I surf other blogs quite a bit, always looking for that rare genius on the web (like dooce). Mostly I'm disappointed and my disappointment falls into two categories.
First, I joined blogclicker in the hope that I would find some cool blogs and get some traffic to my own. There really aren't that many good blogs out there. This morning I only made it through three clicks before I quit.
First Click: A vitamin store.
Second Click: A man begging for money so he can pay for his sex-change operation.
Third Click: A man selling self-help crap.
Of the three, the sex-change beggar was the best because, rather than ask for money, he was asking for flatware that he could sell. You gotta give the guys stones (or in this case, take them away) for going the flatware route because people just love to send silverware through the mail to strangers.
Second, despite the fact that almost every blog I visit sucks, they all have more traffic than me! While I am perfectly aware that I'm no John Steinbeck or Dave Barry, I like to think that I am at least as good as some of the blogs I read. But, if that were true, wouldn't the people who write those blogs want to read mine? Apparently not. The simple fact is that despite what people say about writing blogs "for myself," everyone wants readers, otherwise we would just be scribbling in little notebooks piled in a heap by the bed like literary Ted Kazinskys.
Of course, there's also the possibility that other writers have more traffic because they cultivate relationships and friendships on the web, where as I tend to find most people boring and annoying, in that order, followed soon after by the general realization that they are idiots.
Nah, that's not it.
Thurl Ravenscroft, voice of Tony the Tiger and singer of the theme song from 'How the Grinch Stole Christmas," dead at 91.
When I was a junior in High School, I took my first speech class. Mrs. Harris was a chain-smoking, Pepsi-swilling, speech teacher with a voice like sandpaper but we loved her because she loved acting. It became apparent rather quickly that there were a few kids in Speech 1 that were already beyond giving basic speech's ("Who inspires me"). I was one of those kids.
As Christmas approached, Mrs. Harris announced that we were going to put on two short performances. She wanted to try something different, so she decided on doing the plays in the study hall... sort of a theater-in-the-round sort of thing where the audience would sit on the floor. It would be a small affair with just a few classes coming to see the show. We would do two small plays: Merry Christmas Charlie Brown and How The Grinch Stole Christmas.
This was all great by me. I was beginning to realize that I had a talent that few others in the school did. After years of being ridiculed by my peers I had become fearless and impossible to embarrass so it was easy for me to stand up in front of people and be a fool. There is a great deal of liberation when you have been pushed to the point that you no longer care what the cool kids think. I was a little cocky about it but don't hold that against me. After a lifetime of non-stop teasing I deserved a little gloat. I had no doubt that I would land the lead in our little Christmas show. There wasn't a person in the class who could beat me in an audition. All those hours eating frozen pizza and watching Showtime while my peers were out drinking beer and experimenting with sex were about to pay off.
Mrs. Harris announced that there wouldn't be any auditions.
She decided that since she had already spent a few months with us, she already knew who should play each part. This was all fine by me since I was sure I would get Charlie Brown. I mean, I was Charlie Brown for God's sake! So I sat in the back of the room, leaning back in my chair like the brilliant fucking thespian that I was and waited for her to call my name.
"...Lucy will be Kathy Macintosh and Charlie Brown will be Rick Reginald."
Let me first say this about those two. You couldn't ask for two better people to hang out with. Kathy was beautiful and brilliant and it wasn't until a year later on a speech trip, when everyone was hanging out in mine and Rick's room that I realized that I might have been able to get a date with her if I had only had the courage to ask. Of course, I didn't ask and so Kathy has joined the list of girls who might have changed my life if I had just had some self-esteem. It's a long list.
Back to the story..
"What! How can I not be Charlie Brown!," I screamed, (only not out-loud, just in my head... ). Before I could ask Mrs. Harris how long she had been clinically insane she continued, "Now, How The Grinch Stole Christmas. The Grinch will be, of course, Duane." (that's me.)
"Excuse me Mrs. Harris," I said, "But the Grinch doesn't have any lines!"
