The Devil Wears Spongebob PJs

Whoever coined the phrase “terrible two’s” needs to be taken out back to the woodshed, whipped until they can’t take it anymore, and then tied naked to a tree overnight and covered in raw meat so that the coyotes and whatever other animals roam around in darkness can gnaw away at their skin, muscles, and bones until there’s nothing left but the two lips that uttered that stupid phrase in the first place. That statement alone has led countless unsuspecting and unseasoned parents into thinking that once the two’s were over that things would be much easier. We got through the two’s, realized they weren’t that bad, and considered ourselves lucky that we had a pretty sweet kid. Terrible two’s my ass! The two’s were a freaking breeze compared to what we’re currently going through at the Hopfinger household:

The Please Punch Me in the Face and Knock Me Out to Put Me Out of My Misery Three’s.

I will preface this as I do with all of my complaining about my son with the fact that I love him more than I have ever loved anything else in my entire life and would never wish any ill will upon him. That being said, however, if any of you wanted to borrow a 3 year old until he turns 18, then I’d be okay with it. We’d still have to have him back for holidays so that the family doesn’t catch on, but you’d get him for the rest of the time. Hell, we’d even still pay a good portion of day care, medical expenses, and even gifts around his birthday and Christmas – I just want him out of my house until he’s able to be reasoned with.

As I said, the two’s weren’t bad. Sure they had their trying moments where I wanted to pull my hair out, but overall I could still use timeout and the fact that “mommy and daddy aren’t very happy” as a method of punishment that would quickly squash any misbehaving that he may have been doing. Yes, he would still cry and would attempt to run away from the timeout spot, but Carol and I would remain strong and eventually emerge victorious in our attempts at punishing him while also getting our message across to him.

Not anymore

I don’t know when it started and I have absolutely no clue when it will stop, but Benjamin has discovered a word that makes my skin crawl and my stomach tie up in knots. That word is “no” and I hate it.

Let me give you a brief example of how the word “no” works in our house. Benjamin did not sleep well last night as was up numerous times. So even though it was time for me to get up for work this morning, when he woke up at 7:00 and wanted to get out of bed I walked into his room and tried to convince him to lay his head down and sleep a little longer.

“NO!”

Now, we don’t put up with that word and usually send him directly to timeout if he says it to us. Being that it was early, however, I figured he was crabby, and asked him again to please lay his head down and go back to sleep for awhile.

“NO!”

Not wanting to argue with him first thing in the morning because I figured that it would definitely rile him up and prevent him from getting any more desperately needed sleep, I simply covered him up, kissed him on his head, and told him that I loved him.

“NO!”

I quietly shut his door, and even though I should have gotten in the shower at that point, I drug myself back to bed to hopefully catch ten more minutes of sleep. That’s when it started. “No! No! No! No! No! No! Etc…..” The “no’s” went on for roughly the entire ten minutes that I was hoping to sleep. Now, had they been scared no’s or hurt no’s, I would have gotten up to check on him, but these were defiant no’s. These were F You no’s. I was not going to give him the satisfaction of a response.

I looked over at Carol who was off for the day and would be spending the entire day with our tower of terror and felt bad. Not only would she have to deal with him on what was starting out to be one of “those days”, but this is also the last day where she’d be able to keep him home with her on her days off as he starts Pre-K on Wednesday. I knew she was looking forward to a good day with him and this was off to an ominous start. With all of the audible defiance emanating from the adjacent room, I knew that she was no chance that even “she of the overnight coma” would still be sleeping. She wasn’t.

Now, there was a time as recently as earlier this weekend where I would have stormed into his room to “politely” ask him to cease with the “no” parade, but from past experience and some wonderful coaching from Carol, I knew that my request would only be met with more “no’s” thus infuriating me and leading to an argument between myself and a 3 year old that neither was going to win. As a result, Carol and I lay in our bed with our eyes closed while trying to ignore the stream of negativity that flowed from his room. At times, we even giggled as he started directing his “no’s” directly at Carol, myself, and even poor Tina who has never wronged the boy in her entire life. I felt bad for the dog, but if she’s going to be a part of this family, then she has to suffer through this with the rest of us.

After a while, he actually quieted down and I snuck out of bed and across the squeaky family room floor towards the bathroom to shower. I really didn’t expect to finish my shower before I heard his little feet plodding against the bathroom floor on his way to make his morning potty, but surprisingly enough, I showered, dried off, and finished my morning bathroom ritual without a peep from him. I was beginning to think that he had fallen asleep again, but when I passed his door I heard a little knock and his even littler voice.

“Daddy?”

Well, being the sucker for that word that I am, I opened his door to find the little devil standing there in his tight little PJs and sleepy eyes looking as sweet as he possibly could be while holding a stuffed animal. “Good morning, Daddy. Look. I found my Scooby Doo!”

Now, you may be asking yourself, what is so bad about that? He said “no” for awhile, got over it, and then woke up to be the sweet Ben that we all know and love. Well, let me tell you, it gets worse. Much worse. The thing is that if I give you a blow by blow account of some of his outbursts and my responses to them, you may not think of either one of us as the sweet, wonderful, adorable, caring, extremely handsome, multi-talented, debonair, and all around perfect men that you currently think we are. And, truth be told, I still rely on some of you to babysit once in awhile so I’ll keep the really good tantrums to myself. Just know that there are two sides of Ben these days. The one side is the one that he shares with the public. That’s the good one and the one that Carol and I love to see. Then, there’s the side of him that is seen by us and by the saints at his daycare which forces them to send home notes saying that he is hitting the other kids and refusing to take a nap or stay in timeout. It’s the side of him that when he is asked whether he wants to apologize to the little girl (yes, girl) that he just hit or have a note sent home to Mommy and Daddy, he defiantly tells them that he’d rather have a note sent home. It’s the side of him that is also, for some unknown reason, was found chewing on both of his socks which were stuffed in his mouth causing him to have to walk around in his shoes with no socks for the rest of the day. It’s also the side of him that makes me both a little suspicious and even a little more envious of someone possibly walking by at daycare during one of his “no” rants and stuffing his socks in his mouth to shut him up. Not that I think anyone at his daycare would do such a horrible thing, but at the same time, I might possibly look the other way if I found out that one of them did. I certainly wouldn’t blame them.

Jesus, I hope the four’s are easier. Only 8 months until we get there!!

Thanks for reading (and not calling DCFS).

I love my son I love my son I love my son I love my son I love my son I love my son
I love my son I love my son I love my son I love my son I love my son I love my son
I love my son I love my son I love my son I love my son I love my son I love my son
I love my son I love my son I love my son I love my son I love my son I love my son
I love my son I love my son I love my son I love my son I love my son I love my son
I love my son I love my son I love my son I love my son I love my son I love my son

Highway to Hell

This is the tale of the day I should have died.

In the summer between my Junior and Senior years of high school I was 17 years old and a very bad driver. I’m not sure that I was the “crazy driver” that Ben labels me as today, but I would definitely pay a lot more attention to the music playing on the radio and how my hair looked in the rearview mirror (yes, I at one time had hair) than I would to the road in front of me.

Over the course of this summer, I would occasionally go up to the Belleville West baseball fields to watch my buddy Jarrod play some of his American Legion baseball games. Now, the field was probably less than a mile from my house so I could easily have ridden my bike or even walked. But, I was 17, lazy, and had my dad’s 1985 GMC S-15 readily available to me so the only real option was to drive. In retrospect, I probably should have walked.

At that point in time I had lived on Route 13 for my entire life. Not only did I live on that street, but the ball field that I was going to was on Route 13 also. It was basically a straight shot to get there. I had walked, ridden my bike, driven, and been driven along that route so many times that I knew it like the back of my hand. As a result, I didn’t need to pay a ton of attention to the road as I knew exactly where I was going, where the turns were, and where cars were apt to stop.

At least I thought.

I started my trek, as per usual, by backing out of my parent’s driveway onto Route 13 and headed east towards the ball diamonds. I know the truck kind of “officially” became mine sometime around my senior year, but I’m not sure if I had taken full control of it yet. I only mention that because the second I shifted from reverse to drive, I began fiddling with the radio. If my dad was still taking it to work, then I was more than likely making the switch from AM to FM. If it was already mine, then I was probably either putting in a tape or toggling between the radio stations looking for the perfect song to blast as I pulled into the parking lot less than a mile away. Either way, I was messing with the radio when I should have been watching what I was doing.

As I mentioned before, I knew this path well and was well aware of where the dangers lay, so I felt very comfortable messing with the radio while barely watching the road in front of me. There were basically only two places that you could turn and those were the only places that I had EVER had to slow down for a vehicle to turn along that route so once I saw that the van in front of me had passed 29th street, I figured that I had enough distance between us that even if they made the right into Highland Hills that I would barely even need to tap my brakes to slow down.

That’s where I was wrong

See, the stretch of Route 13 between 29th street and Highland Hills is a fairly narrow, slowly rising hill which veers to the left. On the left side of the road is a high embankment which leads up to a house but eventually flattens out to an entrance to a trailer court. The right side of the road is decorated with a lovely guardrail that protects you from falling about 25 feet down an embankment and into a small creek. The problem is that people rarely turn into that trailer court from this direction. Typically they take 29th street and make a right off of there. Typically.

