I read the other day that Michael Vick signed a contract extension for $100 Million. Of course, not all of that money is guaranteed, but it is a substantial raise from the 13 cents an hour he got washing pots, or whatever he did while he was in the joint less than 3 years ago.
I also enjoy this because I know it makes a lot of people furious. As we know, Michael Vick pled guilty to running an interstate dog fighting operation, served 21 months in Federal Prison, filed bankruptcy, got released from prison, got another job in the NFL, and did well enough to merit a $100 million contract extension, and some people refuse to forgive him, and wish a painful death on him, and other really mature things.
I do not in any way condone what Vick did, fighting dogs is an awful thing to do, regardless of how much credence you give the socio-economic argument that dog fighting is more prevalent in lower income areas of the South, and Vick was just engaging in something he had grown up around. He should have known better.
I wonder though, if people would have still been as upset if Vick had been fighting rats. Or tarantulas. Rats and Tarantulas are pets too. Do you think people would have been so furious if we had learned than Mike Vick went out back and electrocuted a tarantula? What if he was really into snake fighting, and a snake did poorly, so he went out back (Side note: All the really repugnant things I read about that happened to the dogs there happened "out back") and drowned a snake. Snakes are pets.
What if he was fighting gerbils, and his gerbil lost, so he shoved the gerbil up his butt? Would PETA have even gotten involved?? A gerbil is a pet. What if he just took two ant farms and smashed them together? BLAM!! Ant fighting. Dead ants everywhere. What would the ASPCA's response have been? Ants are sort of pets.
We apparently draw a line somewhere between dog fighting (felony) and throwing your digital pet in the river because he purrs too loud in the middle of the night and wakes you up (stupid). I just don't know where that line is.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Monday, August 15, 2011
The Disturbing Encounter with Pedro Homelessman.
I've had the opportunity to play a large portion of baseball games at Parade Stadium for the last 15 years. Parade Stadium is located right outside of downtown Minneapolis, directly next to a large consortium of highway underpasses. Minneapolis contains a lot of strange people. Highway underpasses, as we know, seem to be a place where the homeless, destitute, insane people congregate. Being that Parade stadium is a stones throw away from both of these places, the parking lot around 9:00 pm tends to become fertile ground for these sorts of interesting people to mill about, which means that throughout the years we've encountered some strange things like
-A legless man screaming incoherently about something. I don't know what it was he was screaming about because he was incoherent.
-A man who carried his own chair around. I believe the chair was smeared in poop, because it smelled awful. Maybe it was the man...
-A methed out guy who got really excited when we gave him a baseball, so he snuck into the outfield after the game and played catch with himself. Like, he would throw the ball 100 feet in one direction, then sprint over to it, and then throw it 100 feet in the other direction. He did this even after the lights were shut off. Dark, solitary catch on meth is difficult.
The strangest thing I've ever encountered however, is what will forever be remembered as "The Pedro Homelessman Incident." This began innocently enough. We had just sat down after a game and were enjoying a few beverages as we tend to do after most games, when we noticed a couple of motley looking people shuffling around the lot. One of them had a giant plastic sack filled with pop and beer cans. He looked a little bit like Homeless Santa Claus.
This didn't raise any concerns, because, like I've said, there are a lot of dudes like this in the vicinity and if they are finding cans to recycle to buy a little food or booze or whatever, more power to them. Far be it for me to say that if was in their position, I wouldn't be doing the exact same thing.
Everything changed though when they decided to come over and bother us. Both of them were obviously homeless, and not recently homeless either, as their clothes were tattered and dirty and fit poorly. Both of them were of Hispanic descent and spoke little English, and both of them reeked horribly of B.O. and beer
Pedro: blblblblblblblblbblblbqkdwqhddhwubn cans?
Us: Um, you can't have these cans yet, we need to drink the beer inside them first.
Pedro's Buddy: bqkbqofnweofinweifwefwiownmfwifn cans????
Us: You can definitely have the cans fellas, but they need to be empty. We need to drink the beer in them first. Then you can have them.
Pedro (emphatically): asoffnwofnwenowefnfnowifnownweonn CANS!!!!
Us: Dudes, get out of here, you guys smell like a giant taint.
Instead of retreating back, or going to look for other cans in the interim, they just started hovering closer to us, wanting to hang out or something. Considering that:
a.) They spoke no English
b.) They smelled awful
c.) They were remarkably, heroically intoxicated
d.) They were homeless and we probably didn't have a lot in common
It became very uncomfortable very fast. Some teammates starting openly mocking them, one teammate stole their large sack of cans and ran off, and others completely ignored them. When Pedro's buddy came over and practically sat in my lap to try to give me explicit directions (in Drunken Spanish) how to correctly do the scorebook, I got up and took a walk. I went over to a nearby pine tree and pretended to take a pee, but really I was just preparing my immune system for battle since a homeless man had layed on me.
