I Met My Wife At A Strip Club

She was dancing up on stage. Not much to look at really, but then none of them were. Oh, not my wife, my wife didn't work at the strip club, I just met her there. The girl I'm talking about is some nameless, faceless being from back during my days of youthful indiscretion. And she isn't much to look at, really, because this isn't an upscale down town strip club with Martinis and mink-lined booths in VIP lounges that I'm sitting in. This is a strip club in Umatilla, OR that caters to migrants, truckers, and people who just got out of the WA state penitentiary - legally or otherwise. They ain't what you would call picky. I'm sitting at the blackjack table trying to avoid either getting hustled or discovering something sticky, and waiting for my friend to come pick me up. What am I doing here, if this is such a seedy dive you ask? Well. . .

I went to school in Walla Walla, and before the yuppies found it and screwed it up it was a quaint little town with about two square blocks of 'down town' area. There was a Safeway, a few bars, a strip mall, and a little old lady who sold cookies off of her back porch, who was simply referred to as 'cookie lady'. So, on your average Wednesday night, this meant that the town pretty much closed its doors and rolled up the sidewalks at about 8pm. If you're bored after 8pm, and your roommate can't be bothered to put his book down, then you pretty much have three choices:

1) Sit in the wheat fields and drink, drink, drink.
2) Play pool with the fat old biker down at the Polar Bear Club
3) Drive, drive, drive, and hope you find something over the next hill

After many nights of #1 and #2, I found this rat's nest of a strip club pursuing #3. Heck, it's only 60 miles from campus, and as far as that sounds like it must be, you have to understand the lay of the land to realize that it's really the closest thing around. Allow me to Yahoo for you:



Now Waitsburg might seem tempting there, but don't overlook Milton Freewater - it's a blast. Is the issue more apparent now? Good. So off to #3 I go. Tonight it will be the seedy strip club to leer at ugly women, practice my Spanglish, and maybe not lose money at blackjack. It's west down (12) there a ways past the edge of the map.

Now, I thought that I may have heard something weird under the hood, as I pulled out of the gas station in Walla Walla, but I wasn't sure. In the last 6 months that I had owned this Fiero, I had learned a ton about auto mechanics, due to all the crap that went wrong with it. It was also a 1984 four cylinder model - the kind with the spontaneous engine fires, so it was cheap, but also quirky and unreliable, even as Fieros go. Under the hood was always a cramped and convoluted mess, I really hated getting in there - and yet there always seemed to be a reason. So, unbeknownst to me at the time, the alternator belt, which had been a tad squeaky for the past week, decided to go as I was pulling out of the gas station that night. About 30 miles into my trip I noticed my headlights growing a bit dim, and quickly surmised what had happened. From past experience I knew that the car would only be running for a short time after a failed alternator belt, and I also knew that if I shut off the engine or if it stalled at this point, there would be no restarting it. I had no cell phone - not that you would get service out here anyway. Please review map above and note potential issues with this situation.

There was a full moon out that night, so what made sense to me at the time, since I knew that there was no help for 30 miles behind me, was to turn off the headlights and everything else, and proceed with all due haste, full speed ahead, in the dark that night. It was maybe only 20-30 more miles to the rat's nest, and there might be a gas station or something along the way that I had forgotten about, or maybe I would be lucky enough to get pulled over by the police. Funny thing about that, I can never find one when I want one, but they're all over me if I try to turn right on red.

So of course there are no gas stations along the way, or even a light that I remember. There may have been a flashing yellow one at an intersection of two rural highways, but that didn't exactly do me a lot of good, and I didn't pass any other cars in the last 25 miles anyway, so waiting there would have been pointless as well. I pulled into the rats nest probably a whole 15 minutes (do the math) later, and killed the car. I got out and confirmed that no, it wasn't the battery, it was the belt, which was miraculously still in one piece, but it had just twisted and warped from the heat, and fallen off the guide wheel. What's the big deal you say? Just put on a new belt you say? Would love to. Did you know that with a Fiero, you have to jack the whole thing up above your head to get to the part where you need to loosen the crap to get the old belt off (not an issue anymore) and slide the new belt on (still an issue)? Well, now ya do. Where am I going to find a hydraulic lift in Umatilla at 10pm on a Wednesday? So I go into said rat's nest and pay my $5 cover to use the (eww) pay phone to call one of my roommates.

*ring ring*
Vince: 'Yellow?'
Me: 'Hi Vince, how's it going?'
Vince: 'You're not in jail are you, because I don't have any m-'
Me: 'No, not yet. I'm stuck. Can you come get me?'
Vince: 'Uh, okay. Where are you?'
Me: 'Umatilla.'
Vince: 'Uma-whatta?'
Me: 'Umatilla.'
Vince: 'In Oregon?'
Me: 'Yeah.'
Vince (hanging up the phone): 'ROAD TRIP!!!!'

Vince was always up for helping a guy out, especially if it involved cars or some kind of rescue op. This one, involving both, was surely like a wet dream for him. Note to self: If I ever open a strip club, I'm calling it The Wet Dream. Anyway, knowing that help was on the way in about an hour, and knowing that there was nothing else that could be done tonight, I decided to ease my way over to the blackjack table and have a sit. I would have told Vince where I was in Umatilla, but there are only three buildings, and Vince is pretty bright.

Everyone please welcome 'Shyla' to the main stage!
Me: 'Deal me in please.'
Dealer: 'Changing $20!'
'Shyla' looked anything but. If someone had called animal control and pointed them her way, they probably would have assumed that someone had shaven a gorilla and put a sling on it as a joke. Tranquilizer darts and hilarity would have surely followed.
Me (12 showing): 'Hit me.'
Dealer: 'Thaaat's 22 - oh too bad!'

Let's give it up for 'Dallas' folks!
'Dallas' was a favorite with the truckers and farm boys alike. She was pretty heavy, but had recently got her hair colored and had all her teeth to boot. If I had to pick one, it would have been Dallas, but I'm also thankful that I didn't have to pick one.
Me (hard 18): *wave off dealer*
Dealer (6 showing): 'That's 16, and now 5 for 21!!! Woo hoo!'
Big hairy arm around my neck. 'CARE for a DANTS HoNeY??'
Oh God, it's Shyla. 'Thanks sweety, but I have to win it from this guy first!' I say. I hear her stumbling off, bleating 'Dants? Dants!! Anybody wants a dants??'. Good lord. No matter how bad your day is going today, at least your name isn't 'Shyla', eh?

And now let's hear it for 'Maria', she's going all the way tonight everyone!
What, 'Maria' couldn't think up a stage name? How about 'el toro loco'? As I was about to share my private little funny with the rest of the table, a guy sitting next to me leans over and motions at the guy closest the dealer and whispers 'That's Humberto. That's his sister.' I look over, and Humberto looks like he has exactly nothing to live for. So I shut the hell up.
Me (*sigh*): 'Hit me.'
Dealer: '22 again! Not your night!'
Me (pissed): 'If they ever change this game to 22, I will own your ass.'