Getting back to my story, the van in front of me did not take the left turn onto 29th street so, as I said, I didn’t figure I would need to pay much attention to it. I began looking down at my radio again and fiddling with whatever I was fiddling with when all of a sudden I looked up and the van was at a complete stop about 20 feet in front of me attempting to turn into the aforementioned trailer court. I was travelling at around 35 mph and realized immediately that there was no way I was going to be able to stop in time.

At this point I realized that I couldn’t go straight because there was a van in my way and I couldn’t go off the road to the right because there was the guard rail and 25 feet of free falling into a small creek should I happen to go through it. I really only had one option.

I drove into the oncoming traffic.

I don’t know if I looked or not before I did so because I think it was just a gut (and horrible) reaction, but something should have told me that if the van was stopped to make a left turn, there must be something coming that was preventing him from turning in the first place. Either way, I had driven into the other lane to avoid rear ending a van and ended up coming face to face with a car coming directly at me.

Now, I used to tell this story with a little more gusto and say that there was a Mustang or some other bad ass sports car that was coming at me. I made believe that I realized the amount of monetary damages that I would inflict on the car had I hit it, so I made my next decision based on that. The truth is, I was scared for my life and have no clue if it was sports car, a Yugo, or a freaking fire truck. All I know is that at that point I didn’t care what was going on in the other lane, I just didn’t want to hit another car head on while I wasn’t wearing my seatbelt (yes, I know. Just drop it).

I again went over my options in a split second and noticed that the van was still stopped, the car was still coming at me at full speed, there was no way I could even get to the right side of the road with the guardrail and the possible 25 foot free fall into the creek that I had peed in more times as a kid than I had in my own bathroom, and the embankment to the left right before the entrance to the trailer park would either be like hitting a wall or I’d catch it just right and flip my truck over and still get hit by that car. I was screwed.

Finally, I did the one thing that I didn’t think was possible and I’m still not sure how it happened, but definitely did. With a primal scream that had to have been heard for miles around, I darted off towards the center line.

Now, when I say primal scream, I don’t think I’m quite doing it justice. I think I’ve actually screamed in fear once in my life – and this was it. Sure, I’ve yelped if someone jumped out at me or I’ve gasped if I’ve been surprised, but I had never screamed in fear before this moment nor have I ever since. For the purposes of telling the story, I’ve given a loud scream to put an emphasis on my tale, but I don’t think it even came close to the “oh God please don’t let me die this way because it’s really REALLY going to hurt” scream that came out of my mouth on that fateful summer evening. Jamie Lee Curtis in Halloween? Come on. Janet Leigh in Psycho? Give me a break. Those women had nothing on the blood curdling screech that left my mouth that night.

While heading towards that center line I’m not sure if I closed my eyes or not, but I must have. That’s the only way that I couldn’t have seen my truck shrink to the width of a piece of paper, because that’s the only way I can envision getting through what I got through. I still to this day can’t figure out how on a narrow two lane stretch of road bordered by a guardrail and a steep embankment, three cars could literally be parallel to each other with the van taking up the entire right lane leaving very little room for my truck and the oncoming car, both travelling from 35-40mph, to share the center line and left lane without anyone crashing, trading paint, or going off the road, but that’s exactly what happened. For those familiar with the area I’m talking about, you’re not going to believe it either.

As I got through the most terrifying few seconds of my life, I veered back into my correct lane incredulous to the fact that I was still alive. Even if I had escaped with my life, I was certain that I would have caused my first accident and been in big trouble once I got home. Realizing that none of that had happened, I quickly pulled over into the entrance to Highland Hills and stopped. My heart was racing and I had to take a moment to reflect on what in the hell had just happened.

I turned around to check on the van and the other car, but they were gone and left no trace of anything. I hopped out of my truck to look at the scene of the crime, but there were no skid marks, no tire tracks in the grass and no indication whatsoever that anything life threatening had just occurred. I hopped on my wobbly legs back into my truck and, realizing that I had just been part of the closest thing to a miracle that I will ever encounter, broke into a horrible laugh. The laugh was almost maniacal. And the funniest thing was that I couldn’t stop. I put on my seat belt, started the truck, and while still laughing hysterically, drove the rest of the way to Jarrod’s game.

I don’t know what I did to deserve making it out alive that day, but I’m sure as hell glad that I did it. The road to a ballgame had turned into the highway to hell and I was lucky enough to have driven straight past the entrance. I wish I could have met the other drivers to get their thoughts (other than the fact that I should have my license taken away) on the matter, but maybe its better that I didn’t. I’m pretty sure one of them would have punched me square in the face.

So, what did I learn from all of this? Not much. I still fiddle with my radio all of the time and I’m still a bad driver. I do know now that I need to watch out for that entrance to the trailer park, but seeing as my parents don’t live there anymore, I hardly ever take that route rendering that point moot. What I did learn is that when faced with adversity in life, rather than pick a side with obvious consequences attached to either of them, sometimes it’s just better to stay out of it and just ride that center line.

And scream your bloody head off.

Thanks for reading

More (not so nice) Randumb Thoughts

There are very few people in this world that dislike. Unfortunately, I happened to run into two of them on Saturday night. The good news for me is that they are affiliated and I can hopefully avoid both of them in the future by staying away from certain events.

If you saw me on Saturday night and are wondering if I’m talking about you, I probably am.

As is the case every time Carol and I get dressed up for an evening out, I received many comments about how she is way too beautiful for me and how she could do much better. While I agree with those comments, I would appreciate people not saying it in front of her in the future. I’m always fearful that one day she’ll realize that you’re all right and leave me for someone more in her league.

Lou Piinella’s tenure as manager of my Chicago Cubs is now over. While I’m sad that he couldn’t finish out the season , I can definitely understand wanting to get off this sinking ship. It’s getting ugly on the North Side.

Speaking of wanting to jump off sinking ships, I’ve been watching the St Louis Cardinals message boards and forums over the past week or so with people whining about how this team is now done because Cincinnati opened up a 4.5 game lead. Really? That’s what it takes for you to quit? Sometimes I’m glad that St Louis has the “best fans in baseball” because a lot of them couldn’t hack two months of being a Cubs fan. If that’s the best, I’ll take being the worst any day.

Something I would have liked to have said Saturday night but didn’t because I really like someone else in the band: “I would love for your band to make it big. It would be really good for the music industry as I’m sure Chad Kroeger could use a break from being the biggest self-idolizing douchebag in music.”

Congratulations to my friend Georgia and her new husband Jay. They were married over the weekend and Carol, Chris, and I attended the reception in Cedar Hill, MO. Since Chris knew very few people that were going to be there, Carol and I were going to introduce him as our communal lover, but nobody asked. That sucks because it would have been really funny. Or maybe not.

*Note to self – in two years when Georgia’s daughter Marissa is 18, write a blog on how absolutely gorgeous she is. Until then, avoid all contact with her for both legal and moral reasons*

Actually, I have known Marissa since she was 5 and had a bunch of teeth missing out of her head. I haven’t seen her in person in a long time, but Georgia has warned me of how “hot” (her words, not mine) she had become. Upon seeing her on Saturday, I have to say that she has grown up to be a beautiful young woman and she will be breaking hearts for years to come. Be good Marissa!!!

I’m sad today because my co-worker Kelly is leaving our department for another position within the company. Around the office I say I’m sad because I will miss her presence, but since neither she nor anyone else from my office reads this blog and I will continue to call them out until someone tells me to stop, I will say that I’m just pissed because that bitch is leaving us all with a shit ton of work to do.

My co-workers suck.

I received a tip this weekend from Carol and my friend Meghan on how to pose for pictures so that you can look your best. These are the results:



If that’s my best, I’ll just avoid the camera in the future.

Oh yeah, that’s Chris on my on my right and Daryl on my left. Well, I guess it could be Chris to your left but by my right shoulder and Daryl to your right but by my left shoulder… Oh, geez. Chris is the white guy and Daryl’s the black guy.

I guess I could have just said that Chris is the one with hair and let you extrapolate the rest…

Extrapolate.

Seeing that fall is right around the corner, that means the fall TV shows are coming back on. I’ll be waiting right here for you McHale. Right. F*cking. Here.

Something else I should have said on Saturday night but didn’t because I just didn’t think of it at the time: “I asked my friend ‘the guy who rips off Eddie Vedder’ to come up here tonight because I thought you guys would have a TON in common.”

Guitar solo.

Alright, enough of that. In all actuality, the person I’m speaking of is very talented and has a drive and determination to succeed in music like I’ve never seen before. It is admirable that he can accomplish so much even while being developmentally disabled.

Just did some fact checking and I am required by law to put an “alleged” in front of the “developmentally disabled” from the previous statement.

Seriously, I really meant what I said before the whole “allegedly developmentally disabled” part. Just because we have a few beers and bust each other’s chops a little doesn’t mean that I don’t respect what he does. Unfortunately, I’m just not as quick witted with my mouth as I am with a keyboard in front of me so I need to save my jabs until a later date. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t read this blog, but I think one of his band mates does. In all honesty, I wish you guys the best. Go kick some ass in Chicago.

Now if you could just get rid of that dumbass promoter that you use : )

Alright, I’m done. I just want to thank everyone that I ran into this weekend for all of your nice comments about my blog. It’s good to know that people read this drivel and get a good laugh out of it. And for Stacey Ward, I hope you actually took the time to scroll down and read the part of the blog that isn’t in the preview pane on your phone. Now go stick THAT in your blog…

Thanks for reading.