After I had collected my wits, and prepared my immune system, I turned around to head back to the circle of teammates + homeless people. What I saw did not please me. Pedro Homelessman.... was sitting.... in my chair! My initial thought was "I'm gonna have to burn that fucking chair." I walked over to him. He was busy excitedly spewing gibberish at no one in particular. He paid no attention to me.
Me: Dude?
Me: Uh vato?
Me: Compadre?
Me: Esse?
He still paid no attention to me. I heard from the peanut gallery, "Jensen, you're gonna get fined a dollar if you don't get that fuckin' dude out of your chair!" So I shook him a little bit by the shoulder. It was like touching a really dirty dog. He looked at me. I said "Up!" He looked pissed, but eventually got out of my chair.
By this time, everybody had grown tired of the antics of these two guys, and were beginning to yell at them to go away. Pedro's buddy came over to me again. He had apparently learned better English in 5 minutes because he pointed over to Pedro and said, "He gotta gun. He keeeeel white people talkin' sheeeeeet!" I told him to go stink somewhere else.
As I said that I looked up because Pedro Homelessman was causing a big ruckus. Then the awful thing happened. Pedro yelled something like "ABLAHBABABABABA" and then lifted up his shirt. On his stomach was an abomination so unnatural that it must have been stuck on by Satan himself. It was red and big and festering and pulsating. It looked like an angry cow udder except bigger and more evil. The image of it is forever seared into my brain. I honestly do not know what it was. Maybe I don't want to know. Apparently this living wound thing had a similar effect on everybody else because you heard things like:
"Oh Dear Jesus, what is THAT??!!"
"AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!!!"
" Holy shit, put your shirt down!!"
After that, gently persuading them to be on their way was replaced by full blown screaming for them to "get the fuck out of here and never come back." This message apparently did not need subtitles as Pedro and his buddy took off for under the bridge in a big hurry. The rest of us were left pondering what in the name of Sweet Baby Jesus we had just seen. They never got our cans either.
-A legless man screaming incoherently about something. I don't know what it was he was screaming about because he was incoherent.
-A man who carried his own chair around. I believe the chair was smeared in poop, because it smelled awful. Maybe it was the man...
-A methed out guy who got really excited when we gave him a baseball, so he snuck into the outfield after the game and played catch with himself. Like, he would throw the ball 100 feet in one direction, then sprint over to it, and then throw it 100 feet in the other direction. He did this even after the lights were shut off. Dark, solitary catch on meth is difficult.
The strangest thing I've ever encountered however, is what will forever be remembered as "The Pedro Homelessman Incident." This began innocently enough. We had just sat down after a game and were enjoying a few beverages as we tend to do after most games, when we noticed a couple of motley looking people shuffling around the lot. One of them had a giant plastic sack filled with pop and beer cans. He looked a little bit like Homeless Santa Claus.
This didn't raise any concerns, because, like I've said, there are a lot of dudes like this in the vicinity and if they are finding cans to recycle to buy a little food or booze or whatever, more power to them. Far be it for me to say that if was in their position, I wouldn't be doing the exact same thing.
Everything changed though when they decided to come over and bother us. Both of them were obviously homeless, and not recently homeless either, as their clothes were tattered and dirty and fit poorly. Both of them were of Hispanic descent and spoke little English, and both of them reeked horribly of B.O. and beer
Pedro: blblblblblblblblbblblbqkdwqhddhwubn cans?
Us: Um, you can't have these cans yet, we need to drink the beer inside them first.
Pedro's Buddy: bqkbqofnweofinweifwefwiownmfwifn cans????
Us: You can definitely have the cans fellas, but they need to be empty. We need to drink the beer in them first. Then you can have them.
Pedro (emphatically): asoffnwofnwenowefnfnowifnownweonn CANS!!!!
Us: Dudes, get out of here, you guys smell like a giant taint.
Instead of retreating back, or going to look for other cans in the interim, they just started hovering closer to us, wanting to hang out or something. Considering that:
a.) They spoke no English
b.) They smelled awful
c.) They were remarkably, heroically intoxicated
d.) They were homeless and we probably didn't have a lot in common
It became very uncomfortable very fast. Some teammates starting openly mocking them, one teammate stole their large sack of cans and ran off, and others completely ignored them. When Pedro's buddy came over and practically sat in my lap to try to give me explicit directions (in Drunken Spanish) how to correctly do the scorebook, I got up and took a walk. I went over to a nearby pine tree and pretended to take a pee, but really I was just preparing my immune system for battle since a homeless man had layed on me.
