Doggies read it for the articles, too

We get an insane number of catalogs. You can't wander seven feet in the Compound without one catching your eye. They're everywhere, like mosquitoes hoping to latch onto your wallet and bleed the few (and I mean few) dollars you earned at whatever prison work camp you're stationed at.

You name it, we get. JC Penney, Ikea, NFL Shop, MLB Shop, Sharper Image, something called Oriental Trading Company which I thought was an adoption rag produced by Angelina Jolie; all of which hock shit I wouldn't pelt fourth-graders walking on my front yard with. Then, because Wife is a truly wonderful woman who puts my pubescent thoughts ahead of her own maturity or good sense, in comes the Victoria Secret and Fredricks of Hollywood catalogs. Amen! Christmas comes early to the Compound. Of course, I diligently ask Wife whether she wants it before I look toss the smut rag decorated as a catalog in the recyclable bucket.

But those all pale in comparison when what did my wondering eyes see Wednesday but the holy grail of smut 'logs - Bunny Shop. My man Hugh Hefner, who made the Reagan '80s a little more palatable with a wonderfully thought-provoking magazine called Playboy - thoughts like, "chicks actually was their cars in the buff? Holy crap! - gathered his bunnies to slap together a catalog showing off their assortment of clothing (really, every article of attire - I can't call it clothing with a good conscience - was an exercise in creatively using shoelaces and mosquito netting).

Just like Vick's Secrets and Freddie's shoppers, I dutifully looked tossed the catalog in the recycle bucket. Fearing forks in eyes after being chloroformed by an angry pregnant woman also played into my decision to pitch the clothing catalog.

What I didn't expect were my dogs' desire to shop for a matching pair of push-up bra and panties adorned with the bunny logo.

I came home from work yesterday to a few presents around the house. Not stinky, mushy presents (I expect those come April from a much louder, less furrier package) you'd expect after leaving pooches inside for six hours. No, instead these presents were ripped paper towels, crunched egg shells and coffee grounds. From the amount of grounds left on the floor, the dogs aren't Folgers fans.

The other present left near the pool table - I still believe they shoot some stick when we're out slaving at the prison work camps, but that's a story for another day when I'm heavily under the influence - was the discarded Bunny Shop.

If they would have barked at the trash can like Lassie directing police officers to the serial sheep rapists in her little town I would have given my pups the mag. How the hell would I know that they like to look at fake tits?

I'll admit, I told the dogs I was none the pleased with them as I let them out to do their "business" (after looking at the catalog, I imagine that has many connotations) but when I found what they pulled out of the trash and deposited into another room - yes, they had to carry the catalog out kitchen and walk away with it - my anger receded like my hair line. I laughed, and when I let them back in there was only one thing I could say: "I didn't know I raised lesbo doggies, girls."

And that's just fine by me. I know how those boy dogs can be. I've seen 'em in action. Hell, I'm one myself, so I know how they are. They're - well - dogs. So, to learn that my female dogs preferred the sight of tits over dick, well, that filled me with pride. I raised 'em right.

Boys are bad. Just keep saying it over and over again, girls.

And I hope, no, pray that if Freeloader happens to come out with indoor plumbing that she learns the same mantra.

"Boys are bad," oh, and "Let's go, Dodgers!" And while she's at it, Female Freeloader should learn the lyrics to the San Diego SuperCharger song.

Do you hear what I hear?

I learned today that there's a whole lot more I need to learn about Wife's anatomy and this "pregnancy thing."

"Hey, my dearest hubby, did you know you can hear our endearing reminder of if you put your ear to my tummy?"

"No, sweetums, I didn't know that. What a wonderful thing to try."

"Yes sirree bob, put your ear to the lower ab region and you'll hear it singing arias..."

"Or reciting past Dodger game broadcasts, mimicking Vin Scully's voice," I say, wistful tears slowly cascading down my pudgy cheeks. "But I think you're confused, sugar bosom."

"How so?"

"Wouldn't I have to put my ear to your whoo-whoo to hear the freeloader?"

"Uh ... no. That's not how girls' bodies work."

"Oh ... I guess I thought it was just like a sea shell."

Some things are just fowl

I knew when Wife and I got wrapped up in this "pregnancy thing" she'd start craving some wild eats. I thought our refrigerator would look like Fear Factor just barfed inside it. 1,000 year old eggs, goat balls, chocolate-covered earth worms, I was afraid Wife's fondness for everything plain would make a cataclysmic 180 and she'd demand food concoctions that would make carrion vultures gag.

