Sunday, September 27, 2009
A precarious situation arose today. The kids were in the tub and dad desperately had to go to the bathroom. My wife said "Just go. They always go in there when you're in there any way." So, there I sat on the pot with my son and daughter lying naked on there bellies in the tub. They couldn't have been any happier. As they splashed around screaming and playing, it occurred to me it will never get any better than this. Not that I am advocating this as some sort of family outing, but as time goes on, they will only get more self-conscious of themselves and each other. The idea of being naked in front of anyone, much less a sibling, will fill them with feelings of dread. And what kid wants to go anywhere near the bathroom when his dad is taking his evening constitutional? Yet there we were, without a care in the world. Each doing what nature demanded of us. Oblivious to the taboos that society placed on the acts we were perpetrating.
There will come a day, years from now, when I will remember this odd set of circumstances. Long after my son and daughter have becomes overly-conscious of there bodies. And scornful of the smells that linger in the bathroom after dad has read his latest aviation magazine. It will come long after they have the capability to remember this day. I will remind them of these events and they will recoil in horror and accuse me of mental infirmity and say I am making it all up. Taking quiet solace in the fact that I didn't mention it in the presence of their friends.
I find myself contemplating my mortality. I wonder if I will see the day when I go to visit my son and call out "Where is Dex?" A loving mother will reply,"He's in the bathroom with the kids...I think he's going Potty!"
There will come a day, years from now, when I will remember this odd set of circumstances. Long after my son and daughter have becomes overly-conscious of there bodies. And scornful of the smells that linger in the bathroom after dad has read his latest aviation magazine. It will come long after they have the capability to remember this day. I will remind them of these events and they will recoil in horror and accuse me of mental infirmity and say I am making it all up. Taking quiet solace in the fact that I didn't mention it in the presence of their friends.
I find myself contemplating my mortality. I wonder if I will see the day when I go to visit my son and call out "Where is Dex?" A loving mother will reply,"He's in the bathroom with the kids...I think he's going Potty!"
// posted by Chris @ Sunday, September 27, 2009
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Old is the new Young
Something occurred to me the other day...I'm not young! And I don't really know when that happened. I know that when I was in my early thirties I felt relativly young, so it follows that somewhere between here and there, I got old...no that's not right...not old...I got "Not Young". I can't say I feel old...just...not young. So I decided to analyze the things that happened in the last few years to see if I could identify the "Not Young" moment.
So, things that happened during that time period:
I got married...Nope! That's not it. My wife's eleven years younger than me. If anything, that actually makes me feel younger. (wink, wink) I'm actually a young 44 and she is a mature 33 so it works...Of course it also helps that I am brutally immature.
I had children...Nope! Not it either. They also make me feel young. I've totally reconnected with all of my old toys. Hell, I can't tell you how many HotWheels I've bought this year. And don't even get me started on my 1975 VertiBird. That chopper flies straight and true. They're also a great excuse to repeatedly watch all those Pixar movies I've collected over the years. Oh Elastigirl, how I love thee, let me count the ways. Oh yea, and suddenly burping is fun again! I'm actually feeling younger as I type. Burrrrp!
I've gotten gray hair...Actually, that one hurts. It actually makes my head look strange. Who wants white sideburns? And forget growing a beard. The wiskers come in thick but they're invisible to the naked eye. You need one of those purple flashlights and orange glasses like they use on CSI. So if I want that unshaven, Colin Farrell look, only the chicks at Las Vegas PD are going to notice. To everyone else I end up look like one of those scuzzy old guys you see buying a pocket bottle of Old Granddad at the Quickie Mart on Sunday morning. And that's another thing...I used to get carded all the time when I bought alcohol. Now that the snow's started building up on the roof, nothin'! Not even a second look. Now they just assume I'm buying it for some punk kids waiting around the corner. And that's just not true...but I do feel younger thinking about the days when I was the punk kid waiting around the corner...Beno!
What's next?
I bought a house. You know...that doesn't make me feel so old but the back pain I get from constantly re-building it does. I hate back pain. It started years ago when I lifted my childhood dog into the car. He weighed 80 pounds and and the manufacturer's limit on my back must have been 70 pound. My back hasn't been the same since. The most recent bout was just a week ago. I was leaning into the car (it's always cars) and picking something out of the diaper bag and wham! Thank God I bought a house to convalesce in. I wish I had bought a house earlier in life. My two great regrets are not having kids sooner and not buying a house sooner. My job never let me stay in one place more than a year or two but it would have been nice (the house, not the kids). It's such an easy way to make money. Maybe not in the present market but I have high hopes for my three acres over the next 20 years.
