The Boss" is watching her sister's dog again which means a fresh round of "Can we get a dog, Dad?" is being repeated to me every thirty seconds by my kids, one at a time in order of age.
Every day I pray that Squizzle never learns to talk.
They are stoking up the begging fires, but I've got my stock answers and retorts ready to go anytime they want to roll.
"Dad. can we get a Chihuahua?" started Moe, hopefully.
"Heck no!" I replied. "I've been trying to keep rodents OUT of the house. A Chihuahua is just a rat with a short hair cut."
"How about a teacup poodle then?" queried Haggis.
"Um...if a Chihuahua is a rat with short hair, then a poodle is a rat with bad hair."
"I want a dog like Scooby Doo" offered Peff. "That's a big dog".
"Uh-hu. Big enough that it eats more than Squizzle. Heck, a dog that big could eat Squizzle."
I decided I'd save the discussion-killing imagery of cleaning up after such a mutt for a later day when they come to me with stronger arguments than, "But we really want one!"
"I want one" is too easily blocked by the classic retort, "People in Hades want a cool drink of ice water; I guess you'll all be disappointed for a while."
The kids really hate that one, but it always makes me laugh and they haven't found a way to counter it yet.
They'll never learn.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Friday, April 16, 2010
Eat Turnbuckle, Heel!
We had professional wrestling at our house last night. The girls put pillows on the floor and covered them with a blanket to create a ring in the living room. Moe gave each of the little kids ferocious identities for her promotion. I sense more than a little bit of Bobby "The Brain" Hennan in this child.
She was "The Night Wrestler", Puzey was "The Pink Freak", Peff was "The Critter", and for my personal favorite, Squizzle became "The Grumpifier".
I remain stunned by the imaginations of my children. The Grumpifier? Where on earth does this kid come up with this stuff?
They had several individual matches that involved leaps from the top rope (the couch)and enough submission holds to put the Iron Sheik, Nickolai Volkov, and Andre the Giant out of commission for eternity (or at least the next pay-per-view). The main event was a battle royal where "The Grumpifier" received a double-ax handle to the back of his skull. It was dirty pool, and it caused a chain reaction no one saw coming. The legendary "Revolting Slob" left the stands (as well as a lengthy retirement) to return fair play and deal the heavy hands of justice to the forces of havoc.
It was quite the evening and the show may go on the road if the price is right.
Afterward the Boss and I reminisced about the heady days of George the Animal Steele, Gorilla Monsoon, Mean Gene Okerlund and the boys.
"Remember when the match everyone wanted to see was Hulk Hogan versus Ric Flair to see who was the "real" Heavyweight champion of the world?"
She did not.
Growing up in a house with only sisters is not an environment conducive to Professional Wrestling exposure. But I remember. My brothers and I were mad for the stuff. Couldn't get enough.
Later on, I was watching hockey while waiting for the Boss's show to start. During a commercial, I noticed that there was something called TNA wrestling on Spike. "What the heck" I thought, and turned it on. The first thing I heard was "Pomp and Circumstance".
Now that song combines with the sight of the "squared circle" to activate the most juvenile portion of my brain (I said the MOST juvenile portion. I am fully aware that all of my brain is juvenile in one sense or another, so keep you smart alec stuff to yourselves). "Pomp and Circumstance" was the entrance music for my all-time-can-never-be-replaced-most-favorite wrestler ever; "The Macho Man" Randy Savage.
Suddenly eager with anticipation to see Mach go "Down that Aisle!", I nearly giggled.
"I can't believe this guy is still wrestling!" I shouted to the Boss. "He's got to be a hundred and ninety". Well, in steroid years; anyway.
****Editor's Note
I once went to a show here in Salt Lake. I coughed up thirty bucks to sit on the twelfth row at the E-center with my brothers and a bunch of buddies. When Macho came out, he was getting booed and heckled because he was playing a "heel" at the time. Not me. I was whistling and cheering like the Cubbies had won the series, and when it got quiet so he could take the microphone, I used my best coach voice to bust out an impersonation of his trademarked "OHHHHHH YYYEEEEEEEEEAAAAA!!!!!!!" growl that he used before he snapped into a slim jim or an opponents leg. He looked over to where we were sitting...pointed right at me...and gave us the growl. It was THE single greatest moment of my adolescence; even if I was in my mid-twenties at the time.
