In Contract

So our offer for the “new” house was accepted as is. Well, to tell the truth, I hate it when that happens. When this happens it means that we offered too much. The offer was 9k less than the asking price, and it was accepted as is?!!? I really hate it when that happens. We could have offered 12k less and then haggled. Oh well. This happened to me once when I went to buy a car. I made what I thought was a low offer and the seller looked at me and said, “Sure!” That car turned out to be a great car, so maybe the streak will continue. Now we need to find some sucker to buy our property.

Now we have to make sure that the house gets inspected and checks out structurally. As long as the only things wrong with the place are its gawd awful purple walls in the dining and living rooms. No really, it is a brighter plum color in those rooms. We like to think of it as accent color walls that have been repeated so that when you look anywhere in the room you see the accent color. You know, to create drama. The arches and high ceilings didn’t have enough drama to them, ergo purple everywhere.

Oh well, that is how the cookie crumbles. Luckily we do not have an open house until next Sunday. We will have some showings before then, but not an actual open house until then. Now all those little-tiny-take-up-time-and-energy projects that do not actually do anything significant beyond making things look better have to be finished. The task at hand is to replace some screens in some windows that raccoons felt were impeding their process to the cat food three years ago. Yes, I have had to replace some screens for 3 years. Bite me. My issue with the screen doors is not the replacing of the screen, but the removal of the old screen. There has to be some trick to it that I just do not know. I have put in new screens before. That is not a difficult task, but how in the Hell does one get the old out without damaging the window frame? I only have to change 2 of the damned things (the raccoon “In” and “out” doors), but I cannot get the old ones out to save my life. Damn you raccoons!!!

We have all sorts of crap that has to be done like that. Light bulbs here, odd light switches there, spackle, spackle, and spackle some more. One would think we figured out some way of using a pogo stick on the walls in some areas. Luckily the painting is almost done; all we have to do there is one more coat on the attic stairs. If there is one thing I hate doing more than mowing the lawn, it is painting.

As an aside: For all of you who do not know… putting a bid on a house, getting a house ready to sell, and seeing one’s dysfunctional family in less than 5 days, does not a good week make. Did I mention that one of Wifey’s friends had a baby on Sunday evening that was 3 weeks early? There was bit of worry added in there as well. Sleep has been elusive as of late. When I am stressed, sleep is one of the first things to go, and I am stressed. And I am tired.

To recap:
9 k under and accepted. It could have been worse…
Anyone wanna buy our house, we’re selling at what the market can realistically bear err… I mean it is cheap, really cheap at this price, buy! buy! buy!
Raccoons really like Frisky’s Dental Diet
Spackle is not vanilla flavored… don’t ask
Shout out to Baby S. Hit that boob baby, you need to grow

No Shame

There is a bunch to talk about today so, sit up straight, pay attention, and get ready.

Number 1: As Wifey so eloquently put it on Thursday evening concerning my parents… “There is no shame in their game.” My parents are insanely proud of their cheapness. As the parental units (PU’s) were showing me the “desk” for the first time, my dad gleefully showed me the price they paid for it. The desk was a whopping $2.98. If my dad were even remotely street he would yell out a big old, “Boo Yah! Bitch! How do you like them duckets?!” That would have been enjoyable, instead I got an, “It was only 3 dollars.” By the way, the “antique” desk was built using dry wall screws and pressure treated lumber. I am not sure whether it was a Louis XXIV or merely Bauhaus, but it was a steal at 3 bucks. Anyway… the PU’s are touting the fact that they were able to find some crap for 3 dollars. Great job guys, I have some burnt twigs and sticks that I would like to sell you as well.

The thing that I need to take away from this is that my parents were not trying to hood wink us. They were not trying to pass off some cheap crap as not cheap crap. They were in fact proud of their ability to reduce the potential price of a gift to 3 dollars regardless of whether it was family or friends or co-workers or whatever. They were just pleased as punch to be walking away from the gift giving process only 3 dollars down.

What I am taking away from this though is an entirely different matter. What I have gathered from this is that my partents live in some odd version of Earth that nobody else can see. A place where “Up” is “Down” and “Down” is “Red.” It isn’t just Opposite World… that would make things too easy (“too pointy” in the PU lingo). Worth, to my parents, is not measured by how much one makes or how much one contributes to society or how happy one is, it is measured by how little one can spend. The advice that Wifey got about which gift to get for a newborn gift was “Get the cheaper one.”

Background story: My parents used to own a 1970 Metallic Forest Green Chevrolet Kingswood Station wagon. They finally put the wagon out to pasture in 2002 by “trading” it to a butcher for 2 porter house steaks. From about 1990 through 2002 the thing leaked oil. Every 3 days the parents would have to put in a quart of oil (started out at 1 a week and got more frequent as time went on) and every month they had to get the darned thing tuned up. So if we take just an average quart of oil being $1.50 and I know the tune ups cost $40, they spent around $8000 to keep a car that did not have air conditioning (did I mention they live in Alabama), no radio, and vinyl seats running. Keep in mind, this car was paid off in 1973. You see, to the PU’s, it makes more sense to spend $8000 over a period of 12 years to keep a car that is not worth $500 running, than to spend $5000 over a period of 3 years for a solid used car that is usable.

Another background story: My parents have bought 15 $5 phones from so cheap discount dollar tore kind of place. Each time they complain about how those particular phones don’t last very long. If they just got a $25 phone…

Number 2: The actors in the commercials for the KFC Snacker sandwich have got to be 3 foot tall. Due to their miniature stature they make the sandwich look almost like a normal sized sandwich. It turns out that the sandwich that only costs 99 cents is, in fact, the size of 3 quarters, 2 dimes, and 4 pennies. It is a tiny tiny sammich. Tasty, but itty bitty.

Number 3: Thomas the Train is made of crack cocaine. Little man got a Thomas the train set for his birthday and since getting it, he has wanted to do nothing but sit in the middle of the track and push the train around in circles. Yesterday we had a tantrum because we made him go eat instead of playing with the train. We are just waiting for the nervous twitch to start and the selling off of his other toys to get one more car… “I just need a Henry the Engine, and them I will quit, I swear. Just one more car…”

Number 4: Just put the house on the market today as well as put a bid on another house. For all of you out there that do not know this… showing a house while parenting a 2-year-old is a bitch. If we had made all the changes that we just recently did to make the house saleable, I am not sure we would want to be selling.

To recap:
“There is no shame to their game.”
3 Duckets, Biotch!
The Snacker is a tiny, yet tasty sandwich
Thomas the Train is my child’s only weak point. I take that thing away, and he is putty
Realty sucks
One can keep a house only so clean with a youngun

Welsh

Well, it turns out that Wifey and I were incorrect about the little man’s speech. Turns out he is speaking full and cogent sentences. He is waxing eloquent about philosophy and physics. He is able to prove axiomatic tautologies using a reducio ad absurdum method of argument very well. His vocabulary rivals that of a doctoral candidate in molecular biology and an art professor combined. He truly is amazing. The only issue with his speech patterning at the moment is that it happens to be in Welsh.

