It has been Dodger week out her in Satan's asshole (copyright Lil' Lisa, 2007), which means blog time was cut to nil so I could agravate my ulcer, drink too much beer (is there such a thing?) and poop razor blades because the Dodgers and the local 9 - Arizona Diamondbacks - were squaring off four straight nights in downtown hell with first place on the line.
If you haven't figured it out, it's hot in Phoenix. Hell hot. So hot, I'm leaving sweat stripes from my butt crack on my pants, shorts, boxers, knickers, poodle skirt, you get the idea. I thought a trip to California this past weekend would dry out our arm pits and cure the second-degree burns the Arizona sun had left on our skin. Yeah, no dice. We came back and I swear the dogs' eyes melted shut - and they were inside the majority of the time.
So what do Arizonans' do when the temperature hits century-plus 10 mark? What any red-blooded, apple-pie munching, illegal-immigrant bashing American would do ... go to the ball yard. And while I attended just one of the four (I took my lucky charm - Sports Geek - and the Good Guys won in 10 innings, 6-5), I watched every gut-wrenching, ball-twisting moment.
They cruised Monday night, but the drive home Sunday in a car hot enough inside to cook a Thanksgiving turkey zapped any energy - or mental capacity - to blog. Chasing around a 7-year-old with water balloons and squirt guns also kicks the tar out of you.
Tuesday was night out at the ball park. Weekday treks to the yard works like this. Drive downtown like I'm the Bandit to buy tickets, grab a beer and find the seats before the first pitch. Once the game ends, and I'm done high-fiving gang members wearing Dodger gear because I'll be shivved for the lack of respect if I don't, we trudge the seven-miles in the cool night air - 101 on the digital bank thermometer, get your jacket Nanook it's chilly - back to the Mean Green Machine. Once I figure out the maze back to the Interstate, we're back home in 30 minutes, just when the clock is about to hit 10:30. I point out the latest nacho stain on the white Dodger jersey to Wife, then hit the sack at 11, only to have the alarm kick on and douse my nut sack with cold water at 4:30 ... A.M. for the next day at the prison work camp. Writing wasn't topping the to do list that night either.
So, you'll understand why I wasn't here Wednesday to pound a few words. A string of single-syllable words and sounds ("uh" and "mmm-hmmm") does not make a blog. Plus the Bad Guys won Wednesday, and I was afraid the vitriol that was bubbling up inside would come out as a series of four-letter word curses not suitable for your eyes, my eyes, Wife's eyes, or the stray wanderer's eyes (poor guy was just looking for porn involving lightning, a saguaro cactus and a Northern Arizona University student who needed to earn some extra dough to buy some fine Flagstaff green).
That brings me to tonight's game. I don't think I'm built to withstand watching sports, especially baseball. I blame the Ol' Man for taking me to ball games when I was still hitching up my Pampers. He's the one who piqued my interest with this game and the Dodgers.
And speaking of the Big Blue Wrecking Crew, I'm kicking back in my east-facing southern spot on the couch, enjoying the 6-0 lead they've built - but not too much. In the back of my head a little voice keeps whispering (it sounds like a cross between Tom Niedenfuer and Richard Dawson) "Don't get too comfy, Cochise, six runs means about as much to the Dodgers as a pair track shoes does to a sumo wrestler."
They push the lead to 9-1, and now I'm easing a bit more. My feet are up on the recliner, I'm flipping through the pages of my latest issue of Redbook - hey, it's a great way to spy on the opposite gender. Think about it single guys. - but still, that voice keeps singing the same tune: "They're going to blow it, and you're going to swallow your tongue."
And then it begins to unfold. Starting pitcher Randy Wolf loads the bases in the seventh with no outs, obviously more tired than a bathroom toilet at a bean-tasting convention. So the Dodgers' Harley-driving manager (how cool is that?) Grady Little reels him in and gives us fans the loss-stealing pitcher Brett Tomko. He looks like he should be good. He throws like he should be good. But he's not. He's a heaping pile of donkey dung dressed in gray and blue pants and shirt, topped with a blue LA hat. The hitter swats his first pitch - his FIRST pitch - into center field to score two runs. 9-3. I wonder if the shower rod will hold me.
Miraculously my TV escapes damage, though, as Tomko somehow wiggles out of trouble. Since the Snakes play in the dome (and in a desert that only sees water from the sky if a skydiver whips out his rip cord and floats out a streamer, if you catch my drift) there is no hope for a instant deluge that would cancel the rest of the game and save me from watching Tomko pitch the eighth inning. But, what do you know, he sneaks through that inning unscathed. But my stomach is still rolling like I just ate a jalapeno and liver sandwich topped with a heavy curdled-milk spread. I can't get comfortable knowing that schmuck would be coming back to pitch the ninth. And I only know that because I'm watching the douche swing the bat in the top half of the inning.
"I'm going to hunt down where you park your bike, Little, and piss on your Harley's tires," I yell, and the dogs look at me like I just told them their food is made from slaughtered race horses.
And just like that, Tomko loads the bases with one out and then gives up up a double into the left field corner, scoring two and putting the Snakes into slam range at 9-5. I'm rocking like it's the seventh game of the World Series, with my hands clenched together, sweating (not sure if that's because it's hotter than a '76 Chevy Nova with no air conditioner or I'm worried the Big Blue Wrecking Crew will blow a 9-1 to lead). Finally, Little realizes what every Dodger fan from sea to shining sea knows - Brett Tomko couldn't get my grandma out if she was standing at the plate. He brings in Takashi Saito and all is right with the world once again. He strikes out the first hitter he faces, then gets the next scrub to fly out to right and it's ice cream for everyone in Dodger town (it's tradition that all Dodger employees receive free ice cream on days when the squad moves into first place).
So tonight, while lying under the air conditioner, I'll bask in the Blue Crew taking three of four games from the Snakes. That will end, however, when I wake up in the morning and realize they play host to San Diego this weekend, again with first place on the line.
Ah crap, my ass is already talking. I don't think my nerves can take three more months of this season.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Somehow I don't think he'll be crying at his birthday
The First Chick - I call her LB, short for Laura Bush of course, because me and the president's main squeeze are tighter than Angelina Jolie and adobtable Eastern Asia kids - sent me an e-mail today reminding me that Georgie's brithday is coming up. July 6 to be precise.
Since the last e-mail from my buddy George, I hadn't heard from my favorite power couple. I thought maybe they lost my address, but quickly realized that couldn't be the case. I'm sure they have it on file somewhere. Really, they're system of filing has to be better than mine. I don't imagine they write e-mail addresses down on strip club receipts that just happen to be on the oval office desk or inside matchbooks from D.C. techno clubs (don't tell me that Yale frat boy inside Georgie doesn't need to be fed every once in a while). Then, I thought, maybe they were just too busy to send a little "how ya doin', pardner" e-mail. But c'mon, what the hell does the president really do? I bet download porn on a secure Internet connection. Where's the threat? Do you want to be the joker who checks the Prez' computer cache to see what sites he visited late last night, when LB was asleep and little Bush wanted to play? Anyway, that's why he has his minions. They do all the shit and he just sits on TV, using words that would get you a high score in Scrabble. Finally, I decided I must have said something to piss the leader of the free world off. I know, I'm surprised as you are, but believe it or not, I do piss off folks from time to time with the things that come out of my cake hole.
