I haven’t truly been scared by a horror movie since I was a kid. I haven’t been a big fan of them since, but that one certainly didn’t shy me away from them. I’ve seen my fair share, it’s just that most of them are pretty stupid and don’t leave much of an impression.
At least I thought they hadn’t. These days, though, I’ve been a little on edge (particularly at night), and I put all the blame on horror movies. Lately, whenever I come out of my bedroom after, say, 8:30 p.m. there’s a good chance my three-year-old son will be standing in the hallway staring at me. Since he’s supposed to be in bed, I always jump out of my socks. Or sometimes I’ll round the corner and he’ll be standing at the top of the stairs, which is even spookier.
Whenever he does this, I explain to him, “Son, you have to stop getting out of bed like this. You see, throughout history, children in your age bracket have been depicted as harbingers of evil in scary movies. They’re usually motionless, staring ominously into the darkness, much like you’re doing now. A lot of times they start out as innocent bystanders, happily playing with their toys or their dog, when one day they’re overcome by some demonic presence bent on destroying civilization. Other times they start off rotten and are sent to Earth by a malicious overlord who wants to harvest our souls for his own personal gain. Things never turn out well for those who get their souls harvested.
“There are rare occasions when an evil spirit will possess the child’s doll, but that’s not quite as frightening as the child becoming possessed himself. Sure, it’s a story line that’s been beaten into the ground, but it’s become tradition. A horror movie just isn’t complete without the freaky kid.”
He usually stares at me blankly, which of course worries me, so I’m forced to ask him, “Buddy, are you possessed?”
He typically responds by saying, “No, I just have to poop.”
Sometimes he’ll say he wants to brush his teeth. And other times he’ll want me or his mother to read him a bedtime story. I’ve yet to hear him say anything like, “The seas will run red with your blood.”
So, I should probably relax and not be so jumpy, but it’s tough. Too many damn movies.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
I'll Just Stick with the Haircut, Thanks
It used to be that if you had an undesirable, embarrassing ailment or condition, you had to search high and low for information on a remedy. You might see or hear an advertisement for a pill to cure your overwhelming body odor, but it would only be late at night on some public access channel. Nowadays there’s a product to combat anything you can think of and each one is marketed during all hours of the day.
For a lot of people, this is a good thing. But the FCC needs to create some new technology that regulates how these products are marketed. Here’s my solution: Televisions should be wired so that commercials filtered through personal TVs are different from the ones that are shown on public/business TVs. I don’t know how this would work. The ‘how’ isn’t important, just the fact that it needs to happen.
I appreciate when a business owner is kind enough to provide a TV in his or her waiting room, but it’s almost more of a risk than a perk. Twice in the last couple of months, I have been at a place of business in the middle of the day, surrounded by strangers, when a Viagra commercial has come on. I can’t think of many places where I would like to be when the word ‘erection’ is overheard, but I can immediately think of two places where I don’t want to be and those are the car dealership and the barbershop.
I guess it could have been worse. Overhearing it at the hardware store would be uncomfortable. Standing in line for movie tickets would be odd. Work, church, the deli counter, a parent-teacher conference… all of these seem like highly inappropriate places.
The airport wouldn’t be so bad, simply because of the sheer number of people who are preoccupied with their own lives to really notice. But on an airplane would be awful. Aside from hearing that word through your headset while watching the in-flight movie (which doesn’t count because the headset makes you feel like you’re the only one hearing it), the only way you’d hear it on a plane is if it’s said by the person next to you, a stewardess or the pilot over the intercom.
Still, I stand by my assertion that one of the worst places to be is sitting in a chair while an old man runs his fingers through your hair. The ease of the room seems to disappear when that low, smoky voice tells you to consult your doctor if an erection lasts for more than four hours.
And plenty of other commercials fit this bill. If I visit a relative in a retirement home, I don’t want to worry about ads for funeral homes coming on while I’m there. And when I’m at the gym, I’d prefer that none of the TVs show a woman who’s concerned about her level of freshness. Granted, given the number of times I go to these places, the likelihood of either scenario occurring is slim to none (particularly the one at the gym). But still. It’s possible.
A more likely scenario is one day soon I will cart a busload of kids to Chuck-E-Cheeses (which surely have TVs these days) and one of my own will turn to me and say, “Daddy, this advertisement with women in yellow bathing suits falling into a pool and doing a synchronized dance… is it trying to sell birth control?”
If that happens, I’ll have to be straightforward with my kid and answer honestly and to the best of my ability by saying, “How the hell should I know?”