For those of you who do not know, Welsh is a un-intelligible Anglo-Saxon (probably a Celtic language more that A_S, but whatever…) language. This language is renowned for it over use of consonants and abundance of silent letters. All this time we have been trying to get him to use English and he has been attempting to teach his parents an older more grammatically difficult language. Silly us. Now all we have to do is 4 semesters worth of Welsh and then we will be communicating effectively in the household.

Here this whole time we were thinking that he was just being obstinate and not talking. When, in truth, he was getting exasperated at our lack of bilingual capabilities. He gets exasperated at our shortcomings very often. It is a hobby of his. We can’t help but fall short of his expectations. He is quite the taskmaster in that regard.

Just thought you would want that particular FYI, especially since I have whined about his communication ability so much.

Anyway… I am currently girding myself for a nasty battle that will occur when the parents get into town within the hour. Non one is looking forward to this, not even the parents, but, oh well.

So to recap

Yep, Welsh
prynhawn da (good afternoon)
Rydw i allan o'm dyfnder yn fy ngwaith (I am out of my depth in my work.)
No one is having fun this weekend

Play Sets

On Monday night this week, Wifey and I assembled the little one’s big birthday present. Either the manufacturer included a bunch of extra screws and washers etc.. or that play set will be coming apart within the hour. Usually with these kinds of building projects, the box includes the exact amount of screws necessary to complete the project. If you lose a screw… you are screwed. Not so with this particular apparatus. When we were done building it (and we did follow the instructions), there was a plethora of hardware left over from the construction. There is a good chance that with vigorous play, the play set will topple like a house of cards.

We got the little guy his own kitchen play set. Little man has always shown an intense interest in our cooking for him. I personally think this is due to the fact that we practically have to cook every frikkin thing has ever eaten. For those of you who do not know, little man is allergic to dairy, eggs, soy, peanuts, tree nuts, and potatoes. It has made cooking a true exercise in creativity. Lots of pasta, lots of rice, lots of meat, and lots of vegetables. At age 2 his favorite foods are tomatoes, chicken breast tenders, and full on spaghetti with mushrooms. Tonight I am baking the little one his birthday cake. It is a bit of a challenge when he cannot have dairy or egg, but I did find a good recipe.

Anyway… his allergies have caused cooking to be a big part of his life, and therefore, he loves to watch us cook, and when we let him, he likes to help. So, we got him this deluxe kitchen play set. It has a faux microwave, a fake oven, a bogus refrigerator, a simulated sink, 2 mock burners, and tons of pretend utensils and cook wear.

The big unveiling of the toy to end all toys was yesterday evening when we all got home from work. He absolutely loved it. Big smiles all around. Surprisingly enough, the play set did not come crumbling down. He was opening and closing things and causing beeps and buzzing all over the place. In other words…he was playing vigorously. It was wonderful to watch, and it made me realize how much I missed as a child, and how much my parents missed out on. I would never have gotten such an elaborate gift from my parents. That made me a bit sad, but it passed quickly because little man was “making” a hot dog in the “microwave.”

I guess one of the worse issues I have to deal with at the moment is that when I am stressed I do not sleep well. When I do not sleep well, I lose my barely functioning social and professional filter completely. This leads to lack of social aplomb when dealing with my parents. It should be an interesting weekend to say the least.

To recap:

Little man loves him some cookin’
Cream sauces are a bitch without cream
An egg would make the cake so much lighter and fluffier
Joy upon joy I see my parents tomorrow afternoon.
I am so flippin tired
Monday’s blog should be interesting

Good Grief

Okay,

We all know the track record my parents and gift giving. So for the little man’s second birthday we asked them to get the boy a kid’s table and chairs. Nothing fancy, just a Little Tikes or Playskool table and chairs set. Something plastic that can be easily cleaned. Something cheap and sturdy so a 2 year old can use it.

A little back story…

You see about 3 months ago, the little one had the occasion to stay at a friend’s house for the day as alternate daycare (our primary caregiver being ill at the time). Whilst at said friend’s house, who has a little girl and a little baby boy, my little one found the wonders of child sized furniture. He liked it. He liked it a lot.

This is on what we based our gift request to my parents. The boy likes kid’s furniture. Sure it helps that a cheap plastic table and chairs can be wiped off with a Clorox wipe and have easily cleanable surfaces. That would be dandy for wifey and I, but, and I must stress, IT IS NOT THE REASON I ASKED MY PARENTS FOR THE TABLE AND CHAIRS. We truly asked the ‘rents for the table and chairs because little man would love them.

On Sunday I called the parents to get their itinerary. When should I expect them, where will they be staying, will they have my nephews with them, etc… During this conversation my mom informs me that they found an antique kid’s desk at some thrift shop. It “looks like it was lovingly made by somebody’s grandpa.”

I asked (for clarification purposes) if this was an “instead of” or an “in addition to” gift. It was, of course, an “instead of” gift. Now I have no problem with them getting the little one a desk. Eventually he will need one. Eventually he will want one, but at the moment, I am not sure what a 2 year old will want to do with an antique desk. I am thinking that he would probably like a desk for drawing purposes for his 3rd or 4th birthday, not his second.

Here is the breakdown.

Desk vs Table and Chairs
Unfamiliar with the concept Familiar with the concept
Does not draw yet Is an eating machine
Can use as a workstation Can use as a snack station
Difficult to clean an antique Clorox wipes for the win

The positives all stack up in the Table and Chairs column.

Now we beg the question, “Why would my parents decide to get a gift that the little one cannot appreciate yet? Well, there are a few different answers to this one.

Firstly, I think the $32 price tag on the Little Tikes table and chairs set was a bit outside of the money they wanted to spend. As a point of reference, they got their 8 year old grandson bubbles last year as their main gift. Need I remind you of Two Bits Four Bits Six Bits Crappola? Anyway… So we think that the over $10 price tag was a bit much for them to handle. Granted my dad was making a comfortable having worked at a phone company for over 25 years prior to his retirement last year. Additionally, his military pension kicked in this year as well, and he is actually making more money being retired than he did working last year. Mom still substitute teaches to rake in what others would call “beer and pizza money.” $32 ain’t gonna kill them at all.

Secondly, I think they balked at the idea of me telling them what to get little man for his birthday. “Why would they balk at that?” you ask. Well, fine reader, there is a good chance that I come by my oppositional defiance honestly.

Thirdly, my parents do not have a good concept of reality. I swear the grass is not green in their world and the sky is most definitely not blue. Some of you might be wondering just how much of a break with reality they have had. Well… here are some examples… (as wifey so aptly describes it) Looney Moment #53: Telling me that grandma was in renal failure when it turns out to be a bladder infection. The difference between those 2 maladies is staggering. Drama anyone? Looney Moment #212: Telling me that Uncle Jim working sooooo efficiently that he worked himself out of 4 jobs. I thought employers liked to keep efficient employees. Looney Moment #214: Telling me that Aunt Nancy working sooooo efficiently that she worked her way out of 3 jobs. Clearly, I have an amazingly efficient family. Looney Moment #213: Telling me that Uncle Tom was fired from his truck driving job for being too smart for it. Now, I am not disparaging truck drivers, but come on, he must have done something illegal to get canned. Companies are always looking for truck drivers. Looney Moment #40: Asking my brother and I to find a car that had anti-lock brakes, air bags, good gas mileage, and cruise control, and then buying a base model, gas-guzzling Chevy Lumina without any safety features because it was blue.