Toy Appreciation

Those bastards at Pixar are really starting to mess with my head.

Most people, including myself, would probably not deny the fact that I am nothing but a big kid. When Carol is asked how many kids she has, she often responds with three – a 3 year old, a 33 year old, and a 4 legged furry little girl. I probably should be offended at that depiction of my character, but instead I choose to embrace it.

I love the fact that I’m a big kid. Not only is it a relief from the stressors of my everyday life, but it also allows me to get away with things that most adults my age would face great consequences for doing. Because of who I am, I’m allowed to act a certain way without people thinking I should be locked up in a padded room. I’m also allowed to say things totally off the wall without people taking great offense to them. “Hey,” they’re thinking “it’s only Scotty being himself.” I love that I’m perceived that way but still held (I hope) in high enough esteem that I can be taken seriously when needed (No? Oh well).

One drawback of being a big kid, however, is the affect that toys have on me. I like toys. In fact, I love toys. I love going to the store with Ben, walking down the toy aisle, and pointing out toys to him that we can play with together once he’s a little bigger. I can’t wait to build the big Hot Wheels race tracks with him. I can’t wait until he starts watching wrestling with me and we can start buying action figures for him to go with the ones that I saved from my youth. And I can’t wait until we can start building castles out of Legos that take up an entire corner of his room.

My only problem is that I’ve now seen Toy Story too many times to take those toys for granted.

As a kid (up until about the age of 27), I used to talk to my toys. Why wouldn’t I? Outside of my family and friends, they were the things that I spent the most time with. I had names for all of my stuffed animals and played religiously with my wrestling and He-Man (By the Power of Greyskull….) action figures. I would spend hours in my room creating scenarios and plot lines that involved all of them and have a blast doing so. I think that may be why the Toy Story movies hit home for me (and I’m sure many others) so much.

Somewhere along the line I think I was supposed to lose that trait, but I never have. I don’t have many of my childhood toys left except for the wrestlers and a few stuffed animals, but those toys mean the world to me. When Ben was barely one year old and started playing with toys in a way that didn’t involve drooling all over them, I brought my wrestlers up from the basement in an attempt to get him to play with them. He honestly couldn’t have cared less. As much as I tried and I tried to get him interested (I really don’t know what I was expecting – the kid was barely a year old), he just wasn’t. I didn’t have the heart to put them away, but luckily Carol gets me (or was just sick of seeing them), and she moved them back into the basement.

I’ve also had the same experience with Steven.

Steven is a small yellow teddy bear that I got when I was really little. I have no idea who gave it to me, when I got it, or why in the hell I chose the name Steven. All I know is that I used to sleep with Steven every night. Between Steven, Buster and Buddy (my pound puppies), and a brown rabbit who has what looks to be a glob of brown poop on his eye (which has never been confirmed – or removed), I had a troupe of stuffed animals that have followed me through my years. Ben has been given all of them, but once again, could care less. The pound puppies and the rabbit have been put away in an order to save space, but Steven remains in Ben’s room. Every night as Ben is picking out which stuffed animals to sleep with (it always ends up being Spongebob and his Toy Story characters), he passes over Steven and I get sad.

But I don’t get sad because he doesn’t want to play with the toys of my youth.

I get sad because I don’t want Steven to be lonely.

As I mentioned before, I used to talk to my toys. As a result, they became almost lifelike figures to me and I considered them to be friends. Now, don’t start thinking that I was a big loser who had no friends and had to turn to his inanimate objects for companionship, because that was not the case. In fact, I had a lot of friends (I think). But those friends couldn’t always be over at my house. They couldn’t be in my room with me when I was sent there as punishment (which happened a lot). Those friends also couldn’t sleep over every night of the week – but my toys sure could. As a result, I formed a bond with these toys that can and will never be broken.

But being my friends, however, gave them almost human like characteristics to me. I used to imagine that when I was at school they would sit around and discuss things like me, the other toys, and various current events. Occasionally when I got home I could never remember where I had left them, but I was almost sure that one or two of them was out of place. That’s why the Toy Story movies hit home so hard with me. The way the characters act and think is exactly how I imagined my little band of misfits acting when my room was unoccupied. It’s the same way I imagine Ben’s toys to act when his room is unoccupied.

So, seeing Steven laying on the floor and not being played with breaks my heart a little.

But that’s also where the big kid in me comes out.

Last night, Carol, Ben, and I had a dance party in his room. It was about 30 minutes before he had to go to bed and Carol had just gotten done deep cleaning his room. We all happened to wander in there at the same time and I got the crazy idea to ask Ben if he wanted to have a dance party. Well, being the dancing fool that he is, he certainly didn’t say “no,” so I took his Spongebob CD, put it in his radio, and the three of us danced around like idiots. And we had a blast.

Shortly after we began dancing though, I noticed that Ben had left a few of his stuffed animals – including Steven - laying on the floor. Thinking back to my youth and how I played with my toys and then thinking about the Toy Story movies and how all the toys wanted was to be played with, I reached down, grabbed a few, and began dancing with them. At one point I had Woody on my neck riding piggyback while Buzz Lightyear was holding onto my hands as we turned round and round in circles. Ben was getting a kick out of it and, to be honest, I’m pretty sure that I saw a little twinkle in Buzz’s eye as well.

After I put those two down though, I leaned over and picked up my beloved Steven. The poor little guy has definitely seen better days; his fur is matted down, his nose has long been missing, and he has a little hole right where his belly button should be that has been begging to be sewn up for years. Looking down at him he just looked sad and I knew why. In an attempt to make him (and maybe me) feel a little better, I picked Steven up and we began dancing. We spun in circles, pretended to be dizzy and almost fall over, and then we did it again. By this time Ben had moved on to wanting to play his (and eventually my) drums, but this wasn’t for Ben. This was for me, for Steven, and for every other toy I’ve ever had in my life that has given me joy. We danced for awhile more and then I, reluctantly, set Steven back down.

We often take the time to thank the people in our lives that mean a lot to us, but we never thank the little things. I’m not saying that I believe toys come to life when the room is empty. I’m also not saying I believe that inanimate objects have feelings. What I’m saying is that if you suspend your beliefs of what is real and not real for just a few minutes and think that maybe, just maybe, those toys you played with when you were a kid had as much fun playing with you as you did with them, don’t we owe them a little bit of gratitude? Don't we owe it to ourselves to stop being an adult every once in awhile and just resume that childlike wonderment, even if only for a few moments? I certainly think so.

Thank you Steven – for everything.

And thanks for reading.

The Coolest Person Ever (and no, it's not The Fonz)

A few nights ago, Carol and I were having a wonderful conversation on the back deck when I proposed this question to her: If you could be any person in the history of the world for one month, looking like they look, knowing what they know, having all the money that they have, and be able to come back after that month with a full recollection of everything you experienced as that person, who would you be?

As I asked that, I started to think about who I would be and my mind went directly to celebrity cock-smiths. I thought of Brad Pitt during the time that he was sleeping with Angelina Jolie and Jennifer Aniston (not at the same time, but wouldn’t that be awesome if he did? I’d quit my job and begin building an altar to him this very minute if I found out that was true). I also thought of Justin Timberlake because he’s just a cool cat who gets to date a TON of hot women. Then, of course, I went to George Clooney because dating beautiful women while sailing around Italy and the French Riviera all of the time sounds like a really tough life.

But then I started thinking of sports figures. I would love to be Michael Jordan during his first run of championships with the Bulls. I’d hit the clutch shot, win an NBA trophy, and be king of the world. The thing with Jordan is he was always gambling and I really don’t want to deal with a bookie. And, before it’s all said and done, I think a lot more about MJ’s private life is going to come out and I don’t think the public is going to like it that much. I don’t want to deal with drama during my one month hiatus.

I also thought of John Lennon. I think it would be amazing to experience Beatlemania as only a Beatle could (prior to meeting Yoko). Just having his brain and ability to transfer his thoughts into words and music that has lasted 50 years now would be mind-boggling. For that matter though, I wouldn’t mind being any of the Beatles because, in all honesty, I think I would have more fun hanging out with John Lennon than being him. I could be Paul McCartney and collaborate with John, or I could be Ringo and just watch the two of them work their magic first hand. Of course, as I write this “My Sweet Lord” by George Harrison just came on the radio, so maybe that’s a sign that I should be him. Either way, any Beatle would be awesome.

At the end of the conversation, I had made up my mind but it wasn’t any of the people listed above. My final pick was actually a suggestion from Carol that I am devastated I didn’t think of mysef. It was a brilliant pick that makes all the sense in the world, but I will share who that is with you later.

As intriguing as I found this question and the more and more that I thought of other options, I presented this question to my buddy Jeff last night. During that conversation we thought of a few minor details about the question that would need to be addressed. For instance, if you lived as a rich man, could you bring money back with you when you assumed your regular life? If that were the case, Jeff decided he would want to be Bill Gates. After I reminded him that he’d also look like Bill Gates, he said that he would just pay women to find him attractive.

Good plan, actually.

Given that line of thinking, I think I would want to be one of those Indian oil men who live in the gold and diamond encrusted palaces. What those guys earn in the one month that I assumed their life could sustain me and my future generations forever and ever. Plus, as Jeff said, I could just pay women to find me attractive. And given the fact that I’d probably be a prince of some sort, I’d have an entire harem of women. How cool would that be?