After I had collected my wits, and prepared my immune system, I turned around to head back to the circle of teammates + homeless people. What I saw did not please me. Pedro Homelessman.... was sitting.... in my chair! My initial thought was "I'm gonna have to burn that fucking chair." I walked over to him. He was busy excitedly spewing gibberish at no one in particular. He paid no attention to me.
Me: Dude?
Me: Uh vato?
Me: Compadre?
Me: Esse?
He still paid no attention to me. I heard from the peanut gallery, "Jensen, you're gonna get fined a dollar if you don't get that fuckin' dude out of your chair!" So I shook him a little bit by the shoulder. It was like touching a really dirty dog. He looked at me. I said "Up!" He looked pissed, but eventually got out of my chair.
By this time, everybody had grown tired of the antics of these two guys, and were beginning to yell at them to go away. Pedro's buddy came over to me again. He had apparently learned better English in 5 minutes because he pointed over to Pedro and said, "He gotta gun. He keeeeel white people talkin' sheeeeeet!" I told him to go stink somewhere else.
As I said that I looked up because Pedro Homelessman was causing a big ruckus. Then the awful thing happened. Pedro yelled something like "ABLAHBABABABABA" and then lifted up his shirt. On his stomach was an abomination so unnatural that it must have been stuck on by Satan himself. It was red and big and festering and pulsating. It looked like an angry cow udder except bigger and more evil. The image of it is forever seared into my brain. I honestly do not know what it was. Maybe I don't want to know. Apparently this living wound thing had a similar effect on everybody else because you heard things like:
"Oh Dear Jesus, what is THAT??!!"
"AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!!!"
" Holy shit, put your shirt down!!"
After that, gently persuading them to be on their way was replaced by full blown screaming for them to "get the fuck out of here and never come back." This message apparently did not need subtitles as Pedro and his buddy took off for under the bridge in a big hurry. The rest of us were left pondering what in the name of Sweet Baby Jesus we had just seen. They never got our cans either.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Internet Dating Tips
I was just reading some dating personals on the internet, because it seemed like a better thing to be doing than working, and I have to say it's surprising to me that anybody ever bones anybody else meeting each other like this. Here are some of my issues.
1.) There's too many weird acronyms in these messages for me to have much idea what this girl is all about half the time. What's a BBW? A big-booty whitegirl? A bad ball washer? A big buffalo wing? Takes too long to figure out. You're dumped.
2.) People sound like insecure liars. Other people (me) can see through that. A sample of things people said:
-"Curvy" = Fat
-"Pretty" = Pretty Gross looking
-"I just want to be held" = I've never been on a date before and I'm 30. And fat.
-"Average build"= Built like a dump truck
- "2 kids and not much drama"= A slut with an ex who still humps and beats her
-"Great Personality"= Really fat and ugly
-"Told I have a great smile"= Gingivitis
-"Done playing head games" = I will definitely let you steal my savings to buy meth, and then forgive you when you don't call me for 3 months
-"Sassy" = Huge pain in the ass.
- "I believe in true love" = I'm an idealistic moron. And fat.
- "Easy on the eyes" = If you're blind.
- "BBW" = This means fat, I'm just not sure how fat
3.) Some people tell you things you wouldn't want to know even if you were married to them.
- "I need someone who's not hairy because I got raped by a badger when I was 12 and have nightmares about fur."
4.) The ones who have pics look absolutely atrocious. Like "Not even with a stolen penis would I get near you" atrocious. If you're going to put pictures up why would you choose:
a.) Side of face Mugshot pic
b.) Cell phone pic of you squatting like you're peeing in your living room
c.) Pic of you frowning while wearing too tight jeans with one leg rolled up gangsta-style
Good rule of thumb here: If you look like the cookie monster, don't post a pic.
I was just thinking that people should hire me to make their dating profiles suck less. I'm sure I would be great at this because
a.) I'm awesome
b.) The current profiles suck, as I've mentioned.
To prove that I am qualified for this job I just invented, here is what my Internet Dating Profile would look like, if I was not married obviously (Luv U hunny).
"Really awesome dude with gigantic weiner seeks girl to eventually cheat on. Must be good at cleaning bathrooms, especially mine, and going away. Should hate things like roundabouts, hornets, and those sweaters with stupid flimsy necks that look like vaginas. Also anything else I might think of.
I enjoy tabby kittens, puffy clouds, long walks by the fireplace, groupie luv, throwing dirt clumps at old people, borrowing money, walking thru tall grass without pants, foods that begin with the letter "Q", anything made of velveteen, sneaking into other's gardens and eating their vegetables, St Patrick's Eve, donating meth to charity, scotch eggs, cornflakes and bourbon, porno movies filmed in Chernobyl, making booger sculptures, screaming at horses to "GIDDYUP", and female nudity.