Well that is my ranting for the day, I am sure there will be more next week after the visit.

To recap:
My parents love me in their own weird ass way, but they still suck
I apologize to my wife for bringing them with me
Little man is going to get his kitchen playset today
Baked Cheetos are amazingly good
When I am stressed I sleep for crap
Don’t order a pizza with “crappracola ham”

2 -- Ow -- Hot

Here we go, there are 3 topics to deal with on this fine, fine Monday.

Number 1:

This is a bit rambly, so bear with it.

Today the little one turns the big oh-two. I cannot believe that 2 years ago this little guy who sucked on my pinky finger as I carried him to the exam warming table for the nurses to conduct the APGAR test (which he passed with flying colors). He was such a helpless little guy. He had just gone through quite an ordeal, lodged in the birth canal for over 3.5 hrs, but seemed un-phased by the discomfiture of the process. He nuzzled into my chest that day and took a 3 hour nap. It was magical.

Now he is 2. He doesn’t want to be picked up out of the tub after a bath. He is a bit whiney. He doesn’t like to come in from outside. His head smells after playing. He is definitely a 2 year old toddler, and I am not sure if I am ready to deal with that.

Two years ago today, my wife really got the raw end of the birthing stick. It seems that my oppositionally defiant child’s head was in a transverse position whilst being squashed in the birth canal. There are 2 ways that a baby’s head can be and allow for a vaginal birth. Transverse (sideways) is not one of them. So for 3.5 hours my wife valiantly pushed for this little one to get the Hell out of her hoo-hah, and for 3 weeks she was not able to walk because of that valiant effort. Hats off to you babe, you are the strongest person I have ever known.

Some of you might question why the medical staff did not intervene on behalf of Wifey. Well it was a complicated series of events that led to the 3.5 hours of pushing. At 2 hrs and 45 minutes of pushing the doc was about to get a c-section going, but needed to check on another patient before getting Wifey to the O.R. Turns out that 5 minute check turned into a 40 minute baby delivery, so she was not able to get back to us in time to get us to the O.R. When she did come back, the little one finally decided to turn his head and came out in a flash. All is pretty well now, though. Wifey still has some back and hip issues, but is healthy otherwise. Through it all she was able to retain her HAWT-NESS.

All in all, I am glad that the little one is getting older, but I am sad that he is getting older. I think parents are the only one who will understand that statement.

The party is not until this Friday the 29th. We moved it to accommodate my parents. Now we are not too sure if that was a wise idea. I will post more on this subject later.



Number 2:

I ache.

Boy howdy do I ache.

Like I have never ached before.

I played in an over 30 soccer game Friday evening. It was good to get out and do something active again, but, Oh my Lord Almighty in Heaven, I was a wreck Saturday. My aged body was truly angry at me. I mean ANGRY. I had aches and pains in places that I did not actually have. My ankle is finally feeling better, but steps are still a serious issue for me. The kick I received on my foot is still hurting, and my feet still ache because of how hard the ground was. Oh well, it is good to be exercising again.

I was sore before I made it to the car. That was only a sign of what was coming. I swear to you that my thighs were actually on fire Saturday evening. Flames and everything. Honest.

I acquitted myself fairly well for being horridly out of shape. We lost, but the game was 6 to 4, so it was not as if we were blown out of the water. I got the 1st assist for our team, so I am happy for that. For not having even kicked a soccer ball in over 4 years much less playing in an actual game, I feel I did well.



Number 3:

Holy frikkin’ Hell it is hot as fuck out there today. Sweet Mother of Jesus, it is hot as monkey balls out there, and about as humid as well. I swear when the wind blows it is like you are in a convection oven. I may be cooking, but at least I am cooking evenly.

To recap:

Little one has survived 2 years…. I wouldn’t have put money on it
He gets some shots today, so at least we have that going for us
I love that little boy, but he is growing up too fast
If the yetis do not fear me, they should fear my progeny, for he is is more determined than I in everything. Soon he will be more determined than I in yeti slaying
Target is an evil place that steals my money
I had 2 of those damn Chocolate Peanut Butter Cup Shakes this weekend. God save the queen!
There is still some smoldering resentment within my body towards the actions of Friday night
Did I mention it is a bit warm outside?

One mission

Insomnia sucks. There are no tow ways about it… insomnia just plain sucks.

I have absolutely no idea why I was not able to get to sleep last night, but that lack of idea did not keep me from not sleeping. The worst part of insomnia is the whole “not sleeping” thing. If I were able to sleep through insomnia, it would not be nearly as insufferable.

So other than forcing my eyes to stay open with toothpick and superglue, not much is going on.

I just got this comment from an anonymous user. I can only assume this user is, in fact the American people lifting up their voices in unison, calling for me to be their Chocolate Peanut Butter Cup Shake champion

At 11:21 AM, Anonymous said...

it is your god given responsibility to drive up and order one every time you see an Arby's. do you understand that it is your job to make sure Arby's understands that i, err, the country need this? You may not like it but you have been chosen and you are the destined child to lead the peanut butter shake to the masses. god save the queen.



As God is my witness, I will endevour to keep this chocolate peanut butter cup shake on the menu in every state, in every city, in every neighborhood, in every Arby’s. I will take up the chocolate peanut butter cup shake banner and demonstrate to the corporate fat cats at Arby’s that the Chocolate Peanut Butter Cup Shake should be available for all to consume greedily.

One score and 11 years ago, may parents brought forth on to this nation a child conceived during a canoeing trip and now is dedicated to the proposition that all shakes are not created equal.

Now we are engaged in a test market of a fast food company, determining whether this food type or any cuisine is palatable to the hungry masses and can endure in a free market economy. We are met on a massive test market area for delicious dessert beverages. We have come to dedicate a portion of our citizenry to their ultimate goal of justifying the continuance of one particular dessertine quaff. In a larger sense we the test marketers must represent the larger community, the American community in this endeavor. The brave preliminary consumers, in shape but getting fatter who struggle here for the Chocolate Peanut Butter Cup Shake are consecrating this shake with their own cellulite and high blood pressure. The nation will little note nor long remember what I say here, but it will never forget what we did.

It is rather for you the people outside of this test market, that we here are dedicated to the great task remaining before us – that from these few new food choices we take increased responsibility to the notion of that this choice, the Chocolate Peanut Butter Cup Shake, will not die in vain, that this nation shall have a new shake of goodness, and that this menu item shall be chosen of the people, by the people, for the people and hall not perish from the menu boards of this earth.

To recap:

Me tired
It really is one damn good shake

Homophones are fun

Sew, Eye was challenged today too right in as many homophones as Aye could. This is knot easy two dew, butt one Cannes due this if they apply themselves. Unfortunately, the only reel weigh two comprehend watt Eye rite, is too read it allowed. Sew, there is a Gouda chance that Aye will here, sum of Mai workmates reed this massage allowed. As Eye said, this is knot easy too dew, at awl. Aye will tell ewe something ells, MicroSoft Word does knot like this very much either.