After that conversation, however, I began to think more responsibly and wondered if given that opportunity, shouldn’t I go back and change world events. But that changes the rules a bit. I mean, if I was Michael Jordan for a week, I would be expecting the same abilities and results that he had. I would hate to be him, miss the final shot, cost the Bulls a championship, and alter the course of sports history forever. At the same time though, if I were to go back as a historical figure I would want the ability to right some of the wrongs of World History.

Would I want to be Adolf Hitler in the months prior to his decision to attempt to wipe out an entire race of people? Would I have and use his passion and strength to head Germany in a positive direction that did not require the deaths of so many Jewish people? If I did that though, what would the effect on America be? Would I resume my current life in an America that is under German control? How would that alter history as we know it?

Would I want to be Osama Bin Laden? Maybe I could be Bin Laden during the month of September 2001 and prevent the horrible tragedy of 9/11. Granted, that would essentially wipe out any career that Toby Keith has made for himself, but I think the positives far outweigh that negatives there and it would be for the best. If I do that, however, does the US still invade Iraq and depose it’s ruling faction? Would Saddam Hussein still be around terrorizing his people and surrounding countries?

Would I want to be Jeff Gilooly and tell Tanya Harding to take out Nancy Kerrigan’s knee her damn self? Would Nancy have been able to pull out gold? Would she make enough money from endorsements made available to her from her Olympic victory to get her horse teeth filed down?

While the merits of going back to change history so that some despicable events are avoided, I get worried about the lasting effects and the changes to the world when I returned to my normal self. I would love to do a good deed, but for anyone who’s seen “Back to the Future,” you know how changing even the slightest event from the past can affect the future. Doc Emmit Brown was no dummy.

I posted this question on Facebook yesterday and got various responses. My buddy Chris would be Hunter S Thompson during the days of penning “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas”, Wendy and Melissa both said Marilyn Monroe, and Sara said either the Dali Lhama, Barack Obama, or Osama Bin Laden. It was even suggested by Kathy that I would like to be Lindsay Lohan. While this would be cool on SOOOOOOOOOOOO many disgusting and perverse levels, I just don’t think that it would be worth it to be her for a month. I would hate to have a 30 day hangover and a bad case of the herps.


So, who did I pick? Well, let me tell you. I picked someone with fame, fortune, and a laid back lifestyle. I picked someone who is constantly surrounded by beautiful women. I picked someone who is so cool, that the cool people come to see him just so that they can be cooler. I picked someone who throws great parties, is dapper, and gets to walk around in his pajamas – all the time. That’s right, I’m talking about Hugh Hefner.

As much as I’d like to be responsible with this decision, being Hugh Hefner for a month in the 70’s would just be too much fun to pass up. I’d constantly be surrounded by beautiful women who are dying to get naked for me, celebrities who come to my parties because they know it’s the place to be seen, and a ton of animals in my own private zoo. I’d have an amazing mansion to live in, a fantastic pool and grotto, and a jet to fly me anywhere around the world whenever I wanted. Also, because living in someone’s body for a month also includes doing their job, I would HAVE to go to work looking at pictures of naked women all day long. Rough life, huh?

I thought about jumping into Hugh Hefner’s life during his run with the Girls Next Door, but why would I want to be in an 80 year old man’s body when I could be him in his own personal prime? Holly, Bridgette, and Kendra are all really hot, but do you really think he was able to do anything with them that didn’t require two blue pills, four hours of waiting, and then 30 seconds to remove his diaper? I’ll take Hef in the 70s any day of the week.

When I presented this option to Jeff, he was baffled (as was I when Carol thought of it for me). We tried to think of anyone cooler to be and just could not. I then posed this question to Jeff: “Does this make Hugh Hefner the coolest man ever?”

We definitely think so.

Now, I want to know what you think. Would you be responsible? Would you just have a lot of fun? What factors in this decision am I missing that could possibly change my mind? Who would you be, when, and why?



On a side note, I highly recommend being me for a month. I love my life and have a lot of fun being me. There’s never a dull moment and you get to be married to my beautiful wife. If you do this, however, you may NOT have any physical contact with Carol. There is a couch in the living room that is more than comfortable. This is my game and I make the rules. Deal with it.

Let me know what you think. I’m really looking forward to this.

Thanks for reading.

Red Badge of Courage

I wouldn’t say that I’m accident prone, but my body may tell you differently. Over the course of my life I’ve broken (in order) my left wrist, left pinky, left thumb, and left hand. I have a scar on my head from falling off of my bike at a very young age, a scar on my knee from getting stabbed by a cycle at a very young age, a weird looking black mark on the bottom of my foot from stepping on a nail in my bedroom, and so many other scars on my legs and hands from various incidents that are too random to remember that you’d think I would have been able to administer stitches to myself at this point. But the amazing thing through all of these injuries is that I’ve never had stitches.

Not a one.

Well, technically I had stitches in my mouth from when I had my wisdom teeth removed and stitches in my nose from when I got hit in the face with a hockey stick on an errant slapshot that caused my septum to deviate almost completely to one side which required surgery to correct (hence the stitches), but I’ve never been admitted to the ER to receive stitches for any of the myriad of cuts or scrapes I’ve had in my life.

That almost ended this weekend

Carol and I have been working on remodeling our kitchen for a while now and will continue for a while longer, but it’s looking really nice. Back when it was still cold out, Carol took to painting the walls and all of the cabinets various shades of tan and brown to match a kitchen that she saw on one of her home remodeling shows that we both really liked. After finding a countertop at Home Depot on clearance and a stainless steel sink on Craigslist (Carol never buys ANYTHING at full price – ever) we decided that we would (as always) enlist of the help of my jack-of-all-trades father and get to work on it this past Saturday.

Now, my father is well aware of my acumen for getting injured so I am always very cognizant to ensure that I stay either as injury-free or as quiet about any injury that I may have incurred while I’m around him. Unfortunately, the past few times we’ve worked on something together that hasn’t been easy.

My father called me a few months ago to help him put the final touches on his refinishing of his and my mother’s decks. The job called for me to hold a lot of boards above my head while he drilled them into place. Of course, as fun as that sounds, I soon became bored and wanted to get in on the drilling action. The wood he was using was specially treated and, as a result, a little harder than most wood. Additionally, because we were on the ground level working on a deck coming out of their bedroom above us, all of the boards and some of the angles were difficult to get to from a ladder.

The first couple of screws that I drilled went pretty well. The last one I drilled (not because the project was done – it was just the last one I drilled) didn’t turn out so hot. I was on a ladder trying to drill a screw that was fairly close to the house. Being right-handed, I was having a difficult time finding an angle to work from where I could get enough pressure to send this screw home. Well, after a series of drilling and then reversing the screw out, I somehow ended up having the drill jump on me and go right into my left thumb just outside the fingernail.

Because my mother was out there and I really hate using the word in front of either of my parents, I stifled the “F*CK” that I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs and instead kept my cool and looked down at the mass of blood that was now running down my left thumb. I tried to suck the blood (as my father has taught me to do) and see if that would stop it, but the blood kept on coming and was now running down my hand. I got directions from my mother as to where they kept the hydrogen peroxide and band-aids (and gauze if necessary) and went into the house to inspect my new wound.

As I washed it off, I noticed that there seemed to be two wounds that I was bleeding from. The first was right by the fingernail and seemed to be bleeding pretty good. The second was on the opposite side of my thumb roughly a quarter of an inch past the first wound. And, the more I looked at it, it appeared as though the skin was going outward as if it were an exit wound. It, too, was bleeding pretty good. Now, I don’t know if the drill went all the way through my thumb or not. It didn’t feel like it did (as if I had anything to compare it to) and based on the shape and size of the drill bit, I have no idea how it even could have. What I do know is that I had two wounds through a really fatty part of my thumb that appear to be an entrance and an exit wound and anytime that I touch that part of my thumb, it tingles all the way through. You be the judge.

Anyway, that’s not what I’m here to tell you about.

Prior to my dad getting to the house on Saturday, Carol and I decided to do some pre-work. We took all of the drawers out of the cabinets and removed any pots/pans/Tupperware/casserole dishes, etc. out from underneath the countertop and placed them on the other side of the kitchen. Carol then proceeded to rip out a layer of tile behind the current countertop as our new one has a backsplash that would cover up most of the now exposed wall. While she was doing this, I went out to the garage to clear out a workspace for us to cut the new countertop to size before bringing it into the house.

As I was moving things around, I noticed that the sink that Carol had bought off of Craigslist was still out there and needed to be cleaned prior to being dropped in the new counter. I carried it out to the sidewalk, grabbed a hose and a brush, and even went into the house to get some Comet to scrub the shit out of this thing. Once I was done cleaning the inside, I turned it over to look at the bottom. It was there that I noticed a bunch of putty and caulk that was still stuck on from when the previous owners had ripped it out. Being the master toolsman that I am, I deemed that the best tool for removing this was a phillips-head screwdriver.