****
Alas, it was not to be. Some other punk was using the Macho Man entrance music. "He can't do that!" I hollered at the screen. "Only Macho can use that music. It's a rule. Someone needs to snatch that dude's Man Card. What a punk!"
That's why I started laughing when two dudes ambushed this usurper in the tunnel and beat down on him with a couple of folding chairs. He deserved it.
Disappointed I was not going to get to see my hero, I was nevertheless interested in who this poser was so I kept watching for a minute. Imagine my surprise when someone brought Ric Flair down the aisle in a wheelchair.
Stunned, I turned to the Boss who was now playing solitaire on her cellphone. "He looks terrible", I said. "Some guys don't know when to quit."
The Boss mumbled something that sounded vaguely like "HMMM", but probably meant "Grow up". Then all of a sudden, the Nature Boy hops out of his wheelchair like his butt is on fire, grabs a folding chair and starts hammering on the dude in the ring.
"Wow" I said for the third time in about forty seconds.
The only thing more mysterious than what was going on was why I was suddenly so interested.
Then IT happened. The camera swung to the top of the tunnel and right on cue, out stepped the Hulkster himself.
"Holy Cow!!" I started shouting, jumping nearly out of my seat. "Look at this, Hon! It's Hulk versus Flair; we were just talking about this! Right now... this very second! I don't believe it!"
"I don't believe it either", said the Boss patiently, but I'm not sure she was talking about the TV.
Unfortunately, the show started rolling the closing credits as the Nature Boy and the Hulkster glared at each other from thirty feet apart. It was soooo cool. I am absolutely tuning in next week. Vince and Jerry practically required it to keep my Man Card. Besides...now I want to.
I really, really need a hobby.
She was "The Night Wrestler", Puzey was "The Pink Freak", Peff was "The Critter", and for my personal favorite, Squizzle became "The Grumpifier".
I remain stunned by the imaginations of my children. The Grumpifier? Where on earth does this kid come up with this stuff?
They had several individual matches that involved leaps from the top rope (the couch)and enough submission holds to put the Iron Sheik, Nickolai Volkov, and Andre the Giant out of commission for eternity (or at least the next pay-per-view). The main event was a battle royal where "The Grumpifier" received a double-ax handle to the back of his skull. It was dirty pool, and it caused a chain reaction no one saw coming. The legendary "Revolting Slob" left the stands (as well as a lengthy retirement) to return fair play and deal the heavy hands of justice to the forces of havoc.
It was quite the evening and the show may go on the road if the price is right.
Afterward the Boss and I reminisced about the heady days of George the Animal Steele, Gorilla Monsoon, Mean Gene Okerlund and the boys.
"Remember when the match everyone wanted to see was Hulk Hogan versus Ric Flair to see who was the "real" Heavyweight champion of the world?"
She did not.
Growing up in a house with only sisters is not an environment conducive to Professional Wrestling exposure. But I remember. My brothers and I were mad for the stuff. Couldn't get enough.
Later on, I was watching hockey while waiting for the Boss's show to start. During a commercial, I noticed that there was something called TNA wrestling on Spike. "What the heck" I thought, and turned it on. The first thing I heard was "Pomp and Circumstance".
Now that song combines with the sight of the "squared circle" to activate the most juvenile portion of my brain (I said the MOST juvenile portion. I am fully aware that all of my brain is juvenile in one sense or another, so keep you smart alec stuff to yourselves). "Pomp and Circumstance" was the entrance music for my all-time-can-never-be-replaced-most-favorite wrestler ever; "The Macho Man" Randy Savage.
Suddenly eager with anticipation to see Mach go "Down that Aisle!", I nearly giggled.
"I can't believe this guy is still wrestling!" I shouted to the Boss. "He's got to be a hundred and ninety". Well, in steroid years; anyway.