So, when I saw my reminder note from LB I figured whatever I said was forgotten (I'm sure it was something like: Hey, ass schmuck, why don't you fix the gas prices. And look, he heard me and acted, reluctantly, I'm sure, but that 15 cent price drop means my cats can eat Science Diet again instead of that processed Purina crap.)
"Dear Republican," the e-mail starts (I'd remind her I'm not, but it won't work. After a while, it's like when someone thinks your name is Bill when it's really Dick, you just go with it and give up correcting the error), and right there I know this will be a friendly, conversational e-mail. If it began "Dear Democrat" it would be followed with slime or ass clown or butt monkey. Hence, another reason why I don't correct LB. Nothing's worse than to hear the words "shit bird" come out of the First Chick's mouth.
She goes onto say Georgie will celebrate 61 this year - the same age as the Old Man - and that they always party with family and close friends. Well, hell, that's me. If they're sending me personalized e-mails like this, we must be BFFs. I'm planning already. If they like to celebrate with friends, I'll bring the beer and the bong (beer, it is ... the other bong was for those wild Clinton parties in the '90s). We'll tear the White House up, and no one's going home until we see Georgie pull a Tom Cruise in Risky Business across the main foyer.
She asks for gifts, and is even forward-thinking enough to give me some ideas: "Your secure online gift of $61 or whatever you can afford - $25, $75, $100, $500 or even $1,000 - will go a long way toward helping the RNC lay the foundation for electing more Republicans in the 2007 state and 2008 national elections." Now, I'll admit I was a little miffed that my present was going directly to Georgie. Heck, I figured with the five bones I was going to send him he could put that toward Michael Moore's movie, or Al Gore's Academy Award winning movie (at least he can win something). Then I figured, my pressence alone, along with a 12er of Georgie's favorite suds, would be gift enough. I can see it now, me and him tossing back cold Old Milwaukees while looking over the Rose Garden on a sweltering D.C. evening. That's before LB comes out in her Princess Lea "Return of the Jedi" outfit to announce that cake is being served.
And maybe they'll have Britany Spears sing for him.
Since the last e-mail from my buddy George, I hadn't heard from my favorite power couple. I thought maybe they lost my address, but quickly realized that couldn't be the case. I'm sure they have it on file somewhere. Really, they're system of filing has to be better than mine. I don't imagine they write e-mail addresses down on strip club receipts that just happen to be on the oval office desk or inside matchbooks from D.C. techno clubs (don't tell me that Yale frat boy inside Georgie doesn't need to be fed every once in a while). Then, I thought, maybe they were just too busy to send a little "how ya doin', pardner" e-mail. But c'mon, what the hell does the president really do? I bet download porn on a secure Internet connection. Where's the threat? Do you want to be the joker who checks the Prez' computer cache to see what sites he visited late last night, when LB was asleep and little Bush wanted to play? Anyway, that's why he has his minions. They do all the shit and he just sits on TV, using words that would get you a high score in Scrabble. Finally, I decided I must have said something to piss the leader of the free world off. I know, I'm surprised as you are, but believe it or not, I do piss off folks from time to time with the things that come out of my cake hole.
So, when I saw my reminder note from LB I figured whatever I said was forgotten (I'm sure it was something like: Hey, ass schmuck, why don't you fix the gas prices. And look, he heard me and acted, reluctantly, I'm sure, but that 15 cent price drop means my cats can eat Science Diet again instead of that processed Purina crap.)
"Dear Republican," the e-mail starts (I'd remind her I'm not, but it won't work. After a while, it's like when someone thinks your name is Bill when it's really Dick, you just go with it and give up correcting the error), and right there I know this will be a friendly, conversational e-mail. If it began "Dear Democrat" it would be followed with slime or ass clown or butt monkey. Hence, another reason why I don't correct LB. Nothing's worse than to hear the words "shit bird" come out of the First Chick's mouth.
She goes onto say Georgie will celebrate 61 this year - the same age as the Old Man - and that they always party with family and close friends. Well, hell, that's me. If they're sending me personalized e-mails like this, we must be BFFs. I'm planning already. If they like to celebrate with friends, I'll bring the beer and the bong (beer, it is ... the other bong was for those wild Clinton parties in the '90s). We'll tear the White House up, and no one's going home until we see Georgie pull a Tom Cruise in Risky Business across the main foyer.
She asks for gifts, and is even forward-thinking enough to give me some ideas: "Your secure online gift of $61 or whatever you can afford - $25, $75, $100, $500 or even $1,000 - will go a long way toward helping the RNC lay the foundation for electing more Republicans in the 2007 state and 2008 national elections." Now, I'll admit I was a little miffed that my present was going directly to Georgie. Heck, I figured with the five bones I was going to send him he could put that toward Michael Moore's movie, or Al Gore's Academy Award winning movie (at least he can win something). Then I figured, my pressence alone, along with a 12er of Georgie's favorite suds, would be gift enough. I can see it now, me and him tossing back cold Old Milwaukees while looking over the Rose Garden on a sweltering D.C. evening. That's before LB comes out in her Princess Lea "Return of the Jedi" outfit to announce that cake is being served.
And maybe they'll have Britany Spears sing for him.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
A regular Pothead
After a marathon stretch Sunday that leaked into Monday night, I finally finished "Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix."
That's right, I'm nothing if not ahead of the literary trends.
Now, when I say marathon reading, let me put that into perspective. I read roughly from 11:30 a.m. until 11 that night, with stops for the necesities: beer, food and sex. Not even that little wizard brat could stop me from pounding a cold one or six (hey, it was a long day of reading), and givin' Wife a wave of my wand. When I kicked off the session, I was some 270 pages shy of finishing. When my eyes felt like they were tattoed from Rowlings' prattling prose that night, I was still 70 pages from completing this paper weight.
I'm not exactly a fast reader. A typical 500-page book can take me anywhere from three weeks (if I'm really cooking, or shackled to the wall in the closet by Wife because it's Saturday night and that's what she does so she can go out and play Bingo with SuperCuz) to three months. When I settle down and start reading, I damn near read out loud and sound out the big words, that's what level I'm at. Harry Potter books, however, I can usually polish off in just under a month. The reasons: a) It's written for a four year old, so yeah, I can understand everything because the words are usually less than seven letters long; and b) It's always a good, fast-paced story. That Rowlings chick knows how to spin a good yarn. I'm hooked a few pages in, and find myself chucking other family duties just to plow through another chapter (what, dear? The dogs need food? Can't they eat their own poo for dinner, tonight? Harry's about to climb aboard Hermione and give her a little abba cadabra).
I've read five of the six books (seven comes out in July) and found, however, that every book is the same. The author might change the title, but I'll be damned if it ain't the same plot every time out.