I don’t know why I picked a phillips-head. I could have used a flathead. I could have used a putty knife. I could have even tried to grab it by hand and rip most of it off. I don’t know if one method would have prevented what happened next any more than another method. What I do know is that once I got started I knew what I was doing was stupid but still didn’t stop.
As I was digging away at the caulk with my handy dandy phillips-head screwdriver, Carol stepped outside to see what I was doing. As I began talking to her I took turns looking at her and looking at what I was doing with the sink. All of a sudden, and I still have no idea what caused it, my hand slipped off of the screwdriver and my thumb slammed right into the rounded corner of the stainless steel sink.

I sometimes wonder why I do the things I do. I sometimes wonder why I’m so careless and so cock-sure that even though I know what I’m doing is stupid, I continue to do it anyway with the idea that nothing bad will happen. I also sometimes wonder why while I’m the middle of doing something and an idea pops into my head of a way to do it safer or more effectively, I stick with my original method because “it’s working well so far.” I knew the entire time that I was working with that screwdriver that the edges of the sink were sharp and that I could easily cut myself. I also knew the entire time that I’m a stubborn ass who wants to get things done my way.

Unfortunately, the result of doing things my way is that I sliced my thumb open pretty good. Basically, I cut it from the top of my thumb in the middle all the way down the inside halfway down the fingernail. Immediately, the blood came pouring out and quickly (once again) covered my thumb. I did the little “oh shit” dance and looked at it again before seeing that I had gotten myself pretty good. As dad taught me, I tried to suck at the blood, but there was just too much coming out. I needed to go inside. Thankfully, Carol was outside as she opened the door for me as I walked into the kitchen to the sink (thankfully, I hadn’t turned the water off yet) and washed off my thumb.

As I held it under the water, the blood would not stop pouring out. Now, in addition to never having stitches, I’ve also never passed out. I’m not sure if I was close to passing out while looking at all of this blood, but I did get a little dizzy and definitely felt the blood leaving my face. Luckily, I was able to bring myself back to reality and decided to move into the bathroom where the hydrogen peroxide was to give it a better cleaning.

From the second Carol saw my gaping would (yes, it was gaping), she began asking me if I needed stitches. Now, like I said before, I’ve never had stitches and wouldn’t even begin to know what a cut that needed stitches would look like. I also was well aware of my current streak of never having had stitches and was pretty adamant about keeping that streak alive. As I looked down at my thumb, however, I saw that not only was I cut but that the cut seemed to be opened a little wide for my liking. At that point I decided that maybe stitches would be for the best, but not after I gave it one more chance with the hydrogen peroxide.

I was almost resigned to go to the hospital, but miraculously, once Carol poured the peroxide on the cut (I would have done it myself but I can never remember if it’s peroxide or rubbing alcohol that makes it sting really bad. As a result, I had Carol pour it so that I wouldn’t jump at the pain and spill the remaining contents of the bottle) the bleeding stopped. It was then that I was able to get a really good look at my newest future scar. I could see that it wasn’t good, but the really deep part wasn’t horribly big and wouldn’t have needed more than 1-2 stitches to close it up and I was NOT going to break my no-stitches streak for a lousy 1-2 stitches. As a result, I decided that I would not be going to the hospital, washed my hands with soap and water (that’s when the stinging occurred – son of a bitch!), put on my Toy Story band-aids, and went back to work.

I was hesitant to tell my father that I was already injured before he even got there, but it was quite obvious that my thumb was covered in multi-colored band-aids. Also, I’m what you might call a bit of an attention whore, so any chance I got to bring up the fact that I was working through this horrific injury, I took. Dad, as usual, just shook his head and went about his business.

Yes, the band-aids, temporary numbness, and constant ramming of my thumb into any object that got in the way and the resulting wave of intense pain may have made things a little difficult, but I worked that day alongside Carol and my dad and we got the counter top and sink done. And, might I add, it looks great. When I woke up on Sunday morning, the pain had gone away and I was left with just a gaping wound which will hopefully close up soon. Plus my no-stitches streak is still intact.

I do wonder if the bleeding is supposed to have stopped by now though…

Oh well.

Thanks for reading.

BTW: I was going to post a picture of it along with the blog, but have decided against it. For anyone that wants to see it, it's on my Facebook page within my picures. Enjoy.

Polyester Princess

*fiction* I feel the need to put that since a lot of people were concerned that “The Bugman Cometh” was a true story. I may have issues, but I’m not entirely insane.

………………………………………………

So my friend Paul’s Uncle Enos just died and he wanted me to go to the funeral. Normally I’d have said no because it’s on a Sunday and the LA Rams were playing the St. Louis Cardinals (although no one can even compete with my Cowboys) and I really want to watch it. Plus, I knew I was going to be hungover because I’d had plans to go to this groovy new disco on Saturday night to meet this foxy chick named Harmony. As a result, I told him “no,” but as fate would have it, Harmony OD’ed on a bad batch of coke and wasn’t going to be able to make it. Plus, some dude named Jaworski was going to start for the Rams and I didn’t know anything about him, so I figured that game would be a total drag anyway. So, suddenly, I was available (as I still am, ladies).

I still can’t say that I was digging the idea of going to a funeral on a Sunday, but as I was talking to my compadre Miguel about the possible chicks that may be there, I got a little wiggle in my pants. While Miguel was talking about Paul’s sisters Rita (whom I’ve already had twice), Betty (whom I’ve also had twice – once with Rita), Susan (who walked in on me and Rita but wouldn’t join in no matter how groovy I looked because it was her sister), and all of his cousins (who Paul asked me not to touch because they were family), all I could think about was his great-aunt Rhoda.

Let me make one thing clear: I dig older chicks. Sure, I like the young ones with their hot bodies and their ability to go all night long (if you know what I mean), but there’s just something about an older chick’s experience that turns me on. See, I’ve been with a lot of girls (mostly my friend’s sisters and girls who may or may not have been guys and that I may or may not have paid for). I’ve been with white girls, Mexican girls, black girls, conscious girls, unconscious girls, girls who like the lights on, girls who want to keep the van door closed, and girls who like to leave the bathroom door at the gas station unlocked because the excitement of getting walked in on really gets them hot and bothered. But as many women as I’ve been with, I’ve never had an older chick.

That was all gonna change at Paul’s Uncle Enos’ Funeral

I called Paul back to tell him that I was going to go and also to get some info about his Great Aunt Rhoda. I remember back when we were little kids growing up and Aunt Rhoda would watch us while Paul’s parents were out of the house, but I hadn’t seen her in a long time. Back then, she just wanted us to call her Rhodie as Great Aunt Rhoda made her feel old. Let me tell you what, she was some kind of wonderful. I remember one time when she took us to the swimming pool she was drying us off prior to leaving and I caught sight of one of her nipples. Being about 8 at the time, I didn’t really know why I liked it, but I did. I liked it so much, in fact, that I began to feel a little tightness in my swim trunks which Rhodie, being totally unaware, brushed over while drying me off. She didn’t say anything, but I know that she noticed and had to feel flattered. From that moment on Rhodie was on my list.

While talking to Paul, I asked him if certain family members were going to be there, purposely leaving Rhodie’s name for the middle of the pack so that he didn’t know that this wolf was on the prowl. Once he said that she was gonna be there, I casually asked what she’d been up to as she was always a lot of fun when we were growing up. Paul told me that in the 25 years or so since I’d last seen her, her husband Robert had died and she’d moved to Arizona to live with her sister Bernice. He said that they were driving in and should make it just in time for the services and the luncheon afterwards at his house. I couldn’t help but notice that Paul hadn’t asked me to the luncheon yet, and figuring that a funeral was no place to make my move - again (*wink-wink*), I knew that an invite would be crucial.

“Paul,” I said “if people are driving in from all over the south for this thing, they’re going to be good and tired and ready to relax. Let me bring over some liquor for the luncheon. Really, it’s the least I could do.” It didn’t take long for Paul to agree to this so in the blink of an eye, my plan was set in motion. This fair lass was going to be mine.

On the day of funeral, I woke up extra early to iron my best shirt, comb my hair back in the way that I knew the ladies liked it, put on my my my my my boogie shoes, and stop by the liquor store to get enough lady-killer elixir for the afternoon (and hopefully early evening into the next morning). As I zipped my wallet up in my front pocket (so as not to obstruct the fine ass that the good lord had blessed me with), I headed out the door, got in my van, and peeled out of my trailer park parking lot. It was gonna be a good day.

The funeral was pretty boring: Uncle Enos was in a casket, they said some prayers, some people cried, and then they went to the cemetery to drop him in his eternal home. I was beginning to get worried though because I didn’t see Rhodie anywhere. I saw the family section up front filled with Paul’s parents, his sisters (who kept looking at me because I looked THAT good), his cousins (who were also looking at me but I wouldn’t touch because they were Paul’s family) and a bunch of old people that I didn’t recognize, but I didn’t see Rhodie.

My plan had been to skip the burial at the cemetery and set up the bar at Paul’s house so that it was ready when everybody got there. As a result, I needed to get the key from Paul after the funeral. On his way out to the cemetery I pulled him aside, grabbed the key, and casually asked where his Great Aunt Rhoda and Bernice were. I told him that I was concerned that they had travel problems and wouldn’t be able to pay their final respects, but all I was really concerned about was me and Rhodie working up a sweat while doing the no-pants dance.

