society, so if you live in the USA, no matter who you are or what your philosophical leanings; you’ll eventually have to enter into an exchange and generate some cash to get from A to B. I know that and I’m fine with the concept of “profit.” Profit means that I have to pay you some negotiated amount more than it costs you to do or make something, and you get to keep the extra. The key is “negotiation”. I don’t really have to pay you anything at all – you could give it to me. Or, I can pay you a ton. It’s up to us to work all that out.

Isn’t it fun?

If negotiations go properly, all parties ultimately feel the satisfaction of "winning". I get what I want - you get what you want; and we each leave convinced that we have somehow hoodwinked the other. In my experience, that is rarely ever true, but it is a pleasant fiction nonetheless.

My brother, Young George, calls that little bit extra from negotiation: “walking-around-money.” My other brother, Fred, calls it “cashy-spendy-money.” Whatever you call it - I’m glad to get it, but I’m also glad to give it because I don’t want to Roto-Root, for instance, or formulate my own termite spray, or grow huge volumes of tomatoes, or manufacture hairdryers for myself, or pump well water, or drill for oil and refine gasoline. Instead, I just pay someone a little bit more than it costs them to do it for me. Brilliant!!

Sometimes, even though I CAN, I don’t even want to do certain things to my own vehicle. Sure, I CAN put in a new set of wheel bearings, but that’s 3hrs I don’t have right now.

Due to time constraints, I recently crumbled, violated my strict DIY mentality, and took my ailing pickup to the shop. They have not yet called to attempt to take advantage of me, but when they do I anticipate a negotiation of some sort is shortly to commence. I shall report back the results directly.

Company Is Coming

Preparing the house for a new family member has been an interesting process. It's like prepping for Company on a very large scale.

I know about Company because every month as a child my grandparents would come up from Macon to visit us in Atlanta.

This was a big time. Company was coming. This monthly visit is why I still love Twizzlers and $20 bills and cheap pocketknives and raw oysters.

The preparation was largely carried out by Mom who readied the Ewing Manse 10 days in advance through hysterical fits of cleaning and food preparation.

One day after being pressed into service I asked her: "Mom, this is your Mom coming to visit, not the President. Why am I having to vacuum the den crossways, then longways, then crossways instead of just longways?"

"Because, even as an adult, you want your parents to see that you are doing a good job of managing a household and that they taught you well; and that you are keeping to a very high standard" she said.

"But we don't live like this. This is a lie. If you open that closet right there, the junk that falls out will kill you. We are lying to Gma." I replied, with my trademark rapier wit and candor.

She arched a well-floured eyebrow and from there I cleaned the toilets and the silver and ended up in the yard laying bales of pinestraw.

So, I know all about getting ready for Company.

Getting ready for this kid is like that - Company, except that you don't know who is coming, what they want, what they're like, or if you're really going to want them to hang around for long.

Bringing a new Ewing into the world has already been expensive in terms of work and time in the form of renovations, kid gear, and some kind of French “gliding chair” that I will “need”; not to mention a walking science experiment for a wife, and untold amounts of weird stretchy clothes (for her). That's plenty of work on behalf of a person I'm not even sure I like yet....

Early on, I suggested that all the “decorating” work seemed a bit much for an entity whose eyes won't even focus until late 2013: (maybe longer if there's a wonky-eye situation). That input has been largely ignored.

I can only hope he is very, very good at fishing or handing me tools, or capitalist philosophy, or impersonations; because I can always use a travel partner with those skills.

I contributed a Hartmann’s Mountain Zebra skin for the nursery floor - a huge victory; but he only fits the room with his head under a couch - so instead of a regal creature adorning my manly child-room, I have what appears to be a very flat, striped horse attempting to hide under a wicker daybed, and the start of an ulcer. That’s where your mind bleeds, right?

All the preparations aside, the very upsetting thing about what's coming is this: to really warp a kid all you have to do is say the wrong thing at just the right time. 

.....Until now I'd considered that my best skill.

'MERICA

I was a Boy Scout, albeit briefly. The organization and I had “creative differences”; they shot weenie guns, used crummy folding knives, fished badly, and we never got to kill and eat anything.