Honestly, I was all set for pickles in peanut butter, or ketchup-drenched Biscotti. I didn't think I could stock enough mint chocolate chip ice cream or potato chips and french onion dip to satisfy the waking prego-craving monster inside Wife, I just hoped she didn't acquire a craving for human flesh dipped in ranch dressing because I knew we were well stocked in that regard.

What I wasn't prepared for was the anti-cravings.

Broccoli, spinach, grilled steak and fried feral cat drizzled with hollandaise sauce turned Wife's belly more than the teacups at Disneyland. One look at burnt cow meat off the grill (I'm the Emeril of the Valley, folks, come on by and I'll show off my culinary skills - no can char a hunk of meat like me kids) and Wife would turn greener that Kermit the Frog.

But what really has sent her on the high road to nausea is chicken. In every form imagineable - cooked whole, grilled, boiled, broiled, steamed, solar ovened, raw, raw with feathers - Wife gets that look a drunk does after that 13th beer that says, "you better clear a path to the puke bucket because I'm bee-lining it, baby."

The chicken anti-craving is why Wife and I spent the holiday apart last week. I wandered off to California for some family fun, while Wife womaned the compound and chowed down on a Thanksgiving omelet at her grandparents' facility. No word if they tossed in some cranberry sauce. (And yes, I see the irony. She can't eat chicken, but she can partake in the animal's offspring. But she's pregnant and I'm not going to point out the illogicalness of her dietary habits. That's a good way to get your bottom lip pulled up over your head.)

Meanwhile, I played dorky daddy at my uncle's house, showing off ultrasound pictures of our little fish to anyone who walked by - "Oh, have I showed you our little freeloader? See, there's the hand and the head and if you look at it in just the right light it resembles W.C. Fields" - to the point where relatives avoided me by the end of the night for fear I'd stop them to show off our little freeloader pics again (they'd be right).

What I learned, though, was that my aunts had similar olfactory queasiness. Perfume was the offending odor and to this day they can't smell that particular brand for fear of dry heaving their sushi after a single whiff. And Wife's not alone in her nasal chicken assault. One friend said she still can't eat chicken after her pregnancy. That was seven years ago.

In the end, Wife was afraid that her aversion to stinky cluckers may also leach over to other fine-feathered friends who gobble, so she chose not to accompany me to California. She didn't want to be the party pooper of the family and be forced to eat mashed potatoes, yams and stuffing in the car, two blocks away from the wafting aroma of Thanksgiving turkey.

So, I made sure I ate for three on turkey day, and now my anti-cravings are kicking in because the last thing I want to see is another drumstick for, oh, about three weeks. Christmas turkey is almost as good as Thanksgiving bird.

The Valley's alive with the sound of Vinny

Longtime Dodger announcer Vin Scully signs a bat while I stand patiently, lovingly, behind the "Voice of the Dodgers," wondering if the cop behind him (and to my right) would arrest me if I cut a lock of Mr. Scully's golden mane and gave him a hickey on the waddles under his chin.

When I seven years old, my aunt and uncle bought me a digital clock radio for Christmas. It was a Panasonic with a plastic brown frame that resembled wood, had a dial radio and green, pencil-thin numbers. In 1979, I thought I was the shit. A radio with a clock! I figured the only dudes cooler were Luke Skywalker and Hans Solo.

And you could dim the clock's numbers. Hot damn! I'd go a few weeks with bright numbers, and then dim the suckers just for shits and giggles. All because I could. I adorned my little friend with smurf stickers - the scratch-and-sniff and puffy kinds because it was only the best for Panny (that's what I called it) - and dusted it religiously. I didn't know what the "sleep" button did, or the "snooze" for that matter, all I knew was that it played music and told me how much longer until G-Force came on the tube.

I heard Gary Newman's "Cars" for the first time on Panny, as well as Blondie's "Call Me" and Frank Zappa's "Valley Girl" (thank you Mighty 690 - now I got the damn song in my head).

But what hits me most when thinking about that old clock radio is that that's where I remember first hearing Vin Scully call a Dodger game.

Cartoons on the tube transfixed Lil' Sis and I. "Sesame Street" and "The Electric Company" were heroin to our 7- and 4-year-old minds, but if the parents turned on a show that had the appeal of brussel sprouts to us so help them we'd let our displeasure show through hyperactivity. Their shows didn't keep our butts in the seats. Hell, every Sunday night they sat down to watch "60 Minutes" before "Chips" and I swear to Al Pacino that show easily lasted "360 Minutes" back then. That Mike Wallace was a lying bastard.