“Oh,” he said “they had some car trouble right outside of town. They’re going straight to the house and will be there for the luncheon. They’re probably going to get there before we do, so would you mind letting them in and making sure they’re comfortable?” My response was simple:

“Gladly.”
As I drove to the house I couldn’t help but think how perfectly this was all playing out. Sure, I’d have to do some comforting and all that shit, but in the end it really played into my hands. If I was there for her in her time of need, maybe she’d be there for me in my time of need. I started to get really excited and figured that I should calm down, so I reached into one of the bags from the liquor store, opened a bottle of whiskey, took a swig, and then shot-gunned a beer. That tasted so good that I decided to do it again. After that, I was feeling pretty groovy so I reached into my glove compartment for my Brut cologne and sprayed myself from head to toe. After all, everybody knows that a lady loves a good smelling man. Rhodie didn’t know what she had in store for her. If I had my way, within four hours of her walking in that door we were gonna do a little dance, make a little love, and get down tonight. Whoo!

As I was setting up the bar I began to think of Rhodie and how foxy she used to be. I knew that she was much older than me, but I dug chicks in their 40’s and 50’s. Like I said before, they had a certain experience about them, which was a super turn-on. I couldn’t wait to see her again and quickly ran around the house looking for an appropriate place to get it on should the immediate need arise. I found a storage closet that should do the trick, but while doing this, I got a little excited again and decided that another shot and another beer should do the trick. I was starting to feel the effects of the alcohol but figured that it would only loosen me up and make me that much more sexy to her.

Eventually the doorbell rang and, as much as I tried not to, I pretty much ran to the door to let in my lady for the evening. Upon opening it, however, all I encountered were two old bags who must have skipped the cemetery too and were over early for the luncheon. Needless to say, I was a little disappointed and began wondering if they were even coming at all. As I turned around to grab myself another beer, I heard one of them address me.

“Dickey, is that you?” said the voice.

“Actually, I go by Rick now, but yes it is. Do I know you?”

“Do you know me?” she said with disbelief, “I should sure hope so! Bernice, do you remember little Dickey? He grew up with Pauly and they were the best friends. In fact,” she said, “I remember a certain little boy getting a little chubby at the pool one day while I was drying him off. You were just the sweetest little thing with your little tallywacker all sprung up. Bernice, please tell me you remember little Dickey.”

“Rick,” I said in disbelief hoping that this was not really happening.

“What?” said Bernice.

“Little Dickey,” she said a little louder.

“Rick” I corrected her again.

“LITTLE DICKEY! THIS IS LITTLE DICKEY!” she screamed loud enough for the neighbors to hear while pointing, whether intentionally or not, at my crotch.

“I have no idea what the hell you’re talking about, Rhodie” said Bernice addressing her as the one thing that I hoped she would not.

“Oh, that’s right,” she said “you were already in Arizona.”

As I stared at was once a foxy 40-something year old lady, I was devastated that a) the years could be so unkind, and b) that I had miscalculated how old she’d actually be. For some reason, I was thinking that she’d be 50 something at the max, but then again, I was 30 years older so the chances of her only aging 10 years while I aged 30 were pretty improbable. I’ve gotta stop doing so much blow.

While I so fondly remembered her wearing the nip-slipping swimsuit and other various hot outfits, she stood before me in an orange pant suit with Kleenex hanging out of the pocket. Instead of her hair being long and sexy, it was now permed and cut short. While I was mentally kicking myself for making such a horrible miscalculation and wondering if I could maybe talk Paul’s sisters into an orgy (somehow he never warned me about them. Maybe he thought I had more class that to screw his sisters.) I opened the door to let them into the house. It was at that moment that Rhodie leaned in, told me how handsome I’d become and gave me a kiss on the cheek.

It was on.

For some reason, that peck on the cheek carried more with it. The way she did it, she may as well have just reached down, grabbed my crotch, and said “bathroom – five minutes.” I may have been wrong with my interpretation, but maybe that’s because my head was filled with the intoxicating aroma of moth balls and Ben Gay. I knew I had a thing for older chicks, but did my libido really stretch this far? This was a 70 year old plus woman and I’m pretty sure that I had just gotten the same feeling in my pants that I had so many years ago at the swimming pool. I ran to the bar, took three big drinks off of the quickly disappearing bottle of whiskey and opened up another beer. I was 99% sure I wanted this, but it was going to take some intoxication – for both of us. After all, once this dog’s nose had caught a scent, there was no stopping me.

As they made their way into the living room, I offered them a seat and to get them a drink. Rhodie was the first to accept, and after a little prodding from me, Bernice soon followed. Apparently, Bernice wasn’t in the best of health and pretty much relied on Rhodie for everything. Rhodie had to help her walk, help her sit down, and wipe her mouth for her.

“I always keep a ton of napkins in my pocket because you just never know when Bernice is going to need her chin wiped,” Rhodie explained.

After some small talk in which I gazed through her thick glasses into her beautiful eyes, I saw that Bernice had finished her drink and Rhodie was almost done with hers. I quickly refilled both and took another shot and another beer for myself. I was really starting to feel the effects of the alcohol, but didn’t care. I was ready for love.

About a half an hour later, we began to wonder where everyone else was at. Bernice had finished her second drink, but decided to go with a beer after that as she said she was feeling a little light headed from the first. I was light headed too. I was light headed from looking at my elderly princess and envisioning the night we had in front of us. It was going to be pure magic.

That’s when the booze kicked in.

All of a sudden, I wasn’t feeling so hot. I tried to count the amount of shots I had done in my head but couldn’t figure it out. All I knew is that to calm my nerves I had been hitting the bottle pretty hard. I decided to look for the bottle and see how much was left, but all I saw was Rhodie walking to the bar to throw something away. It was my empty bottle of whiskey.

Apparently, in my attempt to loosen myself up, I had loosened the cap on that bottle one too many times and had managed to drink the entire thing. In addition, I had been drinking beer along with it. To make matters worse, I had done this all in the span of about an hour and a half. I guess drinking like this at the disco is much easier when you’re constantly doing lines in the bathroom, but without the coke, this stuff hits you pretty hard.

As I got up from my chair, it hit me like a ton of bricks and I knew I was in trouble. On top of that, Bernice was complaining that she wasn’t feeling good either and asked to be taken to the bathroom. As Rhodie went to help her up, Bernice mentioned that it was too late and screamed for me to bring her a trash can.

While I stood there listening to Bernice throw up in the middle of Paul’s living room, I could hear Rhodie say “I bet she didn’t take her damn pills again. She always gets sick when she drinks and doesn’t take her pills. Now we’ve got to go the hospital again.”

“What?” asked Bernice between heaves.

“THE HOSPITAL!” she said. “LITTLE DICKEY NEEDS TO TAKE YOU TO THE HOSPITAL!”

“Rick.”

At first I was going to object, but then I realized that my evening was shot anway. There was no way in hell that I was going to be able to recover from that drunken stupor to be of any use to either me or Rhodie that night. As beautiful as she looked in her orange polyester, I wouldn’t be able to give myself a memorable showing. I decided to let her go and maybe, someday, I’d be able to ride that geriatric express.

I was just about to leave Paul’s house (screw Uncle Enos. I never liked the bastard anyway and Bernice can find her own damn ride to the hospital), the front door opened and Paul’s Mom came in to take a candid picture of all of us. This is what she got.
















Maybe at least Rhodie will be in town for another couple of days. There’s no way I’m gonna miss out on that action.


Thanks for reading.

26 Bitches

*Warning. If you don't have access to some sort of media player or Youtube is inaccessible where your're at, wait until later to read this. It's pretty useless without it*

Before I get started with today’s blog, I’m going to let you all in on a little secret – I watch St. Louis Cardinals baseball games. Yes, the Cubs are now and forever will be my team, but I don’t get Comcast in Belleville and I am not about to shell out the $250.00 that DirecTV charges for the MLB package. As a result, unless they are broadcast on WGN, ESPN, or Fox I don’t get to see many Cub games. The problem is that I still need to get my baseball fix so, as much as I don’t want to, I watch the Cardinals. Don’t get me wrong – I’m watching in hopes that they lose every damn game and that somehow their entire dugout explodes into a fiery ball, but unfortunately neither seems likely to happen. I also like to watch because I love baseball and rather than just be well schooled on my team, I want to know as much about the Cub’s biggest rival in order to hold my own in the conversations/debates that I often find myself getting into.

But that ‘s not what I’m going to talk about today.

Today, I’m going to talk about bitches.

Prior to Monday’s game, the Cincinnati Reds all-star second baseman Brandon Phillips had the following to say:

“I’d play against these guys with one leg. We have to beat these guys. I hate the Cardinals. All they do is bitch and moan about everything, all of them, they’re little bitches, all of ‘em.
“I really hate the Cardinals. Compared to the Cardinals, I love the Chicago Cubs. Let me make this clear: I hate the Cardinals.”

Now while I do love these comments for various reasons, a brouhaha of some sort was bound to erupt once his words reached the Cardinals dugout. And, sure enough, once Phillips got to the plate Tuesday night, the fireworks (and not the explosion in the Cardinals dugout that I was praying for) began.

This is when the real “bitch” emerged.

I had a link from Youtube here, but MLB must have ordered its removal as when I went to verify it prior to posting, it was gone. Either way, during the altercation, both benches cleared and there was a lot of pushing, shoving, and screaming. Amidst this, the players and coaches ended up pushing back towards the backstop where a bunch of players, namely Reds starting pitcher Johny Cueto was being forced against the wall. In order to either escape/fight his way out, he ended up kicking several Cardinal players in the back.