"That's right," She said, "You're the only one in class who can pull off the facial expressions."
That crafty speech teacher shit was firing on all cylinders. By cleverly inserting two little words into her announcement ("of course") she had convinced me that I was the best actor in class and talked me into the worst role! (actually, it wasn't the worst role. David Perry got that. He was my dog.)
So, two weeks later I covered myself in green makeup and climbed to the top of Mt. Crumpit. Unable to be quiet, I ad-libbed through the whole play and got quite a few laughs. Much more than Rick Reginald who went on to be a Congressional Page and eventually married Betty Gomez who I had been in love with since 9th grade.
Hey, but I was The Grinch!
1. You are using the default blogger template (the grey and blue one with the 18pt fonts). If you can't take the time to at least pick a better template, why should I take the time to read you?
2. You use emoticons
3. Your blog is titled: Eternal Life Through God's Word
4. Your header is so large that I have to scroll down to see any actual words.
5. Your post starts out, "Today was really boring," and then goes on for half a page.
If the last two movies were huge, steaming piles of shit, then this one is smaller and less distasteful... like rabbit shit.
The dialogue is dreadful, the acting is horrible (which is tough to do when you have really good actors) and the movie is so intent on keeping the action going that it ignores all emotion. Let me re-phrase: It doesn't ignore emotion, it just does a really bad job of showing it. My favorite part was when Anakin goes to the Jedi Temple and kills a bunch of children who we have never seen before! Gee, you might want to spend a few minutes on some backstory before committing the most monstrous act imaginable! The movie treats it as if it were a traffic violation! Obi-Wan says, "I can't kill Anakin, he's like a brother." Yea, a brother who murders children!!
The last 10 minutes is good, although I was amazed by what appears to be a regression in medical technology in the Star Wars universe. Anakin looses both legs and an arm as well as getting burned over 75% of his body (what's left) and an hour later he's got new limbs and is walking around talking like James Earl Jones. Twenty years later when Luke has a bad night in the cold on Hoth, they stick him in a bacta-tank for a day.
My only other continuity complaint is the fact that Obi-Wan claims to not know who R2-D2 is in Star Wars 4 after having spent Star Wars 1-3 hanging out with the droid. Just annoying.
Living in Florida poses it's own problems, primarily it's a question of geography. Florida sits closer to the equator than the rest of the continental United States, which means that while every other American is enjoying a lovely spring month of May, we Floridians can't leave our homes without SPF 2000 because our state is literally two inches from the sun.
This being the case, we are required to take our children to the mall so that they can play with other children (children at outside parks typically melt before making it to the bottom of the slide.). At the mall by our house they have a small area for toddlers that is always packed with strollers. There is a special area for parking strollers outside the small play area (with a sign and everything,) but new Mom's apparently have a great fear of "stroller-jacking" and so they bring their strollers into the (did I mention...) small play area. But that's not what I really want to talk about today.
No, I want to talk about the crushing despair that must face every parent when they arrive at the playground, look around and realize, "My child is not the cutest one here." The feeling of loss in the knowledge that your mongoloid child, your tiny little Genghis Khan, is head-and-shoulders outside of the attractive gene pool when compared to others. It's enough to make me want to stop taking Sam out in public, as a show of support for all the parents who are shoved into the reality sunlight that is, my beautiful, dazzling, child. It's embarrassing, really, watching these parents play with there tiny little Morlock children, deluding themselves into believing that they stand a chance in life against the almost God-like worship that my perfect child will surely inspire as she grows older. Bow down mortals, behold the Queen of Cute, The Princess of Precious!
I guess it was bound to happen eventually. I have finally had a bad Ebay experience.
I won an auction for a tablet pc from a company called Recoupit.com. The auction requested that I use their online checkout form ( rather than Ebay's) and I did. I paid for the laptop within hours of the auction ending.