…back to the normal way of writing. I think I demonstrated that ability fully. I should put thaqt on my resume. The best thing is that I will most likely hear some of the people I work with reading that first paragraph out loud.

I know that Wifey will probably come back with something about how paranoid I am, but I honestly think that Arby’s is trying to kill me.

A little background for all of you out there.

Since we live in Columbus, Ohio, we are exposed to some food stuffs that many people never see nationally. For some reason marketeers think that Columbus, Ohio is more average than other places. We are, in fact, what I like to deem as “extra-ordinary,” or more ordinary than usual, if you will. When olestra first hit the streets as Olean, and then ran through the alimentary canals of so many people like greased lightning… it was in Columbus. That is an example of something that worked out. All food trials do not succeed. For example, McDonald’s attempted to try a new snack type finger food akin to the chicken nugget that failed, and for good reason. The “mini corn dog” was not a tasty treat as much as it was a triumph of meat processing. Currently, Burger King is attempting to see if the market will bear “Chicken Fries” or thin breaded chicken strips that are served in a French fries container. I am betting "no" on this one as well.

Anyway... one of my friends and I have been going to Arby’s every Wednesday for over 3 years now. There are, of course, some Wednesday’s that we are not able to partake of the wonder that is Arby’s, but, in general, we go enough to qualify it as “every” Wednesday. Well, Arby’s is floating a new dessert shake for their menu. It is the Reese’s Chocolate Peanut Butter Cup Shake, and it is evil. I can actually watch myself gain weight after eating it. The calories in it must rival that ungodly Burger King Enormous breakfast sandwich. (Should we really have a breakfast sandwich that contains the calorie diet for a family of 4?) It is sooooo new and exciting and super hush secret, that by merely blogging about it, I expect the Arby’s ninjas to drop from the ceiling as soon as I hit the publish button. Just know that I am putting my life at risk telling you about this frozen dessert.

A little bit of a description… The shake itself is peanut butter flavored. That alone makes it worth buying and consuming in great quantities, but the damned thing is topped with crumbled up Reese’s peanut butter cups pieces. If that was not enough, to make it even more decadent, the evil restaurant has decided that the cup it goes into first needs a few ribbons of chocolate syrup on the sides of the cup and a base of chocolate syrup as well. This is not a shake one drinks with their meal… this is a shake that one devours with a spoon after the meal is over. It is pure evil, I tell you, pure evil. So now, whenever I drive past an Arby’s, it calls to me. Beckons me to come in and partake of its decadence. 3 weeks in a row with this shake, and I think I could have one every frikkin’ morning, noon, and night.

Evil… thy name is Arby’s and thine weapon is the Chocolate Peanut Butter Cup Shake!

To recap
Homophones arr fun, butt knot easy atoll
I am not paranoid, so stop looking at me, judging me… following me
The problem with being a test market is that sometimes really good food comes through, but doesn’t make it, and then you are left wanting more…
Arby’s ninjas are fierce
I gained 3 pounds thinking about the milkshake

Hippo Redux

Okay, the wife wants to bring to bear her considerable clinical expertise on my declaration that the Hippopotamus Amphibious is now one of my mortal sworn enemies. Please, if you have not read my hippo manifesto, do so here before going further, otherwise this will make no sense whatsoever. If you have read it, this will make only a very little sense. My comments on this flimsy analysis of her psychobabble to follow.

So without further ado…from Wifey:

After my initial appalled laughter at your “Move and the Hippo Dies” blog, I have spent some time actually analyzing what that post really reveals about your personality, upbringing, and future potential. I am a therapist, after all. Here, dear husband, is my professional clinical opinion about your hippopotamus hang up.

My first impression involves a general acknowledgement of your overall level of “contrariness”, or oppositional defiance, if you will. You clearly feel challenged by any assertion of truth or fact, i.e. hippos have no natural enemies. While this seemingly innocuous fact would not cause ordinary folks to have any type of reaction besides a general sense of harmony and peace, you responded by swearing them to annihilation.

What about you makes you uncomfortable with the idea that an animal is living in relative safety? Is it because you never had love, safety, and consistency in your early years? Most likely this is your mother’s fault. (Shout out to Freud on that one!)

Secondly, I would work with you in a session to address any early bad experiences with water you may have had. Since I am your wife, I am clear about your particular bad water experiences. Your hostility toward the hippo, a primarily water animal, is clearly a misappropriation of your vulnerable feelings related to scary swimming lessons as a preschooler. It’s a classic case of sublimation. You take your vulnerable, scared feelings related to water and twist them around in your subconscious to hatred and bitterness toward the wholesome, happy hippo who splashes around in the water all day.

Finally, you have made a sworn enemy of an animal that is easy to avoid, thereby supporting your inherent laziness. Husband, we do not live in Africa. We will not be coming across any hippos to vanquish. How “coincidental” that you have sworn an enemy that you will never have to face -- clear fears of inadequacy there. Well, inadequacy plus laziness.

Post Script
I wrote the above prior to coming across a writing assignment from your youth which I happened to discover while cleaning out our attic:
By: SRH., age 4 ½
Question: What animal would you like to be?
Your answer: a HIPPOPOTOMAS

Hmmmm… this puts a much different spin on your “Move and the Hippo Dies” diatribe. A very different spin indeed. Clearly, you are venting your hatred of that which you can never hope to achieve – the blissful, enemy-free life of a hippo. The real question is: “Why do you want to be a hippo?”

What was not provided for you (by your mother, I presume) that you had to escape into an imaginary world where you were a large land/water mammal on the Dark Continent?

Well, our time is up. We’ll have to discuss next week…

Okay.. my response…

Firstly, one should not get close emotional ties to one’s clients, so I will preface this response with a question. Should you be licensed if you are trying to deal with your husband as a therapist? Clearly that is a conflict of interest. You could be censured by the Ohio Board of Social Work if people actually felt that you were conducting therapy sessions with your husband. Luckily, we all know that you are not, in fact, counseling me on my various paranoid and delusional aspects of my personality.

Of any attacking wild animal, the hippo will kill its prey. Examples of this exist here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, and here. The hippo does not really seem to lead the life of a gentle creature, therefore, I do not wish to react to the lack of predator for this killer animal with “a general sense of harmony and peace.” I instead have determined to take a stand against this murderous beast. Opositional defiant… or altruistic? You be the judge.

Whether my mother loved me or not (WHY MOMMA!?!?, WHY?!?! I WAS A GOOD BOY!!!) is immaterial to my desire for the overconfident mega mammal to feel fear. All animals must have a natural predator, it is the natural balance of things. It just so happens that hippos have gotrten away with not having a predator for a long, long time (and, before anyone starts claiming that people do not have a predator… I, yet again, remind everyone of the evil man killing and eating Yeti).