Reflecting on this, I am beginning to think that the "Not Young" status is really a function of the number "4". There is just something about starting your age with a number larger than 3 that makes it hard to believe you're young. I mean, I don't act "Old". I kick the ball. I watch "The Incredibles" at least once a day. I eat chocolate pudding...with my finger. I can't tell you how much time I spend at the park...And no, not with a bottle of Old Granddad...well, not lately anyway. No, seriously, I'm workin' the slide and pushing the Dex Man in the swing! Dude, if they ever put swing pushing in the summer games, I am so gonna' medal.
While I don't think I'll ever get back to "young", with a little carefull thought and maybe some sit-ups, hopefully I can hang on to "Not Old" for a long time. Burrrrp! Ah...There's a little youth for ya!
Something occurred to me the other day...I'm not young! And I don't really know when that happened. I know that when I was in my early thirties I felt relativly young, so it follows that somewhere between here and there, I got old...no that's not right...not old...I got "Not Young". I can't say I feel old...just...not young. So I decided to analyze the things that happened in the last few years to see if I could identify the "Not Young" moment.
So, things that happened during that time period:
I got married...Nope! That's not it. My wife's eleven years younger than me. If anything, that actually makes me feel younger. (wink, wink) I'm actually a young 44 and she is a mature 33 so it works...Of course it also helps that I am brutally immature.
I had children...Nope! Not it either. They also make me feel young. I've totally reconnected with all of my old toys. Hell, I can't tell you how many HotWheels I've bought this year. And don't even get me started on my 1975 VertiBird. That chopper flies straight and true. They're also a great excuse to repeatedly watch all those Pixar movies I've collected over the years. Oh Elastigirl, how I love thee, let me count the ways. Oh yea, and suddenly burping is fun again! I'm actually feeling younger as I type. Burrrrp!
I've gotten gray hair...Actually, that one hurts. It actually makes my head look strange. Who wants white sideburns? And forget growing a beard. The wiskers come in thick but they're invisible to the naked eye. You need one of those purple flashlights and orange glasses like they use on CSI. So if I want that unshaven, Colin Farrell look, only the chicks at Las Vegas PD are going to notice. To everyone else I end up look like one of those scuzzy old guys you see buying a pocket bottle of Old Granddad at the Quickie Mart on Sunday morning. And that's another thing...I used to get carded all the time when I bought alcohol. Now that the snow's started building up on the roof, nothin'! Not even a second look. Now they just assume I'm buying it for some punk kids waiting around the corner. And that's just not true...but I do feel younger thinking about the days when I was the punk kid waiting around the corner...Beno!
What's next?
I bought a house. You know...that doesn't make me feel so old but the back pain I get from constantly re-building it does. I hate back pain. It started years ago when I lifted my childhood dog into the car. He weighed 80 pounds and and the manufacturer's limit on my back must have been 70 pound. My back hasn't been the same since. The most recent bout was just a week ago. I was leaning into the car (it's always cars) and picking something out of the diaper bag and wham! Thank God I bought a house to convalesce in. I wish I had bought a house earlier in life. My two great regrets are not having kids sooner and not buying a house sooner. My job never let me stay in one place more than a year or two but it would have been nice (the house, not the kids). It's such an easy way to make money. Maybe not in the present market but I have high hopes for my three acres over the next 20 years.
Reflecting on this, I am beginning to think that the "Not Young" status is really a function of the number "4". There is just something about starting your age with a number larger than 3 that makes it hard to believe you're young. I mean, I don't act "Old". I kick the ball. I watch "The Incredibles" at least once a day. I eat chocolate pudding...with my finger. I can't tell you how much time I spend at the park...And no, not with a bottle of Old Granddad...well, not lately anyway. No, seriously, I'm workin' the slide and pushing the Dex Man in the swing! Dude, if they ever put swing pushing in the summer games, I am so gonna' medal.
While I don't think I'll ever get back to "young", with a little carefull thought and maybe some sit-ups, hopefully I can hang on to "Not Old" for a long time. Burrrrp! Ah...There's a little youth for ya!