A week later I received the laptop. They sent the wrong power supply and no tablet pen, two things that tend to come in handy when trying to operate an electric tablet pc. So, I emailed them and requested that they overnight the missing parts. They refused to overnight and I waited another seven days. During the wait, I discovered that they had also included the wrong driver disk. I also got an "unpaid item" notification from Ebay which stated that Recoupit had reported to them that I never paid for the laptop! I sent an email to Recoupit and told them to please straighten out Ebay.
Finally I got the parts and booted my new laptop only to discover that the wi-fi didn't work. Well, that was enough for me. I boxed up the laptop and sent it back. Recoupit refunded my money to my card and I am out about $60 in shipping.
Today I got another email from Ebay saying that I am getting an "unpaid strike" from Recoupit!
I'm not worried about Ebay since I have the emails and credit card statements to prove I paid for the item. I'm just furious over the extreme lack of good business sense displayed by Recoupit. If I sold something and shipped it without the correct parts I would immediately overnight the correct parts to the customer! Oh, and I also wouldn't lie about the payment to Ebay!!
Suck it, Recoupit!
Me: "I'm going out. Do you want me to bring you back anything to eat?"
The Wife: "No, I'm eating GrapeNuts until I shit."
About 20 minutes into the movie, two different groups succeed in breaking into the National Archives and stealing the Declaration of Independence. They use two entirely different plans, and both plans were concocted only three days prior. The fabric of reality was stretched so thin while watching this movie that I used it for a coffee filter.
Still, you expect that sort of thing in a movie of this type and to be honest, it was actually a fun ride. The movie was interesting start to finish and full of action. I particularly liked that Nicholas Cage's character refused to slide into a stereotypical action star kind of thing. He never went too far in any direction be it macho, witty, coward, whatever. Had it been a lesser actor than Cage I would have written it off a lackluster performance but I'm sure he meant to play the guy kind of even-keeled. It's really what saved the movie.
I give it a 3.5 (out of 5)
Honestly, I wasn't trying to kill the dog.
Last Saturday, the wife and I took a little trip with Crank (my nickname for the baby) to Target. On the way we stopped off at Don Pablo's for a bite to eat. We were gone two hours. The temperature was 88 degrees.
When we returned, I realized that I had let the dogs out just before leaving and forgot to bring them back in. This is not the sort of thing I do, more the wife's area of expertise, a woman who can only find her cellphone by calling it and tracking down the ringing.
I went out in the backyard and there was Boodreaux, lying by the door. I wasn't worried about the heat, despite the fact that Boo is a Siberian Husky and by definition the worst dog to have in the sun. He grew up in Texas and never had a problem, despite being the product of generations of selective breeding resulting in an animal with the inner heat retention of a thermos and a burning desire to hump anything that moves (much like me in college, only without the heat part). He wandered inside and headed for the water bowl.
However, I couldn't find Cayman. My first thought was that she had crawled under the fence since she is a small dog with short hair and with another baby on the way, I myself have thought about making a break for it. I walked around the pool cage calling her name and she finally emerged from her hiding place. She had laid down under a bush next to the air conditioner. Smart little thing that she is, she had been drinking the air conditioner run-off.
She stood there and looked at me. I called her again. She stood there. I went and picked her up and brought her in the house. I set her down, she took one step and fell over. Now, at this point, panic begins to set in. My first thought was that she had drank bad water. I called the vet and told them what had happened and they said to bring her in immediately. Now that, in and of itself, was not surprising as the vet always says to, "Bring her in immediately." Vet's are even more reluctant to diagnose over the phone than people doctors.
When I got to the vet, still under the impression that we were dealing with a possible sick stomach, I was greeted by the technician as if I was an extra on E.R. She snatched Cayman from me and rushed her to the back. I waited, wondering if they were trying to get her to vomit, pumping her stomach or forcing her to watch American Idol or something. I started to get worried because the technician seemed so concerned but then I remembered that it was my seventh trip to the vet this year, two of which involved surgery. My business is the backbone of their practice. If I lose an animal they probably don't get a Christmas bonus.