My point is that you can’t go anywhere these days without commercials creating uncomfortable social moments. Just yesterday I walked into my boss’ office to ask for some paperwork I needed. While she was searching for it, an ad came on her radio for discount vasectomies. There’s only one thing to do in that situation.
“SO… HOW ‘BOUT THOSE METS?” I asked.
Something has to be done. We all need vasectomies, but don’t remind me at work. Send some literature to my home. And wrap it tightly in a brown paper bag.
For a lot of people, this is a good thing. But the FCC needs to create some new technology that regulates how these products are marketed. Here’s my solution: Televisions should be wired so that commercials filtered through personal TVs are different from the ones that are shown on public/business TVs. I don’t know how this would work. The ‘how’ isn’t important, just the fact that it needs to happen.
I appreciate when a business owner is kind enough to provide a TV in his or her waiting room, but it’s almost more of a risk than a perk. Twice in the last couple of months, I have been at a place of business in the middle of the day, surrounded by strangers, when a Viagra commercial has come on. I can’t think of many places where I would like to be when the word ‘erection’ is overheard, but I can immediately think of two places where I don’t want to be and those are the car dealership and the barbershop.
I guess it could have been worse. Overhearing it at the hardware store would be uncomfortable. Standing in line for movie tickets would be odd. Work, church, the deli counter, a parent-teacher conference… all of these seem like highly inappropriate places.
The airport wouldn’t be so bad, simply because of the sheer number of people who are preoccupied with their own lives to really notice. But on an airplane would be awful. Aside from hearing that word through your headset while watching the in-flight movie (which doesn’t count because the headset makes you feel like you’re the only one hearing it), the only way you’d hear it on a plane is if it’s said by the person next to you, a stewardess or the pilot over the intercom.
Still, I stand by my assertion that one of the worst places to be is sitting in a chair while an old man runs his fingers through your hair. The ease of the room seems to disappear when that low, smoky voice tells you to consult your doctor if an erection lasts for more than four hours.
And plenty of other commercials fit this bill. If I visit a relative in a retirement home, I don’t want to worry about ads for funeral homes coming on while I’m there. And when I’m at the gym, I’d prefer that none of the TVs show a woman who’s concerned about her level of freshness. Granted, given the number of times I go to these places, the likelihood of either scenario occurring is slim to none (particularly the one at the gym). But still. It’s possible.
A more likely scenario is one day soon I will cart a busload of kids to Chuck-E-Cheeses (which surely have TVs these days) and one of my own will turn to me and say, “Daddy, this advertisement with women in yellow bathing suits falling into a pool and doing a synchronized dance… is it trying to sell birth control?”
If that happens, I’ll have to be straightforward with my kid and answer honestly and to the best of my ability by saying, “How the hell should I know?”
My point is that you can’t go anywhere these days without commercials creating uncomfortable social moments. Just yesterday I walked into my boss’ office to ask for some paperwork I needed. While she was searching for it, an ad came on her radio for discount vasectomies. There’s only one thing to do in that situation.
“SO… HOW ‘BOUT THOSE METS?” I asked.
Something has to be done. We all need vasectomies, but don’t remind me at work. Send some literature to my home. And wrap it tightly in a brown paper bag.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
The News is Making Me Thirsty
With so much political divisiveness going on these days, all sorts of new political parties have formed with ideas of how to change our government. It may be hard to keep track of all the groups and what they stand for, so feel free to consult the list below for some answers.
Tea Party – a loud, unorganized group that uses its title to hearken back to a Revolutionary movement without really understanding what that original movement was about. Many of its members are even unsure of what their current movement is about.
Coffee Party – formed in response to the Tea Party and consisting of similar types of people with similarly vague, unspecific ideas about what they expect from their government. This party’s only distinguishable trait is its pompous refusal to pay reasonable prices for coffee.
Kool-Aid Party – this group’s name strikes fear in those hearing of it for the first time because of the images it conjures up about Jim Jones. Instead, it consists largely of moms who drive mini-vans and get their kids to burn energy by playing soccer, only to fuel them up again by serving them Kool-Aid afterwards. Members fail to realize they can save thousands of dollars a year in sugar and gasoline by having their kids participate in something equally enjoyable, such as playing with fish hooks.
Lemonade Party – a moderate, easy-going party that is typically heard from only in the summer. Their off-shoot ‘pink’ contingent is highly active in raising cancer awareness.
Punch Party – this group has a hard time advancing its ideals unless they align themselves with a stronger group whose members display more confidence and fewer inhibitions. They do very well in the polls when partnering with Russian political advisors (see next party).