I’ve been discussing this with my buddy Chris since last night and since then, my feelings have changed. As I admitted to him this morning, sometimes my severe dislike for the Cardinals sometimes blinds me a little and as a result, I defended Cueto under the premise that he was being smashed against a wall by a mob of 40+ very angry men and kicking might have been his survival instinct. While I still partially agree with my initial statement, surely there could have been a more masculine and safe way to get out of that situation. Seriously? Kicking? On top of that , he was kicking with metal spikes at people’s faces and backs. And, even if kicking was his only option, couldn’t he have kicked at the players legs or somewhere else less dangerous than their faces? There, Brandon Phillips, is your bitch.

Because I love Youtube, baseball fights, and saying “bitch” so much, let’s review some more baseball fights where players act like bitches (by my count, that’s eight “bitches” so far. Make that nine now).

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BnF3UTv-Abo

While I respect the pitcher for both the payback pitch and the ensuing jack to the jaw which flat out dropped the batter, why in the hell did he run away? If you’ve got that kind of knockout power, stand in there and take out a few more guys. Don’t run away like a little bitch (10) and let your teammates finish the fight for you. What are you, a Detroit Redwing?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=78wwGbijFXw

This one was shown over, and over, and over (and then over again) on ESPN but I never get sick of it. This dude had a game plan and went through with it. However, you don’t just up and decide “Hey, maybe I’ll deliver some sweet chin music to the catcher before charging the mound and flailing my arms like a windmill” on the spot. That has to be planned out. And if you have something that’s bothering you enough that you need to premeditate an attack of that sort, your bitch (11) ass should have taken care of the situation at the time that it occurred.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cJWaGxVh-tI

This has to be one of the biggest bitch (12) moves of all time. I understand that a man who very closely resembles a bull was charging him, and Pedro, who I’m sure is accustomed to bull fights relied on his natural instinct to dodge the bull and throw him to the ground (Yes, I know he’s Domincan. But he speaks Spanish and I associate that with Spain and I, in turn, associate that with bull fighting – stop judging me). But, even though Zimmer might resemble a bull, he was a 72 year old (yes, 72) bull who would have been easy to out run. Instead Martinez, in one of the most horrible yet twistedly funny moments in baseball history, threw his old wrinkled bottom to the ground. This, Pedro, makes you a bitch (13).

The good news is, Pedro knew he was a bitch (14) and, although it wasn’t related to this incident, was not ashamed to say so (sorry about the commercial – damn MLB).

http://mlb.mlb.com/video/play.jsp?content_id=7097699&topic_id=7224328

Although he only referenced the Yankees as “my daddy” we know what he really meant: I’m the Yankees bitch (15)

However, if you want to see the true definition of being someone’s bitch (16), I highly recommend watching this clip.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WNETI5AbxOo

Nolan Ryan, at the ripe old age of 46, took Robin Ventura, a guy almost half his age and gave him a the beat down of a lifetime.While Ventura would go on to have a very good major league career, he was never able to shed the dubious title of being Nolan Ryan’s bitch (17).

So there, Brandon Phillips, is what “bitches” (18) are. And while I agree with the premise of your argument, you need to back it up. Bitches (19) are not an organization that has 10 World Series titles. Bitches (20) are not a group of guys who, rather than fight back with words choose to hit back where it hurts – on the field and in the standings. And bitches (21) are not a team who has been to the playoffs more times than you’ve blown out birthday candles. Bitches (22) are people who kick, throw old people to the ground, and run away from a fight. Bitches (23) are people who don’t know when to keep their mouths shut. And apparently, bitches (24) are guys that run their trap and then proceed to go 1for 9 in the first two games of a very important series. Maybe you should follow Pedro’s lead and, rather than swatting at a hornet’s nest, just call the Cardinals your daddy.

Jesus, that sounded like a pro-Cardinals blog. But as I stated to Chris earlier, as much as I hate the Cardinals, I do respect them (most of the time). They are the Ron Burgundy to my Wes Mantooth.

Here’s one other baseball fight you may enjoy. It’s one of the most gruesome, disgusting things I’ve ever seen and really couldn’t come up with a bitch (25) in it, so I’ll just leave you with it. Be warned that this is very explicit content.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G7D8aDp3RUs

Koreans make me laugh

Later bitches! (26)

Thanks for reading.

Things That I Strongly Dislike (today)

Things that I strongly dislike (today):


Mean people

St Louis Cardinals

Detroit Redwings

Always running out of batteries/light bulbs

Losing – at anything

Tequila

Hangovers

The “c” word

The fact that Mike and Mike in the Morning on ESPN radio discuss NFL football year round and always at the time that I’m driving to work

Mock NFL drafts

Stale bread

People who can’t properly utilize the English language (if everyone else says something one way, why do you think your usage of “We was” is appropriate?)

Being crabby enough to write a list of things that I strongly dislike

Girls who wouldn’t sleep with me when I was single

The periodic table of elements

Not knowing what’s for lunch in the cafeteria because whoever’s job it is to post the menu in the break room never does so in time for lunch on Monday

Bugman

Bats

The Olive Garden (should be further up on the list right by tequila and hangovers)

The fact that Nickelback should be on this list but I can’t put them on here because there are actually a few songs that I don’t mind
Admitting to liking a few Nickelback songs

Oprah

My hairline

Justin f*cking Beiber

West Coast road trips where the games don’t start until 9:00 p.m. and end long after my bedtime.

The direction of Israel since Yitzhak Rabin’s assassination. As things are developing under this new leadership, there would seem to be little doubt that full control over the “West Bank” will be transferred to the PLO, to Arafat and to his 30,000 soldiers (disguised as policemen). Few doubt that before too long unless there is an early change in the Israeli government a Palestinian state will come into existence in the “West Bank” and in Gaza; that the Golan will be handed over to Syria in exchange for vague promises; and that Jerusalem, where the PLO ( in total contravention of the Declaration of Principles ) already maintains de facto government offices, will be divided with the western half being the capital of a diminished and vulnerable Israel and the eastern half, the capital of the new Palestinian state. While under Rabin’s leadership, each Israeli concession to the Arabs would be matched by a corresponding Arab concession and that Israel’s security interests would be kept foremost in mind, there now seems to be a headlong rush into “peace at any price”, without proper respect for Israel’s security interests and ultimately for its survival.

Wet farts

Getting busted while staring at someone’s cleavage

Being stuck in the elevator with any of the following people: smelly people, small-talk people, people that I dislike, people who dislike me, executives, Jimmy-Johns delivery guys, the four people who all went on their smoke break together and are now piling into the same elevator together reeking of smoke and sweat, and Liz Klingele (she’s very judgmental in her Facebook posts).

The need to capitalize “Facebook” or else MS Word labels it as a misspelling

The Taliban

Shaving

Blowing my nose at my desk and then worrying about any hangers that I may have missed

My squeaking brakes

Not knowing what that hard thing in my hamburger was and swallowing it prior to being able to spit it out

People who are good at karaoke (if you can sing well and want to get on stage, join a band)

Going from pale to sunburned to peeling and back to pale while skipping “tan” altogether

People in Cleveland who feel “betrayed” by Lebron James. It’s like they’re the dorky guy in college who is dating a hot girl freshman year because they were the cute couple back in high school together. All of a sudden, college has offered her more exposure and every guy on campus wants a taste of that young talent. Seriously, you knew how it was going to end. Get over it.

Burt Young





Alarm clocks

Leaky basements

Every Baldwin (except for maybe Alec because he’s kind of funny now that he’s older and fatter but that rant against his daughter was still totally unacceptable)

The beeping I hear as I walk past the loading dock doors of an abandoned building I pass every day on my way to and from work. Is it an alarm? Is it a motion sensor? Am I doing something wrong? Have they labeled me as a “person of interest?” STOP BEEPING!!!

Paranoid people

SPAM (the e-mail, not the “meat.” I LOVE the “meat”)

People who want me to do work for them even though they’re not my boss

Being helpful

The fact that the last I saw, Joel McHale was sucking face with Allison Brie on “Community” and they’ve had an entire summer to do whatever they want without it being documented for their show. Joel, so help me God if you have taken away any of her innocence I will travel directly to the set of “The Soup” of “Community” or whatever show it is that you’ve whored yourself out to this time around and I will stomp a mud hole in your perfectly ripped and well proportioned upper body.

The fact that one of my lesbian friends told me on Saturday night that she thought I could be gay (that’s when I whipped out the picture on my cell phone of my medical file which clearly states that I’m “not gay”)

Ziggy (seriously, has anyone ever laughed at a Ziggy cartoon? Ever?)

Family Circus (please see above)

The player AND the game

Cats

The fact that I was just my own 500th visitor to my website to verify that I had never written a list of things that I strongly disliked before.

Not being able to come up with a decent topic for a blog so instead I’m forced to write a list of things that I strongly dislike

But I do like all of you (unless you fall into one of the categories listed above. If so, maybe we’ll get along better tomorrow)


Thanks for reading

The Bugman Cometh

I love my son and I thank God every day for making him as adorable as he is. The reason I thank God for this is because if my son was not so cute 97.4% of the time, I would be tempted to exterminate him the other 2.6%.