My entré into scouting was calculated to help me down the road to becoming a better Wild Man, and I was thrilled to join a group of like-minded strangers intent on becoming awesome. I needed to learn some knots, how to sail, maybe a bit about building a "lean-to" and I’d have been in great shape to start my bid for world-domination.  Imagine my disappointment when, on my first big-adventure campout, my new Scout Brethren showed up prepared to “rough it” with two People magazines, a Sony Discman, 5 cigarettes, a six pack of Coke, half a dog-eared Playboy, and a tampon. At that point I started to realize I was out of my element. The cigarettes were Marlboros and reasonably fresh (a big step up from the CarltonMenthols I’d broken in on at a tender age), but I never did understand how “tampon” made the packing list.

The uniforms put me off a bit too. I don’t know what Aryan model of perfection the Scout uniform is based on, but my experience indicates the term “husky” wasn’t properly-defined in the Scouting lexicon. Ultimately, I found our troop to be more “sewing club” than “hunt club” and I hated the uncomfortable uniform; so I bailed. Dad said “hey next year let’s bag Scouting and go elk hunting on horseback in Wyoming instead” and in that instant I became Husky-Second-Class-Scout-Ewing forever.

Despite my brief, failed, foray into Scouting I appreciate the organization and have been interested to see Scouting pop up in the news quite a bit lately. Apparently, gay kids aren’t allowed to Scout. Or maybe they’re not allowed to act gay while they Scout. I am not clear on the details, but for those of you recently in extremis at the very thought of homosexuals subverting 100 years of Boy Scout tradition: rest easy. Gays have been in the Scouts since kickoff, so this is not news. 

As far as I can tell, gays make up about 2% of the population and probably have for the last 10,000 years. That means: gays are not taking over the world, The Boy Scouts, or your local Waffle House; so they’re either bad at recruitment or that's not quite how it works.

Fortunately for you concerned straight folk, my gay friends suggest that one of the very last places on our large, flat, earth most gay 17-yr-olds want to be is in a suburban Elk’s lodge, after dark, surrounded by straight kids armed with hatchets and knives, all keen on "knot tying". Either way, if your Scout Master finds the 5 new Scouts having gay relations with your kids; I’ll be astonished - because guess what straight kids don’t do? Get gay and naked with their Boy Scout buddies.

Before you get upset with me, rest assured: I get the broader issues at hand. I really do, I'm only suggesting it's a tiny bit moot: kind of like the "women in combat" debate. What are all the men pissed off about again? I am confused.

There are many more women in my life that I'm scared to death of than men, but that's just me. Mom could have disarmed a Mexican drug cartel with a medium-sized wooden spoon, I am here to testify to that, but apparently some of our fighting men are concerned that smaller-statured women won’t be as capable in combat and may put them at risk.

Hah!

To me, a short-legged person in uniform looks like someone I may be able to outrun on the battlefield; and that is exactly what I am looking for. God knows if she wants to stay and fight I am all for it. I'll hide in the trench and toss up handfuls of bullets. I'd fight if I had to, sure, but I am absolutely thrilled when anybody else wants to do it in my place. 

So, God bless you gay Scouts – you already have support from the Manly Outdoorsman set - most of them thought Scouting was for gays already; and more power to you, fighting women, with your angry combat breasts and guns and boots and things. Kill ‘em all and let God sort ‘em out!  

While you ladies preserve my freedom (thanks!); I am going to be at home twiddling with my fishing lures and thinking about why God didn't make me with sharp claws.

God bless 'Merica! Where the army'll take anybody and gay kids get hatchets too.

The Big Show

Tyler has begun to "show" - a situation I relish because it leads directly to my next favorite stage of pregnancy: the "your body is communal property" stage.

Now that there is an obvious "bump" in her abdomen - the world at large is free to paw away at it. That's right, slide in for a belly grab anytime. It's perfectly ok; or at least - I assume it's ok because that's what everybody does. I plan to capitalize on that, myself, but pick your moment carefully. I wouldn't get between her and a gallon of ice cream right now for all the free bullets in the world. Someone at my house has been crushing gallons of neopolitan like she's mad at Haagen Daaz.

In other news: we are having a boy which, for some reason, the entire world fully expected. My good friend and brother-in-law, James Galloway said "Jimmy, you are one of these guys who sits around all day long creating Y chromosomes. I hate you and I hope you have 7 girls."

It was the nicest thing he ever said to me.