// posted by Chris @ Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Hezbollah Haberdasher
OK, I think I have accidentally discovered the secret to World Peace. Here goes:
The recent events in Lebanon have illuminated a certain truism to me. “It’s hard to beat the crap out of more than one person at a time.” As we all know, Israel and Lebanon (pronounced Hezbollah) were fighting because Lebanon (pronounced Hezbollah) allegedly kidnapped two Israeli soldiers. I say “allegedly” because, of course, that’s not what really happened. I have it on reliable info from Robert Novak (ha ha ha…good one) that one of the Hezbollah guys said something about one of the Israeli’s mother. And, as we all know you never say something about another guy’s mom. Well, one thing led to another, more words were exchanged, something about the Hezbollah guy’s sister and boom…the whole thing spun out of control. Any way, think about it... Hezbollah wasn’t really attacking anyone else while they were fighting with Israel. And Israel wasn’t stirring up any trouble while it was fighting with Hezbollah. I think that’s why our administration didn’t really come out on anyone’s side in the conflict. They knew that while these two were fighting, they would leave everyone else alone. So why intervene? That president of ours is a pretty smart…
Uh…
Yea….Anyway…The trick is to identify the aggressors and then get them involved in a conflict that will contain them, then the rest of us live in peace. Easy! The trick is how to discover who the enemy is.
Now here’s the clever part that I discovered. If I ask you “who is the enemy?” You say (sound of a bell going Ding!) Islamic Terrorists…right? Wrong!
Here’s a clue: In the last 50 years, when have we not been at peace?
Let’s see…Vietnam, Gulf War I, Gulf war II. Do you see it yet? No?
Here’s another clue: Who were the Presidents responsible for prosecuting those wars?
Lynden B. Johnson, George I, and George II. You see it now, don’t you?
Last clue: What do they all have in common?…Texas!
Presidents from Texas start wars! (ding…ding…ding…ding) Thanks for playing.
In all honesty, on serious reflection, I have discovered that it is not their fault. That’s right, the real blame falls squarely on the Ten Gallon Hat! Yes, I said it, Ten Gallon Hat. You see, when a little boy is born in Texas, he is immediately immersed in the aura and legend of Texas. He learns of the lonely cowpoke…
(ya know, since “Broke Back Mountain” came out, I’m uncomfortable with the term Cowpoke. How about Cow Hand…nope…still not right. I know, in the interest of political correctness we’ll just say Cow Person.)
The lonely Cow Person riding across the range with his/her six-shooter at his/her side and a Ten Gallon Hat. Boys in Texas grow up thinking that this is the image of a man and they need to be that man. But today’s culture doesn’t allow them to dress like that because if they did, other Texans would beet the crap out of them because, let’s face it’, Ten Gallon Hats look kinda gay. So, the unsatisfied Texas man has to find other outlets for his masculine needs like tearing the sleeves off his shirts and raising his pickup truck until the center of gravity is dangerously high. All to appease his thirst for large hats…and to impress chicks with unusually large hairdos. Hey…Maybe that’s why their hairdos are so large. They use them to excite the Ten Gallon Hat Gene found in Texas men. Oh Darwin, where are you when I need you. Of course, if you come from a family where this behavior is not allowed, you just wait around until you’re president and then start a war.
So "What’s the answer?” you say. Well I thought long and hard about this while I was shaving in Kansas City yesterday. At first I thought we could outlaw Western Haberdashery. But it’s not the hats themselves, it’s the legend of the hats that’s the problem. Outlawing the hats would only turn them into martyrs. Then I thought we could bar people from Texas from running for President. But, there might be Constitutional problems with that and, while that might not matter to the current administration, it’s pretty important to me. Then it hit me…Get Texas involved in a conflict that would occupy their time and then none of them would run for president and Bam! Bob’s your uncle…World Peace.
So, the Conflict. How to start it and with who? I figure it has to be a neighbor so I immediately thought of Louisiana. But they're still smarting from Katrina and most of New Orleans moved to Texas afterward so there might be conflicts of interest. Next, I considered Mexico. They’re not doing anything right now and it would have the secondary effect of slowing illegal immigration because nobody wants to sneak across a war zone. But, then I remembered the last time Texas and Mexico skirmished. Remember the Alamo? I wouldn’t want Texas to get it’s ass kicked to bad so I have settled on New Mexico. I mean, it’s got Mexico right in the name. Only now it’s “New and Improved Mexico”. Fighting will break out “…down in the west Texas town of El Paso.” (I love that song) I see it all...The battle for Las Cruces...Remember the Albuquerque!...World Peace.