So, because I'm here for you folks, I'm going to give you a public service. If you don't want to read the books, but want to know what happens in each of them, I'm going to tell you right now. (I'd give out a spoilers warning, but you and I both know you're going to read on, so why prolong the charade):
Harry Potter and the Sorcerers Stone:
Harry's at his aunt and uncle's house. They don't like him. He yells back at them. Wizard shit and mysteries abound. Then school starts. He leaves. He takes a bunch of magic classes and gets piles of homework. One professor despises him, and Harry shares the feeling. The big mystery is getting bigger he and his friends must solve or the whole world will explode. He almost dies. The school's headmaster spells out the mystery to Harry because he's denser than a 10-pound rubber dildo.
Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets:
Harry's at his aunt and uncle's house. They don't like him. He yells back at them. Wizard shit and mysteries abound. Then school starts. He leaves. He takes a bunch of magic classes and gets piles of homework. One professor despises him, and Harry shares the feeling. The big mystery is getting bigger he and his friends must solve or the whole world will explode. He almost dies. The school's headmaster spells out the mystery to Harry because he's denser than a 10-pound rubber dildo.
Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban:
Harry's at his aunt and uncle's house. They don't like him. He yells back at them. Wizard shit and mysteries abound. Then school starts. He leaves. He takes a bunch of magic classes and gets piles of homework. One professor despises him, and Harry shares the feeling. The big mystery is getting bigger he and his friends must solve or the whole world will explode. He almost dies. The school's headmaster spells out the mystery to Harry because he's denser than a 10-pound rubber dildo.
Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire:
Harry's at his aunt and uncle's house. They don't like him. He yells back at them. Wizard shit and mysteries abound. Then school starts. He leaves. He takes a bunch of magic classes and gets piles of homework. One professor despises him, and Harry shares the feeling. The big mystery is getting bigger he and his friends must solve or the whole world will explode. He almost dies. The school's headmaster spells out the mystery to Harry because he's denser than a 10-pound rubber dildo.
Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix:
Harry's at his aunt and uncle's house. They don't like him. He yells back at them. Wizard shit and mysteries abound. Then school starts. He leaves. He takes a bunch of magic classes and gets piles of homework. One professor despises him, and Harry shares the feeling. The big mystery is getting bigger he and his friends must solve or the whole world will explode. He almost dies. The school's headmaster spells out the mystery to Harry because he's denser than a 10-pound rubber dildo.
I haven't read the next book - I only read Harry Potter when the movie is about to come out - so you'll have to wait until next year for the review of that book. Hope y'all can wait. I know I can't.
That's right, I'm nothing if not ahead of the literary trends.
Now, when I say marathon reading, let me put that into perspective. I read roughly from 11:30 a.m. until 11 that night, with stops for the necesities: beer, food and sex. Not even that little wizard brat could stop me from pounding a cold one or six (hey, it was a long day of reading), and givin' Wife a wave of my wand. When I kicked off the session, I was some 270 pages shy of finishing. When my eyes felt like they were tattoed from Rowlings' prattling prose that night, I was still 70 pages from completing this paper weight.
I'm not exactly a fast reader. A typical 500-page book can take me anywhere from three weeks (if I'm really cooking, or shackled to the wall in the closet by Wife because it's Saturday night and that's what she does so she can go out and play Bingo with SuperCuz) to three months. When I settle down and start reading, I damn near read out loud and sound out the big words, that's what level I'm at. Harry Potter books, however, I can usually polish off in just under a month. The reasons: a) It's written for a four year old, so yeah, I can understand everything because the words are usually less than seven letters long; and b) It's always a good, fast-paced story. That Rowlings chick knows how to spin a good yarn. I'm hooked a few pages in, and find myself chucking other family duties just to plow through another chapter (what, dear? The dogs need food? Can't they eat their own poo for dinner, tonight? Harry's about to climb aboard Hermione and give her a little abba cadabra).
I've read five of the six books (seven comes out in July) and found, however, that every book is the same. The author might change the title, but I'll be damned if it ain't the same plot every time out.
So, because I'm here for you folks, I'm going to give you a public service. If you don't want to read the books, but want to know what happens in each of them, I'm going to tell you right now. (I'd give out a spoilers warning, but you and I both know you're going to read on, so why prolong the charade):
Harry Potter and the Sorcerers Stone:
Harry's at his aunt and uncle's house. They don't like him. He yells back at them. Wizard shit and mysteries abound. Then school starts. He leaves. He takes a bunch of magic classes and gets piles of homework. One professor despises him, and Harry shares the feeling. The big mystery is getting bigger he and his friends must solve or the whole world will explode. He almost dies. The school's headmaster spells out the mystery to Harry because he's denser than a 10-pound rubber dildo.
Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets:
Harry's at his aunt and uncle's house. They don't like him. He yells back at them. Wizard shit and mysteries abound. Then school starts. He leaves. He takes a bunch of magic classes and gets piles of homework. One professor despises him, and Harry shares the feeling. The big mystery is getting bigger he and his friends must solve or the whole world will explode. He almost dies. The school's headmaster spells out the mystery to Harry because he's denser than a 10-pound rubber dildo.
Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban:
Harry's at his aunt and uncle's house. They don't like him. He yells back at them. Wizard shit and mysteries abound. Then school starts. He leaves. He takes a bunch of magic classes and gets piles of homework. One professor despises him, and Harry shares the feeling. The big mystery is getting bigger he and his friends must solve or the whole world will explode. He almost dies. The school's headmaster spells out the mystery to Harry because he's denser than a 10-pound rubber dildo.
Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire:
Harry's at his aunt and uncle's house. They don't like him. He yells back at them. Wizard shit and mysteries abound. Then school starts. He leaves. He takes a bunch of magic classes and gets piles of homework. One professor despises him, and Harry shares the feeling. The big mystery is getting bigger he and his friends must solve or the whole world will explode. He almost dies. The school's headmaster spells out the mystery to Harry because he's denser than a 10-pound rubber dildo.
Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix:
Harry's at his aunt and uncle's house. They don't like him. He yells back at them. Wizard shit and mysteries abound. Then school starts. He leaves. He takes a bunch of magic classes and gets piles of homework. One professor despises him, and Harry shares the feeling. The big mystery is getting bigger he and his friends must solve or the whole world will explode. He almost dies. The school's headmaster spells out the mystery to Harry because he's denser than a 10-pound rubber dildo.
I haven't read the next book - I only read Harry Potter when the movie is about to come out - so you'll have to wait until next year for the review of that book. Hope y'all can wait. I know I can't.
Friday, June 15, 2007
Carson Daly and Earl Hickey are lying pieces crap
The Mean Green Machine and I were out for a little Friday afternoon toodle around the Valley. I had to pick up Tori from the lawn mower (un)warranty service center (I'd discuss this more but I'm afraid the rest of this post would be a long, rushing stream of curse words. They'd pour out of me like Minute Maid-orange piss after a long night hammering back cold ones, so I'll spare y'all of that), and I felt it was time for a little Mean Green Machine and me time.
I scoot her onto the freeway and get the hamsters pushing - and with the AC blasting (because Arizona sits in the ass crack of the sun) that ain't easy to do - until I hit cruising speed. However, I must wait to hit hyperdrive as a semi-truck sits just off my right also wanting squeeze onto 101.