After about 10 minutes, the doctor came out: heat stroke. Cayman had a temperature of 106 and it was 60/40 on her recovery. Dr. Danielson said that usually, when a dog has a temperature that high, it's already in a coma. Then he talked about heat "cooking" the brain and liver and kidney damage. Suddenly, I was in Terms of Endearment and I didn't even have Flap there to comfort me.
I'l spare you the long details and say that Cayman made a full recovery. The thing that surprises me the most about the whole scary episode is, although I left the dogs out by mistake, I wouldn't have balked at the idea of doing it on purpose. Really, they're dogs. They should be able to take 88 degree heat for two hours, especially when they have shade and water! If you were to put a group of dogs in the desert, I would be willing to bet that the first one to drop would be the one with "Siberian" in his name!
Oh well, live and learn. I got a lesson in canine thermodynamics, the vet got a new wing on the hospital.
1. The Jesunator
4. The Robe Warrior
5. Fish-Stick ( because of the loaves and fishes.... maybe it's not so good if I have to explain it)
6. The J-Man
This won't be funny, so you can skip it if you like...
Please, for the love of God, learn something before you send out that mass political email!
I have recently received an email from my cousin, perhaps you've seen it, it contains a speech that the sender would like to hear an American President make. It talks about pulling out of Nato and Nafta and cutting off foreign aid to any country that doesn't support us in Iraq. It complains about Canada and Mexico and tells them to shape up. It has a really good part about towing diplomat's cars in New York for unpaid parking tickets.
You see this sort of email all the time, or you hear it from friends. People love to make sweeping statements about America's place in the world without any knowledge whatsoever of the facts. It's annoying to someone as God-awful intelligent as I am, believe me.
For the benefit of the gentle reader who thinks that we are still living in the 50's, let me lay a few facts on you. Most of them will be true:
1. We need Mexico. Without cheap Mexican labor we would be paying $5 for an apple.
2. We need Canada. Did you know that 25% of our oil comes from Canada?
3. There's not that much oil in Alaska. Did you know that if we raised the standards on all tires to the level that is required on tires that come on a new vehicle we would save more oil than is in the Alaskan Preserve?
4. We need foreign aid programs. In the long run it is much cheaper to give money to those countries than to have to deal with the results if we don't. War, famine, disease... they will all come to our shores eventually if we don't do something to stop them early. Seriously, if we had poured $400 billion dollars into toppling Saddam in 3 years, rather than going to war, don't you think we could have done it? I'll never understand why Americans are reluctant to send money overseas unless it involves killing American soldiers. Burn this fact into your brain: Nothing is more expensive than war.
5. We need foreign governments, even the ones that don't support the Iraq agenda. We started a war without the money to pay for it so we have been borrowing like crazy. Japan alone owns 20% of our national debt. All they would have to do to send our economy into a tailspin is divest themselves of their U.S. Government bonds. My point is this: If you want to cut off ties with other countries, it's a good idea to not owe them a shitload of money. Of course, that would mean higher taxes at home and we can't have that.
6. America is dependent on foreign manufacturing. Did you know that 60% of Wal-Mart's merchandise is made overseas? If Barbie Dolls were made here they would cost $50. The good life we have here, cheap food, cheap products, etc, is all dependent on the poor countries that we support through foreign aid and manufacturing.
Okay, enough ranting. Oh, one more thing:
The Democrats are lying to you about Social Security. See earlier post
Not long after Sam was born, we installed a temporary fence and gate across the middle of the house. We then put everything that could harm the baby (bookshelves, pets, glass objects, Barney the Dinosaur) on the other side, effectively sealing the baby off in her own big safe room. The gate has worked well, keeping the pets out of the living room, except for Macho the Cat who has figured out how to jump it. We're contemplating razor wire next.