So, in the interest of Global Harmony and as a service to my fellow man I raise my voice and say…"Hey Texas…Did you hear what New Mexico said about your mother?”
OK, I think I have accidentally discovered the secret to World Peace. Here goes:
The recent events in Lebanon have illuminated a certain truism to me. “It’s hard to beat the crap out of more than one person at a time.” As we all know, Israel and Lebanon (pronounced Hezbollah) were fighting because Lebanon (pronounced Hezbollah) allegedly kidnapped two Israeli soldiers. I say “allegedly” because, of course, that’s not what really happened. I have it on reliable info from Robert Novak (ha ha ha…good one) that one of the Hezbollah guys said something about one of the Israeli’s mother. And, as we all know you never say something about another guy’s mom. Well, one thing led to another, more words were exchanged, something about the Hezbollah guy’s sister and boom…the whole thing spun out of control. Any way, think about it... Hezbollah wasn’t really attacking anyone else while they were fighting with Israel. And Israel wasn’t stirring up any trouble while it was fighting with Hezbollah. I think that’s why our administration didn’t really come out on anyone’s side in the conflict. They knew that while these two were fighting, they would leave everyone else alone. So why intervene? That president of ours is a pretty smart…
Uh…
Yea….Anyway…The trick is to identify the aggressors and then get them involved in a conflict that will contain them, then the rest of us live in peace. Easy! The trick is how to discover who the enemy is.
Now here’s the clever part that I discovered. If I ask you “who is the enemy?” You say (sound of a bell going Ding!) Islamic Terrorists…right? Wrong!
Here’s a clue: In the last 50 years, when have we not been at peace?
Let’s see…Vietnam, Gulf War I, Gulf war II. Do you see it yet? No?
Here’s another clue: Who were the Presidents responsible for prosecuting those wars?
Lynden B. Johnson, George I, and George II. You see it now, don’t you?
Last clue: What do they all have in common?…Texas!
Presidents from Texas start wars! (ding…ding…ding…ding) Thanks for playing.
In all honesty, on serious reflection, I have discovered that it is not their fault. That’s right, the real blame falls squarely on the Ten Gallon Hat! Yes, I said it, Ten Gallon Hat. You see, when a little boy is born in Texas, he is immediately immersed in the aura and legend of Texas. He learns of the lonely cowpoke…
(ya know, since “Broke Back Mountain” came out, I’m uncomfortable with the term Cowpoke. How about Cow Hand…nope…still not right. I know, in the interest of political correctness we’ll just say Cow Person.)
The lonely Cow Person riding across the range with his/her six-shooter at his/her side and a Ten Gallon Hat. Boys in Texas grow up thinking that this is the image of a man and they need to be that man. But today’s culture doesn’t allow them to dress like that because if they did, other Texans would beet the crap out of them because, let’s face it’, Ten Gallon Hats look kinda gay. So, the unsatisfied Texas man has to find other outlets for his masculine needs like tearing the sleeves off his shirts and raising his pickup truck until the center of gravity is dangerously high. All to appease his thirst for large hats…and to impress chicks with unusually large hairdos. Hey…Maybe that’s why their hairdos are so large. They use them to excite the Ten Gallon Hat Gene found in Texas men. Oh Darwin, where are you when I need you. Of course, if you come from a family where this behavior is not allowed, you just wait around until you’re president and then start a war.
So "What’s the answer?” you say. Well I thought long and hard about this while I was shaving in Kansas City yesterday. At first I thought we could outlaw Western Haberdashery. But it’s not the hats themselves, it’s the legend of the hats that’s the problem. Outlawing the hats would only turn them into martyrs. Then I thought we could bar people from Texas from running for President. But, there might be Constitutional problems with that and, while that might not matter to the current administration, it’s pretty important to me. Then it hit me…Get Texas involved in a conflict that would occupy their time and then none of them would run for president and Bam! Bob’s your uncle…World Peace.