Vodka Party – enjoyed its renaissance during Boris Yeltsin’s administration
Soda Party – this group fails to gain any significant foothold due to its many fractured divisions. Members often bicker about which division is superior, with many groups changing their original colors from dark to clear. These members typically contain fewer ingredients and are often viewed as less influential. Other factors contributing to the group’s troubles include a divide over what to be called. Depending on where supporters live, the group may prefer to be called the ‘Pop Party,’ the ‘Cola Party’ or the traditional ‘Soft Drink Party’.
Sweet Tea Party – despite its name, has few viewpoints that are similar to the Tea Party. Sweet Tea advocates stand for everything that is right in the universe. It is a delicious, mouth-watering group that goes well with just about any entrée. Its roots can be traced back to a southern movement, and members can tolerate just about anything, even Jimmy Carter.
Bourbon, Rum, Scotch, Wine and Tequila Parties – Highly powerful, highly controversial groups that benefit from a lot of support, but ultimately fail on election day due to their struggles to sober up and make it out to the voting booths. Many also face scrutiny over questions of their citizenship.
Tea Party – a loud, unorganized group that uses its title to hearken back to a Revolutionary movement without really understanding what that original movement was about. Many of its members are even unsure of what their current movement is about.
Coffee Party – formed in response to the Tea Party and consisting of similar types of people with similarly vague, unspecific ideas about what they expect from their government. This party’s only distinguishable trait is its pompous refusal to pay reasonable prices for coffee.
Kool-Aid Party – this group’s name strikes fear in those hearing of it for the first time because of the images it conjures up about Jim Jones. Instead, it consists largely of moms who drive mini-vans and get their kids to burn energy by playing soccer, only to fuel them up again by serving them Kool-Aid afterwards. Members fail to realize they can save thousands of dollars a year in sugar and gasoline by having their kids participate in something equally enjoyable, such as playing with fish hooks.
Lemonade Party – a moderate, easy-going party that is typically heard from only in the summer. Their off-shoot ‘pink’ contingent is highly active in raising cancer awareness.
Punch Party – this group has a hard time advancing its ideals unless they align themselves with a stronger group whose members display more confidence and fewer inhibitions. They do very well in the polls when partnering with Russian political advisors (see next party).
Vodka Party – enjoyed its renaissance during Boris Yeltsin’s administration
Soda Party – this group fails to gain any significant foothold due to its many fractured divisions. Members often bicker about which division is superior, with many groups changing their original colors from dark to clear. These members typically contain fewer ingredients and are often viewed as less influential. Other factors contributing to the group’s troubles include a divide over what to be called. Depending on where supporters live, the group may prefer to be called the ‘Pop Party,’ the ‘Cola Party’ or the traditional ‘Soft Drink Party’.
Sweet Tea Party – despite its name, has few viewpoints that are similar to the Tea Party. Sweet Tea advocates stand for everything that is right in the universe. It is a delicious, mouth-watering group that goes well with just about any entrée. Its roots can be traced back to a southern movement, and members can tolerate just about anything, even Jimmy Carter.
Bourbon, Rum, Scotch, Wine and Tequila Parties – Highly powerful, highly controversial groups that benefit from a lot of support, but ultimately fail on election day due to their struggles to sober up and make it out to the voting booths. Many also face scrutiny over questions of their citizenship.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
I Want My Picture Back
A few weeks ago I submitted a writing entry to a regular monthly contest offered by Writer's Digest. As part of the contest, titled 'Your Story,' the editors provide a fictional prompt for those who would like to enter an article. I check out the prompts from time to time to see if any of them sound fun or spark my imagination. The one in the February issue did, so I gave it a shot.
Unfortunately my piece wasn't picked as a finalist. I guess the naked picture of myself that I attached to my article didn't impress the judges. Next time I'll make sure the picture includes my torso.
I decided, however, that I'd post it to my blog (the article, not the picture. Sorry ladies). If you want to read the five entries that were picked as finalists, you can visit the Writer's Digest Forum page. You'll have to register a new account, and then you'll receive a password from them to use when you sign in. After signing in with your password, just scroll down the page and click the 'Your Story' link.
Or you can just trust me when I say that mine was the best and clearly should have won. That's much easier. Hope you enjoy it.
Prompt: Parents look on in horror as a magician's trick goes terribly awry at a child's birthday party - 750 word maximum.
The sunny, 70-degree Saturday morning was making it hard to reconcile the fact that I was driving to a six year old’s birthday party. Weather like this hadn’t come along since… well, last year. And for the first time in almost two months, I didn’t have to spend the weekend working. By the time we pulled into Devin’s neighborhood, the number of other things I dreamed of doing was staggering.
As I helped Robbie out of the car, the expression on my face spoke volumes.
“Remember what mom said,” Robbie practically begged. “No swearing.”