This weekend I installed yet another fence, between the pet lockdown area and the hallway. We just steam cleaned the carpets in the back bedrooms, and the wife decided to seal the entire area off from the pets to prevent further contamination (alas, if we could only do that with Rush Limbaugh). Before, the smell of animal urine used to compete with all the other smells emanating from the carpet. Now, the other smells are gone and the cat piss has a clear path to your nose.
The thing we always liked about our house is the wide-open floor plan. Now, our home is a series of passageways and gates. If you want to walk from the kitchen to my office you need a native guide and a torch.
Yesterday, another small piece of my soul was carved out and served up on fine china.
The wife and I spent the morning packing up my office. The business is growing fast and since we're still working out of the house, we need more room, so I have to give up my office. Goodbye Samurai Sword, goodbye Doug and Bob McKenzie figurines, goodbye poker chip collection, goodbye afternoon sun blasting in the windows producing temperatures that would broil a chicken.
My office was the only room in the house that contained anything that belonged to me. The rest of the house is Bobbi's. I get one room to fill with all my geeky stuff, a fortress of pathetic loserdom if you will. Now it's all gone. My smokin' big black computer will be put to use doing important business type stuff instead of playing video games and downloading porn as God intended. Last week, my 21 inch monitor died in what I am convinced was a ritual suicide. Better dead than running Excel.
The only reason I'm not curled up in the fetal position over all this is that I'm secure in the knowledge that once "Baby, The Sequel" arrives I will never be leaving the living room anyway. To that end I have ordered "The New Hotness".... a laptop computer that is actually faster than my current game rig. (Question: When using Wi-Fi, does porn download faster or slower? Discuss.) I'm currently stocking up on turn-based games that can be played for as little as one-minute at a time as that is about the limit of my ability to break away from The Baby, "I know you're hungry sweetie but Daddy is trying to play Civilization III so suck it up."
I've decided to be one of those care-givers who allows the children to watch TV and play video games from a very young age. Not so much because I feel that it stimulates the child but because it gives me a much needed break from parenting hell.
Samantha has developed a fondness for The Wiggles, an Australian show featuring four very gay men who sing gay songs and just sit around being gay and stuff ( song titles like I am a Dancer and Fruit Salad only lend credence to my theory of gayness ). Pick any song that has ever appeared on Sesame Street and it will be 10 times better than any Wiggles song ever written.
After The Wiggles we watch Shanna's Show which is not so much a show as a three-minute little cartoon skit for retarded children. Shanna sings a little song ( which, by the way, is better than any Wiggles song ever ) and gives three clues as to what her profession is. For example, yesterday her first clue showed her standing in front of a blackboard with a ruler and singing about grading papers. They could save a lot of money on testing by just showing this episode to every kid in elementary school because any kid who didn't guess "teacher" after the first clue could be strapped on the short bus and driven straight to special class.
If any of my children ever have to wait for the second clue I'm taking then straight to a professional. If they make it to the third clue I'll be forced to kill them to prevent them from ever breeding.
Now that the news has reached everyone regarding our soon to be expanding household, everyone wants to know whether we want a girl or boy. As long as it's healthy, we don't care.
A boy would be nice, or a girl.
My family wants a boy because mine is the last generation of Perry men. If I don't produce an heir, the Grand Perry lineage will come to an end, forcing us to deed the family estate and holdings to the peasants. I'll probably be forced to shoot the horses to spare them the indignity of being ridden by commoners.
I'd like a boy because of the whole, "Let's play catch," factor of course. Sometimes I have little daydreams where I'm watching my boy play baseball on a warm spring day, sipping a soda and eating some popcorn, yelling out, "Atta boy!," and "What the fuck are you doing! Keep your eye on the ball! Jesus Christ!"
I think that Bobbi wants a girl. I like the idea of two girls only two years apart. Sisters, growing up together, becoming best friends, looking after each other, covering for each other when one wants to sneak out and meet her boyfriend at the park, some greasy guy with a tricked out Eclipse and two earrings who I will fucking tear apart with my bare hands if you so much as breath near my baby girl! Jesus Christ!