So, the Conflict. How to start it and with who? I figure it has to be a neighbor so I immediately thought of Louisiana. But they're still smarting from Katrina and most of New Orleans moved to Texas afterward so there might be conflicts of interest. Next, I considered Mexico. They’re not doing anything right now and it would have the secondary effect of slowing illegal immigration because nobody wants to sneak across a war zone. But, then I remembered the last time Texas and Mexico skirmished. Remember the Alamo? I wouldn’t want Texas to get it’s ass kicked to bad so I have settled on New Mexico. I mean, it’s got Mexico right in the name. Only now it’s “New and Improved Mexico”. Fighting will break out “…down in the west Texas town of El Paso.” (I love that song) I see it all...The battle for Las Cruces...Remember the Albuquerque!...World Peace.
So, in the interest of Global Harmony and as a service to my fellow man I raise my voice and say…"Hey Texas…Did you hear what New Mexico said about your mother?”
// posted by Chris @ Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Saturday, August 05, 2006
http://www.youtube.com/user/HawleyLand
This is for those of you with high speed internet. It's just one more way to communicate with you over the net. I hope to add more soon. I will try to work on the quality.
-Chris
This is for those of you with high speed internet. It's just one more way to communicate with you over the net. I hope to add more soon. I will try to work on the quality.
-Chris
// posted by Chris @ Saturday, August 05, 2006
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
De-Evolution
I have been thinking about Evolution lately. It has been in the news of late, due to the controversy over Intelligent Design. It seems that a rift is developing between those who believe in evolution, like myself, who are called Evolutionists, and those who believe in Intelligent Design who are called morons. Lately, I have begun to worry about Evolution. Not that I am doubtful of it's existence; I am a man of science. (You all know science? That big batch of voodoo whose facts always get in the way of faith.) I am beginning to worry about our intervention in evolution.
That's right, our intervention. We all do it...yes you…don’t shake your head! OK, I'll prove it. Here's a quiz:
Question: Who was the King of the Jungle?
(clue: it's not me.)
Answer: It was the Lion.
Why? Because nothing killed the lion. (except maybe insecure men with big guns and small penises) Lions ruled. They had nothing to fear and were living the life of Riley. Now?...Endangered Species!
Who's the king now?...Easy. The house cat! That's right...People will do anything to save a cat. They'll jump in front of a moving vehicle. Run into a burning building. Spend 10 grand for cornea replacement surgery. All for their cat. Dogs may be our best friends but when it comes to our cats, we are their bitch! A hundred years ago, that cat would have been an after dinner snack for some lion. Now it's..."Drop that cat Simba or I'll be dryin' my feet on your hide when I step out of the shower tomorrow." We have changed the evolutionary order of whole species.
Now, while house pets and wild animals are important, there is something much more significant at stake here. The future of the entire human race! That's right, we're doing it to ourselves. I'll explain...
Let's say we join Sherman and Mr. Peabody in the “Way Back Machine” and go back, say, 20,000 years. (insert your own sound effect here) Now, let's say there is this guy walking along (we'll call him Cave Dude) and he comes upon a couple of gals (we'll call one Cave Babe and the other...NeanderHag). Cave Babe is tall, slender, built out to here with a gorgeous face. The other is short, fat, buck toothed, flat as a board, with no chin and her hair is frizzy. The outcome is obvious. Darwinian evolutionary forces will take over and Cave Dude will walk up to Cave Babe and ask her out. She'll say no...He'll club her over the head...Take her, and her Hot Chick DNA, back to his cave and they'll start poppin' out good lookin' cave babies like a pre-historic Pez dispenser. And, we all take one more evolutionary step towards the perfect woman. Who is, of course, my wife, Lorna. That's right sweetie, could you get me another beer? Thanks...OK she's gone. So, maybe it's Jessica Alba or Heather Locklear but neither of them are here to get me a beer so…they miss out. Anyway...
Now, let us jump back into the "Way Back Machine" (sound effects) and return to present day. Very little has changed in 20,000 years. The process is essentially the same except instead of a club we use a Lexus and lots of Jägermeister. For instance, now a days, Cave Dude would run into the gals while walking out of a Starbucks with his DoubleDecaf MochaChaiFrapaLaWhatever. The problem is, while Cave Babe is still smokin' hot (and chocked full of those HotChick Genes of hers), NeanderHag has now had liposuction, a boob job, orthodontia, a chin implant and a major hair weave. She looks better than Cave Babe! And now she and her ugly genes are steppin’ into the Lexus and there's not a club in sight. You see, 20,000 years ago she’d be cryin’ her eyes out in the woods and eventually eaten by a pack of wild dingos having never passed on her genes. Now, thanks to $30,000 of twenty-first century cosmetic medicine, she defeats all the evolutionary trip wires we have in place. Twenty years from now, Cave Dude is sitting in his barcalounger wondering why his daughter is fat, flat chested, buck toothed, chinless and has hair that looks like something you’d find on a Cave Woman. And somewhere in a quiet corner of Westminster Abbey, Charles Darwin is rolling over in his grave. Damn you Dow Corning!