You should enjoy all these things too. Now please send 20 dollars and a picture of yourself. Then, 1 of 3 things will happen.
1.) I will look at your picture and spontaneously barf all over it. Then I will keep your 20 dollars.
2.) I will look at your picture, shake my head, throw it in a fire, and keep your 20 dollars. But I may send you a sea monkey for trying.
3.) I will look at your picture, and invite you over. But if you want to join my gang, first you're going to have to kill somebody. That's the way it goes in gangs. You pick the person out, so I have plausible deniability in case you do something dumb like get caught or kill the King of England or something. If you succeed, you can come over. If you get caught, you get caught. Either way, I keep your 20 dollars."
Pretty much, if somebody posted something like that, dates would just start falling from everywhere like a plague of locusts, except much different. So yeah, let me know if you want to take advantage of this opportunity, because pretty soon it will seem stupid to me.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Snapping Turtles are Jerks
The other day the family and I were on our way home from a hike. Originally, the purpose behind taking the kids for hikes was to instill in them an appreciation for nature, and living things and beauty, and to keep them from becoming sedentary fatsos who sit on pillows eating chocolate and watching reruns of SpongeBob NoPants all day. Quickly, the mission of hikes shifted from this to "tiring out the children so they quit running around like energetic snow monkey crackheads on meth." Many times, hikes do not succeed in tiring them out.
As we were leaving the park, I noticed a large stone in the road. This seemed hazardous. I stopped the car and got out. As I walked over to the stone, it walked away from me. "This is odd behavior for a stone," I said to no one in particular. Then I realized that the stone was actually a big Snapping Turtle, and the world started making sense again.
I decided that my good deed of the day would be to help the turtle across the road, like he was an old lady or something. So I walked over to him and tried to shove him with my foot. This is when I realized that turtles are heavy. The turtle realized that some big thing was trying to kick him, so he made an angry turtle hissing noise. It was not friendly.
I decided that I needed to show him who was boss, so I stepped right on top of him, asserting my dominance. He stuck his neck way far out (Side note: Turtle heads and necks look like green penises with faces), then whipped back towards the middle of his shell and tried to bite my shoe. It was pretty quick for a turtle. Startled, I said, "Hey, Fuck You Asshole!!"
I decided to switch tactics, so I got a stick and started trying to poke him across the road. I figured it would work, as I had seen policemen do it to homeless people numerous times in the past with considerable success. I found out that there is a big difference between homeless people, and angry, penis-headed turtles. The turtle felt me poking him and whirled around to face me. He did this fast, like he was laying on a Lazy Susan. He reached his face out again and bit the stick. Hard. Then he shook the stick like a puppy would do, if the puppy was really mean, and had a shell, and smelled like my nut sack after a really humid baseball game.
At this point I gave up. Outside of picking him up, which seemed dangerous considering he weighed 30 pounds and wanted to bite my extremities off, I couldn't think of a way to move him. I figured the Crocodile Hunter would have known what to do, but I didn't. I considering trying to scare him off the road, but after he started bluff charging me like a very small Grizzly Bear I didn't figure he would scare easily.
So I left. Screw that turtle! Have fun dying.
As we were leaving the park, I noticed a large stone in the road. This seemed hazardous. I stopped the car and got out. As I walked over to the stone, it walked away from me. "This is odd behavior for a stone," I said to no one in particular. Then I realized that the stone was actually a big Snapping Turtle, and the world started making sense again.
I decided that my good deed of the day would be to help the turtle across the road, like he was an old lady or something. So I walked over to him and tried to shove him with my foot. This is when I realized that turtles are heavy. The turtle realized that some big thing was trying to kick him, so he made an angry turtle hissing noise. It was not friendly.
I decided that I needed to show him who was boss, so I stepped right on top of him, asserting my dominance. He stuck his neck way far out (Side note: Turtle heads and necks look like green penises with faces), then whipped back towards the middle of his shell and tried to bite my shoe. It was pretty quick for a turtle. Startled, I said, "Hey, Fuck You Asshole!!"
I decided to switch tactics, so I got a stick and started trying to poke him across the road. I figured it would work, as I had seen policemen do it to homeless people numerous times in the past with considerable success. I found out that there is a big difference between homeless people, and angry, penis-headed turtles. The turtle felt me poking him and whirled around to face me. He did this fast, like he was laying on a Lazy Susan. He reached his face out again and bit the stick. Hard. Then he shook the stick like a puppy would do, if the puppy was really mean, and had a shell, and smelled like my nut sack after a really humid baseball game.
At this point I gave up. Outside of picking him up, which seemed dangerous considering he weighed 30 pounds and wanted to bite my extremities off, I couldn't think of a way to move him. I figured the Crocodile Hunter would have known what to do, but I didn't. I considering trying to scare him off the road, but after he started bluff charging me like a very small Grizzly Bear I didn't figure he would scare easily.