Joining us once again is 'Starla', how was your vacation Starla?
'Starla' is, well. . . Anorexic might be putting too fine a point on it. Starla, in fact, looks like a skeleton trying to hide an Ewok. I debate whether starting a side pool at the blackjack table concerning whether 'Starla' will faint during her first dance or her second would be gouche, and as I am bringing it up I learn that 'Starla' just got out of jail, and that was the joke that the DJ was making about her vacation which earned him the finger. 'It was for drugs though, not prostitution' I'm assured. Of course it wasn't for prosititution, I think to myself, how could.. Who would.. But then I look around and realize that. . . Well, probably most of them. . .
Dealer: 'Wanna hit?'
Me (12 showing): 'No!'
Dealer (tipping his cards to show me a pair of jacks): 'Are you sure?'
Me: 'Fine. Hit me.'
*KING*
Dealer (laughing): 22!!

Everybody put your hands together for BROWN SUGAR!!!
And here's where you came in, sitting at the blackjack table, avoiding sticky things, and trying not to get hustled. Since you are wondering, 'Brown Sugar' is indeed brown, and is kind of like a refined version of Shyla who hides Ewoks more successfully than Starla, and she's got the prettiest gold teeth. She ain't much to look at, but then none of them are really. . .

So I push back from the table. It's been about an hour now, and Vince will be coming shortly. I head outside just as Vince is pulling up. Buuut, Vince is not alone. Vince has brought spectators, including Sally, Jeff, Frank, and Suzie (names changed to protect the innocent). They came in Sally's car, which was a 1992 escort sedan, and they managed to cram all five of them in there. I have no idea where I am going to sit on the way home. Dammit.

Vince (innocently): 'Well, they all wanted to come.'
Me (not looking a gift horse): 'Okay.'
Vince (popping the hood): 'So what's the, oh yeah, there it is.'
Me: 'Uh huh.'
Vince: 'How did you do that??'
Me: 'It's a Fiero.'
Vince (having owned a Fiero in the past): 'Ahh, yeah. That'll do it then.'
Vince: 'We need to find a garage.'
Me (gesturing wildly up and down the street): ...
Vince: 'Maybe we can get the belt back on somehow and power it up enough to move it. It doesn't turn over, does it?'
Me: 'Nope.'
Vince: 'Even a click?'
Me: 'Nooope.'
Vince: 'Damn.'
Suzie: 'Why is that van rocking like that?'
Everyone else: ...

Suzie was, in all seriousness, a church-going virgin of a girl (at 20) and may have seen her first pictorial diagram of a p-p-p-penis in biology last semester, at which point she probably felt guilty, called her mom and cried, and then went to confess her sins. Suzie has no idea what is going on right now, and that's sweet, in a convoluted 'life is going to destroy you once you leave college' kind of way. Vince gets Suzie turned around and interested in all the little thingees inside the engine just before Dallas emerges from the van all sweaty and still half naked, along with the help, who is screaming 'yee haw!' in true Dukes of Hazard fashion.

Vince (rambling): 'Okay, so here's the plan... We get the jumper cables out of Sally's car, and we'll hook them up to your battery. You turn it over, and I'm going to wedge this screw driver in between the guide wheel and the belt. If all goes well, we can pop it back on there and it might give a charge for a little bit...'

Sally: 'What if it doesn't go well?'
Me: '. . .screw driver might shoot out and go through your windshield and impale someone. . . Well. . . That's worst case really. . .'
Vince: * nod *

And everyone gets out of Sally's car, and hides behind it. And Vince and I go to work.
Vince: 'Okay, turn it over!'
Me: * ruhr ruhr ruhr *
Vince: 'AUUUUGH!!!!'
Me (stopping): 'What! What?!!'
Vince: 'Just kidding. Okay, do it again!'
Me: * ruhr ruhr ruhr *

And the belt somehow, magically slips back on. It's warped and twisted, but it's on, and we turn the engine over and it starts. And we start to pull out of the parking lot, and it dies. The belt just won't do it. It's done. It's over.
Van: * squeak-a squeak-a squeak-a *
Jeff: 'There goes that Van again.'
Van (muffled): 'O Gawd!'
Suzie (becoming suspicious): ?
We all stop and watch the van for a few more seconds, and then we leave the car, with plans to come back for it later.

Sally (not her real name) lets us borrow her car the next day, and with her driving it and Jeff sitting in the driver's seat of the Fiero steering, Vince and I manage to wedge ourselves in-between the two cars and we take off down the road to a place with a hydraulic lift a few miles away - holding onto the Fiero with our arms, and using our legs as suspension between the two cars. Yes! This is a great, fool-proof plan isn't it? You cannot make this stuff up!

Fortunately, nothing went wrong until we pulled into the service station.
Me (walking up to some guy): 'Hi there, can you guys change an alternator belt?'
Otis (according to his shirt): 'It ain't fer that Fiero, right?'
Me: 'Well...'
Otis (spitting): 'I don't work on Fieros. You can use my rack if you wants to do it though.'
Me: 'Uhhh... Yeah. Sure, okay then.'
Otis: * spit *

A few minutes later we have it up on the rack, and I'm under the car, literally hanging off of a long-handled wrench in mid air, bouncing up and down, trying the break the nut holding the alternator wheel thingee in place. The car is shaking side to side in a rather jovial fashion, and I'm just waiting for it to come down on top of me and end this misery.

Otis: 'I seen you at the club last night. That Dallas sure is a looker, ain't she?'
Me (still hanging in mid-air, looking over at Otis, and actually not lying): 'Oh yeah, she's my favorite!'
Otis: 'Let me have a look up in-air. Well, I'll be dammt.'

It turned out, upon closer inspection, that someone had previously welded the damn thing together, so Otis took pity on us and used a cutting torch to help us out. Replacing the belt was easy after that.

Otis: 'I wouldn't just do that fer nobody, you knows. Dallas is my girl, so if you like her, you guys is okay with me. That one you got out yonder is quite a looker too. She dants?'
Me: 'I don't think so.'
Otis: 'Oh well.'
Me: * nod *

And we get a new belt, charge up the battery, and we're on our way. And who would have known that would be the first time that I ever met my wife. NO! Not Dallas!! Sally!!! Although, when people ask, I usually just tell them we went to school together.

:)

One Ring to Rule Them All

One Ring to rule them all,
One Ring to find them,
One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them. . .

It was given to me quite by chance actually, by someone who, whether through genuine sympathy or an insatiable voyeristic streak, couldn't bear the thought of not witnessing every misfortune and misadventure that would eventually befall its owner. It was my precious. My one. My own. And then something happened that the ring quite clearly did not intend. . .