The one adult voice (who wasn't talking to a muppet or a grown-up in a giant yellow bird costume) that kept my ass in the seat was Vinny's. I don't know what it was back then. Maybe it was lyrical voice. Maybe it was easy play calling that made it seem like he was in the room with me. Maybe it was his even delivery that never got too up or too down. Whatever it was, I was hooked to my little clock radio every night so I could hear Vin teach me more about baseball and the Dodgers. It's a cliche, but Vin could have recited the phone book and I would have listened.

But that's Vinny. He teaches without being the angry English teacher who tortures kids with sentence structure and tireless discussions of Robert Frost poems. He's a math, English and history teacher all rolled into one with a three-hour class nearly every day or night from the beginning of April to the end of September. He tells it to you straight in a tone that's nurturing, like a kind-hearted grandpa.

So, when I heard he was coming to the Valley of the Sun for the ceremonial groundbreaking at the Dodgers new spring training facility (oh yeah, the Chicago White Sox new facility, too) I told myself this was a once in a lifetime opportunity and had to attend. The "Voice of the Dodgers" would emcee the ceremony, and I didn't think I'd have another opportunity in his lifetime, let alone mine, to see him in person.

The place was a sea of Dodger Blue. Every Dodger fan east of Coachella were there, and the minute they spotted Vin there was a tidal wave of blue crashing around his feet. I went with the flow of people armed with a borrowed pen I begged off the reporter from the prison work camp who was doing something more constructive than myself - actually covering the event, i.e., working - I joined the throng of humanity around everyone's favorite Dodger hoping he'd sign the event program. Hoping is not the right word. Yearning, pining, longing that he'd grace the program with his name. I had a frame picked out in my head to display the signature, and I was all set to surprise Wife with our newest piece of artwork. The thought of her tears of joy when she saw Vin's signature on a piece of paper that had an image of a baseball behind the words to "Take me out to the Ballgame" filled my heart with happiness. It would be our wedding day and the birth of our child all rolled into one giant baseball of joyous emotion.

And I was fairly confident he'd turn my way sooner or later and sign my program. How could he not when I stood less than five feet away from his glowing body? I was so close I could have hugged him without taking a step. I was so close I could have given him a wet willy with my tongue without hardly leaning. I was so close I could have dry humped his leg in a single bound. As he stood there signing baseballs, bats, jerseys, books and taking pictures with anyone who asked, I stood by patiently, willing the venerable Dodger to turn my way next. I kept rehearsing in my mind what I'd say when he took my program, "Mr. Scully, you taught me everything I know about baseball." It might not be all together true - I must give a nod to Pop who had a hand in the fundamentals - but the compliment was sure to endear me him, I thought.

Alas, an autograph wasn't too be. As the tide of blue ebbed away from Vin I stood there with three or four other guys who were in the same boat until a Dodger honcho told Vin it was time to start things, and before I could utter my rehearsed compliment, or even a nervous "bluhhhhh" (a favorite pickup line when I was in college, by the by), Vin was gone.

All was not lost. I did land one Hall of Famer's autograph - Jamie Jarrin, who made sure to remind me that he's in the Hall by signing it with "HOF '98." He's been the Dodger's Spanish-language broadcaster for 40-some-odd years, and I would imagine is the Vin Scully to Hispanic baseball fans. I also saw Charley Steiner standing by his lonesome, so I had him jot his John Hancock on the free baseball they handed out at this shindig. While he did so, I told him how much I enjoyed his ESPN spots way back when, and when he uttered his famous line, "Follow me, follow me to freedom," I told him I was ready to follow.

Those two signatures are miles away from Vin Scully's. He's my white whale, and with the Dodgers playing spring ball out here in two years, I'll land this fish. I'm not an autograph guy, but Vin's would be one to have on display in the Compound. Maybe I'll find him in a quiet recess of the new Dodger facility (oh, and the White Sox facility, too). And maybe I'll hand him that old clock radio and Sharpie and tell him how this was where I first heard his harmonic voice. Maybe he'll smile, tell me what wonderful thing to hear, and comment how the munchkin holding my hand next to me might be the next Sandy Koufax. And maybe he'll let me get a picture of us together and shake my hand.

Then I'll dry hump his leg.

Not so quiet riot

The prison work camp has become a giant ball of hate, lately.