Allow me to digress a bit because I feel I need to explain something before I forge ahead with today's escapade. We're regular viewers of "My Name is Earl." In the pilot episode Earl is laid up in a hospital bed after getting smacked in the tookus by a granny wielding a land yacht (see Lincoln Continental). And he was only made into a human pancake because he hit it big on a lottery ticket. He runs out into the middle of the road, celebrating, and WHAMMO! they're picking little bits of Earl out of the old ladies' grill (that's a typical occurence out here with all the blue hair drivers - but digress even further). While in the hospital room, Earl spots queer-bait Carson Daly on the tube spouting off about that bitch Karma. Earl, believing that would change his luck, creates a list of all the bad things he's done in life and vows to right all the wrongs he did in life. To make a long story short, Earl is now humping Karma like she's a Philipino hooker and he's a sailor on leave.
So, I'm sidled up to this semi on the on ramp. Now I don't know if this truck was hauling illegals, toxic waste, weapons of mass destruction, Antrax or honey bees juiced up with microbial pollen designed to kill every American's sinuses (think X-Files movie folks), all I knew was I had two choices: Flash my lights (the thought of flashing other things crossed my mind) and let the big guy know he has room to scooch on over, or hope the hamsters under my hood are juiced up enough to avoid being munched into bits of scrap metal and bloody bits. I chose the latter and received some blinking taillights as a thank you for letting the big guy by. And then, to punctuate his thanks, he gave me a friendly wave.
That's right, I'm a friend to the trucker. I know all the words to Alabama's "Roll on (18-wheeler)," and I've watched Smoky and the Bandit somewhere in the neighborhood of 330 times. Plus, I recognize those rigs are roughly five times bigger than I am, and like I said I have an aversion to becoming scrap-metal-and-bloody-pulp road pizza.
Not too mention, like Carson and Earl said in my head, it was good Karma.
I bee-bop on down the highway, singing along to a School of Fish song on the ol' iPod, enjoying the ride out to New Mexico (in my world anything east of Interstate 17 out here is New Mexico).
It came at me out of nowhere and smacked my windshield with such force I probably should be dead now. A rock - I swear it was the size of Yosemite's El Capitan, or if anything Lilly Rock in Idyllwild - jumped and pitted my windshield like the Mean Green Machine was the moon and the rock was an asteroid.
But that dirty whore, Karma, is one funny lady. In the matter of five minutes, I went from coaxing her into bed to kicking her out of bed for eating crackers. How do I know Karma was shoving a red, hot poker up my pooper? I looked up from my cratered windshield and saw a street cleaner. I knew it was a street cleaner because 1) it had bristle brush on its ass end, and 2) the back read "Dirt Witch." Your honor, I submit to the jury this "Dirt Bitch" - oh, I'm sorry your honor - "Dirt Witch" chucked a hunk of granite the size of a mastadon with extreme malice. Therefore, your honor, I would like you to rule against Karma and tell that cosmic wench she's nothing but a glorified golden rule and should be stricken with some incurable malady. I vote for herpes with a side of yeast infection.
It's your move now, Karma, give me your best shot.
If you don't see a post next week, you'll know Karma is laughing her ass off.
I scoot her onto the freeway and get the hamsters pushing - and with the AC blasting (because Arizona sits in the ass crack of the sun) that ain't easy to do - until I hit cruising speed. However, I must wait to hit hyperdrive as a semi-truck sits just off my right also wanting squeeze onto 101.
Allow me to digress a bit because I feel I need to explain something before I forge ahead with today's escapade. We're regular viewers of "My Name is Earl." In the pilot episode Earl is laid up in a hospital bed after getting smacked in the tookus by a granny wielding a land yacht (see Lincoln Continental). And he was only made into a human pancake because he hit it big on a lottery ticket. He runs out into the middle of the road, celebrating, and WHAMMO! they're picking little bits of Earl out of the old ladies' grill (that's a typical occurence out here with all the blue hair drivers - but digress even further). While in the hospital room, Earl spots queer-bait Carson Daly on the tube spouting off about that bitch Karma. Earl, believing that would change his luck, creates a list of all the bad things he's done in life and vows to right all the wrongs he did in life. To make a long story short, Earl is now humping Karma like she's a Philipino hooker and he's a sailor on leave.
So, I'm sidled up to this semi on the on ramp. Now I don't know if this truck was hauling illegals, toxic waste, weapons of mass destruction, Antrax or honey bees juiced up with microbial pollen designed to kill every American's sinuses (think X-Files movie folks), all I knew was I had two choices: Flash my lights (the thought of flashing other things crossed my mind) and let the big guy know he has room to scooch on over, or hope the hamsters under my hood are juiced up enough to avoid being munched into bits of scrap metal and bloody bits. I chose the latter and received some blinking taillights as a thank you for letting the big guy by. And then, to punctuate his thanks, he gave me a friendly wave.
That's right, I'm a friend to the trucker. I know all the words to Alabama's "Roll on (18-wheeler)," and I've watched Smoky and the Bandit somewhere in the neighborhood of 330 times. Plus, I recognize those rigs are roughly five times bigger than I am, and like I said I have an aversion to becoming scrap-metal-and-bloody-pulp road pizza.
Not too mention, like Carson and Earl said in my head, it was good Karma.
I bee-bop on down the highway, singing along to a School of Fish song on the ol' iPod, enjoying the ride out to New Mexico (in my world anything east of Interstate 17 out here is New Mexico).
It came at me out of nowhere and smacked my windshield with such force I probably should be dead now. A rock - I swear it was the size of Yosemite's El Capitan, or if anything Lilly Rock in Idyllwild - jumped and pitted my windshield like the Mean Green Machine was the moon and the rock was an asteroid.
But that dirty whore, Karma, is one funny lady. In the matter of five minutes, I went from coaxing her into bed to kicking her out of bed for eating crackers. How do I know Karma was shoving a red, hot poker up my pooper? I looked up from my cratered windshield and saw a street cleaner. I knew it was a street cleaner because 1) it had bristle brush on its ass end, and 2) the back read "Dirt Witch." Your honor, I submit to the jury this "Dirt Bitch" - oh, I'm sorry your honor - "Dirt Witch" chucked a hunk of granite the size of a mastadon with extreme malice. Therefore, your honor, I would like you to rule against Karma and tell that cosmic wench she's nothing but a glorified golden rule and should be stricken with some incurable malady. I vote for herpes with a side of yeast infection.
It's your move now, Karma, give me your best shot.
If you don't see a post next week, you'll know Karma is laughing her ass off.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Body perfect
Wife joined me at the gym today.
Normally, I don't want to be bothered during my hour of power (more like my hour of sour - as in every muscle, yes ... even that one, rises up like a village of angry peasants without enough bread for the winter, sours in moods and works against me in hopes that I tumble head long down the gym steps that lead from the cardio level to the front door) but I welcomed Wife into my fortress of solitude to see that I just don't sit on the exercise bike for an hour and look at all the strippers coming in for their afternoon work outs before heading to the pole.