My preschool swimming experience is really a non factor in this discussion. All that experience taught me is that I should not learn to swim in a class where everyone is taller than me and just as determined not to drown. I can swim like a fish now because of that traumatic experience. My swimming prowess will be one more weapon in my arsenal of hippo-killing.

At 4 ½ I knew I had a destiny to fulfill. One must be like the enemy to truly understand the enemy. I knew somewhere deep in my soul, even at the age of 4 ½ that I was destined to be something great. Since then I have decided to settle for killing some hippos. Eh, I could do worse.

To recap:
Wifey is no longer a clinician, don’t believe a word she types
Can one deny being “oppositionally defiant” without appearing “oppositionally defiant?”
Freud is an insane idiot who tries to foist his own weird fascinations and delusions on everyone else to make himself not a frikkin’ weirdo even in his own head.
Oedipal complex my ass! He never met my mom.
Nothing wrong with lazy. Stop bad mouthing lazy

Monday Monday

Samantha said...

This off topic, well not really, just off topic from what everyone else is saying: Why do we all have the propensity to stare at plumbers?

10:47 AM

That is truly an odd question that deserves a truly odd answer. I am glad that you asked it.

Firstly, Plumbers tend to place themselves in odd positions. They crawl around, climb into stuff, lay down on floors, etc… They typically wear tool belts and with all the bending over and leaning into cabinetry there is a propensity to see the beginnings of the plumbers’ nether regions.

Secondly, very rarely do we ask for plumbers to come out and visit the house for visiting sake. Usually, they come out to fix things. Only at the time of building anew house or an addition do plumbers come over to add something new. Typically when we see plumbers, there is something not working. We want the toilet to flush, but alas and alack, it is not… better call a plumber. Our sink is stopped up… better call a plumber. Plumbers make our waste and waste water go away. Plumber’s deal with gunky crap and pipes, and I think we as a culture are fascinated by people who are willing to deal with the putrid gunk of clogged up pipes. I know I am.

Those are usually the reason one is fascinated with the plumbing profession, in my opinion.

On to today’s topics.

Number 1: Why does the hair that is turning gray and/or white have to have such a different texture and just plain odd characteristics than the rest of the hair my body? Example1: The white hairs in my goatee like to stick straight out so everyone can see them. It is only due to careful grooming habits that no one really notices them pointing at them… mocking them… Example 2: The gray hair on my head is much thinner and wiry-er than the rest of the hair on my head. I have no problem getting older. Turning gray is not that big of a deal, as long as the gray hair doesn’t keep screaming, “LOOK AT ME! LOOK AT ME!!!”

Number 2: The little one turned a corner this weekend. On Saturday he decided that he no longer wanted to be picked up out of the tub… he wanted to get out of it on his own like a big boy. Wifey and I were not ready for the bath-time tradition to be over with. He is growing up so fast, and it only seems to be picking up speed. I cannot believe he is almost 2.

Number 3: The weather that we are experiencing here is bad for asthmatics. Little man was down for 3.5 hours yesterday during his nap, and Wifey was out 2.5 hours as well. Thick hot wet air sucks…

To recap:

Plumbers are fascinating creatures that make a living off of our clogged up filth
I could not make a living off of our clogged up filth.
Yes, my hair sits in judgment of everyone I see.
“LOOK AT ME!” the hair said, and then I snipped it
Okay, even though the little one broke our hearts climbing out of the bath-tub, it was still darn cute. He had to lift his leg over his waist to get it over the side of the tub
I almost wrote “He had to lift his leg over his waste to get it over the side of the tub” Changes the meaning just a bit, don’t you think?
Well, doesn’t it?
Why won’t you respond to my questions?
I don’t even know why I am talking to you anymore.
Wait, I am not “talking” I am “typing”… silly me…
Is it still considered “voices in your head” if they are constantly snoring?
Outside activities are being curtailed for Wifey and kid even as we speak.

Nada

So, nothing blogworthy has really happened to me today. I will try and get something going for today’s post, but, it isn’t like I have a dying plumber sent to me by the blogging muse everyday. Did I mention the plumber’s tattoo? It was a ‘warrior’ of some sort wearing red pants and donning a green helmet, his skin was yellow, and he had a battle axe. This barbarian Christmas elf was clearly drawn by a 12 yr old. The face was all in shadows, probably due to lack of eye drawing ability. Might I suggest, if one was to get a tattoo of Rathgar the Mighty Yuletide Elf on their calf, like it was 1993, one should make sure that the tattoo is done by an actual tattoo artist, not Timmy the 7th grader. All that plumber needed was a mullet, and then I would continuously blog about him. That would be a good life… Contemplate this on the Tree of Woe.

10 points to whomever gets that movie reference… Wifey, you cannot play.

That is all I have. Sorry. More to come next week... I promise

To recap:
I lead a rather boring life
Dying plumbers are good material
Old movie references are great things
That’s it

"Thank you"... and not the Dido song either

So, the little one is starting to understand the power of verbal communication. By power of verbal communication I mean saying something so that he can get his way, and by saying something I mean the phrase “Thank You.”

Is it at age 2 that kids begin to really realize they can actively manipulate adults? I know that they do manipulative behaviors prior to age 2, but are those conscious “I want to change how things are going” activities, or are they merely “I want what I want now and not later” activities? I think the question of when manipulation becomes a conscious choice to alter outcomes will never really be answered until our minds are able to read people’s thoughts like squids can. What? You didn’t know that squids can read people’s minds? Surely that is why people eat calamari… it cannot be for the taste… it has to be from the attempt to steal squid mental abilities through consuming squid parts… has to.

Ummm… Anyway…. Within the past 3 weeks little man has realized the power of the words “thank you.” This particular phrase has gotten more response than anything else that he has said. In the least we respond with “You’re welcome.”

Thank you
You’re welcome
Thank you
You’re welcome
Thank you
You’re welcome
Thank you
You’re welcome
Thank you
No, thank you.
Thank you
No, thank you.
Thank you
No, thank you.


That is a typical 10 second conversation that we have with little man. When he does something he knows he is not supposed to, he will smile at us and say “Thank you.” How can a parent be angry at such a polite child? It is his last ditch effort, his trump card, or his (and this is for you first person shooter types) BFG. He only uses it as a weapon when “Uh Oh” or “Boom” does not work. If he really has to get out of trouble, he will grab you, kiss you, and say “Thank you!” again. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. It particularly works well with his grandma.

To recap:
“Thank you” is a powerful tool, when he learns “I’m sorry” we are going to be in trouble
By “we” I mean the human race.
The plumber from yesterday’s post somehow crawled out of our building to die.
He also had the absolutely worst tattoo I have ever seen on his leg. The thing looked like an untalented 7th grader drew it. Some Conan-ish barbarian with a battle axe and helmet with red pants and a green helmet. Green helmet?!?!
The squids already know that, so stop obsessing.
Damn you! You, chewy legged mind flayers!!!!

Death of a Plumber

There are many things one should not do in a men’s restroom. Now before your collective minds head straight for the gutter, these are fairly banal things that one should not do in the men’s restroom. They mainly involve hygene. Here are 5 of them.