I smirked at my son and told him not to worry. Attending a young person’s birthday party is a vacation compared to hosting one, and coupled with the comedy of errors that occurred at his celebration, anyone could understand my recent slip up. But I assured him that Devin’s party wouldn’t rattle me, so long as it ended quickly.
Despite my angst, I wanted Robbie to have a good time and I like seeing him interact with his classmates. I even like Devin. It’s his dad, Kurt, I can do without. His last name might as well be Jones because there is no keeping up with him. And he revels in making you know that. As we walked past his perfectly-manicured lawn and luxury car in the driveway, I told myself to smile and be polite. Today was about the kids.
Kurt greeted us at the door.
“Hey guys! Come on in,” he said. “Where’s Beth, she couldn’t make it?”
“No, she came down with a stomach bug last night,” I told him.
“Oh, that’s too bad,” he said with genuine disappointment.
My wife was all the rage during Robbie’s party, but not by design. Just as she was leaning down to hand out birthday cupcakes to all the neighborhood kids, she accidentally, and quite unfortunately, popped out of her dress. As a result, Beth’s current stomach bug didn’t actually hit her last night, but was carefully planned weeks ago when our invitation arrived in the mail. Not having her at Devin’s party meant I had to bear Kurt on my own.
“Well, you guys are gonna have a great time,” Kurt said. “Devin and the other kids are playing out back before the entertainment starts.”
The invitation didn’t mention anything about entertainment, but Beth and I spent the last three days wondering what was in store.
“We got this magician who is unbelievable,” Kurt said, as it was just the two of us now standing in his foyer. “This guy puts David Copperfield to shame. I was talking to him and he told me that with birthdays, little league parties and bar mitzvahs, he made over 150 grand last year.”
“Wow, he sounds good,” I politely smiled.
“Ah well,” he said, then paused before adding, “We can’t do anything to top what happened at Robbie’s party, huh?”
Kurt laughed as if I had no problem with him joking about the way he and his wife and eight other couples, not to mention their kids, saw my wife in a partial state of undress. I longed to break my “no swearing” promise.
For the next 30 minutes, however, I chatted with the other parents and remembered that free punch and cake wasn’t a terrible way to spend an afternoon. I then settled into the back of the room as the kids grabbed chairs in front of the magician.
“Behold!” He shouted. “I am the Great Wiz-ardo. Prepare to look on in wand-erment.”
Certainly his act was better than his puns, I hoped. Then Kurt sidled up next to me.
“You won’t believe some of the stuff he does,” he whispered.
“For my first trick, I will make Mr. Sprinkles disappear!”
Mr. Sprinkles was Devin’s hamster, who sat contently in his glass-enclosed cage on Wiz-ardo’s prop table. Wiz-ardo then pulled the cape from around his neck and draped it over the cage. After waving his hand and muttering some magician’s gibberish, he yanked the cape away, only Mr. Sprinkles didn’t disappear. Instead, the cape caught onto the back of his cage, pulled it forward and toppled it over the side of the table, spilling Mr. Sprinkles to the floor. The cage quickly followed, and ended its descent by landing on Mr. Sprinkles.
Screams rang out from parents and kids alike as the hamster’s head rolled to a stop at the magician’s feet.
Barely stifling a chuckle, I leaned toward Kurt and said, “You’re such a topper.”
Unfortunately my piece wasn't picked as a finalist. I guess the naked picture of myself that I attached to my article didn't impress the judges. Next time I'll make sure the picture includes my torso.
I decided, however, that I'd post it to my blog (the article, not the picture. Sorry ladies). If you want to read the five entries that were picked as finalists, you can visit the Writer's Digest Forum page. You'll have to register a new account, and then you'll receive a password from them to use when you sign in. After signing in with your password, just scroll down the page and click the 'Your Story' link.
Or you can just trust me when I say that mine was the best and clearly should have won. That's much easier. Hope you enjoy it.
Prompt: Parents look on in horror as a magician's trick goes terribly awry at a child's birthday party - 750 word maximum.
The sunny, 70-degree Saturday morning was making it hard to reconcile the fact that I was driving to a six year old’s birthday party. Weather like this hadn’t come along since… well, last year. And for the first time in almost two months, I didn’t have to spend the weekend working. By the time we pulled into Devin’s neighborhood, the number of other things I dreamed of doing was staggering.
As I helped Robbie out of the car, the expression on my face spoke volumes.
“Remember what mom said,” Robbie practically begged. “No swearing.”
I smirked at my son and told him not to worry. Attending a young person’s birthday party is a vacation compared to hosting one, and coupled with the comedy of errors that occurred at his celebration, anyone could understand my recent slip up. But I assured him that Devin’s party wouldn’t rattle me, so long as it ended quickly.