After spending the last few years alternately tormenting and fascinating my nieces and tiny cousinettes ("Snoruhh" "Stellaaaaaaa" "Stanley", "Smella" and "Tiny Furious Greer") I had grown quite used to the idea of having a tiny female person running around the house and, frankly, looked forward to it. I have one permanent woman underfoot already - might as well be two.

Imagine my surprise when Uncle John looked up from the ultrasound and said "Lookah there! It's a boy!" Sure enough, perfectly positioned and outlined against the amniotic sky was a big set of testicles. 

I suddenly felt ashamed of myself in a clinical setting; which is a new thing for me. Normally, a doctor's office is a place where I really shine - even naked, bleeding, or, for instance, upside-down. Good comedy abounds, particularly with nurses and technical assistants. 

I stood by, twisting in my LL Beans and twiddling with my pocketknife while Tyler and Uncle John continued to stare gaily into the ultrasound screen and wax philosophical about which part was what. "Ohhh look! There's his little dingly dangly!" 

Eggggghhhh.

My discomfort quickly turned to waves of shame washing over me; we had invaded the sanctity of the womb with our mysterious technological camera and spied on a naked infant under the guise of "Medicine".

I hadn't felt that embarrassed in front of myself since Mom, circa 1993, began strictly enforcing phone curfew by picking up the downstairs line and trilling "Jimmmyyyyyyy! Put on your feet-ey pajamas! It's time for milk and cookies!" into the handset - much to the amusement of whatever young lady I was talking to.  

The kid is not even real yet and we have already invaded his privacy. 

Round For a Reason

Early in my career as a married person I made the mistake of referring to my good friend, longtime associate, and highschool secretary; Alison Bell Langmack as “Pregnosaurus Rex”.  It was a comedic reference to both her general crankiness and her pregnant stature. Comedy Gold! 

Enormously pregnant, she was not amused and did not speak to me for about two months, during which period her child was born. I read about it on the interwebs.

Unfortunately, I did not realize she was not speaking to me. Further incensed by my lack of attention, she was forced to let me know she was not speaking to me, then start over not speaking to me for another thirty days or so. In all, it turned into a very protracted punishment period with no credit for time served - to which I objected strenuously. As a result, her children know me only vaguely as “The Bad Uncle”.

Having said that, I believe it is time to tackle the topic of maternity weight-gain.

Everybody waxes and wanes a bit. I’m currently waxing. At some point I’ll wane again. It’s my birthright as an American to get as fat as I want, then furiously starve and torment myself back to (relative) skinniness through any number of ill-advised dietary regimens and workout programs. My plan for 2013 is to cut out carbohydrates, add cigarettes, and switch to Downy. 

My point is: a little fluctuation here and there is normal, so when you have two entire people stuck in the same big bag of skin for nine months (ACTUALLY TEN!! shouts Tylertoes) – it's ok to expect a little newfound roundness, right?

Nope. Everyone around you has to pretend you’re still a skinny 9^th grader.

I consider myself a big fan of women in general. As a result, I staunchly support a pregnant woman’s right to swell up to whatever gigantic proportions she feels is reasonable given her condition and stature. Go right ahead, I don’t mind a bit. In fact – I’m "for" it! This is the only time in my married life I have been able to eat Chinese food without paying cash and hiding the leftovers. Plus, I think a big ‘ol pregnant belly with that weird inverted navel thing poking out is pretty hysterical. Everything has gone wrong. You have an alien inside you; and when it comes out - it's going to be bad. Heh heh. And better yet - after about 4 months - people start to stare.

In the waiting room not long ago I was the object of quite a few furious, sweaty, uncomfortable, gazes myself so I’m familiar with the territory.

At the time they were staring because they all knew that I knew that they are fat - and they didn't like knowing that I know it. Everyone in a pregnant woman's life goes to monumental lengths to pretend nothing has changed. Despite the fact that your husband just entered the house and found you sprawled across the couch sobbing and eating Klondike Bars off your chest like an otter – he must carefully pretend to sense nothing amiss.

Let me set the record straight for both of us - if you're pregnant - you're either fat already or headed there with the turbos spooled up and screaming. You just are. I can't help you by playing an elaborate game of boy-do-you-look-skinny make-believe. "Pregnant" means "ROUND FOR A REASON". Your whole body bloats up like an enormous tick, then belches a child out into the world without so much as a stitch of clothing, or a way to feed, groom, or care for itself. It's biological and I didn't come up with it. If it were up to me, male children would spring, fully-armed, from the shoulder blades of their mothers and immediately leave home to slay a dangerous beast before being accepted back into the family.