****Editor's Note
I once went to a show here in Salt Lake. I coughed up thirty bucks to sit on the twelfth row at the E-center with my brothers and a bunch of buddies. When Macho came out, he was getting booed and heckled because he was playing a "heel" at the time. Not me. I was whistling and cheering like the Cubbies had won the series, and when it got quiet so he could take the microphone, I used my best coach voice to bust out an impersonation of his trademarked "OHHHHHH YYYEEEEEEEEEAAAAA!!!!!!!" growl that he used before he snapped into a slim jim or an opponents leg. He looked over to where we were sitting...pointed right at me...and gave us the growl. It was THE single greatest moment of my adolescence; even if I was in my mid-twenties at the time.
****
Alas, it was not to be. Some other punk was using the Macho Man entrance music. "He can't do that!" I hollered at the screen. "Only Macho can use that music. It's a rule. Someone needs to snatch that dude's Man Card. What a punk!"
That's why I started laughing when two dudes ambushed this usurper in the tunnel and beat down on him with a couple of folding chairs. He deserved it.
Disappointed I was not going to get to see my hero, I was nevertheless interested in who this poser was so I kept watching for a minute. Imagine my surprise when someone brought Ric Flair down the aisle in a wheelchair.
Stunned, I turned to the Boss who was now playing solitaire on her cellphone. "He looks terrible", I said. "Some guys don't know when to quit."
The Boss mumbled something that sounded vaguely like "HMMM", but probably meant "Grow up". Then all of a sudden, the Nature Boy hops out of his wheelchair like his butt is on fire, grabs a folding chair and starts hammering on the dude in the ring.
"Wow" I said for the third time in about forty seconds.
The only thing more mysterious than what was going on was why I was suddenly so interested.
Then IT happened. The camera swung to the top of the tunnel and right on cue, out stepped the Hulkster himself.
"Holy Cow!!" I started shouting, jumping nearly out of my seat. "Look at this, Hon! It's Hulk versus Flair; we were just talking about this! Right now... this very second! I don't believe it!"
"I don't believe it either", said the Boss patiently, but I'm not sure she was talking about the TV.
Unfortunately, the show started rolling the closing credits as the Nature Boy and the Hulkster glared at each other from thirty feet apart. It was soooo cool. I am absolutely tuning in next week. Vince and Jerry practically required it to keep my Man Card. Besides...now I want to.
I really, really need a hobby.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
And If They Lose...
I have always loved my sports. Many of my childhood memories involve my whole family participating in or watching some sport or another. One of my favorites was when my Dad taught me what it means to be a real fan.
I was in high school and the Jazz were getting run out of the gym by an undermanned, mediocre Golden State team in the first round of the playoffs. In spite of the first or second best record in the league, the Jazz were about to flame out early, yet again.
"I can't stand it anymore", I told Dad right before the last game. "These guys are killing me. I've finally reached the point where if they win; great. If they lose, whatever."
Dad looked at me kind of like I was one of the neighbor's dogs that had just desecrated his lawn.
"I'm kind of the same way" Dad said. "If they win; great. And if they lose I'm gonna be madder than hell."
I instantly felt like a betrayer. A blasphemer. It was around then that I realized that true fans never give up on a team. If I'd given up on the Jazz, that shot that Stock dropped over Chuck Barkley would not be the sweet moment of victory that it is. If I'd quit cheering for the Broncos when Craig Morton was throwing every second pass to the guys in different colored shirts, Elway's dive into the end zone wouldn't be one of the coolest plays ever. And if I'd stopped watching BYU when Gary Crowton was single handed destroying thirty years of powerhouse domination, then Harline would not still be open, fourth and eighteen would be just another punting down, and seeing Andrew George split the middle wouldn't make me laugh every time I see the replay.
You can't give up when it gets ugly. You just can't.
Take the Cubbies. they've blown a half dozen games in the bottom of the eighth inning this year, their bully has been mistaken for solid rocket fuel, and Loopynella doesn't know a foul ball from his elbow. But the day they win the world series will be one of the best feelings ever. Even Cardinal fans will feel it that day. I know it. You can't give up.
Which brings me to the Utah Jazz.
What the crap was that all about? You win last night, you get home court advantage in the first and maybe second rounds. You've swept the season series with two of the three teams on your side of the bracket and you would be highly favored against the third. All you have to do is beat the Suns in your own house.