I'm not sure where it all stems from - anger is like the Clap, it just takes one VD host to infect the rest of its partners - but the stink-eyes range from the young (dumb, and full of cum) prisoners, us grizzled-vet prisoners, the Camera Geeks and the guards. You look someone in the eye and you'll get shived in the arm pit. And don't even think about engaging someone in conversation, that will land you face down in an ink drum while Bubba the Pressroom Whore's makes you his play thing.

Usually, the epicenter of hostility sits on a small patch of carpet that separates the young pups who have to deal with the public - old folks angry that last night's early bird dinner didn't come with the mashed peas they had a hankering for - and us steely-eyed, honery cusses who react to our phone ringing like someone was pissing in our eye sockets. They're fish hacks (newspapers are used to wrap fish at the market - hence fish hacks). We're editing monkeys, because in their eyes, any chimp can do our job (they may have a point). Slap an objectionable headline on a story and there'll be a pit viper curled up in your top desk drawer the next morning. Type "first ever" in a story and we'll hog tie the offending writer and pour fire ants in their ears. War is ugly. You gotta do what you gotta do to save your nuts.

We're the Jets and the Sharks, the Hatfield and McCoys, Elmer Fudd and Bugs Bunny, of the prison work camp world.

However, that anger is now being spread to the Camera Geeks and, of course, the guards. The CGs are up in arms too, threatening to flash everyone in the prison work camp (not that kind of flash - with their cameras!), leaving us all blind and unable to look at the circa 1970 porn pics we get via e-mail from readers. And I'm afraid, since the two factions - the CGs and the fish hacks are out in the fields, together, they'll band together and we'll be in the riot mode at the camp. They can mobilize and strategize better, too. They all wield cell phones while us monkeys can't spell cellular phone let alone used one of those funky contraptions. Gell pens and 400mm camera lenses will be brandished. The only plus is that we nearly have the numbers, so it might be a fair fight. Unfortunately, the only weapon the monkeys have is sheets of 11x14 paper, which can leave a mean paper cut but the chances of maiming a rabid fish hack hopped up on Full Throttle energy drink and asthma pills (not because they are lungers, the pills are like speed it keeps them up and hyperactive).

I'm not sure what I'll do tomorrow. I'm drafted into a war I have no interest in fighting. I just want to sit at my desk, eat my BBQ Cornuts and fret over why my fantasy football team (the one I shelled out the freeloader's college fund to join) can't get over the hump. Oh, and maybe read a letter to the editor or two from the nut jobs who live in my community and drive on the same streets I travel on. Maybe I'll head to Canada, or perhaps Cabo San Lucas to work on my tan. Canada or Cabo? Cabo or Canada?

Does it really matter, dude? Either place almost guarantees you won't get shivved in the left testicle (Lenny - my favorite) by a blue gel pen.

Bolts win! Bolts win! Bolts win! All because of me and my Charger friends

I sat on the edge of the couch, unreclined, on the west end facing south, my feet exactly 14 inches apart (former hall of fame Charger quarterback Dan Fouts' number).

The television's volume meter was set at - you guessed it - 14. The DVD player, which had the San Diego SuperCharger song cued in the unlikely case they scored a touchdown against the Indy Colts Sunday night, was set to play the song at - uh-huh - 14.

I only drank Newcastles until the win appeared in doubt, then I switched to another English Ale: Boddington's.

I turned on just one light, in the east corner of the Compound's family room, but only one click (that's right, we're rich MFers, we can afford 3-way bulbs).

Of course, I was clad in my LT Charger jersey, and for good measure, had my LT MVP tee underneath because that shirt is 3-1 this season as opposed the jersey which was 1-2 heading into Sunday night's battle.

Like baseball players who will not step directly on the foul lines of a baseball field during the game, when I walked on our tile I would not step on a grout line.

I let the dogs out early in the third quarter and the Bolts let the Ponies get within two. Wife asked if I had let the dogs back in, perhaps that was where the mojo went sour, so I ran - mindful of the grout lines - threw the sliding glass door open and frantically called for the pups to get back inside.

And finally, I wouldn't let Wife out of porn viewing room, er, the computer room except for a bathroom break, and even then she wasn't allowed to step foot in the "big" TV room. I told her I'd bring whatever she wanted. She took advantage and requested tiramisu the size of an Olympic swimming pool with enough chocolate to flood the English Channel and topped with fresh Vermont maple syrup (remember, pregnant = crazy food concoctions, at least it wasn't a sardine topper with a garnish of Rocky Mountain oysters).