And you know what, I don't think Wife liked my regimen.
We started with sitting calf raises, and when I threw a 150 pounds in weight on her machine and told her to get to work - double time - she picked up a 10-pounder and whacked me in my swimming pool.
"OK," I squeak. "Maybe 20 pounds is your speed."
"Ya think, Muscle Boy?"
I let the sarcasm go and lead Wife over to the hamstring and quad machine. I go to town with her watching me make faces that porn stars have copyrighted since Adam told Eve "let's try it this way."
"You put a lot of weight on there, dear."
"Damn right, baby, daddy's got steakstrings, not hamstrings."
We finish up on the weights level with the ab machine. The user sits down, feet behind two pads, elbows resting on their own pads and hands grasping a pair of handles. It looks like a torture device in Count Tyrone Rugen's (the six-fingered mans) torture chamber. I pile on the weight for her - all five pounds of it - and let her get started. And then I tickle her armpits in mid-ab crunch.
"What are you doing?" She asks more angrily than I anticipated.
"What do you mean? I do this to all the ladies who work on these machines. It helps the muscles contract and work harder."
That answer didn't please her but she let it go. Instead she asked me to adjust straighten the weight stack then caught my hand underneath 40 pounds of steal. I think this was her punishment for me.
"Tickle, do ya?"
We closed out the Hour of Power with a brisk wog (half walk, half jog because you have to be a NASA scientist to figure out the treadmill machines).
"How does that feel Muscle Boy?" She asks with nary a hair misplaced.
"Uh-uh-uh ... fine," I gasp, holding onto the rails like was being dragged by a semi down Interstate 17 at 65 mph.
"Good, let's bump up your speed then. This is what we do when I work out and you're not around."
The ankle that Doogie Howser fixed is ready to unhinge and my shins feel like fresly fillet trout steaks, parting right off the leg bone. Twenty minutes in and I call it a day, whooped by Wife who is merrily walking along, appearing to enjoy my pain.
I set all that up to mention this: for those who don't know she's started working out at "bootcamp" for women. From what I have been told they do a lot of "push ups" (more like push ups for sissies. Seriously they put their knees to the ground and push up from there; that's like doing bicep curls without any weight [oh man, she's going to beat the living daylights out of me]) and climb something they call "the wall." There are other exercises involved, but I can hardly make out what she says when she comes home because most of its breathless groans of pain.
The best way to describe it is to let her describe it. So check out her blog at www.bootcampbody.blogspot.com.
Normally, I don't want to be bothered during my hour of power (more like my hour of sour - as in every muscle, yes ... even that one, rises up like a village of angry peasants without enough bread for the winter, sours in moods and works against me in hopes that I tumble head long down the gym steps that lead from the cardio level to the front door) but I welcomed Wife into my fortress of solitude to see that I just don't sit on the exercise bike for an hour and look at all the strippers coming in for their afternoon work outs before heading to the pole.
And you know what, I don't think Wife liked my regimen.
We started with sitting calf raises, and when I threw a 150 pounds in weight on her machine and told her to get to work - double time - she picked up a 10-pounder and whacked me in my swimming pool.
"OK," I squeak. "Maybe 20 pounds is your speed."
"Ya think, Muscle Boy?"
I let the sarcasm go and lead Wife over to the hamstring and quad machine. I go to town with her watching me make faces that porn stars have copyrighted since Adam told Eve "let's try it this way."
"You put a lot of weight on there, dear."
"Damn right, baby, daddy's got steakstrings, not hamstrings."
We finish up on the weights level with the ab machine. The user sits down, feet behind two pads, elbows resting on their own pads and hands grasping a pair of handles. It looks like a torture device in Count Tyrone Rugen's (the six-fingered mans) torture chamber. I pile on the weight for her - all five pounds of it - and let her get started. And then I tickle her armpits in mid-ab crunch.
"What are you doing?" She asks more angrily than I anticipated.
"What do you mean? I do this to all the ladies who work on these machines. It helps the muscles contract and work harder."
That answer didn't please her but she let it go. Instead she asked me to adjust straighten the weight stack then caught my hand underneath 40 pounds of steal. I think this was her punishment for me.
"Tickle, do ya?"
We closed out the Hour of Power with a brisk wog (half walk, half jog because you have to be a NASA scientist to figure out the treadmill machines).
"How does that feel Muscle Boy?" She asks with nary a hair misplaced.
"Uh-uh-uh ... fine," I gasp, holding onto the rails like was being dragged by a semi down Interstate 17 at 65 mph.
"Good, let's bump up your speed then. This is what we do when I work out and you're not around."
The ankle that Doogie Howser fixed is ready to unhinge and my shins feel like fresly fillet trout steaks, parting right off the leg bone. Twenty minutes in and I call it a day, whooped by Wife who is merrily walking along, appearing to enjoy my pain.
I set all that up to mention this: for those who don't know she's started working out at "bootcamp" for women. From what I have been told they do a lot of "push ups" (more like push ups for sissies. Seriously they put their knees to the ground and push up from there; that's like doing bicep curls without any weight [oh man, she's going to beat the living daylights out of me]) and climb something they call "the wall." There are other exercises involved, but I can hardly make out what she says when she comes home because most of its breathless groans of pain.
The best way to describe it is to let her describe it. So check out her blog at www.bootcampbody.blogspot.com.
Monday, June 11, 2007
A real card
I'm horrible with cards.
Birthday cards, insurance cards, gift cards, meal cards, prayer cards; you name the card and I'll tell you many times I've lost one. I should pin them all to my shirt so I don't lose them and so that I'll remember to use them when the need arise.
"Ah yes, I do have a gift card for these three videos: Little Big Horny, Dorf on your Mom and Little Debbie does Munchkinland."
I don't know why I bother taking these restaurant meal cards, I just know they'll creep into a dark crevase of my truck, or my wallet, or my S/M drawer where I'll find it years later. Of course, that's when I realize I was tantalizingly close to earning myself a free butt-water and pit sweat smoothy. In fact, recently, we found I had four different cards to the same restaurant, each with a a few numbers punched out. Put all those holes together and I'm landing free cat-in-soy-sauce meals for a week.
That's the story of my life, so close yet so far.
I do have one card that I try (emphasize try) to protect like it's a lifeline to the man upstairs. It's my World Beer Tour card from OC (that's what me and the Sports Geek call it because it makes us sound cool, like we're talking about some mafia thing - if there was such an organization [I can't go into much more detail than that, you understand why]). That card is gold - literally, it's yellow and blue and all sorts of beautiful. Frodo had his ring, I have my beer card.
Here's how my precious works. We take it to OC, which sells more than a 120 different kinds of beer. It's beer heaven. It promotes beer multiculturalism. That's right, I'm spreading beer peace and love one bottle at a time.
OC organizes its beers into categories so those of us on the tour can break our nights up by countries, drafts or sissy-fruity beers (I guess that's for the ladies on the tour). I think they categorize into countries so that when the beer menu begins dancing the jitterbug in front of your eyes because you've pounded three English beers that pour like quick-dry concrete you can just say, "Get me the next one in line from Bangladesh."