So I left. Screw that turtle! Have fun dying.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Birthday Memories
Recently I had a birthday. I am now 34. My kids got me an Angry Birds keychain and a Pillow Pet for my birthday. Apparently they think I am 8. Actually it was nice because they thought of the gifts all by themselves, and I had a very fun time. It makes me think back to other birthday's I've had though...
Age 1: Sat in my birthday cake. Crapped my pants.
Age 3: Received a giant wagon and a stern lecture from my grandmother to not touch the lit birthday candles. Crapped my pants.
Age 4: Received a fireman helmet with a flashing light on top that made a loud French police siren noise constantly. My parents, who bought it for me, got annoyed with it in 12 seconds. A kid named Steve stole it. Steve had a brother named Poopy Charlie. Poopy Charlie smelled like poop, hence his name. Anyhow, Steve stole my fireman helmet, my parents rejoiced, and I crapped my pants and cried.
Age 6: Party in my backyard. Got a swingset. 10 years later the swingset was used strictly as a target for apples, because swinging on it meant getting near the rusty, exposed bolts, and possibly cutting yourself and getting instantaneous, permanent lockjaw (or at least that's what my mom told me). Crapped my pants.
Age 8: Party in my backyard again. Got a wood bat that was way too big for me. Accidentally smashed a kid in the head on my backswing with the aforementioned bat. His mom came and got him. He did not attend any more of my birthdays. Also was forced to invite a weird kid because he was the brother of a kid I wanted to invite. The two were a package deal. Lame! The weird kid held a football by the points and kicked it in the middle like it was a watermelon, for christ sakes...
Age 9: Twins game. 10 obnoxiously loud 9 year olds riding down the highway in a busted out station wagon screaming at the top of our lungs the entire time. This was not particularly safe. The Metrodome was about 50% full, and 6 of the 10 kids got lost for longer than 15 minutes during the course of the game. My Dad mentioned to me many times that he needed about 6 scotches afterward to calm him down. Also, the station wagon died about a week later, and my Dad, being a responsible grown up, ditched the car on the side of the road and walked home. Since the title had never been transferred, the guy he bought it from got dinged for the towing expense. Sorry Mr. Pokorny...
Age 12: Rain. Little league game got rained out. We were going to San Francisco the next day, so I had to miss a game. Lots of crying and gigantic temper tantrums ensued, and trying to bargain my way out of the trip so I could play Little League ensued too. I was unsuccessful. We won the game 16-1. I felt no consolation in this.
Age 16: Got Driver's license. Drove off, leaving my mother in my wake. She cried. Drove around Lake Calhoun under the guise of "pickin' up hoochies". Truth be told, probably would have crapped my pants had any real hoochies approached my vehicle. Drove over a turtle. Felt conflicted about this.
Age 18: Went to a strip club. Really super scared of doing this. Decided during the drive over that I would rather fight 20 dragons naked than this. Did not have that choice. Wore tight bicycle pants so that if I got a boner, the prosty-toots wouldn't notice it. Went up on stage. Nearly vomited in a cup mid walk. Got smashed in the face by boobs for a long time. Noticed that one of the strippers drew eyes and a nose above her c-section scar to make a face. Was repulsed by this. Got approached to go in the champagne room. Nearly crapped my pants. Got out of there barely.
Age 21: Drank too much. Not sure of much else. Apparently stumbled into a street light with my head. Nearly crapped my pants.
Age 22: Hit a monstrous home run on my 2nd to last college at bat. Pimped the shit out of it. Played to the crowd. Nearly tripped around 3rd base. Felt dumb.
Age 27: Stared at my wife's gigantic pregnant belly a lot. Also, a mosquito stung me on the sack (side note: that may not have happened on my birthday)
Age 30: Surprise party. I was not surprised as my wife was acting all funny on the way over to my parents. Also, the 50 cars parked outside was kind of a dead giveaway.
Yep, it's been quite a ride. For sweet 35, I'm getting some Sprewells and going hang gliding with paraplegics. Or maybe something different. I don't know...
Age 1: Sat in my birthday cake. Crapped my pants.
Age 3: Received a giant wagon and a stern lecture from my grandmother to not touch the lit birthday candles. Crapped my pants.
Age 4: Received a fireman helmet with a flashing light on top that made a loud French police siren noise constantly. My parents, who bought it for me, got annoyed with it in 12 seconds. A kid named Steve stole it. Steve had a brother named Poopy Charlie. Poopy Charlie smelled like poop, hence his name. Anyhow, Steve stole my fireman helmet, my parents rejoiced, and I crapped my pants and cried.