You see, after I got married, I started meeting women. Lots of women. More women than I ever met in college or any time before (not that I ever met many before, what with being such a doofus and all), and I'm not talking about tupperwear party going, stitch-and-bitch women either. Not like the women I got to dance with at the senior center when I was 12. I'm talking about women. The ring brought them, and it controlled them. And they wanted me, my precious. Finally, after all those years. And I couldn't do a thing about it. . .

The Fellowship of the Ring
I had been married for maybe a few weeks, and the ring's power had yet to fully assert itself. We were going out to dinner with friends, and asked for a table for four once inside the restaurant. The waitress was looking at me funny. She was pretty. I liked her. She's still looking at me. What does she want? Did we go to school together? This is kind of creepy. . . 'Right this way, folks' she says. Okay, she can talk. Good. Normal enough for me! She stops by the table that she's planning to seat us at, and puts her hand on my shoulder and puts the menus all across the table. Then she decides to rest her hand in the crook of my arm while we get seated. She's playing me for a tip. I like her, she's nice. Okay, she wins. I am nothing, if not easy. I sit. Arm moves back to my shoulder. 'The drink menu is here' she gestures, 'Is there anything that I can get started for you right away?' Arm now around my neck. I look up. She's looking at me all funny again. Everyone else is being ignored. 'Errr...' I manage to spit out. It's the best I can manage (it's a doofus thing, just go with it). 'We'll need just a minute.' my wife says curtly. My wife is mad for some reason I think. 'Ok, back in a few!' says the waitress cheerfully, giving my neck a last little covert rub before departing.

Wife: 'She. Did. Not.'

Wife's friend: 'Oh. She. Did. And did you see those fuckme eyes??'

Wife: 'Bitch.'

Wife's friend: 'Slut.'

Me (You know in the movie Bambi where the little girl rabbit is scratching Thumper behind his ear, and Thumper's foot starts thumping uncontrollably, and he gets a big grin on his face? That's me right now): 'Oh, she's just being nice...'

Wife: 'You're an idiot.'

Me: (Still dazed): 'Yyyyeeeeeah. . .'

And the rest of dinner pretty much went the same way! It was wonderful, fabulous in fact! She was fabulous. Her eyes were fabulous. The food was fabulous. The fact that my wife was jealous was also fabulous. I had never seen that before, and for all I knew would never see it again - and in fact, had things gone any more swimmingly, she probably would have lunged across the table and gouged my eyeballs out with a fork. Heh. I spent the rest of the meal, and well into dessert wondering. . . what it would be like if they got into a cat fight, or a pillow fight, or maybe. . . Ah, nevermind. . .

Her Two Towers
We were at a bar, a bunch of us, for some reason. Not that we needed a reason, but I think that this may have been a weekend at least, 'cause other people were there too. My wife was meeting us at the bar. Larry and I (who's Larry?) and a handful of others were drinking Martians (martinis) and telling stupid jokes, and having a great old doofus-fest of a time. I had been paying attention to nothing but the table I was at for the evening, so it was quite a shock to be cornered by three women when I came out of the mens room on my way back to our table - not that it wouldn't have been a shock at any other time either, it's just that I hadn't noticed they were in there. One of them touched my chest and pushed me back into the corner near the men's room door.

Her #1 (big smile): 'Hi.'

Me: 'Errr. . .' <--- dammit!

Her #2 (fuckme eyes): 'How many people have you slept with?'

Me: 'Um, I guess about [a respectable average number]. . .'

Her #3 (cornering me on the other side of 'her #1', looking at her #2): 'See, that's not too many!!'

Me (wishing I had lied just a little): 'How, uh-'

Her #1: What's your favorite position?

Her #2 and #3: *giggle*

Me: '[Immediate and truthful answer], but I'm married so I - '

Her #3: 'Oh, that's okay, we don't mind that at all . . .'

Her #2 (lifting her shirt): 'Do you like these??'

Me, inside my own head: Where the HELL were you guys five years ago, huh?!? HUH!?!?

Me: 'I should really.. I, uhh.. I have to go. I'm sorry. Really.'

Needless to say, when I got back to our table, no one believed me. I decided not to belabor the point, as my wife arrived shortly thereafter, and we left after sharing another appetizer and drink. I did hear about it the next day though, as apparently 'her #2' and 'her #1' decided to flash the entire bar before they left later that night. And that's a pity, because I was actually kinda interested in what was behind door #1. . .

...Could Have Been King
I was out of town on training, minding my own business, sitting in the hotel bar writing some song lyrics when out of nowhere two girls came up and asked if they could share my table. It's one of those tables that sits low, with cushy chairs all around it, kinda loung-ey, but in an upscale east coast kind of way, not a skeezy sleazy 70s kind of way. I was a little bit taken aback by how forward they were, but I figured maybe people on the east coast actually talk to strangers like they do in the midwest. Heck, I've had strangers sleep on (on, not with) me in movie theaters in the midwest, so I kinda go with the flow, yannow? You know what? This time I managed to let out a 'Sure!' instead of an 'Errr...', so, so far I had them fooled.

They sat down and fiddled with their drinks a little nervously for a few minutes, making polite small talk. They were from out of town, and staying in the hotel. My, isn't the weather nice. We have a conference tomorrow with so-and-so. You know, the usual crap. No fuckme eyes, no nothing. Then they got quiet. And then the blond one turns to the brunette -

Blond: 'So, ask him...'

Brunette: 'I, okay...'

Blond: 'Well?'

Brunette: 'Okay, so like, my friend here? We'll, we're together, you know...'

Blond (squeezing brunettes hand): 'We're seeing each other.'

Brunette (smiling): 'Yeah. And I've been with a man before, but April here hasn't.'

Blond (looking at Brunette, lovingly): 'Yeah.'

Brunette: 'And she wants to at least try it once, and so then I thought that maybe it could be something that the two of us could share together...'

Blond: (smiling at Brunette, then looking at me) 'Yeah, and that sounded so sweet. And so... would you?'

Me (inside my head): 'Check please.'

Me: 'Would... I... You mean. You mean, would I? Errrr. . . .'

Them (giggling and nodding, kind of embarassed): 'Yeah.'

Me (inside my head - head about to explode): 'Check please. Just SAY IT! HOW HARD IS IT TO SAY IT!?!?!'

Me (in disbelief, looking around for Ashton Kutcher or some other joker with a camera): 'Errrr....'

Me: 'I'm sorry, I really am, but I'm married, and -

Me (inside my head - head threatening to strangle throat): 'YOU IDIOT!!!!!!'

Me: ' - and I can't be -'

Brunette (hurt): *sigh* 'Well, I can sure respect that. We hope to get married some day too, as soon as we get all of our crazy kinky ideas out. You know how it is.'

Me (lying my ass off): 'Oh, yeah. I know how it is. . .'

Blond (looking very hurt): 'Come on, let's just, go. . .'

Me: 'I'm sorry, really!!!'

Brunette (consoling): 'Come on hon, let's go pick up those handcuffs you saw earlier.'