As it is: blame God - it was his idea; but don't count on me to whip out my acting skills and prance around your swaying bulk proclaiming soothing blessings of eternal skinniness over you like a Buddhist mantra. I just don’t have it in me.You're pregnant. Great job! Now go buy a one-piece. 

Fortunately, Tyler is either amused by, or immune to - my various frailties; so I have experienced few of the marital woes commonly accruing to the man of the house during this delicate time. 

I wandered into the bathroom this morning to find Tyler brushing her teeth. She turned to say hello and promptly knocked the hairdryer off the bathroom counter using only our unborn child. I hollered and pointed HAHAHAHAHAHAAAAA BABYGUT!!! She giggled in response and gestured at her feet. She was wearing my short tennis shoe socks, which she knows I hate.

Round or not, she's always a step ahead.

The Waiting Room, Part II

The waiting room is a trick. It’s not a waiting room for the doctor room, it’s a waiting room for the real waiting room. There’s a double-secret waiting room before you get to the examination room. They didn't tell me that. I trundled through the door behind Tyler expecting to get to rifle through the drawers and cabinets in an examination room, which I love to do. Instead, I was shocked to see her sit down in a tiny, secondary, waiting room with approximately 8-10 chairs in it; arranged in an “E” shape.

I was immediately reminded of Temple Grandin and her solution to cattle and cattle-stress-management in corrals: slowly squeeze the cows down into single file lines and reduce their lines-of-sight to limit stimulus and resultant stress.  I drew on my newfound ability to remain silent and did not mention that aloud, but I felt shocked and cornered. I realize I am the rogue Holstein that tears the whole system apart getting clear of the corral. 

That other waiting room was a waiting room to get into this waiting room.

Yeah. Here have a mint.

I don’t want a mint I want a damn doctor. We have been here 45 minutes. I've gone to the hospital, had a surgery, and gone home faster than this.

Oh c'mon. Here take this Cosmopolitan sex quiz. You love taking these. 

......Egghhhh....This is what you get when you take a place for women, fill it with women, and have women run it. Two waiting rooms.  I have never been so glad to be a man.

Yeah you get to start wars, raise taxes and get people pregnant. Hooray for men. Have some water.

Water? Where did that come from?

Right here. There’s always water in the little waiting room

You mean the waiting room’s waiting room

Right.

I was still chafing at the concept of two waiting rooms when the nurse came in and issued us back to the examination room.  We walked in and the door shut behind me. You could not have squeezed a reasonable-sized guinea pig in there with us. It was tiny.

Does this make you feel better or worse? Everything about this experience reminds me of a cattle pen.

What? 

The size of this room

What do you mean? It’s fine.

Yeah for you. You have a big table to lounge on and those feetie step things. I don’t have anywhere to damn sit except this little scooty chair and I HATE IT.

Don’t get agitated and don’t sit in that chair. That’s the doctors chair.

Well he can damn well stand for what this is costing me.

It’s a she. You’re getting all tense like you get when we’re packing the car for a trip. Just relax.

Well here’s a chair behind this little curtain.

You can’t sit there either.

Why not?

I looked up right into a stirrup and a set of legs all a-sprawl.

Oh. Eh. Ahem. Where should I sit?

Just stand over there by my head.

Eh. Cough. Uh. Ok.

The door swung open and a tiny little doctor sped into the room. Without so much as a howdy-do: THUNK! She’s in up to the elbow.

The two of them are talking like sorority sisters. I am mentally clawing at the walls in my haste to escape. This is an internal exam. Eh. I did not know that. Lightbulbs are beginning to slowly flicker over my head. Stirrups. I get it. I realize I should have read Tyler's emails about today's protocol instead of my bass fishing reports message board last night.

When I came back to myself they were cheerfully going over a list of the three million incredibly horrible things that might take place inside your womb if you happen to lose the genetic coin flip. I tuned out for a bit and thought about guns and bears and fishing line. Some time later conversation waned and the doctor turned to leave. I looked at Tyler.

Wait. Didn’t you pee into one of those cups to test if the tester stick thing was right from the other day? You know - the one that said "we're pregnant?"

Yeah. Uh huh.

Well? Was it right? What is going on? Was it right or wrong? WHAT IS HAPPENING?