You lose, and you won't see home court advantage in any series, you start against a team that has pretty much owned you, and IF you beat them, you get the right to be blown out of the sky by the hated, despised, scumbag Lakers.
Naturally the Jazz get popped by twenty.
About halftime, my brother T and I began to exchange text messages.
"These guys suck OUT LOUD!" I said. "I can hear the smell from here."
"Why isn't Steve Nash crumpled in a heap somewhere in the third or fourth row?" T replied. "Is anybody gonna put a body on that guy?"
"And where the crap is Korver?" I wondered.
"What the H is a 'Korver'?" asked T. "I think he got left in Oakland the other night."
"I hope he doesn't fall off a pier there. He would not be able to hit the water."
Yeah, it was that bad. Meanwhile Boozer was where he usually is when he might be called upon to earn his pay. Hiding behind the bench in street clothes. With Andre "Don't turn up the air conditioning, I might blow away and get hurt again" Kirilenko sitting right next to him.
Just for curiosity sake, who knew that Kirilenko even had a calf muscle? How can you strain an imaginary object?
Sometime in the second quarter, the Boss noticed I was getting more than a little agitated. Cementing her greatness and insuring that she has a perfectly chiseled bust for the wife-hall-of-fame, she put the kids in bed and went to watch her shows in the bedroom.
****Editor's Note
Hehehe...Perfect bust for the hall of fame...hehehe. It has two meanings, and both are applicable...giggle, giggle. There's really only three words to say here.
BEST.
PUN.
EVER!!!!
****
The game was as bad as a root canal. But I watched the whole thing anyway. All by myself in a dark, lonely room. I'm lucky I didn't break my neck tripping on a chair again.
It's just like Dad says. If the Jazz win; great. If they lose...
I was in high school and the Jazz were getting run out of the gym by an undermanned, mediocre Golden State team in the first round of the playoffs. In spite of the first or second best record in the league, the Jazz were about to flame out early, yet again.
"I can't stand it anymore", I told Dad right before the last game. "These guys are killing me. I've finally reached the point where if they win; great. If they lose, whatever."
Dad looked at me kind of like I was one of the neighbor's dogs that had just desecrated his lawn.
"I'm kind of the same way" Dad said. "If they win; great. And if they lose I'm gonna be madder than hell."
I instantly felt like a betrayer. A blasphemer. It was around then that I realized that true fans never give up on a team. If I'd given up on the Jazz, that shot that Stock dropped over Chuck Barkley would not be the sweet moment of victory that it is. If I'd quit cheering for the Broncos when Craig Morton was throwing every second pass to the guys in different colored shirts, Elway's dive into the end zone wouldn't be one of the coolest plays ever. And if I'd stopped watching BYU when Gary Crowton was single handed destroying thirty years of powerhouse domination, then Harline would not still be open, fourth and eighteen would be just another punting down, and seeing Andrew George split the middle wouldn't make me laugh every time I see the replay.
You can't give up when it gets ugly. You just can't.
Take the Cubbies. they've blown a half dozen games in the bottom of the eighth inning this year, their bully has been mistaken for solid rocket fuel, and Loopynella doesn't know a foul ball from his elbow. But the day they win the world series will be one of the best feelings ever. Even Cardinal fans will feel it that day. I know it. You can't give up.
Which brings me to the Utah Jazz.
What the crap was that all about? You win last night, you get home court advantage in the first and maybe second rounds. You've swept the season series with two of the three teams on your side of the bracket and you would be highly favored against the third. All you have to do is beat the Suns in your own house.
You lose, and you won't see home court advantage in any series, you start against a team that has pretty much owned you, and IF you beat them, you get the right to be blown out of the sky by the hated, despised, scumbag Lakers.
Naturally the Jazz get popped by twenty.
About halftime, my brother T and I began to exchange text messages.
"These guys suck OUT LOUD!" I said. "I can hear the smell from here."
"Why isn't Steve Nash crumpled in a heap somewhere in the third or fourth row?" T replied. "Is anybody gonna put a body on that guy?"
"And where the crap is Korver?" I wondered.
"What the H is a 'Korver'?" asked T. "I think he got left in Oakland the other night."
"I hope he doesn't fall off a pier there. He would not be able to hit the water."