The goal: Drink 110 different bad boys and your name plus your own saying gets plastered on a plaque. It's quite an honor. Sports Geek is up there and is working on his second name card. His Funny Man brother is up there as well, so we all know what's important in their life. I'm still 66 away from imortality. But one day I will reach my dream and I'll be sure to sing from the mountaintop when I do so - that's if i'm drunk enough to carry a tune.
But back to me losing cards. Recently, Sports Geek and I stopped over at OC for a few post-work brewskies from the state of Colorado's fine microbrewries (fine is a subjective term. I think it means tastes like toe puss when mixed with barley and hopps in whatever language they speak in Colorado). Well, we maxed out our card allowance for the evening - 4- and myself being slightly addled from swilling the Rocky Mountain Piss water left the card on the table. Frantic, like I just lost my baby at a Wal-Mart, I call OC the next morning, tearful, hoping the human pin chushion and ink pad who served our table didn't decide to swipe my card and the 40 beers I'd lapped down. You all know my luck, of course they didn't find it, but the drop out on the phone said I could come in with my drivers license and get a new card.
All is right with the world now. I have my baby back and I can order all the brews I want from Flying Dog or Moose Drool.
And yes, I've pinned my beer card to my shirt so it will never leave my sight again.
Hmmm ... 60 beers to go, better start thinking about the saying.
Birthday cards, insurance cards, gift cards, meal cards, prayer cards; you name the card and I'll tell you many times I've lost one. I should pin them all to my shirt so I don't lose them and so that I'll remember to use them when the need arise.
"Ah yes, I do have a gift card for these three videos: Little Big Horny, Dorf on your Mom and Little Debbie does Munchkinland."
I don't know why I bother taking these restaurant meal cards, I just know they'll creep into a dark crevase of my truck, or my wallet, or my S/M drawer where I'll find it years later. Of course, that's when I realize I was tantalizingly close to earning myself a free butt-water and pit sweat smoothy. In fact, recently, we found I had four different cards to the same restaurant, each with a a few numbers punched out. Put all those holes together and I'm landing free cat-in-soy-sauce meals for a week.
That's the story of my life, so close yet so far.
I do have one card that I try (emphasize try) to protect like it's a lifeline to the man upstairs. It's my World Beer Tour card from OC (that's what me and the Sports Geek call it because it makes us sound cool, like we're talking about some mafia thing - if there was such an organization [I can't go into much more detail than that, you understand why]). That card is gold - literally, it's yellow and blue and all sorts of beautiful. Frodo had his ring, I have my beer card.
Here's how my precious works. We take it to OC, which sells more than a 120 different kinds of beer. It's beer heaven. It promotes beer multiculturalism. That's right, I'm spreading beer peace and love one bottle at a time.
OC organizes its beers into categories so those of us on the tour can break our nights up by countries, drafts or sissy-fruity beers (I guess that's for the ladies on the tour). I think they categorize into countries so that when the beer menu begins dancing the jitterbug in front of your eyes because you've pounded three English beers that pour like quick-dry concrete you can just say, "Get me the next one in line from Bangladesh."
The goal: Drink 110 different bad boys and your name plus your own saying gets plastered on a plaque. It's quite an honor. Sports Geek is up there and is working on his second name card. His Funny Man brother is up there as well, so we all know what's important in their life. I'm still 66 away from imortality. But one day I will reach my dream and I'll be sure to sing from the mountaintop when I do so - that's if i'm drunk enough to carry a tune.
But back to me losing cards. Recently, Sports Geek and I stopped over at OC for a few post-work brewskies from the state of Colorado's fine microbrewries (fine is a subjective term. I think it means tastes like toe puss when mixed with barley and hopps in whatever language they speak in Colorado). Well, we maxed out our card allowance for the evening - 4- and myself being slightly addled from swilling the Rocky Mountain Piss water left the card on the table. Frantic, like I just lost my baby at a Wal-Mart, I call OC the next morning, tearful, hoping the human pin chushion and ink pad who served our table didn't decide to swipe my card and the 40 beers I'd lapped down. You all know my luck, of course they didn't find it, but the drop out on the phone said I could come in with my drivers license and get a new card.
All is right with the world now. I have my baby back and I can order all the brews I want from Flying Dog or Moose Drool.
And yes, I've pinned my beer card to my shirt so it will never leave my sight again.
Hmmm ... 60 beers to go, better start thinking about the saying.
Thursday, June 07, 2007
Garbage in, garbage out
I will never be confused with home improvement homo Bob Villa in my own house. Hell, I don't even have Tim Taylor's skills.
It's not that I don't know how to fix broken stuff - well, that's part of it many times - I'm just a slack ass who'd rather watch TV shows about home improvements than actually improving the home.
Sometimes, though, I've just had to man up and get the job done. When the kitchen faucet decided what the room needed was an Italian-piazza style fountain, I pulled on my hip-waders and rain slicker and changed that bad boy out (no thanks to that big orange home fixer-up shop who sold us a shoddy faucet that was broken even before I got my mitts on it). And with the help of Wife's dear papa, we swapped out a leaky water heater for a new baby that will cook your skin in three seconds or less, or we get our money back. So, after some CSI investigation on why our cabinet under the sink was turning into the Everglades complete with lush fauna (spinach and broccoli) and plenty insect species (I thought they were filming Bugs Life 2 down there).
Why was our kitchen cabinet submersible? The garbage disposal finally had enough of us chucking down moldy orange rinds and regurgitated pig knuckles. So, instead of just quitting on us, the disposal sprouted a half-dozen salt-caked holes the size of a Jerry Mouse's penis allowing bits of crap to escape thereby plastering the back of the cabinet in a mess of yellow, green and red chunks.
My old man was in town, so I had myself some day labor to help me out. He took his usual house repair pose - the one I remember so vividly as a kid - sitting at the kitchen table beer in hand while I sweat and swore to get the bastard disposal down so the new crap eater could take its spot.
With a gaping hole where the disposal should be, I went about reading the directions for the next step. I've learned to swear by instructions for any piece of machinery. When Wife bought a new vibrator, we hunkered down and read the book front to back and followed the directions to a G. Well, that's what I did for this installation and instead of clearing the whole process up, it turned six ways from Wednesday. I'd read the next step, look at the gaping hole, look at the new disposer and then back to the instructions. Finally, after the of completing the cycle of looks for the eighth time my Old Man must have felt I was quickly approaching the peak of Being Over My Head so he wandered over to clear up the confusion (he may have come over to freshen up the brewsky).
"Hey, ass face," my Old Man said. "You already have those parts installed. They're from the old one. Just shove this SOB up there and twist. Connect that pipe, wire that plug and we'll be throwing your cats in to test the rookie disposal out in no time."
He punctuated his directions with a Schlitz belch that rattled the pipes and loosened the recently replaced faucet's nuts. But without the Old Man standing there, I'd guarantee we'd be letting the dogs lick every plate clean because the disposal would still be in a state of mid-build.
Sometimes, a little fatherly direction goes a long way.