Me (inside my head, which has now turned against me and taken on a life of it's own): 'IDIOT! IDIOT!!! IDIOT!!!!!!'


It was painful and disorienting to have these things happen. Much like being bandied about the head with an axe handle would be painful and disorienting. I couldn't believe what had been going on. What had changed? Had I lost weight? Hair look especially good that day? New aftershave? Confused me with Brad Pitt? Okay, maybe Will Ferrel? Thought I was rich? I couldn't figure it out until I was experssing my confusion to Sarah (who's Sarah?) one day, and she replied that I was deemed 'safe' because I had that one ring - my wedding ring.

Sarah: 'It says that like, you aren't going to get all weird on them. You're seen as more stable, reliable, and attractive with that ring on. It's kinda like being pre-approved.'

Me (slowly dawning): 'Really? Boy, that's like.. That's like the biggest lie in the world, isn't it?'

Sarah: 'Oh yeah. Huge in your case.'



Single and lonely? Buy yourself a one ring!

MEEP MEEP!!

Things overheard while watching the Coyote and Road Runner with a five-year old:

- Oh, the coyote is catching up.
- Look poppa, the roadrunner is about to do his trick.
- You can tell when he does his trick because the coyote stops.
- What does that say?
- (hotroddicus supersonicus)
- What does that mean?
- It means he goes very fast.
- Didn’t his nose look funny? It went all droopy.

- Oh, he is going to try to turn the roadrunner into a burger, that’s what the plan says!
- This isn’t going to work… Crack.
- I think he’s going to poof on the ground again…
- Look, he got all flat.

- Look, he just turned into a pair of eyes.
- Poppa, what’s dy-na-mite?
- Oh, he just boomed hisself up!

- Is he going to try to boom him up?
- He just boomed his self up again. He booms hisself up a lot.
- Why does it say ‘Eat at Joes?’
- You want to eat at Joe’s someday?
- Yeah.
- Now he feels all better, look at him, he’s brown again.

- Ooh, that might be good. Triple strength leg muscle vitamins!
- This is gonna be crazy, watch.
- See, he ripped through it and fell. I wonder how the roadrunner ran across. Maybe he jumped.

- Oh, maybe this might work…
- A five hundred libbed anvil.
- …how did he fall past the anvil on the way down?
- Well, at least he kept his anvil!

- …He went poof again.
- I don’t think that can ever happen, the bridge should have fell!
- I think the coyote’s tired, don’t you?
- Yeah.

- That’s not real, that would never happen!
- He should stop trying fireworks because he always booms himself up instead…

- Oh, look, he’s getting an idea!
- Ha! Look, he has a really big tongue, doesn’t he?
- Oh, this might work…
- Can we get some rocket-powered skates, pleeease?
- Oh, he going to get him with his aimer there. Oh, I guess not.
- The roadrunner tricked him up good, huh?
- If roadrunners can’t read, then how does he make all his signs?

- How do you get a whole tornado to go in a pill?
- Do they have leg vitamins at the store for real?
- Why doesn’t he just order a pizza?
- Hey poppa, can we order a pizza?
- Sure son.
- Hey poppa, guess what?
- (crossing his eyes at me)
- Two of you!!!
- Yes there are son, yes there are. . .


That’s all Folks!!

Good Idea Gone Bad

As far as I know, every normal boy plays with fire when he is growing up. I don't know why. It's a guy thing, okay? It's a good thing guys like to play with fire because if they didn't, then chateaubriand would have never been invented, okay? If you can't appreciate a nice chateaubriand, then you're probably reading the wrong blog. What follows is an account of my experimentations with fire, mostly bad, which serves no purpose other than to entertain. If your kids are reading this and getting ideas from me, then you're the one that needs help, not me. Don't bother suing me, I don't have any money. In chronological order, here goes:


1) Caps
Remember caps? That little orange roll of explosive dimples that you're supposed to put in the cap gun and then run around pretending to shoot your friends with? Turns out they're really cheap, so we always got extra when we went to the store. If you take a whole roll and whomp it with a hammer, it makes a very impressive bang. Also, if you unroll a roll and carefully scrape the cap part along the ground with your fingernail behind it, then you can get it to flare up. With a little practice, and some patience, you can start a fire easy! If you did it wrong, then your burned your finger up pretty good. Thus, as kids, maybe five years old, we had already advanced to the neandrethal stage as far as fire was concerned. We weren't sure what to do with it yet, but we knew that we liked it!

2) The Magnifying Glass
Screw the caps, grandma had a magnifying glass. Now fire became much more portable and predictable! Having a magnifying glass in your pocket is almost as good as having a pack of matches. My father thought I was spending my time torturing the local ant colonies and burning my name into little pieces of wood for mom, but it was all a ruse to guard the power of fire! This also answered a great deal of important questions such as 'exactly how important are antennae to the various species?' and 'How long can I stare at this intensely bright little light before I see the world in black and white for the rest of the day?'

3) Fireworks
You thought that the magnifying glass was bad? Now the whole colony is in danger. I swear I could hear little air-raid sirens amid the scurrying of the ants after the bombs had gone off. Also, did you know that you can take apart the fireworks and do whatever you want with the powder inside? Muhahahaha. . . Okay, well, actually there's so little of it in each firecracker that it takes forever, and the final product is rarely as satisfying as what the many smaller originals were in the first place, so mostly this is just wasted time, which is why I jumped straight to -

4) Gun Powder
Yes! Having been given a shotgun at the ripe old age of barely 11, and having a father who believed in loading your own, I now had access to gun powder! Not only gun powder, but insane amounts of gun powder. I tried lighting little piles of it on a piece of plywood, but it burned up way too fast to do anything other than singe whatever got close to it and smell bad while doing it. I never had any success starting fires with gun powder, but I could still load blank shotgun shells (minus the shot) and scare the neighbors with the noise when the parents were gone :). I would get more willies thinking back about it now, but I know that I was careful to use a well-respected reloading manual to concoct these blanks. Being irresponsible is different than being stupid! Well. Okay, so it was stupid in this case too.

5) Farts
Yup, you can light 'em. Hurts like hell if you do it wrong though, and that's why I don't want to talk about it any more. . .

6) Fireworks Part Deux
Boy, bottle rockets sure are cool. They're especially cool when your dad invites a bunch of his friends over and you all sit out in the back yard getting drunk and shooting them at things (not me of course, as I was only 12 at the time. What kind of fool *cough Trent cough* would give beer and bottle rockets to a 12 year old at the same time? :) ) Anyhoo, someone *cough Trent cough* managed to shoot a bottle rocket over the fence and hit a power-line on the side of the main road perfectly dead on, after which the rocket proceeded to explode. 'No way! That could never happen again!' Everyone said. So we all spent the next oh, 20 minutes or so trying to get it to happen again (my father was inside this whole time), until one rather errant shot by yours truly caused a passing car to swerve, screech, and then come banging on our front door. I'm not sure what was said, but I can imagine, and after that little stunt was over we spent the rest of our time lighting farts instead.