Boy or girl, it's all good.
Growing up, I always believed that by the time I was 40 I would be flying to work and taking my meals in pill form. Technology was supposed to transform us into a high-flying utopia with no poverty or crime. Instead, our greatest leaps forward have enabled me to TiVo "American Idol" and fill an entire hard drive with porn for $19.95 a month. Progress worth every penny, true, but still a little short of my expectations.
Tonight, however, I got a chance to savor what we, as a technological society, have wrought. I was watching a three-year old episode of "Ed" when there was a little interlude in the show.... one of those slow motion moments with sliding camera crawls to give the viewer a moment to appreciate what the character is thinking. Carol was watching Ed joke around with their friends and realizing that she didn't want to elope after all. Instead, she wanted a full wedding. It was a nice moment that gave me a warm fuzzy for friends and family and honeymoon sex with a hot chick like Carol.
And there was a song.
A haunting, tripping little song that reminded me of Carole King and Janis Ian and summer nights in California when I was 13. Twenty minutes after the show ended I still had the chorus in my head:
"I was hoping that you'd know better but you're an amateur and I've been wrong
So I came to the computer and entered the lyrics. Within one minute I owned the song. Amateur by Aimee Mann.
It figures that it's an Aimee Mann song. Every critic has sung her praises as a wonderful songwriter ( this generation's Carole King?). Most people only remember her as the lead singer of 'Til Tuesday but she is considered one of the best singer-songwriters out there ( and her husband, Michael Penn is no slouch either ).
So, I may not be able to play Frisbee with my robot dog yet, but after repeated listening to Amateur, I'm convinced that technology is a good thing.
Three days ago, the wife informed me that she's pregnant. My first question was, naturally, "Who's the father?" It can't possibly be me since we've reduced our sex-life to once-a-month. Everytime we have sex I know it's time to change the air filter.
My immediate reaction to the news was full-on panic, followed by overwhelming anxiety and crushing despair. In fact, I would have written this entire post sooner but it's taken three days for the family to coax me out from under the bed. On the plus side, I did find a hairbrush that's been missing since 1997.
In an attempt to get some support for what I view as the end of my life as I've known it, I contacted some friends who have two children. First, I called Brian, who has two girls.
"Congratulations, your life is over!" He said. "Just pray it isn't a girl."
"Why, won't two girls get along better and play together?"
"Yea, you go with that theory pal and let me know how it works for ya. Three women in the house is not a good thing by any measure of the word. Wait until they're all on their period and you'll be willing to walk across cut glass to get out of the house!" Brian can always be counted on to cheer me up.
"Ya' know," I said, "I don't like the idea of having to give less attention to Samantha. I know that kids don't realize that they get less attention from their parents when they have siblings because the sibling fills in with attention too. Still, I'll know and I'll feel bad about it." I said, expecting to get the usual rap about "plenty of love to go around," etc.
"Oh, your wrong there too," He said, "She'll definitely know she's getting less attention and she'll be bitter about it. She'll resent you and she'll resent her sibling and it won't stop until she's forty! It's a living nightmare, pal and welcome to it!"
Much-love to you too, my brother.
My next call was to Jennifer, who has two boys. I have never spoken to Jen without her stopping at least once to say something like this, "Stop spraying your brother! Stop! No, it is not an accident. Nobody turns on the hose and sprays their brother by "accident!" My personal favorite is, "No, you cannot ride your tricycle down the stairs while holding scissors!" If I ever write a book about child-rearing, the title will be, "No, you cannot ride your tricycle down the stairs while holding scissors."
Jennifer was much more upbeat. "I'm so happy for you," She said, "You're screwed!"
My Uncle Sam is a character. Actually, he's the third in a series of characters that begins with my father the world-famous square dance caller, continues past my Uncle Mac the published author/painter/horticulturist/flute-playing Indian expert, and finally settles on Sam the Master Chief Bosun's Mate (Ret.)