Eh. Hee heee. So,(turning to the doctor) Ehh. Heh. Ummm. We were wanting to make sure. Eh. You know......(vaguely gesturing towards the womb)

Doctor: Oh yeah (laughing). You are definitely pregnant.

THAT is what I thought we were there to find out.

The Waiting Room: A Comedy In Two Acts

If there is one place in the world I don't belong it's in the waiting room of a ladyparts doctor. It feels wrong - worse than the time I set the backyard on fire, much worse than slamming the screen door after your Dad said not to, and even a tiny bit worse than when we put the cat in the creek where the cat did not want to go.

I walked in for our first OB/GYN visit and found myself the intense focus of 30 pairs of eyes all accusing me with their hard, red-rimmed, late-night-lactation glare. THIS IS YOUR FAULT. YOU DID THIS TO HER! hovered in the air over me like a storm cloud.

Hey, this was her idea. I mumbled to no one in particular.
Heehee! You're talking to yourself again. Don't talk to yourself, talk to meeeeeee!! Chirped Tylerpants.

The OB/GYN waiting room is lined with chairs containing uncomfortable women waiting to have their mysterious ladyparts thumped and prodded like the tires on an old Chevy (the one you decided not to buy); and every woman in there knows what you've been up to and how you got into this situation and they're thinking about it. That is an unhappy combination.

The crowd is not terribly varied. Mostly, you see pregnant folks and a few not-pregnant folks studiously pretending they don't know about ladyparts and can't recall exactly why they're waiting. If you go in there you better look pregnant or everybody starts thinking the worst: herpes. Maybe gonorrhea. Or even better - an unwed pregnancy situation. Tut, tut. The savvy birthers flash a wedding ring on the way through the door like a secret code.

Then, out of the blue, in walks an octagenarian.

EGHHH!! Nobody should be confronted with the fact that there are 80yr-old naughty parts just out wandering around the city at will, totally unlicensed. It's too upsetting.

Eventually everyone quits thinking about old folks, which is rude, and realizes its perfectly fine to stare at me, furiously, as I am the only male person in view.  In retrospect, perhaps the staring was due to my attempt at dispelling the awkwardness in the air with loud approximations of humor.

Finally, after "I guess now we know what estrogen smells like" and "Whew, when do I get to try on the fatlady suit and pretend to nurse?" Tyler giggled and whispered "please you have got to stop!"

My mouth did, but my mind didn't.

A maternity waiting room crowd does not play to my comedic strong side. They don't like me in there and, in the process of finding that out, I decided I don't need to see my child in an unborn state on a computer screen that badly. Do I want my unborn child's first vague impression of me to be as the guy who went to great technological lengths to photograph him or her naked? We can shake hands in May. That's soon enough. In fact, it may be a bit too soon if you ask me, which nobody did.....ever.

Essentially, the waiting room is a giant box of shame. There's one hugely pregnant, but thin, woman who insists on standing, in heels, to prove she's beautifully, wonderfully, pregnant and feels perfectly fine; unlike most lower forms of women. Later, she goes home, flushes the goldfish, kicks two puppies, and burns all her skinny jeans in a rage over the size of her swollen feet. Everybody else is in worn-out house shoes furtively glancing around trying to make sure someone in the room looks fatter and more miserable than she does, until the blinding realization finally hits one of them that the reason she can't spot anybody worse is because: she's it. Once the tears come and the pecking order is established - most of them kind of drift off into a hazy pregnancy-addled sleep, or resort to manipulating their own strange, misshapen bodies in a variety of terribly off-putting ways.

The woman directly to my right was sitting bolt-upright with her legs spread as wide as they'd go; she was staring down and methodically lifting her 7-months-plus belly before abruptly letting it flop back down between her legs. God only knows how the baby was tolerating that nonsense. Lady - there's a person in there, you know? The sensation would be like me stopping your elevator half way down the building, then lifting it up a few hundred feet and dropping it two floors at a time all the way to the lobby.

I wanted badly to ask her to stop, but I didn't because I can control what comes out of my mouth when my life is at stake. She eventually tired of tormenting the unborn and started furiously punching at her phone.