Yeah, it was that bad. Meanwhile Boozer was where he usually is when he might be called upon to earn his pay. Hiding behind the bench in street clothes. With Andre "Don't turn up the air conditioning, I might blow away and get hurt again" Kirilenko sitting right next to him.
Just for curiosity sake, who knew that Kirilenko even had a calf muscle? How can you strain an imaginary object?
Sometime in the second quarter, the Boss noticed I was getting more than a little agitated. Cementing her greatness and insuring that she has a perfectly chiseled bust for the wife-hall-of-fame, she put the kids in bed and went to watch her shows in the bedroom.
****Editor's Note
Hehehe...Perfect bust for the hall of fame...hehehe. It has two meanings, and both are applicable...giggle, giggle. There's really only three words to say here.
BEST.
PUN.
EVER!!!!
****
The game was as bad as a root canal. But I watched the whole thing anyway. All by myself in a dark, lonely room. I'm lucky I didn't break my neck tripping on a chair again.
It's just like Dad says. If the Jazz win; great. If they lose...
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Bacon Juice
Here's another one that Jamie Oliver can try on for size...
I know I'm an evil man when it comes to nutrition. My personal philosophy has always been that just as many people have heart attacks while jogging as people eating big macs, why not enjoy yourself? My proclivities for "creative" menus are well documented. But this morning, I really tried. I pulled some bacon (a very rare treat) out of the fridge and cooked that up.
How big a treat is bacon? I gave them chocolate cake for breakfast...they didn't even say thank you. I put bacon in the pan and they started a parade between the kitchen and dining room while chanting, "Bacon! Bacon! Bacon!"
They like bacon.
Since I didn't have an empty can in the garbage, I poured the grease into a mug and set it on the counter while scrambling the eggs. I put cheese on the eggs, and poured the milk and the kids were in heaven.
While they ate, I sat down to work on my first post. After a while the kids came in looking for seconds and Reaggers found the grease mug.
"Hot Chocolate!" she shouted with glee.
"No, it's not", said Peff. "That's bacon juice."
"Even better!" Reaggers shouted. "Uncle Fatdaddy, can we drink the bacon juice?"
I cave in to that, and I'll have a "Reaggers Has a Heart Attack" post to go with "Dad Has Two Heart Attacks". Tempting, but no.
I quit.
Again.
I know I'm an evil man when it comes to nutrition. My personal philosophy has always been that just as many people have heart attacks while jogging as people eating big macs, why not enjoy yourself? My proclivities for "creative" menus are well documented. But this morning, I really tried. I pulled some bacon (a very rare treat) out of the fridge and cooked that up.
How big a treat is bacon? I gave them chocolate cake for breakfast...they didn't even say thank you. I put bacon in the pan and they started a parade between the kitchen and dining room while chanting, "Bacon! Bacon! Bacon!"
They like bacon.
Since I didn't have an empty can in the garbage, I poured the grease into a mug and set it on the counter while scrambling the eggs. I put cheese on the eggs, and poured the milk and the kids were in heaven.
While they ate, I sat down to work on my first post. After a while the kids came in looking for seconds and Reaggers found the grease mug.
"Hot Chocolate!" she shouted with glee.
"No, it's not", said Peff. "That's bacon juice."
"Even better!" Reaggers shouted. "Uncle Fatdaddy, can we drink the bacon juice?"
I cave in to that, and I'll have a "Reaggers Has a Heart Attack" post to go with "Dad Has Two Heart Attacks". Tempting, but no.
I quit.
Again.
Could Have Done Without That...
I just about managed to kill myself on Sunday night. The Boss and I had Tivo'd (did I just make up a new word?) the Amazing Race so we could actually watch it instead of attempting to watch while breaking up kid wars.
Because I am blind as a referee, I have to sit about a foot and a half from my busted up, old school TV.
****Editor's Note
I once tried to get my doctor to lobby my insurance company to buy me a new large screen HD TV for "therapeutic" reasons. I guess he had some "moral objections" or something, because he politely declined to write the prescription. One more reason I ain't going back there again. In the mean time I've been thinking we should have a blog-a-thon to raise money for a fun little campaign that is close to my heart:
"Fatdaddy's Big Screen. For just a few dollars you could help a fat, bald, blind man watch football without blocking everyone else's view. This poor &@$^@! needs your help and only you can give it to him. Won't you please use your perfectly healthy eyes to look into your non-cholesterol clogged heart and help him out?"