Number 1: One should endeavor to not ever sit on the bathroom floor. Putting one’s ass cheeks on the toilet seat is a disturbing enough thought, but should not sit or lie down on the bathroom floor. If one must sit down on the bathroom florr, one should make damn sure that the floor has been cleaned recently and that no one has used the facilities prior to the assuming the prone position.

Number 2: One should attempt not to breath too deeply in the confines of the assitorium (that is the Latin name for bathroom) for it stinks to high heaven.

Number 3: It is best if one keeps their head and face away from the commodal area, due to the assitoriumness of the room (stench, germ infestation, and general lack of hygene by males).

Number 4: If you can help it, do not grip the underside of the commode. All I have to say in this matter is dripping and splashing happens.

Number 5: If you value your health do not combine any of these actions.

With those 5 things outlined, let me tell you a little story about our office bathroom.

I felt the urge to express myself urinarily so I decided to hop off to the bathroom really quick and see if the urinals were in working order. They were, but that is not the point of this story. Whilst in the confines of this bathroom I noticed that there was a wheezing man sitting on the floor with a screwdriver in his hands. I also noticed a box of commode seats and lids. It is not a large room and therefore these 2 objects, the wheezing man and the box of toilet seats, were easily noticed.

The man was wheezing because he was changing the seats on a commode. That is correct; the man was out of breath from changing 2 screws on the back of a toilet. Now, I am no medical doctor, but I think some light exercise might be in order for this particular plumber. Anyway… the whole time I am at the urinal (a surprisingly long moment, I had to go like, how does the saying go… oh yes, “I had to pee like a Chinese racehorse.” Why a Chinese racehorse, I do not know. That is just how the saying goes.) the man is sitting and wheezing and huffing and puffing. Whilst I washed my hands, for I am hygienic, I inquired the good man how he was doing. He replied that he was doing fine, and then he laid down on the bathroom floor to change the second stall’s seat. He was still having difficulty breathing from the exertion, especially when he picked up his electric screwdriver. Yes, that is correct, this man was winded from changing a toilet seat with and electric screwdriver. Again, you are correct, there were only 2 screws associated with this particular Endeavour.

So there he is laying down on the bathroom floor, head next to the commode, wheezing and grunting , gripping the underside of the commode to get leverage with the screwdriver. I believe, if my adding is correct, that is 5 of 5. I am sure he is now dead.

To recap:

Men’s restrooms are vile, disgusting hives of scum and villainy
One of our local Target’s bathrooms is surprisingly clean
The life expectancy of that particular plumber is a big whopping negative 2 years
Chinese racehorses must have very large bladders to be immortalized into a saying
I can count to 5

A Whale of a Tail

Okay, I have 4 things to cover in this post, so let’s get to it:

Number 1:

Wifey and I were driving home from the grocery store (because we lead exciting lives) and we saw a 1998 red Pontiac Grand Prix with a home installed silver whale tail bolted onto the trunk of the car. I do not have a doctorate in physics or anything like that, but I do have some common sense. The porpoise, err… purpose of a whale tale on a car is to add stability to cars when they are traveling at incredibly high speeds. The tail acts like a downward aileron or flap (I am honestly not sure which it is considered, I am also, amongst many other things, not a pilot) to force the vehicle back to the ground because the slipstream going over the car is actually generating lift. Formula One racers have these things on the backs of their cars due to the relative low weight of the cars compared to the speed with which they travel. The Audi TT also has to have a stabilization tail to keep it from losing all of its control surfaces. It can actually go that fast. The 1998 Pontiac Grand Prix however cannot get itself up to a speed where it will actually start to lift itself off the ground. In fact, at speeds above 80 it starts to shake and shimmy like it is about to fall apart. Don’t ask… I just know this stuff. Needless to say the whale tail is not needed.

The 2 things that got me about this particular car modification were the sheer size of the tail itself and its complete lack of contiguity with the rest of the vehicle. To begin with, some Twin engine Cessnas have smaller tails, and their point is to be in the air. It must have been a Blue Whale whale tail. Secondly, if your car is a 1998 red piece of crap, maybe a silver aluminum tail bolted to your now useless trunk is not the best way to accessorize the car. If you cannot make the add on piece of the car look like it is supposed to be on the car, don’t put it on there, otherwise your vehicle looks like it was a reject from some post-apocalyptic car movie. This is not the Thunderdome, Lord Humungo is not leading a band of punk anarchists across the desert causing mayhem and explosions, and we do not have to fight for gasoline… yet.

All in all… just give it up, you are in an 8 fucking year old Pontiac Grand Fucking Prix, a whale tail ain’t going to make anything any better.

Number 2:

I tweaked my right shoulder somehow this weekend. I am not sure when or how it happened, but it hurts like a bitch if I move it in very particular motions. Oh well, I am getting old.

Number 3:

I forgot to mention that the little one said his first curse word. About a week ago he parroted his grandma and said “Shit.” He still will not say drink when he is thirsty, but he says “shit” when he drops something. Lovely. I just cannot believe that it was not one of my curses that got parrotted. Who HOO! Not it!

He does say “I do” when he wants me to stop helping, so I guess that is good, but he usually only says that when I am cutting something for him with a sharp knife. He always looks at me and smiles when he is reaching for a knife, and it is not one of those innocent “love you, Papa” smiles he usually give me. It is one of those “this will make a neat noise when I hamstring you, Papa” smiles.

Number 4:

Something is in the air that is knocking me on my ass. I hate summertime allergies, they seem to be magnified by the heat and sun or something. To steal a phrase… yesterday I woke up and my eyes felt like sandpaper. This morning I still have not shaken off the grogginess of sleeping, and I slept way past when I should have gotten up. This summer has just been hell for me allergy-wise, but that happens.

To recap:

Pontiac has not, does not, and will not “build excitement”… “excrement”… maybe, but “excitement,” no
Whale tails belong on whales
My shoulder feels like shit
Did I mention shit? At least he is saying it correctly
All that is left is for the little one to drop the F-Bomb. It will come
Papa, come out, come out, wherever you are! or I’ll cut’cha….
Little one hiked for about a mile yesterday, it was impressive
Did someone park a bus in my sinuses?

Across the street is no man's land

First thing’s first…

The British have always had a different take on how to respond to adversity. They are, how should I say… plucky. I am going to quote from a blog of someone living in London.



Thursday, July 07, 2005

An open letter

to the terrorist cunts who tried to kill me today:Fuck you. You missed me. Better luck next time.

No, I do not condone the use of the c-word, but I must admire the spirit shown. Puts a tear in my eye.


On a side note: I bet Madrid is pissed, one of the main reasons they did not get the 2012 Olympics is the train bombing

Anyway… back to the matters at hand.

Our neighbors across the street are not lesbians. At least that is the first thing they tell anyone upon meeting them.

Okay a little background information: we live in a lesbian community. Sadly, some of the stereotypes are true… there are many a truck, a plethora of flannel, tons of pets, and more than a few power-tools in the neighborhood. I heard once that my neighborhood had the highest ratio of people identifying themselves as lesbians.