I have been thinking about Evolution lately. It has been in the news of late, due to the controversy over Intelligent Design. It seems that a rift is developing between those who believe in evolution, like myself, who are called Evolutionists, and those who believe in Intelligent Design who are called morons. Lately, I have begun to worry about Evolution. Not that I am doubtful of it's existence; I am a man of science. (You all know science? That big batch of voodoo whose facts always get in the way of faith.) I am beginning to worry about our intervention in evolution.
That's right, our intervention. We all do it...yes you…don’t shake your head! OK, I'll prove it. Here's a quiz:
Question: Who was the King of the Jungle?
(clue: it's not me.)
Answer: It was the Lion.
Why? Because nothing killed the lion. (except maybe insecure men with big guns and small penises) Lions ruled. They had nothing to fear and were living the life of Riley. Now?...Endangered Species!
Who's the king now?...Easy. The house cat! That's right...People will do anything to save a cat. They'll jump in front of a moving vehicle. Run into a burning building. Spend 10 grand for cornea replacement surgery. All for their cat. Dogs may be our best friends but when it comes to our cats, we are their bitch! A hundred years ago, that cat would have been an after dinner snack for some lion. Now it's..."Drop that cat Simba or I'll be dryin' my feet on your hide when I step out of the shower tomorrow." We have changed the evolutionary order of whole species.
Now, while house pets and wild animals are important, there is something much more significant at stake here. The future of the entire human race! That's right, we're doing it to ourselves. I'll explain...
Let's say we join Sherman and Mr. Peabody in the “Way Back Machine” and go back, say, 20,000 years. (insert your own sound effect here) Now, let's say there is this guy walking along (we'll call him Cave Dude) and he comes upon a couple of gals (we'll call one Cave Babe and the other...NeanderHag). Cave Babe is tall, slender, built out to here with a gorgeous face. The other is short, fat, buck toothed, flat as a board, with no chin and her hair is frizzy. The outcome is obvious. Darwinian evolutionary forces will take over and Cave Dude will walk up to Cave Babe and ask her out. She'll say no...He'll club her over the head...Take her, and her Hot Chick DNA, back to his cave and they'll start poppin' out good lookin' cave babies like a pre-historic Pez dispenser. And, we all take one more evolutionary step towards the perfect woman. Who is, of course, my wife, Lorna. That's right sweetie, could you get me another beer? Thanks...OK she's gone. So, maybe it's Jessica Alba or Heather Locklear but neither of them are here to get me a beer so…they miss out. Anyway...
Now, let us jump back into the "Way Back Machine" (sound effects) and return to present day. Very little has changed in 20,000 years. The process is essentially the same except instead of a club we use a Lexus and lots of Jägermeister. For instance, now a days, Cave Dude would run into the gals while walking out of a Starbucks with his DoubleDecaf MochaChaiFrapaLaWhatever. The problem is, while Cave Babe is still smokin' hot (and chocked full of those HotChick Genes of hers), NeanderHag has now had liposuction, a boob job, orthodontia, a chin implant and a major hair weave. She looks better than Cave Babe! And now she and her ugly genes are steppin’ into the Lexus and there's not a club in sight. You see, 20,000 years ago she’d be cryin’ her eyes out in the woods and eventually eaten by a pack of wild dingos having never passed on her genes. Now, thanks to $30,000 of twenty-first century cosmetic medicine, she defeats all the evolutionary trip wires we have in place. Twenty years from now, Cave Dude is sitting in his barcalounger wondering why his daughter is fat, flat chested, buck toothed, chinless and has hair that looks like something you’d find on a Cave Woman. And somewhere in a quiet corner of Westminster Abbey, Charles Darwin is rolling over in his grave. Damn you Dow Corning!