C'mon. You'd donate. Especially if I could get Sally Struthers to read the voice over. You know you would. Alright. I wouldn't either... but you can't blame a guy for trying.
****
Anyway, I HAD a nice comfortable little chair that I could pull up to the side of the TV and watch without rearranging the whole living room or blocking everyone else's view. I say had because on Friday the kids busted it into three pieces. So Sunday night, I'd pulled a dining room chair into the living room. After about an hour of that I'd had enough and once the kids went to bed, I talked the Boss into pulling the couch over (I'll bet she gets a serious case of google eyes trying to sit next to me to watch TV, but she never complains. I think she was born without a complainer gene and that is why she puts up with me).
I set the dining room chair in the corner next to the couch, turned off the lights and we watched the Amazing Race. Or part of it. As usually happens on Sunday night we dozed off long before it was over.
I woke up around 11 and turned the TV off. The room was blacker than a math teacher's soul; but since I can't see anyway it didn't bother me. I got up and forgot all about that D@%&! dining room chair sitting between the couch and the wall. I barked my left shin hard off the sharp bottom edge of the seat.
Since I hadn't seen that one coming, my reflexes were limited to snapping my left leg backward when all my momentum was going forward. My right leg found itself bearing all of my considerable bulk unexpectedly and trying to stop it and the resulting effort pulled a hammy in my right leg.
Within three tenths of a second I went from walking toward the light switch to falling as though pole-axed and then insulting my injuries by bouncing my melon off of the edge of the window sill. It was a three for one kind of deal. I assume my mother will be chagrined to know that my only reflexive action on the way to the ground was to swear. Probably louder than I should have.
The Boss fell asleep watching the "Amazing Race" and woke up to a live action "Three Stooges" short where only Curly made an appearance. We're both lucky it didn't end with a scene from "ER". A day later and my left shin is all ripped up, my right hamstring is still sore, and there's another knot trying to implant itself on my skull. And oh, yeah. The Cubbies blew another lead in the eighth on Sunday.
To her everlasting credit, the Boss didn't laugh at me, but she should have.
What a train wreck she's married to. The woman is a saint.
Because I am blind as a referee, I have to sit about a foot and a half from my busted up, old school TV.
****Editor's Note
I once tried to get my doctor to lobby my insurance company to buy me a new large screen HD TV for "therapeutic" reasons. I guess he had some "moral objections" or something, because he politely declined to write the prescription. One more reason I ain't going back there again. In the mean time I've been thinking we should have a blog-a-thon to raise money for a fun little campaign that is close to my heart:
"Fatdaddy's Big Screen. For just a few dollars you could help a fat, bald, blind man watch football without blocking everyone else's view. This poor &@$^@! needs your help and only you can give it to him. Won't you please use your perfectly healthy eyes to look into your non-cholesterol clogged heart and help him out?"
C'mon. You'd donate. Especially if I could get Sally Struthers to read the voice over. You know you would. Alright. I wouldn't either... but you can't blame a guy for trying.
****
Anyway, I HAD a nice comfortable little chair that I could pull up to the side of the TV and watch without rearranging the whole living room or blocking everyone else's view. I say had because on Friday the kids busted it into three pieces. So Sunday night, I'd pulled a dining room chair into the living room. After about an hour of that I'd had enough and once the kids went to bed, I talked the Boss into pulling the couch over (I'll bet she gets a serious case of google eyes trying to sit next to me to watch TV, but she never complains. I think she was born without a complainer gene and that is why she puts up with me).
I set the dining room chair in the corner next to the couch, turned off the lights and we watched the Amazing Race. Or part of it. As usually happens on Sunday night we dozed off long before it was over.
I woke up around 11 and turned the TV off. The room was blacker than a math teacher's soul; but since I can't see anyway it didn't bother me. I got up and forgot all about that D@%&! dining room chair sitting between the couch and the wall. I barked my left shin hard off the sharp bottom edge of the seat.