Age 6: Party in my backyard. Got a swingset. 10 years later the swingset was used strictly as a target for apples, because swinging on it meant getting near the rusty, exposed bolts, and possibly cutting yourself and getting instantaneous, permanent lockjaw (or at least that's what my mom told me). Crapped my pants.
Age 8: Party in my backyard again. Got a wood bat that was way too big for me. Accidentally smashed a kid in the head on my backswing with the aforementioned bat. His mom came and got him. He did not attend any more of my birthdays. Also was forced to invite a weird kid because he was the brother of a kid I wanted to invite. The two were a package deal. Lame! The weird kid held a football by the points and kicked it in the middle like it was a watermelon, for christ sakes...
Age 9: Twins game. 10 obnoxiously loud 9 year olds riding down the highway in a busted out station wagon screaming at the top of our lungs the entire time. This was not particularly safe. The Metrodome was about 50% full, and 6 of the 10 kids got lost for longer than 15 minutes during the course of the game. My Dad mentioned to me many times that he needed about 6 scotches afterward to calm him down. Also, the station wagon died about a week later, and my Dad, being a responsible grown up, ditched the car on the side of the road and walked home. Since the title had never been transferred, the guy he bought it from got dinged for the towing expense. Sorry Mr. Pokorny...
Age 12: Rain. Little league game got rained out. We were going to San Francisco the next day, so I had to miss a game. Lots of crying and gigantic temper tantrums ensued, and trying to bargain my way out of the trip so I could play Little League ensued too. I was unsuccessful. We won the game 16-1. I felt no consolation in this.
Age 16: Got Driver's license. Drove off, leaving my mother in my wake. She cried. Drove around Lake Calhoun under the guise of "pickin' up hoochies". Truth be told, probably would have crapped my pants had any real hoochies approached my vehicle. Drove over a turtle. Felt conflicted about this.
Age 18: Went to a strip club. Really super scared of doing this. Decided during the drive over that I would rather fight 20 dragons naked than this. Did not have that choice. Wore tight bicycle pants so that if I got a boner, the prosty-toots wouldn't notice it. Went up on stage. Nearly vomited in a cup mid walk. Got smashed in the face by boobs for a long time. Noticed that one of the strippers drew eyes and a nose above her c-section scar to make a face. Was repulsed by this. Got approached to go in the champagne room. Nearly crapped my pants. Got out of there barely.
Age 21: Drank too much. Not sure of much else. Apparently stumbled into a street light with my head. Nearly crapped my pants.
Age 22: Hit a monstrous home run on my 2nd to last college at bat. Pimped the shit out of it. Played to the crowd. Nearly tripped around 3rd base. Felt dumb.
Age 27: Stared at my wife's gigantic pregnant belly a lot. Also, a mosquito stung me on the sack (side note: that may not have happened on my birthday)
Age 30: Surprise party. I was not surprised as my wife was acting all funny on the way over to my parents. Also, the 50 cars parked outside was kind of a dead giveaway.
Yep, it's been quite a ride. For sweet 35, I'm getting some Sprewells and going hang gliding with paraplegics. Or maybe something different. I don't know...
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
The Church Offering Debacle
I can say with confidence that I am definitely a fiscal conservative. I want my money to be my money, and I want to have the option of donating a portion of it to the less fortunate, or just making it rain on naked strippers if I feel like it.
My son has apparently already developed my appreciation for hoarding money, as we learned the hard way at church the other night.
Let me just explain this first. We go to church on Wednesday night, a service known as "W.O.W." which I believe stands for "W.O.W. on Wednesday" or something like that. Maybe it stands for "Whip Out Weiners." I guess I'm not certain.
Anyhow, the WOW service is very kid oriented, with a lot of singing and dancing, and mercifully a really short sermon. The sermon usually sounds something like this.
"See that flagpole? God made it. See that hill? God made that too. See that pile of sawdust? God made it. God's awesome. Fist bump your neighbor. God's great. Clap 3 times. God rules. Sing this song. Know who made up the words? That's right, God. Go in peace and serve the lord."
That's about it, which is nice, because about 30 seconds into the service my kids get antsy and start rummaging through my wife's purse looking for snacks, running up and down the aisles, and picking tiny green dot stickers out of the bible and sticking them to everything, and there's only so much of that you can take as a parent before you start choking the children, which is frowned upon in the sanctuary.
So there we are, in the middle of church, when it becomes time for the offering. I start handing out dollar bills to everybody around me, like I'm Al Czervik or something, and then in theory, the children go up to the front up the church, plop the dollar into that felt-covered bowl thing that looks like a giant billiards pocket, and come back, satisfied that they'd done their part to keep the people in Japan floating around aimlessly due to the tsunami fed, or to keep the church from being foreclosed upon because apparently God, with his infinite power, can't pay his bills on time. In theory, this is how it goes.