Last night was not a good night for Carol or myself and it was all because of The Boy. According to Carol, he was a sweetheart all day and they had a great time on her day off. Around 10 to 15 minutes before I got home, however, he somehow morphed from cute Ben to Demon Child and did not morph back for the rest of the night. With the exception of a few bright spots, his vocabulary for the evening consisted of three basic phrases: 1) No, 2) I don’t want to, and 3) I want Bugman.

For those of you outside of my household who don’t know, Bugman is Ben’s name for a character in Toy Story 3. Ben already has numerous Woody’s, Buzz’s, a Bullseye, and countless other Toy Story toys that fill his room and the floors of every other room in our house. Yesterday at Target, however, he and Carol saw an action figure of this “Bugman” and since then, The Boy won’t shut up about it. It got to the point where Carol and I were half-jokingly plotting evil things we could do to Bugman if and when we bought it in order to emotionally scar our young child. That, combined with the fits of crying, screaming, and overall temper tantrums from his being tired was enough to wear us out and make us both crabby for the rest of the night.

After some time to cool down, however, I wondered why he was able to get us so worked up. Was it his disobedience? Was it our inability to get through to him? Or, was it just his complete ignorance of anything we had to say? I decided that today I would try to see what would happen to an adult if I were to act like him while I was at work. Needless to say, my day has not gone very well.

As I walked into the office the first person I saw was my director. She greeted me as she does every day with a courteous “Good morning.” My first reaction was to return the greeting, but I reminded myself of my experiment for the day and responded with “I want Bugman.”

She looked at me kind of funny and asked what I said and I repeated under my breath “I want Bugman.” Being very aware of how I am at times, she laughed it off and prior to entering her office said “you so crazy.”

Hmmm. This could get interesting.

My next actions were to drop my bag off at my desk, turn on my computer, and go to the kitchen area to get my milk so that I could have my morning bowl of cereal. Once I got to the kitchen there were a few people already in there so I figured I’d have to wait my turn. In typical 3 year old fashion though, I decided to just barge my way in there and not stop until I got where I was going. There was a lady bending over to get into the refrigerator but I knocked her out of my way to reach in and grab my half gallon of 2%.

“Excuse me” she said with a tone of snootiness in her voice.

I responded with “I don’t want to.”

“What?” she asked with both surprise and a hint of being offended.

“I. Don’t. Want. To” was my straight-faced response.

At that point I turned around and elbowed two other people on my way out of the small room and back to my desk.

When I got back to my desk my computer was awaiting my login so I entered my login name and password and went through my morning ritual of eating cereal and checking my emails. Just as I put the huge first bite of Rice Squares in my mouth my phone rang and, without even bothering to finish chewing, I answered the phone.

Me: (with a mouthful of food) Credit, this is Scott

Voice on phone: Yes Ken, is Scott there?

Me: (swallowing food) This is Scott

VOP: Sorry, it was a little mumbled. Scott, this is Ria from (company name withheld) and I was wondering…

Me: No

VOP: I’m sorry?

Me: I don’t want to.

VOP: Scott, as a member of (group name withheld) you are required to provide me with…

Me: I want Bugman

VOP: Excuse me?

Me: I want Bugman. It’s at Target.

VOP: Scott, is this some kind of a prank?

Me: No

VOP: Well, I’m sorry but can I talk to your manager?

Me: No

VOP: And why not?

Me: I don’t want to.

VOP: Scott, this is…

Me: I want Bugman.

*Click*


I was beginning to think that this 3 year old mentality had its merits. I could be as rude as I wanted to be and get the added benefit of avoiding a lot of work. There was also the chance that maybe, just maybe, someone would get the hint and go out on their lunch hour to get me a Bugman. I wasn’t putting too much faith in that though.

After working uninterrupted for about 45 minutes, my director came to my desk and asked if I would come into her office for a few minutes. Without looking away from the YouTube video that I was watching because I wanted to, I gave her my response:

Me: No

Director: What?

Me: I don’t want to.

Director: (with a tone of don’t-f*ck-with-me) Well, when you get done watching your video I want you to come into my office whether you want to or not.

Me: I want Bugman

Director: Scott, so help me God, if you don’t knock this shit off – I heard about your actions in the kitchen and I got a phone call from Ria stating that you were being ignorant – don’t think I won’t fire your ass.

There was a slight pause here as I went over my options. I knew she was serious as she had brought out her “So help me God” so continuing with this experiment could have very bad consequences. At the same time, I couldn’t cancel the experiment one hour into my day as it wouldn’t be fair to science. Millions of people were counting on the results of this experiment and I was not going to let them down. As a result, I responded.

Me: (under my breath) I want Bugman

Needless to say, this did not please her and she stormed from my desk directly into her office. Due to the fact that her office is directly across from my cubicle and she didn’t even bother to shut her door, I heard her pick up her phone and call down to HR. The basic gist of the conversation was that I was causing problem and she wondered if I was “high on some drugs” or something. Seeing as I wasn’t going to leave my cubicle, she wanted them to come upstairs and meet with me right away.

Now, in typical 3 year old fashion, I decided to switch my mood on a dime and casually got out of my chair and went into her office to apologize.

Director: Now what in the hell is your deal today

Me: I don’t know

Director: you’re acting really strange

Me: Strange?

Director: Yes

Me: I’m sorry

At this point I walked over to give her a hug, as 3 year olds do, but she backed away as if she thought I was going to hit her

Director: What are you doing?

Me; I don’t know

Director: I think it’s best that you go back to your desk. HR will be up here in a minute.

Me: I don’t want to

Director: I don’t care. Get your ass out of my office.

Me: I don’t want to.

Director: Scott, get out!

Me: I. Want. Bugman.

Director: What in the hell?

Me: I! WANT! BUGMAN!

At this point, the HR representative got to my Director’s office at the same time as building security. Apparently, people were growing concerned about my behavior so someone decided to call building security to have them observe me.

As if that was going to happen.

As I casually stood there, both the HR representative and the three members of building security were asking my Director a bunch of questions about my behavior and if I had threatened her in any way. She mentioned that I had approached her but she didn’t know why. I thought my attempts at a hug were pretty obvious, but if she didn’t understand my actions, then she didn’t deserve that hug.

This went on for about 3 to 4 minutes with the five of them talking around me but not directly to me. I quickly got bored due to the lack of attention being paid to me and decided to climb up onto one of the available chairs and started jumping up and down. The first bounce caught them off guard and I let out a shrill laugh to show my utter enjoyment at what I was doing.

After my second bounce, however, one member of building security overreacted, grabbed his stun gun, and fired 600,000 volts into my abdomen. That was not as fun. Let’s just say that after a little twitching and a round of vomiting up my Rice Squares from earlier, I was soon subdued.

As I sat in the building’s security headquarters, I was staring at a team comprised of my Director, my manager, 4 members of building security, my companies HR Director, his assistant, and the little Indian man from the convenience store in the buildings’ lobby (he’s had it in for me ever since I bought a .75 pack of gum with my debit card). I began pleading my case that I was just trying an experiment and I was sorry that it had gotten so out of control. I mentioned that I had gotten the answers I wanted and I apologized again for everything I had done.

This temporary moment of clarity seemed to satisfy their questions as to whether I was a security risk or not as they dismissed three of the security guards and the little Indian man (who never took his eyes off of me. Not even once.) I then proceeded to answer every question they asked of me as if I were an adult and they began to deliberate amongst themselves as to what to do with me.

I couldn’t hear everything they were saying, but I could make out terms like “no past history” and “always been a little strange.” I wasn’t quite sure what my fate was going to be, but I knew it probably wouldn’t be any less that a few days off of work with no pay and maybe some counseling. I began to feel really stupid about what I’d done and wondered why I even thought this would be a good idea. Not only was I going to get reprimanded, but everyone in the office was now going to have proof that I was mentally unstable. And for what, so I could amuse myself? Was it really worth it? Did I actually get that much of a kick out of it to make all of this trouble worthwhile? What in the hell was wrong with me?

At this point, I began to get a little upset at myself and couldn’t help but tear up a little. I was ashamed of my actions and was embarrassed that I had acted in such a stupid way and wasted all of these people’s time. As the tears started rolling down my cheeks, my director looked at me and her motherly instincts took over. She immediately came over to me and asked me what was wrong.

Me: I don’t know.

Director: Are you ashamed of what you did? A grown man doesn’t act like that Scott, no matter what scientific test you’re running or how funny you think it might be to mess with people. Now, as a result of your actions all of these people had to take time out of their days to deal with some stupid little prank that only you thought was funny. Only you, Scott. Now, we’ve come to a decision on your punishment but we want to know if you have anything to say for yourself that may make us want to forget this ever happened. We know you’re not a safety risk and we value you as an employee, but this has got to stop. It’s all up to you Scott. What do you have to say for yourself?








Me: I want Bugman.

……………………………

So, while my job lasted almost two years, my joke barely made it through the morning. The good news is that I’ll be able to write a ton more blogs as I will now have a lot of free time on my hands while I’m attending the therapy sessions that were deemed necessary if I ever wanted to return to my now former employer. The bad news is that due to my income being slashed from the household budget, Ben will never get his toy. As a result, for the next 4 months (or however long this therapy lasts) I’ll be hearing the same phrase day after day: I want Bugman.

It kind of gets annoying after awhile.

I have to go back to timeout now.

Thanks for reading