It's not that I don't know how to fix broken stuff - well, that's part of it many times - I'm just a slack ass who'd rather watch TV shows about home improvements than actually improving the home.
Sometimes, though, I've just had to man up and get the job done. When the kitchen faucet decided what the room needed was an Italian-piazza style fountain, I pulled on my hip-waders and rain slicker and changed that bad boy out (no thanks to that big orange home fixer-up shop who sold us a shoddy faucet that was broken even before I got my mitts on it). And with the help of Wife's dear papa, we swapped out a leaky water heater for a new baby that will cook your skin in three seconds or less, or we get our money back. So, after some CSI investigation on why our cabinet under the sink was turning into the Everglades complete with lush fauna (spinach and broccoli) and plenty insect species (I thought they were filming Bugs Life 2 down there).
Why was our kitchen cabinet submersible? The garbage disposal finally had enough of us chucking down moldy orange rinds and regurgitated pig knuckles. So, instead of just quitting on us, the disposal sprouted a half-dozen salt-caked holes the size of a Jerry Mouse's penis allowing bits of crap to escape thereby plastering the back of the cabinet in a mess of yellow, green and red chunks.
My old man was in town, so I had myself some day labor to help me out. He took his usual house repair pose - the one I remember so vividly as a kid - sitting at the kitchen table beer in hand while I sweat and swore to get the bastard disposal down so the new crap eater could take its spot.
With a gaping hole where the disposal should be, I went about reading the directions for the next step. I've learned to swear by instructions for any piece of machinery. When Wife bought a new vibrator, we hunkered down and read the book front to back and followed the directions to a G. Well, that's what I did for this installation and instead of clearing the whole process up, it turned six ways from Wednesday. I'd read the next step, look at the gaping hole, look at the new disposer and then back to the instructions. Finally, after the of completing the cycle of looks for the eighth time my Old Man must have felt I was quickly approaching the peak of Being Over My Head so he wandered over to clear up the confusion (he may have come over to freshen up the brewsky).
"Hey, ass face," my Old Man said. "You already have those parts installed. They're from the old one. Just shove this SOB up there and twist. Connect that pipe, wire that plug and we'll be throwing your cats in to test the rookie disposal out in no time."
He punctuated his directions with a Schlitz belch that rattled the pipes and loosened the recently replaced faucet's nuts. But without the Old Man standing there, I'd guarantee we'd be letting the dogs lick every plate clean because the disposal would still be in a state of mid-build.
Sometimes, a little fatherly direction goes a long way.
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
Root of the problem
I knew something was wrong in my pie hole when my front tooth starting aching and I hadn't been chewing on anything plastic, which I'm wont to do. Just ask my fellow copy desk monkeys at the prison work camp. Dogs get rawhide, I get plastic Bics.
We were in line for the Dumbo ride (Wife lets me fly the giant plastic elephant) at DismalLand when my tooth felt like it was about to give birth to a demon molar that would migrate through my nasal cavity and explode in my brain, killing me while at the happiest place on earth. I debated whether to tell Wife that one of my choppers was trying to crawl back up into my gums and hide from the double jalapeno and cheese heart attack dog I was planning to throw down for dinner at Mickey's "Where's Pluto?" Diner. Finally, I caved and told her my tooth was likely explode in a fiery rain if she leaned in for a little Disney smooch.
The pain subsided over the next couple of days and I forgot what all the hubub was. Then came a Friday that brought sphincter-clenching pain in my upper jaw, cheek, and nose; it made my eye twitch and turned my sideburns gray. I called the family tooth butcher, but of course the slack ass closes the shop on Fridays because sticking his fingers into folks' food caves is such hard, demanding work. On par with Phoenix road crews laying asphalt in July, I'm sure. Motrin became a fast friend, and I popped them like they were Milk Duds.
It didn't take the butcher long to figure out the chiclet that was giving me a bad time was dying a slow - and painful - death. He did a highly scientific test at first to find what stage of death the tooth was hitting:
"Does it hurt when I bang this ball-ping hammer against it."
"What do you think, doc? How 'bout I take that hammer and bang away on your left nut? Do you think that will hurt?"
With that determined he said there wasn't much else he could do. I guess my general butcher doesn't get his hands dirty with root canals, which is what he determined I needed.
That's where I went today, to see the root ripper. And what I realized while buckled into the death chair (is it a bad sign when you see cake blood along the head rest?) the root ripper uses the same tools I used when I changed out the garbage disposal at the compound this weekend.
Phillip head screwdrivers, standards screwdrivers, a wrench, a wet-dry vac for the fountain of drool (or the inevitable leak I found after hooking up said garbage disposal), and of course a drill; the tools of the trade looked like something from the set of "Deadwood." And I didn't feel any better when stretched a slab of rubber across my gaping maw and tacked it down with a gasket.
As the ripper shoved a needle the size of Utah through the roof of my mouth I noticed on the ceiling a TV screen that was unfortunately off.
"You want to watch something while I fry this nerve," the ripper says.
"You got any midget porn?"
"Girl on girl, multi-racial, or gay?"
The ripper wasn't a bad guy after all, I thought. But that was before the drilling and digging and scraping and smoke started. And once all that got going, the furthest thing from my mind was little people pumping away doggie style. There was room on the pain train for one passenger, and that seat was reserved for me.
Once all was said and done, they forced a pair of Advil down my gullet and then made me wash the pills down with water that landed more on my shirt than in my throat, giving the paingivers something to chuckle about.
If there's a bright side to this harrowing tale, it's that the ripper likes to see his patients happy, and I know this because the dude prescribed a bucket of vicodin for the pain which I plan to pop shortly while watching a movie. Hey, they're not much different than Jujubees at the theater, right?
We were in line for the Dumbo ride (Wife lets me fly the giant plastic elephant) at DismalLand when my tooth felt like it was about to give birth to a demon molar that would migrate through my nasal cavity and explode in my brain, killing me while at the happiest place on earth. I debated whether to tell Wife that one of my choppers was trying to crawl back up into my gums and hide from the double jalapeno and cheese heart attack dog I was planning to throw down for dinner at Mickey's "Where's Pluto?" Diner. Finally, I caved and told her my tooth was likely explode in a fiery rain if she leaned in for a little Disney smooch.
The pain subsided over the next couple of days and I forgot what all the hubub was. Then came a Friday that brought sphincter-clenching pain in my upper jaw, cheek, and nose; it made my eye twitch and turned my sideburns gray. I called the family tooth butcher, but of course the slack ass closes the shop on Fridays because sticking his fingers into folks' food caves is such hard, demanding work. On par with Phoenix road crews laying asphalt in July, I'm sure. Motrin became a fast friend, and I popped them like they were Milk Duds.
It didn't take the butcher long to figure out the chiclet that was giving me a bad time was dying a slow - and painful - death. He did a highly scientific test at first to find what stage of death the tooth was hitting:
"Does it hurt when I bang this ball-ping hammer against it."
"What do you think, doc? How 'bout I take that hammer and bang away on your left nut? Do you think that will hurt?"