In reality, while my daughter goes up and deposits the money, my son has decided that the dollar is now his, and he has chosen to pocket it rather than donate it to an unknown cause. This causes problems.
Us: Miles, go on up and give your offering.
Miles: No!
Us: Um. Yes, you have to.
Miles (Emphatically): NO!!! It's mine!
Us: Miles, don't you want to help our the poor children? (This is our old standby. If we ever have an issue with throwing away toys or something, the boilerplate mantra is that the toys or items are going to poor children. There is a giant island in the North Atlantic filled with poor children happily playing with our old Happy Meal toys.)
Miles: NO!! Tell them to get their own money!! This is my big money!
Us: Fine, but you can't just keep the money. Give it back.
Miles: WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!!!
What followed was a gigantic tantrum right in the middle of church. It was a lucky break that the offering music was playing loudly so nobody noticed except people nearby who could see my beautiful little boy yelling his lungs out with a death grip on a dollar bill. I'm sure they were confused.
Finally we calmed him down a little, but he still wouldn't let go of the dollar. Fine, I'll pay a dollar for a lack of screaming. Seems like a good investment to me, and things turned out OK, except for that the very instant church ended Miles said loudly to no one in particular, "IT'S OVER LET'S GET OUTTA HERE." Even the pastor heard that one.
I don't know what the moral of this story. Don't ever give Miles a dollar I guess...
My son has apparently already developed my appreciation for hoarding money, as we learned the hard way at church the other night.
Let me just explain this first. We go to church on Wednesday night, a service known as "W.O.W." which I believe stands for "W.O.W. on Wednesday" or something like that. Maybe it stands for "Whip Out Weiners." I guess I'm not certain.
Anyhow, the WOW service is very kid oriented, with a lot of singing and dancing, and mercifully a really short sermon. The sermon usually sounds something like this.
"See that flagpole? God made it. See that hill? God made that too. See that pile of sawdust? God made it. God's awesome. Fist bump your neighbor. God's great. Clap 3 times. God rules. Sing this song. Know who made up the words? That's right, God. Go in peace and serve the lord."
That's about it, which is nice, because about 30 seconds into the service my kids get antsy and start rummaging through my wife's purse looking for snacks, running up and down the aisles, and picking tiny green dot stickers out of the bible and sticking them to everything, and there's only so much of that you can take as a parent before you start choking the children, which is frowned upon in the sanctuary.
So there we are, in the middle of church, when it becomes time for the offering. I start handing out dollar bills to everybody around me, like I'm Al Czervik or something, and then in theory, the children go up to the front up the church, plop the dollar into that felt-covered bowl thing that looks like a giant billiards pocket, and come back, satisfied that they'd done their part to keep the people in Japan floating around aimlessly due to the tsunami fed, or to keep the church from being foreclosed upon because apparently God, with his infinite power, can't pay his bills on time. In theory, this is how it goes.
In reality, while my daughter goes up and deposits the money, my son has decided that the dollar is now his, and he has chosen to pocket it rather than donate it to an unknown cause. This causes problems.
Us: Miles, go on up and give your offering.
Miles: No!
Us: Um. Yes, you have to.
Miles (Emphatically): NO!!! It's mine!
Us: Miles, don't you want to help our the poor children? (This is our old standby. If we ever have an issue with throwing away toys or something, the boilerplate mantra is that the toys or items are going to poor children. There is a giant island in the North Atlantic filled with poor children happily playing with our old Happy Meal toys.)
Miles: NO!! Tell them to get their own money!! This is my big money!
Us: Fine, but you can't just keep the money. Give it back.
Miles: WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!!!
What followed was a gigantic tantrum right in the middle of church. It was a lucky break that the offering music was playing loudly so nobody noticed except people nearby who could see my beautiful little boy yelling his lungs out with a death grip on a dollar bill. I'm sure they were confused.
Finally we calmed him down a little, but he still wouldn't let go of the dollar. Fine, I'll pay a dollar for a lack of screaming. Seems like a good investment to me, and things turned out OK, except for that the very instant church ended Miles said loudly to no one in particular, "IT'S OVER LET'S GET OUTTA HERE." Even the pastor heard that one.
I don't know what the moral of this story. Don't ever give Miles a dollar I guess...
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Burritos and How Not to Order Them.
I love burritos. Especially Chipotle Burritos. I don't care that they're like 8000 calories, I still eat them a lot. I eat them often enough to know about the "Chipotle Window", the time you can go and there won't be a massive line of people ordering people before you. That way I can get in, get out, and begin the wonderful eating process.