Our neighbors, however, are most definitely not lesbians. Just talk to them about anything and they will let you know that they are, in fact, middle aged heterosexual females who happen to be living together in the same house in a lesbian neighborhood with multiple pets, a goodly set of flannel shirts, and at least on table saw. Did I mention heterosexual, because that is what they are. Not lesbian. At all. Nope, they like the men-folk. They will tell you all about how boy crazy they are, if you speak to them about anything.

Me: Great weather we are having here! I am so glad that it has gotten a bit cooler, those 90+ days are tiring.
Either one of them: I like men.

Since they have moved into that house a little more than a year ago (we miss the previous owners greatly) the police have been by at least twice and there has been a fire truck called as well. Their excuse is that they will do anything to meet men. It is pitiful, methinks they dost protest too much.

To recap:

British humor is a dry sense of humor typically tempered by insanity.
The Brits are some resilient mother fuckers.
Madrid is Olympically challenged.
If it looks like a duck, walks like a duck, quacks like a duck… I call it a duck.

I am larger than the average 3 year old

So there he was lying on his side , tears streaming down his face, and bellowing at the top of his lungs. It was god awful hilarious. Now, I do not revel in the pain of my offspring. I do not set up the big man to fall. I do not take delight in him getting hurt, but I find it god-awful funny when he disproportionately responds to external stimuli.

The event in question happened last Friday. It was a hot afternoon at the park and the little one was frolicking and having a grand old time. He was taking giant steps, he was going down slides, he was climbing stairs, he was climbing slides, he was all over the place, and he was having fun. Now, there is this one particular piece of playground equipment at this particular park that is basically a winding tunnel of crawly fun.

Little man grabbed my hand and attempted to pull me through. I being larger than the average 3 year old was not to fit through this tube portion of the place without extreme effort. I was not willing make that effort since I was not being chased by a large meat-eating mammal. I politely explained to the little man that I couldn’t go through the tubing due to me being too big for it. He tugged on my arm again to go through. Again I politely explained the situation, and went to the other side of the tube and called him to come meet me there. Clearly this was not the correct answer from papa. I saw the expression change on his face, the fun we were having 30 seconds ago no longer mattered. He was now hurt and angry and going to let me know about it.

It started with his silent scream. You know the one… the scream where he is soooo hurt that there is no sound until he inhales. The he dropped to his knees screaming and crying, finally ending up on the platform of the playground piece in the fetal position bawling. All because I would not go into the tube with him. It was difficult not to laugh at him, because the response was sooo out of whack to my crime.

If I reacted like that at my work environment I would either get everything I ever wanted, or be cleaning out my desk.

Just a little story about the boy to pass the time. It is difficult to blog about esoterica and inanity when bomb are going off in the underground.

So to recap:
Tantrums can be kind of cute and funny.
To Mr. “Not very anonymous”: Chaos does not always reign… the “Coolness factor” results in a nonlinear dynamic solid state system that does not diverge into infinity at all starting points. Oddly enough the Julia set associated with this equation is extremely similar to that of a cosine function’s. Go figure. I guess coolness factors are cyclical in nature.
Send positive thoughts to the people living in the UK, Afghanistan, and Iraq.

283

Since the posting of yesterday’s blog, I have been accosted by co-workers and friends alike about my level of geekdom. For clarification purposes, I feel it necessary to state that sometimes my geekometer is pegged and held there for long periods of time. I freely admit my level of geekiness… my geekocioty, if you will. The god-hood I experienced at the convention, unfortunately stayed at the convention.

Now some of my friends took offense to my stating that I am the “coolest of all my friends.” I feel it necessary to quantify this statement a bit more. The friends in question are my 2 best friends that I grew up with. New friends do not count. Now, a bit about the “Coolest of all my Friends” moniker... by “coolest” I am not assuming that “non-geekiest” is the only criterion. One of the best friends quotes Vonnegut and used to install house alarms (coupled with many other non-cool things), and the other deals with chemical reactions on a sub-particle level and is currently doing a research post doc (coupled with many other non-cool things). I am a closet “gamer” and watch an inordinate amount of children’s television (coupled with many other non-cool things). Level of “geekdom” is not a direct inverse relationship to “cool.” Now I have broken down an equation that measures the coolness factor for the three of us (yes, I did count this mathematical analysis of coolness against me) and it seems that I still edge out G-Money and B-Dawg for the title of “Coolest of all my Friends.” The 2 of you may refute my claims, but I have the math to back this up (sadly, it all hinges on my association with my wife, if “significant other” were not in the equation, I would be toast). Again I must stress how amazingly relative this comparison is. I am not even remotely cool. I admit this freely, but I am cooler than those to jokers, and I have the math to prove it. I am sorry all of you had to witness that, but it was necessary. I had to defend my title.

So to recap:

Tom cruise has flipped his flipping lid.
Geekology is the study of geeks.
If you are still reading this, there is a good chance that you are registering on the geek-o-meter right now.
G-Money: 272
B-Dawg: 270
Me: 283… Boo-Yah!!!! Eat that!
It is a 10,000 point scale.
I am still “The Coolest of all my Friends”
That really is not saying much at all.

Situational Modifiers

Nothing makes one feel better about oneself than surrounding onself with people worse off than oneself.

For example… This past weekend in Columbus, Ohio was the Origins gaming convention. Now by gaming convention I mean role playing game convention. Origins is one of the largest gaming conventions in the US and it happens in this little burg every year. As a disclaimer I feel it necessary to disclose my level of nerdom… I am an avid fan of Dungeons and Dragons, in fact, I have been playing that pen and paper RPG for over 23 years now. I remember TSR’s first edition rules. The D&D cartoon was a mainstay in my childhood even though they should have given all of their magic equipment to one person and just let that person take over the world. My Role Playing Game Association card number starts with a 5 (that is all of the number you will get, ID thieves are everywhere). I collected comic books for over 15 years. I have action figures on one of my shelves at work. I used to paint lead miniatures before the resin minis even existed. I love dioramas, computer and physical models. DAMN you Discovery Channel! Why have you forsaken me!?!?!

For those of you unfamiliar with the Gaming crowd, you know them, you have met them, you have most likely depended on them for many a technical thing, and just did not realize that they are, in fact, gamers. In high school they were the chess team, academic team, math team, Science Olympiad, AV club. In the professional world, they are your IT department. Which leads me to this…

Amongst the convention goers, I am a deity. I am a godlike being who is incredibly in-shape and amazingly well-tanned. But my amazingness does not end there…. oh no, I am also insanely rich, incredibly socially adept, and insanely handsome. Have I mentioned how successful and tan I am?

Here is my list of positives versus the primary convention attendee, as well as the equivalent bonuses that they give me.

No longer living with my parents. (Wisdom +1, Constitution +1)
Have a career not in IT. (Charisma +1)
Married (Charisma +1)
with child {means that I have actually engaged win sexual congress with someone else} (Charisma +1)
Significant other is not a gamer (Charisma +1, Wisdom +1)
Can see my feet while standing up (Strength +1, Charisma +1, Constitution +1)
Skin not the color of ivory due to lack of exposure to sunlight (Constitution + 1)

Now, let’s be clear, these bonuses only apply in the gaming convention environment. Outside the hallowed halls of a gaming event, I get a whole bunch of negative modifiers, but that is the topic for another blog. Now do not get me wrong, I am still a geek/nerd/dork. That has not changed, but I am relatively less geeky/nerdy/dorky than the typical gamer at this convention. It is all relative baby! I am the coolest of all my friends!!!!!