Despite my angst, I wanted Robbie to have a good time and I like seeing him interact with his classmates. I even like Devin. It’s his dad, Kurt, I can do without. His last name might as well be Jones because there is no keeping up with him. And he revels in making you know that. As we walked past his perfectly-manicured lawn and luxury car in the driveway, I told myself to smile and be polite. Today was about the kids.
Kurt greeted us at the door.
“Hey guys! Come on in,” he said. “Where’s Beth, she couldn’t make it?”
“No, she came down with a stomach bug last night,” I told him.
“Oh, that’s too bad,” he said with genuine disappointment.
My wife was all the rage during Robbie’s party, but not by design. Just as she was leaning down to hand out birthday cupcakes to all the neighborhood kids, she accidentally, and quite unfortunately, popped out of her dress. As a result, Beth’s current stomach bug didn’t actually hit her last night, but was carefully planned weeks ago when our invitation arrived in the mail. Not having her at Devin’s party meant I had to bear Kurt on my own.
“Well, you guys are gonna have a great time,” Kurt said. “Devin and the other kids are playing out back before the entertainment starts.”
The invitation didn’t mention anything about entertainment, but Beth and I spent the last three days wondering what was in store.
“We got this magician who is unbelievable,” Kurt said, as it was just the two of us now standing in his foyer. “This guy puts David Copperfield to shame. I was talking to him and he told me that with birthdays, little league parties and bar mitzvahs, he made over 150 grand last year.”
“Wow, he sounds good,” I politely smiled.
“Ah well,” he said, then paused before adding, “We can’t do anything to top what happened at Robbie’s party, huh?”
Kurt laughed as if I had no problem with him joking about the way he and his wife and eight other couples, not to mention their kids, saw my wife in a partial state of undress. I longed to break my “no swearing” promise.
For the next 30 minutes, however, I chatted with the other parents and remembered that free punch and cake wasn’t a terrible way to spend an afternoon. I then settled into the back of the room as the kids grabbed chairs in front of the magician.
“Behold!” He shouted. “I am the Great Wiz-ardo. Prepare to look on in wand-erment.”
Certainly his act was better than his puns, I hoped. Then Kurt sidled up next to me.
“You won’t believe some of the stuff he does,” he whispered.
“For my first trick, I will make Mr. Sprinkles disappear!”
Mr. Sprinkles was Devin’s hamster, who sat contently in his glass-enclosed cage on Wiz-ardo’s prop table. Wiz-ardo then pulled the cape from around his neck and draped it over the cage. After waving his hand and muttering some magician’s gibberish, he yanked the cape away, only Mr. Sprinkles didn’t disappear. Instead, the cape caught onto the back of his cage, pulled it forward and toppled it over the side of the table, spilling Mr. Sprinkles to the floor. The cage quickly followed, and ended its descent by landing on Mr. Sprinkles.
Screams rang out from parents and kids alike as the hamster’s head rolled to a stop at the magician’s feet.
Barely stifling a chuckle, I leaned toward Kurt and said, “You’re such a topper.”
Friday, February 12, 2010
Sports Fan? Welcome to Suckuary
If you’re a sports fan, February is hands down the worst month of the year for watching sporting events. College and pro football is over, baseball hasn’t started (pitchers and catchers reporting to Spring Training is as exciting as waiting for the groundhog), and college basketball is still weeks away from getting really exciting. The NBA, though… now that’s another story. In February, the NBA is years away from getting really exciting.
Our options for sports during February usually consist of NASCAR and trying to figure out if Tiger Woods will play at the Masters, or if he’ll be passed out under a mountain of escorts while John Daly stands in the doorway saying, “Can we go now, Tiger? I’m tiiiiiired.”
This year is different though. This year we once again get to watch the Winter Olympics, which makes the month of February, in terms of sports viewing, much, much worse.
On the surface, it might seem like a nice diversion from Super Bowl wrap-up talk and shots of NBA players getting tattoos during timeouts, but really it’s nothing but two weeks of figure skating. Sure there’s other events going on, but you won’t see them. Somehow the networks have become convinced (I guess through something often referred to as “ratings”) that we ache for people covered in sequins, twirling around and alternating their expressions from “my dog just got hit by a car” to “no, wait, he’s getting back up!” to “oh no, he got hit again” and back to “wait, wait, he’s on his feet, I think he’ll be ok!”