7) Fireworks Part Tres`
Being a bit more seasoned with fireworks and fire in general now, I decided to start playing around with fireworks in enclosed spaces for something to do. Did you know that you can use a plastic two liter bottle lid to hold a firecracker inside the bottle if you screw the lid on loosely? The cap shoots off the bottle at an impressive speed, and stings if it hits, oh, say, your sister. The budding physicist inside me said that the smaller the chamber, the greater the pressure, so I decided to see if a little bottle would work even better. The only little bottles with screw caps we had were glass. I pressed on, ignoring the obvious issue. And surprisingly, it did work, even better! Pazzzzing!! Wow, did those caps fly good. I only got off about three shots before the firecracker accidentally fell to the bottom of the glass bottle and exploded. Since I saw the firecracker fall, I tensed up and turned my head away, which meant that when the glass shattered I got a fistful and got cut up pretty good, but didn't lose an eye or anything. You would think that after such a stunt I would be a little more careful with fire and explosives and such, but nay, read on -

8) Gasoline
Now gasoline was cool. Gasoline was my father's all-in-one solution for almost any household need. You can wash paint off your hands with it, you can kill weeds with it, power vehicles with it, sanitize with it, burn back brush with it (even if it's raining), and you can also choose whether you want it to start a fire or whether you want it to explode, depending on how enclosed your area is. And back then it was cheap too! My worst experience with gasoline went something like this:

We had a rusty old burn barrel out in the side yard, and it was my job to take garbage out there to burn it. This was back in the non-green days of my childhood where recycling was not even an option in most parts of the country, 'kay, so keep the hate mail to a minimum. At any rate, we burned flammable waste in this barrel. One day I had taken a couple of bags of stuff out to burn, and it was raining. And it wouldn't light, and it wouldn't light, and I was getting rained on still, and if I left the garbage out there in the barrel unburned, then it might be weeks before we're actually able to burn it (we lived in Portland, OR at the time, and it rains about 100 days a year there I reckon). So I say to myself 'hm', and then inspiration strikes and I go get the little red can of gasoline from the garage. I give the barrel a gentle douse, not enough to saturate anything, just enough to give it some motivation, and I come back with a matc- FOOM!!!!!! like a pirate ship cannon going off, spewing burning garbage what was probably only 30-40 feet into the air, but what seemed like 100 feet at the time. Consider this moment, frozen in time, as I'm looking up into the sky with my eyebrows still a smoking a tad, to see what the hell just happened. Silhouetted against a bright grey sky are the previous contents of mr. burn barrel, some on fire - some not, all suspended in some surreal picture of a good idea gone bad. Remembering back to the last week, I can recall various items that may or may not be in said picture, including some nakpins, paper towels, school assignments, maybe some past due bills, and oh, wait, is that a pair of underwear? Last week, my lesbian marine corps sister (who was recently discharged - something about being too aggressive with the other soldiers) managed to destroy some underwear so badly that my mom refused to put them in the washer and put them in the burn pile instead. Oh dear lord. Please not those underwear. And time starts speeding up, and the contents fall - everywhere. . .

Picture if you will, a young teenaged boy running around frantically trying to stomp out and pick up everything that is on fire in what was once a nice quiet little neighborhood. Picture also what would happen if a cannon went off in your neighborhood. Would you come to the window? Open your door and walk out on the porch? What would you say if you saw a 14 year old kid trying to gingerly remove the most disgusting pair of flaming underwear that you've ever seen off the hood of your car?

9) Bacardi 151
Alcohol burns too! When I was in college my first dorm room had a tile floor. The dorm itself was made in 1910 (seriously) and had received no major renovations since, and it was well-known, or at least widely rumored, that the whole thing would go up in about 3 minutes if a fire started in someones room. We were warned about unattended candles, incense, and anything else that might require fire - there was a don't ask / don't tell policy at the college at the time. So naturally, lighting shots of alcohol for fun was a great way to pass a Tuesday night. Alcohol burns with a disappointingly weak flame though, so you really have to turn the lights out to appreciate it. So we do. Then somone gets the bright idea to write things on the floor with alcohol and start setting them ablaze, and even that goes fine for the most part. My roomate, who went to this college for an actual education (and is my polar opposite as far as I can tell) was sleeping in the second room (our rooms are set up so that if you need to get out and you're in his room, then you need to walk through mine before you get to the hallway and eventually the outside world). My roommate opens the adjoining door just as I finish lighting a giant pentagram on the floor - but before we had turned off the lights.

Him (just woke up): 'mmbathroom'

Me: 'STOP!!!!!!!'

Him: 'Wha?'

I ran and shut off the lights in the room, at which point the huge flaming pentagram sprang to life out of nearly nowhere, illuminating all the faces in the room with a strange glow. 'F' 'Fuu' 'Fuck!' he finally manages to spit out - which is a big word coming from him. 'Just walk around, it's ok' I say. This was the first week of college. We had known each other all of three days. Our relationship was never quite the same after that.

It turns out that higher-proof alcohols burns better than the lower proof ones, and Bacardi 151 (or Monarch 151, but eww) burn pretty good. That being said, if you're going to pour Bacardi 151 in a bowl that you borrowed (heh) from the college food service cafeteria, set it on the floor, and then light it on fire so that you can toast marshmallows over it with bent-up coat hangers after a double date, then please remember to:

a) figure out where the fire extinguisher is before hand and

b) note that cheap-ass bowls from China do not resist heat as well as Pyrex from the chem lab does, and they will indeed shatter when they get hot. Also, the simple act of a bowl shattering will not extinguish an alcohol fire, no matter how much you run around in circles screaming 'Oh my God, oh my God!!!'

10) Fireworks Episode IV 'A New Hope'
Did you know that you can launch bottle rockets out of your hand? It's fun! It doesn't even hurt that much unless you light your new polo shirt on fire and have to try putting it out while dodging blows from the wife.

11) Propane
The final frontier. You can burn yourself, blow yourself up, asphixiate from it, asphixiate from the byproducts of burning it, drop it on your foot, and more. That little electric lighter on your BBQ is going to stop working the day after you bring it home, and you'll be bent over the BBQ with a long-stemmed match, piece of wood, or lighter just like me one day - trying to light that ever elusive hissing sound. And then you'll start your own blog.

My Ass

No, this entry is not literally about my ass, and for those of you who found this on a google search for porn, please accept my apologies and hit the 'back' button now. This is about an article which was posted on CNN this morning about airline food. The original article can be found here: http://www.cnn.com/2008/TRAVEL/01/11/airline.food/index.html , but I will be summarizing and referring to it in this post, so you won't need to reference it unless you really wanna. The article is about airline food, and it starts off like this (followed by my comments in italics below):

"(Tribune Media Services) -- Airline food. The very mention of those two words is enough to provoke a strong -- and usually negative -- reaction from any passenger.