// posted by Chris @ Tuesday, July 11, 2006
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
Mother @#$%
It occurred to me that I will enjoy this Father’s Day much more than the last Fathers Day. I know that it’s slightly early, but it is on my mind. Largely, because I now have a better understanding of what it means. I used to think Father’s Day was a celebration of just being a Dad, which, let’s face it, is no great feat. Just find some gal crazy enough to sleep with you and one broken condom later… “Bang”, you’re in the club! I now realize that Father’s Day is actually a celebration of all the work that you put in after that day. The bills, the worrying, the sacrifice, the worrying, the worrying. All the way up to the point where the little ungrateful “son of a @#$%” finds his/her own place and moves out. That is unless he buys a crappy little house out in the middle of Nowhere, Arizona at which point you’re roped in for years of helping out with home improvements until he wises up and buys a finished home in the suburbs which Lorna and I will never do, unless the temperature in Hell drops below 32 degrees! Thanks Dad.
So the other day I was on the ramp in my least favorite station, St. Louis. There were two brain surgeons unloading bags from the plane while I was doing my post-flight walk-around. They seemed to be in some sort of conflict regarding events of the previous night when one of them turned to the other and called him a “Mother Fucker.” Now, every human on the planet knows what that means. People living in caves in the Gobi Desert know the impact of that phrase. We learn the meaning of such things the same place we learn all the great lessons of life..."The playground." As kids we learn to verbally joust with such monikers as “jerk”, “dick”, “asshole”, but everyone knows you stay away from “Mother Fucker” unless your tribe is ready to go to war. It’s the Big Kahuna. It’s like saying something about someones mom. It’s the Thermo-Nuclear F-Bomb of the playground. So when you hear two burly guys on the ramp say it, you better duck down and start your video camera.
As I flinched from the impact of the words and turned to see the carnage that must ensue, something occurred to me. I had an epiphany of sorts. No, that’s not right. An epiphany is a moment of enlightenment. This was, rather, the realization that I no longer understood something. When did we decide that a Mother Fucker was a bad thing? Really. It occurred to me that if these two guys turned to me and called me a “Mother Fucker”…What could I say? “Yea…so!” I mean, if you fuck her and she’s a mother, you’re in the club pal! Here’s the secret handshake…Pull up a chair. As guys, we work toward this status for most of our lives. Hell, some of my best friends are Mother Fuckers. Darren… Mother Fucker. Troy… Mother Fucker. Bret…Not a Mother Fucker. Sorry Bret. Ya see, it’s like…not being a Mother Fucker is a bad thing. I think I’m gonna turn the whole world around on this Mother Fucker thing...
Ya know…My dad’s a Mother Fucker. Hell, he’s one of the finest Mother Fucker’s I know. And while I’ve never asked him, I pretty sure he's OK with that.
When you think about it, it’s the very definition of a dad! I mean, if she’s a mother because you fucked her, you’re a dad! Every dad’s a Mother Fucker! This is great, I’m gonna write the government and try to get them to rename Father’s day… Mother Fucker’s Day! What do you think? I’m gonna call Hallmark right now so they can get a head start.
“When I was young you wiped my nose,
you cooked my food and bought my clothes.
You gave me ice cream and a bright red sucker,
So all the best, you Mother Fucker.”
Makes you kind of weepy doesn’t it? Thanks, Dad!
p.s. For those of you who were unable to suspend their sense of social propriety long enough to enjoy this essay in the spirit in which it was intended, the next time you see me, feel free to call me a “Mother Fucker.” No, really, feel free.
It occurred to me that I will enjoy this Father’s Day much more than the last Fathers Day. I know that it’s slightly early, but it is on my mind. Largely, because I now have a better understanding of what it means. I used to think Father’s Day was a celebration of just being a Dad, which, let’s face it, is no great feat. Just find some gal crazy enough to sleep with you and one broken condom later… “Bang”, you’re in the club! I now realize that Father’s Day is actually a celebration of all the work that you put in after that day. The bills, the worrying, the sacrifice, the worrying, the worrying. All the way up to the point where the little ungrateful “son of a @#$%” finds his/her own place and moves out. That is unless he buys a crappy little house out in the middle of Nowhere, Arizona at which point you’re roped in for years of helping out with home improvements until he wises up and buys a finished home in the suburbs which Lorna and I will never do, unless the temperature in Hell drops below 32 degrees! Thanks Dad.