Women are the reason that figure skating gets such high “ratings”. They’ve forced us to watch it for decades, but not because they like it. Instead it’s payback for us having football on for 46 hours each weekend from September to February every year. As soon as the Olympics started airing on TV, women everywhere would turn on figure skating and then leave the room to do something more enjoyable, like pull the refrigerator down on top of themselves. Eventually the networks took this to mean that viewers were clamoring for prime time figure skating, so that’s what we’re forced to watch.
And figure skating hasn’t been intriguing since that former celebrity boxer whacked her Mickey Mouse-hating teammate with a Foreman Grill. Turns out neither one of them won the gold. The Russian teenage phenom won instead, and has since spent her time picking up DUIs. But hey, she’s Russian. And if she doesn’t spend her time drinking, her only other option is figure skating.
Anyway, if you pay really close attention, you might see some speed skating or the giant slalom or the two-man luge. Even so, the Winter Olympics just can’t compare to the Summer Olympics. For one, so much of the competition depends on the athletes’ equipment - the sleds staying upright, the skis not snapping, the skates not flying off and spearing a judge. There’s little need to use performance enhancing drugs in the Winter Olympics. The Summer Olympics, however, are teeming with drug users. The drugs help the athletes run faster, throw farther and stab harder than they ever could naturally.
I for one am not in favor of athletes using performance enhancing drugs, but let’s face it, they make every event more exciting, from football, to baseball, to boxing and even horse racing. There’s nothing they can’t make more exciting. Just think if both guys involved in a chess match were on bovine steroids. That would be fascinating. If the Food Network were a little more lax on their drug policy, NBC, ABC, CBS and Fox would all be bidding for the rights to Iron Chef. With Bobby Flay and Paula Deen battling it out around those hot stoves and sharp utensils… you telling me you wouldn’t watch if they were both full of the same ingredients that Jose Canseco puts in his milkshakes?
At any rate, enjoy February. U-S-A! U-S-A! U-S-A!
Our options for sports during February usually consist of NASCAR and trying to figure out if Tiger Woods will play at the Masters, or if he’ll be passed out under a mountain of escorts while John Daly stands in the doorway saying, “Can we go now, Tiger? I’m tiiiiiired.”
This year is different though. This year we once again get to watch the Winter Olympics, which makes the month of February, in terms of sports viewing, much, much worse.
On the surface, it might seem like a nice diversion from Super Bowl wrap-up talk and shots of NBA players getting tattoos during timeouts, but really it’s nothing but two weeks of figure skating. Sure there’s other events going on, but you won’t see them. Somehow the networks have become convinced (I guess through something often referred to as “ratings”) that we ache for people covered in sequins, twirling around and alternating their expressions from “my dog just got hit by a car” to “no, wait, he’s getting back up!” to “oh no, he got hit again” and back to “wait, wait, he’s on his feet, I think he’ll be ok!”
Women are the reason that figure skating gets such high “ratings”. They’ve forced us to watch it for decades, but not because they like it. Instead it’s payback for us having football on for 46 hours each weekend from September to February every year. As soon as the Olympics started airing on TV, women everywhere would turn on figure skating and then leave the room to do something more enjoyable, like pull the refrigerator down on top of themselves. Eventually the networks took this to mean that viewers were clamoring for prime time figure skating, so that’s what we’re forced to watch.
And figure skating hasn’t been intriguing since that former celebrity boxer whacked her Mickey Mouse-hating teammate with a Foreman Grill. Turns out neither one of them won the gold. The Russian teenage phenom won instead, and has since spent her time picking up DUIs. But hey, she’s Russian. And if she doesn’t spend her time drinking, her only other option is figure skating.
Anyway, if you pay really close attention, you might see some speed skating or the giant slalom or the two-man luge. Even so, the Winter Olympics just can’t compare to the Summer Olympics. For one, so much of the competition depends on the athletes’ equipment - the sleds staying upright, the skis not snapping, the skates not flying off and spearing a judge. There’s little need to use performance enhancing drugs in the Winter Olympics. The Summer Olympics, however, are teeming with drug users. The drugs help the athletes run faster, throw farther and stab harder than they ever could naturally.
I for one am not in favor of athletes using performance enhancing drugs, but let’s face it, they make every event more exciting, from football, to baseball, to boxing and even horse racing. There’s nothing they can’t make more exciting. Just think if both guys involved in a chess match were on bovine steroids. That would be fascinating. If the Food Network were a little more lax on their drug policy, NBC, ABC, CBS and Fox would all be bidding for the rights to Iron Chef. With Bobby Flay and Paula Deen battling it out around those hot stoves and sharp utensils… you telling me you wouldn’t watch if they were both full of the same ingredients that Jose Canseco puts in his milkshakes?
At any rate, enjoy February. U-S-A! U-S-A! U-S-A!