And you know what? The Chargers won. They beat a 7-2 Ponies team who nearly beat the New England Patriots the week before. The defending Superbowl champions lost because I was wearing my golf course boxers and resisted the urge to call Funky C in Cali. to gloat over the Bolts 23-7 halftime lead.

After I pen this little diddy on how I single-handily brought down the Jack Asses Sunday, I plan to write the Chargers to see what kind of compensation they were willing to ship my way. I'll settle for season tickets in the View section, or a jacuzzi date with a cheerleader of my choosing (which I'll dutifully hand over to my buddies the Sports Geek or our photo friend SnapShot because I'm that kind of buddy - plus Wife would fillet me from nuts to neck if she heard that's what the Bolts organization gave me).

If it sounds like I'm taking credit for (sh)Eli Manning's older brother throwing 6 picks - three to the latest Charger to make General Manager AJ Smith look like a draft genius - I am. And while I'm at it, I opened up the holes that freed Darren Sproles to dash through the Ponies' special teams for a kick return TD and a punt return TD. It's all due to me and my foresight to set the volume for every talking appliance in the house at 14. The way the Bolts have been playing this season, it has to be something than their actual play on the field.

My efforts were nearly thwarted by one Norv Turner, though. The Charger head coach nearly bungled and botched his way into a loss. He mismanaged the clock with less than three minutes to go, calling timeouts before the 2-minute warning. The only time I saw worse clock management was when I threw a baseball inside my grandma's house and smashed the cuckoo clock (that's when I knew I wouldn't be the next Sandy Koufax). He also pissed away both coach's challenges on plays Ray Charles could have called - and he's blind, plus dead.

So, as I see it, LT and Merriman and Jamaal and the Antonios needed my golf course undies and for the Wife to stay away from the TV.

And since it all worked yesterday, I don't plan to take any of the clothes off all week, skivvies and all.

So, who's up for a 4-day car ride across the country to Jacksonville for Sunday's game? Y'all can wear what you want, I'll still be in my unwashed game wear, and well-fermented body.

Go Bolts!

Sunday recess

Grade school recess was broken down into three separate factions that if mixed became a molitove cocktail of epithets that often ended with one kid calling another kid butt face, and the other piping back with poop ball. If the yard narcs weren't around to hear our prism of colorful vocabulary we'd get more daring: "Ass licker!" "Shit pants!"

And folks wonder why I all my jokes center around violent poop jokes. Remember - I'm a product of California's public school system, that's the best we could come up with.

This is how the boys broke down:

Elimination tag was the cool kids' realm, and they worked the system better than a certain president trying to skate out of serving in the Vietnam war. Inevitably the dorks would want to join Elimo tag, so the cool kids would rig the eeny-meeny-miny-moe process to make the daily ubergeek "it" - think a 10-year-old Booger from Revenge of the Nerds. The dorks were the second group, and if we, errr, I mean if they weren't trying to infiltrate the cool club, they were busy throwing dirt clods at the girls on the swings. Finally, there were the sports geeks. That's where I found myself. Name the season and that's what we played - Fall/winter was football, winter/spring was basketball and spring was baseball/kickball/whiffle ball.

You had to call the field. This was life-or-death important, moreso than pounding down your fruit roll up and food-stamp-bought milk pint. With ball in hand, you had to fight off the third graders who wanted the "field" for whatever odd game they were playing that day, like a pretend version of live Pac Man (don't ask, they also ate their own boogers if that explains anything), and beat the girls who wanted to double-dutch jump rope on the field (I watched some double-dutching last night, but jump ropes weren't used the same way).

Things haven't changed in 25 years.

I called a Sunday afternoon recess last week after be pestered by a handful work inmates, free world friends and even my ankle doc - Ian of Oakeson Physical Therapy in Glendale, Ariz. (he said he'd bust both ankles if I didn't give him some free publicity, so if things are hurting on your person head over to Oakeson and let their people feel you up).

These folks are hard core. With the Pats-Colts game on their TVs in the safe confines of their respective compounds, this motley bunch opted for a football game on a field that was more likely to yield more wrecked knees than touchdowns. With the number of craters, it was like playing football on the moon. Although, I don't remember Neil Armstrong saying "One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind. Hey, why is there a syringe in my shoe?"