I've even learned to slow down while eating them, because I used to eat them so fast that by the time I was done my brain hadn't figured out that my stomach was full yet, and then I'd have to sit there for 5 minutes consumed with anger because I wanted more burrito. I even emailed Chipotle and asked them to make an "El Grande" burrito that was 25% larger just for guys like me. The representative who emailed me back suggested I order a taco or two with my burrito. He was stupid!
Occasionally, due to unforeseen circumstances, I wind up missing the Chipotle Window and standing in an immense line. This always bothers me because there is always at least one person in front of me who was no idea how to order a burrito. This slows down the line considerably. The employees are relatively efficient but for the most part they speak Spanish, and what I refer to as "Burrito English", in that they understand words like "chicken", "black beans" and "fajita". Anything other than that causes a huge bottleneck and makes me want to choke slam the offending patron.
I knew I was in for an maddeningly long wait when I heard this lady say this.
Lady: I want a....... um....... burrito.
Worker: Kind of meat?
Lady: Uh, what kind you got? What's that one?
Worker: Steak.
Lady: No that one.
Worker: This one? Carnitas.
Lady: Carnitas? What's a carnita? Never mind, what's that one?
(Brian's blood begins to boil)
Worker: Chicken
Lady: Oh, well I want steak.
(Dammit lady, get moving!!)
Worker: Kind of beans?
Lady: Beans?? I want some vegetables.
Worker: Fajita?
Lady: What? No I want some VE-GE-TA-BLES. And I also want some beans.
(AAAAHHHHHH!!)
Worker: Kind of salsa?
Lady: Now.... let... me.... see. Oh, are those tomatoes?
(It's fucking salsa lady!)
Lady: And what's that green stuff?
Worker: Guac.
Lady: What is it in English?
Worker: Guac. Guacamole.
Lady: Ooh, I want Guacamole.
Worker: Guac is 50 cent extra.
Lady: What?? Well how much is my total then.
(53 cents more than it was before, and I'm going to poop in your mouth soon!!)
Then she went to the register, left her cigarettes behind, had to go back and retrieve them, and then proceeded to pay with change, and not well organized change either. Really, she deserved a good slaughtering.
I think the lesson to be learned here is this, to paraphrase Treach from Naughty By Nature. If you ain't never been to Chipotle, don't ever go to Chipotle, cuz you wouldn't understand it in Chipotle. And there might be a big headed fellow lurking nearby to kill you and eat your burrito.
I've even learned to slow down while eating them, because I used to eat them so fast that by the time I was done my brain hadn't figured out that my stomach was full yet, and then I'd have to sit there for 5 minutes consumed with anger because I wanted more burrito. I even emailed Chipotle and asked them to make an "El Grande" burrito that was 25% larger just for guys like me. The representative who emailed me back suggested I order a taco or two with my burrito. He was stupid!
Occasionally, due to unforeseen circumstances, I wind up missing the Chipotle Window and standing in an immense line. This always bothers me because there is always at least one person in front of me who was no idea how to order a burrito. This slows down the line considerably. The employees are relatively efficient but for the most part they speak Spanish, and what I refer to as "Burrito English", in that they understand words like "chicken", "black beans" and "fajita". Anything other than that causes a huge bottleneck and makes me want to choke slam the offending patron.
I knew I was in for an maddeningly long wait when I heard this lady say this.
Lady: I want a....... um....... burrito.
Worker: Kind of meat?
Lady: Uh, what kind you got? What's that one?
Worker: Steak.
Lady: No that one.
Worker: This one? Carnitas.
Lady: Carnitas? What's a carnita? Never mind, what's that one?
(Brian's blood begins to boil)
Worker: Chicken
Lady: Oh, well I want steak.
(Dammit lady, get moving!!)
Worker: Kind of beans?
Lady: Beans?? I want some vegetables.
Worker: Fajita?
Lady: What? No I want some VE-GE-TA-BLES. And I also want some beans.
(AAAAHHHHHH!!)
Worker: Kind of salsa?
Lady: Now.... let... me.... see. Oh, are those tomatoes?
(It's fucking salsa lady!)
Lady: And what's that green stuff?
Worker: Guac.
Lady: What is it in English?
Worker: Guac. Guacamole.
Lady: Ooh, I want Guacamole.
Worker: Guac is 50 cent extra.
Lady: What?? Well how much is my total then.
(53 cents more than it was before, and I'm going to poop in your mouth soon!!)
Then she went to the register, left her cigarettes behind, had to go back and retrieve them, and then proceeded to pay with change, and not well organized change either. Really, she deserved a good slaughtering.
I think the lesson to be learned here is this, to paraphrase Treach from Naughty By Nature. If you ain't never been to Chipotle, don't ever go to Chipotle, cuz you wouldn't understand it in Chipotle. And there might be a big headed fellow lurking nearby to kill you and eat your burrito.
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