So the other day I was on the ramp in my least favorite station, St. Louis. There were two brain surgeons unloading bags from the plane while I was doing my post-flight walk-around. They seemed to be in some sort of conflict regarding events of the previous night when one of them turned to the other and called him a “Mother Fucker.” Now, every human on the planet knows what that means. People living in caves in the Gobi Desert know the impact of that phrase. We learn the meaning of such things the same place we learn all the great lessons of life..."The playground." As kids we learn to verbally joust with such monikers as “jerk”, “dick”, “asshole”, but everyone knows you stay away from “Mother Fucker” unless your tribe is ready to go to war. It’s the Big Kahuna. It’s like saying something about someones mom. It’s the Thermo-Nuclear F-Bomb of the playground. So when you hear two burly guys on the ramp say it, you better duck down and start your video camera.
As I flinched from the impact of the words and turned to see the carnage that must ensue, something occurred to me. I had an epiphany of sorts. No, that’s not right. An epiphany is a moment of enlightenment. This was, rather, the realization that I no longer understood something. When did we decide that a Mother Fucker was a bad thing? Really. It occurred to me that if these two guys turned to me and called me a “Mother Fucker”…What could I say? “Yea…so!” I mean, if you fuck her and she’s a mother, you’re in the club pal! Here’s the secret handshake…Pull up a chair. As guys, we work toward this status for most of our lives. Hell, some of my best friends are Mother Fuckers. Darren… Mother Fucker. Troy… Mother Fucker. Bret…Not a Mother Fucker. Sorry Bret. Ya see, it’s like…not being a Mother Fucker is a bad thing. I think I’m gonna turn the whole world around on this Mother Fucker thing...
Ya know…My dad’s a Mother Fucker. Hell, he’s one of the finest Mother Fucker’s I know. And while I’ve never asked him, I pretty sure he's OK with that.
When you think about it, it’s the very definition of a dad! I mean, if she’s a mother because you fucked her, you’re a dad! Every dad’s a Mother Fucker! This is great, I’m gonna write the government and try to get them to rename Father’s day… Mother Fucker’s Day! What do you think? I’m gonna call Hallmark right now so they can get a head start.
“When I was young you wiped my nose,
you cooked my food and bought my clothes.
You gave me ice cream and a bright red sucker,
So all the best, you Mother Fucker.”
Makes you kind of weepy doesn’t it? Thanks, Dad!
p.s. For those of you who were unable to suspend their sense of social propriety long enough to enjoy this essay in the spirit in which it was intended, the next time you see me, feel free to call me a “Mother Fucker.” No, really, feel free.
// posted by Chris @ Wednesday, June 07, 2006
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
The first Blog I didn't have to spell check!
My Mom sent this to me. Cool...Hu?
Can you raed tihs? i cdnuolt blveiee taht I cluod aulaclty uesdnatnrd waht I was rdanieg. The phaonmneal pweor of the hmuan mnid, aoccdrnig to rscheearch at Cmabrigde Uinervtisy, it dseno't mtaetr in waht oerdr the ltteres in a wrod are, the olny iproamtnt tihng is taht the frsit and lsat ltteer be in the rghit pclae. The rset can be a taotl mses and you c! an sitll raed it whotuit a pboerlm. Tihs is bcuseae the huamn mnid deos not raed ervey lteter by istlef, but the wrod as a wlohe. Azanmig huh? yaeh and I awlyas tghuhot slpeling was ipmorantt! if you can raed tihs forwrad it.
My Mom sent this to me. Cool...Hu?
Can you raed tihs? i cdnuolt blveiee taht I cluod aulaclty uesdnatnrd waht I was rdanieg. The phaonmneal pweor of the hmuan mnid, aoccdrnig to rscheearch at Cmabrigde Uinervtisy, it dseno't mtaetr in waht oerdr the ltteres in a wrod are, the olny iproamtnt tihng is taht the frsit and lsat ltteer be in the rghit pclae. The rset can be a taotl mses and you c! an sitll raed it whotuit a pboerlm. Tihs is bcuseae the huamn mnid deos not raed ervey lteter by istlef, but the wrod as a wlohe. Azanmig huh? yaeh and I awlyas tghuhot slpeling was ipmorantt! if you can raed tihs forwrad it.
// posted by Chris @ Tuesday, March 14, 2006