One of the quality's that I have always loved about Sam is that he seems to have his own sense of "self" perfectly figured out. He's happy with it, comfortable in it, and consequently puts other people at ease when he's around them. It wears off on you, this feeling of, "I'm cool and so are you." Billy Crystal once said that the class clown is the guy that runs around the room with clothespins on his nipples. The class comedian is the guy who put him up to it. Sam is the class comedian. Once, when we were on a family reunion vacation at the beach, Sam told all the kids that there would be games and prizes all weekend involving Bozo the Clown (no relation). He then told them that my Dad was Bozo and for the rest of the weekend, at random intervals, my father would be the subject of games like "Tackle Bozo" and "Steal Bozo's Pants." My personal favorite was when he tried to convince Bozo to go out in the ocean up to his neck so that the kids could try to skip rocks into his mouth (first one in gets gum!)
Sam likes to play golf, and he likes to drink. He especially likes to drink while playing golf and has developed his game to the point that he's the only person I have ever met who gets better as he gets drunker. He may not be able to stand up but he'll damn sure snake a twelve-footer on 18 to screw your ass.
He used to play on a course in Norfolk ( anyone who knows the Navy doesn't need to be told what state ). The course didn't allow alcohol. There was, however, no rule about motor oil so Sam took a Quaker State bottle one day, sterilized it, and filled it with vodka. From that point on it went in the cart with him every week. That's the kind of guy he is. When he first told me this story, I didn't even think to ask him, "Why the hell would you use an oil bottle?" You just let stuff like that go.
One day, the Ranger drove up next to Sam and noticed the Quaker State bottle.
"Whatcha got that oil for?" He asked.
"Well," said Sam, "One day I was out here playing golf... way out on the back nine...and my cart broke down. I had to walk all the way back to the clubhouse. I found out later that the damn thing just need a little oil. So, now I carry a bottle with me just in case it happens again."
The Ranger nodded and rode off. Sam continued his game.
A few holes later, the Ranger came back. "These are electric carts."
You see, you have to appreciate the beauty of it. It's one thing to tell a lie so that you can have a drink on the golf course, it's another thing entirely to tell an impossible lie. You might as well say, "I have so little regard for you and your rules that I can't even be bothered to think up a good lie when I get caught breaking them." But at the same time, it's so damn clever that it makes you seem like a frigging Algonquin wit..... a regular Oscar Wilde of the Links.
I don't have a single story like that. I wish I did.
Tonight, for the first time, I think the baby had a tummy-ache. The wife and I came to this conclusion because she would lay down in her bed just fine and then suddenly get up and start crying for no reason. We are well aware of her cry's, and this was not one of her patented, "I don't feel like going to bed just yet, hey, let's stay up and watch Letterman!" cry's. No, this was a, "What the hell is that sudden pain?" cry.
There isn't much you can do in a case like that. We gave her some Tylenol and a shot of whiskey and put her back down. Soon, she was up again, so, more whiskey ( we didn't want to give her Tylenol again, could be dangerous..) and back to bed. The third time, the wife sent me in to deal with the problem, and this is where the guilt comes in...
You see, when I went in to get her, she reached up for me, all upset and teary-eyed. So, I picked her up and she put her head on my shoulder and pulled her little blanket up under my chin. We stood there in the dark, swaying a little while she calmed down from the horror of waking up with a tummy-ache. She was in a little pain and a little scared and I was sooooo happy! For a moment, a brief moment, I thought, "I wish she was like this every night."
That's how they get you, these demon children. They twist your heart around so that you actually find yourself wishing discomfort on your own flesh and blood just so you can get a needy-hug fix. I'm like a crack-whore for the hug..... a hug whore, if you will.
It's just wrong.
"I'm going to Circuit City. Do you want anything to eat while I'm out?"
"No, not really."
"Okay, so if I come back with something for me you won't be mad?"
"Where are you going?"