About mid-way through our 45-minute wait; an absolutely enormous black woman shuffled in and settled, groaning and sputtering, into a chair directly to my left. She looked to be a solid 45 days overdue and terribly uncomfortable. She had to stand back up to shoehorn her phone out of her maternity jeans, then after slowly lowering her heaving bulk back into the chair she proceeded to text someone. Lengthily. I was dying to know who. What could she be saying? I slid over a seat to get a better angle on her. About 9 lines in - she fell dead asleep, slumped over; maternity water bottle tipped over and puddling across her abdomen. Drool immediately began trickling down her chin. Apparently pregnant women have lots of extra drool.

I suddenly find I am in the incubation chamber of an unknown horror.

Then, the nurse called our name. MRS. EWING? She mumbled. TYLER? I looked around. Tyler was gone. I felt trapped. What if it's like a Six Flags ride and if you don't go in when you're called - they skip you?

HERE!! I shouted flapping my arm wildly. HERE I AM! I MEAN WE! HERE WE AM! ARE! HERE WE ARE!

I panicked. My panic response is to babble.

SHE'S IN THE BATHROOM. SHE GOES ALOT. I DONT KNOW WHY. I GO SOMETIMES TOO ALOT. HEH HEH. I MEAN NOT OFTEN ALOT BUT VOLUME ALOT. NOT LOUD VOLUME. I MEAN ALOT OF PEE. ALOT OF VOLUME OF PEE ALL AT ONCE.  I HAVE A LARGE BLADDER. BUT NOT NOW. HEH HEH. WAIT. WHAT I MEAN IS I DON'T NEED TO GO NOW. NOT THAT MY BLADDER IS SMALLER NOW. I HAVE A GOOD MAN-SIZED BLADDER. SHE DID NEED TO GO WHICH IS WHERE SHE IS GONE AND I AM HERE. BUT I DON'T GONE. I MEAN GO. I  MEAN I DON'T NEED TO GO. I MIGHT LATER. I DON'T KNOW WHAT I AM SAYING.

(silence)

HEH HEH.....

(silence)

OK HERE IS WIFE. I MEAN HERE IS MY WIFE. THE ONE THAT IS PREGNANT, TYLER.

(silence)

HEH. HEH. AHEM.

Enormous black person was still asleep, but everyone else was staring at me like you'd stare at the person talking in a library. Angry staring.

Tyler clip-clopped back into the room and shared a knowing look with the nurse that communicated something negative about me, I'm not sure what, and in we went.

After that, it got worse.

Much worse.

Election Day

Election Day is the day half of America gets to feel furious and despondent and loudly bemoan the country's future while the other half, literally, throws an enormous obnoxious party. I love it because I like knowing half of you are furious and don't know exactly why. That's good comedy.

I also love the Republican Party for consistently selecting un-electable candidates. God bless us and our tiny money-grubbing little hearts. Remember Sarah Palin? That was a Republican genius idea and now she won't go away. She's like a gremlin. We spilled the holy Republican water on her and she's still multiplying.

Consider 2012 a reminder, Republican Think-Tank: most of America still considers Mormonism a cult. That's "Cult" as in: Scientology, Heaven's Gate, or the Branch Davidians... Just nicer...and maybe not as well-armed.

Here's the question you guys might have asked in your pre-primary-selection polls: "What's better than a hugely wealthy Mormon President?" And America answers: "A partially confused semi-Muslim President that we've had for 4 years and one who we are confident won't claim to hear from angels, poison, trap, or kill us individually or en-mass or force us all to wear special underwear."

I actually do like Mitt though. He seems sharp, super-nice. Great family. Then he slips off to that big Tabernacle and God only knows what goes on in there. Shifty. Can't trust him. Was that a secret handshake he gave Ryan on stage last week? Looked like it to me. Welcome back Barack. It almost feels like you were never gone.

Post-election everybody is still worked up over Benghazi and the CIA. I get it, but here's the thing: the press and Federal Government are both unreliable. Don't everybody act shocked all at once.

I lost faith in the press entirely when I realized nobody ever thought to ask Mitt about Temple Underwear.
Does he adhere? How would that impact the Presidency? I can't think of a single part of my life that wouldn't be significantly impacted by mandatory special underwear selected by someone else. If there is one human right I hold sacred - it's the ability to choose....my own underwear. I don't know about Mitt Romney, but if I couldn't come home at night and get into a fresh pair of boxers I'd be a war criminal.