The threat of contracting a dabilitating disease that could leave us with crabs didn't stop any of us from diving for touchdown catches or becoming human shields to block an opponent from our ball carrier. We were Peyton Manning and Tom Brady. We were Dwight Freeney and Teddy Bruschi. We were Randy Moss and Marvin Harrisson. Every play was significant and each yard gained was a dagger strike at the opponent. It was a battle for the Superbowl, Fiesta Bowl and the Fremont Cannon all rolled in a grass-stained two hours.

It was a recess at school on a Sunday.

We played 5-on-4, which would have never happened in school. If someone wanted to play we told him, or her (Wife says I have to be more politcally correct, for instance, instead of watching midget porn I now watch "little people expressing their love"), to partner up. We could have asked Joe Meth Head, who was dealing a couple of dime bags to a pack of 12-year-olds near Ramada No. 2, but for some reason we didn't think football was his cup of tea or spoonful of black tar heroin. Whatever floats his boat, I guess.

And while I was on the side with numbers, guess who won the day? Yeah, the Fourbies. 9-7 (or 54-42 for those who don't speak playground-speak). Maybe we could have used Joe Meth Head of Ramada No. 2. With him, maybe we could have broken their Cover-Anyone defense.

In the end, though, it wasn't about the final score. Everyone walked away under their own power, with smiles on their faces and uttering the same question, "When are we playing next?"

On this day, when the two best teams in the NFL were on television in the Phoenix area, we were the Pats and Colts, and with better beer to boot.

Sunday recess art walk

Wife was our gameday photographer, so I'd be remiss if I didn't share more of her art work (besides, she threatened to carve "Baby on Board" across my chest if I didn't promise to post more pictures from the game). So, by demand, here is Wife's art from Sunday.

"It's mine! All mine! Muwahahaha!"

The range of emotions play out as Marc cradles the ball like it's the last bottle of Captain Morgan on Earth while Brittany considers tying his shoelaces around his scrotum. Meanwhile, the giant behind me celebrates as if the Cleveland Browns just beat Denver in 1987 AFC Championship game. Wait, they didn't win?

"Do you think he want's us to scratch his belly?"
See the fellow prison work camper on his back? Yeah, that's a natural position for all of us when we're out on the field. Don't believe me? Check out the next shot...

See! We figure we're not playing if we don't land on our knees, elbows, shoulders, head or ass. You're a pansy if you stay upright in our book.

Have you seen those NFL lineman play with turf crammed between the bars of their face masks? They keep the grass clods there like it's a Medal of Honor. Well, the dry grass and dirt that clings to our T-Shirts is our badge of honor (or Purple Heart, however you want to look at it.)

Maybe Wife will let me write her Pulitzer Prize winning speech when the board looks at this shot. See, folks, we do have moments of athleticism. I also promised to not mention that a certain Arizona Cardinal fan dropped this sure touchdown. See, Marc, I kept my end of the bargain.

"Hmmm ... let's see how much give there is in Mikey's T-Shirt."

While I was either yanked from behind or jabbed in the throat by a finger nail sharper than Excalibur...

...Others got into a dry-hump menagie-a-trois.

And despite all the heavy breathing, everyone had a good time in the Arizona sun playing a game for a free during our spare time. And none of us can wait until the next one. What d'ya say folks? Give our wounds three weeks to heal? That sounds about right.

Free ballin'

Things hurt that shouldn't hurt. And here's the reason why...

Some of us fashion ourselves as gridiron greats the NFL just missed out on, but when you see us like this after one play, you see why scouts from the League chose to pass on our talents...

I'd talk about it more, but like I said, every piece of my body, from my tootsies to my testicles hurt. And that includes the two index fingers I use to type. So more on our game tomorrow.

I scream, you scream, two screams for ice cream

" I could go for some ice cream, dear."

"The baby was thinking the same thing."

"Really ... and how did you come across this information, sweetie? Did it tap out 'Ice cream! Now! Host!' in Morse code against the utural wall?"

"As a matter of fact ... uh-oh."

"What!? What is it? Are you OK?"

"There's only enough for one."

"Only enough ice cream for one what? Scoop each? That's fine."

"No, Lum Lum, there's only enough ice cream for one person."

"Well, that is a dilemma, isn't it ... you know what, that's fine, go ahead and have it. Consider it my sacrifice to the pregnancy gods."

"You know, if you don't get any I shouldn't have any, either."

"Honey, that's so sweet, but really..."

"I guess we'll just give it to the baby. Funny how that works."

"Yeah, real funny."

"Oh no."

"Now what?"

"The baby wants the last bit of whipped cream, too."