So to recap:

Origins is a place where I feel powerful and better than people.
Shout out to the Wednesday Arby’s Crew
Little man is not a fan of the fireworks
Charisma +5, Baby!
I am the coolest of all my friends!

Move, and the hippo dies

On the way to lunch yesterday (Mmmmmm Arby’s) the driver of the car I was in mentioned that the hippopotamus does not have any natural enemies. Well… they do now. As God is my witness, I will bring down a fury the likes of which has never been seen by hippo-kind.

Now, I have 2 mortal enemies, 2 favored prey, and 2 animals which need to be exterminated. The number one of this duo is, and will always be, until I get them all… the Yeti. Number Two is now the hippopotamus or hippopotamus amphibious for you biologists out there. Author’s note: Good God, the hippo’s genus species name is really only hippopotamus amphibious? Really original name guys, and the more common name of hippopotamus… where did you come up with that one? Wow, way to put yourselves out on a limb like that.

There is not time in the day now space on the Internet for me to expound upon my distaste for the common yeti, so I will not deign to give them any more thought on this blog. Just know this, you sasquatch wannabes, your days are numbered (most likely in the thousands, but still that is not very long in the grand scheme of things). You know what you did, and you know why I am bringing the fire of my intense hatred to your Himalayan lairs. Do not think for a second that I will let my crusade against the hippo take any of my focus away from you, Wild Man of the Mountain. If you do not want to wait on me… bring it, Hairy! Anytime…. Any place. Make peace with your ancestors, for you will see them soon enough…

Now, Mr. and Ms. Hippo, I will turn my unwavering gaze upon you for the moment. How does that heat feel on your bulbous bodies? Your days of un-mitigated free reign in the African rivers are over. Get used to the pain that I will be bringing, tubby. I know you spend most of the time feeling all buoyant in the water with you tremendous girth, but you are a land mammal, you fat lumbering behemoths! You will have to come out of the water eventually. I will be waiting for you there, Fatso.

I know your attack habits. I know how you pretend to be very docile and nice at zoos, but are really vicious killers. Your problem is that you have the same death dealing tactics on land as you do in the water. I know your ways, Water Horse! Drown victims in the water, trample victims on land. It is the same tactic; you just can’t trample someone to death when they are already drowned. Your tactic boils down to stepping on things until they die. Really original. I will rain death upon you in a variety of ways. You will not know where or when the long sleep will come, but it will. I will deal death out to hippo-kind from above, from below, next to, kind of catty-corner to, a bit to the side of , and far far away. My instruments are scathing sarcasm, knives, guns, spoons, killer bees, and the occasional animal trap. Watch yourself, Hippo. I am coming, and littered behind me will be the corpses of your countless dead.

I am a smart hunter though… I have done my research. I know your habitat and feeding habits. I know that who you are is often measured by the company you keep. A crocodile? Dancing with a crocodile? Really… no one likes crocs. There is even a show about some Aussie guy who hunts them. Dance all you want Hippo-Chick, nothing will save you from my wrath.

To recap:
Hippos have no natural enemies... until now…
Mmmmmm Arby’s, did I mention that Arby’s has this truly evil shake-like desert now. It is all peanut-buttery and chocolaty. MMMM
Many do not consider me natural, so maybe they still don’t have any natural enemies? I will have to think on that.
Yeti, your time has come, and you know why. This number should mean something to you, 4398. Deal with it, Hairy Bitches.

Smelly Headed Kids

The little one has passed from being a baby and even kind of passed the toddler stage. He is now, officially, a little boy. “Why,” you may ask, “do you now consider the little one to be a little boy and not a baby or a toddler?” Well, the answer is quite simple: at the end of the day, on top of other odors, he has a smelly head.

Babies do not have smelly heads because they do not get active enough to cause odor. Sure, they play and have fun and are wonderful to be around, but unless they just accomplished an alimentary canal event, they really do not stink. In fact, breast fed newborns’ poops don’t even stink that badly. Babies smell like angels, they are wonderfully soft-skinned cooing bundles of warmth. Sure babies do have downsides, but all in all they are just a wonder to behold.

Toddlers are trying out new things. Their skin is a bit tougher. They have seen the sun (toughens skin) and they are more mobile now (toughens skin due to the falling and the crawling and the bumping in to things). They really only stink when they have been playing in something stinky (mulch anyone?) or have just had an alimentary canal event. Due to an alimentary canal event, they can stink, but usually, a simple change of diaper will nullify the offending odor.

He always runs everywhere. Walking just does not get him to where he needs to be fast enough. He constantly wants to be outside in the heat and sun. He is quite the rough and tumble little man… always on the move. He is in constant motion the only time during the day that he is not running somewhere is after we have conked him on the head with something heavy so he will “take a nap.” (Just kidding, he does not need us to conk him on the head. We just want to conk him on the head occasionally. He is angelic looking when he sleeps though…) With the constant motion, now my little boy’s head smells like a sweaty gym sock by the end of the day. The odor just wafts up into your nostrils when he comes and gives you a hug. He is a very affectionate boy, so the sweaty sock smell is nearly ever present from about 5 pm until bath time. The head is not the only smelly thing on this little one’s body. His little boy breath is starting to ripen as well. We will definitely have to get him to actually brush his teeth instead of just eating the toothpaste. In addition, his feet are also starting to get quite malodorous as well. One might even say that he has stinky cheese feet. To clarify, the sandals that he wears reek to high heaven and back and his feet smell like bad parmesan cheese. The most odiferous malfeasance produced by my angelic little boy emanates from his nether regions. Let’s just say that the little man likes broccoli and cabbage, and that he no longer farts and poops potpourri like he used to.

Now, I do not want all of you out there in Bloggerville to think that I do not love the little one, and that all we are getting from him is some bad odors. These are just indicators that he is no longer a baby or a toddler. We a toddler starts to stink like a regular human stinks, they have transitioned into actual childhood. He is no longer protected from generating normal human odors by his lack of typical activities. He is now a full-fledged stinker. If I were a pediatrician, I would actually use this as a threshold for childhood.

“Doc, when do we consider our angelic baby to be a little boy?”
“Well, good parents, your child is considered a little boy when he constantly stinks.”

He is just growing up too fast… too stinky fast.

To reacap:

Babies smell like flowers and heaven.
Good Lord, the Columbus Crew suck this year.
Toddlers usually smell like freshly baked cookies.
MMMMmmmmMMMMM Cheesecake (another shout out to G-Money and the Litigatorz)
Little boys stink like ass (and I do mean “ass” in the biblical sense, a la foghorn leghorn, “it’s a donkey, son, ya git it?”)
There are 3141 counties in the US.
He is growing up too fast, and it just seems to be picking up speed.