I feel obliged to vote (mostly because of my politically-savvy neighbor, Suzi Voyles, who is equal parts wonderful, reliable, and conscientious) and so I do, while at the same time loathing both political parties equally, the news, newscasters, and while I'm on a roll - professional sports, high fuel prices, and the itchy feeling fiberglass insulation gives you.

Republicans lost. Again. Sure. I get it, but I don't feel upset about our future. I know our future. Guess what's going to happen next year? Everything will be more expensive. Guess what happened last year? Everything got more expensive. Guess what happened in 2006? Everything was more expensive than in 2005.

Here's my prediction through 2016: abortion is going to stay legal, gays are going to keep right on gaying, and white people are going to continue to shrink as a percentage of the population.

I have no commentary to offer on any of that, except to point out one interesting thing about gay couples; they biologically cannot make more of themselves. Don't hate me, but it's true. Heterosexuals make more gays; so if you're all pissed off about the economy and the gay population in America and what all they're up to: you are mad at you. It's your fault for having all those expensive, gay, children who grow up and refuse to work in factories! When was the last time two gay guys went out, adopted a kid and said "Ok kid, you have to be gay like us and you better love it?"  To quote American Comedic Genius, Katt Williams: "Not Never!"

Going forward, you can blame Barack Obama, Mitt Romney and Gay Santa Claus for the condition of the country if you want, but they are going to have very little to do with any of it.

I hope this sets your minds at ease.

If I were you and I was really upset about the good old US of A - I'd get on the horn with my congressmen and women. They actually get to make decisions. The President, by and large, gets to do what he's told. The man can't can't even hold his own war for more than 60 days without approval. Seriously? I don't want to be head of a nation unless I can at least decide when, where, and how long to bomb some other place without too much interference.

A system of checks and balances is great, but a President who can't even smoke inside the White House is one terribly sorry sight. I don't smoke, but if I were President my first official act would be to go room-to-room in my boxers opening all the doors and closets (like I do every morning); then burn through a carton of Marlboro Reds in the Lincoln Bedroom just to prove that, if nothing else; I AM THE PRESIDENT OF THIS HOUSE, BY GOD.

Poor guy.

It's a wonder anybody wants the job at all.

Rediscovering The Creek

When I was little I remember seeing how the men in my family spent their time and I can clearly recall wondering “what is wrong with these people?”. I would be neck-deep in some kind of swamp hole in the creek with my cousin Seth, throwing rocks at each other all day long, thinking “This is the greatest day that ever was”. I'd trudge back up to the house at dusk smelling like swamp water and goat only to find that Dad and Buster spent their Saturday riding around on a tractor, building something out of wood or steel, or otherwise "working". Granddad spent his weekends tinkering with various forms of meat smoker, or spent the afternoon making a mess somewhere in the house for Grandma to clean up. At the time, it sounded to me like a waste of a great creek day.

Now, I think I get it.

I spent all weekend with my buddy Austin generally flailing around in the woods on a tractor.  I cut through all manner of detritus with an enormous 65 horsepower spinning blade that makes a soothing, thrumming song like "I killyouuikillyouikillyouifyoufalloff", saw 5 deer, 20 turkeys, 3 snakes and all sorts of other flora and fauna. At some point I managed to shear two hitch pins in the 3-point hitch, bust the tailwheel clean off the bushhog, and get the tractor stuck. That was a low point….except that Austin and I were so prepared we already had all the tools and parts to fix it.  Hah!  I am a MAN! Take that Murphy!

Tyler covered herself in glory by showing up to the stuck tractor in Austin’s pickup truck with a chain and 10 gallons of diesel fuel. She proceeded to calmly hook the tractor up to the truck, put it in low range 4-wheel-drive and coolly snatch the tractor out of the ditch before toodling back down the road with a honk and a wave.

At dusk I returned to the cabin pleasantly soiled, terribly smelly, and warmed with the sense that I’d accomplished something monumental.

When I advanced in Tyler’s direction for a customary welcome-home pat on the head, she wrinkled her nose and poked a finger into my chest; using it as a fulcrum to shift my orbit in the direction of the bathroom.

What in the world have you been doing all day? She chirped, not impressed at my cuts and bruises and general level of grease.

Tractorin'. What have you been doing all day?

Making teeeeeee shirts seeeee!!! She trilled, holding aloft a women’s tee with block print on it and some other girl crafty stuff.

Ah gotcha.