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Need a Price Check on the Flush Blaster 3000
We’ve all had to deal with buying things that are a little embarrassing but necessary for whatever reason. Whether it’s some type of anti-fungal cream, feminine “items” (which my wife says aren’t just embarrassing for men to buy), athletic supporters (which don’t actually support athletics, but something all together different), or whatever the case may be.
One thing I’ve never had to buy before that fits this category is a toilet. That is until tonight, when I will purchase my first one. I’ve never thought about the embarrassment that might come with buying a toilet because how often do you buy one? Everywhere I’ve lived, a toilet has been supplied for me. Thankfully, all of the apartments I’ve rented have come equipped with at least one, and of the condo and now house that I’ve bought, both of the previous owners were kind enough to leave theirs behind (no pun intended).
And if you’ve ever built a home, chances are the builders had toilets installed by the time you moved in and just added them to your bill (unless you really cheaped out). So, unless you’re a builder or a contractor or you’ve lived in the same house for a long time, you probably haven’t bought a lot of them, right?
At any rate, I have to buy a toilet. And I don’t want to.
If I was working as a cashier and somebody came through my line with a toilet, my first thought would be, “Finally getting some indoor plumbing, huh? Get tired of using the hole in your back yard? You’re really moving up, buddy. Good for you.”
My next thought would be that this person in my line has always had indoor plumbing, but somehow broke his previous toilet. And do you really want to be the guy that is believed to have broken his toilet? The whole store is watching you carry a toilet to the checkout lanes and thinking about the abuse you put the last one through. “Whoa, wonder what that guy eats?” people start asking each other. “I’d hate to follow him into the bathroom, ha ha ha.”
For the record, the toilet in our downstairs bathroom has a huge crack in the bowl that is days away from sending water all over the floor and into the hallway. And it was there before we moved in. (Before you ask – yes, it’s probably covered under our home warranty, but we have to pay $75 for an inspector to come out before it’s replaced, and a decent toilet is only $10 more than that, so it’s not worth calling our warranty provider.) But the sales guy at the hardware store doesn’t want to hear some long story.
“Can I help you?”
“Yes, I need to buy a toilet. It’s not the first toilet I’ve ever had, I just need to replace a broken one. But I didn’t break it. I don’t have horrible digestive problems or anything. My diet is very balanced. I don’t even go all that often. My doctor says I could go two or three more times a day and still be considered normal. I’m not a weirdo. I just bought a house and one of the toilets has a crack in it. But I don’t know how it got there. It could have been caused by anything, really. Maybe there was an earthquake and the previous owners never got it fixed. I’m sure they had normal diets too. There’s no way to tell.”
“Uh… it’s time for my break.”
So you see my dilemma. I’ll remain quiet and just hope the store isn’t crowded when I get there. But if anybody asks, I’m going to say, “It’s not for me, it’s for a friend.”
One thing I’ve never had to buy before that fits this category is a toilet. That is until tonight, when I will purchase my first one. I’ve never thought about the embarrassment that might come with buying a toilet because how often do you buy one? Everywhere I’ve lived, a toilet has been supplied for me. Thankfully, all of the apartments I’ve rented have come equipped with at least one, and of the condo and now house that I’ve bought, both of the previous owners were kind enough to leave theirs behind (no pun intended).
And if you’ve ever built a home, chances are the builders had toilets installed by the time you moved in and just added them to your bill (unless you really cheaped out). So, unless you’re a builder or a contractor or you’ve lived in the same house for a long time, you probably haven’t bought a lot of them, right?
At any rate, I have to buy a toilet. And I don’t want to.
If I was working as a cashier and somebody came through my line with a toilet, my first thought would be, “Finally getting some indoor plumbing, huh? Get tired of using the hole in your back yard? You’re really moving up, buddy. Good for you.”
My next thought would be that this person in my line has always had indoor plumbing, but somehow broke his previous toilet. And do you really want to be the guy that is believed to have broken his toilet? The whole store is watching you carry a toilet to the checkout lanes and thinking about the abuse you put the last one through. “Whoa, wonder what that guy eats?” people start asking each other. “I’d hate to follow him into the bathroom, ha ha ha.”
For the record, the toilet in our downstairs bathroom has a huge crack in the bowl that is days away from sending water all over the floor and into the hallway. And it was there before we moved in. (Before you ask – yes, it’s probably covered under our home warranty, but we have to pay $75 for an inspector to come out before it’s replaced, and a decent toilet is only $10 more than that, so it’s not worth calling our warranty provider.) But the sales guy at the hardware store doesn’t want to hear some long story.
“Can I help you?”