With that determined he said there wasn't much else he could do. I guess my general butcher doesn't get his hands dirty with root canals, which is what he determined I needed.
That's where I went today, to see the root ripper. And what I realized while buckled into the death chair (is it a bad sign when you see cake blood along the head rest?) the root ripper uses the same tools I used when I changed out the garbage disposal at the compound this weekend.
Phillip head screwdrivers, standards screwdrivers, a wrench, a wet-dry vac for the fountain of drool (or the inevitable leak I found after hooking up said garbage disposal), and of course a drill; the tools of the trade looked like something from the set of "Deadwood." And I didn't feel any better when stretched a slab of rubber across my gaping maw and tacked it down with a gasket.
As the ripper shoved a needle the size of Utah through the roof of my mouth I noticed on the ceiling a TV screen that was unfortunately off.
"You want to watch something while I fry this nerve," the ripper says.
"You got any midget porn?"
"Girl on girl, multi-racial, or gay?"
The ripper wasn't a bad guy after all, I thought. But that was before the drilling and digging and scraping and smoke started. And once all that got going, the furthest thing from my mind was little people pumping away doggie style. There was room on the pain train for one passenger, and that seat was reserved for me.
Once all was said and done, they forced a pair of Advil down my gullet and then made me wash the pills down with water that landed more on my shirt than in my throat, giving the paingivers something to chuckle about.
If there's a bright side to this harrowing tale, it's that the ripper likes to see his patients happy, and I know this because the dude prescribed a bucket of vicodin for the pain which I plan to pop shortly while watching a movie. Hey, they're not much different than Jujubees at the theater, right?
Monday, June 04, 2007
I'm not sure I'll ever see them again
My parental units did something today I thought they'd never do, and definitely not before me.
So, this morning they were leavin' on a jet plane for Rome, Palermo and every other Italian or Sicilian city ending with an A, I or O in between. And I couldn't be happier for them. They've never shied away from seeing or experiencing things, but until today they've kept their aimless treks to North and Central America.
The units are crashing the boot, God help 'em - the Italian citizens that is.
I missed out on the study abroad semesters in school (believe me, I studied many a-broads, but that's something different), and aside from a 5-day jaunt to Costa Rica, I kept feet firmly planted on U.S. soil. Not by choice ... I take that back, it was by choice, my wallet's choice.
Once I finished working on my BA in beertology - a minor in mix drinkonomics - I told myself I'd wander across Europe. From London to Amsterdam, Rome to Paris, I'd see it all, do it all and experience it all. I'd sell my car, throw all my worldly possesions (which were comprised of a dresser I had since I was 8 and saggy twin bed that saw about as much action as a constipated dude's toilet) into storage - i.e. the parental units' house - and wander from hill to dell seeing the continent. It was a great dream. The Eurail would be my friend, and time would be on my side because my trip would be open-ended. If I wanted to hang in Barcelona for an extra week I would, and if I was chased from Zurich's streets for sleeping with the mayor's virgin daughter, well there were plenty of other villages, cities and forested streams that would take me.
Now I'm the last one in my immediate family to cross the pond. My lil' sis has done it twice, and now the units. I always thought myself to be the adventurer in the family. I had the wings and I was ready to fly to every corner of this giant ball. Then, a couple of things happened: 1) Money, or the lack thereof; 2) the units retired giving them more free time than God. Couple those together, and that leaves me as the shut-in hunkered down with everything I need within a five-mile radius. Meanwhile, the units were driving through the g-spots of the country, and up its bung-hole, too (El Paso, Texas, anyone?).
Wife and I have tried over the years, though. Puerta Vallarta; Lake Tahoe; Yosemite; Butte, Montana; but ultimately it's Italy we want to see. The culture, the history, the nude beaches along the Mediteranean coast; it's all within our sights one day. Maybe we'll do it like my parental units - wait until the freeloaders are gone and then waste their inheritance on a plush room at a 5-star resort where the wait-staff make sure your every need is met.
"Need the toe poop cleaned out between your toes, sir?"
"Why yes, it does Maria. Thank you," I say while Carlotta shifts slightly with the sun and continues fanning me with palm fronds.
"Does the signora wish for another bottle of Sangria?"
"Really, Mario, you don't need to ask, just keep 'em coming. We're not paying for it anyway, our kids' future is," Wife says while Antonio rubs her feet and cracks her toes.
And then we laugh in unison. Just as my parental units are doing right now, I'm sure, while polishing off their sixth bottle of wine.
So, this morning they were leavin' on a jet plane for Rome, Palermo and every other Italian or Sicilian city ending with an A, I or O in between. And I couldn't be happier for them. They've never shied away from seeing or experiencing things, but until today they've kept their aimless treks to North and Central America.
The units are crashing the boot, God help 'em - the Italian citizens that is.
I missed out on the study abroad semesters in school (believe me, I studied many a-broads, but that's something different), and aside from a 5-day jaunt to Costa Rica, I kept feet firmly planted on U.S. soil. Not by choice ... I take that back, it was by choice, my wallet's choice.
Once I finished working on my BA in beertology - a minor in mix drinkonomics - I told myself I'd wander across Europe. From London to Amsterdam, Rome to Paris, I'd see it all, do it all and experience it all. I'd sell my car, throw all my worldly possesions (which were comprised of a dresser I had since I was 8 and saggy twin bed that saw about as much action as a constipated dude's toilet) into storage - i.e. the parental units' house - and wander from hill to dell seeing the continent. It was a great dream. The Eurail would be my friend, and time would be on my side because my trip would be open-ended. If I wanted to hang in Barcelona for an extra week I would, and if I was chased from Zurich's streets for sleeping with the mayor's virgin daughter, well there were plenty of other villages, cities and forested streams that would take me.
Now I'm the last one in my immediate family to cross the pond. My lil' sis has done it twice, and now the units. I always thought myself to be the adventurer in the family. I had the wings and I was ready to fly to every corner of this giant ball. Then, a couple of things happened: 1) Money, or the lack thereof; 2) the units retired giving them more free time than God. Couple those together, and that leaves me as the shut-in hunkered down with everything I need within a five-mile radius. Meanwhile, the units were driving through the g-spots of the country, and up its bung-hole, too (El Paso, Texas, anyone?).
Wife and I have tried over the years, though. Puerta Vallarta; Lake Tahoe; Yosemite; Butte, Montana; but ultimately it's Italy we want to see. The culture, the history, the nude beaches along the Mediteranean coast; it's all within our sights one day. Maybe we'll do it like my parental units - wait until the freeloaders are gone and then waste their inheritance on a plush room at a 5-star resort where the wait-staff make sure your every need is met.
"Need the toe poop cleaned out between your toes, sir?"
"Why yes, it does Maria. Thank you," I say while Carlotta shifts slightly with the sun and continues fanning me with palm fronds.
"Does the signora wish for another bottle of Sangria?"
"Really, Mario, you don't need to ask, just keep 'em coming. We're not paying for it anyway, our kids' future is," Wife says while Antonio rubs her feet and cracks her toes.
And then we laugh in unison. Just as my parental units are doing right now, I'm sure, while polishing off their sixth bottle of wine.
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