"I know you don't like Burger King, which is why I am going there only if you don't want anything."
"I could go for some Outback."
"Okay, but you will have to call it in while I go to Circuit City."
"Oh well, nevermind."
Thirty minutes later I return from my trip with a bag of Chik-Fil-A:
"You better have something in there for me!"
From the manual that came with my new Microsoft Wireless Mouse:
"For optimum performance, the wireless receiver must not be near any items
that may cause interference, such as computer monitors, large metal objects or
I guess if you plan on using your mouse near a computer, you're just screwed. If you're also in an office and have a file cabinet, forget it.
I also want to point out that the same manual devoted two pages to the setup and operation of the mouse and four pages to "healthy computing," which includes instructions for proper posture and wrist alignment when using your new mouse. What's next, "How to take a long shit without your legs falling asleep?" Now, that's information I could use.
The tipping situation in this country has gotten out of hand.
Let me start off by saying that I am a good tipper. My rule is 15-20% or $2 a person, whichever is higher. That way, if the wife and I go to Chili's and split an order of fajita's for $13.95, the waitress is still getting $4. It's a good system which has won me many thoughtful head bobs from co-diners as they realize that they have been screwing the Denny's waitresses for years. I mean, really, how can you leave less than $2 per person for the girl who has been refilling your Diet Coke for the last 45 minutes? You cheap hump.
But now, it's out of hand. The "Curbside Carryout" is the first tipping dilemma. Ask the waitresses and they will say that you should tip the same amount you would tip inside. That's a load of crap because:
- The waitress inside has 4 tables that she rolls about 3 times each in the course of a night. That's 12 tables total. The girl bringing out the food to your car has 12 cars per hour. If waitresses were all cheap whores, the curbside carryout girl would be Paris Hilton.
- The waitress inside spend 45 minutes seeing after my needs. The car girl spends 5 minutes putting my shit in a bag and taking my money. (This last sentence screams for another cheap whore reference..)
- Finally, here's the real kicker: The car girl gets paid more! (Paris Hilton!!... sorry)
So, stop giving that girl 20% for the 10 minutes of hard work she put in bringing your food out to your car (which is parked by the door, by the way). Tip her a dollar or two at the most. If everyone did that, I guarantee she would still make more than the inside waitress.
Tonight I ordered food from Olive Garden. We sometimes order from Olive Garden because we are too lazy to drive across town for the good food at Macaroni Grill or Carrabas. Better average Italian than no Italian. Anyway, at Olive garden you have to go in and get your food. So, I'm standing at the counter waiting for the girl to ring me up when I look down and notice, that's right, a tip jar. Now, here's a girl who does nothing but ring me up and bag my food and she expects a tip. The kid at McDonalds does the same thing and I don't tip him!
True story: Last week my neighbor had quite a large pile of garbage on the curb so when the garbagemen came by, he went out and tossed them a tenner. The guy takes the ten dollar bill, looks up at my neighbor and says, "Is this all you got?"
I'm typing this as I sit at my desk waiting for Pauline from Verizon to call me back. This will be the fifth time that I have spoken with the fine representatives of Verizon, or, as I like to call them, "The Phone Whores."
Really, how hard can it be to get an order right? Currently, if you call the business line and someone is on the phone, it rolls over to another number that does not exist. Just roll it over to a number that exists (as far as our limited understanding of existence can be measured,) you backwoods, mumble-mouth, 8th grade education, single-mom, short-bus riding, no-leg-shaving, piece of human waste!
Well, I feel better.
As you can see, there are a great many changes underway here at The Boolog. I've made the jump to "Blogger" for reasons that will become obvious soon. I've spent hours trying to figure out how to customize the templates and have made great progress but am frustrated by my inability to eliminate the breaks in the sidebar content. This frustration is only slightly less intense than my frustration at not being able to talk my wife into a threesome, which is really more of an everyday annoyance than frustration.
I'm hoping to get this sidebar thing figured out as soon as possible.