But let's add another word. Good airline food.

Laughing yet? Maybe not. Maybe you've heard all about airlines' efforts to improve their in-flight fare.

Continental Airlines recently unveiled new menus featuring hot gourmet sandwiches such as roast beef and oven-roasted turkey with gouda cheese on marble rye bread. Delta Air Lines introduced new signature entrees from celebrity chef Todd English, like smoked salmon and egg salad croissants and roast beef steak cobb sandwiches..."

Okay, okay, I'll be the first to both observe and admit that airline food sucks. It does, NO question. It does NOT, however, suck because of lack of concept. In concept, a sandwich should taste good. You put some meat, cheese, maybe mayo, mustard, lettuce, etc. on a roll or bread or even a pita thingee and it should taste good, right? They're not trying to serve us 'grubs on a stick' and tell us they're great; people eat sandwiches all the time, and they are simple to make, store, and serve. The airlines somehow manage to fuck this up. An airline sandwich usually has nasty dry bread, sour brown wilty lettuce, and god knows what else inside. It's not a question of 'Is this going to be any good?', it's a question of 'Will this kill me?'. . . If Todd English is on the flight, serving up smoked salmon and egg salad croissants table-side, then that might be one thing, but he wont be. It will be made by a nose-picking felon in some warehouse two weeks prior to serving, and then left out on the counter for three hours by Betty 'I hate you' Harris, before its unceremoniously dropped in your lap for your enjoyment. Call me cynical, but that's how I see this being implemented. The article continues. . .

"It would be tempting to say that the now-profitable airline industry has turned a corner when it comes to customer service. That it really cares about its passengers. But that might be a little premature.

See, there are a few things the airlines aren't telling you about the fare up there.

1. 'There's no food on this flight.'
Read the announcements of these new in-flight menus carefully, and it's clear that the food offerings are extremely limited. For example, the Todd English sandwiches were initially only available on flights between New York and Los Angeles, San Diego, San Francisco and Seattle.

Good. It will make the forensic scientist's job (what killed all these people?) later that evening so easy that she'll be home in time for dinner...

"Delta probably takes the dung medal for the worst food," says Sohail Rana, a professor of medicine in Washington. "On a Washington to Los Angeles flight, all they had was a pepperoni pizza. My family and I are observant Muslims."

You're proceeding from a few false assumptions, Sohail, including:
1) The belief that the pepperoni was once a meat product of any kind
2) Failing #1, the belief that the pepperoni was actually once pork

I wouldn't eat it either, but I would have also asked for a vegetarian meal or brought my own if it were me - or just have waited the 5 hours it takes to go from DC to LA, what's the big deal?

2. 'Hope you're not on a diet.'
No one has to tell you that the snack packs offered by airlines are loaded with calories and unhealthy fats. But the latest DietDetective.com survey of airline food (http://www.dietdetective.com/content/view/2873/3/) suggests it may be a lot worse than you think.

"The individually packaged snacks are oversized and have mega calories,"

the survey's author, Charles Stuart Platkin, writes of American Airlines in-flight cuisine. "These snacks should be for a family of four, not one person. They really are a disaster." Ouch.

What the hell kind of snacks are you getting on your flights Charles? My tiny ass bag of pretzles has maybe 200 calories at the most, and it's among the only things that I will consider eating on any flight at all. If you're getting served king-size Snickers bars on some other airline, then email me and I will switch over to them immediately! Seriously, if you can manage to hork down enough of the shit that the airlines try to feed you to actually start gaining weight, then mister, you're a better man than I.

3. 'Our in-flight cuisine is awful.'
Have a look at the latest Zagat airline survey (http://www.zagat.com/airline), and you'll see that with few exceptions, the food really is terrible. As a group, the major airlines are bottom-feeders, scoring 5 out of a possible 20 points...

Well duh.

4. 'Exact change only, please.'
If you think you're going to be enjoying any of these new and improved airline meals on your next flight, you better either bring cash or pray for an upgrade.

Not willing to spot us paupers $10 on a $400 flight for the chance to contract a tapeworm infestation from Salmon ala Felon? You bastards!

5. 'There's a secret menu -- and it's better.'
Your airline probably won't volunteer this information, but the food is even better if you order from the "secret" menu. And often, the economy class meals from this menu are better than the fare served up front. I'm talking about entrees for passengers with dietary restrictions, such as vegetarians, vegans and diabetics.

Same nasty dry bread, same wilty brown lettuce, only NOW instead of that gelatinous, slightly greened slice of deli turkey you score a cheese and walnut patty on your sandwich. Awesome! You're in for a real treat!


Okay, it's not like me to bitch pointlessly most of the time right? I have a proposal. Instead of having a disgruntled attendant lean over and ask 'Chicken or Beef' (Chicken or Beef what??), how about having an airline draw up a contract with a company who actually knows something about preparing food? Lets keep it simple at first, something like Subway. You get your regular crusty attendants on the flight, and instead of that stupid kitchen area with the trolleys and all that crap, you wheel in a little refrigerated Subway table complete with all the stuff. 'What kind of sandwich' index cards are waiting for you in your seat. There's a stack of milk, juice, and soda cans underneath the sandwich making table, and here's the kicker, you hire a real Subway employee to come in and make the sandwiches to order. The food wouldn't suck, or at least wouldn't be poisonous, and you'd always have a choice of virtually any sandwich you could think of. Expensive? Nay! For an 8 hour shift, that Subway person might clear $100, which divided between all the passengers would equal about an extra $1 per flight (so $376 instead of $375 - whoopie). The airlines would probably actually save money on bringing food in, as waste would be virtually eliminated. And when the plane lands, you wheel out the old cart and wheel in a fresh new cart. Subway has stores in every city, this is easy! No one bitches about it being unhealthy, vegetarian meals now require no special orders, and etc. Subway wins, airline wins, you win.

Petition anyone?

The New Kid

Having attended ten different schools during my K-12 years, I was in effect the perpetual 'new kid'. While this probably had a psychologically damaging and damning effect, it did give a certain objectivity to my perspective of the whole public school experience. Patterns began to emerge between the schools I attended. Some of these I will share with you now. Raise your hand if these apply to you too:

1) In every school there will be one, and only one, kid named 'Boner'. How Boner got his name will vary between two distinct possibilitites:

i) 'Boner' is really a shortening of his name, as was the case with Benjamin Boden -or-
ii) 'Boner' is a earned - it's sacred observance and reminder of events passed, as was the case with Jeremy Schumaker. Jeremy had, apparently (and this is second hand info as I was not present), last year gotten a huge boner during a dodge ball game in PE that wouldn't go away. I guess it was noticible. People on the other side of the gym noticed at any rate, and proceeded to not only try to cream Jeremy with the dodge balls, but also try to hit him where it counts. When people on Jeremy's own team started chasing him and trying to peg him as well the coach had to stop the game and send Jeremy out. You can see by playground logic how Jeremy would now need to be called 'Boner' for the rest of his natural born life. He earned it. I'm sure that Jeremy is sitting in his therapists office right now, chewing on his hair and talking to a plant, but the fact remains that he did indeed have a boner.