Harrumph. You’re all dirty and you smell like the bottom of a can of worms mixed with Vaseline and bridge person and sewer. Can’t you pay somebody to do the tractorin’?

Yes, I could.

I don’t understand.

I can't explain. It's like playing in the creek.

You are so weird.

MEDIC!!

I would like to show you a photograph of a beautiful pony. Gather the children and scroll down to experience the wonderment that is shortly to befall you.

Further.

Yep almost there.

Here it is.

Not quite. It’s still a bit lower.

Ok, Now!

HAH AAAAAAAA!!!! THAT’S NOT A PONY IS IT!!!??

That's the enormous gaping gash sliced into my leg compliments of half a shower wall and the metal lath backing employed by builders in the 1960s. I was demolishing my bathroom wearing shorts.

That was a mistake.

I know that now. At the time, it didn't feel like a mistake to be wearing shorts; it felt cool and refreshing. There are many things in life that start that way and end up in ruin, and, as near as I can figure, life is about figuring out what those things are just a little bit too late.

At some point in the demolition, I channeled my Grandfather's spirit and achieved furious liftoff and managed to pull the entire shower wall down on myself, which was actually part of my broader plan. Unfortunately, I neglected to consider the finest points of that plan, such as the various implications of sharp metal pieces hurtling at me backed by several hundred pounds of mortar and such.

Under the circumstances, most people would have called 911. I called Tyler, who called Dad. They followed the blood trail into the bathroom where they found me splayed out on the floor trying my best to run cool water through my shin muscle and assess my situation  (which is the first step to take if you forget who or what you are, or cut yourself badly).

I wanted Dad to superglue it. He anticipated that and had superglue in his pocket. He took one look at the size of the gash and said “no”.

Me: But its bleeding pretty bad and all pooched out. Glue it on up.

Dad: Sorry Charlie. This one is too bad. To the hospital with you.

Me: I don’t want to PAY for someone to sew up my leg. I’m already hurt. That’s bad. Hurt and out $300 is worse. Why do you want me to be worse?

Dad: Tyler, take care of this please.

We headed to the “urgent care” center down the road at 10:30PM on a Thursday night. Guess when they close? Before 10:30 PM; which is ridiculous because only about 2% of every bad thing that happens actually happens before 9:00PM. They should call it the "If It's After Dinner We Don't Care" Center.

I talked Tyler into going in to CVS and buying butterfly bandages instead of driving all the way to Northside Hospital. It was one of my better sales jobs.

I hobbled in with her hoping to show the pharmacist and any passers-by my gaping wound and, somewhere around aisle 2, became separated from my medic. I tried to show my leg to someone between my aisle and the aisle Tyler's head was on, but when I approached the woman she ran off like a rabbit. I mean: clear out of the store. 

I am finally convinced America is in a state of social decline. In my opinion, if you can't say "hey lady come look at this" to a stranger in a drugstore and at least make a new friend - you've definitely slid into a state of social decay.

I finally caught up to Tylerpants on aisle 3, hobbling and moaning. She was not on the "bandages" aisle or even on the very interesting "contraception" aisle; which I could have understood might be tantalizing regardless of the backdrop of pain and agony coursing through a close family member only a few aisles away. She was on the hair products aisle. 

Me: I am pumping blood in a public building. What are you doing?

Tyler: Getting hairgel.

Me: Hairgel? What? Why?

Tyler: We’re out.

Me. My hair isn't bleeding. This isn't a hair emergency. My leg is bleeding. I can see grainy fat and meat down in there.

Tyler: I know, but we’re here. So I thought I’d get some.

Me: (holding my leg up by the knee) You see my leg, right?

Tyler: Don’t be so dramatic. I’m getting the bandages now. Go out to the car before somebody sees you.

She came outside a few minutes later and plunked a bag full of emergency supplies (and hairgel) down on the floor at my feet. It rattled. I looked inside and found a box of bulk chewing gum.

Me: After I left - you went to the candy aisle and got Wintergreen gum.

Tyler: Yeah. You want some? This kind is really good. 

Me: No, I mean, you know how we talked about the hairgel and all. And here I am bleeding and so forth, and right this minute I can see stuff down in my leg meat that normally is hidden from view by skin that should be together-skin, not apart-skin: but you had time to go get wintergreen gum?

Tyler: Don’t you like wintergreen? They were out of peppermint.

Somehow I feel like she was missing the point.