Mayonnaise is not a deodorant

Last weekend, my wife and I went to a movie with my sister-in-law and her weirdo husband, I call them the “Malodors”. During the movie, I experienced the last straw in a long line assaults on my nose from this couple. They have intensely poor hygiene; as a result, the odor that they generate is powerfully unpleasant. One witness reports that the smell of sewage issues forth from Mr. Malodor’s rotten maw whenever he laughs. According to this witness, the smell is also accompanied by a pea-green mist. On this occasion, the last straw, the stink of rancid mayonnaise emitting from the Malodors was overwhelming and induced dry heaving in other members of our party.

I am dumbfounded by this couple. What compels them to become so unclean as to cause people around them to vomit? How can they stand each other? I have a difficult time understanding how they can ignore their own nauseating smell. They must just be used to it, which implies that they have a long and persistent tradition of poor hygiene.

They have achieved an epic and unimaginable body-stink that could overwhelm and kill a rhino. In this age of readily available showers and inexpensive soap and shampoo, there are no reasons to justify their poor hygiene. I can no longer be around them, as their putrid odor will always cause me to be nauseous.

My dear wife has such big heart that she claims she still loves her sister, Mrs. Malodor, and wants to stay close to her. But I think that they should be branded with a tattoo on their foreheads that declares them to be “Unclean!” and then banished from the family forever.

Real-life Zombies

I strive to remain healthy and keep all nasty viruses and bugs at bay by eating healthy foods and taking supplements. However, during the winter season, hosts of people turn into sickos, or unhealthy carriers of disease. These sickos possess less than half of their normal brain functionality and usually spend their day shuffling to and from the bathroom. They moan, sniffle and grunt. Their miserable sighs can be heard everywhere. They are slaves to a micro-biotic master. I feel it only fair to warn these people that as a result of their illness, they qualify as a Zombie and; therefore, are fair game for elimination.

Zombies always carry some horrible virus, bacteria or other contagious micro-invader that turns normal people into disgusting wretches who only focus on satisfying the demands of their illness and cannot otherwise function normally.

Now, I don’t bear ill-will toward anyone. I am peaceful and hesitate to disturb any living creature, including insects. Zombies are a different story. They are not counted among the living and present a threat to my well-being – they must be destroyed. I have seen how Zombies are dealt with in the movies and in every case, it is spectacular. Some shot-gun blasts, a grenade or two, a few swipes with a chainsaw and viola! Guiltless Carnage!

If you are sick please do not go out. Leave work/school/church and don’t come back until you can speak to me without sniffing up that stream of snot that is oozing out of your nose. Your deep, gag-inducing coughs are a call to arms for Zombie hunters. Stay home until you can purge your illness from your body and overcome being a Zombie.

Rest in Peace, Pops.

This weekend, I celebrated the 229th birthday of America by going to Las Vegas. The trip was undeniably fun. One of the best memories I have is the Red Hot Chili Peppers (RHCP)/ Weezer concert I went to on Saturday. Sadly, though, this memory is tainted by the loss of human life that occurred at this concert. This blog is dedicated to you, “Pops”.

There we were getting our faces melted off by the amazing talent of the RHCP in the middle of a scorching Las Vegas evening. The crowd was packed tightly together as everyone jockeyed for positions closer to the stage. We were a mere 10 yards from the stage. My friends and I were dancing and shouting and getting baked from all the pot that everyone was smoking around us. During a break between songs, we heard a low popping sound. We saw a white shirt, a piece of cloth, ashes (or some other form of lightly falling debris) and a feather shoot up into the air from almost groud level and then descend softly just 15 feet ahead of us. The only conclusion we could come to was that someone was rocked too hard by the awesome musical talent of the RHCP. This person, whoever he or she was, spontaneously exploded. I have named him or her “Pops”, after the sound that he or she made at the instant their soul left this earth.

No mention was made of a fatality in the news about the concert; but we all knew better. There is no other appropriate explanation for what we witnessed. Our knowledge of who “Pops” was is limited to the fact that his or her body couldn’t cope with being rocked; however, we honor “Pops” for his or her courage in going to the concert.

So, here’s to you, you poor bastard. I hope the concert was worth your life. You gave up you earthly existence for the Red Hot Chili Peppers. May your soul now rest peacefully in green pastures absent of any face-melting music.

Ignore Famous People!

The decision in the Michael Jackson trials of “Not-Guilty” has caused frantic conversation in my office about whether or not he was really guilty. Whenever someone asks me that question, I reply through grinding teeth and with a metered pace: “I think Michael Jackson is a very sick man. I believe he was capable of the things he was charged with. I do not think there was enough credible evidence to convict him.” What a stupid answer. The skeptic in me believes he is a horrible, demented and sick man that did perpetrate the crimes he is accused of, and has likely committed more crimes that we don’t know about. I think he should be placed on the “Child Offender” watch list and have his children taken away from him. Needless to say, backing me into a corner in the work place and asking me to be honest about something, the honest answer to which will likely get me fired, is extremely tacky and inappropriate.