Since I hadn't seen that one coming, my reflexes were limited to snapping my left leg backward when all my momentum was going forward. My right leg found itself bearing all of my considerable bulk unexpectedly and trying to stop it and the resulting effort pulled a hammy in my right leg.
Within three tenths of a second I went from walking toward the light switch to falling as though pole-axed and then insulting my injuries by bouncing my melon off of the edge of the window sill. It was a three for one kind of deal. I assume my mother will be chagrined to know that my only reflexive action on the way to the ground was to swear. Probably louder than I should have.
The Boss fell asleep watching the "Amazing Race" and woke up to a live action "Three Stooges" short where only Curly made an appearance. We're both lucky it didn't end with a scene from "ER". A day later and my left shin is all ripped up, my right hamstring is still sore, and there's another knot trying to implant itself on my skull. And oh, yeah. The Cubbies blew another lead in the eighth on Sunday.
To her everlasting credit, the Boss didn't laugh at me, but she should have.
What a train wreck she's married to. The woman is a saint.
Monday, April 12, 2010
Happy Birthday, Puzilla
Yesterday was Puzilla's seventh birthday. There is no way that child is allowed to be that old already. We had french fries and Ice Cream for dinner, because that is what she asked for. Jamie Oliver can bite me. I've fed my kids chocolate cake for breakfast, ice cream for lunch, and at this very moment, Peff, Reaggers, Bub, and Squizzles are eating Popsicles on my deck at ten in the morning. I guess I'm just a bad parent. Besides, Puzilla could use a little fat in her diet. I seriously fear that someone will accuse us of neglect because she is so flipping skinny. She has a free pass to eat a spoonful of peanut butter anytime she wants it. I still have no idea how a kid that scrawny could make it in this family, but she does. And she makes me laugh. All the time.
On Saturday, we went to the nickle arcade and spent about three hours there. It's like a pre-teen Vegas. I showed Peff the OG Donkey Kong and a vintage pacman game and he was very much less than impressed. I also spent thirty cents playing a pinball game because everyone knows that the fat, bald, and blind kid sure plays a mean pinball.
The Boss played a cool video game version of Deal or No Deal, and won the max prize, which turned out to be four hundred tickets. With the tickets the kids won playing skeeball, wheel of fortune and whack-a-mole, we finished a very fun afternoon with about 900 tickets for our efforts.
As a side note, do you have any idea how many wax lips and Chinese finger cuffs you can get with 900 tickets? It's a lot. That's all I'll say.
I was pressing the Boss hard for a few extra nickles at the end. I wanted to try and win enough tickets for this wicked, awesome, switchblade comb. And then I realized that I'm bald. What the H do I need a comb for?
The whole afternoon cost me twenty bucks and the kids got all the stick yo-yo's and slide whistles they could ask for. We came home and watched the Alvin and the Chipmunk Squeaqual. It was as mind-numbingly dopey as you would imagine. The kids loved it.
Happy Seventh Birthday, Puzey. You're sweet and goofy, and skinny as a rail. Don't ever change.
On Saturday, we went to the nickle arcade and spent about three hours there. It's like a pre-teen Vegas. I showed Peff the OG Donkey Kong and a vintage pacman game and he was very much less than impressed. I also spent thirty cents playing a pinball game because everyone knows that the fat, bald, and blind kid sure plays a mean pinball.
The Boss played a cool video game version of Deal or No Deal, and won the max prize, which turned out to be four hundred tickets. With the tickets the kids won playing skeeball, wheel of fortune and whack-a-mole, we finished a very fun afternoon with about 900 tickets for our efforts.
As a side note, do you have any idea how many wax lips and Chinese finger cuffs you can get with 900 tickets? It's a lot. That's all I'll say.
I was pressing the Boss hard for a few extra nickles at the end. I wanted to try and win enough tickets for this wicked, awesome, switchblade comb. And then I realized that I'm bald. What the H do I need a comb for?
The whole afternoon cost me twenty bucks and the kids got all the stick yo-yo's and slide whistles they could ask for. We came home and watched the Alvin and the Chipmunk Squeaqual. It was as mind-numbingly dopey as you would imagine. The kids loved it.
Happy Seventh Birthday, Puzey. You're sweet and goofy, and skinny as a rail. Don't ever change.
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