“Yes, I need to buy a toilet. It’s not the first toilet I’ve ever had, I just need to replace a broken one. But I didn’t break it. I don’t have horrible digestive problems or anything. My diet is very balanced. I don’t even go all that often. My doctor says I could go two or three more times a day and still be considered normal. I’m not a weirdo. I just bought a house and one of the toilets has a crack in it. But I don’t know how it got there. It could have been caused by anything, really. Maybe there was an earthquake and the previous owners never got it fixed. I’m sure they had normal diets too. There’s no way to tell.”
“Uh… it’s time for my break.”
So you see my dilemma. I’ll remain quiet and just hope the store isn’t crowded when I get there. But if anybody asks, I’m going to say, “It’s not for me, it’s for a friend.”
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
On the Dotted Line, Of Course
Hot damn, I must be famous.
I signed so many items recently, there’s no way around it. I can’t think of any other explanation. Well, unless the explanation is that they weren’t “items,” they were documents. And people weren’t seeking my autograph, they were seeking my signature. And the “people” were our mortgage broker, the office of the seller’s agent, and the acting attorney.
Ok, so maybe my wife and I bought a house.
And we might have agreed to let the government harvest our organs before we die, I can’t be sure. I sat in a chair and signed my name so many times that the lack of sleep may have caused me to black out at one point.
I do remember this: I signed a document saying I agreed to continue signing documents after I left, just in case it was deemed necessary. At any time the attorney’s office could call and say something like, “Mr. Heppermann, we’re sending over a document that you must sign that says we can legally obtain all of your possessions the next time your credit card is run at Applebee’s.”
“But I love Applebee’s. What about their chicken dippers?” I’d probably say.
“Sorry. You signed a document saying you’d keep signing whatever we wanted you to sign,” he’d reply.
“Fine. Send it over.”
I also signed a document saying I’m somebody else. It seems that in the preparation of our paperwork, the attorney’s office spelled my last name with only one ‘n’. So instead of having us wait while they revised each piece of paper that had my name misspelled, they handed me a document that said I was Mike Hepperman as well as Mike Heppermann.
I clearly should have thought that one through before putting pen to paper. Now, if there’s ever some quack named Mike Hepperman who robs an orphanage and uses the money to buy pectoral implants, all the while leaving a huge paper trail of electronic transactions that say ‘Mike Hepperman purchased pectoral implants with money he stole from an orphanage,’ l could get arrested and sentenced to years in prison because six months prior to that I signed a document saying I was Mike Hepperman. Do you really think I stand a chance in prison if the inmates think my impressive pecs are surgically enhanced instead of the real deal? Crap.
But that’s what happens when you buy a house. They overwhelm you with paperwork and talk really fast through each page as you sign it. Sure, I own a house. But now I don’t know who owns me.
I signed so many items recently, there’s no way around it. I can’t think of any other explanation. Well, unless the explanation is that they weren’t “items,” they were documents. And people weren’t seeking my autograph, they were seeking my signature. And the “people” were our mortgage broker, the office of the seller’s agent, and the acting attorney.
Ok, so maybe my wife and I bought a house.
And we might have agreed to let the government harvest our organs before we die, I can’t be sure. I sat in a chair and signed my name so many times that the lack of sleep may have caused me to black out at one point.
I do remember this: I signed a document saying I agreed to continue signing documents after I left, just in case it was deemed necessary. At any time the attorney’s office could call and say something like, “Mr. Heppermann, we’re sending over a document that you must sign that says we can legally obtain all of your possessions the next time your credit card is run at Applebee’s.”
“But I love Applebee’s. What about their chicken dippers?” I’d probably say.
“Sorry. You signed a document saying you’d keep signing whatever we wanted you to sign,” he’d reply.
“Fine. Send it over.”
I also signed a document saying I’m somebody else. It seems that in the preparation of our paperwork, the attorney’s office spelled my last name with only one ‘n’. So instead of having us wait while they revised each piece of paper that had my name misspelled, they handed me a document that said I was Mike Hepperman as well as Mike Heppermann.
I clearly should have thought that one through before putting pen to paper. Now, if there’s ever some quack named Mike Hepperman who robs an orphanage and uses the money to buy pectoral implants, all the while leaving a huge paper trail of electronic transactions that say ‘Mike Hepperman purchased pectoral implants with money he stole from an orphanage,’ l could get arrested and sentenced to years in prison because six months prior to that I signed a document saying I was Mike Hepperman. Do you really think I stand a chance in prison if the inmates think my impressive pecs are surgically enhanced instead of the real deal? Crap.
But that’s what happens when you buy a house. They overwhelm you with paperwork and talk really fast through each page as you sign it. Sure, I own a house. But now I don’t know who owns me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