Additionally, why do we care that much about Michael Jackson? Vast segments of time have been squandered on deliberating his guilt or innocence. My coworkers have started spouting off “reliable” facts about the poor state of Michael’s finances that are somehow a direct result of him being on trial. When did they have the time to research these facts and why are they delivering them to me? It’s so painful to listen to people talk about this issue. It offends me more than getting kicked between the legs by an anonymous coworker.

I want to shake my fist indignantly at all famous people right now. It’s not just Michael Jackson, but its Tom Cruise and Russell Crowe and any other famous person in the news. Why are their personal lives so interesting to us? Is it really news that Tom Cruise is a Scientologist? Is your life so pitiful and boring that you must leech onto the lives of those we watch on TV and in the movies to make it interesting?

Many famous people lead para-normal lives. They are out of touch with the common person and have many have no idea what the average American does in a day. In fact, I suspect that many famous people don’t even know what is going on in the news. They have entourages that provide them with everything. People are actually hired to tell famous people what news is important, what clothes to wear, what to eat and who to date.

If famous people are not even keeping up with the world around them, why should we keep up with them? I think we could benefit from ignoring anyone famous for the next 3 months. If the focus that we expend on worrying about famous people and their personal lives were diverted to solving problems in our homes and communities, it would have two stellar results:

1. Celebrities would stop behaving like spoiled ingrates and would cease vomiting the details of their personal lives for attention. We will therefore judge them on their performance in their respective fields, instead of, oh let’s say: what religion they belong to.
   
2. Our homes and communities would become clean, safe and welcoming.

I am now "Dood"

Noah, my one year old, has started vocalizing. He says very small, monosyllabic words. For example, Mom= “Mam”, Hi = “Heya” and my favorite: Dad= “Dood”.
I am now “Dood".
This suits me much better than plain old “Dad”. Being “Dood” means that I am much cooler than being “Dad.” It also means that Noah thinks of me as a peer. It reminds me of when I hang out with my friends and we address each other with “Dude”, instead of our names. For example: “Dude, did you see Dawn of the Dead?” “Dude, yeah! It made me wet my pants!”
I will relish being “Dood” until Noah learns to speak. Once that happens, he will realize what a geek I am and demote me to “Dad”.

Kin yuo spel?

I recently received feedback regarding my blog. I appreciate feedback and look forward to reading comments and suggestions. In one particular piece of feedback, I was asked if I could spell. While I justified my poor spelling and grammar by pointing out that my blog is subtitled “RANDOM THOUGHTS AND INSANE RAMBLINGS”, and therefore, misspelled words were part of the ambiance of the blog; I have to confess, I really can’t spell.

My blog contains the limit of my abilities and talents. I know, you must be thinking something like: “Wow Kersten, you must have the mind of a 2 year old baboon.” Yes, it would be ironic if I did have the mind of baboon, as my blog is called “The Baboon”. Plus, it would be handy to blame my stupidity on a severe medical disability. Sadly, my mind is an original Kersten growth. As pitiful as it is, my mind is indeed my own. I make due with what I have. Isn’t that what life is about?

Is it a crime to misspell words in my blog? Should I be punished by having midgets shove bamboo between my fingernails? Why oh, why is Paris Hilton on T.V.?
My answers: No, perhaps and because she’s rich.

Mr. Boots goes night-night

A new law is being debated in the Minnesota state senate: Legalized cat-hunting. Their justification is that they need to minimize bird deaths. What an outstanding idea! Cat-Hunting sounds like an extremely fun way for people to spend their time.

I imagine a still, quiet night on Maple Street. Suddenly, the loud boom and following echo of a 30.06 being fired destroys the peaceful evening. A cat screeches, fur flies and Jimmy emerges from the behind a white-picket fence to claim his prize. He swats at some gently falling tufts of cat-hair in front of his face and removes his camouflage hat. There, on the sidewalk sits the obliterated body of anonymous alley cat #345. “That bastard never knew what hit him” thinks Jimmy. He removes some latex gloves from a pocket in his NRA vest and picks up the torn remains of the unsuspecting feline. Jimmy callously carries the cat-carcass to his back yard and into his garage. There he begins the gruesome task of preparing the head for mounting, to display above his fireplace. He has already bagged 16 cats this year, some of whom belonged to his neighbors, but most were just ratty strays.

Wow! Well, as you can see, it’s a thrilling prospect. I am not sure why they limit the hunt to just cats. I think they could open season on stray dogs, abandoned alligators and orphaned newts. It would really give the average American the chance to prove his/her meddle in reducing the packs of feral animals roaming the streets and living off of garbage and birds. And so what if a “stray” bullet accidentally hits that yappy dog next-door? You’ve just contributed to the overall peace and harmony of the neighborhood!

Just think about it: Legalized Domestic Animal Hunting. The NRA will see an increase in membership and Smith and Wesson will rise out of self-loathing to become a respectable American institution. The thought of it just makes me want to put my right hand on my heart and look at Old Glory with tears in my eyes.