2) In every school they have a giant parachute sitting in some janitor's closet which smells like moth balls and that you have to play with in the gymnasium, as a class, at least once a year. *Shwoop* it goes up, or *Floop* it goes down and makes the parachute thingee - otherwise you're just walking around in circles, all holding on to it and marching in time to Abba's greatest hits. It's often called 'the circle of the damned' too, because they've got your ass for the next 55 minutes. There are only two fun things to do when you have to play the parachute game, and they are:

i) Do the opposite of what the teacher tells you (sit on the inside of the parachute when she says to sit and hold it on the outside! Ha HA!!)
ii) Get together with a couple friends and use your collective might to try to whisk the parachute up in the air so fast that it starts to make a snapping sound at the top and potentially lifts some of the lighter kids off the ground during the upshot.

The more important question is why kids are made to participate in this ridiculous ritual in the first place. I've heard that it's supposed to promote a certain kind of coordinated teamwork, which is why you get in trouble for sitting in the wrong spot, but even accepting that explanation I'm not sure it's entirely necessary. Have you ever seen the complex coordination involved with four guys sitting behind the school cafeteria passing a bottle of Mad Dog 20/20 around between three of them while the fourth acts as a look out not only for the 'playground attendant' but also for that stupid fuck on the lawnmower who ratted you out last week - and then seamlessly rotates back in for his swig while someone else takes lookout? That's coordination. That's teamwork.

3) In every school, the school nurse is a beastly woman from a former Soviet country who has no interest in your name, health, or well-being. Yadviga (Yadviga to her friend(s)) has had no formal medical training unless you count hauling bodies off of the battle field circa WWII, and has exactly three things to offer your sorry ass:
i) Band Aids. Not by choice. The school district insists on them.
ii) A table with a sheet draped across it with a bowl sitting at one end, partly shielded by what looks like dirty bed linens strung up around it. She may in fact be multi-tasking and drying her laundry, who knows. She will not be cleaning up after you if you puke, either.
iii) Unwanted observations and advice, i.e. 'Een my kontree, sahmtimes vee haff no food. To vomit zo eazily eez such a wayst.'

One time I was in such pain from eating the school lunch that I could barely stand upright. I went to see the nurse who pinched my cheek (seriously!) and said 'You luke fine to me. Go.' So I decided to leave school AMA, and got assigned a day of Saturday school for my budding self-diagnosis skills. It was the first and last time I ever went to Saturday school, as it was really boring (not like The Breakfast Club at all), and I learned that if by chance you did NOT show up to Saturday school, then you would in fact be suspended from school on the following Monday. Let's see, six day week, four day week, six day week, four day week... Even public school kids can work this one out. . .

The Indignant Fashionista

I see myself, every once in a while, when I go to the mall and have to walk past Sears to get to the good stuff. I’m the boy standing dolefully over a pile of those big purple jeans with the orange stitching. Sears (along with Kmart) was our family’s headquarters for clothes shopping, and while I was never in want of clothes (my parents saw good enough to that), I was in want of good clothes. Clothes that fit. Clothes that other kids were wearing too, and not just my socially-retarded friend Bob either.

*sigh*

Me: ‘Hi Bob. You guys are here too huh?’

Bob (who had just come around a clothes rack): ‘Yup! And then we’re going to Wizard Masters, they have the New Dungeons and Dragons set out today, and the new Zorlon comic, and –‘

Me: ‘- Err.. Cool Bob’

Bob’s Gran: ‘Oh Hi [Hammy]! They have a sale on those iSuck polo shirts –‘

Bob: ‘IZOD, Grandma’

Me: (muttering) ‘Oh, I think she’s got a bead on it’

Bob’s Gran: ‘- IZOD polo shirts that you boys like so much over near the registers.’

‘Oh, let’s go!’ my Mom says, handing me a pile of purple, ‘We wouldn’t want to miss out!’ ‘Pleaseletusmissout pleaseletusmissout’, I think to myself, and trudge along behind her. Now that I have jeans in my hand, I can’t pretend to simply be passing through anymore. Now it’s official; I shop here. I walk over to the iSuck display, and see that there are several choices of colors, all with that stupid alligator on them smiling up at me. I would pick him off if he wouldn’t leave a hole. This year, there’s a choice of lovely pink, pastel blue, off-green, and sickly yellow to choose from, and oh, black, but I can’t have black because it would make me look like a hoodlum. That’s what my Mom thinks anyway, but I know better, because I got to wear a black shirt once and I still got picked on. Hoodlums you generally just leave alone, because they might get you later. ‘We’ll get a yellow one and a blue one. Blue goes so well with your eyes sweetie!’, Mom says. One wink from the alligator, and one single-minded handsome-little-man move from my mother, and I knew that Bob was going to be my only friend this year too.

Mom: ‘Let’s go to the dressing room!’

Me: “Awww, Mom…’

The dressing room has been, and still is, my most hated part of shopping. It was also a rather painful and pointless exercise back then, since the goal was not to find clothes that actually fit me, but rather to find clothes that I wouldn’t outgrow during the school year. Last year’s ‘school clothes’ matured into this years ‘play clothes’, so if we got two years out of them, then so much the better! With this goal in mind, you could spare yourself a lot of embarrassment and time by simply holding the clothing up to the child until you found the size that looked a little bit beyond too big, since it was probably going to shrink a little anyway after you washed it. I especially hated the dressing rooms with the little wooden slats to see out, because even though you can’t see in, it sure feels like you can see in.

Me: ‘Mom, you don’t need to be in here with me.’

Me: ‘Mom, STOP OPENING THE DOOR!’

Me: ‘MOM!!’

Mom: ‘Well, come out here then!’

Mom: (turning me around and grabbing the back waist band on the purple jeans and pulling on it as much as humanly possible): ‘I don’t know, these might be too big…’

Bob’s Gran (looking with my Mom through the gaping waist band at my tighty-whiteys): ‘Get him a belt, that’s what I do with my Bobby!’

Bob: ‘Hey, you have the same underwear as me!’

Me: …

Girls (walking through Sears to get to the good stuff – you can tell because they are wearing faded jeans that fit - oh do they, and eye-liner too): *giggle* *giggle*

Bob: ‘Hey, are you coming with us to Wizard Masters?’

Me: ‘Sure Bob. What-the-hell.’