Tax Refund Anticipation-Christmas for Adults

In keeping with ancient tradition, my wife and I file our taxes via snail mail. I am not quite sure why we haven't transitioned into more modern forms of filing. We are either lazy and fear changing our foolish tradition, or our accountant will charge us more to efile. Regardless of the reasons, we find ourselves waiting for our tax-refund. The anticipation that exists in waiting for our refund is like Christmas when you were a kid - You just knew you were getting that cool Luke Skywalker with the retractable Lightsaber that came out of his arm and a his sweet X-Wing with R2-D2 in the back! You were waiting for this awesome gift to come and had been anxiously counting down the days before Christmas since your birthday. It's Anticipation season again.
Here we sit, counting down the 6-8 weeks: "Four weeks left, dear!" The reply: "Ooo! I can't wait! We can finally (fill in any frivolous purchase/car repair here)!". The week following, the anticipation builds. Songs are created from the sheer excitement of getting money from the government. Such Anticipation songs include the classic: "We can't wait, We can't wait. Oh, Tax-Refund, please don't be late!" and "daddies gonna buy a new muffler!" The off-key refrains can be heard for weeks prior to the big day.
In some small way, we even decorate for the event. We leave a space empty in our closet for the new clothes that we need to buy and are waiting for our return to purchase. My wife designates the south side of her closet for the new skirt and blouse. I designate the middle, so as not to exclude old and perfectly serviceable clothes. The ever-increasing oil stain in the drive way marks the joy of the season. Even the smell of blooming lilacs brings to mind the memories of anticipations gone past.
Wow, I am so thrilled for my refund to come! I just can't sleep tonight... Happy Anticipation!

Whining is for wimps and women

My eleventh month old son, Noah, is fond of bonking his head on hard and pointy objects. It's not that I think he intentional knocks his head...he is either drunk or just not very coordinated yet. Assuming that the latter is true, let me move on the the real issue I have with his infamous head banging. Every time he hits his head, he starts whining and crying. Now, I don't want to raise a wussy-boy, so I tell him: "Stop it. Whining is for wimps and women." If it were just me raising my son, rest assured, he would turn out to be an insensitive, egotistical, powerfully flatulent man with the ability to grow more chest-hair than Magnum P.I. and crush rocks with his head. However, my wife always intercedes and says something like: "Son, don't listen to dad, it's O.K. to whine and cry." Alarms ring in my head... I fear for the future of my son. I think if it were just my wife raising Noah, he would turn out to be a flower-growing, shoe-shopping, English-Patient watching wussy-boy who would enjoy getting his nails "done" and have the ability to make a mean souffle. Is it really OK to whine and cry? Perhaps if you have just had your arm torn off by a Wookie. In that case it may be OK to let out whimper and shed A tear. Other than that, suck it up and be a Man!

Hiatus is off and Oscar lament

Due to a recent series of tragic and poorly timed catastrophes, I have been away from my blog. These events range from my wife being in the hospital to losing my job. Now that I have these things under some control, I feel that I can let my creative vomit spew forth from my mind again and contribute my insane babblings to my blog.

With that brief intro, I would like to slip right into something about the Oscars last night. I was outraged to see that none of my "Best Movies of 2004" list were even considered or mentioned. My top-five list of movies is as follows:

1. Shaun of the Dead (Best Movie)
2. Shaun of the Dead (Best Directing: Edgar Wright)
3. Shaun of the Dead (Best lead actor: Simon Pegg)
4. Shaun of the Dead (Best supporting actor: Nick Frost)
5. Shaun of the Dead (Best Zombie flick of the year)

There was no mention of the finest cinematic achievement of 2004 at last night's Oscars. Why? I can only think that it has something to do with the fact that the Academy is out of touch with what the average American really likes in movies. Or, perhaps the Academy was too afraid to admit that the witty British humor and outstanding dialogue of Shaun of the Dead was far beyond their grasp.

If you are unfamiliar with Shaun of the Dead, shame on you. I encourage you to become familiar with it. One of the things that makes this movie superb is the exquisite humor throughout the entire movie. Even at the worst possible moment for the hero and his friends, you feel detached from the horror because the fun supersedes the sting of "scary". Shaun of the Dead provides you with the classic thrill of awesome zombie hordes, who are hell-bent on eating the living and gives you a look into what an average slacker can achieve when motivated by not being eaten.

Things you cannot miss in this movie include; the druken rendition of the 80's classic "White Lies", cricket bat meets zombie head, a zombified groom, zombie death-accompanied by Queen, Ed's off-color overtures to Barbara, zombie game shows, Mary's impalement and the "Harry Potter" look alike who gets what he deserves.

Though I must give props to the uber-action packed, extra-scary, bed-wetting fun of Dawn of the Dead; Shaun of the Dead didn't leave me wanting to sleep with a shotgun at night.