When we got back home I had to model the clothes all over again for Dad, as per the usual tradition. I’m not sure what purpose this served since he’ll be seeing me in the same clothes for the next year or more at least, and these ones are only slightly different than the clothes he saw me in last year (I got off-green instead of sickly yellow last year), but whatever. ‘I’m worried about the pants being too big.’ Mom says, looking me up and down. I have rolled the cuffs up twice, and have my old Lone Ranger belt (garage sale) cinching them up so far that if I had a picture, then I could have rightfully sued MC Hammer for diluting my trademark image a few years later. ‘Hmm.’ Said Dad, possibly sensing the early arrival of teen angst. ‘You know what we used to do when I was your age?’ he asked, and not waiting for one of a hundred snide answers I had on standby (Play Unions and Confederates?) he continued ‘We used to get them wet and wear them so that they would shrink to fit.’ ‘Come outside’ he said. So I go outside, and stand in the front yard, and Dad comes around the side of the house with a hose. **WHOOOSH** The jeans are soaked in no time, and I stand there cold and dripping, wondering what to do next, and from across the street, more girls, more faded pants, more giggling. ‘Friends of yours?’ asked Dad, waving to them. ‘Oh yeah, we talk all the time’ I say. ‘What am I supposed to do now?’ I ask. ‘Well, you should have taken your shoes off first.’ Dad offered, ‘Go ride your bike or something’. ‘I’ll go see Bob’ I say. So I go see Bob, and I slosh around in Bob’s yard instead of mine, since I am not allowed inside on account of my jeans issue, and wouldn’t you know that the last part of the jeans to come dry is the crotch region, so it looks as if I have urinary issues during the last twenty minutes of my visit with Bob, which both completes the social scene as I know it and makes the time just fly by. It doesn’t seem to escape the attention of Bob’s Gran either –

Gran: ‘Would you boys like some sandwiches – Oh I see we had an accident. I’ll get some tissues.’

Me: ‘No, it’s okay, my jeans are just wet!’

Gran (not listening): ‘My Bobby sometimes has accidents too.’

Bob: ‘That was LAST YEAR Grandma!’

Me: ‘I, no thanks, I -’

But I just end up taking the tissues and a pat on the back because, hey, why not. I’m standing in Bob’s yard with a soaked crotch, a stupid alligator, and chaffed thighs from riding my bike in wet jeans. What’s wrong with holding some unneeded tissues to boot. I pretend to dab at my crotch to placate Bob’s Gran, who has apparently forgotten about the sandwiches and starts humming to herself and wandering around the porch. ‘Ooooh, did you know Lady Plunon is Zorlon’s half sister??’ Bob asks excitedly, looking up from his comic.

Bob: ‘Oh, I just ruined it for you didn’t I?’

Me: ‘No, it’s okay.’

Bob: ‘Want to come over and play Dungeons and Dragons later?’

Me: ‘Sure.’

The ride home went easier than the ride to Bob’s did, as I weighed about 10 pounds less and didn’t have to worry about my ass sliding off the bike seat anymore. The jeans are now dry. The jeans are now purple. The jeans have not changed in the slightest.

Dad: ‘Hm. Funny, it didn’t work very well for us either.’

Me: …

Dad: ‘Well, that’s a quality pant for you. I guess you’ll be able to wear those forever!’

Me: *cry*

It wasn’t until a few years later when I finally got a job umpiring baseball games (the only job you can have at 14, really, around here anyway) that I was able to buy whatever clothes I wanted. After getting my first paycheck, I went to the mall and immediately walked past Sears - out to where the cool kids were shopping, and bought the tightest, most faded Guess jeans ($78 at the time, if I recall) I could find. I then topped them off with a black leather jacket. It was heavenly. The jeans lasted exactly two days before I managed to rip huge gaping hole in the crotch because they were too tight to move in.

So I put on spandex underneath, and wore them anyway!!!

Magnet Fetish Anyone?

They started hanging these around the office to encourage honesty among employees. . .




... so far, I have managed to collect three of them! :)

May cause dizziness, dry mouth, and fatigue

I hate ads for medicine on TV, especially ads for medication where you aren't sure what it's supposed to do. . .

*Scene Fades in*
An older man jumps up and catches a football and pumps his fist wildly upon landing. His grand-child (?) goes wild. It's so fun playing with grandpa again. 'Now, thanks to new Zillirex(tm) the game is back on!!' they say. . .
*Fade out to Zillirex box*
Is Zillirex:
a) An incontinence aid for Grandpa?
b) The latest designer anti-depressant for little Billy?
c) Something that makes it so Grandpa isn't attracted to little Billy in the wrong way?
d) Other?

I don't know either, but they want me to be sure to ask my doctor if new Zillirex is right for me, which would be an awkward conversation to have, especially if it treats condition 'C'. At least they could throw us a bone by naming the new medicine in an intelligent way, so that we would know whether asking about it would be appropriate or not. For instance, if the medicine is called 'Vagicide', then I have a pretty good idea that I wont be needing it for anything. Come to think of it, if it were called 'Peniscide III', then I probably wouldn't go near it either. Guys are kinda squeamish when it comes to anything to do with mr winky. Mr winky could, in fact, be blackish green and smelling none too good, and if a guy did manage to work up the courage to go to the doctor to have it looked at, the conversation would probably go something like this:

Doctor: What seems to be the prob - Good God man, what the hell happened?!?!

Guy: An evil witch cast a spell on it. It kinda itches. . . Is Peniscide III right for me?

Doctor: No. This is end-stage gangrene, we're going to have to cut it off right now, or you will die.

Guy: Errr. . . Thanks anyway doc, but I think I'm going to ride this gangrene thing out, you never know. . .


What should trouble you most about the above exchange is the III part. I want to know what happened to Peniscide I and II, how come they aren't on the shelf anymore. What if they come out with Peniscide IV next month? See why guys don't mess around with this stuff? An even more compelling reason to just leave it alone is the warnings that they do give out on television. There is one 'good' warning, and three 'nuisance' warnings, but all the rest are 'bad' warnings, and are worth paying attention to.

Good warning: Do not take this medication with alcohol.
What it means: Taking this medication with alcohol will probably be a lot of fun. Do it, do it, do it!

Nuisance warnings: May cause dizziness, dry mouth, and fatigue.
What it means: One of the professional 'medicine testers' who seems to get recruited to test every medicine known to man is a crazy old bat who is perpetually tired and dizzy, and in need of a drink of water. When was the last time taking Advil made you dizzy? Never? Don't worry about it.

Bad warnings: May cause kidney failure, uncontrolled rectal bleed, seizures, blindness, and death.
What it means: Ooookey, so, you've got dry skin and you're looking for a cure. This is not the medicine of choice for you, okay? Just buy some lotion and deal.


I think they actually passed a law or something recently that says that any ads for medication must now mention the symptoms that it treats. This is a good thing, as it saves embarrassing conversations, but they haven't quite got it right yet - as I overheard one the other day that went something like: 'If you've experienced constipation for more than six months, then ask your doctor if new Ream-a-way(tm) gel caps are right for you. . .'

My feeling is that if you have been constipated for six months, then I don't think calling a doctor is going to help. Maybe calling a coroner. . .